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Peter blinked back to consciousness with a thunderous headache.

The lights in the room were dimmed low — even squinting he could barely make out the tiles along the ceiling.

Wait, the ceiling?

He furrowed his brows, realizing that he was looking up; laying on his back in a bed slightly raised up a few degrees high. He didn’t need to be fully awake to know it wasn’t his decade-old, lumpy mattress; and that this wasn’t his bedroom back in Queens.

The ceiling tiles were much too far away. The longer he stared at them, the further they seemed to get. Like a balloon floating out of reach.

Peter had to force himself to blink, the action ten times the effort he knew it should take. Peering his eyes back open was a fight against gravity he couldn’t win, and instead, they stayed closed.

The dancing colors beneath his eyelids provided a brief moment of distraction. He nearly forgot where his focus had been when a noise grounded him back to awareness.

“Mr. Parker.” A voice broke through his growing disorientation. “Finally decide to grace us with your presence?”

Peter grunted quietly in protest, with a broken noise of distress, before opening his eyes to a groggy squint. His neck lolled to the side and he blinked not once, not twice, but three times to clear the cobwebs out of his vision — already grayed at the edges with a hazy pain.

Even then, he wasn’t too sure that his eyes weren’t lying to him.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter rasped, the words coming out thick and muffled.

Tony simply arched an eyebrow. “You always say that like you’re surprised to see me.”

The first thing Peter noticed was how flippant Mr. Stark sounded; like this was a conversation they’d had many times before. And while Tony’s expression softened, Peter’s scrunched up with confusion. He shook his head, his neck heavy and stiff. A movement of a millimeter felt like an impossible effort.

Tony leaned forward in the upholstered armchair placed next to his bed, resting both his elbows on his knees and lazily clasping his hands together. His casual attire of a wrinkled polo shirt and grease-stained jeans was a sharp contrast to the three-piece Armani suits Peter was used to seeing him dressed in. Lab nights in Tony's workshop were really the only time he ever saw Mr. Stark dress like — well, like he didn't plan to go anywhere else for the night.

Peter's eyes rolled to the corners of the room, trying to figure out where exactly Mr. Stark had decided to camp out — because there was no way he'd going to some sort of important meeting after this. Not looking like that.

“Where am I?” Peter blearily asked, lifting one hand to rub at the crust gluing his eyes shut.

He stopped when a stinging prick ran up the length of his arm — something pulling sharp on another thing that connected to something that had him hissing through clenched teeth.

Peter dry swallowed, catching sight of what caused the annoying sensation.

‘I.V’s?’ His eyes stared at thick tubes accessing every available vein up and down his body, the integrity of his skin long since violated and intruded.

“Upstate,” Tony answered, quick to get his attention. “Avengers compound. Infirmary medbay, for specifics.”

Peter did a quick look around the room — the enormous room that had to be easily three times the size of his own bedroom back in Queens. It looked like a hospital room — a very, incredibly fancy, hospital room.

Straight in front of him, embedded within the wall, was a flat-screen TV larger than if he spread both his arms out wide — Peter wasn't aware they made televisions that big. To the side of that was a long, plush sofa sitting flush against the bay window, taking up half the wall. Curtains were drawn over the glass of the window, hiding the view from outside. 

It was a giant leap from his over-night stay at Metro-General hospital, back when he was a kid. Having his tonsils removed and the ice-cream he received afterward was nothing compared to this.

'Avengers compound,' he echoed Mr. Stark's words to himself, his brow twitching into a crease. 'Medbay?'

Peter went to adjust himself in the bed; lift his back up a little higher and —

“Ah-ahcKK- ha! ”

“Easy, easy,” Tony was quick to coax, leaning forward in his chair to keep Peter from moving — not that Peter had any plans to move, perfectly content with never adjusting any of his functional limbs ever again.

Moving was a bad idea; a very, very bad idea. Peter’s body locked up with stiff muscles, biting his tongue and holding his breath to keep every fiber of himself still.

"Take it slow, kiddo,” he heard a voice cut through the sharp, throbbing agony pulling at his joints. Peter barely managed a nod of his head, eyes clenched tightly as he waited for his body to stop screaming.

Second by second though, the pain faded back into a droning hum. Like a stress ball returning to its natural shape, Peter could feel his body calming down; his nerves extinguishing the fiery wrath he'd caused to himself.

That hurt.

That hurt a lot.

Slowly, with each deliberate breath he took, Peter began to note that a pressure laid heavily against his chest. That was a new development — it was as if someone was pushing him back against the mattress, intent on keeping him as motionless as possible.

The blinding white of pain diminished from his eyes and he saw that the arm belonged to Mr. Star; the man’s expression flooded with concern.

Below that was the glimmer of silver, metal reflecting from the dim overhead lights above. It was attached to his leg, embedding inside his leg — the limb exposed from the sheets and blankets.

Peter gawked, realizing with horror that there was metal attached to his leg. He wiggled his toes for good measure — yep, his leg alright.

“Careful," Tony warned him, clearing his throat a few times before continuing. "We’re going to get that removed soon. Until then you’re...ten percent walking robot. Dream come true for a kid of your nerdy stature, right?”

Tony’s forced laugh faded away in the melody of machines surrounding them.

Peter could feel the dazed look on his face, the incomprehensible confusion eating away at his mind. He had never broken a bone before in his life before, and now here he was, staring at a leg that looked straight out of a science fiction movie.

The Winter Soldier's metal arm suddenly didn’t seem so ‘cool’ anymore.

“What happened?” The question tumbled out of his mouth without a second thought, hoarse and crackling at the ends. Nausea gurgled in his stomach and suddenly made him feel flushed and hot and yet still cold — always cold.

“You took a hit,” Tony explained, his voice purposefully lacking any emotion. If not sounding a bit blasé. “You’ll shake it off.”

Peter blinked, digesting the information slowly. Bits and pieces of what happened were already starting to form, and it took every ounce of strength he had to push them away from the forefront of his mind.

His hands trembled. He could scantly make out the tight, mildly uncomfortable bands strapped around his wrists, keeping both hands immobile from flexing. The feeling of tape tugged at his abdomen each time he breathed in, along with the scratchy cotton gauze covering his skin.

His head ached, his eyes hurt, his nose felt inflamed — the colors were too bright, the smells too strong. His senses hadn’t been so out of whack since the spider-bite.

Peter rubbed at his eyes with fingertips that hurt — because holy crap everything seemed to hurt — and at that moment Karen seemed to echo in his ears like he'd unlocked a forgotten memory.

“Your enhanced senses struggled greatly to see through the man’s fog,” she had once said, what felt to be a millennia ago. “The strain appears to have given you a migraine.”

A migraine — Peter managed a small scoff; that was putting it subtly. His senses had been so incredibly dulled exposed to that fog, and who knows for how long — days? Weeks?

The question was on the tip of his tongue, his mouth opening to ask Mr. Stark — only to stop one breath short of speaking.

His memories were dusty, just beyond his reach. The most vivid moment he seemed to remember was fishing with Ben.

‘Ben.’ 

Peter's shoulders slumped, his mouth falling slack. Suddenly, he didn't want the answers to his ordeal. Real or not, he decided to cling to that moment with Ben above everything else.

He wasn’t ready to cross the bridge that held the clarity of reality. At least not yet.

“I gotta say Parker," When Tony realized he wasn’t going to say anything, the man settled back into his cushioned chair, folding both arms over his chest. "You’re something else. About as bad-ass as they come, if I may insinuate,” Tony went on, his words dissipating into an indiscernible hum. “You know, I assumed you had peaked with that building last fall. That whole shindig of lifting ten tons off your back without so much as a crane for backup — no, you just had to go and one-up yourself, show off that extra pocket of gumption you got kicking about. You surprised the hell out of...”

Peter quickly realized he wasn’t able to pay attention. His eyes stared at Tony, yet he looked right through him; his vision blurry, fuzzy. He struggled to maintain consciousness, trying to surface against a submersive force — a weight that tried to pull him into obliterative darkness.

Was it the drugs? It felt like drugs. Or was it just late at night?

Looking to the large bay window, Peter could see a flicker of moonlight spilling in through the drawn curtains, telling him it was late in the evening. Maybe that was it, maybe it was just late. Maybe he just needed to sleep.

Yet Peter couldn’t shake the odd feeling settling in his bones. The sense of inescapability that gripped him so tightly back in the base; feeling like he had never even left.

He didn’t even remember leaving.

Maybe he needed to hear the answers of his ordeal after all. Maybe once he heard the story of their harrowing escape, he’d feel better. He’d be able to discern what was real, what was a dream...and what all was a nightmare.

Sitting there, clad in a one-size-too-big hospital gown, Peter realized it all felt like one horrible nightmare. He fiddled with the edges of the blankets and the sheets on top of him, distantly wondering if this was just another hallucination brought on by his captors.

“Let’s get something straight, spider-kid. The world thinks you’re dead. That warehouse that exploded? They think you were in it." Mysterio smiled. "No one is coming for you. Not even Tony Stark.”

“Hey.” Tony snapped two fingers in front of his face. “Anyone home?”

Peter ducked his head, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He felt the warm pressure of tears building in his eyes, but was quick to blink them away before anyone could notice.

“Y-yeah, uh..." he cleared his throat. And then again. "Yeah, sorry. I’m just...”

He was breathing shallowly, he could feel it. And apparently Tony noticed it himself, resting a firm hand around his shoulder and placing his face directly in Peter’s view.

“You okay?” Tony asked, genuine concern lacing his tone. “You need me to get Cho, Banner, you need more painkillers —?”

“No, no, I’m — I’m fine, I’m...” Peter fought against his emotions, roughly clearing his throat along the way. The nervous oscillations in his own voice surprised him. “My senses are just...a little haywire right now.”

It wasn't a lie. Peter's voice cracked at the edges from the raw honesty he spoke. Everything was too overwhelming right now — the taste of antiseptic on his tongue, the smell of cotton against his nostrils, the plastic and metal, the beeping and buzzing — every coherent thought he tried to have was ripped away in the chaos of his own senses.

He focused on Ben. Peter didn’t want to lose that memory, he didn’t want to remember anything else. He just wanted to be back there, back with Ben. Back in a time when everything was okay.

“Well, let’s get you re-calibrated then.” Tony gave his shoulder three firm pats before pulling away. “Water? You need some water?”

Peter decided it was best just to nod.

While Tony crossed the room to fill a cup with water, Peter also decided to do a one-over of his body. More mental than anything else, closing his eyes along the way to try and ground the sensations of his own pain.

Breathing hurt his stomach, that much he knew. It was razor deep, migrating from his back to his front and radiating across his abdomen. Like a fire-poker had slammed through him with flames still ignited. And though his wrists and leg throbbed and ached, nothing could top that constant, flooding pain from his stomach.

For a brief and fleeting moment, Peter considered testing his body’s limits — to see what other limbs would protest with unspeakable pain. But staring at the deep blue stain coloring the length of his leg, with a bruise darker than the night sky outside, he decided that any other injuries could happily wait.

It was haunting; seeing the bruising from where a metal rod lay embedded in his skin, in his muscle — penetrating through his bone. It spread like ink dropped onto wet paper, all the way from his knee to his ankle. An ominous storm cloud across his skin.

Peter fought to cover the sight with the soft hospital blanket, the newly gained perspective of his own vulnerability bringing forth a different weight to the situation.

Reminding him a bit too harshly how very, very close to death he'd been.

His hands fumbled as he tried to gather the sheets; tangled over blankets, over wires — over drainage bags that got caught up in his haste to hide the offending limb.

It was at that moment Tony returned, immediately setting down a plain white styrofoam cup on the nearest end table so he could help him.

“Hey, it’s fine." Tony managed to get the sheet over his leg with one easy movement. "I mean it, we’re going to get that fixed up,” he said, giving one halfhearted attempt at evening out the wrinkles on the sheet. “We’ve been busy giving your healing factor a push in the right direction, but listen — that’s our next priority. You’re fine, Peter.”

Tony's emphasis on ‘fine’ almost had Peter laughing. He instead settled on, once again, just nodding.

After all, what was he supposed to say — that he was scared?

Why was he scared? He was safe, he was at the Avenger’s compound and he was safe.

There was no reason to tell Mr. Stark that he was afraid, that he felt a crushing sense of doom clawing at his chest —‘I don’t want to die’ front and center, despite the heart monitor telling him he was alive and he was fine.

He was fine.

Right?

Peter tucked the dark thoughts away as he tucked the bed-sheet around his leg, covering the gnarly looking injury away and out of sight. As he did, he noticed the dark, grimy brown that stained the tips of his nails.

Beneath the tubes, IV’s and clear medical tape that wrinkled his skin, he could see blood caked underneath his fingernails.

His blood, he reminded himself.

He should be grateful, right? He was still alive.

But back there — back in the base — it was dark. While he could feel his blood, Peter never really saw it.

Here, it was all visible to the naked eye. Even under the dimmed lights of the room.

Suddenly, looking at himself made everything all too tangible. Peter couldn’t shake the feeling of shock. His mind felt like sludge trying to rattle its way loose, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the drugs pumping through the IV’s or the sudden, coherent awareness that he almost died.

This wasn’t a hallucination. This was real. And Ned had said it once before but it never really hit him until now — he could have died.

Peter quickly stuffed his hand underneath the blanket. He couldn’t quite let the events of what happened take shape yet.

“Is my aunt here?” he choked out instead, shifting slightly on the bed.

Tony nodded, looking to the ceiling as he spoke, “FRIDAY?”

“Already alerted her, boss.” The AI was quieter than usual. Peter could have sworn she was being sensitive to his overly-heightened senses, sounding more like Karen with an emotion he knew wasn't possible. “She’s on her way over.”

Peter muttered a ‘thanks’, leaning over to grab a hold of the water cup next to him. The task was seemingly more difficult without the basic ability to flex his wrist. Once in his grasp, he managed two small sips of water before deciding the taste of styrofoam was too overpowering to handle.

He never even noticed when Mr. Stark took the cup out of his hands. He was already letting his head rest against the pillow behind his neck, closing his eyes tighter than usual — willing himself not to ponder needlessly on his own mortality.

‘You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine,’ Peter kept telling himself, pushing away the obvious.

He was fine.

He had to be fine.

Time passed between them one slow second before the next, punctuated only by constant beeps and the dull hum of the myriad of machines.

After what seemed like a thousand beeps, Tony spoke up. “You with me there, Pete?”

Peter cleared his throat, wanting so desperately to have his voice back. It felt like he'd swallowed one of those flaming swords; the soft tissue to his larynx feeling both cut and burned.

“Yeah, I’m-sorry. I’m just...tired?” He nodded, eyes still closed as if convincing himself of the very words he spoke. “Feel like I might fall asleep again.”

“Yeah, well, don’t fight it,” Tony encouraged him, his voice quieter than before. “You need all the rest you can get.”

The mere effort of trying to stay awake sent a harsh shudder through his muscles. Peter was unsure if it was from the cold or increasingly deep ache in his body.

“Right, right,” he barely managed around the awful lump in his throat. “I just...want to see May first.”

Peter's voice slurred a bit at the end, coated with drowsiness. Right when he was sure he would fall asleep, the automatic doors to the room swooshed open.

Tony looked up at the newcomer entering the room. “Well, speak of the devil —”

“Look at you!” May crossed the distance from doors-to-bed in record-breaking speed, gathering Peter in her arms faster than he could take in her sudden presence. “Oh honey, it is so good to see you awake.”

The pressure in his chest eased a little bit as May wrapped him up in a hug, the scent of her perfume calming; warm vanilla nearly masking the scent of sterile antiseptic.

“Hi, May,” he languidly greeted, so tired, but awake enough to give a drowsy smile.

“Hi yourself, tough guy,” she said — half into his ear, half into his hair.

Peter barely managed an arm around her back, his movements slow and uncoordinated.

As he did, Tony stood from his chair with a tired grunt hidden beneath the clearing of his throat.

“I’ll give you two some privacy,” he said, walking past them both.

May pulled away and Peter shook his head, tired eyes half-mast and brows creased.

“You don’t have to — it’s fine, Mr. Stark, really —”

“Nonsense,” Tony insisted, dodging Peter’s diversion with ease. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

Tony flashed a hint of a smile, making for the exit and only stopping before the doors would open for him. He spun on his heels with a finger pointed squarely at Peter.

“Rest up, Parker — is that clear? I expect a full recitement of Pi next time I see you.”

The automatic doors slid open with another airy hum. Tony disappeared somewhere out in the hallway, his departure taking with him the ringing of his cell phone. Only his shadow was visible as he stopped somewhere a few feet away, having whipped out his phone to handle business like the busy man Peter knew he was.

Peter looked away from that shadow and back to May with knitted brows. “I...I don’t think I can —”

“He’s joking.” May ran her fingers through his hair with a shake her head. “And no, he’s not very funny. I’m telling you kiddo, the past week with that man has been—”

“Week!?” Peter’s shout fell out of his mouth as a croak, his eyes widening to impressive saucers. “Week? It’s — it’s been a week?”

“Hey hey, calm down,” May stressed, keeping her fingers in his hair and continuing to brush through the curls with slow, soft motions. “A few days, okay? Five, I think. But don’t go freaking out on me. You know I freak out when you freak out.”

Peter could see May had resorted to what she did best — mitigating. Her sloppy bun, over-sized cardigan, and puffy, swollen eyes told him a different story, though.

She had been freaking out, and he hadn’t even been around to witness it.

Even worse — he was the cause of it.

“Sorry. Sorry, sorry, I just...” Peter swallowed thickly, goosebumps fleeing up and down his arm. His hands bunched tightly in the sheets below him. “It’s been...been that long? I...I…”

Peter went to adjust himself again and was crudely reminded that his body did not want to be moved right now. He winced, trying his best to breathe past the pain, despite breathing being the very thing causing the pain.

“I’m so, so sorry, May,” he managed, hands fumbling to adjust the nasal cannula strapped around his face. There was a sudden need to feel the coolness entering his lungs, to believe he was breathing — to believe he was alive.

“Hey, whoa,” May interjected, calm and persuasive. “Why you apologizing?”

Peter bit his lower lip, hesitant to respond.

He always knew two things growing up — Uncle Ben stayed calm, always cool as a cucumber while Aunt May was tough as nails; a strong woman inside and out. He knew that for her to be crying, it had to come with the conjunction of something major.

Losing family. Losing a loved one.

He may not fully remember what happened to him, but Peter knew one thing for certain — an upset May was a bad thing.

“I can’t believe I...that I put you through so much. I put you through this. I — I let this happen, and I promised I’d be careful as Spider-Man and I wasn’t, I messed up — and now you —”

“Okay, take a breath there, bug boy.” May moved her hands to his shoulders, holding her grip firm. “It’s okay, this was way out of your control. I’m not mad. I’m just —”

She interrupted her own words to lean in and kiss him on the cheek, making an audible ‘mhpf!’ sound with it. “I’m just so glad you’re okay.”

Peter kept his head low, staring at the sheets rather than looking at May. Her words of reassurance meant little. Not with her appearance, not with how rattled she looked.

He hadn’t seen her look so rough around the edges since Ben passed.

Peter shifted uneasily, the need to sleep suddenly replaced with an overwhelming desire to hide away. To curl in a ball and let himself mope — cry — for days, weeks, months.

And yet he couldn’t even curl in a ball right if he wanted to. His own body was incapable of even shifting to the side, not without a blinding pain reminding him that he was hurt — that he almost died.

As irrational as the thought was, Peter found himself angry at that. At having that option taken away from him, at having limited movement to his own body. It was foolish, it made no sense — it wasn’t like him to think this way. This wasn’t like him at all.

‘Yeah, well, it’s not like you to get kidnapped and nearly killed either, Parker.' Peter pressed the heels of his hands firmly against his eyes, desperate to keep the burning, unshed tears at bay. 'Way to go on that one.’

God, he really screwed up this time. This was on a whole other playing field from the incident at Times Square, from letting Mysterio steal the chameleon helmet. This was embarrassingly huge — way beyond the Ferry.

Peter had no clue how he was going to prove himself again after this.

“Peter?” May watched him carefully, squeezing her grip. “Talk to me, you’re scaring me.”

He hadn't realized he'd zoned out, again, until May clenched his shoulder with colored nails that dug through the oversized hospital gown he wore. It had begun to slip down the front of his chest, and Peter went to adjust the gown, only to stop halfway there and shake his head with growing frustration.

“I’m just...really upset that I made you worry.” Peter hated hearing his voice waver with weakness, with wet with tears he hadn’t let loose. “I don’t like it when you’re upset.”

If his voice had grown any more quiet, the beeping of machines attached to him would've swallowed the words whole.

May heard, nonetheless. Peter had a feeling she would've heard regardless.

“I’m not upset, sweetie, But I think you are.” May couldn’t have been any softer, her tone delicate — reassuring. Everything Peter didn't realize he desperately needed. “What’s going on? Talk to me, it’s just you and me. Lay it out.”

Peter opened his mouth to respond — insist he was fine, that he was okay.

That there was nothing for May to worry about, that she didn't need to stress out over him.

That he was fine.

Instead, a harsh cry got caught in his throat, strangling his words on their escape.

May sighed. “Oh, honey —”

“I’m f-f-ine,” Peter insisted, his hands flying to his face and covering himself from view. “I’m fin—”

He wished he hadn’t tried to respond in the first place. Like a rubber band pulled back too tight, he found himself snapping — breaking. His cries were loud, smothered only by the palms of his hands.

“I’m s-sorry!” Peter sobbed, as loud as his voice would let him — yet his words muffled in the skin of his own hands. “I’m-sorry-sor —!”

He latched onto May’s voice as she brought him close to her chest, her familiar and old cardigan a grounding feeling against his skin.

“Shh, shh, honey it’s okay,” May cajoled, as if she had been prepared for the moment all along. “It’s okay. Let it out, you're okay."

It happened quickly; one cry tearing off into two, choking off into more. Though the doors to the hospital room were shut by automatic nature, the sounds easily leaked out into the hallway. Managing to slip through glass and drywall and drifting away from the seclusion of just the two of them.

Tony had still been looking at his phone’s text messages when he heard it.

By knee-jerk reaction he began to walk away; his head down low, dodging the corners only by habit.

This wasn’t a moment for him to bear witness to. It felt private. Intensely private.

Tony wasn’t oblivious; he could see the anxiety riddling Peter, the distant look in his eyes and the small muscle in his chin working — quivering. The tension had been palpable, and after all the kid had gone through, he certainly deserved a break-down or two. Or six.

It was no surprise he waited for the comfort of his aunt until he had one.

An ember of jealousy ignited in Tony's chest at the odd desire to have been there instead. It wasn’t his place or his time. He said it once before and he’d say it again — they weren’t there yet.

On the way to the elevators, Tony saw a familiar figure walking towards him from the other side of the hallway. He hesitated on pressing the elevator button door as he locked eyes with the woman, noting that she had done the same with him.

“Mr. Stark.” Helen’s steps were stead-fast and purposeful as she approached him.

Tony let his hand fall away from the elevator button, turning to face her completely.

“Doctor Cho,” he greeted in return, taking a step away from the elevator and towards her.

She was in front of him within seconds, her high-heels doing nothing to slow her down.

“You should know that I just got out of a meeting discussing Peter’s condition with the orthopedic and wound care teams. We believe another week here at the compound’s infirmary will serve his purpose for recovery. He’s already healing at a phenomenal rate. I think a few physical therapy sessions and he’ll be good to go,” Helen explained, quickly going on to hold up a finger in the air. “However, while he’s here —”

“Run every and any test your heart desires,” Tony finished for her, keeping his chin held high. “He’s yours to poke and prod — in the best sense, of course.”

A tired smile on Tony's lips was enough for Helen to return the gesture. Equally as tired, of course, and highlighting the blue moons that sat underneath her eyes.

“Of course.” Helen fiddled with the tablet in both her hands, her manicured fingernails digging into the protective case. “I also wanted to apologize. For the way everything initially went down. I’m sorry that I yelled at you.”

Tony stuffed both his hands deep into his jeans pockets. “Well...I’m sorry that I gave you a reason to yell at me.”

The response earned him a growing smile from Helen, one that he matched with his own Stark poise.

She bowed her head as she brushed past Tony’s shoulder, continuing down the hallway towards her own destination. It wasn’t until she was a handful of steps away that she stopped, suddenly twirling on her heels.

“Oh, Tony?”

He turned to face her, his shoulders pulled back tightly.

Helen abruptly shook her head. “Never mind.”

“No no, you’ve more than earned it." Tony removed one hand from his pant pocket, gesturing it to her. "What’s on your mind?”

“It’s..." Helen clutched the tablet closer to her chest. "It's really none of my business.”

Tony could only smirk.

“Everyone and their mother has been prying into my business as of late," he told her, a sense of humor lacing his tone where there otherwise would have been exasperation. "Have yourself a gander.”

Tony was glad that, at the very least, his voice was finally starting to regain some semblance of who he was — the suave and calm Tony Stark drenching through each word he spoke. The last week had taken more than just a toll on him, but it seemed things were finally starting to look up.

Helen seemed to sense that from him, re-approaching the elevator he stood near with her tablet still clutched close to her chest.

“It’s just...” she started cautiously, almost measured. “I want you to be prepared for what’s up ahead."

Tony arched an eyebrow, slightly confused — while Helen dipped her chin low, falling sincere.

"For what’s in store for Peter," she clarified. "Being there for someone else's recovery...it isn’t easy. It takes more than just money and resources. It...requires a fierce commitment of sorts. Just make sure you’ll be able to do that for him.”

Tony heard the unspoken in her words. It was hard not to — it was like everyone else prying into his business lately, saying what they felt needed said without actually saying it. As if they all wanted Tony to figure it out for himself, with little nudges along the way.

Again, Tony wasn't oblivious. Between his team, the love of his life, even May Parker herself was obvious about it — they all said the same thing in different ways.

He had to admit, though, 'fierce commitment' was a first.

“Thank you, Helen,” Tony said with a nod. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

'Fierce commitment.'

Tony didn't say it aloud, but he had to admit — he liked the sound of that.

Helen tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear and nodded, a little too quick to walk away. Tony let her; they were both poorly equipped for the display of emotions. He wouldn't push the moment anymore than it was already pushed.

He considered her words as he stepped into the elevator, his thumb absentmindedly hitting the button leading to his workshop below.

'A fierce commitment.’ That was a far cry from his stagnant plan to distance himself from Peter.

Empathize on the word stagnant, of course. Tony rubbed at the nape of his neck as he slipped through the still-opening doors of the elevator. He knew full well he hadn’t done a damn thing to follow through with that.

It was a thought stored away for another time.

Tony walked into his workshop with heavy steps, unable to hold back the heavy sigh that followed. All while he sat down at the table ahead, right where the red and blue Spider-Man suit laid spread out. It'd been turned inside out with all the wires exposed, more black and gold than the colors it normally held.

He had been putting this off for too long. Pepper had the suit cleaned days ago, returning it to him where it laid untouched and in desperate need for repairs. With Bruce working on the 'new skin' project for Peter’s leg, Tony didn’t have any excuses left.

It was time to get the damn thing repaired.

“You have taken quite the hit, sweetie,” Tony muttered, pulling on a cable that he delicately, and with great hesitation, plugged into the suit’s mainframe.

It took longer than he was content with for the suit to come to life. His designs were meant to be immediate, fast — to start-up within a literal blink of the eye.

By the time the suit connected with the monitor ahead, it had been a minute and a half. Tony knew; he watched the clock the entire time.

The screen lit up with binary code as a soft, feminine voice came playing through the monitor speakers.

“Mr. Stark. It’s good to hear from you again,” Karen — the name Peter had given his AI — greeted. “May I ask what happened?”

Tony felt a small twitch of a smile pull at his lips at the sound of her voice. Artificial, and yet in many was, not.

While he greatly missed JARVIS, Vision held that voice now; reminding him of his first AI and keeping that loss from being an empty hole left behind. And he adored FRIDAY’s smooth and pleasant Irish accent, designed specifically to keep him calm in stressful situations.

But Karen was designed after his mother.

Tony didn’t get to hear her often — for the best, it wasn’t productive for him, stirring memories he didn’t think he’d ever fully recover from. When designing the suit, he mixed in a sample of his mother’s voice in hopes that it would nurture Peter; to prevent him from becoming cold and heartless in a business that wore down the good in someone’s heart.

He leaned back in his chair, savoring the warm flutter that settled in his chest.

“I was actually hoping you could tell me, Karen," Tony said, his eyes already bouncing along the binary code littering the screens. "Pull up the black box, please. Show the latest recording on the Baby Monitor.”

The binary code was replaced with live footage. It was full of static at first, slowly clearing away bit by bit.

Tony's growing sense of panic at what he’d see was quickly replaced with confusion; downright baffled at the sight of Peter’s reflection staring back at him — and the camera — from a full-length mirror.

That wasn't the burning building he expected to see.

“Hi. Hey,” Peter spoke to the mirror, rubbing his hands together nervously. “Is this thing on?”

Tony quirked an eyebrow, unable to resist the smirk at how incredibly ridiculous the kid looked. The Spider-Man mask covered his face while the rest of him was casually dressed — tan slacks and a t-shirt that read ‘I make horrible science puns but only Periodically.’

“Good morning, Peter,” Karen’s voice filtered through. “How was your final exam?”

Peter waved her off. “Oh, I haven’t taken that yet. That’s later today. I just wanted to practice a few things before I go to school.”

“Practice?”

Peter jumped from one foot to the next. “Yeah! So, Falcon — Mr. Wilson, I mean — Sam, he, uh, he and the others showed me these dance moves. I’ve been practicing them and want to see how they look. Okay, ready? One, two —”

Tony barked a laugh so loud, it startled himself.

“Your moves are very good, Peter!”

“Yeah? You think? Okay, check this out.”

Tony lowered his chin to his chest, head shaking with little huffs of laughter. It was — quite frankly, embarrassing to watch the footage. He hadn’t gotten such a good laugh from the Baby Monitor Program since the kid decided to impersonate Thor in his bathroom mirror with a meat hammer.

The kid was a kid, after all. Sometimes Tony forgot about that. He was too smart for his age, too good for someone that young.

Running his hand over the length of his chin, Tony began to recall the night Peter spoke of. Jesus, how could he forget? The team had been at their best that night; playing childish high-school games, getting to know each other better, getting to know Peter better — hell, Natasha and the kid even danced ballerina style in front of them all.

If Tony had known then how quickly things would have gone south...

“I apologize, Mr. Stark. The data systems have struggled to catch up on the correct calendar date,” Karen announced, skipping through the bedroom footage and fast-forwarding through the rest. “I have found the latest footage recorded through the Baby Monitor Program. Would you like me to play it?”

The computer monitor paused suddenly, and Tony was quick to slide back into the rhythm of the task.

“No," Tony sighed. “But go ahead.”

On cue, the footage played.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter shouted, his voice yelling over the wooden beams that collapsed to the ground. “Mr. Stark, what’s going on!?”

Tony steeled himself as the playing video appeared before him, the inside of a burning building causing his pulse to swell in a steady war drum on his temples.

Flames twirled around like enticing monsters through the lens of the Spider-Man mask and suddenly Tony was back there again, he could feel it — he could smell the burning wood and pitch black smoke that filled his lungs with blazing ash.

But it stopped. As suddenly as the flames sizzled in view, the footage cut into static.

Tony leaned forward, intrigued; clasping his hands together and letting his chin rest against his knuckles.

It would be minutes that he watched the static play, too consumed with his own memories to tell Karen to fast-forward. When the video began to play live footage again, it came in the appearance of dissipating fog; slowly clearing the way of the camera lens within the mask.

“Kid, get out of there, now!” Tony’s own voice yelled through the coms, recorded from within. “Peter, NOW!”

The lens stared directly at a looming pile of Chitauri; tampered and re-assembled alien tech that glowed a scorching hot red.

“I can’t — I can’t!” The person wearing the mask yelled, sounding like Peter —  acting in a panic. The eyes never looked away from the ticking time bombs. “I’m stuck, I — you gotta help me, Tony, I’m stuck!”

The footage froze at the exact moment the mask was removed, mid-air as it fell to the ground.

And that was it.

“It would appear that my systems somehow went offline at this moment,” Karen softly said, her tone oddly emphatic. “That’s the last recording I have.”

Tony knew the building would explode a second later. He knew the man impersonating Peter would have been teleported away before ever becoming victim to its deathly, blistering flames.

He knew all this information would come later as hindsight and he hated —  he absolutely hated that he fell for their trick.

“I’m stuck, I — you gotta help me, Tony, I’m stuck!”

It replayed in his head on a loop, despite the fact that the screen ahead had frozen. The last frame of the footage was a still-image that taunted him, and may very well for the remainder of his life.

The mask fell mid-throw and the lens captured sight of Dmitri, his head covered in the pristine white Chameleon helmet. Masking his identity.

Tony stared at him, at the helmet — his creation, his invention.

And he sighed.

“I wish I had figured it out sooner, kid,” Tony muttered.

Hindsight was twenty-twenty, after all, and a useless tool at that. Though the monitor showed Dmitri in his prime, Tony savored the last image he had of the man; beaten to a pulp, drowning in the sea waters he tried to use to his own advantage.

Tony hadn’t felt such hatred for someone since flying to Gulmira and giving those terrorists exactly what they deserved.

The doors swooshing open warned him to a new presence before he could be surprised.

“Boss?”

Tony smacked his index finger on the keyboard, quick to turn off the monitors and the footage they played.

“Thought I wasn’t your boss anymore?” Tony promptly spun around in his chair to face the doors.

Happy stopped in his tracks, shooting Tony an aggravated look. He readjusted the cardboard box held against his chest before continuing into the workshop.

Tony pointed a finger his way. “Hey, whatever happened with that casket? You return it?”

Happy shook his head rather exasperatedly. “No, Tony, I didn’t return the casket.”

Tony hummed with thought, tapping his foot on the floor to match each step Happy took towards him.

“Whatcha think I should do with it?”

“I don’t know. Donate it?” Happy plopped the cardboard box down in front of him, purposefully avoiding the Spider-Man suit that laid out on the table. “May wanted you to have this. It’s some things she brought back from Queens — says it important you get it.”

Tony feigned shock. “May? What happened to ‘the kid’s aunt?’ You’re on first-name basis with her now?”

Happy turned to leave, aggressively massaging his temples. “Why are you so annoying?”

“It’s my hobby,” Tony called out, wheeling his chair closer to the box.

“Find a new one.” Happy didn’t waste any time leaving the workshop, his annoyance evident. 

Tony had a gut feeling the irritation was more about being told he couldn’t legally fire so much of the SI staff without probable cause, because yes, he did listen to Pepper when she spoke about her day.

Either way, he’d catch up with the man later — and figure out what to do with the casket another day. Donating it didn’t sound too bad of an idea.

Tony flipped open the sides of the box with ease, immediately greeted with the aromatic scent similar to old books and dusty paper. The box wasn’t big, maybe a little larger than a shoe box.

With one fluid motion, he flipped it upside down, laying the contents on the table below.

He furrowed his brows; it only contained paper. Tony spread the belongings out with both his hands, noting that it was an array of different items — photographs, children's drawings, and school reports.

“What’s going through your mind here, Ms. Parker...” he mumbled to himself, picking up the first heavy-weight construction paper that caught his eye.

It was a drawing of Iron Man; the suit flying in the skies, hopefully done by a child from the way it was crudely sketched. Tony cocked his head to the side, wondering why the hell the color red had been replaced with hot pink. He flipped it over briefly, noting the scribbled signature of ‘Peter Parker’ on the back, before turning it around again and examining the work.

He remembered, not too long after the New York incident, his home address was flooded with drawings of the like. Pepper took it upon herself to handle the newly acquired influx amount of mail, always insisting she enjoyed looking at the drawings. Tony never considered that for as many as they received, there had to be an equal amount never mailed out.

On the bottom and in pink crayon were the words “Ned took my red crayon. Iron Man is supposed to be red!” and next to that — in red crayon, “Ha-ha! All your red crayons belong to me!”

The handwriting on both was nearly indecipherable.

Tony shuffled through a handful of childish drawings, slightly amused at just how fascinated the kid was with Iron Man at such a young age. The more he looked through them though and he quickly realized it wasn’t just him the kid looked up to — Captain America, Hawkeye, Hulk, Black Widow; they all got the crayon treatment at some point.

Tony absentmindedly wondered if Ben and May were the type of parents who tried to trash the drawings; stuff them here in this box as a life lesson that the kid needed to dream more realistically. Or if they did the opposite; if they wanted to hang them on the fridge with proud words of encouragement, telling the young lad that he could be anything he wanted to be.

A quick glance from the corner of his eye caught sight of the Spider-Man suit, answering the question for him.

Tony traded the elementary grade drawings for what was marked “Peter Parker 6^th grade report: Why the Avengers are my heroes.” It was given a B minus, grammar and spelling mistakes circled with red pen and a remark in the upper corner from the teacher praising his efforts.

A bundled stack of four-by-six photographs seemed to be the last of the boxes contents, kept in a worn and falling apart drug-store envelope for same day prints. Tony shimmied the items out, only to notice they were kept together with a paperclip. He could feel on the very back of the stack was a piece of folded notebook paper, hidden beneath the array of photos.

He removed the paperclip and began shuffling through them, all seemingly taken around the same time. In fact, a good handful was just of a young kid wearing some cheap Iron Man merch, the toy helmet barely fitting his small head.

Tony stopped shuffling when one photo in particular caught his attention, showcasing a young Parker family. May, with whom Tony correctly assumed was Ben, stood side-by-side. In front of them both was a much smaller Peter, grinning wildly into the camera.

His brow scrunched up in a suspicious frown. He recognized the background in the photo — where they stood. It was hard not to. It was a very memorable night.

Stark Expo 2010.

That had to make the kid, what? Tony did the math, coming to the age of eight.

The little Peter he stared at was eight years old. Half the kid's lifetime ago.

Tony ran his finger along the photograph, the gloss lost due to age and the edges bent with the bottom corner torn.

Looking at it, and something more tugged at his memory.

He laid the photos out, letting the piece of notebook paper sit to the side. The photos seemed to be kept together as a set, all taken of this one family trip. The young kid wearing cheap Iron Man merch, hoodie and fingerless gloves with the toy helmet too big for his head — Tony realized it was Peter.

He picked up the photo. ‘Wow, kid was scrawny back then.’

Tony pursed his lips, humming. The thought ate away at him, the memory on the tip of his tongue. There was more to this, there had to be. It wasn’t that the Parker’s had gone to a Stark Expo — though he, of course, wished it hadn’t been that Stark Expo.

So much had happened that year with nearly dying, nearly losing both Pepper and Rhodey in his life, dealing with SHIELD using Natasha to spy on him — nearly dying, that served to be mentioned twice. For a fleeting moment, he almost gave up — sure that he wouldn’t be able to recall such a tiny detail in the mass of events that had occurred.

Tony leaned back in his chair, defeated, and sighing to let the universe know as much.

God, what a shitshow of a night. His head fell back and he stared up at the ceiling, recalling the disastrous monstrosity that was Stark Expo 2010. Those damn Hammer drones sent out to target Iron Man; they were lucky no one else managed to get seriously hurt in that cluster fu —

“Nice work, kid.”

Tony shot forward in the chair.

The photograph of Peter laid on-top of the scattered prints, with Iron Man helmet barely fitting his small head.

“Huh,” he found himself saying aloud, staring at the picture with unblinking eyes.

It was an minuscule moment in time, surely stored away only because his problems nearly got a child killed. Tony knew that he’d never put the two-and-two together had it not been for those photos, telling him a story he hadn’t realized he needed to hear.

The scrap piece of notebook paper called out to him. Tony snatched it a bit too hastily, suddenly needing to know what it said.

It was folded three times in and Tony had to shake it flat once opened. His eyes scanned the cursive handwriting, all the while ignoring the way his heart beat heavily in his chest.

 

His eyes darted from the note to the stack of photos behind it. Tony slowly relaxed in his chair, never tearing his eyes from either of the two.

Recalling that memory was like watching another life rip open before him at the seams, a time where he only lived to feed his ego and feed it well. He realized, back then, that he was allowing his pride to dominate; coddling it as a mechanism of self-protection. It was nothing more than allowing weakness to masquerade as strength.

The photo surprised him, shaking loose latent feelings he hadn’t realized were even there. A paternal aspiration everyone had made clear to him but he had so adamantly denied.

Here Tony was, trying to determine how to best structure the boundary of his relationship with Peter and meanwhile, it had already been created for him.

'A fierce commitment.'  Tony could feel his lips pursing to the side. There wouldn't be any running away, there wouldn't be any digging his head into the sand — not when a line had already been scratched out in that sand, reclaimed by the shifting tides of the events they'd suffered through.

The choice was already made for him, years ago.

He just never knew it.

‘Fine,’ Tony thought, smacking his lips and folding his arms over his chest. ‘Time to regroup, then.’

He could still navigate this. He could still make this work.

Besides, back in the bunker, he would have done anything for a second chance — a breath of opportunity to start again. To give Peter everything he needed, the whole world, the life he deserved.

The photos provided a new outlook, a window where he had originally thought there was a wall. Tony saw that he had the power to be the architect to his own life, to build reality to the desires he always wanted.

He had that now.

What was he to do with it?

Tony cracked a smile.

Whatever it was, whatever it required, he was ready for what came next.