Suspicion
The night was quiet. Exactly how he liked it, yet somehow feeling wrong all the same.
Bucky looked down at the kitchen table, where two bowls sat filled to the rim with nauseating bright colors of sugar-packed cereal, each piece floating aimlessly in milk. He adjusted himself on the bar-stool, taking a spoon and stirring the contents around.
It was all mush, dissolved and soggy like wet newspaper. The kid had mentioned something about that. Tried saying it was why he ate so fast, as if Bucky could ever believe that. He knew a bottomless pit of a stomach when he saw one, scrawny boy or not. No different than Steve himself, even before the serum changed his body — and life.
Bucky frowned, grabbing his beer by the base and throwing his head back to take a swig. Disappointment greeted him at the feel of an empty bottle. He mindlessly shoved it aside, the glass clanking against three other discarded bottles at the table.
It was late — er, early, Bucky gave a brief glance to the clock reading single-digit numbers. He’d been down here longer than he thought. One more hour and the compound would be stirring awake; the soldiers he'd been assigned to train would soon rise for early morning spars, and the off-the-wall scientists would be found scampering through the halls in a rush to get to their labs. If they didn’t already spend the night there, that was.
With an odd feeling settling in his chest, Bucky realized that the kid wasn’t coming down.
He picked up both bowls with his one and only arm, cradling the second bowl close to his chest as he made his way to the kitchen sink.
It was for the best. The food was junk anyway.
Still, as Bucky poured the saturated and spongy cereal down the sink, he couldn’t help but dwell on how odd it seemed. This was the first time the talkative little punk didn’t come barging downstairs to interrupt his night of solitude. It had almost become routine for them, ever since he arrived at the compound. It was one of the few things he actually found himself enjoying — not that he intentionally realized that.
What he did realize, though, was how frustrated he'd been, discontent, living in what seemed like imprisonment to a SHIELD facility he didn’t ask to live in — never wanted to.
He turned on the kitchen faucet and watched the liquid, mushy pieces swim down the drain.
Bucky hummed to himself; he knew the kid was here. They saw each other last night, and one oddly spontaneous nose bleed aside, everything seemed fine.
Maybe something was mentioned in one of his many senseless rambles about not being around today. It was hard to keep track of everything that was said, especially when the punk managed to talk five hundred words a minute.
Maybe he finally got some sleep.
It was only fair one of them managed it.
“Bucky?”
There was no need to turn around and see who the voice belonged to. With a sigh, Bucky shut off the kitchen faucet, head low and bangs hiding his eyes from view.
“It’s three in the morning.” Footsteps came closer to him, and Bucky could just barely see as Steve’s blond hair came into view. “Is everything alright? What are you doing up?”
The questions, are well-intended as they were, only felt like nails on a chalkboard to Bucky’s ears. He made an indistinguishable sound from his throat, turning his back on Steve to grab and discard his empty beer bottles.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he answered plainly.
Even in the barely-lit kitchen, Steve’s expression was visible from miles away. Concern etched deep into the contours of his face, his blue eyes somehow growing vivid despite the lack of light that illuminated the space between them.
“Still?” Steve's voice was soft and quiet, a far cry from the clatter of glass that Bucky dropped into the recycling bin.
He grunted, leaving it up to Steve to decide what exactly that meant.
Nearly a century apart had clearly done nothing to stop the wave link between them, and it was made evident as Bucky went to leave the kitchen, stopped by a firm yet gentle hand gripping his forearm.
“Buck…” Steve started, looking straight at him even as Bucky avoided his gaze. “I know you’re still mad at me. I can take that. It’s only fair after...after bringing you here. When you didn’t want to.”
Bucky kept his eyes locked ahead, content that his hair hid Steve’s face from even his peripheral vision. The man’s verbatim was too kind for the events that took place — Bucky wasn’t brought here, he was forced here. He had no say, like the many events he'd found occuring in his life. He was apart of a deal that he had no say in, uprooting him yet again, throwing him somewhere else right when he became comfortable with where he was at.
He was doing just fine in Wakanda.
Steve frowned, the cold shoulder directed his way impossible to ignore. “But...I can tell something’s going on. Something I can’t help you with. I want to see you better, and I’ll do whatever it takes for that to happen.”
Bucky pursed his lips and sniffed, saying nothing even as a pause built between them.
Steve slowly let go of his arm. “Do you still have the number for that thera—”
“I need to get ready for cadet training,” Bucky quickly sliced through Steve’s question before he could finish, an interruption so sharp it left a sting lingering in the air.
Steve said nothing as Bucky left, his footsteps heavy on the floors, carrying the baggage of emotion that was never vocalized.
All Steve could do was sigh, an exhale of frustration and concern heavy enough to rattle his shoulders with dismay.
That, and he stared with confusion at the brightly colored box of breakfast cereal sitting abandoned in the middle of the kitchen table.
“Bite my ass, Stark.”
Tony leaned back in his chair, staring ahead with an upturn of his lip.
“So that’s a yes, then?”
His humor wasn’t reciprocated. A scoff echoed from the speakers of his computer screen, loud enough to break the low-tuned humming that sang a quiet song of white noise around him. The televideo conferencing was the only active thing in his workshop, everything else running on standby with most systems idling about.
“That’s a ‘you’re crazy if you think I’m that gullible.’ Why in God’s name would I lend you of all people Pym Particles?” Hank’s hand waved and flapped around the monitor with little care of how it blocked his face, getting caught up in the undone tie that hung loosely around his neck.
“Because I asked nicely? Because I had the decency to admit that I respect your work and feel it would be a great addition to my latest innovation?” Tony leaned his elbow against the armrest of his chair. “Or how about because you’ll get a check from me with more numbers than you can count on one hand —”
“Screw your money!” Hank leaned forward, his face inching so close to the screen Tony swore he could see the man’s gray nostril hairs. Sometimes ultra high definition monitors weren’t always in his favor. “Some of us have principles and morals, unlike your family heritage. I don’t need your damn pity cash.”
Tony fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Jeeze Hank, getting cranky in your old age, don’t you think?”
“I’ve had a lifetime of things to be bitter about.” Hank folded his arms across his chest, making a face that looked straight at Tony’s, practically burning right through cameras that made the call possible.
“Amazing,” Tony drawled out. “I can feel your cold shoulder from the west coast.”
Hank narrowed his eyes. On top of that — unless it was one of his creepy little ant bugs floating around — Tony could have sworn he heard him growl. Knowing the eccentric physicist, Tony didn’t rule out the possibility of those damn insects siding with his discontentment.
He bit back a sigh, locking his hands behind his head and stretching his arms behind his back. It was times like these Tony was wishful to have the diplomatic bargaining skills of those he knew in his business life. Sometimes his Stark Charm worked wonders, winning over everyone in his path.
Times like these, it was a nuclear bomb. His very namesake putting him at his disadvantage.
The wonders of things Howard left behind for him.
“Don’t you think it’s time that we bury the hatchet? Make amends?” Tony tried, gesturing an open palm at the screen. “Call it a day in the name of world peace?”
Hank’s lack of a response was answer enough.
This time, Tony did sigh. While he had anticipated contact with Hank to be difficult, reality proved to be double that of what challenge laid in store.
Nothing good ever came easy, right?
“Listen,” he started, adding a drop of empathy to his voice that was often reserved for his finer moments. “My father screwed you over. I get it. He screwed over a lot of people, including yours truly. I’m not him. I like to think I’ve proven that over the course of these past seven years.”
For a brief moment, Hank looked away. His finger repeatedly tapped on a crystal mountain glass that barely made it into frame, and if Tony had to guess, it wasn’t full of water. No judgments; to this day he missed the provocative taste of a good bourbon coursing down his throat.
The longer Hank hesitated on an answer, the more vexed Tony became. He knew full well what the man thought of him — ‘Never trust a Stark’ something said directly to his face, even after rescuing his lackey from the confinement of a federal prison. But at the end of the day, he had truly hoped there was a chance to move on from petty animosity.
Tony managed to do that with Rogers. If they could do it, then hell, it could happen with anyone.
Hank adjusted his glasses before looking up at the screen. “And what, entail, do you plan to do with my particles?”
Tony’s mouth twisted into something of a smile.
“Micro-condensed narrowed ultrasonic pulse —”
“You want to create a sonic boom?” Hank butted in, derisively and with a hint of patronizing to his tone.
“No,” Tony curtly drew out. “I’ve already created a sonic boom. Multiple times. Through numerous techniques. The Stark Sonic Canon was quite popular during its run in military operations, and I even miniaturized it for the Mark II War Machine armor — I could write up a prototype for a sonic boom in my sleep. What I have now is specifically an ancillary device. Repulsor attachments to the Iron Man armor, a way to release high-frequency bursts of concentrated sound.”
Hank shook his head. “Why not just use an LRAD?”
“Long Range Acoustic Devices are only capable of reaching decibels up to one-fifty, with a sound range limited to two point five kilohertz,” Tony quickly rattled off.
“And let me take a wild guess,” Hank sighed, ripping off the loose tie from around his neck and tossing it to the side. “You want to go higher?"
“Louder. Harder.” Tony looked him straight on, eyes locked to the glow of his screen. “With an ancillary device capable of propagating traveling longitudinal wave disturbances, the audio frequency range could transmute into something so loud that it breaks the very sound barrier. Capable of tearing machines down to their very last screw and bolt, shredding brick houses into dust. Why bring in ten LRAD’s when you can have one in the palm of your hand?”
Hank met his enthusiasm with a hum that stayed deep in his throat.
“Back in the weapons game, I see,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Sounds like you haven’t changed a day in your life, Stark.”
“Hank,” Tony stressed, growing frustrated. He dropped his hand down to the table, the smack echoing from the workshop unintentional yet appropriate. “Don’t play dumb. I know that you know that the only weapons I create are for the functions of the Iron Man suit. This would be attached to my armor and my armor only. Used only in the circumstances it’s called for, last effort assaults to stop someone who has managed to...oh, I don’t know, replicate your technology and try to sell it off to Hydra?”
Hank set his jaw. He leaned back in the rickety old chair he sat, a look on his face that read clearly unamused, but caught red-handed.
Tony resisted a smirk. Rhodey always did wonder why he kept himself so involved and informed on the ‘super-hero business’ circling the world — if Hank’s Ant-Man could even be called such a thing. Times like these made him appreciative that he still consulted for SHIELD every once and a while. When he wanted to, of course.
Like a hobby, as he told Fury.
“You still haven’t explained why you need Pym Particles for all this,” Hank dryly said.
“The micro part of micro-condensed didn’t give it away?” Tony took a beat, forcing himself to unlace the condescension that tangled his tone. He took a deep breath before continuing. “Pym Particles would trap the sound wave into a narrowed assault. More like a beam as opposed to a blast. It would harm only that which it’s directed at. Nothing else...no one else.”
Hank nodded along, running his hand through his gray beard.
“Clever. By shrinking the molecules around the compressions and rarefactions of the decibel points, you prevent permanent hearing damage on innocent bystanders. Not to mention anatomical deterioration to extra-aural bioeffects. Pym Particles would theoretically do the condensing you speak of, shrinking the wave down into a high-pressured beam.”
With every ounce of strength he had, Tony kept his mouth shut as Hank contemplated, considering the idea with nothing more than a low hum to be heard.
“You still can’t have any.”
“Now you’re just being resentful!” Tony shot up in his chair, wagging a finger at the screen like it made a difference. “You know, if it weren’t for me, your Ant-boy would be in jail right now. Remember that? Remember how he decided to join in on a political debate that originally had nothing to do with him in the first place?”
“You did me no favors by sparing him, every day I wish the traitor was back in a prison cell.”
Tony threw his hands in the air, refusing to let himself scream a shout of frustration only because he knew how much pleasure Hank would get from it.
There was one thing Howard certainly didn’t lie to Tony about. Hank Pym was a stubborn bastard, and it seemed age only intensified that.
“What’s your vice? What do I need to offer you to —”
“Hank, you down here?”
A voice barely picked up on the camera, the distance it spoke only audible through Tony’s surround sound that covered every inch of his workshop.
Heavy footsteps followed, and almost immediately, Hank dropped his head, muttering a multitude of swear words under his breath.
“Hey, Hope is looking for the thingamajig that does the...I don’t know, the thing with the devil horns on it? You know where we put that —”
A figure popped into frame, a familiar face that Tony happily could have gone his entire life without ever seeing again.
“Holy crappadoodle!” Scott gaped, eagerly pointing to the computer screen. “Is that Tony Stark? The Tony Stark?”
Hank was too busy rubbing the bridge of his nose to answer, glasses pushed so far up they hit his hairline.
“No, I’m a screen-saver,” Tony’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he slowly returned to his chair. “Hank installed a realistic Stark Industries lock-screen because he just loves me so much.”
That earned a glare from Hank, heated enough to burn right through the computer screen. Tony waited until Scott pushed Hank’s chair aside before he let himself smirk, and made no attempts to hide it.
“Man, this is...wow, this is awesome. It’s great talking to you again!” Scott squeezed into frame, even as Hank repeatably slapped his arm away. “I haven’t heard from you since like, last summer. Remember that? I was there, with you guys, remember? I was the big guy — or, I mean, I went really big anyways. I mean really big guy who —”
“I remember you, Lang,” Tony cut him off, wishing he had saved a few brain cells by interrupting earlier. The guy had an ability to run his mouth like he didn’t need oxygen, exactly the reason why Tony could have gone another two years without seeing him. “Now why don’t you run aside, mommy and daddy have some grown-up discussions to get through.”
Scott threw a look to Hank, his face brewing with brief confusion. His eyes went wide before Tony could stop his excited assumptions.
“Wait a second, is this some kind of...invitation thing?” Scott pushed himself closer to the monitor, every hair on his face practically visible on Tony’s monitor. “Do you need my help again? I’m free, if you do, my schedule is totally open. And I can even go bigger now —”
“No!” Tony quickly cut in, at the same time Hank all but shouted, “Absolutely not!”
Scott backed away from the screen, almost startled by the sudden bombard of voices directed his way.
“Oh. Okay then, well...” Despite his obvious disappointment, he gave an uptick of his lips. “I’m just a phone call away if you need extra support. Ant-man’s on your side!” Scott swayed slightly as Hank made one of many attempts to scoot his chair back where it belonged, knocking into Scott along the way. “It is just...one side now, right? Because I gotta be honest, the whole blue vs red thing was a bit much for me. You know, I come from a broken home and —”
“Tell you what, Lang,” Tony said, “I’ll keep your number in my Rolodex.”
Scott grinned ear-to-ear.
“Awesome! Looking forward to it! Just make sure you call me first, okay? Don’t call...” Scott pointed his head towards Hank, the movements so exaggerated that the unspoken might as well have been shouted from a rooftop. “Cause I’ll do things he won’t do. Things no one else will do. Naughty things —”
Hank shoved two hands against his side. “Shoo, get out!”
Scott laughed, but not before pushing himself back into frame. “Hold up, hold on!”
Tony sighed heavily, rubbing away an oncoming migraine with the tips of his fingers.
“If I may...Tony?”
Scott’s abrupt change in tone was enough for Tony to peer up, one eye still closed as he massaged it with gentle force.
“In all seriousness...thanks, again.” Scott’s goofy smile dimmed down into something less bright and cheery, more sincere and soft as it coated his face. “For keeping the feds off my back after that whole...mishap. That could have gotten real ugly had you not stepped in. I can’t thank you enough. My daughter really appreciates it...having me here. Not being in jail. Again. You know...all that.”
A rush of familiarity washed straight through Tony, his head suddenly throbbing with a different type of ache. It wasn’t like hearing about Scott’s daughter was in any way new information to him. He was as well informed on that as he was Clint’s family — late to the game, but still knowledge he obtained.
And it wasn’t like he was a cold monster, after all. Helping Rogers free those in the Raft was about fixing everything, not just the broken bond between the two of them.
Tony dropped his hand from his eye, relishing in the feeling as the bone of his wrist smacked harshly against his work desk. The mention of offspring made it hard not to think about other kids.
Specifically, those that stressed him out to the point of an early grave.
It was a thought he pushed aside so fast, it might as well have been on wheels.
“Anytime, Lang,” Tony finally managed, forcing a smile that didn’t meet his eyes.
Scott made what Tony was sure could only be labeled as ‘finger guns’ at the screen.
“If you need anything—”
Tony perked up instantly. “Now that you mention it—”
“Will you get out of here!” Hank gave one final, hard shove at Scott, though Tony doubted it actually did much aside from encourage the guy to finally leave.
A wave goodbye and he was gone from the screen, footsteps leading up a staircase determining his departure for good.
Tony was smiling by the time Hank looked back at the screen.
“If I need anything...” he repeated.
“You’re full of shit,” Hank sneered.
Tony shrugged. “He said it.”
“He doesn’t speak for me.”
“Yet he makes valid points.”
Hank pursed his lips, so tightly that they hid well in the snow of his goatee. One eyebrow lifted high and he stared at Tony, unwavering, almost studious to the man on the other side of the screen.
Tony didn’t back down. He waited patiently — as patiently as he could, which might not have been saying a whole lot, seeing how his patience had taken a beating in recent years. His head cocked slightly to the side but otherwise he did nothing, not letting even the smallest peep come out of his lips.
The ball was in Hank’s park.
Tony could only hope that he was willing to play.
“Conditions,” Hank started, finger pointing sharply in the air.
“Yes!” Tony clapped his hands together in excitement.
Hank huffed. “Hold your horses, Stark —”
“I’m listening,” Tony quickly tossed in, unable to wipe the smile off his face. “I’m listening. Go ahead.”
Hank flashed a stiff glare of exasperation, but continued. “There’s no profit off the invention, no selling it for commercial purposes. I get the blueprints of the design for my own recreation, with permission to further expand on the concept. And that check, as you stated, with more numbers than—”
“Fingers on one hand. You got it.” Tony beamed, riding a high of accomplishment that he hadn’t felt in months. Howard’s damage be damned, he could still brighten the future of tomorrow, even with those who had long since spat on the Stark name. “My people will be there to pick up the particles tonight.”
“With the check?”
Tony raised an eyebrow. “I thought you had principles, Pym.”
“I do,” Hank coldly stated, lowering his guard only as he followed up with, “..and bills.”
“Tony!”
The shout of a feminine voice cut right through their conversation, louder than even Hank’s disruption had been earlier.
“And that would be my cue to wrap this up,” Tony said, knowing exactly who was interrupting this time. And he knew better than to waste even a second before they made their presence known. “Thanks again, Hank. I’ll consider the hatchet buried with this.”
Tony leaned forward slightly, his finger hovering on the key that would disconnect the call.
“Yeah yeah,” Hank ratted off, “you know —”
The conference call shut off before Hank could ever finish.
High-heels came pounding into the workshop, sharp and loud against the floor.
“Tony, you’d better be in here!”
Tony spun his chair around, crossing one leg over the other with a sugary, smug smile.
“Yes, sweetie pie?”
Pepper stopped a few feet short of him, the speed of her haste causing a few strands of red hair to fall over her eyes. A normally pristine and perfect bun had come loose, and by the looks of her one hand latched onto her hip, Tony knew she was angry long before she spoke.
“Don’t you sweetie pie me.”
Her words were the validation to his assumption.
Tony paused, taking in her look before giving a quick, hard snap of his fingers.
“You get a hair cut? It looks good. The, uh...the thing you did. With your hair.”
Pepper didn’t respond. The lingering, heated scowl she directed straight at him was harsh enough to send ripples through his muscles, cramps building in his calves and forearms in ways only her anger could ever cause.
“You mad?” Tony cocked his head to the side. “You look mad.”
Finally, Pepper scoffed.
“Am I mad?” she repeated, disbelief soaking on her tongue.
Tony stood from his chair, both hands up in placation.
“Is it the caterers? We can post-pone another few months if the wedding is giving you problems —”
“The only thing giving me problems right now is you,” Pepper fired back, her pitch lowering like gravel. “Why is it every time you manage to get a handle on things, you find a way to monumentally screw things up? First I get an call from Happy — his availability has cleared up on the account of he won’t be chauffeuring Peter to the compound anymore. On your orders.”
Tony dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
“You know Happy. He’s a drama king, likes to make a big scene out of everything — I think he gets bored, needs the attention.” He plopped back down into his computer chair, looking far elsewhere as a beat slid in between his next words. “But yeah, that sounds about right.”
“Then I get in touch with May Parker.”
Tony shot her a look, eyebrows so high they could have hit the ceiling.
Pepper nodded smugly. “Oh, yeah. You don’t think I find the time to talk to these people? You don’t think I’m in contact with Steve, or Bruce, or Natasha?”
“In my defense...” Tony pointed a finger her way, stalling on a pause that seemed to last forever. “I did not think you had the time to do any of that.”
Pepper crossed her arms, her eyes staring forward, hard-edged with no room for negotiation.
Tony knew her well — too well. There wouldn’t be able any wiggling his way out of this one.
“You going to hear out my side at all?” he asked flippantly, broadly gesturing to nothing.
“Give me one good reason why I should,” she tossed back.
Tony tapped a finger endlessly on the armrest of his chair, his lips growing tight as they pursed together with agitation.
“Because if you really did talk with Rogers and Romanoff, you’d know the full story of what happened,” Tony insisted, his tone frigid around the edges. “And you wouldn’t be here needing clarification on decisions that, quite frankly, I stand wholeheartedly behind.”
Pepper’s jaw unhinged. “You kicked Peter out.”
And he had been doing so good at avoiding the whole thing —it— the topic he knew she was steaming with outage over. Granted, avoidance was always one of his best skill sets. Hung on display, sitting on a shelf somewhere in his tangled, messy mind.
Still, it had barely been over twenty-four hours since the whole ordeal occurred. In reality, perhaps his pride in avoidance was premature.
“See? Happy is dramatic, you shouldn’t listen to him.” Tony folded his arms over his chest, unintentionally mimicking Pepper’s stance. “Peter’s going to stay away from the compound for now. Indefinitely.”
The taptaptap of his shoe against the floor caught him off guard. Tony hadn’t realized his foot was anxiously bouncing until that moment, beating like a drum on the ground.
“Wise move, Tony,” Pepper scoffed, fixing him with a stern, disapproving look. “Instead of giving teenagers the consistency and support they thrive off of, you just throw them out the front door.”
Tony narrowed his eyes. “Now that’s harsh. He was escorted out where Happy drove him home in a cushy Rolls Royce. Not much of a sob story there.”
Pepper dropped her arms, the smack of hands to her hips leaving a wrinkle in the crisp, polished business suit she wore.
“You’re unbelievable. More than that, you’re a hypocrite! He makes one mistake and he’s out?” She shook her head. “Wasn’t the whole reason to have Peter spend weekends here so he could be taught the rights to his wrongs? Grow, be mentored, be trained and be taught? This is a direct quote from you, Tony, I can’t make these things up!”
Tony shrugged. “You’re just upset because you won’t be able to binge watch Netflix with the kid anymore. Don’t think I didn’t notice you were watching our shows without me.”
“Are you hearing yourself right now?” Pepper admonished. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Jury’s out.”
“Tony—”
“Yes, Pepper, I’m hearing myself!” Tony snapped, spinning to face her in his chair so fast, it left him reeling with dizziness. “And yes I know I said those things! But all those things go out the window the moment I lose control of that kid and can’t get it back! When he decides that all reason and responsibility can take a hike, and I have to be the one to make a call on whether or not I’m bringing in the goddamn Iron Man suit to stop him — it’s my worst fucking nightmare to use that armor against him and the possibility just became a very real thing! He’s stronger and...”
Tony’s voice trailed off, failing him when he needed it most. Something hard and tight grabbed at his throat, and he hastily averted his eyes once the familiar sting began to simmer.
“And...and you weren’t there, Pep. You weren’t there.” Suddenly, Tony sounded tired. Painfully tired.
Pepper exhaled slowly, her movements matching speed. She approached the table closest to him with gentle footsteps, sitting down on the edge, quietly placing folded hands in the center of her lap.
Understanding bloomed over her eyes. “What happened?”
Tony caved on the urge to clear his throat, shaking his head along the way.
“It doesn’t matter. You know the story, I trust Rogers to tell it how it is.” He looked up at Pepper, amusement briefly crossing over his face. “God, listen to me. Who thought I’d ever be saying that?”
Pepper’s smile was weak and half-lipped, never meeting her eyes in the same way that his amusement never touched his.
“So Peter really...went overboard with this training, then?” she asked, so quietly the hum of machines managed to overtake her words.
Tony scrubbed a hand down his face, unable to nod despite it being the appropriate action to take.
“He choked her. Exactly how it sounds, no room for interpretation. One moment they were sparing and the next...” his voice grew thin, inundated in unguarded emotion only she ever got to see. “I don’t know. I don’t know, it happened so fast. He wasn’t listening to us — any of us, not when I was screaming at him…nothing. Romanoff couldn’t shake him off no matter what she did. Hell, even Rogers had to put in some effort when ripping the kid away. Don’t think I’ve seen the man break a sweat over something so small.”
The tips of his index and middle fingers pressed heavily onto his temple and yet did little to alleviate the growing pressure behind his eyes. Tony could feel his ears throbbing almost as much as his chest at the recollection of an afternoon he would be ecstatic to forget — shove in a deep, dark cave never to be thought of again.
If only it were that simple.
Pepper kept a trained gaze on him, slowly running her one hand over the other.
“And the eyes?”
Tony looked up suddenly, eyebrows arched high.
“You believe that?” he asked, incredulously.
Pepper made a face. “You mean to tell me that you don’t?”
Tony groaned, hiding the sound in the palm of his hand as he rubbed mercilessly at his goatee. And here he'd been hoping that whole delusion was tossed out the window once logical, objective facts were brought into the discussion.
Of course not. Leave it to the Russian operative to cling onto the smallest inkling of a thread that existed. Plausible or not.
Tony couldn't wrap his head around it. On any other day, Natasha would have laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of what said, what she now stood so firm over. It was barely his luck that Bruce still held doubts, unable to back up her conviction with the most absurd of science he could cultivate.
“Pep…” Tony started, forcing himself to look up at her. “The woman had been deprived of oxygen for — Christ, nearly a minute. She wasn’t thinking straight, she wasn’t seeing clearly. I think the only eyes that were turning black were hers as she almost passed out.”
Pepper didn’t seem affected by his reasoning. “Steve seems to believe her.”
Tony rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I don’t think the virtuous Captain wants to admit that the next goody-two-shoes on his team went that far.”
Pepper arched an eyebrow. For a split second, her head twitched to the side, her expression flickering with something unreadable.
“I don’t think you want to admit that he went that far.”
Tony couldn’t hold her look, not this time. He turned away, drawing his attention anywhere else in the workshop — monitors that glowed dimly in idle mode, pieces and parts laid scattered about on benches — anywhere but straight ahead, where Pepper’s eyes locked on him, nonjudgmental but unwavering.
Damn.
She knew him well.
“There’s more to the story,” he quietly said, his words lacking the firmness to be anything more than hushed. “Things you don’t know...things they don’t know.”
Pepper didn’t speak, didn’t move. She didn’t do anything more than wait, patiently, with ears open for listening.
Tony ran his tongue across his teeth, expelling a sigh as forcefully as a punctured tire.
“Peter’s…” he paused, discomfort bringing forth every goosebump on the surface of his skin. “This isn’t all that new. For weeks now, the kid’s been showing signs of PTSD. Panic attacks, avoidance, bad attitudes..he’s...”
“A mini you after New York?”
Tony finally looked to Pepper, a ghost of a smirk barely crossing over his lips.
“Close to a carbon copy.”
Pepper gave a sad smile, acknowledging every unspoken word in a moment that held nothing but silence. She understood, more than anyone in his life possibly could. He didn’t need to be reminded of that, her presence simply was. A constant support, an anchor that kept him from diving in too deep.
All Tony wanted was to be that for Peter, in some way, in some capacity.
Like all things, he managed to screw that up too.
“I’ve been letting him hash it out however he needs to,” Tony explained, as if he was defending himself. “Giving him space, keeping a distance. Hoping he’d come to me when he finally felt ready.”
It was almost odd to say, like the words belonged to a different Tony from a different universe. It hadn’t even been a full month since the two of them returned from their road trip together. Thirty-days well spent, enjoyable, relaxing — absolutely no sign or indicator that something was wrong.
Thoughts ran rampant in Tony’s head, no less control than a bull let out of its cage. Was Peter hiding this from him all along? When did it all start?Why didn’t the kid feel comfortable talking about it with him?
Tony huffed to himself. He knew the answer to that one, loud and clear, no questions about it. Yesterday’s incident wasn’t exactly his proudest moment, all the way down to his team thinking he socked the kid in the nose. If he were in Peter’s shoes, he wouldn’t dare talk to him again.
But all he could see were the bruises around Natasha’s neck. Hearing himself screaming for Peter to stop. The way Cap had to pull him off, using strength he reserved for bulldozers and helicopters.
“It’s different now,” Tony murmured. “Baggage or not, if I give him any reason to think what he did was okay...then god knows how he’ll grow up. What he’ll do. Who he’ll become.”
In a way, it just wasn’t fair. He never asked to be someone others looked up to, he never asked to be their hero. He certainly never asked to guide another generation in his footsteps, making sure that every step of the way they found themselves better than he ever could have hoped to become.
Tony closed his eyes not a second before Pepper had leaned forward, resting a gentle hand across his forearm. He didn’t look up, not even as the scent of her perfume drifted close to him.
“You put so much pressure on yourself to shape Peter’s future,” she said, with such softness it hurt to hear.
Tony wearily lifted his head, eyes burning as he looked her straight-on.
“He almost didn’t have a future because of me.”
A memory of a moment in time they’d never soon forget swelled in both their chests, burrowing in every crevasse. It felt like yesterday they both sat in the same place, in a workshop torn apart by a tidal wave of premature grief, forced upon them.
Pepper didn’t waste time in standing up. Two steps and she was at Tony’s side, pulling his head gently into the tuck of her stomach.
“You, Tony… you are an amazing, brilliant, kindhearted albeit incredibly frustrating man who lately has managed to do nothing but put everyone’s best interest over your own. Just being in Peter’s life is more than enough, and yet you constantly strive to go above and beyond for him. He is so lucky to have you. And you? You are especially lucky to have him.”
Pepper grabbed both his cheeks with her hands, using gentle force as she brought his head up to look at her.
Tony smiled, the kind of tight-lipped grin that pulled at his cheeks, highlighting the crows-feet around his eyes. Genuine, sincere. Stark poise tucked away. The look he shared with Pepper was all Tony, all undeniably true to himself.
She brushed a stray hair away from his eyes, smiling softy before she quietly said,
“And you gotta bring him back.”
Tony’s sigh was strong enough rattle his shoulders, quaking through every fragile crack in his core.
“I know.” He nodded, and nodded again, until his neck felt too heavy to carry his own head. “I know...I know, and I plan to. I will. I’ve already got Cho on standby to check him out, investigate this whole...black eye nonsense everyone is so fixated on. Who knows, maybe the kid has a new power developing, maybe he’s legitimately growing eight eyes like an actual spider.”
Tony’s weak chuckle did little for Pepper, who barely twitched an upper lip. He stood from his chair, squeezing her hand briefly before taking a step away.
“He just…” Tony stared ahead at his monitors, inactive screens showing a reflection of his face. “He needs to stew in this a little while. Know what he did was wrong.”
“We both know Peter,” Pepper needlessly stated, her heels giving away the steps that brought her closer to Tony. “Punishment or no punishment, Peter definitely knows what he did was wrong.”
Tony almost wanted to laugh, a dry huff escaping his throat instead. The humor in the situation was bleak, more frustrating than amusing.
Pepper was right; Peter could step on a dogs tail and be making amends for the next week. This was the same boy who accidentally charged three-hundred dollars of extra data to his aunt’s cell phone plan and nearly had a stroke when he found out. It was only after spending the next two days promising that he’d make up for it with extra chores and a night job that Tony finally paid the bill off himself, just to get the kid to be quiet.
There was no doubt in his mind, with a heart of gold too big for his own chest, Peter knew full well he had gone too far.
Still...
“I just keep thinking...what if we hadn’t been there? Those two have had one-on-one sessions before. What if there was no one around that time?” Tony turned around to face Pepper, tucking his hands tightly into his armpits. “He choked someone, Pep. He could have seriously hurt her...or worse.”
A part of Tony had to wonder if this was more than just anger he felt. If he let himself think about it — truly think about it, a privilege he didn’t often grant his already fracturable mind — he might even go as far to say he was nervous over the whole thing. Afraid of Peter. Not who he could become, not the future that could be fabricated. It was the very present that sent a chill down his spine.
He had never seen the kid so out of control before.
It opened a flood of possibilities he didn’t want to dare think about.
“Yeah...” Pepper nodded, tilting her head slightly to the side. “And when has that ever sounded like Peter to you?”
A fragment of every buried emotion Tony kept under lock and key began to rise to the surface, pressure building and cracking at his resilience and denial.
He didn’t grace the question with a response.