Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It happens so quickly that even his enhanced senses don’t quite pick up when it begins. One moment, Peter is throwing a laptop bag over his shoulder, pushing the door with his hand to leave the doctoral advisor’s office while simultaneously saying goodbye. And then the world implodes. Everything is both dark and painfully bright, and he is falling for what feels like forever.

Around him is nothing, and when he wants to open his mouth to shout 'what the fuck?!', he finds no mouth, no vocal cords, and no body of his own. What feels like a fall pulses, like a heartbeat, but he has no heart to beat, no eyes to see, no skin to feel. He is a thought, a memory, a mind only, and this mind is falling and falling through everything. It might as well be centuries or no time at all, because he both exists and doesn’t at the same time.

He could be fast asleep and dreaming, tired and wired, so when he hears a name, his name, it first barely registers.

“Peter,” he hears, and the voice is familiar, only it isn’t quite a voice, not really, but a thought that isn’t his own. “I am sorry, Peter. Protect it.”

The voice, the thought, becomes rapid, too loud, and he blacks out for what feels like a decade, only to wake up, to muster enough sense of self to understand: he needs to protect it. The “it” is pain, raw and so incredible that it chokes him, if he could choke – if enough of him existed. In the back of his mind, he is flooded with images. He sees Dr. Strange, and the man is looking at him, talking to him through the still, odd, messed-up slow motion. Strange’s lips are moving, each syllable a year long:

“There is no other way. I wish there was. I am sorry, Peter, I really am.”

The words are an echo now; they are beating against Peter’s mind, cracking it, making it feel like he is about to explode or whatever it is that could be so entirely final. Only neither happens, and more images flood, more memories. They rush through him so fast it’s like a reel. He reaches for the reel without his hands, without a physical shape to touch, to grab the images, the sense of him that is disappearing, but the reel is too fast and Peter thinks he is dying, really dying, until he knows he isn’t there anymore.

It’s like a ripple in the water that he splashes into, and he is ripped out. Erased. Gone. Bewildered, he watches, thinks, the moments of his life that made him – well, him. He sees Aunt May and Uncle Ben without a nephew. His friends without him by their side. He flips through his past and he just isn’t there anymore. He grasps at the reel, trying to, but the movie playing out about his life is so completely and utterly void of him that he no longer has a right to be in the credits.

As he falls in this odd, absolutely bizarre limbo, he flicks the switches in his mind on and off. Through the moment he was bitten by a spider, through the first steps as a wannabe superhero who did, in fact, end up saving the world quite a bit, through all of the 24 years of a life that didn’t happen.

He is a Jenga piece that has slid out without even a shake, and Peter feels angry, sad, and a hundred other things, because to him it seems like nothing he has done, nothing that he was, has impacted anything. The world, the universe is fine, perfectly well without him, and Uncle Ben still died, and Tony Stark still saved them all and is gone also, and every person Peter Parker or Spider-Man has helped and carried out of danger, protected, is still where they are meant to be, doing whatever it is they should be doing. Even with him not ever existed. And it’s fine. Fine.

It’s totally fine, he thinks, and it’s annoying, because it has been a millennium and he is still falling. It’s totally OK, how could it not be? And somewhere where his heart should be, but isn’t, he is devastated, heartbroken, and relieved at the same time. He is so tired, so tired, he was so tired for what feels like a thousand years, so maybe it’s finally time to take a break and relax. Kick back a bit, you know? Maybe it isn’t so bad after all? He’s sure there is a grand design in play of some sorts. It’s Dr. Strange, of course, there is a reason. Right?

Only he can’t relax, because he has no body, and over impossibly long or maybe impossibly fast whatever it is that is fucking going on, he is frustrated to no end. So he pulls his invisible, non-existent hands to the reel that is still scrolling, replaying the movie that he was cut from, and he wants it off. He is so fed up with it that it isn’t funny anymore. It’s like they don’t care, none of them. His family and friends, his co-workers and classmates, his boyfriend for crying out loud – none of them care that he is gone, that he never was.

“Mr. Stark would care,” he finally says, and he hears himself speak, feels his lips move, senses the breath as he talks. He is imploding like a dark star and the wooden Jenga piece that he is makes a sound of wood being plopped on top of the tower.

The sound is more like a scream however. A rather girly one actually. With some considerable relief he notes that it isn’t his, because he hears his own “Whoa!” as it happens.

There are screeching wheels on the pavement, a few more screams, a “Jesus fucking Christ!” thrown in and Peter falls. Well, more like lands, because he is done falling and thank fuck that he did because it was getting a bit old, you know. To not exist for so long.

“Tony!” the girly scream is panicked. Peter wants to put his hand up and say something that sounds like it is under control, but he is sort of wedged between some feet in a backseat of a car that smells new and expensive, and his nose is pressed against a rather nice shoe with a pointy nose and a sharp heel.

“Tony, what’s going on!?” the voice repeats and Peter scrambles, bends a bit, flips over on his back, with what appears to be a sharp end of his laptop pressed against it now, his own feet ungracefully sticking out between two people.

He blinks then, opening his eyes properly, his senses screaming loud and clear: he is alive, he’s here, uncomfortable here actually, but it’s all good. It’s all going to be just honky dory, because he sees who is in front of him and his body deflates, folding itself neatly into a messy heap.

“Oh! Hey, Pepper! How are y…”

He passes out then, without finishing the sentence to the shocked look on Pepper’s face, god she is pretty. It’s fine, it’s alright, he thinks to himself in that moment, because right next to Pepper, sweet amazing Pepper, is Mr. Stark, still somehow holding a burger with a pickle sticking out from between the buns.

Chapter Text

When Peter wakes up, it isn’t a gentle and lazy “five more minutes.” It is a spray of ice-cold something in his face that smells awful, overwhelming his senses, and he jolts out of bed in a flip.

“What the flying fu…” he starts but doesn’t finish, eyeing the robot arm holding a plastic mist bottle with its metallic fingers. The arm looks like a compact Mars rover with a single purpose of squeezing the stinky liquid out of the container.

“Really? Like Really?” he mutters, half-tempted to wrestle the bottle from the arm’s hand just to fling it back at it. The arm moves with the obvious intention of getting closer to him to spray again, and Peter raises both of his hands, stepping backwards, his back now hitting a surface of a two by four see-through enclosure he is in. “Cool it, I am up!”

“Cool it, Sprinkles, the Spider-Monkey says it’s up,” Peter hears an all-too-familiar, “no, no, no, oh god, it can’t really be him, can it?” voice, and then he turns and sees “oh god, oh my god” Tony Stark standing a few meters away outside of the enclosure with Peter’s S.H.I.E.L.D pad in his hand.

“Mr. Stark! You are…”

“Alive? Yes. So it seems,” responds Mr. Stark and points at the pad. “Cool tech. Very feisty. Amazon? Voice activation now, please.”

Peter chokes on his words, eager to spill the password out, and takes a quick look at where they are. It is a garage of some sorts filled with working stations, bits of equipment here and there, a few robots similar to the one in his partitioned room. His gaze falls to the desk behind Mr. Stark “Oh holy shit, it’s Mr. Stark!” and everything he had inside his laptop bag is on display. The laptop itself is flipped on its back with the casing removed and the storage drive is plugged into a caddy right next to it. His phone seems to be in pieces on the metallic surface. Peter goes for his wrists automatically and his nanotech bracelets are still on him.

“Don’t even get me started on those,” Mr. Stark waves his fingers at Peter’s wrists, and Peter stares at him for what is probably uncomfortably long.

He is in bits, and he feels sore, like he’s been out of it for ages, all of his muscles nagging at him. He thinks of what the implications of his own tech and, most importantly, data, are, and it adds up to one bad, so fucking bad, but accurate description. This is messed up.

“You shouldn’t,” he gestures at the pad in Mr. Stark’s hands, and his heart begins to throb. “You really shouldn’t.”

Mr. Stark looks younger than Peter remembers him. There are no greys in his hair or beard; he must be in his thirties. There is what looks like a Mark II Iron Man suit standing a bit away. There are beginnings of what is going to be Mark III scattered all over the place.

Peter does some quick math and rubs his face with a sweaty palm. Fuck, fuck, fuck, this is so bad.

“2009? 2010?” he asks, sliding to the floor, hands in his hair, pulling at them a bit. Shit, shit, shit. “This isn’t good.”

“Yup,” he hears Mr. Stark, and the “Yup” isn’t happy. What the fuck has Peter done? What the fuck has Dr. Strange made him do?

There is a lot more to this “yup”, and Peter’s thoughts rush through what was on his laptop. He’s lazy about clearing the cache, and his emails are stored locally too. He thinks about everything that is on that drive, not a very well encrypted drive, especially by the standards of the time he is actually from, and then he almost can’t breathe.

“Breathe,” he hears, his heart beating so fast he can feel it in his ears. Breathing is good.

“You really shouldn’t,” Peter says after some time, although it’s probably too late. Based on how his body feels right now he could have been out for days. His eyes dart to the equipment attached to the bed in the enclosure, and there are tubes and bags and all sorts of medical junk that indicate that it could have been even longer. More than enough time for Mr. Stark to poke around everything on his drive, on his phone. Definitely enough time to fish out his wallet from the bag and dig through it. Certainly enough time to find a photo of the two of them – the one when Peter is just a kid, star-struck in Stark Industries.

Photo is kind of irrelevant though, not when the rest of it is a mountain of data that can be compiled into a more or less complete timeline of his life as Spider-Man. Everything and anything about Mr. Stark included. Peter’s stomach does a flip inside him, and this is when the actual panic overtakes him whole. Oh, no, no, no, no.

“No, no, no, no,” he whispers, mortified, because there is in fact more than just future-breaking data on his laptop and phone alone. There is also personal stuff. Stuff so personal that it makes him want to curl up into a ball and shrink out of existence. For real this time.

“Mr. Stark, I am so sorry,” he is still whispering. “I am sorry.”

“Zip it, stalker,” Peter looks up at Mr. Stark from beneath his eyelashes, maroon-red blush all over his cheeks, and has an urge to disappear. A little because he just probably fucked up the future and the timeline in a very irreversible way, but mainly because he is also a bit, very much obsessed with a dead man now standing in front of him quite alive. And only a fool wouldn’t pick up on it, if they had a few hours with his gear and everything that is on it. And Tony Stark isn’t a fool who also had a bunch of time on his hands to do just that.

“Password. Now.”

“Peter Parker. Friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man,” he finally says, before he hears the pad beep and come to life.

“No satellite found, Peter. The link is broken. Would you like me to run some diagnostics? I am finding deprecated connections and systems in the network,” says F.R.I.D.A.Y into his ear, and Peter flinches, rubbing a small spot just behind it where the chip was implanted a few years ago. He’ll never get used to this thing.

“It’s fine, F.R.I.D.A.Y. Don’t bother,” he swipes with his index finger on the left bracelet and flicks towards the pad that is still in Mr. Stark’s hands. “Access granted.”

It’s all cloud-based anyway – at least anything related to S.H.I.E.L.D files or mission reports. Internal cloud that will not exist in this version until 2027 and can't be accessed. There is still plenty on that pad, though. Too much of what hasn't happened yet for any sane person to know about themselves.

“She’ll answer whatever you need answering,” Peter doesn’t look at Mr. Stark, his head now on his arms folded over his knees, and he is still sitting on the floor. He taps on the bracelet, muting the AI in his ear, exhausted. “I am sorry.”

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., ha?” Mr. Stark is already walking away out of the garage towards the stairs.

“It’s good to talk to you again, Tony,” says F.R.I.D.A.Y.

“Stay,” Mr. Stark drops over his shoulder, not looking at Peter as he climbs up the stairs.

And Peter stays.

He sits on the floor for a few hours, but the self-beating part of him eases off just enough for him to feel cold, a bit underdressed in a thin t-shirt and shorts, so hungry his stomach rumbles, and in need of a bathroom break.

He is probably in shock, he ponders. It is a lot to unpack and take in. The fall, he frowns when he remembers falling, and then Tony Stark. Real, alive Tony Stark actually here. Tony Stark who went over all the information on Peter’s equipment, most likely (definitely) found out about how his life turns out, not to mention some private things Peter would rather keep to himself, and is now upstairs (those have to lead somewhere, right?), talking to F.R.I.D.A.Y, getting clarification on anything that might not have been clear enough just based on the gigabytes of data that Peter had on his laptop.

There were some saved articles about Iron Man on it. Grad work, countless emails back and forth that mentioned Mr. Stark enough times for his operating system to recognize it as a name never needing an autocorrect. Emails between Peter and Morgan, for fuck's sake. Oh, god, Morgan. Emails he sent to Pepper – they’ve gotten close over the years since Tony’s death. There were also all 64 versions of a speech that Peter wrote for Mr. Stark’s 5 years since saving the universe memorial. All of them are on the laptop drive, one of them with just a single line: “We should have found another way”.

There was also some research – nanotech and bio. Some (ok, many), videos and photos of Mr. Stark. Every screenshot Peter took of the messages they had exchanged over the years before Tony’s death, in case his always broken phone craps out again and he will panic that the texts are gone. Some screenshots are just one line too: “You did good, kid. TS”. There was just… a lot. Everything Peter had. Everything he was feeding his obsession with for the past 8 years.

Peter gets up on his feet and moves around a bit, exploring the space he is in, stretching. He presses his shoulder into the see-through wall, puts some muscle into it and feels it give in. He could break out of here, if he wanted. He doesn’t though, stepping away, mindlessly rubbing his wrists. His armor is still on him, big chunky bracelets filled with nanites he normally hides under the long sleeves, always ready for action. Mr. Stark didn’t take them off, knowing what they were, probably having inspected the schematics in great detail. They are based on his work after all – a work that S.H.I.E.L.D has been using for years to equip Avengers.

There is a set of drawers next to the hospital-looking bed, and he pulls at them, but they don’t open. Peter contemplates breaking them open, but he doesn’t want to add an insult to the injury by destroying Mr. Stark’s property. The clothes he was wearing when he went through that office door are folded on a plastic stool by the door, his worn sneakers on top. He changes quickly, exchanging the not-just-about-pajamas he is wearing now for a dark blue vintage NASA t-shirt with a small hole in the lining of the collar and a pair of grey jeans. As he is zipping up his non-brand black hoodie, the door to the enclosure pops with a quiet click and opens up.

“Oh. Alright then,” Peter walks out of the room, looking around, even though he has familiarized himself with the contents of the garage already.

“Mr. Stark is upstairs,” says an AI, and Peter shivers, thinking about Vision. There is guilt and worry that is rising up inside him that he tries his best to stuff back in. Him landing at this time and place could as well prevent Jarvis from ever becoming Vision.

“Thank you, Jarvis,” replies Peter and heads out of the garage. He’s tempted to grab whatever of his things are still around, but resolves not to. The damage is done.

He climbs the stairs, and there aren’t many, but they are divided by the now-open security doors with an air seal, which would explain why he couldn’t hear Mr. Stark and his conversation with F.R.I.D.A.Y from downstairs. He tries a few doors on the way to where he guesses Mr. Stark will be and makes a short stop at the bathroom to take care of a pressing bladder issue. Washing his hands, he examines his face, and he doesn’t seem to be any younger or older than he was before he was zapped into this place. And time. Or reality. He really doesn’t know much about time travel, and the thought of there being another, much younger Peter Parker here somewhere freaks him out.

“Breathe, for fuck's sake,” he reminds himself, as he is getting closer to Mr. Stark. He focuses on the sounds around him and can hear a heartbeat of the man not too far, so he makes his way there, the soles of his sneakers squeaking on the polished floor.

Mr. Stark is at the bar, pouring himself a drink, casually moving about. While he appears to be collected and calm on the outside, Peter can sense the irregular rhythm of his heartbeat and interprets it as nerves.

“Before we get into the nitty-gritty of what the fuck are you doing here, I am going to ask you one question and you are going to answer. Once that is sorted we are never, and I mean never, going to talk about this again, you got me?” Mr. Stark looks serious, and Peter quickly nods, hands in his pockets, anxiously fidgeting on his feet.

This isn’t how he imagined it. Not that he had a lot of time to imagine it happening in the last few hours when he was quietly losing it downstairs. In the past, however, he would think about what it would be like for Tony Stark to come back from the dead. Not as a zombie, obviously, but through one of the many fucked-up super-things that tend to happen to them once in a while. Perhaps through mysterious wizard mambo-jumbo, similar to the one Peter finds himself in now. And when he did imagine it, sick with sorrow, desperately hoping for something that would never come to pass, he always thought he would run up to Mr. Stark and give him the tightest hug he could without breaking his bones. Just for not being dead any longer. For not being gone too early and for not leaving Peter completely lost and unprepared.

The man in front of him, though clearly and certainly a Mr. Stark, isn't the Mr. Stark Peter knew. He now might know plenty of what has happened (happens) in the future, but he hasn't lived through it, not like Peter did. So Peter nudges away his urge to grin and hug him and tell him that he missed him and it’s great to see him again. 

Instead, he waits patiently for the question, dreading that it may be the one where Mr. Stark questions his obsession and asks if Peter is seeing a shrink or someone for it. Because it isn’t healthy. There is a lost mentor thing, the lost friend thing, the whole Mr. Stark was an Iron Man and Peter is a Spider-Man thing, but there is also a whole other can of worms in there that upon a close inspection is really messed up. And yeah, in case Tony Stark is wondering, Peter did see someone for it, not that it helped much.

“So,” Mr. Stark takes a sip of a brown liquid from the glass he is holding and places it back on the bar top. “So.”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees with him, eyes open wide, waiting for the question to drop.

“All that stuff on your drive…” Mr. Stark starts, and Peter bites his lip nervously. Shit. It’s THE stuff. The images of Tony Stark, the close-ups, the videos. Some innocent, some, well, not quite as much – whatever he could find online.

“Mr. Stark…” Peter wants to explain, but he doesn't even know how to begin. Before he can start though, Tony raises his finger to stop him. The finger then points at Peter, back to Mr. Stark, and goes back and forth a few times.

“We never… I would never, right?” finally asks Mr. Stark, and there is something so distinctly uncomfortable about the whole thing that it takes Peter a few seconds to fully comprehend what he is being asked.

“Oh, Christ, no! Of course not!” Peter’s words echo and bounce off the walls in panic. “Jesus Christ. Not. Never! I was sixteen when you, you know, when it all went down. And you were with Pepper and of course you wouldn’t. Nothing, there was nothing.”

Peter rambles on for a while, losing his train of thought, but the answer seems to be sufficient enough, because Mr. Stark puts a hand on his face in relief and rubs his eyes. The tension seems to exit his body, and his heartbeat evens out.

“Oh, thank God,” he says, cutting Peter's ramble. “Jarvis, cancel the castration appointment.”

“As discussed,” Jarvis comes on through the speaker, “It is illegal to fully neuter a human being.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mr. Stark nods a few times, takes another big sip of the drink, finishing it up, and his shoulders appear to drop by at least an inch. His pose changes from wound up to more or less at ease.

“And all that stuff…” Peter wants to explain, although he doesn’t know quite how he is going to do this. “That’s just, you know…”

“Topic’s closed, Spider-thing,” he gets cut off pretty quickly, and it’s for the best, because there was no way in hell something like this could be explained away.

“Now that we have moved on from this, want a drink?” asks Mr. Stark and starts pouring without waiting for an answer.

“I don’t drink,” says Peter, but comes up to the bar – just a few steps closer, still meters away. “But sure.”

“It’s not some sort of drinking is illegal in the future garbage, right?” Tony looks almost worried for a second, looking up at Peter, and for the first time that Peter can remember since waking up a few hours ago actually looks him in the eyes.

“Oh, no. Doesn’t agree with me. More like I don’t agree with it. Fast metabolism, it takes a lot. And I mean a lot to get drunk.”

Mr. Stark looks at him for a moment with a challenge and pushes the crystal glass across the bar surface with too much force. Peter isn’t close enough to stop it without moving, but he jumps and catches the glass when it’s about to smash to the floor, not spilling a drop.

“Nice party trick,” Mr. Stark nods approvingly and puts a cap back on the bottle. “Think fast!”

The bottle makes it all the way to the back wall, nearly hitting it with full force, but Peter gets to it on time, stopping its progress and grabbing it by the bottom. The glass is still in his other hand, the strong-smelling liquor intact.

“You are going to have to do better than that,” Peter smiles and, with a grin, jumps back to the bar with the flip in the air while emptying the contents of the glass into his mouth. He sets the bottle back on the bar near Mr. Stark’s empty glass, puts his own glass next to it, and, with a bit of a show, swallows the booze, making a point.

“Ok, ok, you are bouncy, huge fan,” Mr. Stark laughs, relaxed, and pours himself another drink. “Walk with me, will you?”

He grabs the bottle and leads Peter outside, sits on the massive steps leading down to the balcony larger than Peter’s apartment and pats the space next to him.

“Sit.”

Peter sits down a respectable distance away and uses the bottle passed over to him to refill his drink. He sips it then, watching the view. 

It’s still bright outside, but there is a sense of an evening coming, with the light softer than it would be if this was mid-day. His legs are stretched out on the steps and he rests back on his elbows, not turning his head to look at the man next to him, no matter how much he wants to. There is something impossibly unreal and magic in sitting on the steps with Mr. Stark next to him, so for a moment, just for a split second, he lets himself enjoy it. He wonders why he is allowed this moment, but there must be something in everything that Mr. Stark has found in his files that speaks to the god honest truth – they were close. And maybe, just maybe, Mr. Stark doesn’t think Peter is deranged enough to let him have this.

“You good?” Mr. Stark asks, making his way through the bottle with more speed than sense. “Not going to have a mental breakdown or something?”

“I am good. Let’s get to it.”

They talk for hours. Peter shares everything he knows, describes everything that has happened since he stepped through the door in his doctoral advisor’s office, and doesn’t keep anything to himself. Aside from the thoughts he has on how messed up he is for his obsession over a dead man – that subject is filed away and locked behind a door neither of them seems to want to reopen.

Mr. Stark listens, asking some clarifying questions when needed, and mainly nods. They get through enough alcohol to get Peter lightly buzzed, and every so often he gets a happy twitch in his heart. 

They argue over the “it” that needs protecting and theorize what it could be. At some stage, they get take-out, and Peter wolfs down enough calories to get a whistle out of Mr. Stark and a joke about how that much food on a daily basis would bankrupt even him. 

When the sun sets and they are surrounded by comfortable darkness, Peter asks what happened when he first appeared and why Mr. Stark didn’t hand him over to S.H.I.E.L.D.

He gets a raised eyebrow at the S.H.I.E.L.D question and a pun comparing him to a magic eight ball with answers to the future at Fury’s beck and call. Peter shudders at the thought of that, and they keep talking through the night. Turns out it’s only been four days since he first popped out of nowhere, landing on still-shook Pepper and Mr. Stark. And Mr. Stark didn’t waste any time going over everything that Peter brought over. It’s also now a fact that Mr. Stark could not find any trace of Peter in this world. They get Jarvis to search for Dr. Strange, and from what they can tell, Dr. Strange isn’t a part of this reality either. Pondering some big existential questions on time, space, and the universe, they work out that this isn’t your normal time travel, and they keep guessing until they are at the stage when things make less sense than they did before.

When they move to the giant corner couch back inside, lying on the opposite sides and both staring at the ceiling, Mr. Stark’s fist holding yet another bottle, Peter feels a knot in his chest and asks about his plans for the future. Will he follow the timeline? Will he try to hunt down those he stopped in the past beforehand, Minority Report style? And if he is really sure that Peter is a good guy and this isn’t some sort of screwed in the head trap.

“Fuck if I know,” he hears back. ‘It’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, with a not so selfish part of him regretting the mess that he has made, even if it wasn’t his fault. He wants to talk about Pepper and find out if she knows about any of this (his magic trick of teleporting out of nowhere in a car with a roof aside), but doesn’t dare to bring it up. How could he?

They talk some more, and Tony Stark asks about his daughter, his words now slurred; he’s wasted. About what she is like or will be like.

“She's just like you actually,” replies Peter, fondness clear in his voice. “Brilliant. Bit too sarcastic for a thirteen-year-old. We talk a lot. You left... a void, I guess.”

Before Mr. Stark drifts off into a sleep, he mutters that he always knew it.

“I fucking knew it, you know. I knew I was…”

“...meant for something more,” Peter’s super hearing picks up on the barely audible words, and he waits a bit until Mr. Stark is properly asleep to sneak outside. 

He runs then, for miles, exhausting himself time and time again, until he can no longer feel anything except for strain in every muscle in his body. The gaping wound he feels for destroying the life of this Tony Stark, while still bleeding, is numb.

He wants to scream for Dr. Strange into the night sky and beg him to pull him back. Revert the shitshow that was created and beat Dr. Strange into a pulp for his cryptic, unreasonable ways. As he sinks onto the ground, knees muddy in the damp dirt, he squeezes his fingers so tight they could break and sees no way out of this – no way this would end well for anybody.

Eventually, Peter returns to the house, feet dragging on the pavement, breath short. He sits on the ground leaning on the couch across from Tony Stark, palms squeezing his own thighs, fingers digging into the muscle, and watches him sleep for a while. Mr. Stark’s frowning in his sleep, his mouth slightly open, and Peter keeps choking on the regret he feels. He tries to imagine tomorrow and can’t because if he could die right now and put it all back in place, he would, he really would, wouldn’t even flinch if offered.

He’s scared, panicked, and so utterly lost that when he finally falls asleep, still sitting on the floor, his last thought isn’t that of Mr. Stark and how good it is to see him, how right it feels to look at him again and hear him breathe. His last thought is a desperate plea not to wake up back to this.

Chapter Text

No matter how he had been feeling the night before, Peter wakes up determined to set things right. He isn’t sure how he can do it yet, and the thought alone of navigating this makes his head hurt, but there has to be a way.

Before he gets a chance to really think of a plan, though, he is faced with Pepper. He first hears the clicks of her heels outside and, scrambling to his feet, he greets her in the living space that was trashed the night before. 

She steps over a bottle on the floor, comes up to him, and drops two shopping bags in front of him.

“You’ll need this,” she looks at him in disappointment, and he is immediately aware that it is a result of the state of the room, rather than anything she may know about his magic appearing act.

“I am Peter,” he offers, not sure how to proceed. There are take-out boxes scattered all over the floor, and Pepper frowns as she steps on an unopened fortune cookie.

She is already moving on, though, not giving him a chance to continue, and, with only a nod to acknowledge his greeting, disappears into a hallway.

“Tony?” he hears her call. “You’re late.”

“I am never late,” states Mr. Stark a few rooms away, and Peter makes a point of not listening to their conversation. It is one thing to dump all of his problems on Mr. Stark by dropping by unannounced into another universe and timeline, and it’s another to have the audacity to listen in on private chats just because he can.

Peter peeks inside the bags and finds new clothes separated by folding paper. They are his size and more or less what he is wearing now, but new and better quality. He grabs the bags and heads into the bathroom. 

The clothes are obviously meant for him, and he doesn’t waste time changing into them, replacing the jeans he ruined last night with his cathartic running, slipping on a new set of Converse All Stars and a plain black t-shirt. The t-shirt isn’t a vintage NASA one he loves, but it is fresh and isn’t soaked in sweat. There is a jacket in the bags also, not exactly his style, but he puts it on over the hoodie he chooses to keep. 

Taking a quick look in the mirror, he sticks his head under the water tap and does the best he can to freshen up. There is a shower in the room, but he isn’t sure if it’s alright, so he searches through multiple drawers until he finds some mints and chews on them.

Logistics of being dropped into this time weigh on him a bit. He has no toothbrush. How in the world is he meant to deal with all of this, if he doesn’t even have a toothbrush? Not to mention a little hiccup of being an illegal alien from an outer universe.

Once finished, he returns to the room with a bar and waits, anxiously. The determination he felt when he woke up is struggling against the concept of being tasked with protecting an unknown “it.” Where does he even start?

His stomach grumbles, and he picks at the leftover chow mein without tasting it. He is still eating when Mr. Stark walks into the room, followed by Pepper. Peter looks at the man in a suit in front of him and feels severely underdressed.

“Come on, let’s go,” Mr. Stark snaps his fingers and, putting on a pair of sunglasses, heads outside. Looking back at Pepper, her hand on her hip, Peter awkwardly steps to the bags with his leftover clothes in them and gestures in no particular direction.

“Here,” she takes the bags from him and walks away. While he is deciding whether to follow her, he hears her opening a door and flinging the bags on what sounds like a bed.

“Third guest room on the left,” she says when she’s back, not looking at him, texting with both hands. “Get going; you’re late.”

“Ah, okay,” says Peter and follows Mr. Stark outside. 

He’s out of place and awkward. Not knowing what to do with his hands, he shoves them into the pockets of the jacket and shivers in the windy morning. There is a car in the driveway with tinted black windows, and when he comes up to open the door, he sees Mr. Stark on the seat closest to it, typing on his phone.

“That’s my side,” says Mr. Stark, not looking up at him and, if anything, Peter is feeling ignored.

The feeling evolves from a mild annoyance into considerable frustration within the first ten minutes of the wordless car ride. The screen behind the driver is closed, and Peter wonders if it’s Happy at the wheel. He fidgets, taps his foot, plays with the window buttons, closing it up and down restlessly and opens his mouth at least twice to say something, but comes up with nothing useful.

“You’ve got ADHD I need to know about, Spider-bounce?” eventually asks Mr. Stark, still not giving him a time of day, tanned fingers viciously attacking the touchscreen of the custom phone with an SI logo on it.

“I’ve got a lot of energy,” exhales Peter, relieved that he is acknowledged. “Where are we going?”

Mr. Stark ignores the question, but mutters “No shit” under his breath and continues with whatever he is doing on the phone with one hand, the other digging out a Rubik’s cube from inside the side compartment and throwing it in Peter’s direction.

Peter catches the toy and, while mildly insulted, spends the next ten seconds looking at it and another two and a half solving it, moving his fingers as fast as his speed lets him. He puts the solved puzzle on the seat between them, and a teen inside him is beaming with pride. His more self-aware part that is considerably older suppresses an internal eye roll at how at twenty-four he is still looking for approval from the man next to him. He’s got issues.

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” asks Mr. Stark, but pausing, adds: “Jarvis, what’s the world record for Rubik's cube solving?”

“It is sub-seven seconds, sir,” replies Jarvis, and Peter does his best to hide a grin.

He isn’t given any more toys or puzzles to play with, which he is almost disappointed with, falling into an odd state of awe and confusion. There is a part of him that still struggles to accept what is happening and that Tony Stark, while kind of a dick, is sitting right next to him. You ever had one of those moments, when you don’t know what’s going to happen next and struggle to visualize it? Peter’s been living and breathing it since the fall.

They don’t speak for the rest of the car ride, but when they finally stop, Mr. Stark gestures for him to follow. It’s Happy who opens the door to let Mr. Stark out, and Peter restrains himself from hugging the man. 

They are ushered inside the building that looks like a TV network, and all of a sudden, there are too many people surrounding Mr. Stark as they make their way inside. Peter falls behind next to Happy. A blonde in a tight pencil skirt is talking to Mr. Stark, flashing him a suggestive smile, and walks them towards an elevator.

“Who is this?” she asks, pressing a button in the now cramped lift and looking at Peter.

“He’s from the future,” replies Mr. Stark and smiles at her, while Peter freezes in shock.

“He’s going to need a pass.” She has already lost interest in Peter, obviously thinking it is a joke, and the rest of the ride up she hits on Mr. Stark, and he effortlessly flirts back, an uncomfortable pit in Peter’s stomach.

When they finally get upstairs, the blonde leaves them, but not before not so subtly slipping Mr. Stark her phone number. She tries to do it by playfully putting the card with the number into his front suit coat pocket, but before she can, Happy steps in and snatches the card.

Peter observes the exchange with disgust, and as they walk, keeps staring at the blond hair stuck to Mr. Stark's shoulder that was left there after she had leaned in too close. The air smells fresher when she carries away the scent of her heavy perfume.

They are brought to the studio filled with an audience, and Peter is directed to the sidelines with Happy. 

Two more times Mr. Stark is asked who Peter is while being prepped for what appears to be an interview.

“My number one fan,” he says to a brunette that passes an attachable microphone to Happy, who then pins it to Mr. Stark. This one might have dealt with Mr. Stark before.

“My stalker,” Mr. Stark replies to a security guard who is gesturing for Happy and Peter to stand at the back next to the cameramen.

“He needs a pass,” the security guard doesn’t seem to care though, and when the interview begins, Peter is left next to Happy still without the elusive pass.

The interview is about twenty minutes long, and Peter doesn’t listen to what is being said. He does look at Tony Stark though – charismatic, witty, sarcastic. The more he watches the man, bright studio lights shining on his skin, long fingers rubbing a carefully trimmed goatee, hand being put through a thick head of hair, as Tony laughs at whatever the woman interviewing him said, the less conflicted Peter becomes.

Something clicks inside him the moment Mr. Stark stands up and gives a heartfelt bow to the audience, visibly enjoying all the attention. Two compartments appear in Peter’s mind – one fully filled with memories of the Tony Stark he knew. The other one is almost empty, this showy bow stored away in it now.

“You are… different,” says Peter when they get back to the car.

“Am I?” Mr. Stark turns to him and raises an eyebrow. “Why do you think that is, Spider-nerd?”

“You are not him,” Peter shrugs, leaning back on the seat, head against the leather cushion. “The things that made you him haven’t happened yet. Maybe never will now. You don’t need to prove a point of some sort to me.”

“Good for you,” Mr. Stark nods approvingly. “You can call me Tony now. But just to make it clear, there is no point to prove. I am who I am.”

“I got it,” Peter whispers quietly, but doubts he hears him.

There is a shift in the mood after that. Peter doesn’t particularly care what happens with the day anymore. 

There are a few more interviews, four meetings, one meal break in the car while Tony keeps working on the phone after passing Peter two hot dogs. They make it to SI skyscraper for a brief stop, drive across the town to cut a ribbon using oversized scissors. Stark is still constantly on his phone, and Peter is completely useless, being dragged around after him.

Throughout the day, Peter meets hundreds of people who all seem to know Tony Stark and want something from him. He hears business proposals, indecent proposals, a few almost worthwhile charity pitches, and a request to model for Fashion Weekly. All this attention, admiration, and want buzzes around Stark and eventually sets Peter on edge.

People ask who Peter is just to get the conversation going, trying to stick around Tony for a few minutes longer, but never care for what the reply is. Stark calls him his dog walker, an alien, an Iron Boy, his nurse, his bodyguard (Happy laughs at that one), his tennis coach, his personal shopper, his valet, his butler, his teacher’s assistant, barista, therapist, hairdresser, big brother, and a bunch more ridiculous things.

Anywhere they go, strangers keep trying to pin a pass or a badge on Peter, and by the time it hits about eight in the evening, he is so wound up and sick of people around him, touching him, but also ignoring him, he flings back a lanyard with ”Mr. Stark’s food taster & boyfriend & lab assistant & intern & foreign exchange student” back at the innocent receptionist. He then apologizes profusely for so long that both Stark and Happy laugh at him for what seems like an unreasonable amount of time.

The boyfriend thing ticks him off especially, even though he knows it is just one of the dozens of pointless things he has been called today – none taken seriously.

“What the fuck is wrong with him?” he asks, not expecting an answer from Happy, while Tony poses for photos with a cast from some TV show he remembers watching when he was a kid.

“You tell me,” shrugs Happy and gives Peter a knowing look he can’t interpret. “We just did weeks’ worth of events in a day.”

When they finally get back to Stark's house, Peter is walking a thin line of madness. He is half tempted to slam the door of the guest room he assumes he is staying in but can't quite bring himself to do it.

“You’ve got a gym?” he asks instead, and Tony points in an approximate direction with humor in his eyes.

“Oh, fuck off,” mumbles Peter and goes inside the room, Tony ignoring him again and walking away. 

The guest room looks like a hotel nobody ever stays in, and Peter finds generic things in the drawers and dresser shelves, including gym shorts with an SI logo on them and a t-shirt to match.

He works out for about an hour, going through the usual routine and trying to get his emotional carousel under control. He is so tense and agitated that he eventually breaks the rowing machine he is using by snapping the chain and watches the flywheel crash into the weights rack.

His senses are out of control, and his sight keeps flipping between an intense head-rushing zoom and normal. He feels the tiniest hairs on his skin stand up, and he’s breathing fast, lips dry, mouth open. 

Tony’s steps are like drum beats in his head, and he presses his hands to his ears, trying to calm down but fails by the time Stark opens the door to the gym and leans against the frame. 

Tony is wearing a dark brown Black Sabbath t-shirt and cargo pants, his hands greasy with oil, wiping them on a white towel. Peter looks at him for a moment, the bright light of the arc reactor in the chest blinding him, and doesn’t try to apologize for the damage.

“You alright?” asks Stark. “Is this a regular thing?”

“What the fuck am I doing here?” Peter asks angrily. He doesn’t quite scream, but he does get up from the rowing machine seat and comes up to the window, opening it fully and leaning out as much as he can, feet still on the ground.

“What, you are pissed off at me now?” Tony sounds like he is up for a fight, annoyance quite clear in his voice. “You want a plan? Or maybe you have one? Because I sure as shit don’t.”

He hears Stark taking a few steps closer, and Peter leans his forehead against the glass of the window pane, his chin on the shoulder.

“I am going to recap my last week for you, Spider-wonder,” Tony continues, and Peter grinds his teeth, every cell in his body boiling. 

“The first two days - not too shabby. Had a date, made a project breakthrough. The rest? Downhill from there. Here I am, eating the best burger this side of the state, and then here you are, phase out of nowhere and dump the world, nay, universe problems on my doorstep like a bag of shit on Halloween. Four days you were out of it? I have considered for myself both a mental institution and an honest-to-God bullet to the head. I am still considering at least one of those options and going to leave you to figure out which one, smartass with daddy issues. You think I am Tony Stark, the hero, the mentor, the savior of the universe? I am me, you get it? I am not that guy. I am not the self-sacrificing type who, while surrounded by what sounds like the biggest collection of superheroes in the bloody universe, decides that he is the best fit to snap his fingers to fix it all. I am Tony Stark. The Iron Man, genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. But I am not that Tony Stark, you get it? Never will be.”

All the way throughout the speech, Peter’s lips are moving in the silent “stop, stop, stop, stop.” By the time Stark gets to the “I am not that Tony Stark,” Peter is turning around, hands in fists. By “Never will be,” he hits the bracelets on his wrists and jumps out of the window as the nanotech wraps him in a suit.

“Not a word, F.R.I.D.A.Y,” he says as he flings himself out of the building.

Two hours later, he sits on top of the skyscraper, looking over the city. His mind and body are perfectly calm, but there is still a hint of desperation lingering about. He is embarrassed by the outburst, thought he could control it better – learned to control it better over the years. He is in a city he doesn’t know, out of touch, outside of time.

“I am out of ideas, Dr. Strange. If you are waiting for a perfect time to drop the 'it,' go for it, as good a time as any.” He doesn’t really expect an answer, so when he hears one, he jumps up and nearly falls over. The voice in his ear isn’t Dr. Strange, though; it’s Stark.

“Fancy meeting you here,” the Iron Man suit lands on the roof with a deaf “thud.”

It’s quite something to see him so close wearing the suit, and for a second, it takes Peter’s breath away. The man inside might not be who he knew exactly, but standing right in front of him is Iron Man.

“Traitor,” Peter blames F.R.I.D.A.Y., assuming Stark wasn’t just flying by, enjoying the night breeze.

“Well, I didn’t spend the day back-hacking my own AI for nothing, did I?” Stark comes up to Peter and is now towering over him encased in metal. “Ready to talk, Peter?”

“Yeah, sure,” Peter shrugs, almost impressed that he didn’t notice the whole time in the car that Stark was up to no good. He could have just asked. He also just called him Peter. Not Spider-something, but actually used his name. Peter figures that alone is worth a conversation. "But just as a disclaimer, to quote someone I know who is a bit of a dick, I absolutely, sure as shit, do not have a plan.”

“Why do you think Strange has chosen you for this, Peter?” It’s difficult to guess the expression on Stark's face; his helmet is still closed.

“I don’t know,” Peter looks back at the city. "Maybe because I’ve done this before. It’s not new for me to be completely alone. I’ve told you what happened.”

“Do you think that’s the truth? Honestly?” Stark keeps digging, grinding at the problem.

Peter thinks back to the first conversation he ever had with Mr. Stark, when he was just a kid.

“Why are you doing this?”

…

“When you can do the things that I can… but you don’t… and then the bad things happen… they happen because of you.”

“No,” Peter shakes his head and turns back to face Iron Man. “Maybe not. It doesn’t change the fact how messed up this is for you.”

“Yeah, about that. F.R.I.D.A.Y, do your thing.”

A hologram appears over Peter's nanotech bracelets. 

It’s split into two videos – one dated 2008, another 2010. It’s the same interview they’ve done today, first thing in the morning. No wonder he couldn't get rid of the feeling he had seen the set before. 

The screen switches to the ribbon cutting, Tony pretending to have issues picking up giant scissors, kids laughing. There is a video next to it, only instead of Tony, it’s Pepper who is a guest of honor and Tony looks hungover in the background, standing next to some woman, his arm wrapped around her. 

The screen flickers a few more times, and every video and photo Peter looks at is an example of a difference between what Stark pulled out of Peter’s drive and today. He then sees more examples, and while the range of dates between events and the content of the images and videos is not obscene, it is still compelling.

“That’s… Holy shit!” exclaims Peter, deactivating his suit to the shoulders. “What does it mean?”

“You tell me,” suggests Tony and waves his arm. The arm is so huge it is as big as Peter's head, and he almost ducks involuntarily.

“Did you plan this?” he questions Stark, grasping to understand.

“Yes and no. The first interview we did today was on the books for months. It happened two years ago based on your files. There are discrepancies in your data. There were a few from the beginning from what I could tell. Not enough for me to assume you are not who you say you are, but enough to make an educated guess that this timeline is different. It’s minor. The difference. All things considered. But it’s there.”

“Look,” continues Stark. “I may not be happy with our little… let’s call it a reunion. But I also overreacted. This is enough for me to maybe, a soft maybe, hold it together until we figure this out. Ok? Sounds good?”

“Yeah, that’s good, Mr. Stark,” responds Peter faster than he is able to process this. “The only thing is, what do I do in the meantime? I don’t quite belong here.”

“Stick around, stay at the house. Tinker, meditate, do whatever you want. The problem will find us; we don’t have to go looking,” Iron Man puts a metal hand on Peter's shoulder. “Deal?”

“Now that,” Peter smiles, “almost sounds like a plan.”

Chapter Text

While it's agreed they will not go looking for trouble, they still spend over two weeks systematically eliminating everything that the mysterious “it” could be. Without any specifics to go on, they hit a wall, so Jarvis is instructed to constantly monitor the feeds for anything that could be important enough to rip someone out of time.

Living with Tony Stark presents a strange mix of mind-blowing tech and decadence. Peter quickly falls into the routine of what Tony, but no other sane human being, would call a normal lifestyle. Tony Stark is a workaholic, and while Peter has always assumed and heard it to be the case, he never really got a chance to witness it first-hand. There aren't enough hours in the day to do what he does, and very early on, Peter picks up on the fact that the man would rather not sleep at all than compromise.

Tony spends most of the hours of the day in his workshop, doing his best to dodge Pepper, improving his suit, and going over the schematics that Peter had on him when he fell. 

He asks for Peter’s permission to experiment with the nanotech of his suit, to which Peter agrees eagerly. He feels naked without the bracelets on his wrists, but just like he couldn’t say no to Mr. Stark before, he can’t now. Iron Man's suit skips dozens of versions of its evolution, and Tony works on improving it for so many hours without breaks that Peter wonders how in the hell he has energy to do anything else.

Peter expects that after the first day out and about with Tony, they will cut down on public appearances, but he is wrong because they leave the manor almost every night. 

They go to business dinners in luxury restaurants, they go to private clubs where Tony proverbially shakes hands over the deals of the century. They even attend a movie premiere, and Peter looks away from the cameras that surround them, hundreds of flashes going off when Tony Stark steps out of the car onto the red carpet. It completely eludes Peter why he is being dragged after Tony anywhere he goes, but he reasons that maybe it is Tony’s attempt to bring out the party that the “it” needs protecting from.

Peter gets worried they are changing too many things for the future to come to pass as it should when Tony trademarks Meta just to mess with Zuckerberg. He doesn’t argue, though, and says nothing because, for someone who spends so much time around him, Tony doesn’t actually talk to him much. He no longer refers to Peter by anything other than his first name and, if asked about who Peter is, just shrugs his shoulders and says, “That’s Peter.” As if that’s enough to explain a sudden appearance of a shadow next to him.

The more time Peter spends around Tony, the more he is convinced that he can make things happen by magic. It’s either that, or the staff in the manor who clean, change the sheets, and supply Peter with fresh towels are invisible. In two weeks’ time, he doesn’t hear or see anyone around, aside from Tony and Happy and, on occasion, Pepper, but when he needs it, there is a smart suit for him to wear in the wardrobe, a fake but very real-looking ID, as well as anything else he may need. 

He takes it all somewhat for granted, hadn't expected anything less, considering the resources Tony possesses. However, when a credit card appears in his jacket pocket next to the ID, he protests for the first time. He is shut down pretty quickly, though, as Tony gives him a look that makes Peter feel like an absolute idiot.

Being around Tony Stark is exhilarating and so much more than Peter could put into words, but by week three since first walking up in Tony’s workshop, Peter starts feeling guilty for reasons other than the chaos that his appearance must have introduced to Tony’s life. 

Peter can pinpoint a moment when the thoughts plaguing him start affecting his facial expressions.

It's about seven in the evening on a Saturday, and he is working on increasing the tensile strength of his webbing. He hits a blocker, the new batches not coming out better than the previous ones. As he adjusts the formula, using the oh-so wickedly awesome holo-interface of Tony’s workshop, he keeps looking at Tony from the corner of his eyes. 

Tony is difficult not to watch when he works or does something as mundane as taking a sip of water from a bottle. There is something about the way he moves, the way he talks to Jarvis (not so much to Peter), the way he jumps into a problem head-first and easily finds a way to solve it. It's this effortlessness that finally gets to Peter because he's never seen anything like it before. 

Peter is smart, quite clever actually, and his powers make him different in many amazing ways, but while he was considered somewhat of a prodigy among his peers, it is not at all comparable to anything that Tony Stark is or does. So when a formula correction appears in the corner of the projection, Peter looks at it with bewilderment for longer than necessary. He didn’t even notice Tony working on it, and Tony is still on the opposite side of the workshop, soldering iron in his hands, leaning over a station.

It has to be an expression on Peter’s face or the way he puts his hands on top of his head, collecting the long curls of his hair into a fist. It has to be it – that gesture that gives it away, the guilt that has been bothering him.

"Anything on your mind I should know about?" asks Tony, and Peter is yet again surprised by how this extraordinary man can be so enveloped in his own project and still notice that Peter is going through something of an internal crisis.

"It’s nothing," Peter shakes his head, hand still on his hair. "Don’t worry about it."

"Are you hungry? Let's take a break," suggests Tony and, without waiting for an answer, heads upstairs.

Peter walks after him with the enthusiasm of a snail. Tony doesn’t exactly give up or give in when it comes to anything he wants. They also never really take lunch breaks or even dinner breaks and instead eat while working, unless they are going somewhere, so when he finds Tony by the massive fridge, digging through the contents and setting them up on the bar table, he knows he will be expected to spill his guts. It’s probably one of the things that he doesn’t actually like about Tony – the fact that he wouldn’t let some things go even if they are better off left alone.

"So," Tony tries again, as Peter is making his way through a gourmet sandwich. "What’s going on?"

"It’s not…" begins Peter again, but a look on Tony’s face is enough for him not to continue. "Fine, it’s something."

Tony doesn’t say anything but watches Peter with an expecting expression on his face. He is collected and calm, chewing on his food, leaning on the door of the fridge, all muscle and tanned skin under the "Peter will not think about it, stop thinking about it" black tank top, arc reactor steadily shining through.

"Ok, you got me," Peter puts the half-eaten sandwich down and sips on a coke. "What do you think will happen after this is over?"

He’s been thinking about it for nearly as long as he has been in this house, manor, mansion – whatever is the most appropriate word.

"Say we find out why I am actually here and, if we are lucky enough, we succeed. What happens then?"

The guilt he feels, the one making the distress become noticeable enough for Tony to pick up on, has nothing to do with the one he feels for materializing in Tony’s life. This one is a more selfish type Peter catches himself on when he watches Tony, following him anywhere the man moves, eyes glued to Tony when he doesn’t notice he is being watched.

It’s not the want, even though there is plenty of that; Peter is honest enough not to fool himself. It’s the admiration, the workshop, the being around Tony constantly that makes him feel guilty because he knows he wants it to last as long as possible. He’s dreading the moment this situation plays out in its entirety because he isn’t sure if he even wants to come back to his life.

He could see himself happily just being around for as long as Tony lets him – tinkering side by side, watching him just be. Be Tony in that effortless, impressive way. Peter doesn’t even need Tony that way to be content; he just desperately wants to be around him.

On the other side of that guilt are the connections he made in his old life. His boyfriend, heck, Dave, who isn’t a bad guy and is actually good for Peter; other Avengers, the S.H.I.E.L.D. It took Peter years to get to where he was by the time Strange flung him into this time and place and there are countless people and things Peter feels responsible for back home.

"You are worried you will not be able to get back?" Well, it’s good to know Tony Stark isn’t so perfect that he can actually read Peter’s mind.

Peter thinks on it for a while, picks up the food again but doesn’t bite in, looking at it instead and avoiding Tony’s eyes.

"One of the first things you asked me when we met back in that other life was why I do what I do," he says finally, eyes now on the table, sandwich back on the plate, as he can’t force himself to take another bite.

Tony stays quiet, patiently waiting, and he is almost still. It’s a rare occasion for him to be so motionless – he is always stirring, shifting, touching, doing something. Even when he thinks about something, calculating a solution, there is an air of action, fluidity about him that Peter can’t look away from.

"I told you that when you can do what I can... inaction would make you as responsible for bad things that happen. Maybe not in these exact words, but you get the idea."

"So you feel you are abandoning people you could be helping because you are here?" the question is a rhetorical one, but Peter clings to the word "abandoning," the all-too-familiar guilt eating at him. That’s what he would do if he was selfish. He also knows that if faced with a choice, he would take an honorable way out. And it isn’t fair.

"It is what it is," Peter remarks eventually, after a long pause. "All this waiting, preparing… it just has me on edge."

They finish the food in silence, and it's almost not uncomfortable, but there is still an air of something unspoken persisting as Peter cleans up after them.

"Right," Tony claps his hands, spurring into action, back to his always moving, always doing something state. "I know what you need."

If only you knew, thinks Peter. But then again, Tony does know what Peter wants. They haven’t spoken about the clear obsession that reads black on white across everything on his laptop and phone since the first day. The topic is buried so deep under so many layers of “we are never going to speak about this again” that sometimes Peter thinks it is fine.

"Yeah?" he smiles with the corner of his mouth. "What is that exactly?"

"Get ready; we are going to blow off some steam," says Tony and goes in the direction of the bedrooms. "You’ve got twenty minutes. Wear something casual."

Peter grabs a quick shower and wonders what in the world of Tony Stark blowing off steam is. He smirks when he imagines it is somewhere in between using priceless china for target practice, not that he ever noticed him to be that wasteful, and a privately booked performance by a top-of-the-charts band.

He isn’t quite sure what is casual in the world of Tony Stark either, so he settles on blue jeans, abandons sneakers for boots, and picks a tight-fitting black t-shirt, which he intends to hide under the leather jacket. 

As he puts on the jeans and sits down on the bed to lace the boots, he is yet again curious as to who picks out his clothes and when Tony has time to make any arrangements for his unexpected guest. He sort of assumes it must be Pepper who gives the instructions on what to get because she is the only assistant of Tony’s who has actually seen him for longer than a few minutes, but just like every other time he thinks of Pepper, Peter quickly switches his mind to something else. In this case, lacing the boots. 

He just can’t think about what is going to happen between Tony and her and he really can’t be thinking about how screwed up it is to show up out of nowhere with the information that they get married and have a kid together before they even start dating in this timeline.

Peter is just about finished with the boots, but the rest of the clothes are still on the bed, when Tony opens the door to his bedroom without knocking.

"You’ll need these back," says Tony, staying in the doorway, Peter’s nanotech bracelets in his hands.

"Ah yeah, good thinking," agrees Peter and gets up from the bed. As he takes the first step, it occurs to him that he is still topless, with just the jeans and the boots on, but he doesn’t want to make a big deal about it, self-conscious that it will somehow remind them both of that unspoken thing they don’t discuss. 

So he extends his wrists towards Tony, holding them close together, but far enough away from his body so it isn't awkward.

Tony is already dressed in dark slacks and sneakers, an AC/DC t-shirt, and a sports jacket. His hair, just like Peter’s, is still wet from a shower, but while Peter’s hair is longer and curly, Tony’s hair is messy in that particular very Tony Stark way it makes Peter’s abs clench. 

Tony looks so fucking good that Peter decides that if this man told him to crawl towards him, he would. With pleasure. This thought shoots through him, but he stands still while Tony locks the bracelets on, fingers not touching any skin. The self-seeking part of Peter burns with an expectation that it might happen, just for a moment, but it doesn’t and, once Tony is done, he simply turns away and walks towards the stairs leading down to the garage.

"We are taking the Lamborghini. You are driving."

Peter goes back to the bed to pick up his t-shirt, listening to Tony’s determined footsteps. He could swear he hears “Christ,” but he wasn’t really using his senses, so he stays clear of overthinking it. It’s a slippery slope that would only lead him to feeling embarrassed. He doesn’t want to give any thought to what Tony must really think of him and how weird it must be for Tony to have someone around who was so obviously stupidly, for years, obsessed with a version of him that has been dead for half a decade.

Blowing off steam with Tony Stark, at least that night, involves an exclusive nightclub where VIP sections have their own, even more exclusive, VIP couches. The club is dark, loud, and smells of sex and weed, and Peter struggles before he is able to adjust to the strobe lights that are unsettling his senses. They stay there for hours – Tony is relaxed and having what looks like a great time, drinking more than he probably should. Peter, on the other hand, is tense as hell as he sits opposite Tony, working hard on appearing unfazed. 

There is a constant stream of people coming up to Tony, dancing next to their table, joining them, trying to get noticed. And Tony watches them with satisfaction and interest in his eyes.

Eventually, one of the girls, a lovely-looking thing with huge brown eyes and long lush dark hair, wraps her arms around Peter’s neck, and he laughs, gently pushing a soft strand of hair behind her ear.

"You are gorgeous," he tells her, winking. "But you are not my type."

She gives him a wicked beam with her full red lips and disappears back into the crowd that pulses with need to the steady beat of the music. A little while later, she brings back a friend – tall, dark, and handsome.

"That’s Jack," she says, pushing the guy onto the seat next to Peter with laughter and then makes her way to sit next to Tony, who puts his arm around her shoulders, whispering something into her ear Peter does best not to hear.

"Hey, Jack," Peter puts on a friendly expression, but even though he hasn’t been drinking, the room is swimming in a haze of everything he feels. It’s like he tunes into the beat of this club, the heat that evaporates into the foggy air, and he is dazed.

He chats with the guy for a bit, and they stay close to each other, leaning over, heads together as they talk. It’s hot, and the smell of the marijuana tickles Peter’s nostrils - this room, the curve of Tony’s lips that he can’t seem to stop following, is making him feel drunk.

"We’re going," says Tony another hour later while Peter’s eyes burn at the spot where the girl’s finger draws circles on Tony’s chest, just above the arc reactor.

Peter leaves to get the car from the valet and, breathing in the fresh air outside, can’t stop himself from cursing:

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."

It’s half-past four in the morning, and he can’t get his thoughts together. The night, the beat still in his ears, even though the music is barely audible from the outside. He gets behind the wheel and waits for Tony, silently praying he isn’t going to have to drive him and the girl back to the house as they make out in the back seat. That would break him. But when Tony comes outside, he has one of his arms wrapped around the girl and another around Jack, which makes it even worse, as Peter records his strong, long fingers on the man’s waist.

Jack sits next to Peter, and on the ride back to the house, they talk some more, but if asked, Peter would not remember anything about the guy.

They leave the car in the driveway instead of the garage and go inside. The corner couch is big enough for all of them, and Jack keeps asking Peter questions to which he doesn’t recall responding. He watches, watches, watches, and he just can’t stop as the girl puts a pill on her tongue and kisses Tony, his lips on hers, her hair on his neck.

She grins as Tony swallows, his Adam’s apple moving, his mouth opening as she puts another pill on his tongue. And, no, no, no, oh God, no, Tony leans towards Jack, Jack’s hand on Peter's shoulder, fingers touching his neck, as Tony kisses the guy. It’s only a few seconds, Jack is taking the pill from Tony, but to Peter, the exchange stretches into minutes. The quick, almost-not-a-kiss is slow-motion torture as Peter smiles lazily and sees Tony’s lips on Jack’s mouth, the flash of his tongue passing over the pill, his closed eyes, the way his jaw moves, the way he leans his head into the kiss.

It’s Peter’s turn, and he can smell Tony on Jack’s breath as he takes the pill from him. He tries not to think about this, he really does, every single bit of the willpower he has left allocated to not thinking, but when he closes his eyes and moves his tongue to lift the pill and swallow it, all he sees is the bend of Tony’s neck as he was kissing Jack, the movement of his lips as they found the other man’s.

It doesn’t take long for the pills to start working, and Peter is happy, so bloody happy that this isn’t turning into a fucked-up situation he doesn’t want to be in - they just sit, talk, listen to the music, and it’s fine as long as Peter doesn’t have to see Tony kiss anyone else. 

He doesn’t actually expect the pill to work on him, but it does, and what starts as a nice, warm high builds up to a mild euphoria in his body, in every single one of his muscles. 

He doesn’t mind Jack’s hand on his thigh as he rests on the couch, head leaned back as far as the seat lets him. 

There are nice, amazingly nice waves rolling through his body, and he enjoys it as Jack moves his fingers up and down because they never quite get too forward enough to have to stop him. It’s getting brighter outside, and Peter can actually hear birds chirp. Both the drug and staying up all night make everything seem soft, warm, comfortable, and light.

He listens to the girl, he still doesn’t know her name, chatting to Tony, and it is a lovely soothing sound. 

Things change when Jack leans in to kiss Peter again, and Peter tenses up, feeling Jack get closer. He avoids the kiss by turning his head to look directly at Tony, and Jack puts his lips on his neck instead, soft little touches trailing towards his ear. Arousal spikes, and he snaps out of the daze – he can’t be in this room anymore, can’t look Tony in the eyes, curiously looking back at him as some guy he barely knows nibbles on his neck. He pulls away.

“I am sorry, I have someone,” he tells Jack, and the guy seems to be fine, his relaxed smile understanding. “It’s getting late... early. This was good.”

He gives a weak wave as he leaves the room and touches the girl on the shoulder to say goodbye, sincerely hoping he will never see either of them again. 

At the door to his room, not walking in or even opening it, he leans on it with his forehead. The door is hard and cool, and Peter’s nerve endings are dialed up to a hundred percent, his whole body shuddering with the pleasure of the high. 

He turns around and leans on the door, listening to what is happening in the room he just left. He hears Tony speak, and every word, every sound that comes out of this man crushes and crushes Peter into bits. 

He stays in that hallway unmoving for what is probably a long time, but it could also be just a few minutes – he isn’t quite sure. He is concentrating so much on how Tony says things and not on what he is saying, so when there is a sound of an opening and closing of the outside door followed by the sound of the car driving away, he is unprepared for Tony to walk into this hallway. His mind wanders to what car they left in – surely it wasn’t the one they were using. Neither of them were alright to drive. But then Tony is here, and Peter doesn’t care about who has left.

Tony stops in front of him, leans on the wall opposite Peter, and they just stand there for a little while, separated by the width of the corridor.

“You alright?” asks Tony, his eyes dark, moving from the bottom of Peter’s feet to his eyes and back. Again and again. “You look like an exposed wire.”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, desperately wanting Tony to do something. Leave or touch him. Just like he couldn’t be in that room anymore, he can’t keep standing here. He may have been obsessed with Tony Stark from his past, but he is in love with the one standing in front of him. “I am alright.”

“Go to sleep, Peter,” finally says Tony and walks away. He always seems to be walking away from Peter.

And Peter does as he is told.

Chapter Text

It may come as a surprise, but unrequited feelings are not something Peter is used to. When he was young, he didn’t know what his relationship with Mr. Stark meant to him until it was too late. After Tony Stark was gone, it hardly could have been called unrequited love because the man he couldn’t get out of his mind was never going to be around again. 

His feelings for Mr. Stark in the past were a dull, obsessive, ruthless kind of pain that was always with him.

His feelings for Tony Stark in the present swirl inside him like a whirlpool, catching his breath and forming a tight knot in his stomach anytime Tony pays attention to him. 

It’s almost shocking how difficult it is for Peter to feel noticed, to feel seen, when working side by side with someone for weeks, living together in the same house, and barely spending any time apart. 

Tony is… insightful when it comes to Peter. He notices when things are wrong, not that they are not always, just well-hidden. He pulls Peter out of his downward spirals, asks if he is alright, and once in a while, says something so simple and profound that it sets Peter’s head straight. 

But he is also distant.

By week four since his arrival, they are still nowhere when it comes to Peter’s mission, and things are getting settled in a domestic sort of way. For lack of a better comparison, Peter starts feeling like a house pet inherited from a relative that wasn’t liked—always around, always needing to be looked after, but not necessarily wanted. His visit doesn’t have an expiration date, and an insecure part of him perceives his staying with Tony all this time as freeloading.

There is no animosity between them, not even obvious tension, but Peter wants to be useful, and the notion that he will never be good enough is something he thinks about when Tony calls him over to pick his brain about one piece of tech or another. 

Peter can make a few suggestions, point out a few ways to go around the problem at hand, but he is light-years behind where Tony is. The man’s brain is on a whole other level from Peter’s, and Peter struggles to understand some of the concepts that Tony must find exceedingly basic. 

The only upper hand Peter has is the future discoveries and familiarity with nanotech, but as days turn into weeks, Tony is so far ahead that he is ready to start testing the new Iron Man upgrades he has been working on. 

Which is, arguably, when Peter’s superpowers come in handy for once since his arrival. 

Because Tony Stark has a death wish.

The first time Tony hurts himself, Peter is unprepared and misses it. Peter sits on top of the workstation, scratching at the notepad thoughtlessly with a pencil, his back turned away from Tony. His headphones are on, Kansas blasting through the buds so loud that Peter doesn’t hear the crash; he feels it with his body instead, and it vibrates through him.

“Fuck,” grunts Tony, rubbing the back of his head, as Peter jumps across the huge workshop in a single leap and kneels over him, frantically checking for injuries. 

Peter is terrified, hands shaking, as he inspects a small gash on the back of Tony’s head, and he freaks out so much that Tony actually allows Peter to shoo him away from the workshop and help him upstairs. 

Peter is so worried that Tony eventually calls in a doctor to check on his wound, but it really is nothing, just a scratch, and when the doctor leaves a short while later, Peter lingers outside of Tony’s bedroom for hours, making sure the man isn’t going to pass out from an internal bleed.

Tony half-sits on his massive bed above the covers and works on his tablet, while Peter keeps checking in on him, most likely annoying the man to no end.

“Stop hovering,” says Tony after the sixth time Peter pops into the bedroom with yet another glass of water, and points to a chair by the window. “Sit.”

So Peter does. 

The chair isn’t comfortable, though; it looks better than it feels, so he eventually ends up on the wide windowsill, shoulder pressed into the glass, mindlessly flipping through the biochem book that appeared out of nowhere in the workshop days ago, just like everything else did – when he most needed it. Peter hates reading from the screen, his sensitive eyes getting red after a few hours, and the fact that Tony knows it is just another reason why Peter desperately, hopelessly worships the man.

If Peter wasn’t so worried about Tony, he would have relished the fact that he was in his bedroom and would absolutely let his mind drift away towards things less platonic. To the image of Tony’s lips on Jack’s – Jack’s a blur, a washed-out part of this picture. But the worry is making him so sick he can’t even read, can’t stop himself from moving his eyes away from the book to take a quick look at Tony. He doesn’t read more than a few chapters by the time it gets dark, and he definitely doesn’t remember anything he did read.

When it gets too late to stick around and Tony is still alive and very much conscious, brows furrowed as he inspects plans on his tablet, Peter forces himself to get up and stretches with a satisfied moan.

“Finally convinced I am not about to kick it?” sarcastically asks Tony, but Peter can’t detect any malice in his tone. Tony’s eyes have a hint of humor in them, but there is also barely noticeable apprehension. And Peter yet again feels like a needy puppy that Tony doesn’t want around yet has to put up with.

“Let me see,” Peter comes up to Tony and buries his fingers in his hair, carefully moving the soft strands away from the nick on Tony’s head. 

It’s just a bump; the skin is barely split. Peter holds his breath as he examines the wound, if it can even be called that. 

He tries not to smell Tony; he really does, but as he touches Tony’s head with barely his fingertips, he inhales the combination of the cologne that is mixed with Tony’s smell, and it’s so good, so much, that his fingers tremble as he withdraws his hands. 

He shouldn’t have done this, it occurs to him, as he hears Tony's heartbeat become faster than the steady beat he is used to. He shouldn’t be invading his personal space, but every time it happens, it is an afterthought; he just can’t help himself.

“You’ll live,” eventually concludes Peter and, while picking up the book he has left by the window, heads out of the room.

“Let me know if you need anything, Mr. Stark,” he notes on the way out.

He stops when he hears Stark sigh.

“I told you to call me Tony.”

“I couldn’t,” replies Peter and carefully closes the door. 

He stands behind it for a few seconds, hand on his mouth, rubbing a thumb on his bottom lip. He really couldn’t call Mr. Stark Tony, as he does in his mind. If he does this, starts doing it, something inside him will break so irreversibly that he isn’t sure he will be able to pull himself back together. 

Calling Mr. Stark Tony out loud will be admitting that they are on equal footing, that they are both adults, and that there is in fact no reason why something couldn’t happen between them. And these thoughts are way too dangerous for Peter’s sanity, because he still doesn’t think that Mr. Stark is into guys, not really. 

Even if he was, why would he want Peter, when he could have literally anybody else?

That night, Peter lies awake for a long time, his senses zeroed in on the direction of Tony’s bedroom. He listens for any sign of movement, but nothing unusual happens. Tony works for a while and then eventually falls asleep. Peter hugs his pillow and closes his eyes when he hears the tablet slide away from the man’s hands onto the bedspread.

The second time Tony is about to hurt himself is the very next day, but Peter is more prepared. He is observing from the opposite side of the workshop. The test doesn’t exactly go wrong, but Peter manages to bounce the shield made out of nanites into the wall using targeted webbing just before it’s about to knock Tony out.

And so it goes. Some tests succeed; some fail, and during the next few days, Peter deflects countless damaging objects that all seem to be aiming at one part of Tony or another.

“Could you stop that, please?” Peter shakes his head as he tries to get the webbing cleared away from the robot that was about to spray Tony with a fire extinguisher for no good reason. “You are making me nervous.”

Tony ignores him and, within minutes, two of his cars are on fire after a successful, yet stressful, test of the firing system.

Once he gets a proper hang of protecting the man from his own experiments, Peter actually starts to feel useful.

“You know, if Dr. Strange wasn’t clear on the 'it' that needs protecting rather than 'him', I would have been tempted to think that I am here to stop you from killing yourself by accident,” says Peter at the end of the week, trying to get Tony out of the dead nanites frozen solid on his arm. “I am half-convinced you are doing it on purpose.”

“Hardly,” Tony flexes his arm when he is freed and frowns when his elbow makes a cracking noise.

By the time the next week rolls over, Peter is so good at predicting when shit is about to hit the fan that he is no longer tense, waiting for a disaster to strike. He is lying on top of the workstation, head propped on the books, bouncing a tennis ball against the walls, the ceiling, and, one time, quite successfully, using it to knock yet another flying object out of its “hit Tony Stark in the face” trajectory.

“Sir, you’ve got a visitor,” announces Jarvis, and Peter looks at Tony questioningly. Tony shrugs and waits for Jarvis to continue, not having any particular reaction to the news that James Rhodes is on the way.

“Rhodey,” Tony acknowledges when, much younger and much less injured than how Peter remembers, Rhodey walks through the unlocked workshop door.

“It’s an honor, Sir,” Peter scrambles to his feet, genuinely glad to see the man, but Rhodey shakes his hand absentmindedly, even though his eyes do examine Peter quickly before moving on.

Rhodey places a small black briefcase next to Tony and slams a newspaper on top of it.

“What’s this?”

“A newspaper,” states Tony, but glances at the headline.

Peter is curious enough that he sneaks a look also. “Virginia Potts to Take Over as CEO of Stark Industries”. This isn’t exactly a surprise, not that he knew it was in motion.

“That’s a good photo, don’t you think?” asks Tony, returning to his tinkering, when Rhodey doesn’t respond and keeps waiting for Tony to explain himself.

“She’ll do well,” comments Peter and hops back onto the surface he was lying on before, but sits on top of it instead with his legs swinging down, resuming bouncing the tennis ball, only against the floor this time. No need to announce he is a little more than human by continuing his walls, ceiling, flying objects routine.

“Grownups are talking,” says Tony to Peter after Rhodey throws a “who asked you?” look at him.

“Tony, what’s going on?” Rhodey lowers his voice, his attention back on Tony. “If something is happening, you know you can tell me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tony really doesn’t appear to want to continue the conversation if it is heading in that particular direction, and Peter feels sorry for him. And guilty. Again. For what probably is the thousandth time. 

He doesn’t necessarily think about it constantly, but he is aware that with Peter around and without the solution to Peter’s problem, Tony’s priorities have shifted. They go out less and less and when they do it is now mostly to appease Pepper who has been insisting that Tony is flaunting his responsibilities as CEO.

“Don’t worry about it? Don’t worry about it?” As he repeats the words, Rhodey’s voice is rising. “Come on, man, something’s up! And don’t even get me started on this!”

Rhodey points at the briefcase when he finishes, and for the first time in a long time, Peter’s sense is picking up something new. Ish. He can’t quite explain it. He focuses on the briefcase and something is very wrong with it. Or around it.

He hops off the workstation and, ignoring Rhodey, comes up to the briefcase and sniffs it. He places his hand on top of it and the hair on his skin shoots up straight.

“Whoa,” says Peter and with a nagging suspicion comes up to Tony and smells him. Really smells him for the first time. Not because he is crazy about him and Tony’s smell alone drives him insane, but because there is something peculiar about it. There is a hint of something in the air around Tony and it’s not a smell even, but more of a sensation. He would have noticed it earlier if he wasn’t trying so hard not to make it more difficult for himself and keep a safe distance.

“Tony, why is he sniffing you?” asks Rhodey and if Peter wasn’t concentrating so much on identifying what is wrong exactly, he would laugh because it is quite comical.

He hesitates for a second, but Tony doesn’t step away from him, so Peter carefully places his hand on top of Tony’s arc reactor and closes his eyes. There is… something there.

“Tony?” Rhodey doesn’t give up, but Tony isn’t paying much attention to him right now. 

Peter holds his hand over the arc reactor, his palm on top of it, gently pressed against Tony’s chest. Peter can sense the heat radiating from Tony and for a moment he isn’t sure if it’s just Tony himself. With his eyes closed and all of his senses turned up to a hundred, Peter can feel Tony. Really feel him. The way his heart beats steady, albeit a bit fast, the way the blood circulates through his veins, the way he is just… solid. Tony Stark. It takes Peter some time to identify what is wrong and confirm his suspicions. When he is done, he opens his eyes and looks straight at Tony. What he sees in Tony’s eyes breaks his heart. 

It’s acceptance.

“Is this what you do now?” Rhodey is still here, even though Peter forgot it for a second, still looking Tony in the eyes. “What the hell is going on with you, man?”

“Is it the sniffing thing?” Tony takes a step away from Peter, breaking eye contact, and Peter’s hand drops away from his chest over the arc reactor and to his side. “Maybe I am into that now.”

The joke doesn’t bode well with Rhodey, and he is about to lose it at Tony.

“For the love of God, Tony! You can’t keep me out of it. What’s going on with you? Who is this guy?”

“Him? That’s Peter,” Tony rubs his chest and looks at Peter.

“Rhodey, Peter. Peter, Rhodey.”

Rhodey doesn’t seem to be impressed, and Peter takes a few steps back and smiles awkwardly, doing his best to stay calm. He needs to talk to Tony. Alone. As soon as possible.

“Who are you?” Rhodey is now focused on Peter, making him shiver and remember that this isn’t the Rhodey he knew. This is a military man. Tony’s best friend. Someone who would die, and nearly did, multiple times for Tony Stark. It isn’t unexpected for the man not to trust a stranger who appeared in Tony’s life out of nowhere and prompted what is safe to assume is a lot of out-of-character behavior.

“I am Peter Parker, Sir.”

“And they say kids don’t have manners these days,” Tony is back in work mode now, sitting back at his workstation. For anyone other than Peter and maybe Rhodey, it is a perfect image of “conversation over,” but both of them know Tony well enough. Tony looks like he has been found out. 

And he was, by Peter; Rhodey just doesn’t know it.

“We need to talk, Tony. Alone. Now.” Rhodey sizes up Peter with a heavy gaze, and Peter, while tempted to stay and see this play out, is also ready to comply and leave the two of them to discuss whatever it is that Tony chooses to disclose to Rhodey. He still waits for Tony to make a decision, though.

“Peter, give us a minute, will you?” finally says Tony, pretending to be engrossed in his work.

“Yeah, ok,” agrees Peter and starts walking away.

“Close the door behind you,” asks Tony when Peter is close to the stairs.

As he is closing the door, as if things could get any more awkward, he hears Rhodey:

“Please tell me this is your boy toy and not…” the pressurized air cuts off the sound.

If Peter wanted to hear the rest, he could give it a go, but instead, he chooses to give the men some asked-for privacy and spends half an hour or so upstairs, sitting on a floor, back pressed against the couch that at this stage is as familiar to him as the furniture in his own apartment, the tennis ball bouncing against the bar table.

Tony doesn’t just have a death wish. 

Tony is walking around with poison in his chest. 

Peter curses himself again and again as he tries to recreate the evolution of the arc reactor in his head. 

He should have noticed this before. Hell, he should have picked up on it just by being around Tony, but every time something felt off, Peter just assumed it was because being around Tony was always almost combustible. He blames himself for not realizing this earlier and this time he knows it is actually his fault. 

He should have known. Should have connected the dots earlier. This is why Tony is having issues with nanotech too; it wasn’t used in the Iron Man suits until after Tony had created the element. The arc reactor he has in his chest now is not just killing him, it also lacks the power required to operate the suit at the level that Tony wants it to.

The data and the schematics Peter brought over were for his own tech, his suit. And while a lot of articles and images he had did show the new arc reactor of the Iron Man suit, Tony has never asked about the specifics of the reactor itself. And Peter missed it. Like a fool. So much for being clever. 

Him showing up at this time has put a pause on all of Tony's plans, including the Stark Expo. Something that Peter knows eventually was the reason for Tony finding a way to create the element his father discovered in the past. All the events that should have led to Tony figuring out how to do this by himself were completely set off course by Peter landing on top of him and Pepper over a month ago. 

Peter also doesn’t quite get why Rhodey is the one supplying Tony with palladium for the reactor, but he decides it isn’t important. Maybe it is a part of a military contract SI has with Rhodey’s team. Maybe it isn’t as easy, even for Tony Stark, to get his hands on enough palladium without raising a few eyebrows.

Peter continues with the self-beating, his thoughts spiraling into the all too familiar guilt, but by the time he hears Rhodey walk upstairs he has a plan. At least the beginning of one.

“I am leaving,” tells him Rhodey. He stands above Peter, who is still sitting on the floor.

“Alright. It was good to meet you, Sir,” Peter doesn’t move though, since Rhodey doesn’t seem to be finished yet and has more to say. “How did it go?”

He wants to know if Tony told Rhodey everything or at least some part of it. He can’t exactly ask if Rhodey knows he is from a different universe and time. He also really doesn’t want another man he looked up to blame him for things that were out of his control.

“You care about him?” asks Rhodey, and he is so straightforward about it that Peter doesn’t even question what he means by that. “You’ll help him? Protect him from himself?”

“With my life,” honestly answers Peter, and he means it. He means it so much that it occurs to him that if he had to choose between his mission and Tony right now, he would probably pick Tony. Which is wrong on a lot of different levels and goes against everything he thought he stood for. He is a disaster. And he is the wrong person for whatever it is Dr. Strange needs him for.

“Good,” concludes Rhodey and, before he leaves, adds, “You might want to give him a bit, it was a rough conversation.”

“Thanks,” Peter has an immediate urge to run downstairs, but suppresses it. “It’s going to be OK, I promise.”

He doesn’t know if he will be able to keep it, but right then he knows he will do everything in his power to do just so.

After Rhodey leaves, Peter follows him out and spends a few hours patrolling. 

It's the first time he has done it since the fall, having assumed that his identity and the existence of Spider-Man should remain a secret, but he desperately needs to feel like himself again. 

The revelation that he might not make the choice for the greater good if it came down to it shatters his faith in knowing what is right and wrong. His feelings for Tony are so tightly mixed in with his sense of self now that he just needs to do something that will make him feel like a good guy. He is careful though, taking all the precautions not to be caught on a video feed or a camera.

A few small wins, after it gets dark enough to keep to the shadows, do more for his mental health than he expected. By the time he returns to the house, exhausted but still determined to speak to Tony, he actually does feel like himself again. He doesn’t rush to Tony though and takes his time. 

He grabs some food, takes a long shower to clear his head. When he gets out of the shower, using a towel to dry his hair, he picks up the sounds of Tony in the bedroom. He isn’t working, no tapping on the tablet Peter is used to falling asleep to. He is still in bed, but Peter knows he isn’t sleeping. The muffled, even for his senses, sounds of eyelids closing and opening, eyelashes meeting with a quiet “whoosh” with every blink.

Peter puts on SI shorts and a t-shirt and contemplates if he should just leave it be until tomorrow, but it can’t wait. He needs Tony to know that this can be fixed. That Peter is going to fix it. He still paces around his bedroom for a bit though, the cowardly part of him hoping that Tony will fall asleep in the meantime, but when it doesn’t happen, he eventually comes up to Tony's bedroom and, before he has a chance to change his mind, knocks.

“Come in, Peter,” responds Tony, and there is no turning back from this conversation.

Peter enters the bedroom and the light isn’t on, but his eyesight is more used to the dark than to the razor-sharp brightness of the light, so it doesn’t bother him.

He thinks, or rather doesn’t think, and without saying anything else, climbs on top of Tony’s bed over the covers. Tony is still dressed in his day clothes, also lying above the covers, hands crossed behind his head, resting on them, but when Peter lies down on his side half a meter away from him, Tony moves to do the same to face him.

“Is this weird?” whispers Peter, not really sure why he is whispering. Tony isn’t exactly close to him for this to be intimate, but it still feels like it. “It’s weird, right?”

“Probably,” Tony smirks and, once again, Peter’s heart breaks over the fact that Tony knows he doesn’t have a lot of time left and seems to be coming to terms with it. “I don’t mind it though. What’s up?”

Peter can’t put into words what emotions he is feeling. He is both completely consumed by the fact that he is lying in the dark in Tony’s bed close enough to reach him with his hand and also by the fact that not just right now, but sometime between the fall and this moment he has decided that there is no one he would rather save than Tony Stark. 

He wants to tell him about the Stark Expo. And reach out and hug him. He wants to tell him about the layout of the Expo that can be used to map the element and then synthesize it for the arc reactor. And bury his face in his chest. He needs to tell him that even though Peter knows it isn’t truly his fault that all of this is happening, he is sorry that everything that has transpired has wrecked Tony’s life. And never let go.

“You are dying,” he states instead, voice low.

“Duh,” replies Tony, and it is so him, so Tony Stark, but this isn’t a witty retort, not one of the things Tony jokes about in his usual way. It’s heavy and filled with tension.

The mattress of Tony’s bed is nice and firm, the sheets cool and soft underneath Peter’s body, and everything, this, is so surreal to him, that he doesn’t tell Tony yet. Surprising himself, Peter asks:

“Can I see?”

Tony doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t say no, and there isn’t anything on his face that indicates this isn’t OK, even though it probably isn’t. He doesn’t move either, so Peter moves closer instead and he is now inches away from Tony. 

Peter moves his arm, his hand, and his fingers slowly pull at Tony’s t-shirt, lifting it up. Peter’s fingertips brush against Tony’s abdomen and suddenly, but also quite expectedly, Peter feels nervous. He keeps pulling the t-shirt up and it rides up Tony’s side as more and more skin is revealed.

Peter is holding his breath, quite sure that inhaling right now would absolutely do him in, but Tony isn’t doing the same. His breathing actually becomes labored. Peter can hear his extremely fast heartbeat, or maybe it’s his own, and the sound is so loud and clear in the darkness of the room, he doesn’t even need super hearing to count every beat.

The dark lines around the arc reactor look black in the shadows, but there is a tint of blue as the glow of the reactor shines on Tony’s skin.

“Can I touch?” whispers Peter once the fabric is pulled over the only bright spot in the room and waits, not letting go of the t-shirt’s hem. His eyes interlock with Tony’s for just an instant and Tony nods, swallowing.

As Peter’s fingers follow the thickest line of poison coming out of the arc reactor, his whole body tenses but doesn't let go. It’s more than a pressure that won’t resolve, more than excitement or arousal. It’s everything. 

The skin under his fingertips is soft and warm, but it is also so much more. It is the beat of Tony’s heart, the sound his deep breaths make as his chest rises and falls under Peter’s touch. It’s Tony, lying on the bed next to Peter, and Peter can touch him, is touching him, as if at some stage it became a thing that he is allowed to do.

Before he can do more though, before he can even admit to himself how much this simple act of touching Tony’s chest turns him on and twists everything inside him into a knot, Tony’s hand grabs his wrist. Tony’s fingers are firm and strong around him and even though this gesture screams to Peter that it is enough, he wants to go further. He’d give just about anything to be allowed to continue. To go past tracing the dark vessels streaming out of the arc reactor and just be given a chance, permission.

“I can fix it. I know a way,” he tells Tony instead, and Tony is actually caught off guard, letting go of Peter’s wrist, the hand dropping to the duvet.

“How?” Tony pulls down his t-shirt and while Peter is disappointed, he can’t help but feel happy at the relief he sees in Tony’s eyes. At the way the darkness inside them is being replaced by something different.

“You need a new element. It’s not just an improvement over palladium. Instead of eroding because of the neutron bombardment, it’s clean, renewable,” Peter doesn’t know enough about the new element to explain it all, but he knows of one word that comes to mind. “You told me before… it is limitless. And I know how you've figured out how to synthesize it.”

“Limitless,” Tony repeats after him, as if tasting the word in his mouth. He takes almost a minute to process it all, a wide range of emotions clear on his face. Eventually, he actually laughs. “Fucking hell. I could kiss you.”

He doesn’t mean it as he says it, Peter knows it. Even if a small part of him suspects that Tony may not be completely one hundred percent immune to what is happening between them, he knows that it’s just an expression of immense relief. But the word “kiss” bounces around the room, and he latches onto it, just like Tony did with the word describing the element.

“Could you?”

Please? Just this once?

Peter can’t stop himself and, frankly, he doesn’t want to. In this room, in the dark, after what is the most intense thing he has ever done with Mr. Stark that didn’t involve saving the world or watching him die, it feels OK to say it. He’d never dare in any other circumstance, but there is so much want, so much need that has been bubbling inside him that he thinks that if he could… just once… it would be everything.

He watches the expression on Tony’s face and while it doesn’t give much away, Peter isn’t scared. He looks at Tony and knows clearly that what he wants and thinks is written all over him. The man isn’t blind, of course, he knows. It doesn’t take long for Tony to decide too, a nanosecond in the grand scheme of things, and maybe he still isn’t sure, but his gaze drops to Peter’s lips.

“Oh,” Peter breathes out, convinced it’s going to happen.

But before it, anything does, before he has a chance to lean forward and just do it, not waiting for Tony to make the first move, Peter starts falling.

The fall is different this time – there is no reel, and he is not being erased from his reality to be recreated into another. It’s quick and painless. A switch flicks the lights on, and he is standing on nothing, with a perfectly visible Dr. Strange in front of him.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” he wants to scream, but words come out of him with a gasp instead, his insides jolted like after a particularly sharp swing on the webbing.

Peter drops to his knees, catching his breath, suddenly aware that he is barefoot, in thin shorts that do nothing to hide his erection.

“What the fuck?” he says again, as he struggles to pull himself together. He’d call Dr. Strange the biggest cockblock in history if he weren’t so unready for this to happen. “Come on!”

“Busy, were you?” Dr. Strange raises an eyebrow and seems unfazed that Peter was pulled into this "meeting" in quite a state.

“You better…” Peter gestures at Dr. Strange, getting up to his feet. “You better explain yourself. All of this. And do not dare say…”

“We don’t have much time,” finishes Dr. Strange. Peter really wants to punch him.

“So? Are you going to explain at least something then?” Peter crosses his arms over his chest and waits. His curiosity as to what "it" is almost outweighs the fact that the man could have waited a few minutes.

“I am sorry, Peter,” says Dr. Strange, and it isn’t something Peter hasn't heard before.

“Yeah, yeah, there was no other way, and you are sorry. I get it. A bit of a warning would have been nice.”

“It would have been,” agrees Dr. Strange, crossing his arms to mimic Peter.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, but the anger Peter is feeling now fades away. 

It occurs to him that he may have failed at his mission already and that he is being sent back. That doesn’t just terrify him. He couldn’t describe how petrified he is at the prospect.

“What’s 'it'?” he asks finally. “Next time, it would be great if a trip like this came with a manual. Not that I wish for next time, mind you. You’ve got an odd sense of what constitutes a favor.”

“It’s the new element, Peter,” says Dr. Strange simply, and Peter freezes, not sure he has heard right. “You can’t help Stark discover and synthesize it. You have to make sure this doesn’t happen.”

Before he can think about what he is doing, Peter swings at Dr. Strange with an intention of bashing the man’s skull into the nothing they are standing on. His fist connects with air though, as he simply runs through Dr. Strange, as if he isn’t there.

“That’s pointless,” confirms Dr. Strange, and there is something almost like regret in his voice. “As I’ve said, there is no other way.”

Peter doesn’t swing at him again and tries to think logically, bargaining.

"Why? Of all the universes and times, in a place that doesn’t have you or me, in a place that has a different timeline, why do you care, and why can’t Mr. Stark create one thing that will stop him from dying? Doesn’t he need to stay alive to beat Thanos? To do all the things that he does to save the world? This can’t be it. No way. And I am not doing it. But also – no freaking way this makes any sense! And why would you of all people choose me? Why now?”

He goes on and on for a while longer, throwing every single thing that doesn’t add up at Dr. Strange, and the wizard just soaks it in. A few minutes later, Peter is running out of breath and thoughts, only one banging in his head: “Tony is going to die. Tony is going to die. Tony is going to die.”

“I can’t explain it all, Peter. I am sorry. But I can show you what will happen if Tony Stark synthesizes the new element.”

The nothing around them changes without Dr. Strange moving a muscle. Peter looks at the sky, and it’s covered with what looks like holes, objects falling out of them. The image changes, and he sees Earth’s atmosphere, littered with massive wormholes.

“That looks like it could be Sakaar,” Peter is still confused, not quite getting it. “Thor and Dr. Banner were there. It’s just an element. There is no way it could cause all this. Sakaar was manufactured. It wasn’t an accident. And synthesizing an element couldn’t possibly cause this.”

“But it does, Peter,” Dr. Strange waves his hand, and the images disappear. “Trust me when I tell you that if this Tony Stark synthesizes the new element, the chain of events that will follow will lead to this. It isn’t just his reality, Peter, it’s ours. These holes, these micro singularities, will seep through the fabric of time and space, and every Earth, in every universe, will succumb to this. It isn’t just objects and junk, Peter. It’s the technology the Earth isn’t ready for. It’s less friendly and very much alive things that we are not ready for either. This will lead to destruction.”

“This is… it’s not… no way. I can’t do this,” the last words come out as a whimper. “I can’t do this. I can’t.”

“But you will,” says Dr. Strange, and if Peter thought he knew what heartbreak was before, he was wrong. His breath becomes shallow, panic, and anxiety overtaking him. He places his hands on his face and bites his lips until they bleed.

“He will die,” he whispers. “He will die again.”

And Peter will have to be directly responsible for it. Could he even do this? Physically stop Tony from doing one thing that will save him? One known thing that will stop palladium from slowly, but quickly enough, poisoning him and making his blood toxic? Could Peter actually do this? Not just stand by but actively prevent Tony from saving himself?

“I've never said Tony Stark needs to die, Peter,” Dr. Strange clears his throat and actually takes a step back, even if Peter can’t hurt him, the look in his eyes obviously speaking for itself.

“You fucking bastard,” Peter sighs in relief, his legs barely holding him up. “You could have led with that!”

“I was getting to it.”

As Peter catches up with his breathing and pulls himself together, Dr. Strange explains what can be done instead. 

It's simple. 

And dangerous. 

Okay, maybe a little bit tricky.

“Why were you sorry?” asks Peter, once he has a good idea of what he needs to do. “It sounded like there was more to it. You weren’t just apologizing for plucking me out of my universe, were you?”

“I think you know the answer to that already, Peter.”

“I can’t ever go back, can I?" He'd like to say he doesn’t know how he feels about it, but he does.

Dr. Strange looks at him for a while, and Peter wonders if he is an open book.

“I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Yeah,” he is actually embarrassed now, feeling like a teenager again. Is he really this obvious? “Can you send me back n…”

Dr. Strange snaps his fingers, and Peter is falling again.

Chapter Text

This time, landing from the fall isn’t as eventful as the last time he made the trip, and Peter, thankfully, doesn’t pass out. One moment he is talking to Dr. Strange, and the next, the mattress beneath him bounces. His eyes are open as he falls on top of Tony’s bed, but it isn’t nighttime anymore; it's close to noon.

“…now,” he completes the sentence he didn’t get a chance to finish, as Dr. Strange snapped his fingers, and while the fall left him almost breathless, he feels fine otherwise.

There is nobody except for him in Tony’s bedroom, and he isn’t attached to any medical equipment, which is a good sign. He doesn’t relish the idea that any chat he has with Dr. Strange, even though it’s possible he will never see the man again, might leave him a vegetable for an undetermined amount of time.

“That went well,” Peter tells himself and slowly gets up on his feet. He is still wearing the same clothes he did when he traveled out to whatever Dr. Strange calls his interdimensional tête-à-tête. His wrists hold the comforting weight of the nanotech bracelets and, while his lip kind of stings from biting it too hard, nothing else is wrong.

He wonders how much time has passed and reckons it should have only been eight or ten hours at most. The time obviously flows a bit differently wherever he was and, in some weird way, the rules and laws of this type of travel make sense. He might not have any control over time or space and the rest of the attached junk that comes with it, but he does get the concept as complex. Kind of like trying to throw a needle into a mountain worth of other needles and hit the tip of a specific one.

Establishing that he is okay, albeit a bit underdressed, Peter goes looking for Tony. The conversation they need to have shouldn’t be awkward, but Peter imagines it isn’t great to find out that the reason someone had to travel from another universe is, well, yourself. Peter also imagines that Tony will not be overly flattered by the notion and most likely will feel some type of way about potentially, without knowing it, messing up this world and, to pile on, all the other worlds.

He assumes that Tony is in his workshop since this seems to be the place he spends the majority of his life in. However, once Peter steps through the bedroom door, he immediately hears the sounds of an argument in the living room. Superpowered hearing aside, as he gets closer, he recognizes Pepper’s voice without trying.

“You’ve got to stop it, Tony! It’s been weeks! You can’t go on like this. Please,” she sounds frustrated. Worried too and, even though Peter shouldn’t feel guilty anymore, he still does for long enough to decide not to butt in.

“Not listening. Shouldn’t be listening. Listening in is an abuse of powers," he mutters to himself and shuts it off.

He sneaks into the room that became his over the course of his prolonged stay and, while it’s cleaned up, as usual, everything is still where it should be. He changes into his day clothes – jeans, sneakers, t-shirt, and a hoodie, and paces around the bedroom for about twenty minutes, on occasion using the super hearing to check if the argument has died down. He doesn’t catch more than a few words here and there and, like a good guy that he’d like to think he is, tries not to hear enough to pick up on what is being discussed.

If he had to guess, he would assume that Pepper might have a problem with the way Tony has been handling things as of late. More specifically, spending all of his time locked away in the workshop and dodging his responsibilities. Pepper is taking over as CEO, which she is more than deserving of, but there is more to what Tony brings to the table of Stark Industries than just his title.

The slam of the outside door is so loud that only a deaf person wouldn’t hear it. Peter listens in on Pepper walking away and then hears her open the door to the car and close it shut with considerable force. It doesn’t take more than ten seconds for the engine to roar to life and for the car to leave the driveway.

“Guess that’s that,” Peter decides it is alright for him to come out now, noticing that he talks to himself more and more now. It’s always been a bit of a habit of his, but spending so much time in the workshop, even around Tony, would make anyone go stir crazy. They should get out more during the daytime, that's for sure.

He finds Tony at the bar. He is always either in the workshop, attending one important thing or another, or at the bar. Come to think of it, Peter reminds himself, the man really does have a drinking problem. Not that they have the bandwidth to open that particular can of worms, given everything they need to accomplish. The plan, or more of a solution that Dr. Strange presented Peter with, is elegant when it comes to the actual replacement of the palladium in Tony’s arc reactor but could be a challenge depending on if they get lucky. And when did Peter ever get lucky enough for things to work out in a smooth, problem-free way?

“Hey, Mr. Stark!” casually says Peter, as he turns the corner. “Was that Pepper? She sounded unhappy. Not that I listened in. I don’t do that, promise. Sometimes only by accident, I swear.”

He catches himself before the words coming out of his mouth can evolve into a proper, embarrassing ramble.

Tony looks… tired. 

Worn out, even. It makes sense to Peter, given that he most likely left him in shock by magically disappearing in the middle of what was becoming… an interesting turn of events. He expects Tony didn’t get much sleep after that, probably waiting for him to return. Or maybe not ever come back. Who knows. 

The memories of the night before flash in Peter’s mind and he feels the incoming blush before it appears on his face. He didn’t forget. How could he? He just worked really hard on not making the thought that he almost, maybe, “it was going to happen, right?”, kissed Tony Stark, the only thought he is able to concentrate on.

“Emm… you OK, Mr. Stark? Do you need a minute? I shouldn’t have said anything about Pepper, I am sorry,” says Peter again, after Tony doesn’t respond to him. Tony just sort of stares at him without any identifiable expression, frozen mid-pouring a drink. An expensive whiskey is now coming out of the fully filled glass and flooding the shiny surface of the bar stand, dripping on the floor.

“Mr. Stark?" Peter frowns and comes up to him around the bar, gently taking the bottle from Tony’s hand. “Are you…?”

Before he can finish the “alright” part of the question, something amazing happens. One of the best things in his entire life. Tony Stark pulls him into a hug.

It’s tight and warm and it smells of Tony. Not at all an over-the-shoulder hug that men awkwardly give each other. Tony’s arms wrap all the way around Peter and he is smashed into Stark’s chest. Peter’s face ends up against Tony’s neck and Peter lifts his chin to prop it on Tony’s firm shoulder and closes his eyes. 

A fantastic, impossibly long, but still not long enough, will never be long enough, hug.

“That’s nice,” whispers Peter into Tony’s neck. Really, this is one of the best things ever. Peter would recommend it to friends and family. His heart throbs at the thought that this is happening.

He is feeling so many things, some of which he could name and some he isn’t sure he can adequately describe, that Peter thinks his chest might explode. Kissing Tony Stark would have been everything. But this… this is nearly as good, because Peter didn’t ask for it. Didn’t have to. 

Something inside him sings at the thought that Tony might have been worried that he would not come back and is glad to see him. Not just because Peter has disappeared with the solution to the palladium issue. 

In that moment, wrapped in Tony’s strong arms, his own arms having hugged back immediately and locked behind Stark’s back, Peter is perfectly, utterly, inevitably happy.

So happy that it takes him too long to suspect that a hug this sudden and good probably has a better explanation than a short absence.

“Mr. Stark?" Peter sighs, eyes still closed, afraid of pulling away and breaking the hold. “I wasn’t gone for less than a day, was I?”

“No, Peter, you weren’t,” Tony finally lets him go and Peter immediately misses how it felt, even as he is realizing that his understanding of travel by Strange Express is bullshit and wrong. “You were gone for twenty-two."

Peter runs a hand through his hair, leaving it there, surprised, and steps away, feet landing right into the alcohol puddle created by his now clearly unexpected reappearance.

“Oh,” he says. “Shit.”

He means the time he was away, but it comes out as if referring to the wet sneakers. The booze, even an expensive one like this, stinks.

“Fuck,” he clarifies, not very eloquently. “I am sorry.”

He doesn’t know where to begin. Peter wishes there was a movie montage of him passionately explaining the new element, the Saakar-like consequences – all of it, so he could skip actually doing it. There are dark circles under Tony’s eyes and the guilt of it all might as well be Peter’s second name by now.

“Want to go for a walk?” Peter picks up the half-empty bottle, waves it awkwardly, and motions towards the outside. “Got something to talk to you about.”

They leave the house and walk for at least half a mile until Peter can find enough words that make sense in his vocabulary to form what he needs to say. They keep passing the bottle to each other, don’t talk at all, and the sound of their feet hitting the dried, sandy earth of the dirt track they’ve taken into the hills is almost meditative. Tony isn’t pushing him and quietly walks in line with Peter, looking only ahead of them, but Peter does sneak away a few glances, and what he sees is disturbing him.

Tony isn’t just tired, and the dark circles under his eyes might not be just from lack of sleep and excessive drinking. There are small blue lines of the palladium poisoning beginning to peek out from behind the collar of the band t-shirt he is wearing, and whatever time Tony has is obviously running out.

If Dr. Strange thought that the timing of Peter arriving after twenty-two days was proper and was planned, then Strange has made a mistake. Because if Peter wasn’t… himself, if he was someone else, but feeling the loyalty and everything else he is feeling, he would absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt, consider going the new element route regardless. Because Tony Stark dying, his Tony Stark dying, should not be an option. Simply isn't one.

“It’s difficult,” finally starts Peter, once they make it to a clearing in the walk up to the mountain and pause to look at the view. “I am pretty sure I am going to mess up explaining this, so you are going to have to bear with me.”

“It’s me, right?” asks Tony and, without waiting for an answer but letting Peter process, bends down to put an empty bottle on the ground.

“The new element solution. It shouldn’t happen?” he clarifies eventually, hands in his pockets, standing next to Peter and looking over the valley spread beneath them.

He always was brilliant. In this universe and in any other.

“Kind of,” Peter nods, avoiding any direct eye contact and thankful that they are both facing the scenery, rather than each other. “The new element results in something bad. So awful that protecting it isn’t enough. It shouldn’t be synthesized, according to Dr. Strange. Not here.”

“I’ve figured,” Tony turns his face towards Peter and Peter can’t resist looking back at him, but he doesn’t like what he sees in Tony’s eyes to a point that he hides away and turns his head to face the view again. “Had quite some time on my hands to figure it out. You zapping out when you did was the first clue.”

Of course, Tony has figured it out already. 

Peter has long ago stopped questioning how in the world someone can be as smart and insightful. It also only now occurs to Peter that Dr. Strange somehow knew the worst and the best time to pull Peter out. Just before he was about to point Tony in the direction of the new element. The thought makes Peter uncomfortable. Very sneaky of Dr. Strange to drop him in to disturb the timeline and prevent Tony from organically following through to the discovery on his own. A tad Peeping Tom of him too. That last thought is extra unsettling.

“You are getting worse, aren’t you?" Peter doesn’t need to ask it, the evidence is right in front of him, but he needs to say something to fill the silence.

Tony just shrugs. He rubs the side of his neck with his hand mindlessly, like it’s a well-established habit, and this simple gesture does damage to Peter he doesn’t think he will ever fully internally repair. One of the many he has already collected since meeting this Tony Stark.

“I know this is fucked up,” Peter doesn’t want Tony to feel this way. 

It isn’t the fact that Tony still doesn’t know it is fixable, even though Peter should really get to it. It’s the idea that Tony Stark, the Iron Man, the most, well, most of everyone he knows, is willing to give it all up to save people. Again. He may claim he is different and isn’t the self-sacrificing type, but right now he is on a path Mr. Stark from Peter’s past would take. It’s almost too much.

“I know this isn’t fair,” continues Peter, “But you are going to be alright, I promise.”

Tony doesn’t respond for a while, and Peter questions if he needs to expand on it more right this second, to reassure that there is an actual solution, not just optimism backed up by pure enthusiasm, but then Tony smiles.

And, god, Peter missed this smile. This humorous, smirky, cocky smile. It’s barely been a few hours since he’d last seen it, but it might as well have been forever. There is a lot of well-hidden weight to this smile too, all the things they have left to unpack, but it doesn’t matter. That smile-smirk does things to Peter that even the gravity of what they need to do doesn’t ruin the moment. 

Peter is so lost in it, so found, that the intensity of being around Tony never doesn't catch him by surprise. And then Tony Stark does another thing that he never fails to do too – says something that shatters Peter to his core.

“I am alright. Now. I’ve missed you, kid.”

There must be something on Peter’s face that prompts Tony to immediately add:

“Don’t freak out.”

“I am not freaking out,” Peter shakes his head and as much as he shouldn’t try to read into this, he is totally freaking out. Just a little bit. Hearing Tony say that is like winning a lottery. If that could even compare. Because literally nothing is better than this to Peter.

“I don’t want you to think that it is your fault,” he states, carefully choosing the words. He doesn’t need Tony to get eaten away by guilt, just like it was eating at Peter ever since his initial arrival. “It’s a messed up thing and you have done nothing wrong. I am here for you, I guess, not because of something you do in the future. Not to stop you. To help you figure this out.”

“For me, huh?” Tony chuckles, and seeing his handsome face, watching the wind rattle his messy hair, further more destroys Peter. He is so obnoxiously happy while also incredibly worried that the contrasting emotions are bouncing against one another. Conflicted doesn’t cover it. Tony looks at the ground, at the view in front of them, at Peter, then at the ground again, then once more at Peter. He rubs his hand on his mouth, rubs his chin, and it’s all a fluid motion, as if he is attempting to focus on one particular thing but isn’t able to. “Where does someone like you even come from?”

Rhetorical questions don’t typically call for an answer and Peter takes this as a compliment he knows it is. He does think it would be funny to respond, so he childishly hits a small pebble into the bushes:

“Queens?”

Tony laughs so hard, he actually bends, palms on his knees. It’s great to hear him laugh, even though there is a touch of something neurotic and unstable in this laugh. It has really been a mind-wrecking experience for both of them, decides Peter, smiling back.

“That’s where they make us. Queens. Who would have thought, right?”

They shouldn’t be joking around; there is a lot that still needs solving, and Tony is obviously in bits, getting worse, and who knows if the effects of the palladium can even be reversed at this point. But laughing does make the sum of it all easier. Peter feels lighter. He doesn’t just know it is going to work out because, at this stage, it has to. He decides that no matter what he needs to do, he will make it work out. 

There is no way that this Tony gets to die—not until he is dying a natural, at the sunset of his years, death from old age.

“Head back? I do have a plan, you know. A real one this time. I can tell you about it on the way.”

“Sure,” Tony agrees, laughter still visible in his eyes, but he doesn’t seem to be losing it anymore. “Head back. Hold off on the plan, though. I need to get my shit together.”

They walk back at a comfortable pace and in silence. Tony is serious, deep in thought, and Peter could take on the world and win. Somewhere along the way, since he has stepped through that office door, he has lost his confidence. But even if the meeting with Dr. Strange has delivered less than ideal news, he is better for it afterward. He is able to let go of the guilt, thinking all of this is his fault, and a huge weight is being lifted from his chest. 

He can breathe again.

He didn’t break anything in Tony’s life, didn’t ruin his future. The game was rigged against Tony from day one. Nothing that Peter’s appearance has accidentally revealed about the future was for sure going to come to pass in this universe. Not if everything was going to shit way before anyone on Earth even knew what an Infinity Stone was. 

There were still a lot of maybes there, of course. Maybe Tony would have gotten together with Pepper after all. Maybe they would have had a child in what could have been a very messed-up world. A lot of maybes. 

A maybe isn’t a sure thing, though. A maybe Peter can deal with.

Guilt, as far as sentiments are concerned, is an ugly one. 

Peter has wound himself up so much with it over the past month that it encircled and tainted everything that was making this good. Walking back to the house with Tony by his side, Peter relinquishes the right to feel guilty. The confidence that comes with being a hero, of knowing exactly who he is, slowly builds back up with every step. 

He gets to save Tony. 

He gets to stay in the world where Iron Man isn’t dead. And Tony obviously wants him around; that’s for sure. Peter can handle the logistics.

“So,” says Peter when they are back at the house, ready to get to it, "problem-solving mode is active."

“Not yet,” Tony doesn’t seem to want to talk about, no matter how urgent figuring everything out is. “I am not exactly right in the head right now. It isn’t urgent. Not now urgent, correct? I have a day to mull this over?”

As far as Peter is concerned, there is nothing to mull over. He doesn’t like that Tony seems to need a minute to decide if he is going to proceed with trying not to die a horrible and agonizing death from the blood toxicity. That said, he doesn’t comment on it.

“You can have a day,” Peter agrees but makes it clear:

“We are talking about this tomorrow. This...," he touches his own neck at the place that Tony seems to favor on his own skin – right where the palladium-induced high-tech unwanted tattoo is peeking out. "This is getting fixed. Not a good look on you.”

“Besides, I’ve got plans,” ignores him Tony, even though he follows Peter’s gesture with his eyes, as Peter touches the skin on his neck. Peter gets too warm just from this alone.

“Let me guess, we’ve got a party to go to. Some self-destructive behavior to indulge in?” Peter walks toward the mini fridge at the bar and opens it in search of a bottle of water. He throws one at Tony, and Tony catches it as Peter grabs another bottle for himself and chugs half of it – liquid pouring inside his dry throat, refreshing.

“I don’t remember you being so mouthy,” despite these words, it doesn’t sound like a dig, and Tony finishes his bottle with a satisfying moan that gets parts of Peter that should stay uninvolved in the discussion interested. 

He quickly commands his mind to get out of the gutter. This really isn’t a good time for this. Assuming there is ever going to be the right one.

“It grows on you,” promises Peter to Tony. “I grow on you. Like a tumor.”

Tony doesn’t laugh at his comment, but he seems to be enjoying the banter.

“So what’s the plan for today then?" Moving on with the conversation lets Peter keep the image of the self-collected, not at all pining at the wrong time professional he truly hopes he is. Like hell.

“Nice to know you are not perfect,” one more thing Peter does his best not to overthink, as Tony says it, throwing the empty plastic bottle back at Peter to catch and bin. 

Also, like hell. He ultimately overthinks everything that Tony says, as if every word is as loaded as he is reading into it.

“Never said I was,” Peter hops on the bar and swings his legs over it to face Tony. “So what am I missing?”

“I have a birthday party to attend,” Tony smiles at this, and he is a bit smug.

Shit.

“Shit,” it comes out loud. “It’s your birthday.”

“You swear too much, you know that?” even as he says it, Tony doesn’t seem to mind it. He constantly does it too.

“Fuck. I had a fight with Pepper,” he immediately confirms that crude language is not only Peter’s vice. “And canceled everything.”

He gets on his phone and starts texting. Now that is Tony Stark Peter recognizes. And for a moment, he thought Dr. Strange had chucked him into a universe with Tony Stark that gives great, tight hugs and tells Peter he is missed on a regular basis. Tony Stark texting and ignoring Peter is the vibe he is at least used to.

“I didn’t get you anything,” informs him Peter, wishing he did, but it isn’t like he had a fair warning he would miss a chunk of time. “I mean, I could buy you something you don’t need with a credit card you own, assuming you haven’t canceled it yet too.”

“Don’t worry about it,” it shouldn’t be a big deal, and it isn’t. Both of them know it. Peter is going to personally make sure Tony has at least seventy or so more birthdays. That is plenty.

“Or I could…” fine, this Peter does on purpose. He isn’t a prude, and he knows how to flirt. Not that he has to a lot – he looks good, he knows that. So much so that Dave can sometimes get jealous when random guys hit on Peter even when they are out together. Oh. Dave. Balls. Peter thinks about it but quickly dismisses the thought. 

Dave doesn’t remember Peter anymore. In the concept that his journey had been, they never even got together. He was good for Peter, good to him, aside from random annoying bursts of jealousy. Peter should feel attached but doesn’t, and that kind of says it all. He is technically free to pursue whomever he wants to. Even if that person is Tony Stark, an intrigued smile in the corner of his lips, attention back to Peter.

Not that this would be the right moment, yeah? Screw the already canceled party and offer Tony a birthday blowjob. Clichés are there for a reason. Peter could easily imagine himself hopping off the bar and coming up to Tony, pressing his forehead against the arc reactor, hands on Tony’s belt. Mind, gutter. Gutter, meet mind.

“… craft you something?” Peter doesn’t dare. He shifts uncomfortably at an image of himself on his knees, sucking Tony off while looking up at him. “Heads up though, I am not that crafty.”

Peter’s hands are on the bar top, holding the side of the cool marble, squeezing it. As Tony locks the phone with a quiet click and puts it in his back pocket, taking a step toward Peter, the marble cracks.

“I also break shit that I can’t pay for.”

Peter is still. 

He isn’t even sure how his mouth keeps moving and definitely isn’t in control of what he is saying. Control is an abstract theoretical idea around Tony Stark. Peter’s lips are dry again, and he really wants to lick them, but doesn’t. He is scared that something is about to happen and fears it will not. 

And Tony is still looking into his eyes. While taking another step. And another one.

“What you are…,” Tony’s voice is low as he places his hands on the marble top on the sides of Peter. Not touching. So close, but not touching. He is mere inches away. “…is a bit of a menace.”

“Nobody’s perfect; we’ve established that,” the fact that Peter is able to form semi-full sentences is a miracle. 

The fact he doesn’t whimper at this stage, voice broken, is a personal achievement. He deserves an Olympic gold for this one. And for not wrapping his legs around Tony, pulling him closer, as Tony leans over and whispers into his ear:

“You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?”

Fuck.

Yes.

Breathing must be an abstract idea too because the room swims around Peter. If there is a snapping point in every person, it doesn’t just snap for Peter. It breaks into a million pieces.

“Mr. Stark…”

Tony instantly stands up straight, hands off the surface of the bar, and Peter knows he has just royally screwed up. The room is still swimming, but for a whole other reason.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Idiot.

“This is a bad idea,” Tony's lips are pressed together straight. He doesn’t look mad, but his voice is back to normal, casual even. “Should get over it.”

Peter really wants to throw something. Instead, he drops his head and closes his eyes.

“I am still glad you are back, though, don’t worry,” Tony pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t need to make this awkward.”

“I am sorry,” Peter doesn’t whisper and it comes out loud and clear in the brightness of the day, in the huge space filling with sunlight, bright through his lashes even. He might have fucked up and, boy, he really did, but he isn’t a kid anymore. He isn't going to whisper his apologies. He knows what he’d done.

“Don’t be,” Tony lifts Peter’s chin up with his finger, but there is no tension - that evaporated as quickly as it had built up. “Are you going to be OK?”

“Yeah, of course,” Peter manages a weak smile and slides off the bar and to the side, getting some distance. What he broke isn’t as easy to fix as the marble top. “And happy birthday. Truly.”

“I need a shower,” says Tony, and even though the implication of why is there, this definitely isn’t an attempt to continue what they were about to start. “I’ll be out when the party gets here. No need to dress up.”

While Peter expects to spend all the time until the guests arrive beating himself up over calling Tony “Mr. Stark” and reinforcing the idea that his former obsession is the only reason he wants to be with Tony, he doesn’t. 

He calls himself an asshole over and over, true, because he really is. Great move, tell someone who is already on the verge of a mental breakdown over dying or maybe dying, that you are only interested in them because they look like someone you knew in the past. Also dead.

This was a mistake though, an honest-to-god easy mistake to make. He is so used to calling Tony Mr. Stark that the words simply slipped out. So Peter still feels like shit, but his newly regained confidence keeps him from the brink of falling into the old habit of a vicious circle of guilt and blame. 

He will eventually sort it out. He has to. 

Not just for his own sake, selfishly, but also for Tony’s. And then whatever is going to happen can happen. 

Even if they never get to the same point again.

The party doesn’t take long to arrive, which makes things easier. It isn’t a party even, just a few people all of whom he knows. Happy gives him a man hug and slaps his shoulder blades a few times.

“Glad to have you back,” he says, grinning. “Didn’t think it was going to happen though.”

Pepper isn’t as happy to see him, but she does smile and lets Peter congratulate her on the promotion.

“That’s very kind of you,” Pepper is classy, she always was.

Rhodey doesn’t seem to be delighted when he sees Peter at all, but even he manages a nod.

“Peter. You are back,” more of a statement than a greeting, but Peter takes it.

They barbecue. Well, Happy does, and as the evening gets closer and the light gets softer and warmer, it isn’t so bad. And it isn’t awkward. 

Tony doesn’t exactly spend every minute by Peter’s side, but he doesn’t completely freeze him out either. Things are almost back to normal. At least on the outside. They chat. And laugh. In a company so small, lazily half-lying on a lounge chair around the fire pit, a glass of sweet alcoholic something in his hand, Peter finds himself relaxed. Tony makes jokes. Rhodey tells an inappropriate story from his army days that makes Pepper blush and throw garnish at him. Happy flips burgers like a pro. 

Shit happens. If Peter tells himself that enough times, maybe he is going to eventually believe it.

All in all, it is a good night. 

Except for when Peter fumbles his way back into the house for a bathroom break. 

He isn’t drunk; even the strong liquor of Tony’s never gets him to the drunk stage, but he is exhausted. 

Maybe that’s why he lets Rhodey follow him inside and push him against the wall, fist squeezing Peter’s t-shirt. He knew it was coming, didn’t even need Spidey-sense to know it was going to happen based on the looks he was getting all evening, deceptive banter aside.

“Don’t pull this shit again,” Rhodey is dead serious. “Don’t disappear without a goodbye. The people you see here, they are all he has. Surrounded by a crowd but always alone. You are not stupid, right? You know what it did to him.”

“I could break you in half if I wanted to,” Peter was an asshole once today already; he can be one again. 

And he is so tired he doesn’t want to be a hero anymore, not right now. Not when he is choking back a storm. The darkness inside him makes him twist Rhodey’s arm, and it takes less than a second for the man to end up on the floor, wrist a fraction away from snapping. “Just like this.”

Peter doesn’t go through with it; of course, he doesn’t. 

He lets go immediately and slides on the floor against the wall he was pinned to, forehead against his knees, arms wrapped around legs. While Rhodey is getting up with a grunt, Peter needs to say it. Out loud and to someone. Even though Rhodey is the last person who needs to hear it. Or maybe the best. Second best.

“I am in love with him, you know?” It comes out easier than Peter had expected. Words natural on his lips. “And he doesn’t know.”

Rhodey stands over him for a bit, but eventually, with a sigh, sits next to him.

“Maybe you should tell him,” he suggests. “Not that I like you now or anything. You are a little shit.”

“He won’t believe me. Not this.”

“I see.”

They sit quietly for a few minutes, and Peter even looks up, head bumping the wall with a dull sound.

“I fucked up earlier,” he admits. He stares at a geometric art picture on the wall that costs as much as a yearly budget of a third-world country and finds it ugly. Words keep pouring out. “Not when I disappeared. That, you can trust me, was not in my control. But earlier today. I thought I had a chance. We had a chance. And I fucked it up.”

“You could apologize,” Rhodey is kind of a fixer. Peter knows it is in his self-righteous character to fix everything, even problems that are not his own. The advice is garbage, though.

“I did. Didn't work. Don't really know what to do about it now. Don't even know why I am telling you this.”

“I can’t believe I am saying this, but is there anything I can do?” Rhodey is a good guy. No wonder he is Tony’s best friend.

“Actually,” Peter suddenly has an idea, maybe even a brilliant one. He turns to Rhodey, excited, because all of this can wait; it's nearly irrelevant in comparison. “Personal problems aside, you got any clue where we can get our hands on some alien tech?”

Chapter Text

Rhodey doesn’t have any inkling as to where Peter can get his hands on alien technology to help Tony, but the man does promise to carefully ask around. It’s not like you can buy it in bulk at 7-Eleven. Rhodey even makes a few jokes about Area 51 – after the initial shock of the concept that aliens are a thing and there is plenty of this tech on Earth wears off.

Dr. Strange made it clear to Peter that finding a suitable replacement using alien tech is the only safe way to both guarantee the success of the mission and to save Tony. 

Peter actually has other ideas too, his own, but he decides that if there was ever time to listen and not deviate from the instructions he is given, it is when the fate of the planet and then some is at stake. Too bad Dr. Strange couldn’t tell Peter exactly which tech would do it and where to find it, but Peter supposes things are never that easy. If they were, everyone would do it.

Peter goes to bed early while the party is still in full swing - a low energy kind of swing. He falls asleep to the sounds of the chatter he can hear through his half-open window and doesn’t keep replaying that moment with Tony in his head over and over until it drives him crazy. 

Honestly. He really doesn’t. 

The reason it takes him over two hours to actually fall asleep has nothing to do with it. 

Yeah.

He normally isn’t a light sleeper, but that particular night he is restless. He is too warm, too cold, too uncomfortable, so he keeps shifting in and out of the blanket, moving the pillows, and when he finally dreams he is worried about something. Not the usual concern for Tony, which he will have to deal with until they sort this out, but a nagging thought at the back of his mind that he is missing something. Maybe forgetting. The dreams are unspecific, filled with vague anxiety, and by the time he wakes up, even as he is gradually coming out of it and becoming more alert, he is still tired.

That’s when his Spidey-senses kick in. Mid-sleep, mid-waking up, he senses that someone is in the room and it isn’t a good feeling. It can’t be Tony; his presence doesn’t warn Peter like this. This presence doesn’t exactly feel immediately dangerous, but it’s definitely a stranger-like sensation. Peter grunts, puts on a show of slowly turning around to lie on a different side, even slides his arm under a pillow, hugging it. 

He inhales, stretches his legs under the blanket, and is almost ready to jump out of bed when he hears:

“Morning, sunshine.”

Oh.

It’s not like they have spent a lot of time together – barely any at all, but he recognizes the voice without difficulty. It’s Natasha. Not surprising his inner alarm bells are going off. Even if Black Widow has no intention of attacking him, and that is still up for debate, her presence alone is enough for the security system built into his powers to warn him that he should tread lightly.

“This room is occupied,” he grunts, yawning, and sits up with a pillow between his back and the headboard. Surely pretending he isn't awake is pointless at this stage. He might not have known her well, but he knows enough about her. “Find your own.”

“You are adorable,” she is sitting on the window sill, the window still half open. 

No wonder he didn’t wake up to the door opening. Although some morbid curiosity of his does want to know how someone can scale multiple meters into his room without waking him up. It takes a lot of skill and it’s not like she has the same advantages as he does. Which makes her extra threatening. Anyone without superpowers who can do what she can should not be underestimated. 

Even if Peter could bench press a bus with her in it if the situation called for it.

“I am Peter,” he says, embarrassed that he tends to sleep naked. Nanotech bracelets not counting, of course. The blanket is covering his bottom part, but he’ll be damned if he will start pulling the covers up to his chin to hide his torso. He isn’t a teenager. He does wish he had some clothes on though.

“I know,” she raises her eyebrows as she looks at him and he gets a feeling she is barely holding in a laugh. His hair must be a mess due to all the tossing and turning.

“You coming or going?" He doesn’t want to be antagonizing, but it comes out this way regardless.

“Just got here, not heading out just yet,” Natasha seems to be enjoying herself. Her relaxed pose doesn’t do anything to calm his inner fight-or-flight instinct. “What, are you getting shy? Don’t be on my account.”

Peter is sure that Tony didn’t tell her anything about him – they’ve talked about avoiding S.H.I.E.L.D at all costs, but he harbors no illusions that she is here just for a random social call. She isn’t dressed for a casual brunch – tight leather wrapping her body so well that even Peter finds her ridiculously attractive. She has a nice smile too. It should be menacing and probably is, but she at least makes an attempt to put on a friendly expression when she comes up to the wardrobe.

“What are you in the mood for?” As she is asking, all business, she is already pulling out the first thing on top. She then throws some socks and underwear over along with the rest of it. “Need help getting dressed? Or are you good?”

He snags the t-shirt first and quickly pulls it over his head the moment it lands on top of the covers. 

Hesitates for just a bit and puts on the socks and boxers under the blanket. Nothing graceful about it. Gets up to put on the jeans and really wishes she wasn’t looking. She might be his hero, everyone’s hero in the future, but the woman is unsettling.

Before Peter has a chance to think about where Tony is, she tells him:

“Don’t you worry, the boss man went out for donuts. Back shortly. We should get to know each other in the meantime, don’t you think?”

Peter straightens up, once he is fully dressed, and is a lot more ready to continue the conversation. Not that he wants to. Even as Natasha is chatting away, calm and visually not planning on attacking him, he is nervous. She can squeeze the truth out of a rock with her words. And Peter would bet a lot on the fact that she already knows more than he wishes her to, based on her presence in his room alone.

“I’d rather not,” this can’t be good. And since when does Tony pop out for morning donuts?

“Don’t be this way, sunshine,” she is keeping a distance from him, but Peter knows she could be within a damaging range faster than should be possible. Human or not, you do not want to meet Black Widow in a dark alleyway. Or anywhere, really, unless you know she means you no harm. Which he is still undecided about. “Come, come, I’ve made breakfast.”

Peter follows her out of the room, her back recklessly turned to him, as she is leading the way. Only there is nothing reckless about Natasha.

“Strawberries?” he asks, sitting down at the bar stool she gestures at. There is a plate of fresh berries on the cracked marble and a glossy magazine next to it. Tony doesn’t keep magazines. The only paper Peter could find in the house is the books Tony got for him.

“Do I look like I cook?” she opens the fridge.

“Couldn’t say. But you do look like you could be good with a knife,” Peter places the knife he has lifted from her on the way from the bedroom next to the plate. She doesn’t blink at it.

“Separate bedrooms, huh?” she pours Peter a drink of orange juice, comfortable in this space as if she knows where everything is. She probably does. He initially thought that she just climbed into the window, but strawberries had to get onto the plate at some stage. And into the house. There are never any strawberries around. It’s the first time Peter notices it, but it’s not like he doesn’t have more important things to worry about.

“There must really be trouble in paradise. Does he snore or something? Because you don’t. You sleep itsy-bitsy quietly,” continues Natasha.

Peter takes the magazine, flips it over, and opens it on a page folded over an ID. His real ID that was issued a good few years from now. 

Peter moves the ID, and there is a photo of him and Tony eating dinner at a restaurant plastered all over cheap paper. There were other people there that evening, but the image is cropped to only include the two of them. Stark is laughing at something Peter is saying, and Peter looks smitten. The headline says “Trouble in paradise and is Iron Man’s heart open for business?”. The story begins with "Tony Stark hasn’t been seen in the company of his young crush in weeks."

“Ugh,” he hates gossip. 

He also isn’t thrilled Natasha went through his things. Things that were safely locked away in Tony’s safe. There is a corner of another photo sticking out from the magazine. He pulls it out and, while it’s blurry, it’s an image of him swinging on the webbing the night he went on patrol to clear his head.

Figures.

“Why so grumpy?” she leans over the counter, elbow on the marble top, hand under her chin. “I'm sure you kids will figure it out.”

Natasha snatches a strawberry from his plate and bites into it, smiling wide. She then winks at him, as if they are having a heart-to-heart about boy problems. Hero or not, Peter doesn’t like her very much in that instance.

“Do you want to drop the pretense or is this fun for you, Nat? I'm good either way,” says Peter, deliberately using the shortened version of her name. 

Maybe if she thinks they are on familiar terms in the future, he can still get out of this. It eludes him why he isn’t stashed away at Fury’s bunker by now in a box labeled “crystal ball”.

“Relax, I'm not here for the lottery numbers,” Natasha takes a sip from his orange juice, going out of her way to prove that the food isn’t poisoned, and doesn’t react to the use of the name. “Although I admit, this is a first for me. I'm itching to find out who wins the Super Bowl. Go Jets?”

“So why are you really here?" Peter doesn’t believe the food is poisoned, but eating while being interrogated isn’t an easy task. 

The last thing he needs right now is problems with S.H.I.E.L.D. Although they could be useful in sourcing exactly what he needs. If anyone has easy access to what can replace palladium in Tony’s arc reactor, it is them.

“Just saying hi. Consider me the welcome wagon,” she keeps smiling at him. “Making sure you're not here to kill Sarah Connor. The usual. Eat.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” he picks up a strawberry but drops it back onto the plate. “Did you have time to make some coffee, or is washing strawberries the extent of your culinary skills?”

He knows she did. He can smell the pot behind her, and she stands on her toes to grab a mug from the top shelf.

“So how does it work, exactly? Enlighten me,” Natasha makes the coffee and passes it over.

“I'm not big on theory,” he takes a sip. The coffee is perfect and just the way he takes it.

“Give it a go anyway, will you? How did you get here? Why are you here?” she doesn’t take her eyes off him, even when she drinks his juice. “Spring break?”

“Honestly not big on theory,” Peter shrugs his shoulders and wraps both hands around the mug. “In short, I'm here for a good reason. But can’t tell you more. I'm not a bad guy, but I can’t prove it. Shouldn’t. I don’t know who wins the Super Bowl because I'm not big on sports either and as for the lottery numbers, if you play twice a week, you have a chance to win big once in forty thousand years. Give or take.”

She watches him for a while, as he drinks the coffee, sizing him up. 

Peter works on not appearing too tense, but it’s a hard task, as Natasha is obviously deciding if he is a threat. He doesn’t want to tell her that the reason he is here is Tony. 

He knows Fury better than he knows Natasha. Works under him, actually. It took years after his first Dr. Strange multiverse experience to get to where he was before Strange pulled him into this place, but that’s a story for another day. If Fury was to find out that Tony Stark might cause the apocalypse on a multiverse scale, he would put a bullet in the man’s head himself, no doubt about it.

“Alright,” she says eventually. “Can you tell me anything?”

“Red hair suits you more than blonde?” Peter smiles a bit, hoping he is coming across as charming.

“Now I know you are full of shit,” she leans over the bar and pulls his untouched plate of berries toward herself, replacing it with a small black card. “This is for you. For emergency only. In case T1000 makes an appearance and you need backup. Or if you remember who wins the Super Bowl.”

He picks up a card with a single number on it, no other identifying information. Something tells him that she still knows more than she lets on. And that while he may have passed the test for now, the decision to play nice was made before he woke up this morning. And, most likely, this conversation isn’t actually a one-time thing. 

He will be watched. Closely. There may still be a box with his name on it, but S.H.I.E.L.D is simply waiting to see what he does next.

Great.

He considers asking her about what he needs but ultimately chooses against it. If he is right, S.H.I.E.L.D is currently sitting on the Tesseract. There is no way to guarantee them he doesn’t want it if he starts asking around for bits of alien technology. To replace Tony's need for palladium, they need something better than a toilet seat cover from an alien craft, but with a lot less destructive power than the Tesseract. They really don’t have a lot of time left, but things will be worse if Peter has to search for a suitable replacement while on the run from S.H.I.E.L.D. 

He weighs his options, thinks about the risks. He can’t do it. Not yet. Maybe when they really are out of options.

As if somehow privy to his internal struggle, Natasha pulls a small injection vial out of her suit.

“Trade you for my knife?”

“What is it?” he takes the vial, sliding the knife to her.

“Lithium Dioxide. For Tony. Will take the edge off, give him more time, keep him moving. Assuming you need his help and aren’t just crashing at his place to be frugal.”

Lithium Dioxide. Peter didn’t think about that. He should have, really; biochemistry is something he is actually good at. He knows a lot about the future, but he doesn’t know it all. Did Tony get help from S.H.I.E.L.D in Peter’s universe too? That’s a lot to think about – how much Peter’s presence is changing the natural order of things.

“This will help,” he nods. He is relieved he can make Tony at least temporarily better. Now they have a fair shot of finding what they need without setting off alarms at S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Word of advice?” Natasha slides the knife back into her suit. “Don’t trust whatever it is you need to do to Stark. He is unstable and unreliable. If it comes down to what you need to do over his ego, he will choose wrong.”

She is already heading out as she says it, conversation over.

“He will not,” Peter responds automatically. It doesn’t matter what this Natasha thinks of Tony, not really. But Peter defends him anyway. “And, Natasha?”

She turns around, one foot already out the door.

“Thank you.”

“For breakfast?”

“For everything.”

Everything doesn’t even cover it.

Tony does bring back donuts and pops a white box of “Randy’s” next to Peter while still in the Iron Man suit. The box, filled with at least a dozen, looks tiny in his metallic hands.

“Since when do you run errands?” Peter digs through the box, choosing the best donut, as he watches Tony exit the suit. It’s still the one without the nanotech in it, since all the tests they have run, no matter the number that were successful, clearly show that the power requirements the nanotech needs are too much for the arc reactor in his chest.

Tony ignores his question, as he always does when he doesn’t feel the need to explain himself to Peter. 

He looks like shit.

“You don’t look great,” notes Peter, biting into the creamy donut with a delicious filling. “Mmm… these are good.”

He makes a few approving noises as he gets through the first donut within seconds and, licking his lips, goes for another one.

“Christ,” Tony looks away from him but comes up to Peter’s workstation. “You’ve been busy.”

He is referring to the chemistry setup and the sequencer Peter was working with while waiting for Tony to return. Peter has tested the solution that Natasha has left for Tony just in case. Not that he thought that she was up to no good, but he wasn’t going to inject Tony with something questionable before thoroughly checking it out first.

“A gift from S.H.I.E.L.D. Natasha Romanoff dropped it off. After grilling me about why I am here. It is safe to say, my cover is blown.”

“You don’t seem worried,” as he says it, Tony is frowning, concerned. “Should we be?”

“I don’t think so,” Peter isn’t completely sure, but he doesn’t want to worry Tony unless he has a good reason. He eats a third donut, failing not to make borderline inappropriate sounds. “These are really tasty.”

“I had a chat with Fury,” informs him Tony after a pause and takes over his station, checking the results on the holo-display, Peter sitting on top of the desk. “You ever use chairs?”

It's Peter’s turn to ignore him and, licking his fingers after the sugar-covered donut, Peter twists the image towards himself, makes a few adjustments, and then turns it back to Tony.

“Lithium Dioxide. Should slow down the palladium poisoning a fair bit. Excellent timing on their part. What did Fury want?”

“To let me know that I haven’t checked all of the elements for the core replacement,” Tony picks up the vial on Peter’s desk and inspects it. As if that’s going to give him all the answers. “Should be pleasant.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers. Sit," Peter gestures at the stool next to his workstation and takes the vial from Tony. “This is probably going to sting. A lot.”

“You sure about this?” Tony doesn’t appear to be entirely convinced but, for once, listens and patiently waits for Peter to hop off the table and make his way around the desk, squeezing between it and the seat. 

They are too close again. They are always either too far or too close, no middle ground.

“Take the jacket off,” instructs Peter, shaking the vial. 

He could probably pull the collar away himself to inject Tony in the neck, but he is trying to be respectful. For now. So he should cut down on all the touching. Not that there has been much, barely any. Peter is tactilely obsessed when it comes to people he is with or wants to be with. It’s slowly killing him that he can’t just touch Tony any time he wants.

Without the sports jacket, Peter can have better access to the base of his neck, that’s all. 

Giving Tony commands is kind of nice though. 

Especially when Tony takes the jacket off without an argument, his muscles moving under the skin, as he slides his arms out of it. He is now wearing only a black tank top, the blue light of the arc reactor clearly shining through the fabric in a familiar pattern. 

Peter swallows hard and feels thirsty. Must be all the dough and jam he ate. He picks up the sanitizing tissue he has prepared in advance with his free hand.

“It’s a bit cold,” he warns and gently rubs the base of Tony’s neck with the tissue. 

Strong smell of alcohol in the air. Peter tries to be physically as far as possible, but he might as well be sitting on top of Tony’s lap, so little space between the desk and the stool.

“I am not made of glass. Just get on with it,” Tony bends his neck but uses his legs to push the stool away a bit, creating more space so Peter doesn’t need to be pressed against the desk. And adds, apprehensively: “There is sugar on your lips. No more donuts for you.”

“Then stop looking at me and get over it,” mindlessly responds Peter and catches himself immediately because it sounds both cheeky and somehow in retaliation to what Tony said to him yesterday. If he wants Peter to get over it, not that there is a chance in hell, he shouldn’t be commenting on his lips. Or looking at them, period. The thought that Tony does though, even by accident, given their proximity, sends a blush to his face. “Sorry. Slipped out. Sit still.”

He carefully injects Tony with the solution and quickly puts a plaster on it, observing the reaction. Wipes his own hands with the tissue. Tony doesn’t seem to be in pain or about to collapse.

“You OK?” Peter asks, making sure the plaster will not unpeel by accident and rubs the sides with the tips of his fingers. “Not nauseous or anything?”

“Hmm…” Tony tilts his head a bit and then stretches his neck the other way.

“Whoa,” Peter ignores his own decision not to touch him, and his fingers go for Tony’s skin without thinking, the tint of the toxicity retreating in front of his very eyes. “This works faster than I thought it would. May I?”

He doesn’t wait and, even though he doesn’t pull Tony’s top off, he does stretch it down his chest a bit to see how much the lithium dioxide has cleared away. Not all of it, but the lines coming from the arc reactor are barely visible now.

“This is good, very good,” Peter nods and, letting go, turns away from Tony and back to the holo-display, making quick notes. “I should be able to adjust the formula for the next one to work even better.”

“Any chance Natasha has left a crate of this stuff?” Tony is still behind him, but Peter hears him get up.

“Nope,” Peter is adding notes and making adjustments, using both hands to zoom in on a particular part of the formula. “I can make more. Enough to keep you going for a while. Wouldn’t advise on the long-term use, however, it's better than nothing.”

Peter jumps into the chemical composition of the solution and works on it for a few minutes, thinking out loud. 

Only when he finally takes a break and adds the list of the components he needs to the shopping list does he realize that Tony is still behind him and hasn’t moved or walked away. 

The instant he becomes aware of it, he fully stops but doesn't turn around. Judging by the sound, Tony is putting his jacket back on. But still doesn't leave and hovers.

“That’s not fair,” it comes out flat and Peter means it. 

It just isn’t. He shouldn’t have to explain this to Tony.

He can feel Tony’s breath on the back of his neck, and Peter’s heart rate goes from resting to shit almost immediately. Tony’s forehead presses against the back of his head, and the man’s hands land on his hips, fingers just barely touching as Tony lifts up the fabric of the t-shirt by an inch and settle there, above the line of the jeans, not moving.

Jesus.

They stand like this for a while, suspended in time, Tony’s fingers on his skin, burning. Peter is half-convinced he could get scarred just from this. Quite innocent, all things considered. Despite the fact that Peter goes hard within seconds of Tony touching him. He can’t imagine what would happen if Tony actually continues. He can hear Tony’s heartbeat against his own. Fast. Peter could lean back, just a bit, take half a step, and he would be pressed against Tony. He wants to do it so much but doesn’t, and instead brings his own hands to rest on top of the desk.

“I am not doing this on purpose,” finally says Tony quietly, and his fingers start circling the skin, barely. 

Enough to drive Peter crazy, as if he didn’t lose his mind over him weeks ago – it didn’t take long at all. A few days of watching him, of getting to know him not as Iron Man, but as Tony. It wasn’t a gradual, slow burn for Peter – anything Tony did from day one would draw him in. Peter fell for him faster than it took him to fall through the multiverse veil and come out on this side.

"It’s just…” Tony continues, the sound of his voice sending goosebumps along Peter’s spine. “I am not trying to play hard to get here, you hear me? I don’t do… this. And you are living here, you are around all the time. You show up, twist everything upside down. You disappear and come back, like it's nothing. You look at me like I am everything. Keep trying to save me, keep watching me like I am about to break and drop dead like that, yours, Tony Stark. You take over. You’ve taken over, you get me? Like you were always here, like you are here to stay. And you deserve… permanence. Not the temporary thing that this is. You need to stop, alright?”

Peter wants to say something. 

Explain. Convince Tony that it’s ok, that it’s fine, if this was just a one-time thing, a fling, but no words come out. 

It is for the best. It would be a stupid, painful, reckless lie. Tony doesn’t know Peter is in this universe to stay; they haven’t talked about it. And there is no convincing him that the thing that Peter wants has nothing to do with Tony Stark from the other timeline. Even Peter can’t know that for sure and, if he is honest, of course it has played a part. A huge one. Even though it might as well be a past life at this point and nothing Peter has felt for Tony Stark that died even compares to what he is feeling now.

As Tony’s fingers keep circling Peter’s skin, sending shocks through his body, making his breath erratic and shallow, Peter can’t find words. He should really think about what he is going to do once they fix Tony’s problem. About moving out and trying to settle down in this world, find a place where he belongs. Tony is right; they are frozen in limbo. 

But he can’t think about anything, not now.

“So you need to stop, do you understand?” Tony isn’t finished yet and he is speaking fast, voice becoming rougher, one of his hands moving to rest on Peter’s stomach, pulling him closer, Peter’s back pressing against Tony’s chest. 

Tony has moved his head, talking directly into his ear now and the tension is driving Peter to the edge of madness. He’s never been more turned on and discouraged at the same time. He can feel how hard Tony is, pressing into him, and he wants to moan. He uses all the willpower he has left not to. Some of it escapes.

Tony’s other hand slips out from under the t-shirt and slides over it towards Peter’s chest, past his collarbone and to Peter’s face. It’s hot against Peter’s lips and Peter feels sugar on them, the way small sharp grains sink into them as Tony’s palm fully covers his mouth, thumb rubbing his cheekbone.

“Do not make a sound,” Tony’s voice is hoarse, as he keeps talking. Every word traveling from Peter’s ear, past his neck, his back, through his whole body. “Do not. Because you are the hottest thing I’ve seen in my entire life. Do you even see yourself? Do you realize how hard it is for someone not to watch you constantly? Not to take advantage of what you are offering? You use this place like it was built for you. You do your thing and I can’t. I just can’t do what I have to. You are addictive, you get that? You are going to turn me into a junkie if you do not stop. This is me telling you that you have all the power here and I want to… I need you to stop or I am not going to make it.”

With final words, Tony presses further into him, inhaling with a long deep breath, nose rubbing against Peter’s neck, the stubble of his facial hair sending Peter’s senses into overdrive.

“You smell so fucking good, Peter.”

Peter’s back arches at that.

“You feel so fucking good.”

Peter places his hand over Tony’s and pulls it away, even as he is barely suppressing an exasperated moan.

“So fucking stop. Stop me. Please.”

“Alright,” Peter hears himself say and pushes away from the table, Tony stumbling behind him. He turns around and Tony is a hot mess. His pupils are huge, eyes wild, breath heavy, as his chest is rising and falling rapidly. “Alright. I hear you.”

He stretches his arm out slowly, pushing Tony further away, full length he is able to, his palm still over the arc reactor.

“I’ll stop,” his own voice doesn’t sound much better, he probably doesn’t look much better either, still painfully hard, quiet hum of the tech around him, he can even hear static he is so wound up. “I will stop this. If this is what you need.”

“Good,” Tony takes another step back and Peter fully lets go, miraculously somehow standing straight. “Good.”

They keep looking at each other, even though Peter is tempted to look away, the pressure, the tension still in the air. He can do it. If this is what Tony needs or more doesn’t need right now, he can do it.

“What now?” he asks, because he can’t be in the same space anymore, not right now, but doesn’t want to be the one to walk away first.

“Well,” Tony takes another breath, lips twitching in an unsatisfied but relieved half-smile. “Now I say we take a couple of minutes away from each other. Separate sides of the house. And then you can explain to me why Rhodey wants one of my suits for the location of an illegal auction in Japan of all places."

Chapter Text

Another week or so, and Peter can officially confirm that things have gotten… intense. 

On the outside, everything is pretty much the way it was before Peter disappeared. 

They work, spend time together, and tinker away. Tony feels better, so they also go out, attend meetings, and make a number of social events, but all is done due to the obligation towards Stark Industries, rather than any desire to participate.

On the inside, it’s an entirely opposite story. 

Now that Peter knows that Tony is interested, and, god, that was quite a way to show it, there is very little he can concentrate on without his mind recklessly slipping into a very particular pattern. 

Peter considers telling Tony he is here to stay, but he can’t exactly find the right way to announce it. 

A part of him hopes that maybe if he does, it will make all the difference. Another, more pessimistic side of him, takes apart everything that Tony has said to him and picks up on the subtle clues that are not that promising. 

Yes, Tony finds him distracting. But it didn’t come across as a compliment, not when you unpack it. Yes, Tony wants better, permanent things for Peter. But he doesn’t seem to be inclined to offer them. 

The list goes on.

The worst of it all – what makes it difficult for Peter – is that Tony is not trying to make an effort to help Peter. Peter almost hates him for it sometimes, just a bit. Tony has flipped the switch and now that all the power is apparently in Peter’s hands, Tony behaves as if it’s up to Peter to ensure that nothing happens between them. 

Which is kind of idiotic, considering that Tony is a tactile person too and he isn’t holding it back anymore. 

It’s Peter’s personal hell – innocent, quick little touches to get his attention. Pats on the back, fingers lingering too long. Never enough to start something, but more, so much more than what was happening before.

Tony leans over Peter at breakfast, and Peter forgets to swallow.

His leg touches Peter’s at dinner, and Peter aches the whole night.

Peter has a conversation with a random guy at an event, nothing to it, and Tony comes over, his arm on Peter’s shoulders, friendly gesture, as he buds in and pulls all the attention to himself.

It’s just Tony - when he isn’t consciously stopping himself from behaving the way he normally does. 

It’s good, so good in terms of some things, that Peter can absolutely get used to it, but any time they get close, every time Tony naturally gravitates towards him, Peter is the one who has to stop it and not let it get anywhere… flammable. Stop himself more like, because aside from that Tony isn’t making any obvious advances. Hence a little bit of hate towards Tony, unfair times a thousand. 

Peter is working out like he is possessed and takes a lot of cold showers. Sometimes he does catch Tony watching him from across the workshop, almost spacing out, and Peter either turns away, shifts somewhere else, or leaves the room.

Another problem is that Tony doesn’t just seem to have eyes only for Peter, as far as Peter’s insecurities are concerned. 

Tony endlessly flirts with everyone, the constant buzz of sex and propositions filling the space any time they are out together. Tony collects numbers. Well, Happy does it for him, and Peter isn’t sure where those cards truly end up. One time, Peter saw Happy throw a card inside a glove compartment, and ever since then, Peter can’t help it but imagine the never-ending heap of booty-calls, all neatly stacked away, waiting to be called upon.

Funnily enough, the trashy magazines Peter occasionally checks now all seem to believe that he and Tony are an item. 

There is a lot of speculation, and hardly any of it is true, but some publications surprisingly seem to be rooting for them. Those that don’t - publish long insulting features online instead and clearly imply that Peter is a kept piece. A good few mention the age difference and, while according to Peter’s fake documents he is twenty-four, the same age he actually is, a lot of the articles that zero in on the age issue make Peter out to be younger. One particular magazine takes the fourteen years between them, makes it out to be almost twenty, and calls Tony a cradle-snatcher who is seeing someone half his age.

All the attention doesn’t necessarily get to Peter, but every time he comes across something unpleasant, although it is his own fault for reading it, he can’t help it and finds it unnerving. Especially considering that all the publicity about their so-called relationship doesn’t stop people of now both genders from hitting on Tony right in front of Peter.

Even Happy comments on it as they spar, after Tony leaves the gym to take a phone call.

“My neighbor wants a signed copy of Pride Magazine from either Tony or you. What’s going on with you two?” he swings at Peter. Peter ducks, and it’s laughable to think that Happy could get one on him. But an exercise is still an exercise, and it is better than yet another cold shower.

“It’s nothing,” Peter frowns – he has been doing a lot of that lately. “It’s all garbage. And I am not signing anything.”

“Sure, sure,” Happy, a big guy, dances around Peter in the ring and makes a fair attempt at contact. Peter quickly jumps back and evades. “Does it bother you? All this nonsense?”

Happy knows a certain percentage of what’s going on. He was there when Peter first appeared. So he is aware that Peter isn’t who the magazines assume he is. They don’t really discuss it though, and it’s mainly just small talk. Despite that, Peter doesn’t want to pretend. He is tired of being on edge, of stressing out, and of being so sexually frustrated he could swear he loses at least one IQ point and doesn’t gain it back every time Tony touches him and nothing, nothing happens. Mainly because by now he is barely able to form coherent sentences without prep work.

“Yup,” Peter nods, moving his feet to circle around Happy. “I am not made of stone. It bothers me.”

“Press is always around, vultures. Don’t let it get to you. Tony isn’t easy, I feel you,” Happy makes another attempt to reach for Peter, but Peter takes a quick step back and the glove tears through the empty space in front of his face. “Well, actually, scratch that, he is.”

Peter almost smiles at that. He shouldn’t be insulted that Tony doesn’t want a one-night stand; he should be flattered. He is, however, too infuriated with their situation to commend Tony on self-control – if pawning it off to Peter could be called that.

“Are you all packed for Tokyo?” Peter changes the subject, signaling to end the sparring. He uses his teeth to loosen the first glove, so he can take it off. He pulls the other one off too.

“Sure am,” Happy extends his hands, so Peter can help him with his gloves. He passes Peter a water bottle when they are done. “Hydrate.”

“Looking forward to it?" The only time Peter was in Japan was on a mission, and he didn’t get a chance to explore. They are flying in a day before the auction, leaving tonight, so he hopes that maybe he will get a chance to. And no, Rhodey didn’t get a suit for it, not that he didn’t give it a fair shot, but Peter knows that Tony has been working on one for him regardless; he just hasn't broken the news yet.

“I’ve been before,” Happy shrugs and throws Peter a towel. Peter has barely worked up any sweat, but he catches it anyway, hanging it on his shoulder. “Tony isn’t big on the tourist stuff, as you can imagine. It’s the inside of one car or another.”

“That sucks,” Peter stays in the ring, chatting, ropes stretching and holding him upright as he leans on them. “Maybe the three of us could do something, we’ve got the time.”

Happy doesn’t ask why they are going exactly; he is awesome like that.

“What, so I can chaperone?”

Although he can also be a prick sometimes.

“Ass,” Peter isn’t angry. It’s difficult to be angry at Happy, and talking to someone other than Tony is healthy. They really are stuck together too much, and it isn’t good for either of them.

“Gold digger,” jokes Happy, and of course, he doesn’t mean it.

“Oh, nice, very nice,” Peter laughs at that.

The flight itself is uneventful. 

Peter isn’t used to private planes, but he did use plenty of S.H.I.E.L.D. jets in the past. Stark Industries' plane is considerably more comfortable than the jet, although not as fast, and Peter doesn’t need to be mentally preparing for a mission, so he doesn’t mind the trip in the least. The company is good, the seats are made to be slept in, and they arrive in Tokyo in about ten hours, flying through the night. 

Peter spends most of the flight napping, some of it casually chatting with Tony and Happy. By the time they disembark and get to where they will be staying, he is excited and alert.

It doesn’t come as a shock to him that Tony owns a penthouse in the city. 

Peter does notice that while the place is luxurious and meticulously designed, it isn’t entirely welcoming. It might be a private residence, but it does have a hotel atmosphere about it, definitely not lived in. That said, when he does step out onto the balcony from the living room and looks at the city below, Peter has to agree that the view is worth it. 

There is a river cutting right across close to the building, and the banks of it are filled with pretty cherry blossom trees that are still blooming. 

There are a lot of street food vendors there too, which could make an area look cheap, but it has an expensive trendy feel about it, so he doesn’t question that Tony must have spent a fortune on the place.

“We are in Meguro,” he hears Tony, as he joins him on the balcony. “There are a few museums around, a park, a temple, and the food isn’t half bad; I would recommend trying some.”

“This,” he points at the river, "is the Meguro River. It flows from Setagaya to Shinagawa. It’s a nice walk that way; you should check it out.”

Tony gestures in the direction Peter should go for a walk and then turns around away from the railing, leaning on it instead with his back. 

He is wearing sunglasses and as he raises his face to the sun, Peter can’t look away for just a second longer than he should. He wants to ask Tony what the plan is for the day, since they have today and most of tomorrow before the auction, and secretly wishes that maybe they get to do the tourist stuff that Tony apparently never does.

“I’ve got a bunch of meetings,” Tony beats him to it and doesn’t seem to be happy about it, but he doesn’t seem unhappy either. He says it as a matter of fact, not really bothered, not apologetic.

“What’s the point of all the money if you never get to enjoy it?” Peter sighs.

“Who says I don’t?” Tony turns his head toward Peter and pulls down his sunglasses a bit, up to the middle of his nose, and then back on. “I’ve got my toys; I do what I want.”

“Aside from the cars you seem to like to set on fire and excessive partying like there is no tomorrow, there are other things,” Peter is somewhat confrontational. Maybe he is a little disappointed that it's meetings again.

“Yeah? Like what?” Tony smirks. The question isn’t loaded with any obvious tension, but Tony is flirting.

“I don’t know,” Peter brushes it away. He dangles over the railing a bit too far, feet off the ground, and laughs when Tony drags him back in protectively, grabbing his t-shirt to do it. Tony lets go straight away, and Peter doesn’t blush. He is getting better at it. Both of them know there is no chance in hell Peter could actually fall. “Things. Museums, parks, temples?”

“That’s your thing, not mine,” Tony smiles, a wide, bright smile that makes Peter stupid. He then produces a small book out of his suit jacket and quickly stuffs it into Peter’s jeans' front pocket in one move. A smooth move, too quick to get Peter all fired up. “That’s for you. Go, adventure, do your thing. I’ll go and do mine.”

“Don’t want your kept floozie around your serious Asian business?” Peter makes fun of it because just a day ago an arguably prominent magazine referred to him as just that. Peter grunted out loud when he read it on the holo-display and Tony snickered when he pulled up the same magazine on his own screen, before dismissing it with an eye roll.

“Yup,” Tony puts on a solemn face, but Peter still sees some humor in it. “That’s exactly it. You embarrass me. Go away now before my serious Asian business clocks you and changes its mind about wanting my money. The money I don’t know how to spend right, apparently.”

“I am going, I am going,” Peter smiles back at him and lifts his hands up, giving in. “How much time do I have?”

“Don’t wait up,” Tony hesitates. “I’ve got a late dinner… with an old friend.”

It’s the pause and the non-descriptive “old friend” that makes Peter stop in his tracks.

“Oh,” it comes out involuntarily, but he quickly adds, “Have fun then; I’ll sort myself out for food.”

“Happy will join you in the evening; it’s already booked,” dismisses Tony and gets out his phone, turning away and texting while leaning on the railing.

Oh.

Peter really wants to know more but isn’t sure at that stage what is it that bothers him. It’s not like he thinks Tony has a date or anything – a long way to fly for one, but they do normally eat together, even when Tony has meetings. On the rare occasions when Peter doesn’t join Tony, Tony still takes Happy with him. 

The whole thing makes Peter uneasy.

And it ruins his whole day.

He wanders around the area, but the sights are lost on him, and even the book that Tony gave him doesn’t quite make him feel better. It would on any other day. Any other day he would think it is sweet, and it would make his heart do that silly leap that it does when Tony’s actions can be interpreted as affectionate.

The book is a pocket guide. 

There are cool little facts written in a Sharpie in Tony’s handwriting on some of the pages. Jokes and suggestions of what to try, some local cash, and tickets for the museum entry. Tony has scribbled a puzzle on the temple cover page of the book, and it looks like a nerdy scavenger hunt, but Peter doesn’t make it there to try it; his mood is too rotten. It must have taken some time to put together. Peter should be thankful and all over it, but instead, he feels deflated and flattened.

The more he tries not to obsess over the mysterious old friend, the more he builds the significance of this dinner up in his head. He grabs some street food from the vendor using the cash, and it makes him feel worse because he doesn’t have his own money to be able to go and sulk completely independently from Tony. 

Sitting on a park bench, and the park is nice, he chews on the food, good food, without any enthusiasm, for the first time seriously considering what is going to happen after they are done.

They will fix Tony’s problem. That's not a probability; it is a fact. 

If they don’t get lucky at this auction, and it is a stretch since the tip is wishy-washy and they are likely to see a pile of junk and somewhat valuable antiques, they will find another auction. Or another way. Tony has the resources to finance his own digs, if needed. 

And if the worst comes to the worst, there is always S.H.I.E.L.D. as a backup. They could try asking or hacking their way into it – if Jarvis and F.R.I.D.A.Y combine efforts, they might also get away with it. Peter’s AI (formerly Tony’s) is far more advanced than Jarvis is at this stage, far more advanced than Karen was and why it was deprecated. Even in the future, years after Tony Stark has sacrificed himself, his tech is still the best. S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn’t know what hit them. Probably.

Once they fix Tony’s problem, though, what then? 

Peter doesn’t expect to stay in the house but also can’t imagine what he will do next. Move out, get his own place, apply for a job somewhere? He has a fake ID, a fake passport, and a credit card that doesn’t belong to him and he would never consider using – hasn’t used it once for that matter. The first money of Tony’s Peter has spent himself is on the food he doesn’t seem to be able to finish, although Tony does look after everything else. Pays for everything, gets him things. Peter is kind of a kept superhero that way if you are going to call a spade a spade. But he doesn’t do that right now either. The hero stuff.

He has a mission, but he has no real purpose long-term, not in this world. And the more he thinks about it and buries himself under this heavy weight, the more terrible he feels. Is he a fool for hoping that things will work out for him too, not just for Tony? 

How would that happy ending look like? 

Tony and him walking into the sunset holding hands? 

Come on.

By evening, calling Peter just a little cranky would be like calling Tony Stark middle-class. Happy doesn’t say anything initially, smart guy, but as he and Peter make their way to the restaurant that Tony has picked out for them, Happy starts to get annoyed. During dinner, Peter doesn’t engage much, and neither of them is having a good time.

“What’s gotten into you?” Happy drops a napkin on his plate and pushes Peter’s elbow off the table, making him lose balance for a split second. Him. Peter. Lose balance. “And don’t tell me it’s nothing; I call it bullshit."

Peter doesn’t respond for a while, chewing on his own lip, but eventually gives up and asks:

“Do you know who Tony is meeting?”

“I see,” Happy relaxes into his chair, a knowing look on his face, as if he can read Peter’s mind. “It’s all garbage, yeah?”

“Can you tell me or not?" Peter doesn’t have the energy to be embarrassed, so instead, he resigns to stay pissed. “Or just fuck off.”

“Hold on there,” Happy purses his lips. “Don’t be mad at me; I haven’t done anything.”

“So?” Peter doesn’t apologize, which is not like him. He just can’t turn it off.

Happy sighs and considers his question for long enough for the check to come in.

“Niko Nakano,” he finally says, signing the card receipt. “They had a thing. A short-term thing that didn’t work out, and they’ve stayed in touch. I wouldn’t lose sleep over it.”

Great.

Peter’s mood plummets further.

“I am going for a walk,” he tells Happy when they are outside and heads the opposite way.

Peter wanders some more, and it’s getting dark. 

He tries to pull himself out of it but fails. He tries not to think about it, but when he nearly succeeds, there is still darkness bubbling inside him like a tar pit. Peter generally isn’t an angry guy. If anything, he is annoyingly optimistic at times, although he has lost some of it over the years it took for him to grow up. You don’t go through the life he had without shedding at least some positivity. 

But walking around the busy streets, cutting across empty alleyways covered in shadows, he is mad. At the whole situation. At himself, for being jealous, like an idiot. At Happy, for making it worse by complying with his request to tell him who Tony was meeting. 

At Tony, for being Tony.

Thankfully, something ridiculous happens, as he is about to spiral out of control. Something so perfectly insane that it’s an appropriate end to this day and Peter snaps out of it, finally.

Someone tries to rob him at knifepoint.

It’s actually kind of funny. So funny, in fact, that Peter stops seeing red.

There are three of them. Peter isn’t very tall, but his assailants are shorter than he is. They wear masks, hold knives, and give him commands in English so broken that although he suspects himself to be culturally and professionally insensitive, he starts laughing uncontrollably.

“I am so sorry, lads, really,” he is half laughing, half crying. It is so amusing. “You have no idea what a day I had.”

He dispatches them in no time and doesn’t use the nanotech armor that’s always with him. The fight is quick, messy, and they barely have a chance to react before it is over. He knows he goes a bit overboard when he hears a joint snap with a nagging, horrible sound, and on the way back to the penthouse, he feels nearly guilty about that. 

That’s more like it.

When Peter gets back, Tony still isn’t at the penthouse, and it’s late. Happy is watching TV, waiting for the boss to return, and Peter is sorry for being a dick earlier, so he doesn’t linger and goes to the room that was assigned to him.

He grabs a shower and only when the blood starts flowing down the drain realizes that he was cut. He didn’t pay attention to it; it’s just a scratch. It does suddenly sting like a bitch, however, but because he was a prat at dinner and doesn’t want to bother Happy by looking around for a bandage, he goes to sleep with his bicep wrapped in a towel.

Falling asleep surprisingly quickly, he doesn’t know what happened that day. He didn’t just get upset over nothing – he threw an internal hissy fit. Tony isn’t like that. At least Peter doesn’t think he is. 

One thing he does know for sure, though, if this day has taught him anything: Tony might have said that Peter has all the power, but in reality, Peter reckons he is more powerless than he has been before.

In the bright light of the morning, as Peter yawns and follows the smell of breakfast, yesterday recalls like a huge overreaction in retrospect. Tony is already up, not quite eating— he doesn’t do breakfast— but he is at the table filled with too much food for the three people staying in the penthouse to consume.

“Hey,” Peter sits down and starts putting a bit of everything on his plate.

“Hey to you too,” Tony doesn’t look up from his phone, but it’s not unusual. “How was adventuring?”

“It was alright,” lies Peter and digs into the food. He gets through most of the contents of his plate and half a cup of coffee before he notices that Tony is examining him with a scrutinizing gaze.

"What?" Peter doesn’t want to sound irritated, but some of it seeps through. He might be over it now, mostly, but he just isn’t back to his normal self yet.

Tony doesn’t dignify it with an answer, but gets noticeably less relaxed and returns to doing whatever it is that he always does on his phone. He is wearing another one of his expensive suits, a pair of tinted glasses, and is as put together as he normally gets when he has plans to shake some hands.

Happy joins them after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence.

“Tony,” he nods at Tony, coming up to the table.

“Dipshit,” he throws at Peter, but it’s fine, because he also punches him lightly in the shoulder as he does it and ruffles his hair. Peter knows he is forgiven and smirks, trying to fix his hair with one hand, while pouring Happy coffee from a pot with another.

Tony observes their interaction quizzically with an "Am I missing something?” expression. He doesn’t get a chance to ask that though and instead gets up on his feet and gestures at Peter with the phone that Peter has learned to resent by now.

“What the fuck is that?”

“Huh?” Peter follows his eyes and the white t-shirt he is wearing isn’t exactly ruined, but there is a wet stain forming on a sleeve and one thin line of blood is leaking out from under it. “Ah, shit. I’ll be back.”

Peter rises and grabs a mug with coffee in it, drinking it on the way out. It isn’t a big deal, but he should have checked on the cut before he got dressed. He sort of assumed it was fine by now and, if he is honest, nearly forgotten it was there.

When he gets to his room, he takes off the t-shirt and drops it on the bed on the way to the en-suite bathroom. Reflection in the mirror shows a semi-deep cut that has already started to heal, but one side of it is leaking blood because it wasn’t properly bandaged. 

There is probably blood all over the fancy black silk of the sheets too; Peter just didn’t stick around the room long enough to pick up on it when he woke up.

He opens the tap and lets it run for a bit to make sure it’s properly cold, half sitting on the sink and finishing his coffee. 

The cut is really nothing; he has had far worse and he heals incredibly fast. If he closes it properly it will not scar. 

He is done with the coffee, there were only a few sips left, having left the living room less than a minute ago, when Tony appears at the bathroom doorway.

“I am fine,” Peter shrugs and turns towards the sink, running his hand under the water. It’s nice and cool. “Don’t freak out.”

“I am not freaking out. Who is freaking out?" Tony doesn’t seem too concerned, and it’s not like he is about to go all parent-like at Peter—thank God for that, that would be so weird—but there is a worry line between his eyebrows that Peter can clearly see in the reflection. “Happy swears it wasn’t him.”

“I don’t know,” Peter grins, starting to wash the cut and cleaning off his arm. The blood is almost down to his elbow now and a few drops end up in the sink, painting it red. “He is a strong dude. You don’t give him enough credit.”

“Seriously though, what happened?" Tony picks up a towel from the rack and passes it to Peter, so he can wipe his arm off and then press it against his bicep to apply some pressure. “I leave you alone for one day and you end up being injured?”

“Hardly an injury,” Peter peeks under the towel, double-checking his arm isn’t going to fall off, and returns it back to soak up the blood. "I've had a run-in with some locals, didn’t even notice it happened until I got back.”

They go quiet and Peter is very much aware that he is topless and Tony is just a few steps away, something dark in his eyes, but Peter is bleeding after all, so they are more or less safe to be left alone right now. 

He isn’t self-conscious about his body - it is lean, but robust, and he has well-defined muscles everywhere you would expect from someone with superpowers. It’s kind of a cheat since he didn’t have to work for it the way some people do, but he more than repaid for it and the attached powers by risking his life numerous times.

“I’ve got the first-aid kit,” Happy shows up just at the right time, before the pause gets too long. He pushes Tony further into the bathroom and when Tony moves to the side to let him in, Happy freezes for a moment, staring at Peter. “Jesus Christ. Who are you, man?”

He means the scars. Obviously.

“Someone who’d like some privacy,” Peter takes the small pouch from Happy and tries to unzip it without letting go of the towel. “It’s getting crowded in here.”

“We should work on dodging,” Happy shakes his head and leaves, muttering under his breath disapprovingly.

“That’s hilarious,” sends back Peter. It really is uncalled for coming from a guy who is yet to catch him once in the ring.

“Let me,” Tony takes over the first-aid kit since Peter is struggling. He searches through it and pulls out some sanitizer and a waterproof plaster that is big enough to cover the whole cut.

Peter isn’t astonished Tony doesn’t include himself in the invitation to leave him alone to deal with this; he had half expected it. But he is also aware now that while his body is fit in every way it should be and then some, he does have a ton of scars that Tony is now going to survey. 

Peter will not be embarrassed by them, not a chance. They all have a story and most account for at least one life he has saved. They are there though and some of them are not just manly looking things that make him come off as a badass. The one on his torso, for example, is cutting across his abs and it’s jagged, still almost pink—he nearly died the night he got it.

“You are meant to heal fast, no?” eventually asks Tony and Peter had half expected Tony to bring it up too.

“I do,” Peter tries not to move his shoulders as he nods, putting the bloodied towel on the counter and letting Tony start disinfecting. “But I am not Superman. If I bleed and it’s deep enough, I scar, just like anyone else.”

Tony rolls his sleeves and works on making sure the cut is clean. 

He applies the plaster to Peter’s arm in record time. Peter watches him carefully and tries not to overthink it. He doesn’t look that bad, he is sure, even with the scars. They are a part of him too, just like his powers now. He wouldn’t get rid of them if it was an option. The one on his back, right between his shoulder blades, reminds him of the night he saved a whole city from burning to the ground. The one on his right leg, even though Tony can’t see it now, he got running into a building that was in the process of being demolished. 

A life for a scar – a trade he would take any time.

“So how many is it?" Tony is using his fingertips to make sure the plaster sticks. It’s vaguely similar to when it was the other way around, back in the workshop.

“I stopped counting,” Peter isn’t trying to be mellow about it, all muscles and scars; he actually doesn’t know how many he has. He doesn’t spend a lot of time in front of mirrors; he isn’t vain. “If it’s a problem…”

“I forget sometimes,” Tony is done with Peter’s arm now, so he puts his hands in his pockets but doesn’t leave. He doesn’t get closer either, just lingers in the bathroom, waiting for Peter to inspect the plaster approvingly. Tony looks ridiculously handsome in his suit, standing like this, the jacket sleeves rolled up, and Peter thinks he is in danger of doing something stupid if they stay like this much longer. The serious look in Tony’s eyes sends Peter fleeing into the room, as Tony adds, “Forget everything you’ve been through.”

Tony follows him in and, while Peter digs in the suitcase he didn’t bother unpacking, does the most Tony-like thing he could. 

Gets touchy. 

It isn’t sexual, at least not in that particular moment. It’s worse. He puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder, just above the plaster, and then traces a finger down Peter’s back, just where the slashing scar is running along his spine. It isn’t a gentle light touch that would send Peter’s senses into overdrive. It isn’t slow either. Tony applies pressure to it, as if trying to wipe the scar off the skin, and for some odd, unknown reason, it almost breaks Peter.

“You’ve seen me without a top before; it’s nothing new,” Peter side-steps Tony and does a great job at putting on a replacement t-shirt as fast as he can.

“I wasn’t looking then,” simply says Tony. Only there is nothing simple about it.

Any other time this would make Peter hot and flustered. They are alone a lot, but not in the bedrooms, not like this. It’s not the bed; any surface would do actually, but Peter is vulnerable here and while he shouldn’t, he feels judged somehow.

“Besides,” Peter points at Tony’s chest, “You’ve got one of your own. It’s considerably shinier than anything I’ve got. A lot more toxic also.”

“What? This little thing?" Tony taps his finger on where the arc reactor is hidden under the suit. “It’s more of a brand.”

In another room that isn’t his, filled with the bright light of an early summer morning, Peter is completely out of place and uncomfortable. He looks at the man standing in front of him, put together, confident, and doesn’t believe for a second that someone like him could be interested in someone like Peter. Not for real. Not in a way that mattered and not in a way Peter so desperately wants.

“Well,” they are facing each other, a meter apart, Tony’s sneakers sinking into the soft carpet, as Peter says it. “It is what it is. If anything, it should make it easier for you to stay away.”

Tony doesn’t move or even attempt to leave. He doesn’t come closer to Peter either. His pose doesn’t change and Peter could count little hairs on his tanned, athletic arms, hands hidden inside the suit. The expression on Tony’s face is unreadable when he finally responds:

“Makes it harder.”

Chapter Text

Here's the thing: falling for someone can have a point of no return. And it isn’t always healthy.

There are milestones you normally pass first, the basics. It most often is an immediate interest and attraction – they catch your eye, stand out from the crowd, and pull you in. If you're lucky, if things work out, you’ve got yourself a relationship that slowly, gradually, builds up to the declarations. If you're less than lucky, the majority of the time you move on. If you're down on luck a lot, moving on isn’t an option and you are welcomed into the state of permanent misery.

That said, that absolute feeling, being completely devoted to another person, rarely happens before bodies hit the sheets. It's just how it goes. It’s simply rare to truly lose yourself to someone before things get physical.

Many will also say that they would die for those they love, but in reality, very few actually would when it’s down to it. When the instincts kick in. It’s self-preservation, and it is evolutionarily stronger when it comes to protecting oneself from physical harm. Not so much the emotional one.

Peter gets to a point of no return when his instincts flip on him at the auction. After he has acknowledged his feelings for Tony to himself and, embarrassingly, to Rhodey of all people. Before anything really happens between them, their short but tense moment in Tony’s workshop notwithstanding.

After they patch Peter up from the cut he has obtained fighting off a bunch of lowlifes, the day initially proceeds as planned. Tony takes a few meetings, checks off a few boxes for Pepper’s benefit, as he later discloses to Peter. 

He is nearly done with his handover, and within days all of his responsibilities as CEO will be fully taken over by his successor. Their trip to Tokyo, as it turns out, provided Tony with an opportunity to sort out some unfinished business and saved him the need to have to go at a later date.

It most likely isn’t the lack of faith in Peter’s ability to stay whole without Tony around, but Tony insists that Peter accompany him. 

Peter agrees and tags along, as always. 

He patiently endures Tokyo's never-ending rush hour, as well as accepts numerous lanyards, pointless introductions, and curious looks. By now he has mastered the art of being Tony’s shadow and walks behind him at the same distance that Happy tends to keep. 

Close enough to react, if needed, far enough not to be attached at the hip. He doesn’t look like a bodyguard, and Happy doesn’t get the same treatment he does, but it is still easy to pretend not to exist with Tony Stark around.

They don’t discuss Peter’s scars any further. 

Tony is quiet between the meetings, unusually so, especially considering his phone is abandoned on the seat next to him. He keeps looking at the city out of the window, as they drive, the picturesque neon of Tokyo whizzing past them. 

And while Peter’s eyes flash at Tony too many times, as he tries to guess what Tony is thinking based on his strong and steady heartbeat, and endlessly replays the words “makes it harder” in his mind, it isn’t a bad day.

At least not until it gets to evening time.

In the bright light of morning, Peter dresses for the auction: a black suit, a thin black mask wrapping around his eyes. There's a dress code for this event, which makes sense, but it feels a bit pretentious. He checks himself out in the mirror, ensuring his tie is straight. While it's unmistakably him, he feels slightly out of character.

When he sees Tony in nearly identical clothes and the same mask, Tony doesn’t seem out of place. The suit fits him perfectly, and he appears comfortable, unlike Peter. Tony is still unmistakably Tony. You could cover his eyes with a mask, or even hide his entire face, but Peter would recognize him anywhere.

Peter doesn't let his eyes linger too long when they meet, having stepped out of their adjoining rooms simultaneously. If he does, it's just one more of the countless times he's felt the tension between them, the sparks that fly when they're close but not within the confines of the workshop.

“I should be going with you,” Happy has reiterated this point multiple times and has valid concerns. They're back in the car, heading to their first stop – a lavish cover party where Tony and Peter will be taken to the auction. By now, Happy knows they're about to attend an illegal event. In addition to unsavory participants, the event is expected to be raided by Interpol once the bidding concludes.

However, they only have two invitations, and even if there were a third, Happy wouldn't be included. He's their exit strategy. At some point, they'll be scanned - no weapons, devices, watches, or any kind of tech are allowed. Peter had to leave his nanotech bracelets at the penthouse.

The implant behind Peter's ear, housing his communications device, is also temporarily disabled. It's made from an organic polymer, which shouldn't trigger any alarms, but they've taken the precaution regardless. Tony’s arc reactor will undoubtedly raise alerts, but his identity isn’t concealed from the organizers—one of the conditions. When the raid starts, assuming they've made any purchases, they'll make their escape. Or, they'll be caught by the authorities. 

In that case, Tony has a backup plan, and another backup for that backup.

“I don’t need a weapon to protect you, Tony,” says Happy, handing Peter a small folder that can be concealed inside his suit jacket.

The contents? Security bonds – nothing as mundane as gold or diamonds. It's just another aspect that makes the whole affair seem ostentatious. What's wrong with good old cash? Although, Peter concedes, bonds make the transaction much lighter. The equivalent in cash would require numerous large briefcases.

Peter doesn't need a weapon to protect Tony either; he himself is a weapon, with or without armor. 

Yet he remains silent. He's not offended when Happy repeats his statement, right before they depart. Peter understands the sentiment and shares the concern. As Iron Man, Tony is almost invulnerable. But without the armor, he's not just an average guy—he's exceptional, even excluding his genius. But he's certainly not bulletproof.

Exiting the car, Peter feels Tony next to him, their suit sleeves brushing lightly with every step. Inside the building, they grab glasses filled with something fizzy from a waiter at the entrance. The crowd is diverse, the music deafening. The masquerade is enchanting, and Peter almost regrets they won’t be staying long.

They're quickly approached by someone dressed identically to them. The tall man whispers into Tony's ear. Tony responds with the password, revealing how effortlessly illicit business can be conducted amid a crowd.

Navigating through the party to a quieter corner, Peter remains close behind Tony. They weave through hallways, past the clamorous kitchen, and beyond maintenance corridors. Throughout this journey, Peter is intensely aware of their surroundings. But emotionally, he's adrift.

He's hyper-alert to their environment, but he's struggling with why he and Tony aren't together. In just a short time, they've become closer than Peter has ever been with anyone, family and childhood friends aside.

Closer on other levels than he has ever been with anybody, period.

And they have done nothing.

Nothing in comparison to things that Peter wants to do to Tony and things he wants Tony to do to him.

With the tension that is always there, the clear and sharp want and need, how the hell are they still stuck in this forestalling nowhere?

When they exit the staff door, a long limousine is waiting for them. They get in without a word, leaving their untouched drinks on the tray of another man. The man seems out of place standing by the garbage bins dressed in an expensive suit, but he has a calm and collected look of importance on his masked face.

The car is luxurious and empty; it's just the two of them. The divider between the driver and them is closed, and the windows are fully tinted on both sides. There's a barely distinguishable noise-cancelling hum in the car — so quiet that Peter is sure Tony can't hear it, but it would deafen the sounds of the street for anyone who doesn't have super hearing. Not that there's much to hear, since Peter doesn't know this city.

A red line of light starting at the soles of their feet scans them as soon as they sit down. Locks engage with a click, trapping them. Sitting across from Tony, Peter chases the light as it climbs Tony's body. The car starts when the light is gone and gently moves away from the spot. There's a small, almost twitching smile in the corner of Tony's mouth as they ride in complete silence.

It's the longest ride of Peter's life.

It affects Peter because there's nothing else to be distracted by. No view to look at, other than the man in front of him. It's a punishing exercise of being alone and staring without an excuse to do anything else. The nervous energy that Peter feels is tearing through him. He taps his foot on the floor, locks his fingers together, arms on his knees, as he leans on them.

Tony shifts. He looks at the ceiling, even pokes at it, examining something. Pretending to. There isn't anything to examine; Peter can see every bristle of the roof's dark cover, even the fingerprint on Tony's index finger, as he scratches at the material.

Tony stretches his neck — first left, then right, the movement defining a long muscle, the collar of the shirt he's wearing contrasting with his skin.

They are so quiet that the most prominent sound Peter picks up on is the limousine's shifting gears.

Peter grinds his teeth. He presses his thumb into his other hand with so much force that it will bruise by morning. His foot's still tapping. He's actually hurting himself to stay calm — how on Earth did it come to this?

Tony settles down but covers his mouth with his hand. He rubs his fingers across his lips, a gesture of frustration. It's agonizing, and it overwhelms Peter, crushing whatever remains of his resolve.

Peter takes a deep breath. And another. He tries mindfulness. It's bullshit and doesn't help.

Tony looks as if he's about to say something, and Peter leans in slightly, but then Tony's hand drops to the seat, and he taps the leather. Still, no words are exchanged.

Peter's ears begin to ring, and he swallows, leaning back, closing his eyes without squeezing them shut. His next breath comes out loud, echoing in the car.

He must have died and gone to hell; there's no other explanation.

He knows he should leave once this ordeal is over. After they address Tony's palladium issue, he should distance himself from him.

There's only so much pain a person can bear. If Tony had kept his thoughts to himself, things would've been fine. Peter would've felt drained and tired, but he could've coped just by being nearby. There was a time, a few weeks ago, when that felt possible. But not now. Not if things continue like this.

Now, every moment near Tony feels like suffocation. It's not a way to live. He doesn't deserve it. Nobody does. This torment will erode his sense of self, strip him down layer by layer until he's unrecognizable. Peter's deeply, madly, irrevocably in love, but he shouldn't continue on this self-destructive path. His long obsession has taught him that much.

Lost in his thoughts, a metallic taste fills Peter's mouth when he hears Tony.

"Hey."

Peter's eyes snap open, and he sits up straight just as the driver hits the brakes.

"I think we're here," Tony says, his expression unreadable. He couldn't have known the car was about to stop.

The door opens.

The place looks like an old opera house, and they are led inside a private box. The whole auditorium is pitch black, but there is velvet on the balcony railings, and they are directed to sit on the old-fashioned chairs with gold trimmings.

Peter hands over the folder with the bonds to one of the men, another condition, and they are left alone again. The place is huge and, as Peter focuses his eyes, he sees that every private box along the walls is filled with buyers. They are all dressed the same, at least the men. He doubts any buyer can see another because Tony is frowning, looking lost for a second, as he sits down, using his hand to find the back of the seat. He is as blind as any person without powers would be in a situation like this.

There is no seating below, where the rows of cheaper seats would normally be. Instead, there are cylindrical stands with boxes of different sizes placed on them. Presumably, the lights will illuminate whatever is up for bid when the auction starts. If Peter still wasn’t coming off the revelation he had in the car, he would think it’s actually kind of cool. Illegal, obviously, and there is very much a mafia sense about it all, Yakuza-esque, if you will, at least based on all the movies he had seen.

That said, Peter is still a bit in his head, and it isn’t helping that they are in complete darkness, surrounded by people and secrets. If he was allowed, if this was something they did, Peter could do things to Tony right there and then. Things that would certainly produce some sounds from Tony that Peter could swallow and deafen with his mouth. Everyone has kinks. Even Peter. Not that he would need any, if he was with Tony. To him, Tony Stark is a kink on his own.

Instead of doing said things, instead of simply straddling Tony’s lap and pulling him into a kiss, Peter sits down on his own chair. He presses on his implant, pretending to scratch his ear, and hopes that there is nothing in this place to block the transmission. A few seconds later, he repeats the motion to disable the comm. Ever since Tony back-hacked F.R.I.D.A.Y, Peter is a walking GPS.

When the auction finally starts, there is no auctioneer. Nobody has pads with numbers or anything like this, and this is where it differs from how Peter imagined it would go. There is a small stand with a weakly glowing button on it in front of them, and Peter can see bids being accepted when a button is pressed. The bids are tracked on a massive screen. The same screen provides a clearer image of what the items for sale are.

The items themselves… are weird. It’s mainly occult and oddities that are hardly worth the excited whispers that fill the auditorium when a new lot is open and the light over it is turned on. Peter is quite sure that most of them are absolute rip-off rubbish. Especially considering there isn't even an explanation of what each item is – just the live feed of the stand that switches with every lot.

The items are uncovered by a figure dressed in black who removes the boxes over them and then disappears back into the shadows before the light comes on. The same figure takes the lots that have been sold and passes them to another man who then carries them out, presumably to make arrangements. Peter knows they will not get the winning bids tonight – this isn’t how it works. The remaining bonds, minus the participation fee that costs many times more than Peter’s entire education, will be delivered in two days, along with anything that was purchased.

For the first few items, there is nothing to bid on, as expected. Eventually, when the lights come on over a sling ring like the one Dr. Strange wears, Peter taps on Tony's shoulder to get his attention. Peter doesn’t know what the ring is made of, but it’s kind of magical, at least in the right hands, and it isn’t as if Tony doesn’t have the money. They've talked about it beforehand – anything real they buy. Everything else they ignore. As a last comical resort, they could show up at Kamar-Taj and try to trade it for a scrying spell or something. Not that it should ever come to this. But they still bid and win.

They also bid on a sword that reminds Peter of the Dragonfang, although he suspects it’s a fake. As the bids get higher and higher, Peter grabs Tony’s wrist to tell him to stop. It’s not worth it. He becomes more convinced he is wrong the longer he looks at it. Tony keeps bidding though, and maybe he is right. Tony might not know what Dragonfang is and why Peter has given him a sign to bid in the first place, but even a fraction of a chance to get the blade that can take down a spacecraft could be worth it.

Up to almost the very end of the auction, there is nothing else of use, but as the second to the last item is revealed, Peter’s reaction to it is internal panic. It’s not conscious, and he doesn’t exactly understand why he reacts this way to a small wooden box with carvings on it, but he catches his breath. He squeezes Tony’s shoulder and leaves his hand on it, as if Tony would miss the signal.

The price gets high. In millions high, but Peter doesn’t let go, and every single time they are outbid, Peter swipes his finger against Tony’s bicep, telling him to continue. It’s not the Spidey-sense, it’s more than that. It’s that vague anxiety from Peter’s dreams that somehow focuses on the box. They need it. He and Tony both need it. If asked why, Peter wouldn’t have a clue.

When they win, and of course they do, Peter sighs in relief and, after a pause, removes his hand. His fingers tingle.

He doesn’t even care what the last item is; he is so sure they’ve got what they need already. It was so easy, he can't believe it at first.

When the last lot is revealed, it looks like Thor’s hammer, at which Peter barely suppresses a laugh. If he's got his timeline right and there are not too many deviations, the real hammer will be sitting in the ground in New Mexico in about a month, surrounded by S.H.I.E.L.D agents. Soon after that, the Destroyer will almost level the town before Thor finally brings it down. The Destroyer itself is Peter’s backup of a backup plan. It’s made out of Asgardian metal. Peter could try trading names of Hydra agents to Fury for a small piece.

The bidding is still in progress, and things are getting heated between some of the bidders, when Tony gets up from his chair. It’s time for them to go. They're not bidding anymore, and as soon as this last item is won, Interpol will barge in, arresting everyone on the premises. Peter really hopes that the stuff they've got, especially the carved box, has already left the building. If it hasn’t, there is a way around it, but Peter would really prefer not to have to rob Interpol; this auction alone makes him uncomfortable enough just for taking part. It’s neat that there are certain guarantees in place that no information will leak out to the authorities no matter what happens. But wrong is wrong.

Peter isn’t fully up yet when he hears the first shots in the distance.

Shit. They're early.

He follows Tony out and takes down the two guys who guard the entrance to the stairs. He bangs the head of one of them against the wall and chokes the other one into unconsciousness. He kicks a dropped gun into the corner and whispers:

"Shh, you're ok, it’s all good." Peter lets the man slide to the ground and listens in to ensure he is breathing. "Come on."

Tony is right behind him as they take two stairs at a time down, but Peter doesn’t like what he hears the closer they get to action. By the time they make it to the second floor from the fourth, there are screams everywhere, and shots are unnervingly too close for comfort.

"That way," Peter says, taking the left, but changes his mind, pushing Tony in the opposite direction, when the first bullet bursts through the wall and leaves a hole, inches away from Tony’s head. There are automatic guns, and they are not firing single shots anymore; the cacophony of firing makes it difficult for Peter to navigate using the safest route. The inside of this building might as well be made of cardboard, ammo penetrating two, three walls with every shot.

That’s when Peter’s self-preservation instinct flips ninety degrees.

They are in the alcove, and Peter is deciding what to do, eyeing a window with some serious consideration. Tony can’t exactly land on his feet like Peter, and it’s still a massive drop from an old building with high ceilings. Peter pulls down his mask and tries to think. He just needs a second.

One second can make all the difference.

Peter is fast. Really fast. 

His reflexes are unparalleled. 

When it takes over, he can make things happen more swiftly than should be possible. He also moves quicker himself than he is able to move someone else; it’s just how it works. 

When the second stray bullet comes close to them, the wall ripping open in slow motion, the trajectory aiming at Tony, Peter doesn’t push him away; there is no time.

Instead, Peter steps in front of him, catching his eyes, and the bullet tears into Peter’s right shoulder. 

As it drags through his skin and muscle, it’s still impossibly fast and will come out on the other side, possibly hitting Tony. Peter does the only other thing he can – he bends his elbow and gives it more of himself to destroy. 

It stops at the bone behind the inside of his wrist, stuck there, and Tony’s horror-stricken face gets a splatter of Peter’s blood on it.

"I fucking hate guns," grunts Peter, as the world around him starts getting less sharp. He grabs Tony by his waist with his left arm, the right one dead to any feeling, and twists them both around, Peter’s back to the window. "Here goes nothing."

And jumps, feet pushing off the ground, glass breaking.

They land on the pavement. Peter’s bleeding shoulder hits the curb, and he moans.

"That hurt," he coughs. He has fallen from much greater heights in the past. Quite a few times on his face too. Just never with the extra weight, not like this.

Tony’s heartbeat is wild, but he quickly rolls off. Any other day, Peter would enjoy the idea of Tony being on top of him. But not now. Peter blacks out for a moment; he just needs a tiny break.

He comes to almost immediately, and there's a sound a few meters away from him that tells him everything is under control; they'll be fine. He hears the gears clicking, the metal shifting, the power-up of the armor engaging as the portable Iron Man suit comes to life. Happy deserves a raise.

Peter tries to get up and makes it halfway to standing. His body is in shock, full of adrenaline — thank God for that — and he isn’t entirely aware of what's going on, but they need to get out of here before things get worse.

"Care for a lift?" Tony is next to him now, and Peter wraps his good arm around him, testing the armor coating to see if he can stick to it. He just about can.

"Catch me if I fall?"

They gain altitude with a whooshing sound, as Peter’s hair sticks to his forehead. He passes out for a split second every time the jets jerk them in a new direction; the suit isn't designed for this. Peter’s whole body starts to ache as he miraculously manages to hold on. Flying like this isn't a smooth, fluid motion. It’s awkward, and Peter hits against the armor numerous times. He's like a leaf in the wind. The only thing keeping him attached to Iron Man is his spread palm. Tony can't hold him, using the jets on his hands to navigate, and Peter sincerely hopes they aren't that high. The world keeps getting smaller and smaller; his vision fails, flickering.

It isn't long before they land on an unfamiliar balcony, and Peter can let go, bumping into a small coffee table. He knocks off a potted plant, falls into a lounge chair, and closes his eyes, holding onto his right side.

"I just need a minute," he whispers, breathing unevenly. "And then I'm good to go."

He takes a few moments. Thoughts dizzy, blurry, not quite out of it, but not awake either.

He hears Tony’s metal fist knock on the balcony door from the outside and should think it's funny when the glass shatters. But he's sinking into the chair, and suddenly his ankle hurts too — a sharp, nagging sensation.

There are multiple voices in the background, and Peter should try to understand what's happening. Are they scaring some random family to death? However, he can't, not right now, as the adrenaline starts to wear off and he can feel the warmth of sticky blood dripping from his fingertips.

…

Someone injects him with a needle.

…

He is moved inside, metal hard against him, and he is injected again.

…

The needles prick him multiple times, and though he should be aware and isn't fully unconscious, all he can concentrate on is Tony's voice arguing. Tony is angry. Tony breaks something else – more crushing sounds.

…

The door slams.

“Mike, get him a drink and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid,” a nice, soft female voice says.

The bullet comes out.

…

Peter's eyelashes flutter, bright light burning his retinas.

“Not yet, Peter, not yet,” he sees a splash of raven-dark hair and smooth, glowing skin on a beautiful face.

He is injected with something again. A funny taste forms on his tongue.

The world is soft and lazy, and Peter feels like he's bouncing against a hard surface. Only, he isn't really bouncing; it's the world around him that is.

“Mmm… meds,” he murmurs. “You’re so pretty.”

…

There's a sweet smell. A familiar scent.

“Xy... xylene,” the word swishes on Peter's tongue. “Am I... am I in a lab?”

“How is he awake?” an unfamiliar voice asks.

“Hold him up. Like this,” the pretty girl says.

A hand lifts him up slightly. Clean, crisp new bandages wrap him. Small particles fill his nostrils. Peter sneezes. The sneeze ricochets into his shoulder.

…

They are speaking Japanese. Giddy voices, kids. A small hand places something sticky on his face. The bed is too short for him, and there are wooden guards on each side. His left elbow is pressed against one. His right one is bent, and there's a sling on his shoulder. It stretches as he moves. The voices stop.

Peter opens his eyes and smiles weakly. There are elephants on the ceiling. It’s bright, daytime.

Two heads peek out from the side of the bed, pink scrunchies on top of each, little ponytails. They look identical. Twins. Cute.

“Hello,” he sits up slowly, trying not to scare them. Oh, Jesus, everything hurts. “I am Peter. And who are you?”

“We know,” the voice is wobbly, unsure. “Tony told us.”

It comes out as Towny. It’s adorable.

“These are very nice,” his left arm is almost fully covered with Hello Kitty bandages. He guesses his face has a few too. He's wearing a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt three sizes too big. “Thank you.”

“We have run out,” one of the girls informs him. They are about five or six, and they don’t look scared - they seem curious and somewhat disappointed. Lack of bandages, probably.

“I see,” he nods. There are six heartbeats in this house, his own included. He can hear Tony’s a few rooms away. “Should we go and look for some more?”

“Mommy said you shouldn’t get up,” the other girl speaks up and stands, not hiding anymore. “And that we should get her if you wake up.”

“You should always listen to your mommy,” Peter agrees but gets up anyway, his bare feet touching the fuzzy bright green rug. “How about I go and look for more bandages alone? Just this once?”

“We’ll go with you,” the first girl decides, a serious expression on her face. “In case you don’t feel well or get lost.”

Their English is amazing. Peter is very impressed and wonders where he is.

“That would be great,” Peter takes a few unsure steps and limps. Ouch. His ankle is swollen, and it looks purple, some yellow color already appearing on the skin as he examines it.

“Do you know what time it is?” he asks as the three of them walk to the door, with the girls in front.

“It’s breakfast time,” says one of the girls. “I am Mika. That's Mei.”

“Daddy is making pancakes,” adds Mei, standing on her toes to pull at the door handle, opening it.

The pancakes smell burnt as Peter sniffs, following the twins into a roomy kitchen. The coffee smells good, though.

A tall man with dark hair is unsuccessfully flipping a pancake on the stove. It lands on the corner of the pan, and he shifts it back to the middle, some of the uncooked batter hanging from the side, drying out from the heat.

A gorgeous woman with shiny black hair and an easy smile is stirring sugar in a cup with a spoon - clicks of the metal against the porcelain. She beams at Peter, face relaxed, when he enters with the girls by his side. Her long legs are resting on Tony’s lap.

Tony takes a sip from a glass filled with a brown liquid and puts it down on the wooden table with a heavy thud. He exhales when he sees Peter. Tony looks tired; they all do, except for the kids. Peter realizes that none of the adults have slept through the night. Tony isn’t wearing the suit anymore, and he's in a similar pair of sweatpants, along with a huge grey hoodie. It's very domestic, even if it's odd to see him like that.

“Hi,” Peter smiles shyly and peels three bandages from his face, all stuck together, crumpling them into a ball and sticking it in his pocket. “We've run out of bandages and would like some more, please.”

The woman laughs. She has a beautiful, warm laugh.

“Can I keep him?” she asks Tony playfully, lightly hitting him in the stomach with her foot.

Tony doesn’t respond but moves her legs off his lap and reaches for a pot of coffee. He fills an empty cup with it and hands it to Peter, not looking at him. Avoiding his gaze. Tony pushes the drink away. Good.

“Girls, sit,” the woman points at two high stools, and as the twins climb on them, she gets up. “Come with me, Peter.”

She heads out of the kitchen, her small pretty feet quick on the heated floors. Peter follows her without a question. The lady is obviously in charge.

They walk through a cozy, but huge apartment. It’s almost as big as Tony’s penthouse, maybe even larger. She leads him to a door with a security pad on it, places her palm on the screen, and the door opens when the pad turns green.

It’s a lab. The same lab where Peter was patched up.

There's a bin with some broken glass and many bloody bandages by the counter. He must have been lying on it when she worked on him.

“Can you hop on here?” she asks, digging through a drawer.

He jumps on the counter, using his good leg to push himself up. His body is in bits. He should be lying down. He would normally be resting in bed, waiting to heal, if this weren’t an unfamiliar place and he wasn't so eager to check that Tony is alright. Not a scratch on Tony though, not as far as Peter could see based on the less than a minute he spent in the kitchen.

“I am Niko,” she tells him as she places a few stickers under his t-shirt, her fingers warm. The device she's holding beeps. “Is this normal for you?”

She shows him the screen.

“Yeah,” he nods. “I'm OK, really. Just need a few days and I’ll be good as new. Thank you. And it’s nice to meet you.”

She cuts an improvised sling made out of a compression bandage with medical scissors and gently takes his wrist in her elegant hands as she starts to unwrap it.

“We’ve already met,” she smiles at him. “A few months ago.”

“We did?” He's a bit slow to catch on, even if he's walking and talking. “Ah.”

“You were in a coma at the time,” she confirms as she exposes his wrist. “The bullet didn’t hit anything major, but you are incredible. Look at this.”

Peter doesn’t. He knows his shoulder and wrist are probably in pieces, but with his accelerated healing, the wound is already closing up.

“I heal fast,” he replies. Everything hurts, and he wants to sleep. He sips his coffee.

“I know,” she's very genuine, her smile open and honest. “What do you think?”

She hands him a small see-through capsule. It’s filled with colorless liquid, and Peter turns his eyesight into a microscope. He puts down the mug to take the capsule with his left hand and tilts it toward the light.

“That’s really cool,” he observes. There are multiple monitors, formulas, and research on all of them. His eyes dart between them, mind working. “Epic, actually.”

It's synthetic blood in a pill. If he understands correctly, this could eventually replace any need for transfusions. One pill for a pint of blood, give or take. That’s unreal.

“Ahead of time?” Niko starts reapplying bandages to his wrist.

“Way ahead,” Peter nods.

“It wouldn’t have killed him, you know,” she adjusts his arm into position and he holds it there as she improvises another sling. “The bullet. Tony said it wasn’t aiming at his chest or his head.”

“I heal fast,” Peter repeats and shrugs. Bad idea. Oh, fucking hell, this hurts. Niko frowns.

“I’d give you something for it, but I don’t think it’s any use,” she uses a stapler to secure the edges of the sling. “You have an insane metabolism. You were in and out. I could have put down a team of horses with everything we pumped into you overnight, but you kept waking up.”

“Sorry,” he apologizes, though he isn’t sure what for. “For the lounge chair on the balcony. I think it'll stain. And for the door. Oh, and the plant. I hope it's OK.”

“You are so weird,” she laughs initially but then adds more seriously, “You two are very different.”

He doesn't know how to respond, so he thanks her again.

“Don’t mention it,” she pats him on the left shoulder, helping him down from the counter. Not that he needs the help. Maybe just a little, as his legs are unsteady beneath him. “The girls were delighted they got to sleep in our bedroom. A huge adventure.”

“They are sweet,” he checks out the bandages on his good arm. “Do I need all of these? Not that I don’t appreciate the fashion statement.”

“No,” she smiles again. It’s easy being around Niko. “Here, let me.”

She removes all the bandages, including the larger one without the Hello Kitty on it - the one that Tony applied yesterday.

“I don’t think you need this one either. When did you get this?”

“About a day and a half ago?” The cut is fully closed now. For a normal person, it would've taken at least a week to reach the stage it's at now.

“That’s amazing,” her slender fingers touch it gently. “Any chance I could actually keep you?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Peter half laughs. “But thanks for the offer.”

They leave as soon as Peter and Niko return to the kitchen. Peter thanks her and her husband, says goodbye to them and the girls, but he's beat, and Tony is moody, extremely quiet.

Driving back to the penthouse, Peter is bothered by the lights. He tries to nap as they are stuck in traffic but can't.

“Happy, do you mind if I close this thing?” he asks, referring to the divider. The windows in the back are tinted, but there's too much sunlight coming from the front.

Tony presses the button, and the divider cuts off most of the light.

“Mmm... this is good,” Peter tries to fit his head between the door and his seat. “Just a few minutes.”

He stirs and can't get comfortable, his head bumping against the car door as they roll over speed bumps.

Tony doesn’t say anything but takes off his hoodie and folds it. He pulls Peter a bit, making him half lie down on the seat, with Peter’s head on his lap.

“That’s nice,” Peter adjusts the hoodie into a pillow. It smells like Tony.

Tony’s fingers touch his hair, carefully moving strands away from Peter’s eyes and massaging his temples. Peter melts into the touch.

“Why would you do something like this?” Tony asks.

His lap is warm, and his fingers alleviate the headache Peter didn’t realize he had. Peter places a hand under his face but leans into the touch, enjoying it.

“You know why,” he replies, eventually falling asleep.

Chapter Text

Peter faceplants into a pillow as soon as they get back to Tony's penthouse. He plans to sleep most of the day. Instead, he hides under the blanket for several hours before giving up. It's not the coffee that keeps him awake, nor is it the pain, even if he's in a great deal of it. His restlessness comes from the now familiar feeling of missing something. It’s on the tip of his tongue, whatever he's forgetting or not understanding.

While he can't sleep or move around, he decides to have some company, so he goes to the living room. Happy is there, dressed for work in a suit and tie. 

The relationship between Happy and Tony seems strange to Peter. The familiarity and friendship between them is contrasted by the fact that Happy is always working, no matter where they are. 

Peter couldn’t do it. He could never exist in the in-between and could either be professional or the exact opposite. Nevertheless, Happy doesn't appear to have any problems with it, so if it’s fine with him, then it’s fine with Peter.

“You’re up,” Happy states the obvious, switching the channels with the remote. “You shouldn’t be up.”

“I can’t sleep,” Peter has his blanket with him, and he plans to take over part of the couch. It’s spacious enough to sit five people comfortably. That said, Happy is on the left side, which is the one that Peter would prefer, so he doesn’t have to lean on his shoulder. “Move.”

“I'm not tucking you in,” grumbles Happy, but he helps Peter pull the blanket over himself and tucks the loose end behind his injured arm with as much care as you would expect from a nurse. “You need anything?”

“Nah,” Peter puts his good arm under his head and rests it on the couch's side-pillow. “What are we watching?”

“UFC fight is about to start,” Happy switches to the right channel. He also hits a few more buttons on the remote, and it closes the blackout blinds automatically. The room gets darker and immediately more cozy. “And I was here first; you don’t get to weigh in. Tony is asleep; don’t think we are heading anywhere today.”

“He isn’t,” Peter knows he isn’t because he can hear Tony tapping on his phone. Always on his phone. “He’s working. Or googling himself.”

He doesn’t mean for it to come across as a dig, and thankfully, it doesn’t, because Happy chuckles loudly, obviously finding it funny. Tony stirs in his bed, makes a frustrated noise, grunts, and gets up.

“That’s your fault for being so loud,” Peter yawns. “He's going to put you to work now.”

“I’ll live,” Happy turns to look at the hallway when Tony emerges from his room and then back to Peter. “I thought you could dodge bullets.”

“He can,” Tony emphasizes "he", joining them. Peter stretches his neck at an awkward angle to see him. Tony looks almost as bad as Peter feels. “Happy, could you?”

Tony gestures to the outside and points below them. It escapes Peter how this is any way an adequate instruction, but Happy nods and stands up.

“Anything specific?” he asks on the way out, tapping himself on the chest, searching for a wallet. He pulls it out and checks for cash.

“Food. Coffee. Tranquilizer,” Tony goes straight to the bar—every single place he owns has one—and rummages in it. He starts mixing a drink but stops halfway and comes up behind the couch instead, leaning on it, checking on Peter. His eyes dart to Peter’s shoulder, bandaged under the t-shirt.

“Are you cold?" It's the beginning of summer, so Peter doesn’t blame him for asking. “And shouldn’t you be sleeping? Not in here?”

"It's a comfort thing," Peter says, hiding half of his face under the blanket, hoping it won't come across as childish. It probably does. “And shouldn’t you be also?”

“I can’t sleep,” Tony shrugs. He yawns too, covering his mouth as he does so. Resting his chin on top of interlaced fingers, he places his arms on the back of the couch. “You need anything?”

It’s the same answer Peter has given to Happy and the same question Happy has asked him. 

For no apparent reason, Peter finds it peculiar. 

He then wonders why telling Happy that he couldn’t sleep was casual and why hearing Tony say the same to him isn’t. It feels like sharing. Happy checking on Peter to see if he needs anything is normal – Happy takes care of things. Tony asking Peter the same question is more. Tony doesn't do day-to-day; he takes care of things in a different way. He doesn’t fetch. 

He isn’t usually domestic either, not like this – wearing clothes that are too big for him and borrowed. Tony hasn't changed since they got back from Niko's, and Peter is fascinated by it.

From this angle, he can either see the TV or Tony, so Peter adjusts his position, stretching his legs fully and shifting closer to the floor, not lying on his side anymore, but making sure he doesn’t press too much into the cushions. It’s a wide couch, but the damage is still fresh enough for the stitches to rip if he isn’t careful. 

He doesn’t smile at Tony, but his face is relaxed, and he doesn’t regret taking a bullet for Tony, even if it wasn’t life-threatening. Healing fast has nothing to do with it. Seeing Tony wounded would be worse than being in pain.

There's no hope for Peter. 

Who even thinks like that? 

Not as a hypothetical scenario? 

In response to Tony's question, he simply shakes his head, his nose buried under the blanket. Tony can’t give him what he needs. Or wouldn’t. In fact, Peter isn't sure whether he means being close physically or just private, quiet time when they are together but not in a car on the way to a meeting, not in the workshop, not doing something existentially significant.

Tony isn’t smiling either, but there is nothing heavy in his eyes. He watches Peter for a while before sliding the blanket to his neck. The silk of the covers tickles Peter’s nose and lips on the way down.

"Hey," Peter feels his mouth move but is unsure why he said it until Tony returns his hand under his chin, still leaning over the couch, and replies.

“Hey to you too.”

If there was anything left inside Peter to break, it would happen right there and then. But there isn’t. 

Turns out, there is a finite amount of revelations he can have in a single lifetime. It feels like Peter has experienced them all by now in this similar, but strange, foreign world. It’s a wonderful place. A world where a free and easy moment like this can happen – with just Tony, not Tony Stark, not Iron Man. With his eyes a bit squinted because the room is dark and the TV is bright. With a big gray hood poking out from the back of his messy hair. The earlier point on the revelations aside, Peter is astonished that he can feel both aching yearning and tenderness toward the same person – equally strong, neither more powerful than the other.

“Do me a favor?” asks Tony, and Peter knows what it’s about. He couldn’t promise this. Will not. “Never again, yeah?”

“Can we not...” it comes out barely audible over the sound of the match that is starting, and Peter hates himself for being weak. “Can we not do this now?”

Not another serious conversation. Peter is exhausted and doesn't want to argue. 

The last thing he needs right now is to carefully choose words and think about what and how he is saying. He just wants to, needs to... be. 

For one day. 

Not worry about the palladium and if they did manage to buy anything useful after all. Not expect some big danger looming on the horizon since there always is one. Not dwell on the relationship they have or lack thereof.

It would be so nice, so simple to be unwell. 

To chill, to watch something stupid and brain-numbing. Maybe eat some food. Nap next to Tony, knowing they are safe today. Imagine nobody is dying, and they are not on a quest to find an impossible solution, but because they wanted to come here. They could pretend Peter tripped over, but it isn’t a big deal, and while it's a bummer to be stuck inside, it’s still alright because they are together. 

Could they?

Surprisingly, his wish is granted. And it’s better than what he could have asked for. He didn’t even have to ask. It ends up being one of the best days of his life – in this universe or the other.

Once Happy returns with food, and there's a lot of it, they eat, watch the fight, and hang out. There's plenty of delicious street grub to choose from, and Tony was completely right; it’s worth trying. Peter stuffs himself full of Japanese dumplings and samples a bit of everything. There is a ton to try because Happy doesn’t know how to shop for three: dozens of cartons and boxes. Happy tells Peter which vendor the food he likes most comes from, and Peter makes mental notes to get more before they leave.

They pick sides and really get into it. Tony sits on the floor next to them, his back against the couch, close enough for Peter to touch. Not that he does. After Peter's side loses dramatically in the first fight, they keep watching the same channel until it gets dark outside, cheering and placing bets they will never pay out.

When Peter accidentally drops a few noodles on the blanket, he doesn't notice at first. Not until a line "keep your noodles to yourself" crawls on the bottom of the screen, replacing channel announcements. 

He laughs so hard he nearly spills the whole carton, but Tony grabs it in time and uses his phone to add more ridiculous things to show on the TV. It leaves both Peter and Happy in stitches. 

After a while, the crawler disappears completely when the network puts a stop to it, but Tony hacking the station with his phone to make Peter laugh is amazing. It makes Peter feel warm inside. It's the best use for that bloody phone he can think of.

Happy leaves one more time to get more food when they start to run out. 

While he's gone, things don’t get tense or difficult. Not even when Peter pulls at Tony’s hood to get his attention. There is a single gyoza left on a tray next to him, and Tony eats it himself, a wicked smile on his face that Peter can see in the reflection of the TV screen. 

When Peter fakes an appalled expression, Tony briefly catches Peter's hand over a shoulder with his own. It's a quick and familiar gesture, as if they've done this before, and for the first time in a long time, Peter feels at home.

Peter could do this all week without getting bored. 

In all honesty, probably for a lifetime. 

That said, as it gets late, he starts feeling itchy. Tony and Happy make multiple jokes at his expense, shrink-wrapping his bandages so he can shower. It should be uncomfortable because he isn’t wearing a t-shirt when they do it, but it's silly instead. Bizarre, yes, but also goofy.

Happy makes fun of Peter injuring his dominant arm and fails at unpeeling the wrap from the roll, tearing it in the process. The joke is on Happy since Peter is ambidextrous, but he doesn't see the need to correct him. 

When it comes to shrink-wrap, both Happy and Tony are useless and are completely defeated by it. They misuse a substantial amount, and by the end, half of it sticks to the floor, some to Peter's hair, and very little to his bandages. 

With some adjustments, they do manage in due course, despite the waste. When Peter is ready for the shower, Tony is rolling some of the leftover pieces into small balls and trying to attach them to Happy while he isn’t looking. 

It’s definitely a touch surreal, but both amusing and endearing too.

As clumsy as it is to wash oneself with one hand, Peter handles it like a trooper, keeping his muscles relaxed and not moving too much. 

It's not the first time he's been shot, but he's never been shot twice by the same bullet. 

The bad guys are always coming up with new and creative ways to leave their mark. To say that this particular set of scars would be the most meaningful in his accumulated collection would be a lie, but Peter doesn't mind the new additions in the least. He accepted long ago that once in a while he will take a hit and, as far as he's concerned, even the chance that Tony could have been seriously hurt made it worth it. Not that when they were in the opera house Peter had time to think about it. 

There was Tony, there was a bullet traveling in his direction, and the rest is history.

The pain makes drying off after a shower more challenging than taking it. Peter does as much as he can, although parts of him are dripping and his hair is half wet; he isn't fully soaked when he's done. Little victories. 

He hisses a few times putting on a clean pair of dark blue sweatpants but can't take off the shrink-wrap, which now seems to be glued to his body.

"Help?" Peter strolls back into the living room, trying to poke at the plastic and failing miserably. He's definitely not leaving damp footprints on the polished floors as he does so. Peter smirks internally when he sees Happy on his own with a shrink-wrap ball peeking out of his shirt collar. "Where's Tony?"

"Outside," Happy means the balcony, as he points in that direction. There's a warm breeze coming from it, and the door is partly ajar. "You look slippery."

"That's because I am." It’s a loaded joke; he actually is quite slippery and difficult to catch, but Happy doesn’t get it. 

Instead, he helps unwrap Peter. It's a disaster, and despite his nursing instincts, Happy isn't very good at it. 

Eventually, Peter is free, and after some consideration, he removes the wet sling. He exhales with satisfaction when he's able to unbend his elbow. 

It’s fine for now; tomorrow he will be in a world of pain no matter what he does.

"I'm off. Feel free to clean up the mess you've made," Happy leaves Peter, waving goodnight on his way to his room. 

The living room is quite a state, and Peter does pick up a few things as carefully as he can without hurting himself further. 

It doesn't look much better after he's done, and the blanket he used is covered in food. He can see where Happy spilled some of his coffee on the corner. A piece of sushi is smushed in an unappealing manner right in the middle, and there are noodle stains all over it. It makes sense since they pretty much used Peter as a table for most of the day, but looking at the sheets, he has absolutely no desire to sleep under them. He should have stolen Happy’s blanket – most of the food ended up on it because of him.

"What's the chance you know where the linens are kept?" asks Peter, coming up to the balcony door. 

He opens it wide and breathes in the fresh air. He stays inside for a moment and then steps further, leaning on the doorframe. Tony is standing with a glass in his hands, but Peter doesn't smell any alcohol in it.

Come to think of it, while they do drink on occasion together and while Tony had a few drinks last night and this morning, he doesn't get drunk around Peter as much anymore.

"I'm not sure I've ever seen someone drink water from a whiskey glass before."

Tony looks at him, glass in hand, and shakes his head.

"Zero. And getting wasted with you around is a bad idea," it sounds like an innuendo, but then Tony adds, "You're quite the buzzkill. We've had a meeting about it."

"I come from a family of buzzkills, I'll have you know," Peter smiles, stretching the fingers on his injured arm, pins and needles all over his palm. "Happy went to bed."

"I heard," Tony nods, finishing his water and placing the empty glass on a small table. It clicks against the surface, making a sound that echoes in Peter’s ears. "You called me Tony."

"I referred to you as Tony," corrects Peter, because maybe he is a bit of a buzzkill. In more ways than one. "Not the same thing."

Since that unfortunate incident when he called Tony Mr. Stark, Peter hasn't used Tony's name even once when talking to him. At the beginning, he had decided it was too soon for him to switch over. After a few days and then over a week, any time he considered it, it felt forced. He couldn’t find the right opportunity for it, and the idea of calling him Tony just to make a point didn’t sit right with him.

Tony doesn’t linger on it. Instead, he unzips his hoodie, revealing a well-fitting t-shirt underneath. Perhaps he changed some of his clothes after all but kept the hoodie on. Imagining Tony wearing this hoodie just because Peter slept on it in the car makes Peter want to roll his eyes at his own wishful thinking. Tony couldn’t possibly be that sentimental.

"What, you can't catch a cold?" asks Tony, handing over the hoodie. It’s a valid point – Peter isn’t fully dry, and all he's wearing is a pair of pants. "Super immune system I don't know about?"

"There was that one time I had my ass handed to me because I had a fever," laughs Peter, straightening up and taking the clothes. 

The fabric is soft and warm. While Tony might not be sentimental, Peter likes the idea of wearing clothes that smell like him. Even if it is pathetic.

"So, no to the super immune system then?" clarifies Tony, shortening the distance between them. 

He was at arm’s length before, now closer. One moment it's a semi-casual chat, although nothing is really one hundred percent casual between them, and then the next, Peter can't look away from Tony’s face as he touches the hoodie Peter is holding. 

"Need help?"

"No to the super immune system. Yes to help. Please," it’s a bad idea, no matter how you look at it.

It's not like they could do this now – with Peter injured and Happy nearby. 

The issues and all the reasons that stop them didn’t vanish just because Peter is sinking deeper emotionally. But when Tony takes the hoodie and Peter just stands there, waiting, he can't help but hope, foolishly, that something might happen.

It would be so easy to make the first move. 

Peter has neared that point for what seems like forever. 

In reality, it's just an inch, like taking that first leap from the roof. If he were to act, Peter is nearly sure that Tony wouldn’t push him away. And that realization makes everything so much harder – knowing you could have what you so desperately desire, but holding back. It’s torturous for Peter to be around Tony like this, when they are alone and the fragile line between them is eroding. Tony will be the death of him if this tension, this ambiguity about their relationship, doesn’t resolve.

Tony starts with Peter’s right arm, fingers lifting it up and guiding it into the sleeve. He brushes the bandage on the wrapped wrist as he does. Slides the elbow in; the fleece feels prickly against Peter’s skin. He avoids touching the shoulder, pulling fabric over it with more care than it deserves, even given the damage. Presses the side of the collar to Peter’s neck, fully covering the half of him that the bullet pierced. To Peter, it feels like he's on the brink of unraveling.

As for Peter's ability not to lose his mind, he's wrong if he thinks the rest will unfold differently. Because Tony, whether he knows it or not, is a tease. He tugs Peter closer to get the hoodie behind his back, Tony’s arms practically wrapping around him as he does. The sweatshirt is large on Peter, but it feels impossibly tight, binding him to a single spot on the ground.

Tony isn’t careless or rough when he continues on the left, but there's nothing gentle about his deliberate movements either. His thumb drifts on the inside of Peter’s wrist, past it, and higher, before withdrawing. He jerks Peter’s elbow, fingers around it, guiding it, quickening the speed. The zipper scratches Peter’s abdomen, making his knees go weak. Tony hastily zips it up, locking Peter in. The last thing Tony does is put the hood around Peter’s head, yanking the material by the edges, as if trying to hide him.

Tony steps away as soon as he is done. He turns around, walks toward the railing of the balcony, and squeezes it with his fists, breathing heavily. He looks up at the sky, then turns back to look at Peter, who is stuck, frozen solid where Tony left him.

“It’s getting...” Stark starts to say it but stops. For a man who famously doesn’t have a filter, he is getting less and less wordy with Peter.

“It’s getting ridiculous,” helps him Peter, suddenly annoyed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You get that, right?”

They are both adults. There is so much sexual tension between them you wouldn’t need a knife to cut it; you’d need a chainsaw. There is a reason for not pushing ahead with this, and Peter almost remembers what it is. 

Standing there, watching Tony lose it over putting a fucking hoodie on Peter, losing it himself in the thirty seconds it took, Peter doesn't give a shit about what that reason is. At this point, he isn’t just sure Tony wouldn’t push him away – he is certain that Tony wants this as much as he does.

“Yeah, well,” Tony puts his hands in the pockets of his pants, looking at Peter seriously. He appears frustrated, almost as annoyed as Peter, and at least a fraction angry. “Linens, you say?”

When Tony leaves the balcony, assuming Peter will follow him in, Peter doesn't at first. 

He lightly bangs his forehead against the glass wall that separates the room from the outside. Rather than a real attempt to beat Tony out of his head, it is more of an empty exasperation. However, it does, unexpectedly, help. There is nothing like a little bit of dramatic head-to-wall banging action to lighten the mood.

Peter does follow Tony after that, of course he does. And while he should remain irritated and should really tell Tony that what is happening between them is insane, he doesn’t. Mostly because it can't be helped, but also because looking for a linen closet with Tony ends up being very entertaining. 

For someone who owns this penthouse, Tony doesn't know anything about it.

“That’s a broom closet,” Peter grabs the handle of a broom that falls out of the small space when they open it.

“A pantry,” a smile forms on Peter’s mouth. “Did you even know you had one?”

“Definitely not linens,” Peter is grinning, turning his nose away from the smell as Tony opens a garbage chute.

“We could just call someone,” Tony isn’t having any luck, checking doors and cupboards at random.

“It’s after midnight, you wouldn’t,” Peter half-sits on a decorative dresser in the hallway.

“I so would,” Tony stares at the dresser with suspicion and commands: “Get off it.”

“Stop bossing me around,” Peter does stand up and move away. 

A vase almost falls when the flimsy hallway filler shakes, but Peter steadies it just in time. When Tony pulls out the drawer and finds it empty, he shuts it with force, and the vase rolls off and smashes into the floor anyway, leaving shards everywhere.

“You could have caught that,” Stark bends over to pick up a big piece of ceramic, looking at it with disappointment.

“Maybe,” Peter definitely could have done that.

“You get kicks from destroying priceless property?” The disappointment is clearly fake, as Tony swipes the broken piece of art under the dresser using the dried decorative flowers that were in it. He chucks the flowers under the dresser too, mischievous expression on his face.

“I have to get my kicks in some way,” Peter observes with amusement, but adds: “Was it actually valuable?”

“I have no idea," Tony replies, moving on to check a wooden chest – another filler with no purpose, so it seems, as it is also empty. “Who even puts this crap here?”

The door to Happy’s bedroom flies open.

“Oi, assholes,” Happy is wearing boxers, socks, and nothing else. Well, that’s done it – Peter is, positively, no longer turned on. “Stop wrecking the place and go to sleep. And if you are going to fuck, keep it down, some of us have to work in the morning.”

He leaves both of them in shock, slamming the door with a visible degree of satisfaction.

“He is so fired,” Tony’s eyes are still wide. That’s obviously not going to happen, so Peter laughs and definitely doesn’t keep it down. “It’s your bad influence.”

“Fucking hell,” Peter’s eyes are watering, as he rubs them, unable to stop. “Now that was priceless.”

Eventually, they do find the linens. 

Not in the closet and not behind one of the numerous doors they check. Pulling out an already-sheeted blanket from the wardrobe in his bedroom, Peter genuinely feels guilty. They’ve been at it for almost twenty minutes before it occurred to either of them that there must be something in each of the rooms in case of an emergency.

“That’s mildly embarrassing,” he says as Tony takes the blanket away from him and spreads it on Peter’s bed. “Sorry.”

Normally being in the bedroom together would be a definition of asking for it. That said, while Happy might lose his dental for a while, his intervention did help to cool the things off. And, frankly, the more Peter thinks about it and tries to see their situation from Tony’s perspective, the more he understands why they are the way they are.

Peter has been feeling what he does for a long time now, and it took him barely a few days, maybe a week at most, to realize what he wants. In a way, it was absolutely expected and inevitable, given his history. 

Tony, on the other hand, didn’t know Peter until he literally appeared out of nowhere, crashing into every aspect of his life without any notice. Peter would like to think that there has been something between them from the very beginning, but it’s very unlikely to be the case. 

Tony knew about his obsession, knew about everything that had transpired in the past. Whatever he might be feeling towards Peter now is happening despite that knowledge, not because of it. 

While it isn’t ideal, far from it, Peter accepts that it is for the best that he has no secrets left to keep, even if it does stand in the way.

It's true, Peter has been flipping between hope and despair daily, sometimes more often than that. 

However, standing still by his bed, waiting for Tony to leave his room, he is calm, for once. Sometimes the best thing you can do is admit to yourself that you are not in control of what happens and cannot influence the outcome. So he does. And the weight he was carrying around for god knows how long now, lifts, making him stand taller.

“Well,” Tony half smiles at Peter, gesturing at the bed. “You are all sorted now. All good?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, fingers wrapped around the ends of long sleeves, mindlessly playing with the fabric. “All good.”

Before Tony can leave, though, Peter does need to bring something else up. And while he isn’t nervous about it, he wants to be clear without making a huge deal.

“There is just one more thing,” he says, seriously. “Tomorrow... don’t call Niko and do not panic.”

“Any particular reason I would?” asks Tony carefully, raising an eyebrow.

Peter scratches his cheek and tries to find the right way to explain it.

“Today was great, really, I needed that,” he begins. “Tomorrow... it’s not going to be the same.”

“I see,” Tony nods. “Care to elaborate?”

“You know that feeling when you haven’t worked out for a while and things are sort of hard?” Peter believes he has found the appropriate analogy for it. “That was today. The way I heal, it isn’t rapid. It’s... accelerated. When I first get hurt, it’s not that terrible. I mean, it hurts like hell and wrecks me, but it isn’t so awful. Not in comparison to what happens later.”

“And later is like the next day after not having worked out for a while?” Tony catches on quickly, frowning.

“Yeah,” Peter smiles. Tony gets it. “So don’t call Niko. Don’t freak out. Don’t think I am about to kick it. I won’t.”

“And while I am not calling Niko, freaking out, or thinking you are about to kick it?” Tony doesn’t seem to be entirely sold on the idea.

“You work, you chill, you do whatever it is you need to do,” finishes Peter. “I’ve had worse, a lot worse. You’ve seen the scars.”

“That I did,” Tony contemplates for a bit, hand on the doorknob. “Alright.”

It begins in the middle of the night, and Peter is still asleep when the first sharp shooting pain wakes him up. 

Trying to ignore it, he huddles around a pillow, burying his face in it. It’s pointless, he knows it is, but does it anyway. 

By morning, he is delirious with it. The blanket they found last night is soaked in sweat. His lips are dry, his skin is pale, and he is heaving as every muscle in his body is spasming and strained.

He doesn’t leave the room and doesn’t even leave the bed for more than a minute. When he does, he sticks his head under the tap, cold water bringing some relief for a moment. But as the skin on his right arm is burning, itching, and aching, he returns to wrap himself in the covers.

Tony checks on him around ten. He hides from him, turning away and mumbling something, as though he were sleepy. When Happy knocks on the door an hour later and asks if Peter is hungry, Peter is barely able to respond, the thought of food making him sick to his stomach.

At noon, Tony comes into the room and leaves a glass of water on the bedside table. Peter holds still, not making a sound, until Tony walks away after watching him for too long. When he is finally alone, Peter chokes on his breath and tries to reach the glass. It spills all over the wooden surface, and ice cubes slide across it. He holds one of them in his fist until the ice melts, a short distraction.

A few hours later, Peter couldn’t tell you his name, all of his senses screaming at him, every cell in his body on fire. He holds his hands to his ears, eyes wet, and at some point punches through the headboard, splinters of wood creating a dust rain around him.

That’s when Tony barges into the room and, disregarding Peter’s weak protests, puts a hand on his forehead. Tony’s hand is cool, so nice, and Peter leans into it for a second, relaxing. It takes only a few moments for it to start burning him, so he pushes it away.

“I am sorry, I am sorry,” he isn’t even sure if he is saying it or thinking it.

He hears Tony pull out the phone from his jeans, the sound like a siren.

“Don’t,” Peter pants, eyes closed. “Don’t.”

“What can I do?” Tony probably isn’t shouting, but Peter jerks away from the vibration he can feel, as every syllable punches him in the gut.

“Leave. Please,” Peter is starting to shake. There is a beat in his ears, and they are about to explode. “Your heartbeat. It’s too loud. Please.”

He keeps whispering “please” even after Tony is gone.

Peter comes out of it the next day. 

He wakes up feeling great. 

Nothing hurts, nothing aches. 

He stretches on the bed and frowns at the bits of wood littering his pillow. He brushes them off, checks on the headboard, and adds it to the list of things that belong to Tony that he has broken and can't pay for. 

Testing himself, he gets up in a flip. After rotating his shoulder a few times, he does a quick handstand using only his right side and smirks when he doesn't even flinch. Shitty time aside, his healing is actually awesome. It would be great if he could simply sleep it off, but it's been just over forty-eight hours, and he is fine now.

He examines his shoulder and wrist in the mirror after taking off the bandages. The skin over the wounds is still a shade of pink, and the small round scars will not be going away, but other than that, there is nothing to worry about. He hums as he brushes his teeth and whistles as he gets into the shower.

He is almost done with washing his hair, face to the shower head, shampoo circling the drain when he hears the door to the bedroom slowly open.

“Peter?” It’s Tony.

“In the shower!” Peter calls out. “Sorry about yesterday! I am all good now! Do you think we’ll have time to get more street food before we head to the airport?”

The bathroom door creaks. Peter lowers his voice.

“I’d like to get some, unless we are in a rush,” he continues.

The steamed glass of the cabin slides open in a quick, gliding motion, and before Peter can comprehend what is happening, Tony Stark, fully clothed, steps into it. Peter can react faster than most people on the planet, but he isn’t ready for this. Not for Tony to twist him around, place both hands on his face, and kiss him.

Peter’s world shatters.

He is pushed against the cold tile as Tony, his Tony, presses lips against his mouth.

Warm water splashes around them, small drops bouncing off the lining of Tony’s suit.

Peter closes his eyes, his hands immediately flying up to Tony’s neck. His heart stops as he pulls the back of Tony’s hair into a fist. It restarts, beating like crazy when his brain catches up.

Oh my god.

And it’s perfect.

Tony’s lips are soft, the stubble on his face rough against Peter’s skin. Tony’s kiss is taking, and while Peter has certainly been kissed before, he was never kissed like this.

His quiet moan is swallowed by the sound of running water when Tony moves, tilts his head, and Peter’s lips part, the heat of Tony’s breath making him whole.

Tony’s hands are still holding Peter, thumbs on his cheekbones, when he sucks Peter’s bottom lip into his mouth, biting it, sending rapture down his spine.

It lasts only a few seconds, but it means everything. Tony stops, nudging Peter’s nose with his own, and breathes out:

“As you were.”

And walks away, suit dripping, soaked, hair sticking to his head, leaving Peter in pieces.

Chapter Text

When something extraordinary happens, and Peter considers Tony Stark kissing him just that, the mind is bound to return to it repeatedly. 

Peter thinks about it as he gets ready. 

He thinks about it on the way to the airport. 

He can’t stop thinking about it as they sink into the chairs inside Tony’s plane and wait for the take-off. 

He definitely cannot think about anything else as Tony chooses the seat opposite of him. Peter is completely stuck, focused on one thing only, even if he should be busying his mind with other, more significant things.

Such as the three silver cases that were delivered just before they left the penthouse. He should definitely consider what is inside them and be mindful that they may or may not have gotten ridiculously lucky. Instead, he considers the shape of Tony’s lips as the plane taxis from the gate. The line of his jaw. The way his fingers felt on the skin. The way his breath was warm and the way his kiss was possessive. How much he liked it. How much the idea of Tony wanting to possess him turns him on. How he would give up just about anything to make it happen again.

Peter looks out the circular window, view somewhat blocked by the spread of the plane wing, and reflects on everything that has transpired in Tokyo. It’s only been a few days, really, but so much has happened. His uncalled-for jealousy. The way it has ruined the only day he had to himself in months. A chance encounter with local lowlifes that prompted him to go overboard and punish the guilty rather than defend the innocent. Tony examining his scars. The auction. The bullet. Niko. One of the best days of his life. One of the worst, as he remembers begging Tony to leave him alone. He recalls the look in his eyes as it happened – one that he would never want to be the cause of again. The kiss.

His thoughts come around, and he rewinds the tape again. Jealousy. Fight. Scars. Auction. Bullet. Niko. Pain. Kiss. And again. He taps his foot on the hollow ground, hand holding a soda, tin warping in his grip. Not enough to spill, but enough to make a sound. When the can cracks, Peter looks at it with confusion. Sighs and puts it down on a small table that separates him from Tony. Leans back in the chair, eyes glazed, as he takes in the city that is getting smaller and smaller.

“Did you ever make it to the temple? That first day?” asks Tony, and Peter snaps out of it. “Solve the puzzle?”

It takes Peter a few seconds to understand the question. While he may have been going over the events of the last few days, the small book that Tony gave him wasn’t the most prominent memory. It should have been out there, among the things that made this trip worthwhile. Instead, it was buried deep under the dark, emotional void he was feeling that day.

Tony did something thoughtful, more than that. The notes he wrote in the travel guide were not just cool and funny facts. They took time and preparation. There was a first clue to the scavenger hunt scribbled on the page with the image of the temple. It occurs to Peter that he never told Tony he didn’t do much that day. Never admitted that the news of Tony meeting someone who he may have been involved with, sent him spiraling down. When Tony asked him the next day how it went, Peter lied. He said it was alright and tried not to make a big deal about it.

“No,” Peter answers with a guilty smile. Happy is on the other side of the plane, and between the jets and the ear-popping altitude gain, he might not hear what they are talking about. That said, Peter’s voice is low, and he is making sure it doesn’t carry too far.

“How come?” Peter expects Tony to be at least a little disappointed, but instead, there is barely noticeable relief and satisfaction on his face.

“It wasn’t a very good day,” Peter doesn’t want to disclose that he was jealous. He also doesn’t want to lie again. When Tony repeats the question, he admits: “I was a bit moody.”

“Yeah?” There is nobody who does a quizzical eyebrow lift as well as Stark. It makes Peter long for things that until this morning he didn’t think were possible. Despite all the tension that has been building up for what seems like forever. Could he really be with this man? Have him? Be his? Or are they back to where they started, when this thing between them grew from one-sided pining into something else?

“Yeah,” Peter picks up the tortured soda can and empties it in a few big, loud swallows. The fizzy liquid tickles his throat and he coughs, fist covering his mouth.

“Any chance you’d want to tell me why?” It may be a question, or at least is posed as one, but the understanding glint in Tony’s eyes tells Peter he is not the only one who has been paying attention. And while Peter still struggles to interpret what Tony is thinking or feeling half the time, Peter himself might be an open book by now. Not that he was ever good at pretense. Until now, it didn’t bother him.

“It’s stupid,” Peter fights back the blush, feeling his cheeks burn. Every time he believes he’s gotten better at it, he is proven wrong. “I am sorry it was a wasted effort. The book was great, honestly. Thank you.”

Tony doesn’t say anything for a while. The plane evens out, and they fly above the clouds. Peter stares out the window again, at the bright blue of the horizon. It’s a long flight and they will not be landing for quite some time. It’s not the car they took to the auction, there is plenty of room to escape, many things to occupy him and distract him from Tony. Maybe even enough to stop him from replaying this morning over and over in his head. But his mind keeps returning to the shower. To how quickly it has happened. How soon it has ended. He barely had time to react. He wishes he had done more.

“What was the puzzle?” he asks, just to ask something. Not that the puzzle matters now. Peter isn’t sure anything matters anymore. He is still high on what happened, his heart skipping a beat every time he summons the memory.

“Do you still have it?” Tony isn’t working, his full attention is on Peter. He isn’t in a suit either – not since walking into the shower with it still on. He is wearing a sports jacket over a faded t-shirt and dark jeans. Casual. The combination of what Peter sees, coupled with yet another recollection of what happened, makes Peter shift in his seat. He needs to stop thinking about it. He should be paying attention to the conversation he has restarted. He almost forgets what the “it” is, when Tony asks the question.

“It’s in the cargo hold, with the rest of the luggage,” Peter is sure he didn’t leave the guide behind. Although it may not have been one of the highlights of the trip, it is one of the things he owns in this world. Whether it was gifted or not, used or not, it is something he wants to hold onto.

He expects Tony will just tell him what the puzzle was and how it played out. Instead, Tony gets silent again. Minutes stretch into a full hour, as they don’t talk. It isn’t an uncomfortable silence, they are way past it at this stage. Eventually, as Tony gets up and walks to the espresso machine at the front of the plane, he gestures for Peter to follow.

The sound of grinding beans creates a noise barrier between them and Happy. Tony places two small cups under the spout and leans on the side of the wall while he waits.

“If you ever get to visit Tokyo again,” Tony puts the emphasis on “ever,” but his relaxed expression doesn’t change, “you should check it out. Solve the puzzle.”

“Why?” Peter leans on the wall next to Tony. There is just a portion of the wall there – as roomy as the private plane is, they are cramped in this space. He is close on purpose, and, while he can’t do anything right now, he needs to know Tony will not move away. They are both looking at the cups, as they gradually fill with the dark brown liquid. Barely visible steam is rising from them, as hot coffee pours in.

“You might like what you find at the end,” Tony shrugs. His arm bumps against Peter, the back of his hand brushing against Peter’s hip. Peter keeps watching the coffee pour with a knot in his stomach. He is sure that if he takes a breath, it will be shallow and loud.

“Yeah?” he asks, turning his head slightly towards Tony.

“Yeah,” Tony does the same and nods.

They stand like this for far longer than it takes for the drinks to be ready. The hum of the engines is an odd, active background. Tony’s hand doesn’t move, his body stays still. Their shoulders are touching, arms pressed against each other side by side. They finally go back to their seats when the pause gets too long.

This flight beats the car ride they took to the auction for the longest trip in Peter’s life. And it has nothing to do with the amount of time it took to get from A to B.

What Peter needs, what he really needs right now, is to be left alone with Tony. He doesn’t have a plan and has no idea what he will do when they are alone. Fine, maybe some ideas. None of them innocent. Every time Tony looks at him, a wicked, knowing smile in the corner of his mouth, as if they share a secret, Peter checks the watch.

The anticipation is starting to drive him insane as they get closer to L.A.

It’s six hours until arrival. He tries to take a nap and fails.

It’s five. They have a meal, and Happy joins them.

It’s four. They have tried playing cards, but Happy called them both cheaters for counting. It’s not like either of them could help it.

It’s three. His headphones die.

There is a sixteen-hour difference between where they have left and where they are headed, and they skip the night. As they get closer and closer, the sky gets softer. Peter blinks, and they are flying through an early morning.

It’s two. He drinks so much coffee it makes him jittery.

It’s one. He does his darnedest not to look at Tony. Look anywhere but at him. Tony appears relaxed, but his eyes are laughing. As if he knows something Peter doesn’t. Actually, plenty of things, most definitely, but the only thing Peter wants to know is who is now in control. Because he sure as shit doesn’t feel like it’s him anymore. Assuming he did at any point. He said it before, and he will say it again – control is an obscure, hypothetical concept around Tony Stark.

When the plane starts the descent, flaps opening under the wings, accompanied by a quiet “bang,” Peter is nervous.

As the screech of the brakes tells him they are finally on the ground, he is close to freaking out.

You can’t want something for so long without flying off the handle just a bit when it’s about to happen. He keeps telling himself nothing will. Just in case. With his luck, Happy will decide to stick around for the day. Peter will be forced to punch him out cold if he doesn’t get out after dropping them off.

While they wait in the car, as Happy is loading up the luggage into the boot, Peter can’t help it.

"That thing," he begins, uncertainly. “That thing that I am meant to be stopping you from doing.”

“What about it?” Tony is on his phone when he asks this. As if he would ever make it easy. Peter almost doesn’t continue to spite him. And gives up after just a few seconds.

“Do you still need me to stop you?”

Tony doesn’t answer. Peter isn’t surprised. When Happy gets into the car, the divider is down, and there is no reason to pull it up.

“What do you think?” Stark doesn’t look up from the phone as he says it.

Is there anything worse than hell? Peter thought he had died in Tokyo and went there. As Happy starts the car, Peter is convinced there has to be something more awful. That would explain a lot.

“I think it’s safe to take the highway, not a lot of cars on the road at this hour,” says Happy, replying to Stark. Even though the question wasn’t meant for him, not that he would know it.

Peter grabs Tony’s phone and, before Tony can object, hits the home button. Opens the messages and starts a new one. He types it but doesn’t send it.

I am not playing games, Tony.

Pauses and adds another line.

I am not a game.

He flings the phone back and turns to the private airport that is disappearing in the rearview, replaced by the dull landscape of the surrounding area.

“I know,” he hears after a while.

If Happy notices that something isn’t right, he doesn’t say anything.

Peter is so emotionally unhinged at this stage that his mood bounces back and forth like a yo-yo. By the time they reach the driveway, he is almost alright. Or not. He couldn’t confirm it one way or the other.

He helps Happy with the bags, carefully takes out the silver cases with the items they went to Japan for, and leaves them next to the staircase inside.

He expects they will probably go downstairs as soon as Happy says his goodbyes. They should go to the workshop under the building and get started. See if the spending spree Peter has sent them on has resulted in anything they could use. The clock is ticking for Tony. Although lithium dioxide has helped and bought them much-needed time, they need to know as soon as possible if they have nothing to work with. If that’s the case, they will need to move on to plan B. All the way through until Z, because Peter has no intention of stopping, regardless of what happens between him and Tony.

Happy, as if trying to contradict Peter’s assumptions, leaves promptly. He gives Peter another one of his man hugs, arm barely touching him, before pulling away, and tells Tony he will be back tomorrow to spar. He also drives off so fast it comes across as fleeing.

As much as Peter wanted to be left alone with Tony on the way back from Tokyo, he panics, watching the dust settle. His splintered confidence takes a dive on a roller coaster. He tries to find some courage. Instead, he goes looking for an energy drink of all things, as if he needs any more energy right now. He does find one and pops the can with a loud hissing sound before chugging it down.

Tony is on the corner couch, lazily sitting back on it, his legs slightly spread. He is typing something on his phone, and Peter wants to break it in pieces. It’s a possibility he will one day; he hasn’t ruled it out. As he imagines with some satisfaction smashing it into bits, Tony sends the phone flying his way. Peter catches it automatically, puts the empty can he is still holding down on the bar, and looks at the screen.

Hey.

Peter hesitates. As far as open conversations go, this isn’t how he has planned it. Not that he had a concrete draft ready or anything. He gawks at the phone for a bit, at the typed message, the cursor blinking, and decides.

We should probably talk.

The phone lands in Tony’s hands with a quiet “smack” against his palms.

Tony smirks at the message, reading it, and, without any delay, types a few letters before returning the phone to Peter.

Why?

Peter feels taunted. His fingertips hit the touchscreen buttons with more force than needed.

What did I say about playing games?

While he waits for Tony to reply and throw the phone back at him, Peter rests on the bar counter with his elbows, head down, eyes closed. Everything inside him is so tense he can almost feel the blood slowing down in his veins until a stopping point. There is a rush of it in his ears though, as he holds perfectly still.

He catches the phone and doesn’t look at it for a few seconds. Takes a breath because it’s now or never. He is so sick of this limbo; he needs to know where he stands. Where they both stand. And, once he knows, he will be able to deal. Probably. He slides the phone on the counter and opens his eyes.

Why talk?

Come here.

Peter leaves the phone on the counter and jumps across the bar in a slow, effortless move, using his arm for support. He stops on the other side and leans on it, meters away from Tony. Tilts his head and smiles.

Tony laughs, rubs knuckles on his lips, and looks away for a bit.

“Alright,” he says, finally, and gets up. Takes a step towards Peter. He is so ridiculously handsome, dark spot on the white background of the room – sharp, clear, full of contrast. “And there I thought we were done playing games.”

Peter shrugs, still smiling, but not moving an inch. He has waited long enough. He can wait a few more steps. And he will not be the one to take them.

Tony takes them instead. During step three, he appears almost unsure. During step four, there is a glint of something predatory. Peter’s knees grow weak as he watches Tony stalk towards him. The last steps Tony takes before he is in front of Peter, hands landing on Peter’s hips, last forever.

“So...” Peter’s smile is borderline grinning. He shoves it away as far as he can, but it keeps breaking through, even as Tony moves, pulling up his t-shirt.

“So...” Tony repeats after him, his palms gliding across Peter’s arms as the t-shirt gets taken off and thrown on the floor. The static created by fabric rubbing against the hair makes the air charged. The electricity dances on Peter’s skin, and he is so painfully hard already, it shouldn’t be possible.

“So, I shouldn’t stop you then?” asks Peter with a quiet chuckle, freeing Tony from the jacket.

He doesn’t wait for an answer because he couldn’t stop now even if he tried. He tugs on Tony’s t-shirt when the jacket lands on the ground, lips meeting him halfway.

If Tony wants him to stop, he doesn’t show it.

Peter’s smile fades into the kiss.

His palm finds the arc reactor and stays there – unbearable heat under it, even as his own skin is burning. He moans, back arching, when he feels Tony’s tongue meet his. Tony’s palms cup his face, and while it is reminiscent of what happened in the shower, it’s greedier now.

More taking. More possessive. Just more.

It's deep, wet, and quite desperate.

The contact of his bare skin against the cotton of the t-shirt Tony is still wearing makes Peter frown. Makes him nuzzle away just long enough to get rid of it, finding Tony’s lips as soon as the clothes pile on the floor gets bigger, pressing against him, chest to chest.

Tony makes a soft, pleased sound when it happens, and Peter turns them around. Tony is now against the bar, and his hands are no longer on Peter’s face. They are lying flat on top of the cracked marble that Peter broke the day he got back. It makes Peter pause, eyes wide and wild, as he whispers:

“Fuck.”

He pulls Tony into another kiss, and there is nothing left of the smile at all. Its remnants are wiped, kissed away by Tony, as Peter rocks his hips into him. What started as a playful challenge turns into something epic, alive, and incredibly intense. For a brief time when they withdraw from each other, both a little dazed, both looking at each other and impossibly close, Peter doesn’t believe it is happening. His breath is heavy, raspy, and there are so many things he wants to say, so many things he wants Tony to know. There are not enough words to describe them.

And the look in Tony’s eyes is unlike anything he has seen in them before. It disintegrates Peter and is completely, utterly overwhelming. So, he does the only thing he can to hold onto the illusion of control he never had. He fumbles his way through Tony’s belt, the buttons on his jeans, forehead pressed against Tony’s, and takes him in his hand. Slides down on the floor on his knees, hard wood almost painfully sharp against them, and wraps Tony’s cock with his mouth.

The sound that comes out of Tony’s throat will haunt Peter until the end of his days. It’s the finest sound he heard in his entire life, and a huge part of Peter still cannot comprehend that he is the one making Tony feel this way. Tony’s fingers are in Peter’s hair now – first gentle, barely touching. But the longer it takes, the more times Peter’s head moves, steady solid thrusts of Tony’s cock into his mouth, the rougher, wilder, things get.

Peter pulls away briefly, catches his breath, and looks up. Tony is watching him with something close to wonderment, his gaze bottomless. And Peter is sinking further and further into it.

“Come here,” Tony’s voice is uneven, winded, as he gestures for Peter to get up. Peter obeys, licking his lips, keenly aware of the effect it has.

"I've wanted to do this for so long," Peter says, and there's more he wants to add to that. Tony tastes so fucking good, so fucking amazing, he could spend an eternity sucking him off. But the rest of the words are swallowed by yet another long, eager, and almost violent kiss.

They try to make their way to the bedroom, any bedroom; at least this is the direction they lose their shoes in, but when they get to the hallway, Peter hastily kicks off his remaining sneaker, Tony pins him to the wall and whispers into his ear:

“Remember the night you got high?” The breath is hot against Peter’s earlobe, making his toes curl, making his cock twitch in Tony’s hand. “And you were standing here, raw, exposed wire, pure energy?”

Peter moans loudly. He almost whimpers as Tony wraps them both in his big hand, stroking slowly, with just enough pressure, just the right amount of strength.

“You were in bits,” Tony continues, not stopping, not slowing down, and, if anything, increasing the speed of his movements. “You looked so perfectly fuckable I nearly lost my mind.”

Peter remembers that night well. Remembers leaning against the door, senses on overload, desperately wanting Tony to touch him. He tries to reply, say something, but as Tony moves his hand around their cocks, Tony’s smell surrounding him, wrapping him in a way that is both intimate and dirty, all Peter can do is tilt his head back.

“Fuck, fuck, Tony, fuck,” he is mumbling, as Tony moves to kiss his neck, facial hair scratching against oversensitive skin.

“What do you want?” Tony’s lips move against his collarbone.

The world pulses, beats against Peter’s skull, and while the hallway isn’t dark, Peter can’t see straight. His eyes are focusing in and out on Tony’s hair, on his shoulders, on the reflection in the picture frame that shows the way Tony’s back muscles flex, as he jerks them both off.

“Tell me what you want,” insists Tony, edging Peter closer. “Come on. Tell me.”

Anything.

Everything.

But nothing comes out, except for groans mixed in with quiet, exasperated sobs.

“Jesus Christ,” Tony pulls Peter into another short, greedy, hungry kiss and rubs Peter’s lips with his thumb when he is done. “You are...”

He doesn’t finish, stumbling on his own words, as Peter sucks Tony’s thumb into his mouth for a few seconds, staring right at him.

Peter moves his head, and the thumb slides out, leaving a wet trail on his cheek.

“What I want,” he says, leaning towards Tony, doing the same thing that drove him crazy, lowering his voice. “Is for you to come in my mouth. But not yet... not yet... oh... because I am so fucking close.”

The sound Tony makes in response pushes him closer.

They are done talking, and for the next few minutes, if it even takes that long, Peter is completely shattered into a million pieces.

When he finally comes undone, panting, an endless moan under his breath, he’d rather die than give this up. Tony keeps him standing, while Peter rides the wave of pure, crazed pleasure.

When Peter looks down at Tony’s hand, not moving anymore, still holding both of their cocks pressed together, Peter’s cum all over, it is one of the hottest things he has ever seen.

He nudges Tony against the same wall that he nearly punched a hole through and takes him in his mouth again. He can taste himself, and it’s messy, quick, but so incredibly agonizingly good, that he gets half hard again almost immediately.

“Fuck,” Tony breathes out. His hands are directing Peter, guiding his head. He fucks Peter’s mouth in steady, long jerks of his hips, the fabric of the jeans he is still wearing meeting Peter’s face with every thrust.

They don’t break eye contact, not even for a second, and it is the best time Peter had, and they have barely done anything. He imagines what it would be like for Tony to fuck him and hums, moans against his cock at the thought of that. The hum and vibration eventually send Tony over the line, and he comes - rocking, shaking, fingers twisting in Peter’s hair.

Peter swallows with a single, satisfied sigh, and they end up on the floor, on their knees, gasping for air.

“Whoa,” Peter laughs, his sweaty forehead against Tony’s. “Just... whoa.”

“Yeah,” Tony isn’t laughing, but his hand is on the back of Peter’s neck. “Remind me again why we didn’t do this sooner?”

“I think it had something to do with me being addictive,” Peter can’t stop smiling and he really wants to kiss Tony again. So, he does. It’s a slow, lazy kind of kiss, and it turns Peter’s insides into jelly.

When he pulls away, Tony looks serious enough for him to get worried.

“That’s... that’s not a one-time thing, right?” he asks, unsure. Before he has a chance to panic though, Tony just shakes his head and, finally, smiles back, just enough to calm him down.

“I mean,” Tony starts getting up, closing his pants and lifting Peter up with the other hand, as he does it. “You being addictive is more of a me problem anyway. Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

Peter could pass out for at least a year in a deep, dreamless sleep. Or he could do more with Tony from the list he has been unknowingly creating ever since things started to get less than professional, at least on his part. That said, what they need to do is more critical than that, so he doesn’t mind the work. For now. There is a part of him that is selfishly disappointed though, even if he is as eager as Tony is to fix the palladium issue. Maybe more eager in some scary, terrifying ways that he doesn’t want to think about.

It helps that as they eventually make their way into the workshop, his lips are swollen red from lingering, mind-melting kisses that he is pulled into several times. As he grabs the silver cases by the stairs, he is so bloody happy it shouldn't be legal.

That should have been his first clue that nothing is ever this simple.

Being on top of the world, and Peter is soaring through the mesosphere at this moment, could ultimately mean only one thing: there is a hell of a fall if shit hits the fan.

And, boy, it does.

Peter is hopeful and optimistic, as they lay the cases out on top of the workstation in the order they have purchased the items. Tony is more skeptical about it, but he stands behind him, as Peter unlocks them one at a time. His snarky comments are somewhat ineffective, because his chin ends up on Peter’s shoulder and stays there.

The sling ring Peter has seen on Dr. Strange is a dud when it comes to metal. Jarvis confirms it within seconds of the scan. Peter closes the case and moves on to the next one. He didn’t expect much from it anyway.

The Dragonfang lookalike may not be a fake exactly, but it also doesn’t make the cut because there is absolutely nothing alien about it. It’s made from Damascus steel, might even be worth the money they have paid for it to the right collector, but not something they could use.

Peter holds his breath when he opens the last case. A familiar anxiety fills him when he sees the wooden box with the carvings on it. Without touching the carvings, he examines them closely. They look like runes or glyphs. The edges of the wood appear old, as if years of it being passed on from owner to owner rubbed the edges soft.

“You never told me why we had to get it,” Tony says, coming around the table and yanking the box out of the case without much care. “You know something about it?”

As he shakes it, there is a clanking sound of something inside bumping against the wood.

“Watch it!” Peter disapproves of the carelessness this is done with and takes the box away from Tony, placing it on the workstation. “I just had a feeling about it. You know, Spidey-sense type of feeling. Kind of. Jarvis? Carvings first.”

As Jarvis scans the box, Peter twitches on his feet. This must be it, right? Why else would he react this way?

Tony watches him with laughter in his eyes, and he isn’t even trying to hide it anymore.

“You look like you are about to pounce at it,” he pushes the box towards Peter, and it slides across the shiny surface. “Just crack it open, there is obviously something inside.”

Peter hesitates but sees no harm in it. Whatever it is, if it’s any good, will be melted down.

“Anything on the carvings?” he asks the AI, playing with the box in his hands. It’s not that large and barely has any weight to it. It also doesn’t appear to have any seams that are visible on the old wood.

“I am not finding any records of the carvings based on my scans; however, the following images can be matched to several extinct languages,” detailed images of the carvings that comprise the whole design appear on the holographic display, as Jarvis walks them through the content. Most are nonsensical, but two of the carvings appear to point at the word “insight,” which leaves both Peter and, begrudgingly (to Peter’s amusement) Tony, baffled.

“Should we scan for what is inside?” Peter is still playing with the box, the wood warming up against his touch. The box feels... nice. For a wooden container. Peter finds it both enchanting and unnerving. He puts it back on the workstation.

“You want me to get a hammer?” Tony leans on the tabletop, his fist propping his chin. “As much as I am entertained by you dancing around it, I’d say whack it with something heavy and see what happens.”

“Whack it with something heavy? Really?” Peter is sarcastic as he picks it up again. “I’d have you know, I’ve seen a number of things that looked innocent on the outside and turned out to have teeth, once you had a closer look.”

“Jarvis, will whatever it is that is inside the box bite back, if we open it?” Tony doesn’t ask Jarvis to scan for the elemental composition on purpose, which Peter considers an annoying side of Tony’s personality. It’s just another challenge.

“I have no reasons to believe it will,” confirms Jarvis. “I am able to scan the object inside, if you’d like.”

“Nah, we are good,” Tony nods at Peter, a “go ahead” gesture, and Peter caves.

He doesn’t need a hammer. He pushes at the top part of the box with his fingers, applying some strength, and it cracks open, multiple pieces falling on the floor. Only a small oval object remains, the size of an avocado seed. It’s hard to touch, but warm. Peter stares at it and can’t look away. He is frozen, unable to think or move, as it melts in his palm, silver liquid quickly enveloping his whole hand, sticking to it like a second skin. It’s like a balloon filled with water that breaks and leaves it wet and glowing.

“Peter!” Tony is moving towards him, but it happens in slow motion, as the glow concentrates, flickers into a light ten inches tall that shoots out and forms a hologram. It isn’t that different from what Peter has seen in this very workshop, but it’s coming out of his hand, not out of his nanotech bracelets or stations. And the image it forms isn’t anything he is able to conjure up using all the tech he has.

“Hey, kid,” the projection speaks in Mr. Stark’s voice of his past.

Chapter Text

The hologram flickers multiple times after the initial greeting that leaves Peter dumbstruck. As if trying to choose which one will make the greatest impact, it keeps changing shapes. Whenever it changes, Peter winces internally. Mr. Stark transforms in front of him so quickly that he barely has time to take it all in.

A black eye is visible on Mr. Stark's face. It is the first time they have met. It was also the first time Peter revealed he was Spider-Man to anyone.

Mr. Stark inside the alien spaceship that took them to Titan. The last trip Peter was on before the blip.

Mr. Stark dying, Iron Man suit nanites struggling to keep the integrity of the armor. His skin is dark, the color of coal from the use of Infinity Stones. When Peter sees this version, he flinches. His nightmares are haunted by it to this day. He doesn’t need a refresher.

The hologram eventually settles down. It chooses Mr. Stark from a memory Peter keeps coming back to over the years when he feels particularly low. It’s from the day he was offered the opportunity to join the Avengers. The day he said no. He was given a choice then that could have changed everything, and he chose wrong. He wishes he could do it all over again. Despite what he has experienced here. In this universe, it wouldn't make a difference, and he would still end up here regardless. It would, however, leave things different back where he is from.

“This isn’t real,” Peter’s voice is strained. He stops Tony, who just made it to him. Holds him back with his free hand, because he doesn’t believe the tech to be dangerous. In any case, not physically. On an emotional level, it's a different story. In a nutshell, this is how you wreck someone in seconds.

“Interesting,” the hologram speaks again. The center of it emits a loud and clear sound. There is no digital feedback. With his eyes closed, Peter would swear that Mr. Stark from his past was standing right here, talking to him.

The image of Mr. Stark is dressed in a sharp black suit he wore the day Peter turned him down. It turns to Tony and raises an eyebrow; a gesture Peter is more than familiar with. “Very interesting. I wouldn’t say I approve.”

“This is messed up,” Peter feels himself turning pale. The image flickers again. Before it has time to conjure up or say something else, Peter closes his fist on instinct. The silver liquid solidifies back into the small metal object as quickly as it splashed all over his skin. At least there is a way to turn it off. He relaxes a little and, even though he isn’t convinced it is a smart idea, opens his hand to continue.

Silver coats his palm and runs along his fingers. It takes a few moments for the hologram to reappear. It doesn’t change shape anymore, sticking to its last one.

“How in the world did that happen?” the image gestures at Peter and Tony, who are standing side by side, Peter still holding Tony’s arm. It sounds too real almost. Only it isn’t. Peter closes his fist once more, and the liquid hardens into the oval shape inside it.

He carefully places it on the workstation and stops it from rolling with his index finger. He then exhales, as if he was holding his breath, and lets go of his grip on Tony. What are they supposed to do with this?

“If I may make an observation,” says Jarvis, “I believe this to be the “insight” the carvings were referring to.”

No shit. For a sophisticated AI, Jarvis is being Captain Obvious. Peter wants to say something. Anything. Instead, his shoulders drop. He covers his face with both hands, hiding behind them. Too many thoughts run through him. He tries to catch one of them, any of them, but they buzz around him, and he is completely lost.

After what feels like forever, Peter hears Tony move and pick up the object. This isn’t a wise idea either. Peter doesn’t know what Tony will see, and he doesn’t want to know, no matter the morbid curiosity. When his own voice, or what sounds like his own voice, greets Tony, Peter removes his hands from his face, groaning. He should have expected it. It’s like a punch in the gut. Mr. Stark may be Peter's biggest regret, but he doesn't need to know he is the same for Tony.

“Hey,” a hologram of Peter smiles widely at Tony. Tony’s expression is unreadable, as he examines the small light emanating from his palm.

This is too weird.

The hologram Peter is wearing a pair of jeans, sneakers, and Peter’s favorite NASA t-shirt – the one he had on before Strange pulled him into this universe. It doesn’t flicker, like the image of Mr. Stark, as if it doesn’t need any time to settle on which to use when communicating with Tony. Peter doesn’t want to read into it. He does.

“What did you think was going to happen, Tony?” the hologram tilts his head towards its shoulder, still smiling. It has the mannerisms of Peter, and it’s like watching a recording of yourself that you know you didn’t make.

Before the projection has a chance to come up with something else, Tony closes his fist, copying Peter’s gesture. He then drops the object on the shiny tray. His hand twitches, as the oval object rolls on the metallic surface and hits the side of the tray with a quiet clanking noise.

They both stare at it without moving. Peter is still stunned and confused. He doesn’t know what Tony is feeling, but the elation that has been bubbling inside Peter since this morning is wiped away by their discovery.

“So, what, it reads your mind and then fucks with it?” Peter isn’t sure he ever wants to touch this thing again. He is also, unexpectedly, dying to, so he takes a step back. He must be part masochist; that is the only explanation.

“Fuck if I know,” Tony brings up the display over the workstation, not even glancing at Peter, and gets Jarvis to start the scan. “But it is curious.”

“Whatever it does,” Peter presses his forehead into Tony’s shoulder. He can sense the immediate tension in Tony’s muscles, as he does it. “Don’t overthink it, yeah?”

Only they both do. At the end of the day, countless attempts to communicate with the object, multiple comments, and off-handed mind-fucking revelations later, Peter heads to bed alone.

He lies awake for far longer than someone who hasn’t slept in over a day would. Twists and turns, unable to get comfortable, although by now this restlessness is becoming more of a pattern than he’d like it to be. The temperature in the room is perfect, his mattress is just right, he feels well physically. However, nothing he does, not even counting sheep hopping over the fence, gets him to sleep. He is dazed and flustered. He isn’t even upset that he isn’t in Tony’s bed right now.

It's around four in the morning when he gives up on the idea that he will be able to talk himself out of trying something stupid, so he puts on bottoms and heads to the bar. Pours himself a drink after grabbing the first bottle that he could reach, even though he isn’t the type to drown his sorrows in booze. Not that this is what he wallows in now. The sorrow. An emotion far more devastating has been building since he cracked the box open. He doesn’t need to try to interpret it, he knows what it is. It’s regret.

He should be over it by now, but nothing like a visual reminder of what he has lost to bring him right back to it. Peter has thought a lot about what happened since they defeated Thanos. Since Iron Man did. Specifically, about what Peter could have done to make sure it didn’t play out the way it did. He didn’t blame himself for how everything had turned out, not really. He was only a kid back then. At the beginning, though, he wondered endlessly what impact the events of the past had on the present and the future. Back on Titan, Dr. Strange said there was no other way. What Peter tortured himself with was the question of what if the past before that point was different. What if Peter was different, when they all came to Titan? What if he was more? Would that change the outcome? Give them another chance, instead of the road that had to be taken?

To him, it all ultimately boiled down to when Mr. Stark invited him to join the team. There it was: the shiny brand-new suit and an opportunity of a lifetime. Maybe if Peter said yes, instead of walking away, had trained more, got more experience, he would have been strong enough to take the glove away from Thanos before Quill ruined it for all of them. Eight years later he knows he could have done it if he was more ready. He has tricks now he didn’t even think were possible at the time. Hence the regret.

Peter downs the drink and pours himself another. He polishes off a bottle and a half before the effects kick in, leaving him slightly unsteady on his feet. He walks downstairs before the alcohol wears off or his courage dissipates. Tony’s heartbeat is slow and steady in the bedroom, as Peter listens in on it on the way down. At least one of them doesn’t appear to have issues sleeping. Peter doesn’t judge Tony for it; he is glad instead. Neither of them seemed fine at the end of the day, not after everything that was thrown at them. But Tony seemed worse off than Peter.

When they worked on it, the Insight, as they’ve started to refer to it, didn’t change shape or flicker any longer. It has remained Mr. Stark of Peter’s past for Peter. Himself for Tony. It got confusing and disconcerting.

When Tony was holding the Insight, Peter couldn’t help but analyze what was said. When Peter was holding it, Tony’s heavy stare was making him feel uneasy. It was like letting someone into your mind without any control. Activating the Insight was opening doors that should have remained closed.

If there was any doubt, a hidden fear or a nasty thought, the Insight found a way to pull it out, talking at them, but not to them. The Insight disapproved of their relationship, and that was almost funny, considering there are certainly better ways to mess with either of them, given their individual luggage. It didn't need to be told what happened between them. It didn’t even think, not in the way that made sense. It simply made observations which were based on their own thoughts and memories.

Which means they are both unsure.

And it is too much to think about, at least for Peter.

The Insight would coat one of their hands in its liquid metal, take a split second, and come back with a statement. Always loaded. Always attempting to plant a seed of mistrust, as if its mission was to split them apart, which was ridiculous. It picked on two of them, like a school bully, feeding on their insecurities. It was also more effective than it should have been. Working on it was tense. It wasn’t the charged sexual tension that Peter was used to. It made things awkward in all the wrong ways. It didn’t take long for them to start avoiding being close to each other. A little longer and they both avoided looking at each other too.

Just before they called it a night, Peter suggested it might be worth a shot to use it alone. To check whether it changes anything or how the Insight communicates. Tony disagreed. They argued.

Peter wants to try though, and his hunches are rarely wrong. Which is why he finds himself sneaking into the workshop. For a guy who is meant to have outstanding reflexes, he is the opposite of that when drunk, and almost walks into a glass door on the way there.

The Insight remains where they left it before saying goodnight - too many lingering emotions to shake off. They parted ways at Peter’s bedroom, and Peter would lie if he said he wasn’t at least a bit relieved. There is a scan in progress, a program that Tony is running overnight, and Peter hopes that in the morning they will have more information. Enough so they can put it behind them. They already know the most significant thing about it – they could use it. If they could figure out how to disable it and leave it in its current, solid form that is. Intelligent or not, it is complex.

Peter hesitates a moment, wondering if stopping the scan will reset the whole process. However, he is almost sure he will be able to restart it when he is done. He then takes the object along with its tray - he's not quite ready to use it. Peter doesn’t hate as a rule. It’s just not something he does. As he's preparing to try his experiment, he feels bitter hate on the tip of his tongue towards the Insight.

He sits cross-legged on the floor, takes a deep breath, and places the Insight on his palm.

“Always so eager, kid,” the Insight doesn’t waste any time.

“Stop,” commands Peter. “If you do not, I will not keep you active.”

“That’s a lie,” the Insight laughs. “You need to believe it for it to work, and you do not.”

“I am not in the habit of hurting myself on purpose. I'll turn you off,” even as he says it, Peter knows that isn’t true either. He wants answers. He isn’t returning to bed until he gets some.

“Come on now,” the Insight has Mr. Stark’s sarcastic, but knowing expression. Wouldn't it be nice if it wasn't a jerk to Peter? They could talk then. Really talk. It would be therapeutic. Peter wouldn’t say no to the ability to speak to Mr. Stark, even if it wasn’t actually him. This thing, though, and its twisted version of the man Peter knew is almost as painful to watch as it is to remember what transpired in the past.

“I thought that if I could try talking to you alone, it would help me understand you better,” Peter tries not to look at it, eyes unfocused, but he can’t help himself. He follows every gesture and mannerism, starved for it. Tony, Peter’s Tony, is so very similar to this image. Yet there is a difference between the two, and in some ways, it makes things less complicated. More complicated, if you dig into it, because it shouldn’t matter. But it does.

The hologram is quite small, and he is thankful for that, but even now it would be too easy to imagine he was communicating with a real person. His liquid courage is wearing off already; the high metabolism is burning it through his system. In times like these, he wishes he had the capacity to stay drunk longer. It would make it more bearable.

“How do you think this is going?” the Insight smiles like Mr. Stark used to. Confident and self-assured.

“He was never like this with me,” Peter shakes his head. Mr. Stark wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t dismissive either, not when it mattered. Throughout the day, the Insight was on a mission to disprove that. It hurt Peter more than he could admit to himself or to Tony. Morning aside, it was a shit day all in all.

“That’s not true either,” the Insight flickers into an image of an empty suit that pulled him out of the water. The mask opens; Mr. Stark isn’t in it. Maybe it has run out of ways to stab.

“He was halfway around the world,” Peter says defensively. “Besides, this isn’t why I am here.”

“What you are here for is to say you are sorry,” Mr. Stark’s image shifts back. “Go on then, kid, I am dying to hear it. Pun intended.”

“I am not...” Peter stops. It’s like having an argument with your own subconscious. Or with every self-destructive thought you had about yourself. Things you do not admit out loud. He is both defeated and even more determined to get what he wants out of this conversation.

“So? I am waiting. Time is money, kid,” the word “kid” is identical to how Mr. Stark used to say it. It makes Peter nauseous. He can already feel a hangover headache lurking in the back of his skull. Maybe he shouldn’t have drunk. Maybe his thoughts being lazy and inebriated are making it harder for him, not for the Insight.

“You first,” decides Peter. “You must know what we are planning on doing. What we need you for. Tell me more about yourself. Your purpose.”

“And what, you’ll keep me around?" fake shock etched across Mr. Stark's transparent face.

“No,” Peter doesn’t lie. He couldn’t. It’s like lying to yourself, when yourself is a projection wearing someone else’s face that is both snarky and wicked. “If I do what I am here for, will you tell me what you want?”

“Sure thing, kid,” it comes out quick and easy, as if the Insight had expected it. It did, because Peter does. It messes with Peter’s brain. First it was universe hopping, then time travel, and now this. Can enough just be enough?

Peter stalls. He sits on the floor for a few minutes and, surprisingly, the Insight is quiet, almost patient even. It salutes him with a martini glass, taking a sip, just before Peter opens his mouth. There are tiny non-existent olives in the glass and the level of detail is outstanding.

“I am sorry,” he says, flatly, watching olives move inside the glass.

The prop disappears and Mr. Stark's face turns serious. “There is more.”

“For not saying yes that day,” Peter continues, passively. “For not being strong enough on Titan. For not listening before, I was such a fool. For not using the stones myself. I could have survived. Maybe. Probably not. For everything.”

“And especially?” It wants Peter to say it, and Peter can’t get himself to. He never could. He shakes his head again, feeling his eyes water. He hasn’t cried in years, and it surprises him that it happens now. Surely there was more to cry over when it came down to it.

“If you can understand me better than I can myself, why do you need me to say it?” Peter wipes his eyes, feeling the salt sting the sensitive skin around them. He now thinks that maybe this wasn’t the most intelligent idea after all. Maybe Tony was right and the fight they had was over nothing.

“We had a deal,” Mr. Stark’s image might be small and not solid, and it isn’t Mr. Stark, of course it isn’t. But telling his deepest darkest secret, even to a diabolical piece of tech, is still beyond embarrassing. Each time it pops into his head, like an unpleasant memory, Peter wants to hide under a blanket.

Peter can now taste the pain and shame on his tongue. He isn’t sure when his feelings started to taste, period, but he wishes he had something to wash them off with. The knot inside his stomach throbs with them. He lets it happen because he kind of deserves it.

“I am sorry for what I did,” even as he says it, he knows it isn’t enough. He never told it to anyone, not even to the shrink he sought to see to get over his obsession with Mr. Stark. It’s dark and it has tainted everything he remembers about the man.

“In the grand scheme of things, it’s not that bad. If at all,” the Insight shrugs. “It didn’t hurt anyone. Except you.”

“Yeah,” Peter swallows a sob. “We both know what it is. We both know I want to drop dead any time I think about it by accident. It’s a splinter that is stuck in my mind and I will never get rid of it. Do I still need to say it?”

The Insight appears almost sympathetic when it replies, "If you want, kid."

It feels sorry for him. Peter holds in a hysterical laugh; it's so surreal.

“You never know, it could be good for you.”

“I really am sorry,” Peter waits a bit longer, unsure, but eventually adds: “For using his memory the way I did. It took me a long time to understand why it happened the way it did, and by then it was too late. Damage had been done. I felt wrong. Everything did. I felt undeserving. It was horrible.”

When he stops, he feels lighter. He also knows he should probably try to explain it to Tony if things between them are to work out. That makes him panic, and he closes his fist, deactivating the Insight, trying to get his bearings together.

After a while, he opens it up again.

“It’s my turn then,” the Insight doesn’t seem to be disappointed that it was turned off. It picks up right where they left off.

“Do you store everything we discuss?” Peter is curious.

“No,” Mr. Stark’s hologram smiles. “But you do.”

“Ah,” Peter nods. “That makes sense.”

At least it means the Insight will not tell Tony before Peter has a chance to. When he thinks about it, the Insight laughs again. The sound bounces around the huge space.

“Who do you take me for?” the Insight rolls its eyes at Peter.

“For something that didn’t yet meet its end of the bargain,” Peter refuses to refer to it as a being. There's messing with his brain, and then there's really messing with his brain. “So, what is it that you want?"

The Insight seems relaxed, as relaxed as a hologram image can appear to be.

"What we all want," it leans against an invisible wall as if Mr. Stark is trying to look casual. It’s odd, a theater of absurdity. "Aside from Tony Stark and world peace, that is what you want, too. I am just like you, kid. Outside of my space, outside of my time. I want to...”

It stops then, letting Peter finish without saying a single word.

“Bingo!” the Insight salutes him with another martini glass. “So, what are we intending to do about it?”

Oh.

“Oh,” Peter is suddenly so alert that his head is attempting to split in half from a headache.

“You are going to have to do all the convincing,” the Insight shakes the glass, olives bouncing against it. “Between me and you, I don’t think he likes me as much as you do.”

Peter closes his fist. He knows what he needs to do now. And Dr. Strange was right after all. When it comes down to it, it is, in fact, simple. Elegant even. And Tony will not like it.

Peter walks upstairs after restarting the scan. He briefly considers leaving it until morning, but he knows himself better than that. Instead of going to sleep, he will just keep obsessing about it until he caves. So he might as well do it now since he still will before the sun comes up. Opening a soundproof door and closing it with a quiet hiss, he automatically listens in on Tony. He is awake. Pacing in his bedroom. Peter hopes that Jarvis didn’t snitch on him. He also really hopes that Tony had some self-control and didn’t spy through the cameras this place is plastered with.

He doesn’t linger at Tony’s door; there is no point. Still, he knocks though but opens it before he hears a reply to come in.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks, walking in. The light from the hallway does nothing to brighten the large room, and Tony’s arc reactor is a saturated glow on his chest through the t-shirt he is wearing. His hair is messy, but not in the carefully constructed messy way it normally is. It makes Peter want to come over and bury his face in Tony’s neck.

“What’s up?” Tony sounds tired, and Peter feels guilty for obviously being the reason he is up.

“It wants to belong,” Peter locks his hands behind his back. He isn’t sure how to be around Tony anymore. “We shouldn’t destroy it. You should absorb it into the arc reactor. It will work. It might even make the nanotech more intuitive. It makes sense. Think about it.”

Tony doesn’t reply straight away. Peter expects objections, but he doesn’t see anything conflicting on Tony’s face. Tony just seems fed up, and Peter is to some extent also. He wants this to be over. The issues, the problems. He wants to come back to feeling happy. It’s barely been a day, but it might as well have been a year, the gap between them so large.

“Alright,” Tony nods. Peter, who has been thinking of arguments to throw back at him, doesn’t believe it at first. Nothing is ever this easy. Especially with Tony Stark. “I’ll look into this in the morning.”

“Good,” Peter idles where he stands, indecisive if he should be leaving now. The mood isn’t what it used to be, not even when he was going insane from the limbo they were stuck in. After getting back from Japan, they did resolve some of it, but he would rather come back right to it, than stay in the atmosphere that was created by all things implied by the Insight.

“Anything else?” Tony probably doesn’t mean to be cruel, but Peter’s heart drops.

He should definitely leave now. But ever since he could remember, he could never find peace when something unresolved remained. He spent the last few months not knowing where he stood. If he has to do it for one more day, it will drive him mad.

“I am crazy about you, you know that, right?” It is easier to say than he thought it would be. And when he does, he doesn’t see the need to stop there. “I’ve been crazy about you almost as long as I have been here. Not because of Mr. Stark from my universe. In a way, despite him. What I felt towards him, what you imagine it was, isn't the whole truth. Far from it. And this morning, after we got back... I was happy. You have no idea how difficult it is for someone like me.”

There is more he could say, and there is definitely more he should. But Peter stops, cutting his losses, because Tony’s expression doesn’t change the more he speaks. It’s not a love declaration, the timing isn’t exactly right for it, but it’s as close as Peter can get without saying it out loud. He wants a reaction, looking Tony in the eyes, and as he counts his own heartbeats, surprisingly steady, he doesn’t get anything back. Tony just stands there, looking back at him, and Peter would give a lot to know exactly what he is thinking right now.

“I see,” Peter rubs his eyes, exhausted. He comes up to the large window and leans against the frame. “I’ve never asked you this before because I didn’t have to. You don’t have issues with me being a guy, right? Don’t need to answer. You seem... fluid. You also don’t seem to be the type of person who would care about this. I did. I had crushes on girls, a good few, before I got close to someone I thought was just a mate. When he kissed me, it surprised the shit out of me. Not even because it was outside and there were people around, but because I really did not expect to like it as much as I did. I was maybe eighteen, that’s a couple of years after the blip. Things started to make so much more sense. It explained a ton. Why I could never work it out with girls. Why I constantly messed it up and why it never felt quite right. So here I am, kissing this guy, in the middle of an “oh holy fuck” moment when this couple passes us by. We stop; it’s awkward. And they give us this look. Just one look. Nothing outrageous, not even a very clear disgust. Just the look, you know? Or maybe you don’t, because nobody in their right mind would even dream about giving it to you.”

Peter takes a breath, pausing. He turns to face the window because at some point during his speech he dropped his gaze to the ground. He can’t seem to find the strength to lift it back up.

“And you know what popped into my head then? Mixed in with shame, embarrassment, and guilt? 'Mr. Stark wouldn’t approve,'" he continues, not choosing his words anymore or thinking about how it will come across. “I honestly have no idea why. He probably wouldn’t even care. He was a chilled guy when it came to this, at least I think he was, we weren’t exactly pals. Our interactions could be counted long before you get into the triple digits. And that’s over the years I’ve known him. It was all about 'the world needs saving.' Or 'you are fucking it up, Peter, again.' On occasion, there was a compliment. I’d try to be this exemplary hero, deserving of his praise. It was kind of twisted. What’s more twisted, is that eventually it became a big deal, once I started seeing guys. I’d be enjoying myself, really enjoying myself, and then here it would come, I’d think of Mr. Stark. I’d be kissing some guy, getting a blowjob, or doing whatever, and this dark, fucked-up annoying thought in the back of my mind would ruin it. Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark who died saving the universe. It’s like thinking of your father when making out with someone. You don’t want to; it may happen by accident, but just for a split second when a bit of shame creeps in, and your subconscious wants to ruin it, it does it against your will. Only Mr. Stark wasn’t my father, despite the obvious parental guidance. The more I tried new things, the more I found I had a type. A little older. Darker. Facial hair was always a bonus. So, I struggled. With the whole thing. With recognizing I was gay. With coming out. All of it. And the more I struggled, the more he popped into my head. It took me years, actual years, until I was able to get over it. Almost. Because by then he wasn’t just Mr. Stark. Not this amazing, inspiring superhero who of all people picked me to mentor. No. He was Mr. Stark that was forever tied to this deranged thing I’ve turned his memory into. The funny thing though, if you think me wanting to be with you has anything to do with it, you are so fucking wrong. You just... you to me, you understand? Not Tony Stark. Not Iron Man. Just Tony. And I am crazy about you. I don’t think of him when you are around, not this way. You are not a substitute. I am not making the best of a bad situation. It just happened. It’s just... it is what it is.”

Everything that Peter had inside him, everything he couldn’t even put into words before, simply comes out. Just like that. Probably at the worst time imaginable. To his own astonishment, Peter doesn’t panic or freak out. Better it comes out now, before things get too serious. Assuming they could, after today. Peter isn’t an oblivious idiot; he understands well the reservations Tony must have. So he doesn’t feel sad, scared, or upset anymore. He doesn’t feel anything at all during the time it takes for Tony to finally say something back.

“Are you done now?” There is nothing in Tony’s voice that gives away what he thought of Peter’s confession.

Peter is quite sure he is done, until he reminds himself he isn’t.

“Not exactly,” he faces Tony again but doesn’t move his eyes to find him, staring at the still open door to the lit hallway. He supposes that would be the exit he will be taking momentarily. “Since we are being honest.”

“Go on then,” at least Tony doesn’t sound angry. Or disgusted.

“Last time I spoke to Dr. Strange, he told me I couldn't come back. I’d say come back home, but that isn’t exactly true anymore. Not for a while. Long before I ended up here. So I am staying. It doesn’t have to be here, in this house, and after today, it also doesn’t have to be with you. I get it. I mean, it will crush me. But I get it. If this is too much... If I am too much, I can leave. There are things in this universe I could do. You don’t need to be responsible for me. The last thing I want is your pity mixed in with an unhealthy dose of gratitude. And I think we could agree that this whole palladium thing is more or less resolved now. If you listen to my advice and do what you are told, that is.”

Peter steps away from the window and walks towards Tony. Now he is actually done. It’s all out in the open. No more secrets, nothing he's keeping to himself. He is completely drained. A good state to be in if you are about to get your heart broken. Truth is not pretty, though. It’s heavy, and there's no point in keeping it in, because it always comes out.

“So?” he asks when he is next to Tony, within reaching distance. “Questions? Comments? Anything you want to tell me before it inevitably comes back to bite us in the ass since everything else does? Directions to the nearest bus station perhaps?”

Peter bites his tongue before he can make things worse, if that’s even possible. It shouldn’t have happened like this, even if he is glad he doesn’t need to keep it in anymore. There were better ways to deal with it. Better ways to tell Tony he is everything to Peter. Better ways to break the news about him staying or spill his guts out.

“You want the short version or the long version?” Tony doesn’t reach for him or pull him into a hug, like Peter desperately wants. He doesn’t move away, though, or point at the door, which is almost a good sign.

“Whatever floats your boat,” Peter waves his hand and then runs it through his hair, moving the curls away from his forehead. He shivers from the cold and wishes he was under a blanket, with an afterthought that he should really stop having heart-to-heart conversations half-dressed. That would have been an excellent idea – to put some bloody clothes on before barging in.

“Short version it is,” Tony shrugs and, as if reading Peter’s mind, walks to the dresser, rummages through it, and throws him a t-shirt. It flies towards Peter when Tony adds, making Peter’s hand freeze halfway to catching the t-shirt, letting it drop on the floor. “About a minute before you opened the door, I had the questionable pleasure of meeting Dr. Strange myself.”

Peter takes a deep breath, his chest filling with air and expanding. Exhales, waits a second or two, and bends over to pick up the t-shirt. He pulls it over himself and closes his eyes, thinking. Things start shifting into place. Puzzle pieces that were littered here and there finally start fitting together. Their personal issues aside, everything up to this point was... predictable. A straight line without any detours to get them exactly where they are right now. Inches away from replacing palladium with an advanced piece of tech that would make Iron Man more effective.

“The chain of events that will follow,” he murmurs to himself, mindlessly rubbing his nanotech bracelets. “The chain of events that will follow will lead to...”

Peter is catching on.

“Peter,” Tony starts carefully. “Don’t...”

“Lose it?” Peter takes another breath. He nearly smiles then – a sour, realizing smile. “That motherfucker.”

“Yeah,” Tony nods, not coming up closer and staying by the dresser. Smart.

“Dr. Strange? Peter here. Come in?” Peter flexes his fingers into a fist so hard, his knuckles crack. “I'm going to give you one chance here. Peace talks, if you must. One chance, and then, good guy or not, I'm coming after you.”

“Peter,” there's a warning in Tony’s voice.

“I’ll be right back, no worries at all,” Peter smiles again, and the ground disappears from under his feet.

This time there's no landing. No insides jumping as if he were speeding down a hill as fast as his car could go. His toes sink into the plush, soft carpet. It's a study. A small, cozy room covered in bookshelves. There's a fireplace in the corner, and the logs are quietly crackling, the smell of burning wood pleasant. Two chairs are next to it, separated by a small table. There are cookies on it and two mugs of hot chocolate.

“Seriously? Cookies and comfort drinks?” Peter sits in the empty chair and looks at Dr. Strange. “You think you can make this better?”

“As you wish,” Dr. Strange snaps his fingers, and they are in the void again. That's more like it.

“What is it like?” Peter asks, wondering when he stopped admiring the man in front of him and instead started to hate him. “Playing God? You've learned more tricks than you led on, didn't you? In your travels?”

“I might have," Strange's third eye opens on his forehead. Peter isn't impressed.

“You could have told me,” Peter isn’t charging at Strange, and it is a small miracle. He also knows that there's absolutely nothing he can do right now.

“I did,” Strange doesn’t attempt to smile at Peter, and Peter is grateful. Even he can run out of patience at times.

“I am so sick of being this guy, you know?” Peter shakes his head. “Just once I would like a right to be selfish. Whatever may happen.”

“You were,” simply says Strange. “Not you, exactly, but the other you. Selfish and stupid. You sought revenge in the wrong place. And it led to this.”

“Come again?” Peter frowns. He didn't expect that. “This is the part where I am meant to feel guilty? Back to my old ways of blaming everything on myself? To keep mindlessly dancing to your fiddle?”

“Do you ever dream, Peter?” Dr. Strange looks him over, and it's patronizing. “Of different places? Maybe of you and Tony Stark, but not on Earth? Alone in a Ravager ship, every being on your home world vanished, hope lost? Looking for Thanos, as if the two of you, beaten and defeated, could do anything to stop him? Maybe you saw it – the moment it turned. When you gave up and changed. When you started killing because you could. When you attracted the wrong type of attention and crossed paths with a certain Grandmaster. Do you remember when the dreams stopped?”

Peter does. Of all the unsettling dreams, he remembers this one well.

“Why this universe? Why now?” Whatever fight he had left in him shatters.

“Because you weren’t here.”

“Shouldn’t it be me then?” Peter has to ask, but he knows the answer before he hears it.

“You are not enough,” it isn't an insult, not the way Dr. Strange says it. A fact. “Grandmaster has a flair for the dramatic. One chance, one champion to stop it.”

“And Tony wasn’t strong enough,” Peter gets it. He wishes he didn't. He wants to close his eyes and wake up without any of it being real. “He was at Mark II, III maybe, before I got here, landing at his feet packed to the brim with the tech it would take him years to develop.”

“Something like that,” Strange gestures at Peter, and for a moment he does appear almost regretful.

“And the Insight?”

“More powerful than the new element.”

“Better chance to win,” the second part of this sentence occurs to Peter only after he speaks the first. “Less chance to survive. Not that it matters.”

“I said it before, Tony Stark doesn’t need to die.”

“I want to hear you say he gets to live.”

“That isn’t clear yet,” there's no remorse in it, but Peter trusts Dr. Strange doesn’t lie. He is a master of not telling the whole truth, however, so he needs to know for sure. “I am peering through the keyhole here, things change. Future isn’t set in stone, not the way you think about it.”

“When will it happen?”

“Seven days.”

“How?”

“A ship.”

“How far?”

“Far enough for anything on Earth not to detect it or reach it.”

“How will he get there?”

“They’ll send someone for him.”

“And after he wins?”

The answers stop coming. Dr. Strange pauses, hesitant.

“He will fall.”

Peter stares through Dr. Strange, not seeing him.

“Keyhole my ass. There's no falling in space,” he says, finally. “You drift. Until you die.”

“It wasn’t just the other you, Peter,” reminds him Strange. “There were two who caused it. Grandmaster will believe it to be poetic justice, even if Iron Man wins.”

“And you're not going to pull him out?” It’s a rhetorical question.

“That's too much interfering,” Strange continues as Peter opens his mouth to object. “Everything I have done so far is... meddling. Gray area. Even you.”

“You can bring me into a universe I don’t exist in and leave me here, but you can't save Tony?” Peter grabs at it. “There's more. There's always more you're not telling me.”

“More than you will ever know, Peter,” Dr. Strange smiles then. “You're not Iron Man. You're not Tony Stark. Tony is...”

“More important,” Peter nods. “Is that it? In the grand design and shit?”

“He's more destructive,” Dr. Strange’s smile fades. “You knew two. One that saved the universe and this one. There are others. Do you know how many villains those other versions created? How many lives they ruined trying to put a shield around the Earth? You are, I'm sorry to say, my boy...”

“Insignificant? A delivery system?” interrupts him Peter.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Dr. Strange doesn't agree. “You're more important than you think.”

Peter tries to think of more questions because the moment they are done, he will surely want to know more. His mind jumps from one to another until he finally asks his last one.

“How much does he know?”

“Enough,” Dr. Strange checks his watch, as if time matters here. “This is the last time we meet, Peter.”

“Alright,” Peter nods. “I’d ask you to wish me good luck, but you won’t help.”

“I won’t,” Dr. Strange looks at him in surprise. “But I am on your side here, Peter. Besides, you already have everything you need.”

“Now wait a minute!” Peter wants to grab onto something as he starts falling, but it doesn't make a difference.

“What an asshole,” Peter gets up from the floor and rubs his knee, having hit a nightstand on the way down. “Sorry about the lamp.”

After stepping around the glass from the broken bulb, he sits on the bed. Tony is just where he left him, by the dresser. If Peter were to guess, to the naked eye he simply teleported from one side of the room to another.

“Tell me about it,” Tony walks around the bed and crouches in front of him. “You alright?”

“I should be asking you that,” he pokes at Tony’s shoulder with his finger and quietly laughs. “And here I thought my big speech would be the thing that sucked the most tonight.”

They don’t say anything else for a while. What else is there to say?

Eventually, Tony nudges Peter fully onto the bed and lies next to him, hands behind his head. They both stare at the ceiling, the light from the hallway bothering at least Peter, but neither get up to turn it off or close the door. After some time, Peter moves and presses his body to Tony’s side. He isn’t lying on his chest, and they are not hugging. Tony’s heartbeat is a regular, constant sound that keeps Peter from spiraling out of control. As he starts to doze off, Tony puts one of his arms around him and says:

“It’s always better in the morning. Sleep.”

So Peter does. That night, he doesn’t dream.

Chapter Text

Peter would compare the next week, from the moment he woke up on the first day, to only one thing. To him, it was desperately trying to breathe enough air before death. He could try, and he did, but it would never be enough. Not when you know what is coming. There is a reason the concept of destiny is a vague one. The reality of knowing what is going to happen, whether it is set in stone or as close as it could get to this state, is maddening.

The days, all of them, blur into an exhausting, terrifying, life-changing montage. The beginning and the end are clearer than the middle, but still obscured by the experience of trying to keep it together while falling apart.

Peter calls Natasha as soon as he wakes up. There is no answer, but he leaves her a cryptic message with enough instructions. It’s not much of a plan, more of a reach, but in that odd state of barely being able to comprehend how this, their story, is ending, he simply can’t think of anything better.

And then they get to work.

In many ways, it is reminiscent of what it was like when he first appeared out of nowhere, turning Tony's life upside down. The basement of the massive Malibu house becomes the space where they spend almost all their time. Peter works on the webbing, adjusting it to the specifications they discuss. Tony digs into the molecular structure of the Insight, attempting to find a way to merge it with the arc reactor. He builds a new one in a little over a day. As they both watch the Insight pour in, settling down, Peter can’t shake the feeling that succeeding in this seals Tony’s fate.

No matter how many times Dr. Strange says that Peter isn’t enough, and it is Tony who must face the challenge, Peter still hopes that maybe there is another way out of this. Peter's hope is more of despair than anything else, as his mind refuses to accept what this means. Peter skips past denial and anger and is stuck on bargaining until the very last minute. Even as he looks at the displays in front of him and changes the recipe for the web fluid countless times, he can’t help himself.

Because it isn’t fair.

He tells this to Tony, when the brand-new arc reactor slots into his chest. He repeats it again, his fingers trembling, as he inspects the last signs of palladium poisoning disappearing in front of his eyes. But even if Tony agrees, he doesn’t say anything. Unusually quiet, concentrating on the problem at hand, Tony reminds Peter of Mr. Stark more than he ever did. Suddenly, or maybe it was always there and Peter just didn’t notice, there isn’t just an age gap between them anymore. There is a chasm of everything he has overlooked, and, as he works on his own project, he can't help but wonder what else he missed. And if he will ever have a chance to find out after this.

They are together, working side by side, playing the hand that was dealt to them. However, what happened between them the day they got back from Japan is in the far back of Peter’s mind.

A week is plenty of time to do many things. But the clock ticks so fast that when they hit day three, not having left the workshop for more than a few hours each, they are nowhere near ready. Mainly because they are running on fumes. Peter starts dozing off in the cars parked in the workshop. He slings his legs on the dashboard while inspecting plans on his S.H.I.E.L.D pad and struggles to stay awake. He gets a few hours here and there and leaves the workshop only to grab a quick shower and change clothes.

Happy delivers food but doesn’t linger. He doesn’t ask questions either, but he must know what's going on. There is a somber look on his face when he hands Peter a carton of noodles and an energy drink.

Pepper comes in twice. The first time Peter isn’t paying attention because he's trying to figure out if he can repurpose the nanites in his armor for use in Tony’s suit. He can’t, but he had to give it a go. What Pepper discusses with Tony makes her slam the door on her way out, but Peter doesn't stop to ask what it was about. He's too busy and too tired to even notice.

The second time Pepper comes in, Peter is dozing off on the back seat of the Audi, his pad dead. The door is open, and he's half awake, half asleep, his mind both too alert and too sluggish for coherent thoughts. It’s day four, and when he saw himself in the mirror the last time, there were huge dark semi-circles under his eyes. That was too many hours ago to still be working, but they can’t slow down. Besides, Peter knows that if he were to stop and take a break, he would lose it. He just needs a few minutes of shut-eye, and then he will be up and running again. Today, they are testing the nanites' responsiveness. Or is it tomorrow? Maybe yesterday.

“Why now, Tony?” The sound carries across the workshop and into the car. Peter picks up on the way Pepper’s voice is careful and concerned. He moves in the back seat, getting up, using his elbows to lean on them, but not getting out of the car, sneakers sticking out past the seat.

“Because,” Tony is signing paperwork without reading, and somewhere between the exhaustion on his face, there is a satisfaction there akin to what one might feel when getting another checkbox out of the way.

“All of this,” Pepper gestures towards the stack of papers, collecting more signatures. “All of this is very generous.”

Peter squeezes his fingers into a fist when he realizes what is going on. It’s a will.

“Is there more?”

“Just Peter,” Pepper hands him another stack of papers with colorful labels on them. “And then you are done.”

“Good,” Tony looks over a few pages, quickly flipping through them. “That’s fine.”

“May I ask...” There is curiosity on her face when she starts, but it quickly changes into a small smile when Tony cuts her off.

“He is important to me. I want to make sure he is taken care of if anything happens.”

Peter takes a quick breath. It's sharp and painful on the way in.

“And is there any reason to believe something is going to happen?" Pepper asks and, even from far away, Peter can see the slight frown that takes over, replacing her smile.

“Nothing to worry about,” Tony replies convincingly, and Peter is left heavy-hearted. “Off you go.”

As Pepper collects the paperwork and checks on it, putting it away in an elegant bag on her shoulder, Tony gives her an awkward hug.

“Thank you,” he says, and as the moment stretches into a pause, Pepper looking a bit surprised and Tony sincere, Peter feels like an outsider eavesdropping. He drops his eyes to his feet, noticing an undissolved patch of web stuck to the laces.

“Sure thing,” Pepper doesn’t sound sure, but she pulls herself together. “I’ll be in DC, as discussed. See you on Tuesday?”

Peter quickly does the math. That’s six days from now. By then, whatever is going to happen would have played out. And as much as Peter still holds onto hope, he runs after Pepper, ignoring Tony, when she leaves the workshop.

He catches up to her when she is already outside, her hand on the car handle.

“You shouldn’t go,” he says loudly, swinging the door open.

“Excuse me?” She raises an eyebrow, stopping in her tracks, and waits for him to approach.

“You shouldn’t go to DC; you should stay,” for the first time since he got here, he actually faces her. Aside from quick interactions, he didn't quite manage to have a proper conversation with her, avoiding it for all the obvious reasons, and he almost regrets it now. He likes Pepper. She's kind of amazing, in his universe or this one. And whatever is going to happen, she needs to be here. Whether it's a proper goodbye, if Tony wants one, a reason to celebrate, or damage control. Pepper would do well with damage control. Peter purses his lips at the last thought. He's walking between thinking rationally and snapping.

“Peter,” Pepper looks at him seriously and extends her hand to touch him on the chin. It’s almost maternal, and it makes Peter take a step back. If he didn't, he would be tempted to lean into it and break into tears. “Is Tony in trouble? Is something... bad about to happen?”

"Yeah," he replies, nodding, and it feels right not to lie about it. Mainly because people in Tony’s life deserve to know what is going on. And also, selfishly, because he isn’t sure he can carry the weight of it alone.

“Is there anything I can do?” She doesn’t ask for the specifics. He wouldn't be able to explain it all in the time he has, even if he had a right to.

“Just stay here? Just in case.”

When he returns, Tony doesn’t bring it up, and Peter is alright with that. They test the suit with the upgraded arc reactor, and as predicted, it performs better with the changes they have been working on. Peter hits the nanotech bracelets together, his own suit wrapping him in the armor. They spar for a bit, testing how the upgrades fare in a fight. They break a few things during and almost break Peter when the shield knocks him into the wall with so much force he nearly leaves a dent in the wall.

Overall, it is a success, and Dr. Strange was right; there is something about the Insight that makes Iron Man stronger, quicker. Even if Tony wastes time apologizing and hovering, which leaves Peter both confused and annoyed. He brushes it off and watches Tony work on adjusting the code, holding an ice pack to his elbow. He then flips over the designs from Tony’s station, while Tony tinkers with another weapon, and bites on his lips, trying to concentrate.

They don’t really talk; they're both busy, even if Peter’s usefulness is outliving itself. During day five, with only two days left, Tony is still not stopping, and Peter is barely functioning. At any given time, there is at least one of them in the workshop. Peter is starting to think that Tony needs to take a breather if he is to have any strength to do what needs to be done. But his thoughts are lazy and slow, which is why it takes him as long as it does to finally notice the anomaly in the designs.

“What’s this?” He squints at the display and reruns the calculations he has been double-checking.

At first, he thinks that Tony didn’t hear him, but when he looks at him from across the workshop, Tony isn’t trying to pretend that it’s nothing.

“Take a wild guess,” he shrugs.

He makes it sound unimportant. Peter returns to the display and instructs Jarvis to run a simulation.

“Jarvis, stop,” Tony comes up to Peter’s workstation and leans on it. “It’s fine, I’ve already done it.”

Peter runs the simulation anyway. When it has finished, he puts a hand on his mouth and breathes through his nose. This isn't just a death wish. This is certain death.

“It’s okay," says Tony. “It’s a backup plan.”

Peter's eyes sweep over the frozen image. “This is...”

“Peter,” Tony sounds exhausted; they both are. “Don’t. Just... don’t, okay?”

“Okay,” Peter swallows loudly and steps away from the desk. “I won’t.”

“Good,” Tony manages a weak, but somehow reassuring smile, and that smile undoes Peter. “You hungry?”

“No,” Peter doesn’t move for another minute, silent.

Eventually, when his eyes glaze over the image he is still staring at, his stomach grumbling, he turns off the display with a swipe of his hand.

“I need a break,” he says, walking away, feeling Tony’s gaze between his shoulder blades.

He falls onto the bed in his clothes and doesn’t even bother taking off his shoes. He punches a pillow into a suitable shape and breathes in the smell of fresh linens. He feels no panic, sadness, or fear, and his head is completely empty. Only a quiet ringing in his ears reminds him that he is still alive, that he still exists, and he can’t muster enough emotion to be bothered by it.

A huge part of him doesn’t quite believe that all of this is real. Drained of every bit of energy, he lies on the bed. As his muscles nag at him, with pins and needles traveling all over his body, he wonders if it would have been easier not to have ended up here. It is an appalling and weak thought, but he can’t shake it as it bounces around his numb mind.

He was fine before Dr. Strange brought him to this place. He was even moving on. And while he wasn’t exactly happy, he was content. Settling for content isn't as daunting as it sounds. He had his good days and bad days, just like everyone else. He knew he was fucked up, and that didn’t even cover it, but he had also learned to live with it. And now... what is he supposed to do if Tony doesn’t come back? The future he knows too much about for his own sanity is a sketch drawn with a pen. No matter how much he tries to erase it, he can’t. His eyes are closed, he tries to get a nap in, but there is something about how worn out he is that prevents him from falling asleep.

It's about an hour before Tony quietly opens the door to his bedroom.

“Hey,” he whispers, lying down on the bed next to him and pulling him into a half-hug. Peter grabs Tony’s hand as his arm wraps around his waist.

“Hey to you too,” replies Peter, feeling Tony’s nose rub against his shoulder. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” Tony settles down, his face against Peter’s neck, hair tickling Peter’s skin. “Nothing at all.”

Peter dreams of a different reality. A new and unfamiliar Tony Stark gives him orders he doesn’t want to obey. The world they are in is broken and devastated. Peter sees fires reflecting in the scratched Iron Man armor as they pull bodies from under the crashed buildings. In the dream, he doesn’t trust the man. Hates what became of things. Hates that there is no escape from it unless he gives up and lets the destruction roll over him. They fight. They survive. Only to fight again without hope of winning. There is no winning there, somewhere far away, in a different universe. They have already lost.

“We shouldn’t be here,” he hears himself say in the dream, as they both sit on the roof of a warehouse. Iron Man’s mask lies discarded next to them. Tony's face is covered with ash as he looks over the landscape. An explosion colors the sky, but neither of them flinch.

When Peter opens his eyes, it’s dark outside. He moves to check the time, and Tony shifts next to him, yawning. They’ve slept for longer than they have since this marathon started. Far longer than they could afford.

“How long?” asks Tony, letting go of him and stretching on the bed.

“Nearly twelve hours. It’s 4:30 in the morning.”

“Shit,” Tony groans, getting up from the bed, and disappears into Peter’s bathroom.

"I'll get the food," Peter says, not loud enough for Tony to hear him over the sound of running water, and heads to find something edible.

“Two days,” he tells himself, assembling quick sandwiches. “Two days.”

He eats one of them without tasting it, washes it down with enough coffee to give him a heart attack, and, when Tony comes in, hurries off to clean up, still chewing on the way there.

When they make final adjustments to Tony’s suit with Peter assisting, they try to discuss what is going to happen. However, neither of them is doing well, and in the end, they're both stuck trying to find the right words.

“Dr. Strange has this theory,” says Peter, changing the subject because it’s too difficult. He passes Tony the tool he pointed at. “That when we dream, we dream of different universes.”

“That’s an uncomfortable thought,” Tony chuckles, the light from his soldering gun reflecting in the protective glasses he's wearing. “I once had a dream about Happy beating the shit out of a clown only to make out with it later.”

“What bothered you? The clown or the making-out part?” Peter smiles, watching Tony work.

“Both? There was paint everywhere.”

Peter laughs. It shocks him that he's still able to, but occasionally he emerges from under the heavy cloud of what's at stake, and it feels almost normal. But not quite.

They keep working until they're done, finishing after going for sixteen hours straight.

“I think that’s it,” Tony looks over the suit, and they both stand at the workstation, the display in front of them showing a green 100% in large, bold symbols.

“So, the suit’s done,” Peter rubs his lip, running over the checklist in his mind.

“Check.”

“Tracker?”

“Check.”

“Last will and testament?” It could be a low blow, but Peter can’t resist. There's something cruelly mature about how prepared Tony is to die.

“Check,” Tony paints an air check sign with his finger.

“An impossibly stupid backup plan to blow the shit out of the Grandmaster?”

“Also check,” Tony turns off the display.

“What now?” Peter wishes he’d heard from Natasha by now, but he puts faith in the fact that she knows what she's doing. All the faith he has left. “There's still time. Maybe we could come up with something else.”

“We're done,” Tony sighs, stopping Peter from turning the display back on. “Really done. If there was something else, we would have thought of it by now.”

They pause. There's nothing left to do, except wait. But Peter can't. He can't stand still.

"Maybe..."

“Not a chance. Fancy a movie?”

“This is stupid,” Peter laughs. “Tom and Jerry” is playing on the projector, and they are sitting in Tony’s Ford Flathead Roadster.

“It's a classic,” Tony takes a handful of popcorn and does a great job of stuffing Peter’s mouth with it. “Now be quiet; this is the best part.”

While Tony watches the cartoon, Peter watches Tony. There's a heaviness in his chest he can't shake off. Every time he forgets about it, he feels guilty, even if it's just for a second.

“Stop that,” Tony throws popcorn at him. While Peter tries to fish out a piece that sneaked inside his hoodie, an arm wraps around his shoulders and stays there.

“This is almost like a date,” he says after some time, taking a sip from a soda. He puts it in the cup holder, his head resting against the seat.

“Yup,” Tony’s fingers mindlessly rub against his bicep. “How's it going? Am I getting lucky? You got dinner and a movie.”

“Shut up,” Peter laughs and gets comfortable.

It really is stupid—a funny and sad kind of stupid.

“I'm the mouse, you know,” he tells Tony after they watch a few episodes and run out of popcorn. “There's always something chasing me.”

“Who am I then? The cat?” Tony turns to him, a relaxed smile on his face that makes Peter’s heart throb.

“I don't think you're in it.”

Because there aren't enough characters to choose from. But also, because nobody is quite like this Tony Stark, no matter the universe. And the idea that they have one chance in a million to save him isn't something Peter can wrap his head around.

“I'm not ready,” he tells Tony as they walk upstairs. “To give up.”

“Who's giving up?” Tony nudges Peter against the hallway wall. “Nobody is giving up.”

He kisses him then, and it’s a slow, lazy kind of kiss that still sets Peter’s insides on fire, even if it's the last thing on his mind.

“I think you are,” whispers Peter, pulling away, his face close to Tony’s. Tony’s scent fills his nostrils. It’s not something he could describe. It’s just... Tony. He leans into another kiss, head turning slightly, hands on Tony’s t-shirt. It’s quick, but he puts everything he has into it. “Aren’t you?”

As Tony takes a while to answer, Peter is focused on the arc reactor’s light.

“Does it matter what I say?” Tony finally asks. His voice is easy and clear, and it echoes in the space they are in. “Also, any idea why we keep ending up here?"

He gestures at the hallway, letting go of Peter, and leans against the wall opposite him. Peter doesn’t answer, but he takes a moment to ponder that as well. It’s like this divide between them, both massive and long, but it draws them close together again and again.

Shaking his head and looking at Tony, he remembers the cowardly thought that crossed his mind, that this wasn't worth the heartbreak. The muscles on Tony's arms are tightly wrapped by the t-shirt he is wearing. The arc reactor is a beacon on his chest. The way he just stands there, calm, waiting for Peter to say or do something, is everything. Peter told himself many times he was in love. He knew he had fallen for Tony and didn't try to deny it, like he might have if he was younger and less self-aware. But right there and then, for the first time, he truly grasps the meaning of the word.

Regardless of what happens, it was worth it.

He should tell him, but he doesn’t. Anything he says or does now, with only tomorrow left before they come for Tony, will be a goodbye. And Peter can’t find the strength to follow through with it.

“Can you read my mind?” he asks jokingly. “With the Insight?”

“No,” says Tony, lowering his eyes to the floor, his gaze stopping somewhere at the tips of Peter’s sneakers. “I could tell you what I think, though.”

Peter nods cautiously. He stands still, perfectly straight, suppressing the urge to reach out. “Go on then.”

“It’s this damn hallway,” Tony rubs his hand through his hair, paying too much attention to the art on the walls. “It does something wicked to people.”

“Tell me about it,” Peter nods again, curious. There's a knot in his stomach, and something in his chest feels like it's about to burst. Part of him expects Tony to say what he wants to hear. Another part doesn’t want to hear it at all, not on this side of the seven days they were given.

“Come,” Tony approaches Peter and turns him around. “That way. If I have another serious conversation here..."

Peter doesn’t find out what Tony would do in that case because they stop at Peter’s bedroom.

Tony pushes the handle, and the door swings open.

“Get in,” he orders, giving Peter a gentle shove when Peter freezes on the doorstep.

Peter nearly runs a few steps but doesn’t trip. He turns around and gives Tony his most accusatory look. He almost manages it too, because when Tony appears in the doorway, he doesn’t seem so sure.

“We can’t do this now,” says Peter, not quite believing it's him saying that. “If we do this now, if we... and you don’t come back... We can’t do this now.”

He fidgets on his feet, but his eyes dart to the bed against his will. The sheets are clean and fresh again, as if by magic.

“I haven’t told you what I think yet,” says Tony and stalks toward him, just like that first time.

Peter is rooted to the spot when Tony stops. They haven’t turned on the light, and the open curtains do little to illuminate the room. It feels even more real because they are in Peter's room. His space, as much as it can be. And Tony is here, close enough to touch. And willing, of course, he is—the hungry look in his eyes says it all.

“Then promise you will try,” Peter sincerely hopes he doesn’t sound desperate, still clinging to some dignity. If there's a point.

Tony draws closer, and there's almost no space between them. His hand touches Peter’s shoulder, just where the bullet had gone through. Fingers run around Peter’s nanotech bracelet, pushing it up, rubbing the skin where the wrist was hurt.

“Promise,” replies Tony. The statement is simple and calm, just like everything else he said today, but Peter can't believe or trust it. Not until Tony adds:

“Why wouldn’t I? I think you're the best thing that ever happened to me.”

They take it slow at first, but quickly change gears once things heat up. Tony laughs as they stumble out of their clothes, Peter’s leg stuck in his jeans, while they kiss, barely letting go of each other. He grins himself when Tony knocks over the lamp, pushing Peter onto the bed, and the lamp breaks with a satisfying, crashing bang.

“Always breaking shit,” Tony murmurs, his hands all over Peter. “I'm running out of lamps with you around.”

“It wasn’t me this time,” Peter objects, but then Tony slides down on the bed. His mouth, warm and wet, wraps around Peter’s cock.

The rest of his thoughts are lost as he watches Tony’s head move between his legs, eyes wide. When Tony’s tongue sweeps across, Peter falls back on the pillow with a moan.

This sound he makes time and time again because Tony keeps slowing down just when Peter is about to hit the roof. He whispers Tony’s name, lips dry, and he doesn’t need heightened senses to overload. The feel of Tony’s mouth, the way his hands hold his hips, pressing them into the mattress, makes it excruciatingly good.

“Fuck,” he groans when Tony stops again and looks up at him, a wicked smile on his lips. “You are doing this on purpose.”

“There's something incredibly hot about hearing you say that,” says Tony, moving up, lying on top of him. His weight, the way the muscles on his back feel under Peter’s hands, is what Peter has been missing.

"Go on," Tony whispers into his ear, and Peter shudders, shamelessly rubbing against him. “Tell me what you want.”

They are no longer moans, but sobs, that escape Peter when Tony licks the side of his ear.

“You're kind of sensitive up here, you know that?” Tony could be describing the composition of sand at this stage, and it would be as effective. He whispers dirty, wayward things, and Peter is aimlessly touching him anywhere he can reach, until he is nearly coming, neck stretching back, heart beating so fast it’s dangerously close to stopping.

Just before he's about to, Tony moves again and lets him come into his mouth. And it is ridiculously, impossibly insane. Peter feels powerful, leaning back on his elbows, watching Tony’s lips wrapped around his cock. In that moment, he finally sees things for what they are. He shakes his head as Tony licks his lips, getting up on his knees, towering over Peter.

Peter smiles at the corner of his mouth.

"Maybe I was wrong," he says. “That was very cat-like.”

“Yeah?” Tony does look satisfied, even as his own cock is hard and prominent against his leg.

“Yeah,” Peter reaches for the last remaining side lamp and flicks the switch. He wants to see.

“Some people just have it all, don’t they?” He doesn’t even try to make it sound disapproving. His eyes run across Tony. All over him, fit and strong. Peter wants to touch and touch until there is no energy left in him to do anything else.

“I am gifted,” laughs Tony when Peter pulls at his hand, falling on top of Peter again, but using one of his arms for support.

“In more ways than one,” Peter kisses him. It’s greedy and savage as he sighs into it. He wants to give and take until there is nothing left at all.

“I'm being selfish,” he says into Tony’s mouth, pulling away just long enough to get the words out. But then he returns to kissing because he never wants it to end.

Tony rolls away eventually, his hand on Peter's thigh. "I've never asked what you like."

“You are pretty adept at figuring it out,” Peter’s fingers wrap around Tony’s cock, his eyes soaking in the way Tony’s chest moves when he does it.

“Would you let me...” Tony starts, his abs clenching when Peter jerks his hand up in a fluid, calculated motion and down.

“Yeah,” Peter answers, interrupting. Rolling on top of Tony, he presses his forehead against Tony's; a gesture he is unknowingly starting to obsess with. “Fuck yeah.”

And when Tony groans, dragging him closer, if that was possible, Peter gives it another few seconds. He then tears himself away and moves to stand on his knees over him.

“Come here,” he reaches for Tony’s hand and flings him up, showing off his strength.

"Watch it," Tony warns him, serious, but his voice is possessive in a way that makes Peter long for more. If he could. Because there isn’t more here.

They stand on their knees in the middle of the bed, and Peter puts his hands on Tony’s face before he kisses him again. He takes his time. His tongue explores Tony’s mouth while Tony’s hands move down to cup his ass, making his cock twitch.

“Mmm,” whatever is coming out of Peter is incoherent, and anticipation is turning him on as much as Tony’s hands and his presence.

“Get on with it,” he says, eventually, and he isn’t smiling or laughing anymore.

“Tell me what you want,” Tony keeps insisting, and Peter stalls, with fantasy and reality mixing in as is. He is conflicted, as he is deciding, because he isn’t sure it is alright. And he doesn’t want Tony to change his mind. “Come on.”

“I like this bed," it's something he thought about a lot. And why not. Why not now, when the world is already turning to shit, at least for him? “It would be a shame to break it.”

There is nothing human about the way he gets off the bed. Tony’s eyes widen a bit when Peter stops next to it. It’s just Peter though. To him it’s more natural than constantly holding back who he is.

“Tell me if it freaks you out,” he bites his bottom lip, unsure, but swipes on the bracelet, activating only the shooters. The string of web shoots into the ceiling. He catches it with the same hand it comes out of. It lifts his arm up and holds it steady, stretching. He waits.

Tony nods, slowly getting up after him. He watches Peter with an odd, dark fascination in his eyes.

“And now the other,” he instructs him, because Peter waits for permission. Not because he is into that, although he would lie if he said he wasn’t, but also because he needs to know it’s fine.

He obeys, the web shooting out of the other arm, pulling it up, as he wraps the string around his fingers. He could let go. He could also rip part of the ceiling out, if he was stuck, it’s his web after all. But he holds still, suspended on the web, legs apart.

“Is this alright?” He asks, as Tony walks around him, his hand sliding across Peter's torso.

Tony leans in from behind and does not reply for an unbearably long few seconds before pressing his lips against Peter's back. “It’s better than.”

If Peter wasn’t so wound up, he would relax into this, but as Tony’s hand slides lower, he lets out another helpless sob.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

He starts telling Tony that he is grand, he can’t take it, but when Tony’s finger pushes into him, all he does is choke on his words. He arches and breaks into pieces, when Tony licks a line along his spine, where the scar is cutting his back in half.

"Be quiet," Tony tells Peter, and Peter holds it in. It’s mad, dizzyingly enjoyable. He doesn’t make a sound while Tony slowly fucks him with his fingers. This makes him crazy - the way he listens, the way Tony tells him to obey again and then cups Peter’s balls, when he does.

Jesus.

Christ.

When Tony’s cock presses into Peter’s ass, he closes his eyes, squeezing them shut. It’s not pain, there is none, but somewhere along the way he loses his mind completely, and all that exists is this room. The sticky web wrapped around his fingers. Tony’s teeth, as he lightly bites on Peter’s shoulder. His cock, effortlessly sliding in. Not too slow. Not too fast. Just right.

“Oh god,” the words escape Peter and he bites his lip again when Tony stops.

Tony’s thumb rubs against Peter’s hip, but he doesn’t move, and Peter waits, suspended.

“It’s fine,” he hears Tony say, and then Tony moves again.

Peter's breathing is jagged and irregular. The rest is pure, crazed madness. Because even when he is given permission to make sounds again, all that comes out are helpless, shaky whimpers.

The way Tony fucks him is completely unrestrained, deliberate and rough. He couldn’t ask for more or anything else, because it’s perfect. Because they are, ironically, perfect together.

Tony’s voice is husky, as Peter pleads for more and more, the longer it carries on.

The first time he comes, he doesn’t realize it’s him crying out, swearing under his breath, and Tony doesn’t pause, as if he could actually read his mind.

“You feel so fucking good,” he keeps whispering into Peter’s ear, moving his hips in a steady, insistent rhythm. His cock fills Peter completely, and when it slides out fully only to be pushed back in, Peter’s knees bend, as he yanks on the webbing. The last coherent thought he has left before he drops to the ground is to fling suspended ceiling tiles against the wall and past them, so they don’t crush on top of them both.

“Fuck,” he moans, his knees hitting the carpet. “Don’t stop.”

His eyes are glued to the tiles on the ground away from them, still attached to his hands with the web. Tony’s moves get more urgent, his arm wrapping around Peter’s waist, holding him up.

“Peter,” Tony’s voice is more of a growl now, and he keeps repeating the same thing over and over while Peter gasps for air.

“So good,” Peter pants, touching himself, speeding up, as Tony’s fingers dig into his flesh.

It’s nonsense after that. A hot, messy, utter nonsense.

Tony comes before him, as Peter tries to catch up the second time, but it only makes it better. He shrieks into Tony’s hug when Tony stops, letting him keep going, his cock sliding out of him.

“Hey,” he says in Peter’s ear, just before Peter gets to the end, and that single, completely innocent word is enough to send his head swimming, his body rocking, pained.

“Hey to you too,” the words come out lazy, and he struggles against them, when they both lie on the floor, Peter staring at the hole in the ceiling where the suspended tiles were.

They leave Peter's room in disarray and move over to Tony's. Peter is weak on his feet. Tony drags him into a shower under mild protest, and warm water does nothing to wake Peter up. He doesn’t even have the strength to lift his arms up to touch Tony back as Tony does a rushed job of rinsing them off. He does respond to a long, slow kiss and smiles into it when it reminds him of the first time it happened. Tony dries them off and laughs because Peter is a doll in his hands. He tucks Peter away in bed and lets him put his not-so-dry, but also not completely wet, head on the chest next to the arc reactor.

"That was so good," mumbles Peter.

His brain shuts down, and if Tony responds, he doesn't register it.

He doesn't dream that night again, and if he does, he doesn't remember it. He’s warm and safe. Tony’s heartbeat lulls him to sleep so quickly he might as well pass out on the spot. The last thing he recalls of that night is Tony's hand in his hair and his fingers massaging his scalp. His voice, but not words – quietly reassuring.

When he wakes up on day seven, Tony isn't there anymore.

...

Peter learns that in addition to being a master of not telling the whole truth, Dr. Strange also lies. And so does Tony.

...

Peter calls him.

...

He calls Natasha too, but she doesn't respond either.

...

He activates the tracker on Tony's suit, and despite the extended range, there is nothing on the screen.

...

He is in a trance, leaving Jarvis to monitor for any signal.

...

He watches for the dot to appear on the display.

...

He is useless hours after waking up, and as far as he knows, it could be over by now.

...

He sits on top of the workstation, looking at the hologram.

...

When Jarvis detects the explosion and maps the location, Peter doesn't move.

...

"Hey!" His head bobs as Natasha slaps sense back into him. "Come out of it!"

"Is he broken?" A familiar voice brings him out, and Peter shakes his head, rubbing his eyes. "He looks broken."

"He's fine," Natasha replies, skeptical, as she tugs on Peter, getting him down on the floor. "You are, right?"

"I am fine," confirms Peter, but he is anything but that. "It's too late."

He points at the screen, where a small dot is blinking. One of the laces on his shoes is loose, so he bends over to tie it. His fingers move automatically as he tightens the knot.

"Tracker?" Natasha asks but doesn't wait for Peter to answer. "Wong, how's your space navigation?"

"Don't know," Wong says, stretching his arms. "One way to find out."

"Explosion," replies Peter after the delay. "Not the tracker."

It could have worked out. They were so close. Wong was here, curiously wandering around the workshop, picking up random things that are not his. Tony’s. So close.

Peter pauses.

Natasha shakes him by the shoulders as he watches Wong pick up the discarded sword they brought from Tokyo and wave it around.

"Christ," as a last resort, Natasha tries to land a punch on Peter, but he ducks, avoiding it.

“I am fine,” he says. “I am fine.”

“Told you,” Wong makes a whooshing sound, splitting the air with the sword. “Broken.”

He drops the sword back on the floor where he found it and picks up the Sling Ring.

“Where did you get this?” He sniffs it as if it’s an accurate way to gauge authenticity.

“Bought it at the auction," Peter says as he sits down on the stool. He may never get up again.

“This thing?” Wong pockets it. “That’s a fake.”

“Cool,” Peter shrugs.

“Ready?” Natasha stands by the air seal, holding onto the door handle. “Nothing stupid, yes?”

Peter nods. The suit wraps around him as he hits his bracelets. Checks for the modified webbing in the shooters.

They were prepared. He was. They had a tracker with a range that NASA couldn't fathom. He had cold-resistant webbing he had worked on for nearly a week. Tony’s job was to win and fall. Activate the tracker. Float about until Wong got him out. Peter would pull him in if Wong’s aim was shit.

“We were prepared,” Peter says. “Until he blew himself up.”

“He is ready,” Natasha locks the door. She hits a few buttons on the wall as the vent pulls the air out of the space between the steps leading upstairs and the garage doors.

Tony even had a nearly perfect room for this ready to go. If only he hadn’t gone and done what he does best. Die. Again. Leaving Peter alone.

Peter holds his breath as Wong moves his hands behind the bulletproof glass, opening a portal next to Peter. They have about an hour until he runs out of air.

Holding onto the wall inside the sealed enclosure, Peter watches space on the other side.

When he sees nothing, he moves a fraction closer to it.

“You are not this guy, Peter,” Natasha’s lips move.

Maybe she says something else. They didn't have time to prep the comms. She insisted they move. He can’t hear anything between the lock and the rushing blood in his ears. But he really isn’t this guy, so he stops.

For the next forty-five minutes, the portal hops through space, opening inside the enclosure. Half an hour in, Natasha takes out a knife and starts playing with it. Wong keeps muttering something unrecognizable as sweat drips from his nose.

Peter doesn’t move.

He is so prepared to see nothing the next time the portal opens that for a second he doesn’t see it. None of them do. Wong closes the portal and starts working on another one.

“Back!” Peter bangs on the glass.

He saw something. Maybe. White and glowing.

He can’t hope. As the golden circle of the portal grows, sparks begin to shoot out from the sides. It’s a body retrieval mission, Peter repeats to himself. If there is anything left to retrieve.

Body retrieval mission.

Body retrieval mission.

Body retr…

Peter shoots the web, and it flies towards the shape but doesn’t reach. He stretches out his arm on the wall, but it isn't enough. Misses again as his arm with the shooter is inside the portal.

Natasha bangs on the glass.

“Arm,” she must be screaming because it comes through loud and clear.

He starts taking it out, his eyes not leaving the shape. Wong could try for a closer portal. He stalls.

Natasha bangs on the wall again.

She warns: “Don’t be an idiot.”

He looks back at her, the reflection of his suit blinking at Natasha. Its huge eyes squint as Peter makes the decision.

He gives her the thumbs up and climbs on the glass, feet holding him up against the surface horizontally.

She shakes her head. Slices her fingers across her neck, telling him he could die.

He jumps anyway.

Falling, propelling in space, is a rush. Peter gets halfway to the glowing shape when he turns around, using the motion. He shoots one of the webs back into the portal. It sticks to the glass, holding steady. He shoots another one at Tony and starts pulling him in, wrapping the web around his arm as he does it.

It takes forever.

The arm holding onto the web connecting them to Earth stretches with each movement. Ice is forming on both the web and the suit, so Peter hurries.

Ten meters.

Five meters.

When Tony is finally close, Peter pulls at the web too hard, causing their bodies to crash together.

And then the web finally gives in, splitting in half, the frozen thread spiraling around them.

Peter shoots at the wall again and the web makes it inside the portal.

It doesn’t stick.

He shoots it again, but it doesn’t reach as they move further away.

The portal closes.

“Hey,” says Peter through the comms.

Tony’s suit is shredded and there is blood on his face. Patches of the nanotech are missing, as if burned away. The part that the tracker was in – the chest plate on the right side – isn't there either. The glow surrounding Tony is a pulsing, flickering light, emanating from inside the arc reactor. The barrier between them is so thin that Peter can see every eyelash on Tony’s closed eyes, the glow of the Insight the only bright spot in the darkness around them.

“At least the sky is beautiful,” says Peter, when Tony doesn’t respond.

Peter looks for the heartbeat but cannot hear even his own.

Portals keep opening around them, but Peter stops shooting webs when they come out freezing. Both shooters give in after the third try, and he watches golden circles appear on every side of them, but none close enough. Through the glimpses inside the portals, he sees Natasha direct Wong. She is pointing towards the floor. One portal appears just above them, but they float down, instead of up, and there is no motion left to push them towards it.

They keep falling, the light around Tony getting weaker as Peter starts to run out of oxygen.

It’s a good suit. Mr. Stark designed most of it. S.H.I.E.L.D perfected the rest. But it wasn’t made for prolonged space travel. When his limited oxygen reaches critical levels, Peter doesn’t let go.

He will not, even if he runs out.

Getting dizzy, he moves Tony to be aligned with him. They could be standing if they weren’t falling into nothing.

“I guess that’s it?”

Someone grabs his feet and yanks them down.

They crash on the floor as Natasha catches her breath, rubbing her hands.

“Fuck, that's cold.”

"That's a burn," Wong says by the open door, looking over Peter and Tony. “Why is this guy glowing?”

Peter jerks his wrist to remove the top part of the suit from his shoulders and gasps for air.

The glow around Tony dissolves around him and the arc reactor flickers one last time and dims.

“Shit,” Peter scrambles to his feet. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He runs into the garage, bumping into workstations. Throws things on the floor, trying to find what he needs.

“Looking for this?” Natasha points at the discarded arc reactor with the palladium in it right next to the door. Her hands have mild signs of frostbite as she picks it up, hissing.

“Grab it,” she calls out, her fingers spasming. “Grab it!”

Peter gets to her in time, removing the suit on the way. The nanites get back into the bracelets slower than normal, but by the time he is there, his hands are free.

He rushes back to Tony, who is still on the ground, his arm bent at an awkward angle.

“Shit,” Peter goes for the dead arc reactor. “Shit, shit, shit.”

It takes him a few minutes, help from Jarvis, and two screwdrivers to pry it out of the suit frozen solid. He takes it out as carefully as he can and replaces it with the old one. It spins, lighting up almost immediately.

“That’s disgusting,” Wong hovers over them, referring to the hole in Tony’s chest when the reactor is swapped.

“Come on,” Peter yanks at the suit, but it doesn’t budge. “Come on!”

It takes another minute for the nanites to clear.

“He isn’t breathing,” Peter is on the floor, checking for a pulse. “What do I do?”

“CPR?” Wong pokes at Tony's leg with his foot.

“Hospital,” Natasha comes up to them and helps Peter get Tony up. “Portal, come on.”

Whether it is what Natasha promised Wong or the look in Peter's eyes, Wong does not argue. The portal opens into the unfamiliar emergency room, and they step through it.

The rest is a blur.

...

Peter is on the floor, hands wrapped around his knees.

...

He finds a cold coffee next to him when he comes out of it long enough to remember what is happening. He chugs it out of habit but doesn’t get up.

...

"I think he's broken," he hears Wong say it again, and he tries to recall why he likes the man.

Failing that, he keeps trying to hear Tony’s heartbeat in the buzz around them.

Too many heartbeats.

He shuts off.

...

“Hey, Peter,” Pepper slides on the floor next to him and puts a warm cup in his hand. “Drink.”

“They are not saying anything,” he drinks the coffee, and it burns his throat on the way down. “Why are they not saying anything?”

...

“Hey, man,” Happy crouches in front of him. “You are kind of freaking us out here.”

...

“Dude,” Peter has no idea when Rhodey got here.

He pulls Peter up by the hood until Peter is standing.

As Rhodey lets go, Peter's knees give in.

“Alright, alright, I got you,” Rhodey catches him, holding him up.

“Any news?” asks Peter, leaning on him. It’s probably weird. He doesn’t care.

Rhodey lifts his chin up, his eyes smiling. And nods.

Chapter Text

“I am not helping,” Tony laughs, the sling supporting his broken arm tight on his shoulder. Passersby look at the new element arc reactor with curiosity as their group walks through the temple. But he is used to the attention.

He watches Peter flick through the pocket guide, pencil in his mouth, as he calculates the solution in his head. His eyes shine when he thinks of the answer. Tony tries to keep the smile in but can’t.

“Who needs your help?" Peter grins and turns to the twins. “Want to ditch these two and instead look for treasure?”

Mika and Mei agree that his company is better, and they are right. The three of them run off in the opposite direction. The girls cling to Peter’s hands, and they carry away the energy with them.

“You are babysitting, you get that, right?” Niko punches him in the shoulder, and Tony nods, watching Peter’s hair disappear among the crowd.

"Sure," he replies, mindlessly, when he sees the last flash of it turn the corner.

“Earth to Tony,” Niko sits down on the bench and gestures for him to join her. He walks towards her but doesn’t sit. He has spent enough time in bed or sitting down, Peter fawning over him. He had enough rest for two lifetimes.

“So, what’s at the end of the scavenger hunt?” Niko stretches her legs, examining the details on the ceiling. “Hope it’s not something inappropriate. He’s got kids with him.”

She is beautiful. Attractive in an easy, effortless way he likes. He thinks of Peter and automatically turns in the direction he has left. Shakes it off. It’s like a disease.

“A QR code,” Tony searches for the phone in his pocket and pulls it out, checking. “Assuming an extra diligent groundskeeper didn’t find it by now.”

It’s a sticker attached to the bottom of the restaurant chair. Maybe they’ll find it. Maybe they won’t.

He scraps the program. It’s better this way. The original message was meant to tease Peter when it was still a game. It took Tony ages to come up with something worthy. Now, after everything they’ve been through, it doesn’t quite cover it.

“And what’s the message?” Niko hits his shoe with her heel.

“What’s with the abuse?” He steps away from the menacing woman. “Nothing anymore.”

“Not good enough?” She catches on. “Nice.”

They wait in the same room for about twenty minutes, strolling around the place. Tony couldn’t give a crap about this temple, really, but Peter seems to be having a good time, so he doesn’t leave.

“What now? Now that it's over?” Niko has always been persistent and too smart for her own good. It’s one of the reasons they’ve stayed in touch, even if she does have a way to get on Tony’s nerves quicker than most people. Not nearly as quick as Peter when he wants to.

Tony looks at the entrance the three of them left through and checks his watch.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, wondering what’s taking so long. Patience has never been his strong suit. “He wanted to come back, so here we are. I might have given him the idea that there is a prize at the end of the puzzle.”

“What, you?” She laughs so hard, she nearly cries.

Tony raises his eyebrow.

“I am a catch.”

Sometimes, when he catches Peter looking at him, he almost feels like one.

"Of course," she replies, laughing, rolling her eyes. “Poor Peter.”

Probably.

For the thousandth time, the thought crosses his mind that all of this was not a good idea. The same thought that kept him up at night from the moment a certain someone crashed into his car, scaring the shit out of Pepper.

Peter finally turns the corner. Girls are walking on either side of him with ice cream in their hands. He smiles, responding to what they are saying.

For the thousandth time, Tony catches his breath.

He shakes it off. Again. Definitely a disease.

“And after Tokyo?” Niko waves at the girls as they get closer.

“Whatever he wants," Tony responds faster than he can think.

Shit.

Now she will never let it go.

“Tony Stark,” she punches him in the shoulder again.

“Seriously, what's with the punches?” He starts walking towards Peter.

“You’ve got it bad,” she whispers into his ear and takes him over, coming up to the girls and Peter before him.

“Hey,” Peter is next to him now and, while he is still smiling, shoulders relaxed, he looks disappointed. “The code didn’t work.”

He shows Tony the photo on his phone, as if Tony wouldn’t believe he could figure out the puzzle.

“I know,” Tony wraps his arm around him as they start heading out of the temple.

“What was it?” They attract a few looks and Peter tenses, but doesn’t pull away.

He’ll get used to it. The attention isn’t so bad. He might even learn to enjoy it.

“Does it matter?” Tony asks, slowing down, letting Niko and the girls get further away. Peter falls into step with him, matching his speed.

“Nope,” responds Peter as they reach the gates.

Tony tightens his grip around Peter’s shoulders.