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kitcat992 · 2 years ago

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│Identity Saga │Narrative Discourse (The Breakthrough to “Dad”)

Identity Saga

It's no hidden secret that the underlying themes of the Identity Saga have been found family focused, with the heart and core revolving around the developing relationship between Tony Stark and Peter Parker.

Throughout the multitude of narrative threads woven into each installment, those two characters have always been the soul of the series; each chapter igniting the flame of their slow burn father&son relationship a little brighter than before. Though some will find it strange to call a platonic relationship 'slow burn', I find that as a society, we talk about romantic love far more than we do family love. And that's always been a damn shame, in my opinion. The love we can find in one another outside of romance is highly neglected, and my love for found family will never cease, especially in my written works.

As recapped in the "Steps to Son" Narrative Discourse for Tony, it took an abundance of time, patience, and many accumulating events for him to realize what Peter meant in his life, and further accepting that role Peter played. No different, Peter went through the same journey in Identity Crisis — resisting the idea of Tony taking on the role Ben once played in his life, but slowly coming to terms with it, and eventually finding peace and content in the path they both found themselves on.

The MCU had a chance at giving us a new interpretation, and a new iteration of Peter Parker. If you're a comic book reader, you'll know that there's no one Peter Parker that exists. There's many versions; some better than others, some more remembered than most. Some old, some young, some even set in space. But fanboys complained, whined, and screamed that he was "Iron Man Jr", and instead of taking that by the reins and steering into the skid, the MCU backtracked so quickly and so hastily that they literally erased every bit of existence Tony Stark had in Peter's life (I know, it's painful to talk about No Way Home. So let's not. Let's not talk about it at all.)

It's been a goal of mine to do what the MCU should've done — steer into the skid. There's always going to be iterations where Ben Parker is Peter's one and only father figure, long gone and deceased, but his memory living on forever. I think that's unfair to Peter. I've always felt he deserves a support system — it doesn't erase the support system he had with Ben, it just pushes him forward in life to be a better person, grow into the man he's supposed to become, and be the hero he's always been destined to be.

Getting Peter to this moment with Tony has been a pleasure to write. The only thing I look forward to writing more than the last two stories is now reaching the final installment, where we'll get to see Peter truly grow into his own shoes, led by the heroes who supported him along the way. The MCU didn't want to steer into the skid, afraid of the title "Iron Man Jr", and even mocking it in No Way Home (okay done talking about it, really, I promise.) My pleasure will be taking that joke and turning it into something truly memorable. You can have a hero born under the shadows of another, but that doesn't make them lesser in any way.

And thanks to the journey Peter's taken in Identity Crisis — seeing Tony as a father figure and not someone to "be better than", that narrative will be all the more satisfying to unfold.

Until then, here's the journey that got us there.

Identity Theft│ Chapter 6: Breakfast at Tony’s

The heat in his bite was enough to silence the room. Slowly, Sam sat back down in his seat; though the way he crossed his arms over his chest showed signs he wasn't ready to just forgive and forget yet.

“My intent was never malicious with Peter." Tony sighed, rubbing harshly at the nape of his neck. "He’s just a boy trying to keep his family and friends safe and honestly, can you be angry with that? None of you can look me in the eye and say you wouldn’t want the same thing." Tony noticeably turned to Clint. "Hell, Barton, your entire family is a secret from the world.”

Clint shrugged, not making an attempt to dispute the fact.

Tony continued on, “I respected his request and followed through with it. So if you have anyone to be mad at, it’s me — but it’d be pretty damn stupid to stay mad over something like this. We have bigger fish to fry.”

Rhodey looked between him and Peter, raising an eyebrow with curiosity.

“You trust him then?” he asked.

It was easy for Rhodey to tell when Tony was bullshitting. They had been friends for a long time, way before Iron Man, long before Afghanistan — there was a foundation between them that couldn’t be rattled. His entire life changed along with Tony’s, somehow joining him in the crazy ride of War Machine, the brief blip of Iron Patriot, and ultimately landing with the Avengers.

So when Tony nodded, he wholeheartedly believed him.

“I do,” Tony said, flapping a hand in Peter's general vicinity. “He’s good. He’s better than good, he’s great.”

Nobody missed how Peter looked up at hearing those words, his eyes sparkling with a sense of pride that made him grin ear-to-ear. For a moment, Tony looked nowhere else but at that. A shadow of a grin washed across his own face, something that not one person in the room didn’t notice.

The exchange was brief, but unique, giving Tony a different light to him; a humility that bounced off him no different than the skylights from above.

Identity Theft│ Chapter 7: New Kid on the Block

Tony pounded on the kid's back as he coughed dirty river water onto the ground with each action, his inhales wet and rickety.

“Breathe, kid, breathe…” he calmly instructed him, obviously not wavered by the thumbs up that Peter insisted on giving, not until his coughs dissipate and his breaths were less shaky.

Peter took a deep inhale, this time clean and dry. He watched in front of him as Sam contained the much smaller rock creature, and he laughed with amazement.

“Holy crap, he’s so small now! That’s just…” Peter grinned ear-to-ear. “That was so awesome! Way more awesome than the Android, which is still so awesome. Holy crap, that was —”

Peter stopped mid-sentence as Tony removed his Iron Man mask, exposing much less happy features than what he was experiencing.

Oh crap. He was in trouble — he had to be in trouble - he must have screwed up and now they were angry with him, again — angry again. Heart plummeting to the sopping wet soles of his feet, Peter gulped hard enough to shake his throat.

“Mr. Stark, I —”

His apology was cut short when Tony laid a hand on his shoulder, sighing with relief.

“You did good, kid,” he said. “You scared the devil out of me, but you did real good.”

Peter grinned, possibly wider than before. Mr. Stark wasn’t angry — no, he seemed almost…proud. And though it wasn’t much, barely a twitch of his lips, he could tell Tony was also smiling.

He did good.

Peter nodded in thanks, wiping away the dirty water from his mouth. He did good.

Those few words were the best he had heard in a long time, feeling a sense of pride in himself that he hadn’t felt in months. Suddenly, all the overlapping failures washed away — the Daily Bugle's headlines didn't mean squat to him. Not with the approval he'd just received.

Tony must have noticed his happiness, because he went from having his hand on him to wrapping his entire arm around his shoulder with a tight squeeze.

Peter relished in it.

Identity Theft│ Chapter 8: Afterparty

While everyone chatted about, Tony had locked eyes on Peter, all the way from across the couches — and even as Peter struggled to speak, he could see that. Orange-tinted sunglasses slipped down his nose and he met Peter's gaze head-on. Latching onto his eyes like a moth to the flame.

It was weird. In that moment, Peter swore Mr. Stark could hear his thoughts. He swore his own voice echoed between them — “I’d rather just stay on the ground…for a little while.”

Whether that same thought bounced back to Tony, Peter would never know. But the look in his eyes didn't go unnoticed — and neither did the sound of him clearing his throat, so loud the others stopped talking.

“I think we can arrange a PRN agreement," he settled on saying, offering Peter a tight lipped smile. "Called in when necessary or needed. Sound good?”

So good. Peter could feel his shoulders slump with relief.

“Yeah. I like the sound of that. Just…" Peter nodded, his grin pulling at his lips. "Just when needed.”

Tony's grin matched his.

It was a weird feeling — a unique feeling. Peter loved May, loved home and Queens and his friends and school. He loved it so much he wanted to keep going back to it, to have a life as both Peter Parker and Spider-Man. But to have a chance at fighting side-by-side with the Avengers again? That was a feeling he couldn't put to words.

It felt right, sitting with everyone — his people, his kind. Peter felt the most at ease he'd ever felt before.

“I keep the new suit until you're full time though," Tony stated, taking a seat next to Bruce and crossing a leg over the other.

Peter rolled his eyes. “You can keep it if it still has the Baby Monitor Protocol.”

Tony smirked. “Kid, when I’m dead and in my grave, you’ll still have that protocol.”

“That’s not fair!” Peter threw his head back onto the sofa's headrest, leaving a wet stain where his damp hair plastered against the cushion. "C'mon, Mr. Stark!"

“Wha—what’s that?” Bruce asked, his confusion evident. "Baby...baby —?"

“Baby monitor?” Clint finished for him, wagging his beer bottle in Tony's direction. “Tell me that’s quirky name and not what I think it is.”

Tony grabbed a cracker off the tray next to Clint's feet, purposefully shoving the archer's boot aside when he did.

“A program designed as a safety, security feature that’s embedded in his suit, recording everything he does, monitors his vitals, reports any abnormalities, and god forbid he screws the pooch, gets in touch directly with moi?” Tony paused for dramatic effect. “Yeah, no, that’s exactly what it is.”

“Unnecessary is what it is,” Peter mumbled under his breath.

Tony’s whipped his head towards him. “Want to say that again?”

A beat of silence passed.

Peter shook his head with a smirk. “No.”

Tony let out a mix of a huff and chuckle, picking up a toothpick covered with cheese squares and tossing it his way. “You’re such a little shit, Parker."

Peter didn’t have to look up to catch the finger food — his hand raised with quick and accurate speed.

Once in his palms, he took a bite and smiled.

Identity Theft│ Chapter 12: The Doctor Is In

“What do you need me for then?” Peter sneered right back at him. “You told everyone I’m dead, but why? What’s your endgame here, Mysterio?”

The man was a leaking pool of knowledge, already having told him so much. And probably not even realizing it. Had it not been for the other occupant interrupting their conservation, Peter was sure he would have gotten more information from the moron.

And yet,

“Klum," the voice was deep and snarly, and so, so thick in its Russian accent. "Use your stuff to quiet him. Now.”

Mysterio smiled, so wide that his yellow-tinged teeth could be seen. Peter’s stoicism rapidly degenerated, watching as the magician crossed the room; gathering in his arms an oxygen tank and mask attached to it.

Peter tried to keep the determination on his face. He wouldn't deny that this time, it faltered.

“You won’t get away with this,” Peter insisted, fighting against his restraints one pull at a time. “They’ll find out.”

Mysterio squatted down in one fell swoop, his cape tangling in his legs as he lowered himself to the ground. One hand grabbed at the back of Peter's head, clutching a handful of his hair tightly along the way.

“Don’t touch me — get off!” Peter fought against him, his hips buckling as his arms stayed firmly restrained against the wall.

The oxygen mask was strapped around his face quickly and swiftly, elastic straps the only thing holding it in place. But with his arms trapped beneath the metal forcing him to the wall, and his hands locked down at his sides, he had no way of ridding the offending device — no matter how hard he swung his neck back and forth.

Peter heard the hissing before he felt the gas. It poured out from the tank sitting next to him, sizzling like a balloon losing its air. He shot his head over to his side, his eyes growing wide with panic. The tank was big. Because — just his luck — of course it would be

He wished he hadn’t looked back up. Mysterio grinned — large and wide, with a low chuckle that sent goosebumps across his skin. Still not brought on by the chill of the cold room.

When the cold air hit his face, Peter began to feel sick almost immediately. The gas was sweet — nauseating, pouring through the mask, flowing against his mouth and nose. By instinct he held his breath, refusing to breathe until his face went red. He only managed to spare a few minutes, at most, before his body betrayed him. The inhale rattled his whole body.

Almost instantly his head floated away from him, with his stomach rolling in waves.

“Mr. Stark will…find…me.”

Peter lost the fight in keeping his eyes open, his head slowly tilting forward until his chin met with his chest. His body slumped forward, held only by the strong metal that wrapped around his biceps. And the world around him dissolved into wisps of fog.

Identity Theft│ Chapter 17: Grace Under Pressure

That’s when Peter leaned into his touch. His eyes fluttered open at a pace that didn’t seem right, the lids barely lifting past half-mast, sluggish and slow.

“...mr’...’ark…?” he slurred.

Tony swallowed hard, the lump in his throat increasing in size. He thought he’d never hear that voice again. He was so damn grateful to hear that voice again.

“In the flesh, kiddo.” With his other hand, Tony laid a gentle palm across the back of his neck, practically holding the kid’s head upright.

“...you...‘ou came?” Peter’s lids opened a little wider, the whites of his eyes bloodshot red and glistening with tears.

“You bet your ass I came.” Tony gave him a forced smile. “As soon as I could, buddy.”

Identity Theft│ Chapter 18: Homecoming

“Somebody take this!” he finally shouted, storming forward and shoving the helmet to the nearest tech. The bottles shook inside, a few almost falling to the floor had it not been for the woman’s quick reflexes.

Tony didn’t care. Everything else ceased to matter, his only focus, his only concern — he had to get to Peter. He couldn’t reach the kid fast enough, his heart racing, pounding.

“Pl-ea-ea-se, pl-ease, g-get away! S-stop!” Peter sobbed, his cries wet, hoarse, exhausted and yet purely agonized.

“Hey, hey, Peter — it’s okay.” Tony reached the gurney, standing at the top near Peter��s head, hands firm on his shoulders to lessen his thrashing movements. “Hey, Underoo’s. Same side, okay? Same side.”

Glassy, blood-shot eyes looked all around the room, frantically darting at the mayhem that surrounded him. They locked in place the moment he saw Tony.

“M-make ‘e-em stop. P-please,” Peter begged, hyperventilating and grunting with ragged breath. “Ma-ake them sto — gah-agh!”

Tony pressed a firm palm against his forehead. “They’re here to help you, kid. I promise. We’re only trying to help.”

“Administering first dose. Fifty milligrams.”

A doctor injected the contents of a full syringe directly into the IV settled in the crook of Peter’s arm. Tony watched from the corner of his eyes as colorless liquid traveled up the clear tubing. Almost immediately the kid was jerking away, three other nurses plus himself struggling to hold him down.

“Ah-ah-gah!” Peter howled, his back arching from the gurney. “It burns! I-it — it burns, pl-please stop!”

His cries were so loud that his voice began to break, weak and wrecked from screaming, the strain tearing his throat raw. Standing at the top of the gurney, Tony cupped his palms around Peter’s cheeks. His fingers gripped his chin, hands closing in around his ears in hopes that it would dim the sound of hell that encircled them.

“You’re alright.” Tony held his face tighter, repeating the words like a mantra. “You’re alright.”

Nurses pulled away at his spider-suit, his body jostling and buckling with every movement they made, yanking it down and leaving it to grip at his hips. Peter tried to look below. He lifted his head the best he could, wide eyes terrified, his forehead creased with what Tony was sure could only be unbearable agony.

Looking down with him, Tony proved himself to be right. His stomach lurched and he quickly swallowed a mouthful of vomit. It was like watching a goddamn horror movie, blood mixing together with dark scarlet and vivid red, old and fresh and too much of it.

He eyed one doctor in particular, watching as the man shoved the tip of an irrigating syringe inside the gaping wound on Peter’s side. With each push he flushed out dirt, clumps of seaweed and blood that poured onto the floor below them, repeating the process over and over. The saline never came out clear, always a twisted mixture of light pink. It spilled onto the white linoleum floors and around Tony’s shoes.

Peter convulsed with sobs, his clenched eyes dripping tears down Tony’s knuckles. The wet warmth on his hands caught his attention. Tony tried to wipe the tears away, his thumbs cupped around Peter’s cheekbones but they came too fast, too quickly.

“Pl-please, plea-se.” Peter choked on a gasp. “Pl-please —”

“Administering second dose. Another fifty milligrams.”

“Mr. Stark, you need to leave —”

“D-don’t go,” Peter begged, the back of his head hitting the bed. “Pl-please. D-don’t lea-leave me.”

“I’m here, Peter. I’m not leaving.” Tony kept his voice steady, squeezing his grip. “I’m not leaving.”

Tony kept his eyes locked on Peter, refusing to look as doctors manhandled him, shoving in tubes and creating more holes, treating broken bones, injecting medicine — he kept his eyes focused on Peter’s face and only that, saving the kid what dignity he had left.

His erratic struggles were slowing, just slightly, just enough that Tony noticed. Thrashing turned more into weak buckling, and his screams died off into pained, nasally grunts.

Peter’s eyes flickered back up to him. “Mr-Mr. St’k, help. It-it hurts. It hurts.”

“Creatinine levels rising, he’s on the verge of nephrotoxicity.”

“Give it one last chance. Push one hundred.” Helen’s voice cut through. “OR is prepped, Doctor Wu is waiting. We can’t keep stalling.”

The room tilted briefly and Tony dropped one hand from Peter’s cheek, clinging onto the mattress of the gurney to steady himself. He could hear as a doctor stated, “Administering last dose. One hundred milligrams.”

‘Jesus Christ.’ Tony closed his eyes, tendrils of panic choking him. It took one of these things to knock Cap flat on his ass. Peter was up to four. If this didn’t work...God, if this didn’t work…

“Let go, kid,” Tony begged. “You gotta let go.”

He was desperate to end this god-awful nightmare. He wasn’t even sure if he was still talking to Peter. He wasn’t sure if Peter could even hear him, not over the sound of doctors, beeping and screeching machines, not over the sound of his own cries.

Tony smoothed back his wet hair, pushing the curls away, carding his fingers through the tangled mess.

“It’s okay, Pete. You can let go,” he whispered, his voice soft under his breath. “You’re safe now. It’s okay to let go.”

Frantic jerking morphed into mild spasms. They were still strong underneath his grasp, shoulders harshly lifting off the padded gurney, but Tony noticed the difference.

Peter seemed to swallow his next groan, the sound smothered in his throat. The one after that came out as a whine, dying off before it even escaped his lips.

It was both the most beautiful and horrific thing he had ever seen when Peter’s eyes rolled back, half-lidded, whites staring back up at him. He let out one final moan, a soft whimper, and his body fell slack.

Identity Theft│ Chapter 19: When the Bad Things Happen

Tony shifted weight on his feet and grimaced. Tubes, catheters, wires — Peter was surrounded by a warehouse of medical supplies. A very baggy gown barely covered him, hanging loosely from his shoulders, more like a blanket than an act of modesty. A thin sheet covered his waist but left his one leg exposed, something Tony adamantly refused to look at because he simply did not have that kind of strength right now. The glimmer of a metal rod was enough to make his stomach churn. His face wasn’t faring much better, a tube snaking down his throat and up his nose, IV’s in his arms and even his chest.

Yet nothing bothered him nearly as much as the stillness.

Peter was always moving, always hyperactive and bouncing with an energy he couldn’t contain. Once Tony had watched the kid doze off in his workshop, and even then he was twitching restlessly. He was never sure if it was his age, the spider-bite or both combined. Whatever it was, it was Peter. Bouncing, jumping, jittery and twitching — he never sat still.

Seeing him so still, so motionless — Tony hated it. Peter looked as if he were only a shell of himself, no color to his face and no warmth to his body. Tony swallowed convulsively against the rising bile in his throat. This was too much.

He had thought that his panic developed more into a slow burn, a languid torture that he could handle. He was wrong.

Tony’s hand dropped from the bed’s plastic railing, resting uneasily on the firm mattress beneath him. He hadn’t meant for his hand to fall on Peter’s, his fingers brushing up against the IVs and wires that protruded from underneath the sheets. He also didn’t move it away.

“You’re good, kid,” Tony muttered quietly.

It wasn’t naive to say as much. Healing factor or not, the kid had the strength of a thousand warriors, strong-willed beyond his expectations. If Peter could have that kind of resolve, so could he. If that meant doing everything in his power to get him better, that was what Tony would do.

“You’re stronger than all of us put together.”

The beeping of machines filled the air, some constant and some further apart. It practically drowned out his voice, already a whisper under his breath. Protectiveness rumbled in his chest and his sight locked onto Peter, unable to look away, unable to want to look away.

His shoulders were stiff and his neck tense, and he never paid mind to his fingers slipping underneath Peter’s palm, lightly gripping his hand in a loose hold. He never paid attention as his thumb grazed back and forth over Peter’s knuckles, distantly remembering the comfort it would bring him when his mother did the same thing.

“You’re good.”

Tony didn’t notice that Helen let him stay an extra eight minutes.

He did notice that Peter’s fingers twitched under his touch.

Identity Theft│Chapter 21: Sins of the Father

Memories came back to him in chunks. He was wet at one point. Drowning. Or was that a dream? His dreams blurred together with reality, forming a nightmare he couldn’t escape from. He was never sure if he cried in those dreams or in real life.

"...'m here, sweetie, it’s okay.” He heard May’s reassurance over the piercing machinery around him, soft around his ear. “Cry all you need to, I’m right here.”

Her voice came with a nervous energy, the type of worry that made him anxious. His intuition told him that her being upset was a bad thing, that she shouldn’t be so worried about him. But he wasn’t sure what he could do to fix that.

So he drifted. It was easier that way.

Time passed in scattered moments and Peter wasn’t sure how long each separated from the other. There was a lethargic feeling in his bones, a film behind his eyelids that told him he had been sleeping for a long time, that things weren’t happening all at once. It was the only grounding thing he could feel. Everything else happened in splintered stages.

He went to swallow and the dryness caused him to cough, no saliva resting in his mouth for him to work with. Without warning, the pain he had been feeling flared up to anew. The pounding in his ears went in sync with each beat of his heart, sometimes a steady flutter, other times a frantic throbbing.

“....hh, shh, it’s okay, honey. It’s okay. Here.” Something cold rested on his tongue. At contact he sunk into the mattress of the bed, unaware of how good the wetness felt in his mouth. “There you go, baby. You’re okay.”

His vision came in fragmented pictures, too bright to make out details. The lights burned the shadows out and it felt like his eyes were lagging, like the damaged computer monitor with broken pixels that he once found from the dumpster. He’d make out one thing, one image and it’d freeze on a frame, surrounded by a blistering white light.

It was usually faces.

May. Doctor Banner. Many other people he didn’t know.

Mr. Stark.

“Easy Petey, easy.”

It was always pain that drew him back into awareness. The next time he moved, he let out of a guttural cry. The callous hand found his again, gripping it, tethering him to reality. Though the contact on his skin hurt, causing nerves to scream at the slightest pressure on bruises and broken bones, it also brought forth comfort.

“You’re safe, Underoo’s. No one’s going to hurt you, not on my watch.”

The voice penetrated any fear he had pullulating inside.

Peter painstakingly opened his eyes. His senses hadn’t let up, everything was still too bright and too harsh. But his eyes locked on the familiar picture, the familiar goatee and brown eyes staring down at him.

“You’re safe,” Tony whispered.

Something restrained him from pushing through the fog in his brain and holding onto consciousness was a feat enough. It was easy to close his eyes, let himself sink to the depths of unawareness. As long as the voice stayed present, it was easy to let go.

As long as he was there to remind him, Peter felt safe.

Identity Theft│Chapter 23: Bridge Over Troubled Water

Tony gave Peter a once over before snatching a pillow from behind his head, slipping it behind his back with an over-exaggerated grunt.

“I’m getting old, kid, and if I’m stuck here I might as well be comf—whoa!” Tony nearly jumped out of his skin when Peter tipped sideways, his body weight all but slamming into his shoulder. “Oh, jeeze, kiddo.”

He froze, mouth gaped open, his mind reeling to a halt.

Did that just…?

Tony’s eyes glanced from the nondetachable clasp he had on Peter’s hand, back up to where the kid slept against him, his head nestling into the crook of Tony’s neck, mouth slightly ajar and snoring lightly.

The brown curls tickled the bottom of his chin and Tony lifted his hand to adjust the nasal cannula around Peter’s face, the plastic having gone slightly askew against his nose.

Peter’s only response was a light sigh combined with a smack of his lips.

“Well.” Tony cleared his throat. “This is new.”

And boy was it ever.

Tony frowned, gazing at Peter for a moment, his heart soaring somewhere between his head-space and the ceiling. He had never been one for close contact like this, often not even with Pepper. Yet he didn’t dare move the kid — not for fear of waking him up, no, that was a concern long since gone. The steady drip drop from the IV bag across his way told him Peter would be out for a while, and after everything that had gone down the past couple days, he couldn’t be more thankful for it.

Tony's free hand went to brush away the soft, brown locks from his forehead, pushing it back with his open palm. Peter seemed so relaxed, so comfortable leaning against him that he wanted nothing more than to relish in the peace that this brought them.

The cold chill to the room began to drift away, a foreign warmth taking its place, settling deep in Tony’s chest. It wasn’t from Peter — a brief glance to the monitors showed the kid had a normal temperature, no higher than ninety-seven degrees. Tony decided not to dwell it. He crossed his legs and positioned his hands — and the one attached to him — in his lap.

“Sweet dreams, Underroo’s,” he muttered, patting the hand that he held.

As if on cue, FRIDAY turned off the remaining few lights in the room. Tony hadhad his eyes closed before she had even bothered, the overwhelming, leaden fatigue finally taking over. Only the glow from the monitors and the moonlight shining through the curtains highlighted the shadows of their environment.

The calm and mellow breathing from Peter was enough to relax him, each inhale and exhale bringing forth a catharsis he so desperately needed. Soon he found his own breathing evening out, slowly but surely syncing to the rhythm of Peter’s.

Calm. Gentle. Steady.

The machinery’s beeps, buzzing and chirping faded away into white noise, nothing more than a story that no longer needed to be told.

Identity Theft│Chapter 26: Building Blocks

Tony nodded, as if to say ‘suit yourself’ before they both departed in opposite directions, Sam disappearing somewhere down the hall.

He made a mental note to follow up about the situation at another time — for now, he focused on approaching the departing gurney with as much composure as he could manage. With luck, he caught sight of a familiar head of hair peeking through the crowd of medical staff.

“Ms. Parker,” Tony called out.

May shot her head up at the sound, removing one of the two hands she had gripping the gurney’s railings to wave him over.

At first unsure about getting any closer to the scene, Tony managed to wiggle his way through the crowd and stand at the top of the bed where Peter laid. He watched the kid’s hazy brown eyes drift back and forth like a loose ping-pong ball, eyeing the busy activity around with him both wonderment and confusion.

“...wha’s goin’ on?” Peter asked, his voice thick and mildly incoherent.

Tony smirked, following the moving gurney down the hall while May patted her nephew’s arm.

“They already gave him something to help relax him. He’s just a bit confused,” May whispered his way before she turned back to Peter. “You’re fine honey, we’re getting that super uncomfortable metal out of your leg, remember?”

Peter sluggishly blinked. “...’s my leg better?”

“Not quite, tough guy,” May chuckled, rubbing his arm with reassurance. “But Tony has something that’s way more comfortable for you, remember?”

Peter eyed May curiously. “He does?”

She nodded, giving him an encouraging thumbs up.

Peter lazily smiled, the grin all teeth. “...mr. ‘tark ‘s the best.”

May failed at suppressing her laugh, one that Tony hadn’t realized was because of him. It wasn’t until he noticed that his jaw was hanging loose and his openly exposed eyes had widened comically that he moved quickly to recover, looking away to where she couldn’t see him.

Still, May smiled in his direction.

“Yeah,” she softly agreed, walking along the gurney with her eyes set on Tony. “Yeah, he is.”

Tony ducked his head low, realizing that Peter was so out of it he didn’t even know who was standing near the top his head. He stayed quiet as they wheeled the gurney down the halls, only stopping as they came to the double doors that led down into the operating rooms.

May gave his arm one more supportive squeeze before calling out, “I’ll be there when you wake up sweetie, okay?”

Both were almost positive Peter didn’t hear her as they wheeled him away, the gurney eventually disappearing behind automatic doors that slid shut with an air hum.

Identity Theft│Chapter 27: Growing Pains

Despite his encouragement, Peter remained dejected. “You were right, though. The moment I mess up and it’s ‘ Spider-Man: Thwarted by local street magician.’ So stupid.”

“Yeah, well...” Tony popped his lips, shrugging. “What do they know?”

Peter scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“No, seriously, what do they know?” Tony asked again, piquing Peter’s interest. He finally looked up from his hands, frowning, completely puzzled. Tony met his gaze head-on. “Tomorrow’s issue isn’t going to be about Spider-Man taking down a psychopathic Russian spy in an underwater facility, all with two broken wrists, hypothermia, a concussion—”

Peter blushed with embarrassment. “Okay, I—I get it—”

“A shattered leg, a gaping hole in his stomach and back,” Tony went on, ignoring his protest. “And you still managed to knock that Bond wannabe flat on his ass. Don’t let some outdated, old fart of a journalist who’s a couple years away from retiring and starting a podcast get under your skin.”

Peter gave a soft, wobbly laugh that brought on the inkling of a smile. With it, the tension seemed to thin just enough that Tony felt comfortable leaning forward, resting a firm open palm on Peter’s shoulder.

“For every ten good things Iron Man does, there has to be fifty that the press doesn’t talk about. They will always pick and chose what the public wants to hear. That doesn’t discredit your doing, kiddo. You know in your heart what you’re doing is right.” Tony’s voice dropped a little, quieter but no less sincere. “And if I’ve been hard on you lately about that, well...I really have no excuse. I just want you to be safe.”

Peter nodded, letting his smile widen a tad bit more. The feel of Tony’s thumb stroking over the curve of his shoulder was grounding, comfortable. It reminded him a lot of the same feeling he’d get when he wore his suit — protection, safety.

“Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

Tony patted his shoulder before leaning to the side in his chair, grabbing his coffee cup from next to him.

“Always thanking me, and I never know what for.”

Peter gave an easy smile and shrugged, a swell of warmth and gratitude replacing the butterflies of anxiety in his chest.

“For being here.”

Tony looked up from his coffee cup and gave him a wink, all charm, no bite. Any worry he had about his off-handed comment from before faded away with it, and Peter grinned as he picked his phone back up, though he was too distracted to really use it.

He stared down at the device, flipping it around, caught up in his own thoughts. He almost felt silly for having panicked earlier over what he’d say. It was just that he and Mr. Stark always had an odd relationship, never really defined, always bouncing between ‘he helps me do my superhero-ing and keeps me in line’ to ‘he’s like my mentor and teaches me all these cool things’.

But that had changed lately, since Homecoming, since he broke-in-but-not-really-broke-in to the Avengers facility. He wasn’t exactly sure what this was now, what they had become. He didn’t care either way. He liked it.

Uncle Ben would always tell him to try and find the positives out of any situation he was faced with.

Peter smiled — he was pretty sure he just found one.

Identity Theft│Chapter 29: Breaking the Cycle of Shame

“Hold up.” Tony stopped him, his hand outstretched before he could go any further. “You might want to look a little further in that box first.”

Bent over with the box between both hands, Peter craned his head up at Tony, his brows furrowed. Tony had gone back to staring at the stairway banister, the attempt at managing his discomfort more than obvious.

Slowly and cautiously, Peter sat up straight, letting the box rest against his thighs. The two lapsed into silence as he rummaged around the bundles of red and blue tissue paper, his fingers scraping the bottom of the cardboard. He froze when he finally gripped onto the additional item inside, carefully and slowly bringing it out to see.

It was a sleek, thin black watch — or at least, it looked that way. But there was no case to the band, no circular or even square window where a clock could be displayed and time could be shown.

Peter tilted his head to the side, turning the bracelet over in his hands. “What is this?”

Tony cleared his throat, sniffed his nose in a way that sounded painful, drummed his fingers against the armrest of the sofa — all the things he normally did when vastly uncomfortable. He even went to push up the sunglasses he hadn’t been wearing, his hand smoothing back his hair to cover for the mistake.

“I was inspired by that little Starkbits illusion you had going on,” he explained.

Peter frowned, glancing up at Tony before looking back down at the thin, metal bracelet. He vaguely recalled the memory, most of the details having come second-hand from sources like Mr. Stark and Bruce, the two sharing the story with a hearty chuckle.

Still, those had been high-tech casts for his broken wrists. Bone stabilizing devices, Tony had called them. What could this possibly be —?

“It’s a panic watch, directly connected to me,” Tony answered, as if reading his thoughts. He lifted his arm, showing off the same sleek, black bracelet strapped around his wrist. “So if anything happens to you — earth, wind, rain or shine, you can reach out to me.”

The information floored Peter, his throat tightening in a way that made it hard to speak.

“Wow, this is...I-I don’t know what to say...” his voice cracked, forcing him to swallow hard before looking up at Tony. “Why?”

“Why?” Tony echoed.

Peter quickly shook his head.

“Not that I’m not flattered! Or-or appreciative, ‘cause I am. Like, this is awesome, really. I’m just...confused,” his tone swirled in the same pattern that his head spun. “You can monitor the suit, right? Or is this about that nanite mist in the base? Would this even work with that nanite mist? Or is this —”

Tony held a hand in the air, desperate to stop the rapid-fire onslaught of words.

“I’m going to give this to you straight, Pete. No chaser. You good, you able to handle that?” Tony didn’t even let the kid respond before jumping right back in. “Good, that’s what I thought.”

With one fluid motion, he lifted his arm in the air again, his other hand tapping on his own wrist bracelet.

“This works both ways,” he diligently explained. “It’s not just about me keeping tabs on you — you hit a dead ringer, we got the suit for that. This is for non-Spider-Man business. If you’re in trouble, it reaches out to me. And if I’m in trouble, it’ll reach out to you. I want you to feel a part of the team, to feel safe. And I don’t mean that solely to the physical concern.”

The recognition seemed to hit Peter long before Tony had finished, his eyes clouding over in a way Tony could really only describe as shame. He almost wanted to hit the metaphorical back button, undo what he had said and go back to laughing at stupid bunny ear photos.

And yet Wilson, the naggy little shit he was, pestered relentlessness in his ear that this needed to be done, these things needed to be said.

Peter seemed to take it a like a champ, and exactly how Tony expected him to — by deflecting.

“Oh! That’s — I’m-I’m good, Mr. Stark,” he insisted, still twirling the bracelet in his hands. “I’m fine, really. Everyone’s been, ya know...checkin’ up on me. I’m fine, really.”

Tony nodded firmly. He pretended not to notice the bob in Peter’s throat, or the way he fidgeted with the bracelet as he fidgeted with anything else he could get his hands on during times of high anxiety. There was no point in calling him out on it right now — it was his birthday, or so they celebrated the day as such.

Wilson was right, the kid needed to go at this on his own pace. He searched Peter’s eyes, those wide, absurdly trusting eyes that stared back at him as if he could solve all the problems in the world.

“That’s okay, that’s great. If you’re fine today, that’s great. But on the days you’re not, I’m here to help. We all are.” Tony dipped his chin low, hand braced against Peter’s arm to gain his attention. “And I’m not the best listener, Peter. But I’m here. I understand.”

The words came out with more ease than Tony ever could have anticipated, much smoother than the numerous practice talks he had with FRIDAY in his lab. He distantly wondered if it was premature to declare how natural this felt for him now, this whole mentor nonsense he took on finally gaining the right trajectory it had needed.

For the sake of not jinxing things, he decided to push the thought away. He was just happy the bout of nerves he had initially felt when beginning the conversation seemed to vanish, or at the very most transfer over to Peter. The kid nodded with a sense of insecurity pouring through every fiber of his begin.

“Thanks. Really, thanks, that...it means a lot.” Peter’s mouth upturned slightly, his gaze fixed on Tony.

Identity Crisis│Chapter 1: Prologue

“Tonight, Peter!” May hollered from outside his bedroom.

“I will!” Peter shouted back, belly-flopping onto the bottom bunk of his bed with his phone so close to his face, he could see his breath marks on the screen. It was an easy way to ignore the open handy-me-down suitcase from Uncle Ben that laid on his floor — t-shirts, pants, and boxers spilling out that still needed put away.

He knew full well what May was asking from him because it was the same thing she’d been asking for three days now, ever since he returned home.

Without even thinking about it, Peter scrolled through his phone and opened his text messages. He’d get around to unpacking at some point. It’d probably be around the time he didn’t have any clean clothes left but hey, it’d get done.

A part of him realized that unpacking made him a little sad; it would officially put an end to what was an amazing summer. Even without getting a real chance at driving, Peter had the absolute time of his life. Never in his wildest dreams did he think he’d get the chance to spend an entire month traveling the country, and with Iron Man nonetheless.

He had to admit that while he never, ever wanted to experience almost dying again — not even if you paid him a billion dollars — it certainly came with its perks. And despite really not needing the road trip as some sort of extra apology from Mr. Stark, Peter also didn’t have the heart to turn it down. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Mr. Stark seemed just as excited. In his own weird way.

Still, by the time the month-long trip came to an end, he admittedly missed the city life enough to say goodbye to the beaches of the West Coast, the deserts of Arizona and the odd alien-abduction culture in Missouri.

Both him and Mr. Stark were surprised to see the quaint little state had New Mexico beat in the ‘obsessed with aliens’ department. Something about a boy going missing in 1988 and the entire town of St. Charles being under this absurd impression that a UFO took him and — well, Mr. Stark had high tailed it out of there before Peter could learn any more.

The stories he came back with seemed endless and if he needed to keep his suitcase full a little while longer before saying goodbye to summer, than so be it.

Identity Crisis│Chapter 2: Smells like Teen Spirit

Only a few moments later did he turn back around, finger lazily wagging in Peter’s general direction.

“You brought your bags, right?” Tony asked.

The implication was there before he had even finished the sentence. Peter gaped, arms falling to his side as his back went ramrod straight on the couch.

“You’re sending me home?” Peter’s breath hitched for a moment. He could feel same type of panicked boil in his gut that he’d get when May would take away his computer or phone. “That’s not fair, it’s my weekend here! I’m supposed to train with the team, you can’t—”

“Oh no, you’re not going home,” Tony halted Peter’s relief with, “And you’re also not training.”

A beat.

“What?”

“You’re grounded,” Tony responded flatly.

Peter’s jaw practically fell to the floor. “I’m what?”

“You heard me. You’re grounded,” he said matter-of-factly, this time with more kick to his tongue — as if every time he repeated the words it rejuvenated his soul.

Peter shot forward on the couch, eyes darting hopelessly between Tony and Steve.

“What? How? You can’t!—!” He groaned, so loud it could have broken his vocal cords. “That’s not fair, I’m supposed to start training!”

“And now you’re grounded. Consider yourself lucky that you’re grounded here with a hundred acres and a movie theater, and not Queens with a lumpy twin bed and poorly received cable.” Tony wagged his finger in Peter’s general direction. “I want your suit in the next hour. You’re not training, you’re not going into the city — you are grounded.”

Peter huffed. "Okay, now I think you just like saying that word."

Tony could have laughed. In fact, he chuckled. “Oh, you bet your ass I do. Grounded, grounded, grounded. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Mr. Stark, this is —”

“You too, Wanda,” Steve said, more solemnly than the vigor excitement Tony had.

Wanda’s eyes went wide. “How? I am at Clint’s farm this weekend.”

The way Steve shook his head looked as if his skull weighed a thousand pounds, such dismay in his body movements that truly brought to life the saying ‘this hurts you way more than it hurts me.’

“Not anymore,” Steve calmly explained, no heat to his tone, only disappointment. “I already called him, and we both agreed that you need to stay here after all that’s happened.”

“You brought Clint into this? And he agrees with you?” Wanda stared at him, flabbergasted. “We’re being punished for savings lives?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “You’re being punished because — can we really call it that? Seriously, this place has a lap pool —”

“You’re being punished because you need to understand the situations you put yourself in represent us all,” Steve diligently answered. “You shouldn’t have been at that party, Wanda. It wasn’t age appropriate, and you didn’t think of the consequences that would occur if something like this had happened. You have to make better decisions with your spare time.”

Wanda was staring at them both in disbelief, a handful of seconds passing by as she struggled to formulate a response. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Finally, she resorted to rising from the couch in a huff of anger.

“The one and only time I go to party and this happens, and I get punished for it!” She pushed through both Steve and Tony to storm away, hand rising in the air and bracelets jingling with erratic movement. “Unbelievable!”

They turned to watch her leave.

“TMZ isn’t talking about me,” Peter immediately spoke up, still on the sofa. “Not even the Bugle is talking about me. Why am I being grounded?”

Tony spun around, eyes practically bugling out of his head.

“You were at a party with booze!” He shouted. “And no adult supervision! And three kids got hurt from it!”

Peter’s glare deepened, reddening with heat. “Wanda’s right. This is unbelievable. It would have been so much worse if we hadn’t been there! Kyle and Zach? Wanda saved them, and Flash would have been a pancake had it not been for me! We saved lives!”

Tony could feel his blood pressure rising, his throat constricting with irrational anger in the moment. He shook his head tensely.

“Yeah? And you’re finding out the hard way that saving lives doesn’t always make things okay.”

Peter scoffed, loudly, and he shook his head right along with it. His hands pressed against the cushions of the sofa as he practically bounced himself up, keeping his eyes dead locked on Tony as he stormed away.

“You’re being a hypocrite, Mr. Stark.”

The words echoed in the common room, or so it seemed for Tony. Normally composed despite anything thrown his way, Tony was surprised to feel his jaw slack to the floor, spinning on his heels to follow Peter wherever the hell the kid was running off to.

Identity Crisis│Chapter 4: Honey Bunches of Insomnia

“Mhm,” Bucky acknowledged distantly. “Got it.”

He left the room without another word, a second glance, or even an acknowledgment of Peter on his way out. Bucky left like he had never even been there to begin with.

Long after he was gone, Peter couldn’t help but continue to stare at the empty doorway. For someone that made Tony so angry, Bucky hadn’t made much of a remarkable impression on Peter. He was quiet, kept to himself, and aside from the weird clothes that made him look like a middle eastern farmer, there wasn’t anything particular about him that stood out.

Peter knew, though, that there was more to his story than that. Tony had told him...things. Things they never talked about again, things that clearly still affected him to this day. Tony had once said that he was learning to move on past the whole incident, for the team’s sake, for his own sake.

Looking at him now, Peter wasn’t too sure how true that remained.

“What’s up, Mr. Stark?” he asked, the stretch of quiescence making his voice sound foreign to his own ears.

Tony sniffed, hard, and folded his arms across his chest. “You need to stay away from that guy.”

“Who?” Peter did a double take at the doorway. “Mr. Bucky?”

“Mr. Bucky?” Tony repeated back incredulously, the thunderous look on his face nearly as hot as his words. “Is that what Rogers told you to call him?”

Peter had a bad feeling that all of Tony’s buttons had been pushed by now. He knew that not all had been pressed by him; he was just very unlucky in being the one to deal with the aftermath.

“No! I mean, maybe, I mean no but he could've —” Peter shook his head free of his stutter. “What’s the big deal?”

Tony’s mouth stayed set in a thin line as he slipped his glasses back onto his face, purple-tinted lenses reflecting brightly from the skylight ceiling above him.

Peter had caught on a while ago that it was a defense mechanism, a way to hide the emotion that reflected in Tony's eyes. Most people were aware the habit. Some challenged it, like Ms. Potts. Peter let it be, though sometimes he wondered what would happen if he ever did the same.

“He’s trouble,” Tony flatly explained. “He’s here so SHIELD can keep an eye on him, nothing more, nothing less. I don’t want you associating with him.”

“Mr. Stark, come on!” Peter tossed a hand in the air, full of exasperation. “You can’t tell me —”

“Kid,” Tony warned, his voice firmer now, with an underlying note of rigor authority. “Stay away from him.”

The warning came with narrow eyes and a twisted face; an expression Peter couldn’t read past the purple-tinted lenses, frames acting as a veil to his reality. His voice, meek whines in protest, was lost amid a whirlwind of emotions. Ninety percent of which he was sure could be categorized as pure aggravation and annoyance.

He settled on a scoff of disbelief, one he failed to keep tightly in his chest, and he didn’t bother to hide it either. Tony’s eyes shot towards him at a record-breaking speed, a way of saying ‘I heard that!’

Peter shook his head, looking away and back towards the empty doorway. There was a part of him deep down inside that coiled resentment, frustration snowballing into something bigger despite his efforts to ignore it all weekend.

First, Tony grounded him — which, what was with that? He knew the man kinda-sorta saw him like, well, ‘like a son’ as he once said a few months back. But grounding? It just seemed very...un-Mr.Stark-like. And now this? Telling him who he could and couldn’t hang around?

If he didn’t know better, Tony was acting like his da—

“Peter!”

Tony’s voice pierced through his thoughts for what felt like the fifth time that day.

“Yeah! I heard you, okay?” Peter shifted uncomfortably on his feet, quick to cover up his outburst with, “Don’t worry. It’s a big place, right? What are the chances of me even seeing him again?”

Peter hid his frustration behind a look of false reassurance, the type he had mastered as of late. It was typically a look he’d find himself giving May before leaving for patrol on the weekend nights, where his curfew was later, and her panic strung higher.

She never did look convinced. And right now, neither did Tony.

Identity Crisis│Chapter 4: Honey Bunches of Insomnia

Peter rummaged around for a bowl, craning his head behind him as he asked, “Lucky Charms?”

With his back facing him, Bucky didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted his beer bottle to his mouth, took a chug, and set it back down on the island. The glass made a clang as it touched the granite counter.

Peter waited an extra second for an answer. When he didn’t get one, he brought out a second bowl and dug around for a second spoon. “They’re good. Magically delicious.”

Peter could see Bucky’s head twitch just a smidgen as he poured an obscene amount of cereal into one bowl, a small amount into the next. A few marshmallows fell to the floor, and he swept them aside with his foot, making note to clean up his mess after he ate.

It was on his way to the fridge that he finally heard a voice break through the stale air.

“Shouldn’t be hanging around me, small fry. You know your pops really snapped his cap about that today.”

Peter froze mid-grab to the milk jug in the fridge. He looked behind him, eyebrows furrowed with confusion so intense he wasn’t sure if he could still feel his fingers — now blindly reaching around in the fridge while he stared at Bucky’s backside.

“I have no idea what you just said,” Peter pulled out the jug of milk and walking back to the counter where two bowls of cereal awaited him. “Anyway, Mr. Stark isn’t my pops — or my dad, or whatever. He’s just...Mr. Stark.”

With a steady hand, Peter poured the two-percent milk into each bowl — over flooding his bowl while dishing out a reasonable amount in the other. The few pieces that floated to the top fell over the rim, and he collected them in his hands before tossing the handful straight to his mouth.

Behind him, Bucky scoffed. “Wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

Peter rolled his eyes, setting both bowls down on the kitchen island, deliberately pushing the one that wasn’t his in front of Bucky.

“Seriously. Mr. Stark is cool, but he’s more like...” He dragged a barstool across the floor, moving to sit directly across from the older man. “I dunno, he’s like my mentor or something. It’s just that he’s been sorta...protective lately.” Peter dug his spoon into his Lucky Charms, shoveling marshmallows and oat pieces into his mouth.

Bucky looked down at the bowl in front of him, eyebrow quirked high as he opted instead to grab the base of his beer bottle and swig a gulp.

“Why’s that?” he asked, practically grumbled under his breath.

Peter shrugged, taking in another spoonful. “I think he feels responsible for me. He’s been helping me with this...” Peter swallowed hard and gestured vaguely, “... super-hero stuff for a while now.”

Bucky hummed, the sound hoarse, rumbling like grinding stone. It almost seemed darker in contrast to Peter’s voice, even the sound of his chewing somehow lighthearted.

“And also,” Peter swallowed before speaking again, “these crazy bad guys kidnapped me after they stole his tech and held me hostage under the sea in the Bermuda Triangle and I almost died. So there’s that.”

Bucky paused mid-swig of his beer, eyes wide enough to see through the bangs of his hair. He didn’t take a drink this time, rather he set the bottle back down on the counter and stared hard at Peter.

Identity Crisis│Chapter 8: Infected

“Mr. Stark, this is ridiculous!” Peter was shouting again, raising his voice when Tony hadn't raised his. “C’mon, Harry is a good guy, it’s not like he’s his dad!”

Tony dropped his head, rubbing at his forehead with enough pressure to dent the skin. Even out of view, Peter could see his frown deepening, the tension in his neck making his veins stick out more prominently.

“You’re right,” Tony started, clenching his jaw tightly. “But he’s an extension of him, and that’s just as dangerous.”

Peter let out a huff through his nose, unable to look Mr. Stark in the eye anymore. It was a good thing too; his gaze could probably melt a glacier.

“I thought you of all people wouldn’t judge someone by their dad.”

Tony’s eyes grew big, his lips parting with disbelief.

If it meant anything — anything at all — Peter did regret the words the moment he said them.

But he was also mad.

And that seemed to be winning over anything else right now.

So he didn’t apologize, he didn’t take them back. Not even when neither of them spoke for what felt like a lifetime.

Peter chewed his lip fiercely, his face practically glowing red. The hum of A.C had grown so loud, he wanted to crawl into a vent and turn it off himself.

There was a lot of silence.

The crushing weight of unguarded anger had finally overtook the room, inundated frustration drowning out any chance of getting their heads above water again.

“Do as you’re told, Peter,” Tony finally spoke up, his voice taking on an uncharacteristically sharp edge.

Months of agitation, of secrets and more secrets, of being kept in the dark like a child who couldn’t be trusted —

“Will you stop treating me like a kid!”

“You are one!” Tony’s voice thundered right over his. “And you’re going to be in for a rough time when you finally get yours hands on that birth certificate of yours — although I’m growing more tempted by the minute to hack into every damn hospital database in Queen’s and have it on display in this facility to remind you that you are a kid! Like it or not, you need to do what you’re told! And I’m telling you now — stay away from him.”

Peter shook his head, aggressively, angrily. This was the same argument they had just a week ago, when he was told he couldn’t be around Bucky — and now Harry? Not even May would dictate who he could and couldn’t see.

What happened to trusting him, to treating him like an equal?

He gritted his teeth with frustration — what happened to being one of them?

“No,” Peter fired back, hands clenched into fists so tight that he could feel his nails digging into the soft skin of his palm. “You can’t tell me who I’m allowed to be friends with.”

“Goddamn it, Peter!” Tony smacked his hand against the workbench, random mechanical parts tumbling to the ground in a fit of temper. “This isn’t like being grounded, this isn’t causing trouble at some party — it’s much bigger than that and it almost got you killed!”

“Will you stop bringing that up!” Peter spun on his heels, snatching his backpack off the ground with wordless sounds of anger. “I am so sick of you treating me like glass! That wasn’t my fault and you know —!”

Everything came to a stop.

Peter froze.

Identity Crisis│Chapter 9: Gray Area

“I know,” Peter nodded, moving the granola bar to his lips but unable to take a bite. It smelt as disgusting as it looked. “I’m-I’m sorry, Doctor B.”

“Like hell you’re sorry,” Tony’s voice tore into his ears like Iron Man repulsors that would blast a door straight off its hinges. Peter nearly jumped in bed. “You know better than that, kid! You have a metabolism on crack, you miss one meal and you’re as good as —”

“Tony,” Bruce’s warning was stronger than time around, his voice holding a tension that made them all nervous.

“Don’t get me started,” Tony threw back.

Clint scoffed from the back of the room, muttering, “You sound pretty started to me.”

Peter had hoped Clint’s remark would have turned the attention away from him, especially as he forced down a bite of the dirt-chalk food that immediately regurgitated up into his throat.

Oh god, it was worse the second time down.

Tony didn’t appear to be finished. He continued on, even as Peter swallowed down a mouthful of his own sickness.

“You seem to have developed short term memory, which I must say is a damn impressive considering your IQ,” Tony ranted, his hand waving in the air to nothing in particular. “Have you already forgotten just how mangled up your leg was? Or how about the bear trap it was in for weeks before yours truly managed to invent a device that looked a lot less medieval times?”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “That wasn’t just you, you know.”

Peter nodded, his head bowed down to his lap. “Yes, Mr. Stark.”

“How about both those wrists of yours — you still use those to websling around the city like a monkey who escaped from the zoo with no self-preservation, right?” Tony rambled on, loud and indignant, upset beyond stopping. He was on a roll, and they all knew it. “Remember how easy it was for someone to shatter those bones after just two days of not eating? You want a repeat of that? You want to test the limits of your body, because —”

“That’s enough, Stark,” Steve’s voice rumbled over Tony’s, a steely sense of authority finally bringing control back into the med bay.

Tony jerked his head towards him, eyeing him, practically glaring at him. If they stood any closer, Peter would have been worried Doctor Banner might have to step outside to avoid the two of them breaking out into a fight.

The energy flowing between them was hot, creating a sense of hostility and tension.

Ultimately, after a few beats and what they were all sure was much contemplation, Tony backed down.

“I’m just saying,” he turned back to Peter, his shoulders dropping as his posture softened. “You don’t eat, and it becomes a problem. You can’t do that.”

The room fell quiet, the kind where a pin could drop and Peter wouldn’t have been the only one to hear it. In fact, he might have been the only one not to hear it, the pounding in his head reaching an apex that made the muscles behind his eyes ache with pressure.

“I know. I’m...I’m really sorry,” Peter apologized for what felt like the hundredth time, his fingers pulling at the plastic wrapper to the calorie bar. It made his fingers slimy and sticky at the same time. “Really, Mr. Stark. I’m sorry. I just...I must have forgot.”

Tony didn’t respond, not immediately, though the look on his face told Peter there were many things he wanted to say but was holding back on. He instead sighed, his body lifting with the heaviness of his exhale.

Yeah, Peter decided, he was definitely the cause for those gray hairs.

Identity Crisis│Chapter 11: Screwed the Pooch

“Alright, bring it back in.” Steve waved his hand at Peter, motioning inwards. “You have a lot of untapped potential, son. I have a good feeling that once we —”

“Underoo’s!”

The shout burst through the gym, almost as loudly as the doors that flew right open.

Peter whizzed his head around, catching an object mid-air and inches before it could smack him in the face.

What the —?

He looked down at his hand, confused even as he opened his clenched fist to examine the object squeezed between his palm.

It was a calorie bar.

The nasty kind, wrapped in nothing but plain silver packaging. The one difference that stood out were the words ‘Spider-boy’ written in Sharpie across it.

Peter looked back up, his face immediately dropping.

“What are you doing here?” he practically hissed, voice so high pitched it gave cartoon characters a run for their money.

He didn’t care. It was hard to be bothered, what with his stomach doing that flip-flop thing that made him incredibly sticky with sweat, the back of his shirt already dampening in wetness. A sudden bout of rough seesawing to his head nearly stole his balance, his knees buckling and wobbling briefly.

“And good morning to you, too, sunshine.” Tony stopped a few feet short of closing the distance between them, the double-doors far behind still swinging back and forth from his grand and unexpected entrance.

Bruce was on his tail, walking a lot slower while juggling a laptop in his hands. He barely gave a wave to the others; his reluctant presence clearer than the squeaky clean windows lining the gym walls.

Peter fought to find his voice again. “Mr. Stark —”

“You look tired.” Tony cocked his head to the side, giving Peter a long once-over. “You sleep at all last night?”

Peter knew his eyes were as wide as saucers — but he couldn’t shake the shock long enough to fix them.

“I slept – I slept fine, I —” he stammered, unable to pull the words from his brain long enough to string together something that sounded remotely coherent.

Mr. Stark was here. In front of him. When he absolutely wasn’t supposed to be. They had agreed training sessions were Steve’s thing. Lab nights were Tony’s.

Was this because they didn’t even see each other last night? It had been lab night — their night — and Peter was clearly avoiding him, and they both knew it, and he really didn’t want to deal with this right now but he was here.

And there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

“I was up for a while, had homework. I’m fine,” Peter rushed out, so fast he could barely even understand himself.

Tony met his eyes. Peter forced himself to look away.

It wasn’t a lie. He was up for a while, and he did have homework. It just so happened that Peter chose to hang out with Bucky instead, at least until he felt good enough to sleep. Which wasn’t until close to four in the morning.

But none of what he said was a lie.

“Up late, then?” Tony raised his eyebrows, high enough that they peaked over his fancy sunglasses. “I don’t believe I caught the aftermath of your usual ravaging in the kitchen. You eat at all?”

From across the way, Natasha coughed — loudly. “Mother-hen!”

Everyone but Peter looked towards her; Peter was sure Tony gave himself whiplash from how quickly his head spun around, faster than a rocket.

He barely paid attention, definitely didn’t care. His grip on the calorie bar tightened, clamping down on it hard enough for the nasty granola pieces to crumble and break. Opening it now would only be a mess.

“Mr. Stark...” Peter bit his tongue — literally, the force of his teeth puncturing the soft tissue inside his mouth. His voice was low, irritated, and under his breath. “I’m good. I ate.”

“Yeah?” Tony gestured an open palm his way. “What’d you have?”

Steve took a few steps to the side, closer to where Tony stood, making a noise that sounded oddly close to clearing his throat.

Tony noticed.

He glanced at Steve. Glanced at Peter. Gave Natasha a look that appeared to be more of a heated glare.

Finally, he turned back to Peter with a snap of his fingers.

“No need to answer. That’s only something I would ask if I didn’t have complete, absolute, endless faith in your capabilities to take care of yourself like the responsible, young adult you are.” Tony walked ahead, giving a firm pat on Peter’s shoulder. “My favorite young adult, at that. One of the best.”

Peter looked down at his shoulder, staring at where Tony’s hand rested.

“Uh...that’s...thank you?” He shook his head and the daze that clouded it. “Why exactly are you and Doctor B here?”

The question came so suddenly that there was no hiding his objection at Tony’s presence. Even Bruce gave him an odd look, mostly hidden by his laptop, but still there to be seen.

“This is my building, in case you’ve forgotten.” Tony pointed his thumb towards Bruce, already across the gym and sitting on the bleachers. “And Bruce lives here, so I can’t help where he goes. It’s open terrain.”

For possibly the first time since entering the gym, Bruce looked up from his laptop with a look so aggravated the others worried it might turn green.

“Yeah, but like...” Peter kept his voice hushed, moving closer to Tony to keep the others from hearing. “Do you have to be here...now?”

Tony took off his sunglasses with one hand, pocketing them into his blazer with ease.

“I like to check in on my investments from time to time. See what progress is being made, how the horizon is looking, all that good stuff. Besides, don’t forget who’s suggestion it was to arrange these little kumbaya’s. You wouldn’t have a Captain America’s Training Tips notebook if it weren’t for moi.”

The self-pointed gesture Tony gave was enough to make the paparazzi jealous they weren’t there to capture it.

Peter made a face. “You said this was my aunt’s idea.”

“I freed up some time this afternoon,” Tony continued on without missing a beat, “decided to see what the hoopla is about with this...what are you calling it, Cap? Spider Boot Camp? Tactical Webinars?”

“Training, Tony.” Steve sighed, shaking his head. “No clever names. We’re just training.”

Tony looked at them with a studious glare, lips pursed tightly, head to the side in a way showed he had five million different thoughts running through his mind.

Peter rolled his eyes, staring up at the gym ceiling for what felt like an eternity. This was exactly why he’d been avoiding Mr. Stark for nearly two weeks now. One moment everything was cool, everything was alright, he was having fun. Now it was tense and weird and —

“Well!” Tony clapped his hands together, the sound ripping Peter straight out of his thoughts. “Training, then. Right. I thought it was about time I checked out this little training rendezvous. And, preventive measures after last week’s ruckus, I came by to provide a healthy snack for the growing spiderling. You’re welcome.”

Peter’s eyebrows knitted tightly. A snack?

He looked down at his hand, suddenly remembering the calorie bar he’d been holding.

A snack.

Even after all he said, after everything they fought about, even as he trained with the-freaking-Avengers — Mr. Stark was still treating him like a kid.

Peter handed it over to him, jaw set. “I said I already ate. I’m good.”

The granola bar split the distance between them, hanging in the air where Peter refused to take it back, no matter how long he had to wait. He’d throw it across the gym before eating it. Hell, even if he was hungry, the things tasted like both dirt and chalk gave birth to a baby covered in mud.

It’d be just his luck to throw up all over Captain America’s shoes. He wasn’t taking the chance.

For the longest time, Tony stared at it. Not Peter, not Steve or Natasha or even Bruce clicking away at his laptop. He stared directly at the calorie bar, Peter’s hand covering up the Spider in Spider-boy.

“Then I will just...keep this for after the show.” Tony snatched it from his hand, tapping it against Peter’s shoulder with a forced grin. “That’s what they say, right? Protein after a hard work-out?”

“Tony,” Steve firmly said, his eyes directing Tony over to the bleachers. “We were about to start.”

Identity Crisis│Chapter 11: Screwed the Pooch

Peter flickered his eyes open, blinking rapidly. Tony’s glare was as hot as the tears that began to burn in his eyes.

“I didn’t...” his words were stolen by the swell in his chest, growing so painful he couldn’t swallow it away. With desperation, he pushed past Tony, brushing against his shoulder in a frenzied need to get away. “Mr. Stark, I swear—”

Tony spun around before Peter take even a step.

“Park your ass on that bench!”

Peter didn’t chance doing anything but.

“Yes, sir,” he forced out, sitting down so fast it made him lightheaded.

The simple act of getting off his feet had the room spinning in places that it surely wasn’t supposed to, lockers titling at the edges and the tiles on the wall blurred where he had lost focus in his eyes. The inertia was enough to boil nausea in his stomach.

The one thing that stood against everything was Mr. Stark, looming over him with an expression Peter was sure he had never seen in his entire life. Anger? Disappointment? Outrage? Horror?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

Peter bowed his head, averting his eyes to the floor instead.

“You’ve had a stick up your ass for weeks now, kid,” Tony waved his hand angrily. “Your attitude has been shit. Here I was passing it off as whatever flood of hormones you teenagers deal with, turning you into little brat-monsters that scream about acne and curfews and whatever other goddamn nonsense that you feel is apocalyptic to your social life. But then you go and punch someone’s lights out — a classmate, of all goddamn people! One I continued to ask you about —!”

“Who told you about that?” Peter shot his head up so fast, the water that pooled in his eyes nearly evaporated.

Tony looked at him, eyes ablaze but mouth shut.

The realization of what Peter heard felt like a scolding knife sliced through his windpipe, driving a sound from his throat that not even he recognized.

May had promised that she wasn’t going to tell him.

May had broken her promise.

Peter’s forehead creased as he felt his jaw lock tensely, teeth grinding in ways that hurt his head.

She had promised.

“It doesn’t matter who told me,” Tony argued, defended — deflected. Peter’s hands clenched tightly into fists the longer he looked at him, practically lying straight to his face. “What matters is I know. And that’s just another important piece to this puzzle I like to call Peter Parker’s Pissy —”

“Why do you know?” Peter interrupted, a bite in his tone that sounded foreign to them both.

Tony gaped, his eyes narrowing until they were mere slits. “Because!"

“No,” Peter was quick to throw back. “No! That’s not fair!”

“Life isn’t fair, Peter!” Tony matched his volume and then-some.

“But you don’t have to know that! You didn’t have to know about that fight — it was nothing, it didn’t mean anything and you didn’t have to know about it!” Peter raised his voice, feeling his throat dry up as he heard his words fracture at the sheer stress of it all.

“Tough shit!” Tony snapped. “I know all about it! I get to know all about it!”

“Why!?” Peter shot up from the bench, his arms gesturing wildly. “Why do you get to know, why do you have to know everything!?”

“Watch yourself, Parker,” Tony quietly warned, more intimidating than menacing and yet somehow still both to Peter.

Peter shook his head, disbelief blooming over him and swinging his world sickeningly sideways. Tony’s voice was the loudest between the two of them, always had been, a lion’s roar screeching over a mouse. Peter hated it. He hated how he couldn’t be heard, how he wouldn’t be heard, how no matter how many times he spoke nobody ever listened.

“I don’t need you knowing every single thing about my life! I don’t need you hovering behind me and constantly checking in, or spying on me, or whatever it is that you do!”

“I beg to differ,” Tony scoffed. “And I believe the last few weeks are on my side with that. If you really think —”

“You’re not my dad!” Peter blurted out. “You’re not! So will you stop acting like it!”

The finality of his words didn’t escape his head like they did his mouth. They stayed there, a thought he didn’t feel was his, a feeling he didn’t own. He had no concept of even speaking, not until the words echoed in the room and bounced off lockers like thunder.

Only then did Peter realize what he had said.

And that there was no immediate come back to it.

For once, he kinda wished there was.

Instead of yelling, shouting or giving some smart-ass response, Tony stayed quiet. He stood tall, straightening his back as his lips pursed tightly.

Peter wanted desperately to take it back – ‘I didn’t mean it’ somehow refusing to leave his lips. It didn’t matter. It had already latched onto Tony, holding him in place.

Peter could tell.

Tony nodded, and did nothing else but that.

Identity Crisis│Chapter 13: Into the Abyss

“You’re okay?” Tony asked again, a bit of relief easing the tense pressure that had been building between them.

Peter nodded a little too hard, faintness making his eyes dance and wander.

“I’m fine.”

There was a pause. The brief silence that fell between them was harsh enough to send goosebumps up the course of Peter’s arm. Or maybe that was from the look Tony was giving him, cold-stoned and harden like a rock.

“Try that again.” Tony shifted from one foot to the other, his lips pressed back and his eyes hard. “This time with a little more feeling.”

“Mr. Stark —”

“You look like shit.”

Peter gaped, his own breath coming out in large puffs, making him realize he absolutely needed to brush his teeth. “I just woke up!”

Tony let out a snort, folding both his bare arms over his chest. “Yeah, and I’ve seen your morning hair before. Cow-tails and all.”

The sarcasm died off the tip of his tongue, and Tony’s demeanor suddenly changed with a slight tilt of his head. He looked at Peter — really looked at him, so intently that Peter wanted to hide under the covers of his bed and never come out.

“You sick?”

Peter wanted to balk at the question. It was kind of hard to, all things considered. He had slept the entire day away, and blew dinner money on every bottle of nausea medication he could find at the store.

Still. The idea of opening up to Mr. Stark didn’t feel right. He flat out didn’t want to.

And Peter didn’t like how that made him feel.

“I had an off weekend,” he said instead, the sheer amount of bitterness coating his words impossible to ignore. “Lost my spot on this team I’d been looking forward to joining one day.”

“Answer the question, Pete.” Tony didn’t miss a beat. “You sick?”

Like a broken record, Peter shook his head. He tried to tell himself it was okay, that everything was alright — even as Tony stared him down like he was some sort of project to be examined and figured out.

It wasn’t lying if you didn’t say anything, right?

That sounded right.

So he kept shaking his head.

“Talk to me, kid,” Tony’s tone faltered into something close to unrecognizable. If Peter didn’t know better, he’d say it sounded freakishly close to begging. And Tony never, ever begged. “I can’t do the equation unless I have all the variables.”

Peter fiddled with the material of his bedsheets, pulling and tugging to keep pressure on his fingertips where it could distract his mind from anything but the current situation.

There was a lot he could tell Mr. Stark right now. More than what Peter realized he’d been hiding. Nose-bleeds that hadn’t let up, odd bouts of sickness that kept him in bed all day.

Nightmares.

More nightmares.

“Really, Mr. Stark. I’m fine.” It didn’t feel like the right thing to say. But Peter didn’t stop himself from saying it.

The lie of omission started to taste like acid in his mouth. Or maybe that was the bile creeping up through his throat.

Tony clucked his tongue and swiveled his jaw, working on releasing the stress built up in his muscles. With one fluid motion, he uncrossed his arms from his chest and pointed almost casually to the trash bin next to Peter’s bed.

“You doing pharmaceuticals for fun now, then?”

Peter shot his head to the floor with lightning speed. Shit. Boxes upon boxes littered his waste bin and — okay, fair enough, he couldn’t fight that one. It didn’t look good at all.

“I ate something bad,” Peter fumbled for an excuse. “Made me sick to my stomach. Went to the store to see if anything could help.”

Tony narrowed his eyes, his mouth twisting into sharp confusion.

“Interesting choice in purchase to spend your allowance on,” he dryly stated. “Those drugs don’t touch you with a ten foot-pole.”

A heat of shame began to redden on Peter’s cheeks, and he turned away in hopes that it couldn’t be seen in the dimly lit bedroom. The last thing he wanted was to be reminded of was the struggle that Tony, Doctor Banner, and a massive amount of scientists went through trying to create drugs that effected his metabolism.

It was borderline ridiculous how he thought a few bottles of anti-nausea medication sold at a convenience store would do anything for him. As if the chalky, pink liquid that worked on normal humans would even touch his mutated DNA.

“I know,” Peter mumbled, running his hand through greasy hair that desperately needed a wash. “I just...made due with what I had.”

The persistent sound of tapping overtook the room. Peter barely lifted his head to notice Tony gripping his computer desk, his nails taptaptapping on the metal frame.

His eyes were still staring at the waste bin on the floor, even as he spoke.

“Could have called me.” The tapping got louder, faster. “Could have returned one of my calls.”

Peter swallowed thickly. “I was gunna. Tomorrow.”

Just like that, it went quiet again — minus the racket of miscellaneous street sounds from outside, Queens New York failing to sleep even in the wee early hours of the morning. The noise seemed to attract Tony’s attention, where he looked out the bedroom window with a low hum sounding deep from his throat.

“That’s fair,” he mentioned, so quietly Peter almost didn’t catch it. “I didn’t exactly give you any reasons to keep me on speed dial.”

The words struck a cord. Peter had a lot of things he could say about that. A whole lot. The seams of his bedsheets got tangled up in his fingers, his nerves working overtime in fidgets and twitches. Perhaps if muck wasn’t coursing through his brain, he could have managed a response. Like, any response at all.

From the way Mr. Stark looked though, it was probably best he didn’t say anything. A stab of guilt hit him, fast and hard, the lack of any talking suffocating and stifling.

As mad as he was with the man, Peter didn’t mean to stress him out.

Identity Crisis│Chapter 16: Web of Lies and Deceit

She was rambling; Peter could tell. He turned on his heels to face her.

“I didn’t know what had happened!” he tried to calm her down to no avail. “I didn’t...charge my phone, it died, and-and I —”

“Here he is asking me about you, and — and this assault that had happened, and why you’re not home yet and —” May wrapped her arms tightly around herself, yanking the cardigan until it stretched thin. “I thought he had discovered...you know…god! I thought he’d be taking you away from me!”

Peter frantically shook his head. “May, he doesn’t know anything about Spi—”

“And then he tells me that your principal is in the hospital, and then I couldn’t get a hold of you, and Ned hasn’t heard from you and Michelle wasn’t answering and —” May forced herself to take a deep breath, her shoulders shuddering the entire time she heaved in, practically gulping for air. “I thought — I thought you were hurt, or in danger, or —"

“I’m fine!” Peter took two large steps into the living room, only coming to a halt when his aunt turned to face him, so suddenly it took him off guard. Her cheeks blistered hot with streaks of red, her eyes matching alongside them. He tried again, “May, I’m fine.”

The silence that followed was hollow.

“Peter, you do not look fine.” May’s arms tightened around her chest — so tight now that there had to be a serious risk to her need to keep breathing. She stood still, rooted in place, the quivering on her shoulders making it appear as if she were splitting apart.

There had only been one other time Peter could remember seeing her this freaked. This unnerved. It went all the way back to a night that a robber needed a getaway car, when Peter had left home with his uncle and instead returned to their Queen’s apartment accompanied by the police.

Vomit began to surge into his throat, coating his esophagus with caustic bile. He couldn’t tell why — if it was from the sheer stress of everything, or something more. But he felt like he was somehow about to throw up, every part of him fighting the urge with weak restraint.

“Talk to me. Please.” May begged, her voice cracking at the edges. “It’s just you and me here, no one else. It stays between us, it...it…”

The words froze Peter for a moment — brain, mouth, all the way down to his fidgeting fingers that locked up, bent at crude angles. His eyes crept over to May, lips still moving, still speaking.

“I need to know, Peter,” she finished with a shaking breath. “I mean it. Just you and me.”

Peter blinked. He stared at May, straight on, his gaze turning cold and steely. A razor-deep spike tore straight into him, without warning, with no caution.

If it was anger he felt, it was incapacitating; crushing any deliberate and clear thought he once had. All consuming, beyond the control of his unsteady, decrepit attempts at suppression.

“If I tell you anything, you’re just going to tell Mr. Stark.” His words sounded painful, and jarring – as he if were forcing them out of a throat that just refused to corporate.

May seemed taken aback. “Peter, I’m not —”

“You’ve been doing it all year!”

The shout tumbled out of his mouth, hitting the walls at full force — and May, who’s eyes had grown wider than the glasses on her face.

“Every time — every time we talk, you go and tell Mr. Stark. Every time!” Peter’s tongue dripped with disdain, his spine taunt with indignance. “I can’t tell him anything myself because you’ve already told him! I get bad grades, he knows. I get in a fight, he knows! I swear if I stay up too late he knows that too! Ever since that stuff happened months ago, it’s like you two don’t trust me to do anything anymore! You two are constantly looking over my shoulder like at any moment I’ll be snatched up, like — like I won’t be able to do anything about it and I can — I can protect myself, I can!”

Peter swallowed thickly, his throat raw, chafed. Feeling as if he had ripped apart his vocal cords with a yell that was foreign to his own ears. The outburst hit like an erupting volcano, destructive, devastating everything in its path.

His heart hammered against his ribs, his chest heaving desperately. Urgently sucking in a breath he’d wasted in a moment that made him dizzy, abruptly too light on his feet.

May stared at him, stunned and stuttering.

“I — I know that sweetie…” she tried, suddenly quiet, timid. “I — we never meant to make you feel like you were —”

“See? It’s we, ” Peter croaked, stomping forward, barely noticing May instinctively take a few steps back. “You have to include him in everything, even when he’s not here!”

She shook her head, the crease between her forehead deepening. “Peter, what is your problem with Tony all of a sudden?”

“Nothing!” The crack in his voice did little to help his case. “My problem is you constantly involving him with everything in my life! I don’t need him to know everything, I don’t need him for everything — I did just fine before him!”

May opened her mouth to respond, but faltered. Her lips clamped shut a moment later, her eyes wildly looking Peter up and down, the grip on her cardigan growing so tight that her knuckles were turning pale.

“I thought...we thought you wanted that. I thought —”

“Not like this!” Peter’s shout thundered across the living room, and this time, he did notice May backing away from him. Somehow, it only added to his outrage, fuel to the firing pit of anger that simmered hot in his veins.

May shook her head, viciously, her expression growing stern.

“You can’t just pick the good things for people to hear, Peter,” she insisted. “If you want Tony in your life, he has to hear about the bad stuff too. That’s just how it works.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Peter firmly, coldly, insisted. “Not if you don’t tell him! Not if —”

“That’s not how it works —”

“Will you just let me talk!?”

A breath of air stuttered in Peter’s chest, oxygen suddenly too hard to come by. The feeling seemed to be reciprocal; May stilled, frozen in the wake of his outburst.

Peter swore, just for a moment — a fleeting second that passed by too quickly — that his vision went dark and his ears grew deaf. The brutal rage seeping through his very being coursed on like a rampage, dismantling him in ways that should have otherwise frightened him no different than before.

But the anger felt good. It felt better than the fear, better than the panic. He held onto it, unknowingly, clinging to the renewed energy it provided.

The breath caught in his chest escaped through gritted teeth. Peter set his jaw tight.

“It doesn’t matter.” His voice began to sound rough, abused. It almost didn’t sound like him, laced with so much untapped emotion that he was losing track of what there was to be angry about. “If I tell you, you’ll go running back to tell him. And then he’ll be on my case, and so will you, and no one will actually listen to what I have to say so what’s the point!?”

The only response to his yell was the dog barking across the hall.

Weeks of resentment had snowballed too big, built up a boil that had split over the pot and drenched the floor. Peter couldn’t help raising his voice, he didn’t care that his shouting had disturbed the neighbors and their pet.

It felt good to let it out. Like scratching an itch, like water that was too hot against sore skin.

It felt wrongfully good.

“Peter…” May slowly started, cautious to keep distance between them. “If I tell Tony anything, trust me — it’s for your own good. I swear, sweetie, I…” her voice grew quiet, close to impossible to hear. “I swear on...on Ben’s life. It’s only to help you.”

If the sound of his uncle’s name didn’t break him, the look on May’s face did.

Peter flinched, though he failed to realize it in the moment. He blinked, once and then again, realizing his eyes were suddenly burning with the fire he’d felt surging through his veins.

A chill swept over him. Suddenly, he was tired.

Really, really tired.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Peter found himself muttering, unable to look anywhere but the top corner of the apartment, far away from his aunt and the tears that glossed over her eyes. Right alongside his own.

Identity Crisis│Chapter 17: Along Came a Spider

“I’m busy, okay?” A wetness coated his voice, and he cleared his throat to work past it. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. I have other plans.”

Tony couldn’t put a finger on it, but he could have sworn something was distracting Peter — to the point that he looked around at the surrounding buildings, double checking to ensure every shadow of his team, on a rooftop or the streets below, had remained incognito to an innocent bystander eyes.

They couldn’t be seen, not even with Tony knowing the precise location of each individual.

So why did the kid look like five million voices were running through his head, leading him astray?

If he really wanted to leave, what was keeping him here?

Whatever it was, Tony hoped he could use it to his advantage.

“You’re gunna have to cancel them, Pete.” He walked after Peter, each step cautious. “If you just listen to me —”

“Why?” Peter asked, dragging the word out. “Because you say so?”

Tony furrowed his brows, a growing sense of confusion turning into something closer to apprehension. Concern. He almost felt unsettled, though it took everything to actively avoid that thought. The temper in Peter’s outburst was nothing close to normal. This wasn’t agitation, it wasn’t teenage grief or angst.

He stepped forward, necessarily reluctant. Peter didn’t get angry like this. Not without something else taking the turns at the steering wheel.

“Buddy...listen to yourself,” he tried, reaching out to Peter only for the him to step further away. “This isn’t like you.”

Peter shook his head vehemently. The further he moved back, the more his face became clouded in the shadows of darkness, hidden from the streetlights nearby.

“You don’t get to tell me what I’m like.”

Tony paused. He didn’t care for the tightness that grabbed hold of his chest.

“Peter —”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do!”

“Locked and loaded over here,” Clint prompted through the comms, calm with firm urgency. “Give me the signal and it’ll be a go.”

Tony grimaced. It was like having a ticking time bomb in his ear — one he wanted to fly into space where it couldn’t be bothersome to him anymore.

“Yeah, okay, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. Not questioning you or that smart brain I know you got up there.” He jokingly pointed a finger to his forehead, a half-lipped smirk barely masking the rising panic and frustration that his team was starting to induce. “But hey, I think it’s best that you come with me. Not saying you have to. You’re a free Spider-kid, after all. No webs tying you down.”

His overly faux chuckle dissipated into something more serious. Tony lowered his head, sincerity highlighting his every feature.

“You aren’t looking so hot, Pete.” His attempt at casualness failed remarkably. “Let’s get you to a doctor. Remember Cho? The nice lady who literally saved your life this year? Why don’t you two catch up over a cocktail of antibiotics. Sounds a great time to me. What do you say?”

Tony forced himself to take a few steps closer to Peter, the silence that fell between them making each movement of his legs within the armor no different than atomic bombs exploding in the sky. He pushed through, the arc reactor on his chest shining light where there was otherwise shadows.

The blue light of the circular device highlighted the paleness of Peter’s face. A vacant stare tore into him, his brown eyes appearing frighteningly void of life.

“I’m fine, Mr. Stark,” Peter murmured, his voice as derelict as he looked.

Tony arched an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “She’ll give you a lollipop if you’re a good patient.”

Peter swallowed hard, shaking his head even harder.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Not even if I say pretty please?”

Static fizzled before Sam’s voice crackled to life. “Put a lid on it, Stark.”

Tony bit the inside of his cheek. For once, he had to agree with the damn annoyance in his ear. This was taking way longer than he planned — than what they had time for. Desperately, he cut through the space between the two of them, now merely an arm’s length apart.

“Peter, you can deny this tooth and nail, but something is wrong.” Tony wanted nothing more than to spit a million swear words when Peter continued to back away from him. Any further and he was going to tumble right off the rooftop. “We know what’s going on, we’re going to —”

“I’m fine, Mr. Stark!” Peter shouted, his words ragged, as if he’d been gurgling shards of glass that sliced through the muscles of his vocal cords.

Tony looked at him, his expression grave.

“No. You’re not.” It wasn’t an argument anymore. It was facts. “The security footage I pulled from your school —”

“So you are spying on me!” Peter’s yell was shrill and sharp, unlike anything Tony had heard before. He tossed both hands up before throwing one in Tony’s direction. “I knew it! You don’t trust me, you’re still treating me like a kid! You act like I can’t take care of myself when I can, I can do just fine without —!”

The little air that was left in Tony’s lungs fled, right along with his patience.

“You are a kid!” He was matching Peter’s volume now, his shout echoing along the rooftop. “You’re unequivocally, without any question, by all legal terms a child!”

“I’m sixteen now,” Peter smugly bit back, gripping his mask tight. “Sixteen and a half, actually.”

Tony scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Equally adorable how you think stating your age in fractions helps your case.”

“Tony,” Natasha was an odd combination of calm and annoyed. “If you have any chance of taking Peter in without restraint, both of you need to calm down.”

Tony’s fingers curled and uncurled convulsively. Easier said miles away than done face-to-face with a kid who, in no terms possibly stated, would listen to reason.

A shallow breath lifted the chest-plate of his armor.

“We have a lot to talk about, Peter,” he tried — damn it, he was trying. “You have a lot you need to hear. But let’s not do it now, let’s take you somewhere —”

“You’re not taking me anywhere!” Tony didn’t think it was possible for Peter’s face to grow any paler than the sheer whiteness that practically made his skin translucent. As his arc reactor shined directly on the kid, he was proven wrong. “You don’t control me!”

Tony’s mouth went dry. Reason was going out the window, and fast. He could practically hear the tautness to the string of Clint’s bow.

“You don’t have a horse in this race, kiddo.” Tony reached forward, his arm gestured out with an open palm that he desperately wanted Peter to grab onto. “I came here to ask you to come back with me. For the love of God, please, just...for once, do what I say.”

Peter inhaled sharply, looking unsteady on his own two feet, even as he unraveled his mask and lifted it towards his head.

“No. I’m not going anywhere with you.” The mask slid over his head, smothering down his greasy brown locks and covering his face entirely. Even the mechanical spider-eyes seemed to move sluggish once adjusted to his facial features. “Goodnight, Mr. Stark.”

Identity Crisis│Chapter 20: Parasite

“I don’t wanna die.” Peter’s throat tightened, making it nearly impossible to force out the words. His windpipe convulsed under his chin harder than the shudders that rippled his back.

Tony froze, shock coursing through him like a riptide. One hand hovered in the air, halfway to Peter, as if reaching to help but not having a lick of an idea what to do.

The other gripped the bed railing with alarming force.

The blood kept coming.

“You’re not going to — shit!” Tony threw a frenzied glance to the door, desperation and anger stampeding over the shock and panic like a wild horse. “Hey! HEY! I need some help in here!”

Most of the observation window had been decked out with isolation signs and hazard tape. What little he could see of the outside hallways showed no one nearby.

Go fucking figure.

Almost immediately, he swung his neck up, bouncing to every inch of the room until his eyes found the camera hanging in the corner to his right. It was almost hidden by the monitor that showcased Peter’s vitals, and had Tony not been so preoccupied, he would’ve taken note of just how crazy the lines and numbers had quickly become.

Instead, he all but screamed at the ceiling.

“Pronto, Cho!”

If there was a response, he wasn’t privied to it. Tony could feel his gut clench, tenfold when he looked back at Peter. So fast his neck howled and his eyes blurred with vertigo.

There was no anger left in the kid’s expression. No more resentment, no disdain.

There was just terror. A raw fear that Tony had hoped and prayed he’d never see again. A look that brought with it the smell of rotten seaweed, and sulfuric ocean waters.

“I don’t wanna…” Peter released a guttural sob, his words almost inaudible between each gasp that heaved his chest. “I don’t — I don’t — wanna go —”

And just like that, everything came crashing down at once.

“Please, I d’nt — d’nt wanna die —”

“You’re not going to —” Tony lurched forward to grab Peter. He stopped inches from his collarbones, throwing his head to the doorway with a thundering yell. “For Christ’s sake, any day now!”

“I d’nt wanna go, Mr. ‘ark, I ‘nt wanna die, I don’t —!”

Peter’s breathing quickened, pain etching onto his face, bringing a surge of bile to coat the inside of Tony’s throat. He knew it partially stemmed from the overwhelming stench of blood, dripping onto Peter’s lap like a broken faucet.

It was a damn horror movie, if he’d ever seen one before.

Tony threw a wild glance to the door, before looking back to Peter with fierce determination.

“Oh for the love of — fuck this!”

He was across the room in a single stride.

Drawers flew open hard and fast, contents inside ricocheting out and tumbling onto the floors. Tony rummaged through every accessible cabinet that wasn’t locked shut, tossing items aside in a frenzied fit. Discarding anything and everything that wasn’t to his liking.

He snatched two rolls of gauze and practically twisted his ankle running back to Peter’s side.

Peter, who was gasping at the back of his throat, blood tainting his teeth and spluttering into the air with each panicked, strained cry he let out.

“I cn’t — I d’nt — I d’nt — I’m — I —”

“Peter — Peter!” With a force not intended, Tony pressed a wad of gauze directly under Peter’s nose, covering his face with cotton. The restriction of air did nothing to stop Peter from hyperventilating, making his already raggedy breaths even worse. “Kid, look at me. You gotta calm down, you gotta —”

“I cn’t — I can’t go — I can’t —”

“You’re not. Stop freaking out, you gotta —”

“I can’t die, Mr. Stark, I can’t — I can’t — please, please, please —”

“Look at me, Peter.”

Still, Peter didn’t look at him.

“I can’t — can’t leave May. I can’t, I can’t — not after Ben, not — not after —”

With his other hand, Tony grabbed the back of the kid’s head and squeezed.

“Look at me.”

Peter shook his head manically.

“I don’t wanna die. I don’t want to go, please Mr, Stark, I don’t want to die.” His words were tripping over one another, flooding out like a broken dam. Brutal and unfeigned. An incoherent mess of petrified sobs.

There had never been a time Tony had seen him like this.

Weak, yes. Overwhelmed, sure.

But not like this — dismantled. Ripped apart. Drowning within himself. He once saw that sort of vulnerability come out with May, in private, never intended for his eyes to witness. He never had doubts it existed.

But it was never something shared with him.

Without hesitation, without so much a second thought, Tony reached for the restraint wrapped snugly around Peter’s wrist and he yanked.

“You’re not going to,” Tony’s throat rumbled like stones to gravel, and he grunted as worked to loosen the velcro. “You hear me? It’s not happening, you’re not going to—”

Panic flared as he tugged and pulled until the velcro came loose, and all while using one hand — the other still pressed firmly with gauze to Pete’s face — he unraveled the damn fabric from its hold. The restraint was still hanging loosely around Peter’s wrist when he went to unbound the other hand.

“I don’t wanna go, Mr. Stark, I —” Peter looked startled as Tony jerked his limbs free, yet compliant all the same. “I don’t wanna die, please, I don’t —”

“You’re alright,” Tony dryly insisted, as if he didn’t believe his own words. “Do you understand that? You get that?”

With his arms free, the first thing Peter did was press the heels of his palms against his eyes. His forearms clashed into Tony’s hand, alongside the wad of gauze that smothered against his nose.

The cotton was now a drenched mess of blood.

Tony quickly discarded it for the second, fresh pack, and this time forced it into Peter’s hand to staunch the bleeding.

“Parker, you hear me, and you hear me good.” With both hands unrestricted — and fingers caked with blood — Tony grabbed each side of Peter’s head and forced him to look his way. He pulled Peter’s hands away from his eyes, making sure one kept the gauze in place while he watched the other listlessly drop to the mattress below.

Blood-shot, yellow tinted, and wet, but his eyes finally found their way to Tony. And they held in place like magnets. Locked hard with a desperation of a child begging for things to be made better. To be made okay.

In a voice stronger than he’d ever thought he could manage, Tony insisted,

“You’re not going to die.”

He looked at Peter; hard, unwavering. His knees nearly buckled as he leaned over the beds railing, but his hands stayed firm on each side of Peter’s head. His fingers slipped through the matte of hair and stayed there.

Peter didn’t blink. His breathing barely hitched, his body frozen as he stared at Tony. His lip quivered but no words came out as he instead swallowed. Again and again, working frantically to smother down the remains of what hysterics threatened to consume him.

Tony grabbed Peter’s shoulder with his other hand and clasped it tight. He didn’t care about the smell or sight of blood, he didn’t care about personal boundaries and the way close contact usually made his skin crawl in a way that screamed ‘this wasn’t how I was built.’

That part of him had been demolished, destroyed and left to die in the icy cold waters of the Atlantic Ocean. He wouldn’t dare let it come back now.

He dipped his head a little lower, forcing his way closer to Peter’s face, his eyes boring in the brown pupils staring back at him.

“You are not going to die.”

The finality in Tony’s tone left no room for argument.

Just like that, Peter forgot about regaining his composure. There was no longer a need to find the pieces to his self-control, and what dignity may have come with it.

It was gone, no sooner than when the words left Tony’s mouth.

Peter flung himself towards Tony, a hoarse cry tearing through his throat along the way.

Tony caught him without hesitation, wrapping his arms so tightly around Peter that it looked as if he were worried the kid might float away. Arms squeezed him in return, Peter gripping his shoulder’s with such strength that Tony was sure it would leave bruises.

The pressure was needed. It kept him together, kept him grounded. Tony held Peter tight, so neither of them would fall apart.

“I’m sorry, I —!” Peter choked, the apology caught in a wet, ugly sob that made his chest hitch and ache. “I — I d’nt mean to hurt anyone — I swear, I didn’t, I —!”

“I know,” Tony murmured, his lips brushing against hair as he rested his chin atop Peter’s head. He moved one hand from the kid’s back and along his neck, squeezing the nape with firm pressure. He could feel Peter’s pulse hammer with each sob that rattled his body. “I know.”

Peter tried to stifle his cries, but each attempt left him shaking and gasping even worse than before. With each sob, Tony held him tighter, all but smothering him against his chest.

“I don’t — I don’t remember it.” Peter’s voice was muffled against the confines of Tony’s shirt. Still, Tony understood. “I don’t – I know I did bad things, I —! I know I hurt — hurt people, I —! I just...I don’t remember it, I swear. Mr. Stark, I swear, I don’t —!”

“I believe you.”

It was the truth. As God honest as Tony could ever be, the words slipping from his mouth without a single beat giving him a second to consider what was said.

It was the truth. And he felt ashamed he couldn’t say it sooner.

Tony pulled Peter away, hands cupping his cheeks and the smear of liquid that stained them. Tears had lightened the blood but also smudged it further along his face. Tony took his thumbs and moved what he could out of the way, his eyes never once straying from Peter.

“I believe you.” Tony eyes locked onto Peter’s so forcefully, that he couldn’t look away even if he had wanted to.

Tony needed that. He needed Peter to see the transparent honesty on his face, to know more than anything that he’d go to hell and back if it meant keeping the kid safe.

His kid.

Nothing would change that. And damn the universe for trying.

“We’re going to fix this, understood?” Tony insisted, intending to sound comforting but missing the mark completely. It had never been his specialty.

Peter stiffened, his whole body growing rigid in Tony’s grasp. The firmness in his voice must’ve been enough to trigger something, as his eyes averted and he moved to get away. Brows creased deeply and his gaze shot down, almost looking shameful.

He wasn’t having it. Tony rounded back on him — refusing to let go of for even a second.

“Peter,” he started, staunchly. “I’m going to fix this. That’s a promise. One I intend to keep.”

It was a moment that felt like eternity where they both stayed like that.

He waited, far too long for his liking, until he saw what he needed. Until he saw trust bloom in Peter’s eyes. Return — back from the painful departure it had taken.

Just slightly, just by a threshold. But he saw it.

The knot in his chest loosened. But only as slightly as the trust in Peter’s eyes.

“You are not going to die.” Tony tried for a weak smile. It twisted his lips in an unpleasant way. “I already bought a casket for you once, Underoo’s. I’m not doing it again.”

Breathing began to mellow out, not just for Peter but for Tony as well. Harsh and sharp breaths slowly but surely reached a calm.

“Capisce?”

Peter barely nodded, more of a twitch to his neck than anything else. But the movement was seen. And it was enough for Tony.

Right about now, he’d take whatever he could get.

Slowly, he released his hold on Peter, his hands moving back to the guard railing with slight hesitation. Peter matched his speed as he dabbed at the blood slowly coming to abate from his nose. Slow and sluggish, smearing the gauze across his face with shaking hands.

With an effort, Peter let the tension erode off his back. His breathing came in more evenly, and the monitors found equilibrium in result.

Still, he stared at the sticky, scarlet mess on his hands. A look burned in his eyes, a look Tony shared as they both watched blood drip between his fingers and along the back of his knuckles.

Identity Crisis│Chapter 21: The Eleventh Hour

“Huh — wha —?” He sat up a bit higher, the tug of the seat-belt pulling on his neck. “Oh. I…” For good measure, Peter looked around the car seat, even reaching into his backpack, albeit his search was unmotivated. “I think I ate ‘em all...it's all gone.”

The look Tony proceeded to give him — which wasn’t really a look at all, more a side-glare hidden beneath high tech frames — was enough to speak volumes.

The sound he made said the rest.

“Let aunt hottie know that if you’re returned to her custody with rotting teeth and a mouth full of cavities, you can take on a paper route to pay off your dentist bills.”

Peter rolled his eyes, though a humorous grin curled at his mouth, stealing any chance of looking even the least bit miffed.

“Pft, this is nothing.” Peter gave a one-shouldered shrug, using the seat-belt to further pull himself upright. He stretched his legs the furthest they could go out, which wasn’t all that far, what with his backpack cramped between his knees. “You should see me and Ned on ‘May the fourth’ Star Wars weekend. One year we filled up a shoe-box with gummy worms and ate them all before we even finished the prequels. Aside from the green ones — neither of us like the green ones. So, like...a third of the shoe box was still full. We melted them down for our science fair project. It...didn’t work.”

As if suddenly having a memory re-surface that he’d forgotten long ago, Peter made a face, something that was caught between a grimace and a wince.

“We ruined May’s casserole dish. And the kitchen smelt like burnt lime for weeks.” A beat. “The stove’s never not been sticky since...”

Tony spared the road his attention as he craned his neck over to Peter, his eyebrows so high up his forehead that it kept his sunglasses in place.

“I have no words,” was all he said, before turning back to driving.

Silence fell, although it was a comfortable one. There was enough noise from the car to fill the moment, what with a slight hum from the engine combined with the softly played rock music from the stereo. Peter shifted in his seat — his butt was definitely growing numb — and he turned to look at the road from the backseat mirror.

It was growing darker, and the headlights of the cars that followed behind them were giving off more light than anything else. What little cars there were, anyhow. He could count on one hand how many he saw both in front and behind them.

“Where are we going to next, anyway?”

As if also noticing the setting sun, Tony carefully removed his sunglasses, placing them in a compartment above the rear-view mirror.

“Malibu,” Tony answered, shutting the compartment closed. He let his hand fall to the stick-shift, keeping one hand casually on the wheel. “Was thinking about swinging up that way and paying my old stomping grounds a visit. You ever been up to Point Dume?”

Before Peter could shake his head with an ever-so-obvious ‘no’, Tony plowed right through.

“We’re going, you’ll love it.” Tony adjusted himself in his seat, pulling his eyes away from the road ahead of them to steal a glance at Peter. “It’s a beaut, hell of a view. When you’re not free-falling hundreds of feet into the Pacific Ocean, that is.”

Peter arched an eyebrow, not completely sure if what he heard was actually what he heard, and if he should laugh or pretend he didn’t hear anything at all.

Judging by the smirk on Tony’s face, he decided to follow suit.

Sometimes he forgot just how many crazy things had happened in Tony’s life, long before they had ever met. It was coming close to a year now since Mr. Stark had taken him under his wing — truly, not just giving him the suit in Germany. Things changed after Coney Island, and Peter would be the first to admit that it had been a strange journey.

A really, really strange journey.

It was hard to forget that at first, it was all by force of May’s hand. She insisted Tony have responsibility in Peter’s ‘extracurricular activities’, as she’d call it. And to Tony’s credit, he did just that. In beginning he wasn’t always present, just allowing Peter the use of his lab to tinker on Spider-Man related stuff. ‘Do it right, not in pajamas’, as he’d say. But slowly, he was around more. And more.

And more.

And then one day, Peter got a phone call from him. From Tony. Personally. Inviting him to the compound. It was just earlier this year when out of nowhere, it became a thing. Happy would drive him there, they’d spend the day working on things that weren’t even Spider-Man related, and a time or two Tony even took him out to eat. Usually food cart hot dogs or tacos, whatever gained the least attention from the public.

There was only one rule — don’t go to the east wing of the compound. None of the Avengers could know Peter was that guy from Germany. No matter how badly Peter wanted to meet them, Tony wasn’t ready. It wasn’t allowed.

Until the day that it happened.

Peter felt a laugh somewhere deep in his chest, a bubble of joy he had to suppress. Was all that really just a few months ago? He scratched at his head, pushing his hair back with his hand. Everything after that...jeeze. It was only more that could be added to Tony’s crazy life.

And here he was. A part of it. On their way to visit Tony’s old home — or, well, where it used to be, anyway.

“How far away is it?” Peter stretched his legs out even more, pushing his backpack into the depths of the passenger seat floor. It wasn’t like there was anything important in it. His cell phone was in his back pocket and his new camera, gifted by Tony himself, sat somewhere in the backseat between both their dufflebags.

Tony eyed the dashboard mounted GPS before turning back to the windscreen. “Seven hours, give or take.”

Peter nodded, stretching his arms out in front of him, aching to crack his back in a way the car wouldn’t allow him.

Halfway into stretching and he threw Tony a wild look.

“Can I drive?”

Tony laughed, curtly, before, “No.”

Peter’s hands fell dramatically to his thighs, slapping onto his jeans with a resonance of rockets.

“Just for like, an hour!” he begged.

Tony shook his head. “Still no.”

“You told me —!”

“I said we’d see—”

“Thirty minutes!”

“Answer hasn’t changed.”

“Twenty,” Peter compromised, having lifted from his seat and reaching halfway to Tony’s. “Twenty minutes, and I promise —”

Tony lifted his hand off the stick shift, placing an open palm in the air as if he was keeping Peter from climbing into the drivers seat and taking over.

“Bargaining is beneath you, kid.”

With a wine so dramatic that it reached a new octave, Peter threw his head back against the headrest.

“C’mon!” his voice squeaked in pitch. “I can drive!”

Tony snorted, and made sure it was heard.

“And I can design pre-programmed micro-manipulators to function within a napalm gel fragmentation grenade all while using electrosthetic conductors,” he argued. “Doesn’t mean I should.”

A flash of annoyance crossed Peter’s face, but left no sooner than it came. He plopped back down into the passengers seat with a huff far more exaggerated than it was genuine.

“Oh, whatever,” he drawled out, rolling his eyes. “You’re so extra, Mr. Stark.”

Identity Crisis│Chapter 22: Welcome to Wakanda

Peter didn’t want to ask.

He really, really didn’t want to ask.

“Why?” he asked.

Tony looked as reluctant to answer as Peter did to asking.

His foot began tapping on the floor, the metal of his boot making a song against the metal of the Quinjet. Still, it was muted underneath the sound of his grinding teeth.

“That spider you were bit with...low and behold, it was bred with the intent to fuel the symbiote project. Its venom would have been used to generate the bonding power that it currently lacks.” A sour expression crossed over Tony’s face. Remorse immediately washed it away, like soil in the rain. “It bonded to you because it recognized the DNA of the radioactive spider. And it fused with that DNA. Just like OsCorp intended.”

The words rang in Peter’s brain. Shrill, and loud...

And for all the reasons that Tony wasn’t aware of.

“Mr. Osborn said that.”

Until he was.

Tony looked at Peter, now his turn to both raise his eyebrows and scrunch his face. The confusion was just that powerful.

That’s when Peter realized he’d spoken aloud, saying the thing in his head when he hadn’t meant to. He turned to Tony, his eyes wide with a realization he didn’t like having. It felt nearly as bad as the poison coursing through his veins — or, in terms he’d just been educated on, the feeling of his new DNA mutilating his very being.

“It was what he told me. That he had this, like...genetic bodysuit to cure cancer.” Peter’s voice was tremulous. The fortitude to look brave was quickly crumbling. “But he needed the spider. And he kept asking me if I knew where the spider went.”

Tony stared at Peter. It was all he could do, a loss of words making his voice obsolete.

“The spider died, Mr. Stark…” Peter trailed off, his eyes drifting over to Tony — unaware that he had ever looked away. “Am I going to die, too?”

An armor clad hand gripped Peter’s knee and squeezed. Hard.

“Not if I have a say in it.”

Tony sounded every bit as heroic as Peter imagined him to be, years ago growing up as a powerless kid in New York city. His words were strong, stubborn, and most of all determined. It managed to filter through the panic that was quickly settling over.

Still, the knot in his chest tightened.

They fell into a silence, one of many. It stretched on until Peter couldn’t take it anymore.

“Mr. Stark, I’m…” he lost his voice for a moment. When it returned, it didn’t sound the same. “I’m really scared.”

Peter was surprised at what he heard next.

“I know,” Tony quietly acknowledged, with the smallest nod of his head. “I am too.”

A bout of nausea came pulling at his stomach and Peter swallowed, forcibly. The battered and abused tissue of his throat screamed in protest but he did it again, forcing down a wave of sickness that didn’t stem from the illness in his body. Rather the fear in his mind.

The admission was crippling. He looked away from Tony, back to the dreary black and gray roof of the Quinjet. A part of him wondered how much of that fear was shared.

A part of him wondered if he’d ever heard Mr. Stark admit to such a thing.

Identity Crisis│Chapter 29: Rebirth

“Well, yeah, but…” Peter shook his head to clear away the shock. “I mean...you didn’t have to...you could have —”

“Eliminate the threat?” Tony shook his head right back at him. “Not in a million years.”

Peter made a face — if he came off as insulted, it was beyond his control. The confusion had him by the reins and held him tighter than the grip he had on the blanket beneath him. If his hand squeezed any harder, the wool would combust into a million little fibers.

“Venom killed people,” Peter’s voice grew dark, rueful. “I killed —”

“You didn’t touch a soul.”

The moment Peter heard Tony speak, all of the air swept from his lungs. There was a firmness in his voice, so hard and powerful that Peter was sure he never never, ever heard the man speak in such a way.

“That wasn’t you,” Tony insisted, not sounding like he was trying to convince Peter — not even sounding like he was trying to convince himself.

Rather, he spoke the facts. Talking as if the sky were blue and the grass was green.

There was a lot about Mr. Stark that Peter had yet to learn, but there was one thing he always knew — long before he ever met the man. If Tony Stark said something was true...it was true. The sky was blue and the grass was green.

Still.

“You didn’t have to…” Peter’s eyes flittered away. “You could’ve let SHIELD take me. Or the government. You could’ve...done it yourself.” Peter decided eliminate the threat didn’t need to be said twice. But it still rung in his head, even as his eyes drifted up to meet Tony’s. “Why?”

Peter found himself looking at Tony’s injured arm, where his hand was gloved and a sleeve made of technology covered the limb from fingers to shoulder. The lights dancing up the length of the limb had slowed down, immensely, making Peter wonder if it really matched the pulse beneath it or if it was just some kind of effect for show.

When he returned his gaze to Tony, he found himself doubting that theory. The calm in Tony’s face, the restful stance as he stared at Peter and no where else but Peter — there wasn’t any panic to be seen, no stress or trouble that could be discerned.

His heartbeat was calm, his pulse peaceful. It was only when silence briefly took their conversation that Peter realized that same calm had radiated towards him, soothing each beat of his own heart.

“Because…” Tony smiled, slowly, until the grin cracked the lines around his weary eyes. “You’re my kid.”

A breeze blew the curtains back, and the sun swelled through the window — just for a moment, just long enough for Tony to speak.

Peter went to say something, but only took in a breath instead, the fresh air crisp as it hit his lungs.

He heard the words. But he heard what was behind them as well.

Three words spoken, three words not.

‘You’re my kid.’

Tony smiled at him.

‘I love you.’

Peter smiled back.

There was distant chatter that grew from outside the room, the door shut but the cracks leaking in sounds. Hospital personnel passed by the hallway, and some equipment was rolled by after. Filling the silence between them with the ordinary; standard, every day life that continued on around them.

Peter felt a blush start on his neck, and he quickly moved a hand to rub it away. All while nodding in the direction of Tony’s arm.

“Is your arm…” he started to say. “Is it gunna be…?”

Tony looked down at the limb before shrugging it off.

“Wakanda’s kinetic skeleton? Far superior to my new skin.” Tony turned the arm around, almost as if he was giving Peter a good look at the technology. “Give us a couple weeks and we’ll be as brand new as you are.”

Peter chuckled, savoring how light it felt — how right it felt. How everything, for once in...an amount of time he lost track of, everything felt okay.

Everything felt right.

Identity Crisis│Chapter 31: In a Quiet Lagoon, Devils Dwell

“Peter,” Tony addressed him head-on, tilting his chin low until he caught Peter’s gaze. “It wasn’t you.” Even when Peter fought to look away, Tony found a way to grab his attention again. He didn’t speak unless their eyes were locked. “You were, by all accounts, legally dead.”

Neither of them were surprised when Peter shook his head. “Yeah, but —”

“Kid,” Tony stressed. It was his turn for his voice to waver, just enough for Peter to smother down any rising argument. “I want you to listen to me, and listen to me good — okay?”

Peter didn’t nod. But his eyes spoke the ‘yes’ that stayed in his throat.

Tony briefly looked away — at nothing in particular, his eyes finding the same hole in the chained fence that Peter had noticed before. But Peter could tell it wasn’t the hole left behind from a rabid raccoon that distracted him. His lips moved soundlessly, as if he were talking to himself.

And then he turned back around, the streetlamps from far away not dim enough to highlight the sincerity in his eyes.

“You were...you were under the influence of something, Peter. Something much more powerful than any of us could handle.” Tony squeezed on his arm, this time harder than the last. “Bigger than anything you could control.”

The frustration spread across Peter’s face began to ebb away, just a bit. The crease between his brows softened enough to bring back his young features, washing away the stress that tried relentlessly to weigh him down in all the wrong ways.

With the hand not clasped on Peter’s forearm, Tony reached out for the gravestone, gripping the top and holding it tight.

“And if your uncle was half the man you’re growing up to be, then he was a smart man. And he’d say the same thing.” Tony lowered his chin along with his voice. “He’d tell you that life is all about lessons. We all make mistakes — we learn from them. The lessons we learn aren’t always easy ones, either. But if you keep harping on it, you won’t be able to see the next lesson that’s waiting for you.”

Peter almost wanted to mention that what Tony said was exactly what Ben would’ve said.

Instead, he gave a small smile.

“I might need you to tell me that. Every now and again,” Peter said, quietly. At first, unsure if he was heard at all, even with the close proximity to the man.

Tony moved his grip off Peter’s forearm and settled it on his shoulder, latching firmly and squeezing hard enough to rock Peter against the wet soil of the ground.

“Take the world off your shoulders, Underoo’s. Nobody can handle that weight.” Tony met his meek, small smile with his own. “Share the burden, we’re here for you.”

Peter was as bad at hiding his emotions as he was at lying. When the slightest look of shame crossed his face, Tony squeezed his grip on his shoulder. Using a strength too weak to top Peter’s, but still holding firm in a way that was always grounding. Keeping Peter anchored before those thoughts could take him away.

“Hey,” Tony started, his face unequivocally honest. “I’m here for you.”

Peter blinked, and then blinked again, staring Tony down for a time that felt far longer than it could’ve been.

That didn’t sound like Mr. Stark.

Not the Mr. Stark he’d had come to know; changing through the months no different than the seasons that changed while they were in Wakanda. It reminded Peter an awful lot of his conversation with Steve, right before they left the country. How he saw a difference in the great Captain America— altering him, changing him. Just like time had changed Mr. Stark.

Peter saw different in the beginning. Time slowly, but surely, brought that on. The Mr. Stark, the one and only Tony Stark. The Iron Man.

Turned mentor. Turned friend.

And now, listening to him speak, using a gentleness Peter had never heard before...time had changed the seasons again. Turning him into something else.

Only once Tony finished speaking did Peter look back to the headstone in front of them. The sight never changed; not as time separated his visits, not with the leaves brushed away, and not even with Tony’s hand covering half of the R that ended Parker.

Peter’s eyes scanned the length of the gravestone, from left to right — making out the name of Benjamin Parker with crystal clear clarity, even in the late of night. And from there, his eyes drifted over Tony’s hand, covering half of the Parker surname before Peter turned his head to face the man directly.

When he realized it, Peter smiled.

Identity Crisis│Chapter 33: Comes Great Responsibility

Peter let his eyes travel to the bathroom door, lingering there for a second that felt too long. The noise — or rather, the lack of noise — hadn’t been there since he returned earlier in the week. He vaguely remembered May saying she’d gotten the landlord to fix the pipes. But with everything that happened recently, he’d honestly forgotten all about it.

Until now.

May came walking back to the living room with a different rag thrown over her shoulder — the residual sauce on her forearms indicating a mess that soiled the other dishtowel — and Peter watched her as she returned to the couch. Though he wasn’t really paying attention the whole time.

His thoughts were caught up in the memory of what happened after ‘that bunker nonsense’, as May dubbed it. How — like she said — he almost never woke up without Mr. Stark at his side.

How Mr. Stark was always present in his recovery, and tenfold after the fact.

The road trip, the training, the ever-persistent need to be involved — even if Peter absolutely didn’t want him to be.

The symbiote. The efforts put into helping him, even when he pushed help away. And — Peter blinked too many times to count, still unable to fully wrap his head around the whole resurrection ordeal — it all traced back to ‘that bunker nonsense.’

It was the second realization Peter came to, silently — with no audible statement to follow. It was information he stored away, hoping it would help him figure out — or finally accept — what he’d gotten so hung up on.

“I think a part of me…” Peter’s thoughts leaked out before his mouth even knew it was speaking. He quickly shook his head. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”

May plopped onto the sofa and flapped the dishtowel at Peter.

“Try me.”

Peter cursed his inability to keep his mouth shut. Mr. Stark had once joked that he wanted to add a mute feature inside his mask — some days, Peter couldn’t deny supporting the add-on of that function.

“I think...I may have. I dunno.” Peter blew a hard breath through his cheeks, puffing them out until they were five times their normal size. He didn’t resume speaking until all the air had vacated his lungs. “I think I felt like I was...replacing Ben with Mr. Stark.”

A clap of hands was absolutely not what Peter was expecting.

“That’s good!” May cheered.

The look he threw May nearly had her doubled over. She held back her laugh with a visible bite of her tongue, and reached for Peter’s bicep, gripping it with colored nails that pressed into his skin.

“Sweetie,” May drawled out, the lines on her face pulling with a flood of sympathy that warmed the room. “Ben’s not here anymore. He’s here —” May moved her hand to his chest, her index finger tapping firmly in the middle. “But he’s not here.” She let her hand drop no sooner after, with a frown that followed suit.

Peter brought his own hand to his chest, laying a fist there as if he could feel the presence of his uncle beneath his flesh and bone.

And yet the ache still lingered, not much different than the night the man passed away.

And Peter blinked frantically, fighting to ease the burn that began to swell in his eyes.

“And trust me when I say he would not want you living in the past.” May forced her lips upward as she saw the sheen pool around his eyes. “Ben wanted nothing but the best for you. It wouldn’t matter who played that role in your life, so long as someone was there to do it. Someone good.” May’s smile became more genuine as the seconds passed. “Someone like Tony.”

Peter looked away, unable to keep the smile off his face even as he diverted his attention from May. He flicked his thumb across his nose, sniffling a few times to free the building emotion from his chest.

“Ben hated billionaires,” Peter returned his gaze to her with a joke.

May leveled him a look.

“And millionaires,” she dryly stated. “He was a blue collar guy, Peter, what do you expect?”

Peter laughed, flicking at his nose one more time as the sound of his own chuckles was too wet for his liking. He couldn’t help it; Ben was always a hard subject to bring up, even around people like May.

Time may have separated him from that night, but talking about things made it feel like it happened yesterday. And just when Peter thought it was getting easier, suddenly, he felt right back at square one. Like all the thoughts he struggled with regarding Mr. Stark re-opened a wound he hadn’t realized was slowly healing on its own.

He knew May was right. Deep down, logically, Peter knew he wasn’t replacing Ben. The shoes were being filled, but it wasn’t replacing his uncle.

His uncle had to leave those shoes behind. At fault of no one but the shooters, out of anyone’s control.

Peter would grapple with that reality for the rest of his life, but he’d come to accept it.

And with that acceptance, maybe he could let someone else in.

“Do you think he would’ve liked Mr. Stark?” Peter turned to ask May, a quirk of his lips telling her he already knew the answer.

May’s snort proved as much to be true. “At first? Hell no.”

Peter let himself laugh — loudly, at that.

“Yeah,” Peter’s laughs turned into chuckles, and he shook his head for good measure. “You kinda didn’t like him, either.”

Nothing, not even sentient parasites, could make him forget how May reacted when she first found out about things — specifically Tony’s involvement in his ‘extracurricular activities.’ Peter wasn’t too sure which topped the embarrassment chart — when the Avenger’s made him de-mask and discovered his identity, and his age in the process —

Or May screaming at Tony Stark while he was locked away in his bedroom, grounded for an infinite amount of time that ended up being six weeks, turned to three, turned to two with good behavior.

May’s smile softened, no different than Peter’s laughs died down. She slapped the back of her hand against his shoulder, jokingly and lovingly all at the same time.

“You always see the potential in people, you know,” she began to say. “You always see the good in them, even when others can’t. And I think we can both say that Tony isn’t the same person he was at the beginning of this year.”

Peter didn’t think there was any words in the English dictionary that described just how much of an understatement that was.

“Yeah…” he just narrowly held back a huff — one that easily would’ve overtaken the shrill BEEP sounding from the stove. “That’s for sure.”

Identity Crisis│Chapter 34: Break of Dawn

“You want a new arm...right?” Peter asked, only to suddenly feel incredibly intrusive once speaking the question out loud. He adjusted himself on the stool, so quick he nearly fell over. “Like, obviously you want a new arm. Who wouldn’t? You can’t juggle. Could you juggle before? You could learn to juggle. I mean, I wouldn’t wanna be armless. Or legless. Or —”

“You now have a words-per-minute allowance,” Bucky firmly stated, lifting the spoon from the bowl so he could point it at Peter. “Let’s start with thirty and see if you can stick with that.”

Peter paused, his lips growing tightly together as he considered Bucky’s words.

“I’d just talk slower,” he concluded — and in all fairness, he didn’t start smiling until long after Bucky’s expression of exasperation became permanently fixed on his face.

“Do you find loopholes for everything?” Bucky asked, dryly, making it very clear he didn’t need an answer.

“Depends on who you ask,” Peter answered regardless.

Bucky was mid-chomp on his oatmeal when he pointed the dirty spoon at Peter again.

“Your pops,” he stressed, taking in as much pleasure from Peter’s expression of exasperation as Peter had towards him. “How ‘bout him?”

Peter rolled his eyes and snatched up his pencil, the little-bit-of-eraser on the top beating relentlessly against the pages of his textbook.

“Mr. Stark wanted to add a mute function to the inside of my mask,” Peter murmured, purposefully ignoring the look of satisfaction that crossed Bucky’s face — his eyes dropped down to the island and landed somewhere on paragraph seven.

“It’d be a good start.” Bucky scraped the spoon around the bowl as he dug for the last remains of his oatmeal.

Peter shook his head with another eye-roll, not that either could be seen as Bucky stood from his stool; the legs screeching against the floor as he made his way to the kitchen sink.

The faucet had turned on by the time Peter broke away from his history books, looking up at Bucky even though the mans back was facing him.

“You do want a new arm…” he asked, his one eyebrow slowly reaching up to his hairline. “Right?”

The sound of running water occupied the space where neither of them spoke. The sound of glass clinked and clanked as Bucky washed his bowl in the sink, only answering when the faucet eventually shut off.

“It’s complicated,” he answered, reaching for the roll of paper towels and pulling a few down, his hand dripping soapy water along the counter as he did. “Old one had a lot of memories attached to it.”

Peter watched, silently, as Bucky single-handedly dried himself off; using the counter as a base for the paper towels that soaked up the water from his hand, before he tossed the wad into the nearest trash can.

He didn’t re-approach the kitchen island, choosing instead to plop his back against the kitchen sink, and stuff that same hand deep into the pocket of his sweats.

It was honestly the first time Peter ever saw Bucky look anything remotely close to tired. Though exhaustion was far too a strong a word to use, there was a hunch to his posture that indicated more of an urge to sleep than what Peter felt. If any of them were leaving the kitchen first, Peter had a feeling it’d be him.

“Yeah, but…” Peter wasn’t sure why he trailed off. “New things give new memories, so...”

Peter’s attempt at words of encouragement was as remarkable as his attempt at his history essay. He shook his head, this time at himself, as he returned to the notebook on the counter.

He was surprised to hear Bucky respond.

“Just don’t want that happening again.” He was quiet, especially from across the kitchen.

Peter wondered if Bucky knew he could hear at that distance, or if he was just speaking to himself in the middle of the night; looking off in the distance with a stare, just like he always did.

There was a slight drip to the faucet in the silence that followed; leaking the residual water from the pipes after its brief use. Peter looked past Bucky and at the sink, listening as each droplet ‘plopped’ down, almost in a way that matched the beat to his pulse.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

“Memories?” Peter asked, almost matching the same volume, though not necessarily on purpose. It was hard to even broach the subject of memories, what with his dream leading him to this very kitchen at — Peter looked back to the stove — two thirty-six in the morning.

“Bad ones.” Bucky dropped his head when he answered. “Easier to avoid the problem if I don’t got an arm. That’s all.”

The dripping continued, though it noticeably lost its rhythm. Spanning out gaps between each plop of water in the sink.

Peter heard it, but this time, he didn’t try to shake the thoughts away.

Avoiding the bad memories was just problematic, after all. He never allowed himself to dwell on those moments before, and they leaked into his dreams — turning into nightmares that stole away his sleep. And his peace of mind.

The sound from the sink hit his hears no different than the noise of Bucky grounding his jaw, or the crickets chirping outside — all piercingly sharp with his enhanced hearing, but some hitting harder than others.

Months had gone by and the seasons had changed, and Peter was starting to give up hope that he’d ever remember his kidnapped-bunker-under-the-sea ordeal in full clarity. The moments after his encounter with Dmitri — after being shish-kebabed — it was mostly a blur. Everything he’d been told by others helped put together the pieces, but there were still things he couldn’t quite make out.

“I’m here, kid.”

He remembered his dreams — his nightmares — of drowning. He remembered moments where he swore he’d taken his last breath, where his lungs failed to take in anymore air, and the fear seized his last heartbeat.

He remembered being scared.

“I gotcha.”

And slowly, he was finally starting to remember more.

Eventually, when enough time passed, the pipes cleared themselves of any residual water. And the last drip brought with it complete silence.

Identity Crisis│Chapter 35: Like Father, Like Son

“Besides,” Tony went on to say, unfolding one of his arms to gesture at nothing in particular. “While I know you don’t like me harping on your age—”

Peter quickly looked up. “As long as you stop threatening to put my birth certificate in every hallway of the compound.”

“Whoops.” Tony winked and grinned. “Too late.”

DUM-E passed by them both, his whirring and whining drowned out by Peter’s soft laughter. He tried to roll his eyes with indignance, but even if he had, it wouldn’t be anything remotely close to believable.

Tony leaned forward a bit with his grin softening at the edges.

“You’re young, Parker,” he said shrewdly — and quick to beat Peter to the punch before he could make any comebacks. “That’s a good thing. That means you got plenty of time to learn, far more than us headstrong geriatrics got going for us.”

Tony reached for the holographic screen near Peter, a drag his hand bringing the lines of coding closer to him. He scrolled his finger through it while he talked.

“And while the last few weeks have put a recess on things, Cap’s gunna get you where you need to be with training. Remember, it’s not just your abilities that make you strong.” Moving his index finger away from the hologram, Tony tapped at his temple while simultaneously looking over at Peter. “It’s what’s up here. Rogers will fill up that noggin of yours will all the tricks and trades your Captain America Training Tips notebook can handle. Just you wait.”

Peter’s chuckle quickly fell into a tightly contained grimace as the words dug deep through his head. A sour taste on his tongue suddenly returned, and he shut his jaw fast to swallow it away.

The last few weeks were still vividly fresh in his memory, sans the gallant battle he never got to witness. And though a lot of moments were murky and clouded by the symbiote’s leech-sucking-feeding that ultimately took his life, there were still parts he could remember. All of which stirred guilt that he tried, patiently, to shed himself from.

That day in the gym was one of them.

Tony continued to work with the holographic screens, and Peter briefly chewed on his bottom lip — hesitant to bring up the incident, and almost afraid to mention it.

“You...you really want me back to training again?” Peter asked, timidly, unable to stop his hand from rubbing at the back of his head. His hair ruffled in six different directions that no product or hairspray could replicate. “After...you know. What happened?”

Tony briefly looked away from the screens, the forced smile that followed only looking twice as forced against the harsh blue lights of the holograms.

“Look at it as nothing more than a bump in the road,” he airily said, before gesturing Peter’s way. “Now wrap up that circuity, FRIDAY’s gotta run a full analysis on the suit integrity before you can take it on any test runs.”

Clicks and beeps followed Tony’s words, along with the haptic feedback from each touch his fingers made to the holograms.

Peter watched, silently, as Tony worked through the lines of code to his suit. The slight crease to his brow spoke of his concentration, and for a second, Peter debated on dropping the subject entirely. It would’ve been easier, there was no doubt about that. Hide and tuck it away where it could never be dealt with; forgotten by choice, swept under the rug by the them.

In many ways, he was sure he would’ve — another time, another place, perhaps another universe.

It was Mr. Stark’s words, the ones said back in Wakanda, that stirred what Peter had to say next.

“I didn’t mean it,” he blurted out, almost too quickly. Peter took in an extra breath before resuming. “What I said. In the locker room.”

Tony’s movements slowed down before coming to a stop entirely; his hands dropping with gradual ease, and his hips twisting to turn his stool towards Peter.

With a shake of his head, Peter re-affirmed, “I didn’t mean it.”

A brief silence fell, and Peter couldn’t tell if Tony had something he wanted to say and wasn’t saying it, or if he was leaving the floor open for Peter.

Either way, just a few seconds of dead air was more than enough to get Peter’s nerves in a bunch.

“I mean, obviously you’re – you’re not my...you’re not my dad. I mean...I know that, but…” Peter stammered off, desperate to fill the awkward silence with anything that wasn’t — well, silence. His head dropped low and he grabbed the wires, clenching them into a fist. “When I said that, I was just...I mean, I meant it, but I didn’t mean it, and it was more like...I didn’t want...I felt like...after everything — I thought May told you about the fight with Flash, and she didn’t but you knew and it just felt like you guys were hovering over me and I didn’t want to seem helpless but I guess I sorta was, in... that moment and then, you know, with the symbiote and all, and I —”

“Kid,” Tony’s loud, albeit it goodhearted chuckle, tore right through his rambling. “You’re awful at this.”

Peter sighed, dropping the hold on the wires once more.

“I know.”

With the same hand that held the wires, Peter reached for the crown of his head, ruffling at his hair with an anxious and obnoxious bout of nerves. It was a good second before he eventually looked back up at Tony.

He wasn’t sure what his expression said exactly, but Peter figured it was something close to ‘take pity on me.’

“No, please,” Tony gestured ahead, doing nothing of the like. “Continue.”

Peter expected nothing else but as much. Especially not when seeing the smile Tony gave, so wide it nearly met each corner of the workshop.

It reminded Peter, again, of what he’d said back in Wakanda. Though it was only those three simple words, Peter swore — and he’d swear until the day he actually died for good — that there was so much more to them.

“You really did go way out of your way for me, Mr. Stark,” Peter repeated himself from that moment in time; suddenly fresh in his memory, as if it occurred just yesterday. He looked down to his hands for a moment, nervously tapping his fingers to the inside of his palm. “The only other people in my life who have...you know, cared about me like that…”

Peter swallowed, hard, forcing his hands to be still. Only to end up tapping his foot in turn.

“I mean, there was my dad. And Ben, he was like….he was my dad.” Peter felt the tug on his lips long before the smile actually took place. He lifted his head, the slight shrug bringing his shoulders back up to his earlobes. “You’re like that. To me.”

Tony arched an eyebrow, and Peter smiled a little wider than before.

“You’re like my dad.”

They stayed like that for a moment; not long enough to be substantial, just long enough that Peter would remember the look that fell over Tony’s face.

A ‘blink and you miss it’ moment later and he turned away, one hand sweeping the holograms to the side as the other waved in a gimme motion to Peter.

“Lemme see that circuitry,” Tony told him, going so far as to snap his fingers when he didn’t get an immediate result.

“I’m finishing it!” Peter’s voice squeaked towards the end, which only made Tony snap his fingers louder. The few chuckles Peter managed were accompanied with an incredibly dramatic eye-roll. “Jeeze, impatient, much?”

Peter unhooked each wire from the computers mainframe, one at a time, until the tightrope line that separated the two of them was loosened and lax.

#irondad #spiderson #iron dad #irondad & spiderson #marvel fanfic #mcu fanfic #fanfic #writing #writing discourse #fanfic discourse #tony stark #peter parker #tony stark & peter parker #iron man #spider-man #don't mind me just rambling on about the fanfic that has taken up 99% of my free time for the last 4 years #found family for life #found family #give me found family or give me death

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