Handle With Care
“Your turn, Blues Clues.”
“Aah, ‘a got it, uhm….” crunchcrunch...munch…crunch...“oh’k... hmmm...al’rig...—”
“Hey!” The sound of over-enthusiastic finger-snapping tore his gaze away from the television. “Uh-uh. No buying extra time for french fry breaks.”
Peter’s hand was already mid-bag when Clint snapped his fingers, an authoritative-but-not-really-authoritative finger going to point sharply in his direction. It was hard to take him seriously, what with the rolling around precariously in the wheelchair kept nearby.
Sam arched an eyebrow, watching as Clint rolled-hopped-bounced towards him. Admittedly it was an amusing sight, looking as if he was a centimeter away from falling backward and cracking his skull open.
It couldn’t be any more obvious that he’d gone ahead and disregarded the nurse’s stern warning of “We’ll take that away if you keep fooling around with it.”
Knock on wood, the archer had yet to get caught misbehaving. Sam had a feeling his luck would run dry eventually.
Peter managed a sheepish smile as he shoved another handful of french fries into his mouth.
“S’ry — th’se ‘re just so good!” He licked his fingers of any residual salt, further displaying his appetite for good ‘ol greasy fast food. Not that the infirmary here didn’t have fantastic food, because they did – Mr. Stark really went all out. It was just… healthy food. He could only take so many gluten-free waffles before his taste buds began to resent him.
“Tell us something we don’t know,” Sam’s voice came from the cushioned bedside chair on his left. “Now c’mon, hurry up.”
Leaning back and rolling hazardously on the edges of the wheelchair, Clint enthusiastically nodded. “Seriously, I want to see what Tasha’s twisted mind comes up with next.” He wagged his eyebrows in her direction, both hands firmly holding the wheels straight.
Natasha, sitting quietly in the recliner towards the corner of the room, didn’t even look up from her book as her name was mentioned.
“For the last time,” she dryly stated, licking her thumb and flipping a page over, “I’m not playing.”
Clint craned his head around. “You say that now, but ten years ago I never would have guessed you’d be dancing like a ballerina in the lounge. Things change.”
Natasha looked up, her expression caught somewhere between being humored and overall appearing down-right-scary.
With a gulp of delicious french fries, Peter noted that more of the latter appropriately coated her features.
He eyed her briefly, shifting around the many empty fast-food cartons littering his bed. He had found it to be both impressive and frightening that she could barely twitch a facial muscle and still say so much. Twirling the string to his Midtown Science and Technology hoodie— appreciative times five-hundred that they finally let him change into some real clothes — Peter wondered how much super secret spy trainings it must have taken to achieve such a feat.
Her eye glanced towards him and he immediately looked away, fast to make it seem like he was instead looking at the television straight ahead.
“This isn’t even a good pick!” Peter insisted, wiping his hands clean on the load of napkins covering the bed-sheets. “The thumbnail is just of two dudes standing back to back. What am I supposed to get out of that?”
Clint, preoccupied spinning the wheelchair around, was facing the window when he answered, “That’s the game, Itsy Bitsy. Now put up or shut up.”
Peter rolled his eyes — what a ridiculous game, one he had been ‘playing’ since he got out of physical therapy earlier in the day. Clint insisted he only hung around him for the jello cups, but it never failed that the others would begin to stream into his room shortly after his arrival.Sometimes they would hang around just to read a book, like Natasha had been doing all morning.
It at least distracted him, made the time go by relatively quick.
Plus, he was hanging out with the Avengers. They could be playing Go-Fish and he’d be having the time of his life.
Peter pursed his lips tightly together, studying the screen with a sense of intensity he usually reserved for calculus homework.
“That one guy looks a little older than the other...they look alike, too...” Peter muttered slowly, hushed under his breath. “Okay, I think I got it. My guess is...it's a television show about two brothers trying to survive the zombie apocalypse together?”
“Ehnt!” Sam cupped his hands over his mouth, making a loud buzzing sound.
“Wrong!” Clint followed up without any real heat, dropping the wheelchair to the ground with a toothy grin.
Natasha gave them both a sideways glance, otherwise staying silent with her focus on her book.
“Sorry, bug brain.” A few clicks from the remote and Clint had brought up the description page of the selected program, reading the details aloud to the room. “Two detectives stand on different ends of the social and moral spectrum and also seriously distrust one other – and for good reason. British drama, TVMA.”
“Ah, man!” Peter whined, crossing both his arms over chest. “That doesn’t even sound like a good show. My idea sounds way better.”
Despite his objection, Clint proceeded to draw new tally marks on the large whiteboard behind him, the one that was supposed to be for nurses only — to keep Peter updated on his condition. What had once been ‘range of motion’ listed under ‘patient’s goals for today’ had since been crudely replaced with ‘winners and losers’ and a stream of tally marks underneath.
Sam had made it abundantly clear he would not stick around to face the nurse's wrath at seeing the vandalization. He also proceeded to draw a little red Falcon flying in the corner of the whiteboard.
Clint popped the cap back on the marker. “That puts yours truly in the lead.”
Sam leaned back into his chair and kicked his feet up on the bottom of Peter’s bed. “Only because you’ve already seen ninety percent of what’s on Hulu.”
“This month alone,” Natasha piped up, flipping another page.
Before Clint could make a comeback, a predictable “I’m semi-retired!” on the tip of his tongue, the doors to the room split open to a very confused Rhodey standing at the entryway.
“What the hell?” Rhodey creased his brow, hands going to rest firmly on his hips. “When FRIDAY told me you guys ordered lunch, this isn’t where I expected everyone to be eating.”
A lecture about health hazards and germs fell secondary to the sight of Peter’s energetic waving, the kid’s smile never dimming a watt.
“Hi, Mr. Rhodes!”
Rhodey strolled up to the bed, offering a closed fist that Peter eagerly reached out to bump.
“Whadup, Pete?” He was a breath away from saying something more when his nose visibly sniffed, catching a whiff of the food that lined the window-bay ledge. “Ohh, are those Baklava’s?”
Rhodey was halfway to the window when Clint rolled out in front of him.
“Ah-ah!” The archer held out an outstretched arm, blocking Rhodey from getting any closer to his closely guarded food. “Winner gets those.”
Rhodey looked down at Clint’s arm, up at the food, and finally settled on his face with growing confusion. “Winner of what?”
“It’s this game I play with the kids back home,” he explained. “You peruse the streaming catalog of Netflix or Hulu, and take a guess at what the show or movie is about based solely on the thumbnail.”
Natasha looked up from her book with a slight curl to the corner of her mouth. “See, this is why his kids love their Aunt Natasha. I sit back and let them watch whatever they want without having to play some stupid game first.”
“They love it,” Clint retorted, rolling his eyes.
“And I have to win this game to have those Baklava’s?” Rhodey briefly considered pushing the wheelchair, and its occupant, out of the way to get to the window-ledge. With a decision he was sure he’d later regret, he instead shrugged. “Deal me in.”
Peter visibly grimanced, almost seeming concerned. “It’s a lot harder than you think, Mr. Rhodes.”
“Pshh. Look at me, Pete.” Rhodey settled into the chair opposite of Sam, leaning forward to rest a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I know you put Tony way up here,” He signaled with his other hand high above his head, “but don’t forget that I graduated at the top of my class right alongside him. Have some faith in me.”
Peter went on to smile, nodding his head with assurance and appearing – for the most part – confident in Rhodey’s little speech.
That newfound assurance was quickly unraveled not even a full ten minutes later when Rhodey began shouting in protest.
“That’s some B.S!” He gestured widely at the television. “Your point system sucks, Barton. I should at least get something for knowing it was a chick flick.”
Sam scoffed, shaking his head. “You were warned, man.”
Rhodey narrowed his eyes at him. “I don’t want to hear it from you, Sam.”
Peter did his best to hide his laughing beneath a handful of french fries, whereas Clint put in no effort to conceal his enjoyment, grinning so wide that Natasha was sure she could see the filled cavity on his back molar tooth.
“Alright!” Clint clicked the cap back on the marker with a pop. “That puts me as winner, Petey-pie in second place, Sam takes home the silver and Rhodey...loses.”
“You know what? Screw this.” Rhodey shook his head, leg braces whirring as he shot up from his chair and stormed forward. “Those Baklava’s are mine.”
“Uh-uh!” Clint braced his feet against the wall and pushed off firmly, propelling himself over to the bay window. “No, I don’t think so! Back away, shell-head, these bad boys are all mine.”
Rhodey quirked an eyebrow high, looking between Clint’s face and the two hands he had covering the food.
“Barton, you best move those hands before I —”
“Mine,” Clint hissed, jumping up from the chair to cover the treats with his midsection. “Mine!”
Peter gave them both an incredulous look, one mostly hidden behind the open palm that forced an abundance of fries into his mouth.
“I’m gettin’ some serious Lord of the Rings flashbacks right about now,” he mumbled through half-chewed food.
The automatic doors split open again with a droning whoosh, the sound almost buried beneath their arguing and Sam’s persistence that they behave like grown-ups.
“Pretty sure those are mine, in all technicality,” Tony announced, pointing to the window and the two fighting men. “Considering who bought all this in the first place.”
Peter glanced over to see Tony and Bruce moving towards them, the billionaire sauntering in suave as ever, hands shoved in the pockets of his trousers and an easy smile on his face.
Bruce, on the other hand, fumbled with his tablet, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he looked up at their surroundings.
“Wow. This is a dietitian's worse nightmare,” he dryly stated, using his smart pad to gesture at the quantity of food laying around. “Pizza, Chinese, burgers, fries — ohhh, is that Shawarma?"
Bruce was halfway across the room before anyone could get a word in.
Tony hoped up on the edge of the mattress, nudging Peter’s legs to the side to make more room. Once there, he squeezed Peter’s ankle with a reassuring warmth. “You get your fill up? These ravenous animals didn’t have first dibs, did they?”
Peter shook his head with a swallow, wiping his greasy hands on the napkins nearby. “This is great, Mr. Stark, really. Thank you so much. I didn’t even realize how hungry I was.”
Tony patted the back of his hand against Peter’s leg. “Yeah, well, gotta put some meat back on those skinny bones of yours.”
Peter gaped, hand pressed to his chest as though wounded. Tony reached out and ruffled his hair in a way he knew the kid disliked, and sure enough, Peter ducked out the way with an annoyed yelp.
“Ah, dude!” His bite was drowned out with laughter. “Stop!”
“Oh, what? You want to look handsome for the cute nurses, huh?” Tony finally got a good swipe at Peter’s head, roughly making this hair go in all directions. “Here, let me help with that. You’re in desperate need of some style lessons.”
Peter half-laughed, half-groaned as he fought to smooth back his hair. “Seriously man, not cool!”
“Go for the arm, Pete!” Rhodey called out from across the way, snatching a Baklava while Clint wasn’t looking. “Give it a good bite, he’s got a teeth phobia.”
Tony wadded up a used napkin and tossed it at him. “Traitor!”
It was at that moment the doors slid open once more, the ruckus in the room easily overlapping the soft hum that normally alerted them to a new presence.
Steve stood in the entryway, slightly startled.
Natasha waved long before he had even noticed her in the corner of the room. Sam gave a nod of acknowledgment while Clint was busy with his back turned, drawing a makeshift dart bullseye on the whiteboard.
Bruce spun around, food dangling out of his mouth. He pointed to the mini-buffet lining the window ledge with a gulp.
“Fella’s,” Steve greeted, smirking. “I didn’t think FRIDAY was leading me in the right direction, but...I see I was wrong.”
“What?” Natasha asked, a hint of a smile curving her lips. “You don’t like risking C. diff when you eat your lunch?”
“It’s a smorgasbord,” Bruce mostly garbled through a mouth full of carbs. “Take your pick.”
Steve nodded, taking his time as he walked in, eyeing the food nearby and the fries Peter nibbled on. “I think I’ll have some of what Peter’s having. Looks good.”
Peter nodded enthusiastically. “So good.”
Looking around, it seemed everyone had already helped themselves, even Natasha having taken a pick despite her sarcastic remarks. Steve knew the leftover cherry tomatoes on the discarded plate nearby belonged to her. Call him old fashioned; he liked to stay up to date on the idiosyncrasies and habits of his team members.
As he gathered his own plate and carefully avoided the Baklava’s both Rhodey and Clint seemed to be oddly protective over, he couldn’t help but chuckle at the commotion that came from behind him.
“Dude, get your own!” Peter squawked, holding his french fries to the side where Tony couldn’t snatch any more from him.
“I believe we already established these are mine.” Tony innocently gestured with his finger to the carton of fries. “And didn’t anyone ever teach you to share?”
“Oh, that’s rich coming from you,” Rhodey chided from near the window.
Tony craned his neck around with an affronted grimace. “Hey. There’s hierarchy here, a chain-of-teasing, if you will. If I’m ragging on the lowest common denominator —”
“If you even think about finishing that thought,” Rhodey pointed his half-eaten sandwich at him, “I’ll have Pepper in here before you can say whipped.”
Peter cleared his throat, shaking his head. “Actually, uhm...can– can you not? I have a deal with her...if I keep Mr. Stark in check while I’m here, I get to be the flower girl at their wedding.”
Tony shot his neck over to Peter with record-breaking speed. If Sam didn’t know better, he’d say the man lost all color in his face within a startling millisecond, turning whiter than the bed-sheets he sat on.
It was too much for Peter, who cracked up almost immediately, and a little breathlessly at that. He covered his mouth with the crook of his elbow in hopes it would suppress his laughter.
“Sorry, sorry,” he muffled through the fabric of his blue Midtown hoodie, cheeks blushing pink as Tony continued to stare daggers his way. “I had to! You should have seen your face.”
Tony pursed his lips tightly together. “Ring-bearer. If you keep behaving.”
It took a second for Peter to process what was said, wordlessly dropping his arm with wide eyes and looking at the others to see how he should react. Unfortunately for him, most were either too busy talking among themselves or stuffing food into their mouths.
He looked back at Mr. Stark with a finger pointed to his chest. “Wait, really? Are you serious?”
Tony paused, a beat passing by as he considered the question.
“Nah,” he said, a laugh in his voice. “You’re right, you’ll never behave long enough for that to happen.”
It was Peter’s turn to glare, halfhearted with a smirk that Tony followed up with.
He leaned in far enough to punch Peter lightly against the shoulder. “Kid, between you and me, I’d do everything short of having you replace Rhodey as the best man.”
“Thanks, Tones!” Rhodey sarcastically hollered, a fake smile pulling tightly on his lips. “Good to know you still have some form of a soul.”
Tony held an open palm in the air, refusing to turn and look at Rhodey. “I don’t talk to traitors.”
Steve chuckled as he took a seat across from where Tony sat, still perched on the edge of Peter’s bed. It didn’t go unnoticed, both briefly locking eyes, managing to give each other a small nod of sorts.
Tony couldn’t help but realize the soldier was doing him the small favor of giving him space, as much as possible in the crowded room. The chair closest to him remained unoccupied, as if on purpose. It wouldn’t be long before Rhodey ended up sitting there, Sam and Steve across the way while Bruce and Natasha stayed near the bay window — Natasha to read quietly, Bruce to eat.
Clint proceeded to wheel himself around the room, even after nearly rolling over Sam’s toes.
Peter stayed mostly quiet as the group chatted, random topics and conversations coming and going before he could really process them. It was freakishly abnormal how seamlessly they spoke to each other, like lifelong friends who could pick up right from where they had left off.
It was nice, peaceful. He found himself leaning back in bed, eyes closed, relaxed with a smile while he listened in on their stories.
Rhodey seemed to tell his with the most enthusiasm.
“So there I am, flying this AGM-64 Hornet across the horizon when —”
Natasha interrupted, “Let me guess —”
“Boom!” The entire room proceeded to echo in unison.
“You looking for this?” she finished, grinning smugly.
“You guys suck.” Rhodey pulled a face, tucking his hands tightly underneath his armpits with a sense of rejection. “Seriously, it's not like we all could join in on your little underwater adventure.”
Tony scoffed flatly. “Yeah, you weren’t missing anything there.”
By either coincidence or simply from being reminded of the tale, Tony craned his neck to look at Peter, surprised to see the kid had all but dozed off. He nudged his foot a little, gaining his attention.
Peter shot his eyes open like a startled baby animal, rubbing harshly at them with the cuffs of his hoodie.
“Sorry, must of —”
“You want us to duck out, kid?” Tony asked, squeezing his ankle. “You’re looking a little pooped over there.”
Peter shook his head emphatically, eyelids drooping closed for a split second before snapping open again. “Nah, I’m good. Besides, Mr. Rogers just got here!”
Steve shook his head, a quiet smile in place. “I’m flattered, champ. But you don’t have to stay awake for me.”
Before Peter could even consider stammering out a drowsy and slurred response, Rhodey cut in.
“Tell me someone else thinks of the Mr. Rogers when the Rugrat says that,” he pressed. “Fred Rogers? It’s a wonderful day in the neighborhood?”
“Showing your age there, sour patch.” Tony leaned over, patting him on the arm.
Rhodey batted his hand away with a huff. “Don’t be acting like you’re so much younger than me.”
Peter chuckled, eyes falling shut and staying that way despite his many attempts to keep them open. A bone-deep, fierce weariness seemed to pull on him suddenly, possibly a food-coma of sorts, more likely exhaustion from having hours on hours of social interaction. He didn’t mind; the soreness in his stomach from the fits of laughter were so incredibly worth it.
Still, he felt like a kid at a sleepover — he knew he should get some rest, but he really wanted to stay awake just a tad bit longer. Alas, he could already feel his body sagging deeper into the pillows behind him, and it was nearly impossible to resist the comfort of the softest blankets he’d ever been granted the pleasure of using.
Seriously, he needed to see if he could snatch one of these suckers before going home.
The last thing he remembered hearing was something about memories and Budapest.
“Ohh!” Sam straightened from his slouched position in the armchair, hand waving frantically at the others. “Shh, shh, shh! Anyone else notice that the kid fell asleep?”
All eyes turned to the bed, any lingering voices that spoke falling silent. The most rustle they heard came from Bruce, who abandoned his plate of Shawarma to give the monitors a cursory glance. Even he didn’t seem to be worked up, though.
“Huh,” Tony drawled out, quietly hopping down from the edge of the mattress. “Would you look at that.”
Sure enough, Peter had clonked himself out, sound asleep and dead to the world. Bruce grabbed the remote to the bed and lowered it a bit more, the adjustment doing nothing to stir him.
Sam pointed his thumb to the doors, half-way out of his chair as he said, “We should probably —”
“Nah.” Clint waved away the issue with an easy grin, standing from the wheelchair with a french fry in between his fingers. “That crazy-super-strong-dope they got him on knocks his lights out. Watch this.”
Bruce barely had time to protest, preoccupied checking Peter’s breathing with his stethoscope when Clint leaned over the bed, waving a french fry directly under his nose. The teenager didn’t so much as flinch.
“Twinkle-toes, wake up,” he coaxed in a sing-song voice, “Wakey wakey, eggs and backey.”
With perfect timing, Peter snored.
Even Bruce couldn’t hide his chuckle. He went to remove the cool head of the stethoscope from beneath Peter’s hoodie with a slight shake of his head.
“God, I haven’t slept that good since I was a baby,” Bruce offhandedly mentioned, leaning against the wall behind him.
Tony stretched his arms over his head, his shoulder making a well-timed crack as he grumbled, “I’ve never slept that good.”
Clint, having returned to the wheelchair, rolled repeatedly into the back of Steve’s seat, kicking the cushioned armchair with his knees.
“Come on, Cap...say it...”
Steve rolled his eyes but smiled all the same. “I slept that good for seventy years.”
Clint shot both arms up in victory, giving a whispered cry of triumph.
Despite the fact that it appeared even a megaphone wouldn’t wake Peter up, Sam still slapped Clint across the elbow, encouraging him to keep his voice down.
"Just be careful, Clint,” Natasha dryly teased. “Wouldn’t want anyone’s hand to get stuck to his.”
The comment was met with stifled laughter and one intensely heated look from Tony, leveled directly at Bruce.
“What?” Bruce raised a hand without missing a beat. “I didn’t say anything to them.”
“I did,” Rhodey answered, arms crossed, a no-nonsense expression covering his features.
Tony narrowed his eyes, dipping his chin low with resentment. “I want my suit back.”
Rhodey shook his head, deadpanned. “Not your suit anymore.”
“You’re dead to me,” Tony insisted stubbornly, walking away while wiping his hands ‘clean’ to prove his point.
Sam snickered loudly from where he sat.
“Hey!” Tony dragged along a spare chair and placed it around the crowd surrounding the bed. He collapsed into it with a stern threat of, “No comments from the peanut gallery.”
A delighted grin curled at Clint’s mouth as another thick snore broke through their conversation.
“I want to go home with like, six jugs of this stuff for my kids.” Clint ripped his teeth into the last hamburger and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You...want to give your kids an endogenous opioid peptide containing primary Dynorphin A mixed with dynorphin B1–29 bordering on the analogue of carfentanil?” Bruce asked, sounding both confused and concerned.
The archer gave a mix of half-hum, half-laugh. “Okay, a normal human variant of it, Doc Green.”
It was Bruce who shot Tony a look this time, one he acknowledged with an easy nod of his head. “Oh, I did tell them about that. ”
Sam patted Clint on the shoulder, dropping a few extra napkins in his lap. “They call that Nyquil. Go to the drug store.”
Slouching back in his chair, Rhodey went on to ask, “How’s the birthday planning going, Tones?”
From where she sat in the corner of the room, Natasha dropped her book, brows furrowed with curiosity. “Birthday planning? For what?”
“Pete’s sixteenth,” Tony casually answered. “Figured I’d throw him a party since he spent the big day incapacitated.”
“Well damn,” Sam murmured, stretching his legs out and crossing his ankles over one another. “Why didn’t you tell us Nickelodeon had a birthday?”
“He mentioned he was turning sixteen soon,” Natasha spoke up, her book disregarded, her attention focused straight ahead. “When we all had breakfast together.”
Clint spun the wheelchair around to face her. “And yet you can’t remember where you put the TV remote in the lounge?”
Bruce bowed his head low as he cleaned the lenses to his glasses, barely hiding the smile that tugged at his lips.
“Planning anything special for him?” Steve asked quietly enough that the question almost went unheard.
Tony heard, nonetheless, and shook his head after the fact.
“Eh, not really. Was going to do something big, maybe take him to Paris, put some truth to that cover story. But his aunt insists I keep it low-key. Gonna bring him back to the compound for a little get-together after everything settles down.” He gestured towards everyone in the room with a lazy twizzle of his index finger. “You’re all invited – not because I want you there, the kid just has googly eyes for you losers.”
“Man, I remember my sixteenth." Clint sighed with a sense of dejection, going to run his hand through his shortly clipped hair. "That’s about the time I ran away from home, joined the traveling circus, lost hearing in my left ear – the norm.”
His dismissive chuckle was met with sad smiles, the type he normally prided the team on not resorting to. As a poorly managed distraction, he rolled over to the window ledge and snatched the last Baklava. It was easy to stay quiet when his mouth was full of food.
“Can’t say I remember much of my sixteenth,” Sam piped in, crossing his arms over his chest. “The day after...hard to forget the death of a parent.”
Natasha was still looking straight ahead as she flatly answered, “I don’t really like to think about mine.”
Bruce could see through her minimalistic words, making sure not to share in the pity smiles that everyone seemed to pass around. He instead cleared his throat before the tension could thicken any more than it already had.
“I...don’t even remember mine,” he airily stated. “Pretty sure I was working on a thesis or something, who knows.”
Tony nodded his head, leaning over to pat Bruce’s hip. “A million years ago, right, buddy?”
“Let me guess.” Sam sat forward, waiting until Tony looked up at him before speaking. “Shiny new cars, radio-hit bands, strippers and the attendance of a one thousand plus?”
Tony gave him a wide-eyed look, feigning offense. “Of course not!” Immediately following up with, “That was my twenty-first birthday.”
“You kidding me?” Rhodey snorted from next to him. “This nerd was too busy working on his master’s at MIT. Couldn’t get him to leave the dorm room to save his life.”
Tony smiled fondly at the memory. “Yeah, well, sixteen at college...can’t say it wasn’t a bit overwhelming.”
“Pretty sure I was only trying to over-correct my own sixteenth on you,” Rhodey admitted, shrugging. “Didn’t want to chance doing something stupid and risk my enlistment in the Marine Corps. Mom made vanilla cake, I think.”
Steve cleared his throat, smiling with a trace of embarrassment. “Spent mine in bed. Scarlet fever.”
Tony huffed a laugh, moving to cross his legs and let his ankle rest against his knee. “Well, he’ll have a hell of a story to tell.”
He spared a glance at Peter, snoring lightly, suddenly looking five years younger even with the baby face he already had. Without even needing to look behind him, he could feel Natasha staring the same way, observant as ever.
Looking around the room, he quickly realized it wasn’t just her. They all seemed to be remembering their youth as they watched the kid sleep, for once seeming at peace despite the weight he carried around on his young shoulders.
While Tony couldn’t speak for what the others were thinking, he knew what his own thoughts were, thoughts cemented heavily in his head. Although he had come to accept Peter as a part of this — this crazy superhero world, with or without his help — the feeling of being conflicted would never go away.
A part of him loved having Peter as a recruit, fresh blood, a start to bringing in more energetic and starry-eyed heroes to take over the job.
He just hated that there was a job to begin with.
Sixteen and already stepping up as a hero. Tony stiffly shook his head; what a crazy world they lived in.
“Hey,” Clint’s voice cut through the thickening tension, “you guys realize this is the first time we’ve all been in the same room since…?”
The unspoken remained hanging in the air. They looked around at each other, some humming in realization, others shrugging it off.
It was Steve who pointed out, “Wanda and Vis aren’t here.”
“Dude, speaking of —” Sam sat up straighter in his seat, nearly pushing the chair back at the sudden action. “Vis is turning into a lost puppy without Wanda around.”
“Anyone heard from her?” Bruce asked after a brief pause.
“She’s doing good,” Steve said, smiling slightly. “Says she’s learning a lot from Doctor Strange.”
Clint let out a grunt as he forced the wheelchair to lean back, holding it steady with the firm grip of his hands. “Magic, man. You know —”
“Hey!” The doors split open and Claire squeezed between them before they had fully parted, brow creased in a way that screamed she shouldn’t be messed with. “Did I not say —?”
“I’m out.” Clint dropped the wheelchair with a thud, hasty in getting up to leave. He managed to give Tony a quick pat on the shoulder as he passed by. “See ya at the next PTA meeting.”
Tony grinned mirthlessly at him as he left.
Rhodey was the next to stand up, wiping his hands on the last clean bunch of napkins and cracking his neck with a relieved sigh.
“Thanks for the lunch, Tones,” he said, slower in his departure.
From across the room, Claire pointed with a dry eraser to the top corner of the whiteboard, directing her question to the remaining team members, Natasha excluded.
“Cartoons? Really?” She rolled her eyes, erasing the drawings with a huff. “Are you guys five?”
Sam slowly rose from his chair, making sure his trash ended up in the nearest bin as opposed to littering the floor. “First off, ma’am, that is not a cartoon, that is Redwing,” he pointed out, already near the exit before she could respond. “Now have a good day. I need to go run about twenty miles to burn off my lunch.”
The doors split open at the same time Tony shot up from his chair, quick to follow suit. “Hey, hold up there, Wilson.”
Tony practically half-jogged to catch up with Sam, only to be mildly surprised that he stood waiting outside the room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. The doors closed shut on Claire and Natasha’s voices, the latter shamelessly ratting out the whiteboard vandalizer’s.
Sam arched an eyebrow high, waiting for him to talk.
“Have you had the chance to...” Tony dragged his gaze away from the doors to eye him, “...you know.”
Sam gave a sharp nod. “Yeah, actually. Spoke to him a couple days ago.”
Tony shrugged, expectantly. “And?”
“Told him what I do most folks,” Sam easily answered, unfolding his arms to stick his hands deep inside his jean pockets. “Some stuff you leave there...other stuff you bring back. It’s his job to figure out how he’s going to carry it.”
Tony nodded, eyes wandering back to the doors despite the glass having frosted-over, hiding the sight from within. He swiped his thumb across his nose, sniffing hard.
“So what do you think? This something he’s going to deal with long-term or —”
“I’m not diagnosing him, Stark,” Sam cut in. “He’s got trauma, for sure. Not to mention he’s young, it’s going to be hard for him to get through this.”
“So...PTSD, right?” Tony surmised. “I should get him some shrinks, someone to talk to —”
“I never said that,” Sam interjected.
“C’mon, Wilson, level with me here.” Tony sighed heavily, tension visibly stiffening the muscles in his shoulders. “I need you to get me some answers.”
“You want an answer?” Sam kicked off from the wall, putting himself closer to Tony. He inclined his head, coming off as serious yet sympathetic. “Fact is, most people don’t start really dealing with their trauma til a couple months after everything goes down. Don’t rush to throw him in the category of PTSD before he really has a chance to deal. If, or when, this catches up to him...that’s when you gotta focus on getting him the help.”
Despite his earnest tone and sincere words, Sam only got a hefty eye-roll in response.
“Fantastic,” Tony grumbled, squeezing past him to head down the hallway. “Glad I didn’t pay you for that expert advice.”
Sam sighed, turning to face the man as he walked away. “Tony?”
He waited until Tony not only stopped walking but also turned back around to face him, the billionaire folding his arms over his chest with eyebrows arched to his hairline.
Sam took a couple steps forward, bridging the gap they had created. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t be there for him, because you should. Kid latches onto you like a baby to a lollipop. But...don’t be surprised if he never actually talks to you about this.”
Tony furrowed his brows, arms dropping to his side with confusion. “What?”
“You’re his idol,” Sam explained, tinting his tone with a resonating ‘duh’ laced into his words. “You’re going to be the last person he wants to see him as weak.”
“That’s ridiculous, there’s no way I would —”
“I get that. None of us see him that way.” Sam took another step forward, biting back a sigh. “But he sees himself that way. That’s what’s important, that’s what matters. Let him process this how he needs to, but don’t be surprised if he goes to someone else to dish out all the details. Consider it flattery.”
Tony slumped, letting out a frustrated sigh that barely began to touch the surface of his distress.
For what it was worth, Sam bobbed his head in sympathetic agreement, as if he had known what needed to be said couldn’t be easy to hear.
Gesturing his hand down the hallway, Tony began walking away, matching Sam’s pace just enough that they ended up walking side-by-side.
“Dish out all the details, huh? What, is that new slang you picked up from the kid?”
Sam huffed a laugh. “No, he refers to it as ‘the deets.’ Pretty sure I heard that one a couple times.” He paused briefly, taking a sharp inhale of air before asking, “Do you know how old that makes me feel?”
While taking a turn at the end of the connecting hallway, Tony patted him emphatically on the shoulder. “Trust me, big bird. I know.”
Long after everyone had left, Steve stuck around.
At first, he wasn’t sure why, having already cleaned up the loads of fast food cartons and trays scattered around before anyone else could be bothered with their mess. He tried telling himself how much he personally hated waking up in medical, that he’d be a friendly face for when Peter woke up.
But the more the night went on, the more he assumed Peter may be out for the count. Clint wasn’t exaggerating, the new drug they created really knocked him out.
For a while, he spoke with the nice nurse, Claire. She told him how Bruce recruited her for Peter’s case, that she’d be returning to Harlem in a couple days despite the offer to stay onboard at the compound. Steve listened intently as she spoke highly of a few friends she had back home, friends she seemed to take good care of. He wished her the best of luck in her endeavors.
Overall though, it wasn’t enough to keep him occupied, not from himself and the way his mind ran wild. He was skimming through the book that Natasha had left behind when a loud, shameless yawn startled him out of his own thoughts.
“Mr. Rogers?” Peter’s bleary voice croaked, the teenager struggling to sit up in bed while rubbing harshly at his face. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?" Just like that, his face both fell flat and lit up all at the same time. "Is there a mission? Do I need to —”
Steve laughed, extending his arm across the bed to keep Peter from rolling straight onto the floor, his sluggish attempts at moving proving to be hazardous.
“At ease, soldier,” he said, giving Peter enough time to gather his bearings and from the looks of it, rub the crust out of his eyes. “And please, it's just Steve.”
Peter nodded, slowly becoming more awake and aware by the second. Though his eyes stayed half-mast, he managed to mumble out a half-coherent response of, “Right, right...”
His hand fumbled around beneath his blankets, blindly reaching for something he knew was there but couldn’t seem to locate. Steve wasn’t too sure what it could be he was searching for, and just when he thought to ask the young lad if he had lost something, Peter whipped out his cell phone.
Steve quirked an eyebrow, amused.
Peter smacked his lips together a couple times as he struggled to unlock his phone, swiping his finger on the cracked touch-screen until it finally displayed the time clock. Once there and brightly illuminated in his face, Peter’s wide eyes went to look over at him.
“It’s late, Mr. Rog—Steve,” he stammered, feeling a little dumb after uttering such an obvious statement. “Shouldn’t you, uh...shouldn’t you be sleeping?”
Steve offered a small smile. “I slept for seventy years, son. I don’t need much more rest.”
Peter physically strained not to let the goofy, stupidly wide grin that pulled at his lips take over his entire face. It was clear he couldn’t tell for sure if it was appropriate or not to laugh, like a dark joke some would find funny and others took seriously. He struggled to hold back his chuckle as he fiddled with the edges of his blankets.
“You use that a lot, don’t you?” he managed, smirking.
Steve gave a one-shouldered shrug. “No more than I’ve earned it.”
The reply seemed to break a good chunk of palpable anxiety that bounced between them. Peter finally let himself laugh, though it was much quieter, more tamed than the rowdy hysterics he witnessed earlier today. The lighthearted energy he once carried had since been replaced with a bundle of high-strung teenage nerves.
Steve couldn’t help but notice how much more awkward Peter seemed around him, his head ducked low, his fingers pulling at the seams of the blanket resting across his lap. It was a stark contrast to how relaxed he was around Tony. And with good reason; he and Peter barely had time to become acquainted.
With that thought, Steve cleared his throat, gesturing an open palm at Peter. “I haven’t really had the chance to talk with you, one on one. You’ve been quite popular here.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Peter muttered, chewing noticeably on his lower lip. “If only I could take some of that popularity with me back to school.”
Steve sympathized, “It was similar for me back in my day, too. It can be hard, being at the bottom of the barrel like that.”
His eyes slid down to Peter’s lap as he spoke, where the kid kept tugging on his blanket, his nail beds pushing white from the pressure of his grip.
Steve frowned — he related all too well with nervous habits. With a deep breath, he fixed his gaze resolutely on Peter’s face. “But you got something special that they don’t. You know that, right?”
Peter finally stopped fidgeting, his hands freezing in place. He looked up and over at Steve. “What —being bitten by a radioactive spider? Could’ve happened to anyone.”
“True,” Steve said, nodding. “But it happened to the best of us.”
The compliment seemed to momentarily go over Peter’s head, as if there was no way such a good thing could ever be said about him.
Instead of reiterating the statement, Steve instead gave it a moment to sink in, taking the pink blush that began to heat Peter’s cheeks as the sign that he understood.
“You know,” Steve leaned back in his chair, entwining his hands together and letting them rest on his stomach, “It’s kind of hard to trust someone when you don’t know who that someone really is. I know we got off on the wrong foot, Pete. But I couldn’t be more proud to have you here now." Steve titled his head low, ensuring Peter caught every inch of his gaze. "You’re a strong kid. And I don’t just mean your physical strength. Don’t lose that quality.”
In his lifetime, Steve had seen a lot of young, resilient men eager to please, the type that would bend over backward to receive such praise. He’d see them light up with joy and have a skip in their step for days after one good remark sent their way.
All those men combined did nothing to top Peter, grinning so enthusiastically, so full of pride that it almost overwhelmed him to bear witness to.
“Thanks,” Peter finally managed, swallowing hard. “And–and that’s...that’s okay. I’ve been wrong about a lot of things, too.” He paused, briefly looking down to his hands with a noticeable sense of hesitation. Slowly he dropped the blanket altogether, his fingers going to tap against an open palm instead. “You know, when I first got my powers, I...I did stupid things with them. I made money...helped my aunt with rent. I thought that’s what powers were for. I...I was wrong about that. I was wrong about a lot of things.”
Steve let him talk until he was sure there was nothing more to say, patient through each pause and stutter that kept the young lad from finishing. And though he’d keep it to himself, there was no denying the pulse of warmth that fluttered in his chest, a sudden swell of pride at the pure heart he saw coating every bit of Peter’s character.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for believing you were a criminal just because you wore a mask,” Steve said, his voice both firm, serious and yet still gentle. “I understand now that you make that choice to protect your family.”
Peter nodded, meeting Steve’s gaze head-on.
“I do — I want to protect them, as much as I can. I don’t want anyone to get hurt because of what I do. But it’s also...” Peter paused, dipping his chin low as he waved the thought away. “Never mind, it’s silly.”
Steve shook his head, leaning forward slightly in his chair. “No, what?”
The hand that went to grip the blanket beneath him let go almost as quickly, the tight fist uncurling before ever really getting a chance to stress the muscles in his wrist. Steve took note that each deep breath the kid pulled in lifted his shoulders high.
He remained patient — if that’s what it took to get a little closer to Peter, he’d wait all night. After all, he was considered one of them now. Part of the family.
Peter lifted his gaze from his lap, surprising Steve when he looked straight at him.
“I don’t want anyone to know my identity, who I am. I want to keep Spider-Man and Peter Parker separate, I do. But...” He blinked furiously, forcing unshed water in his eyes to stay put. “I also wear it because...because no one can see my face. So no one can see how scared I am sometimes.”
Steve let out a soft sigh. He hesitated to lean forward, almost fighting the urge to rest a comforting hand on Peter’s shoulder and offer the contact that he felt was right in the moment.
The warning signs to stay back were all there — the anxiety, the fidgeting — Steve pushed them aside, grateful when Peter didn’t shy away from his touch.
“Bravery isn’t just about not being afraid, son,” he said, squeezing his grip. “It’s about being scared and doing something anyway. Back there in that bunker? You showed more bravery than I’ve ever seen before. I really mean it, pal — when you grow up, you’re going to be the best of all of us.”
For a moment that felt as long as it did short, Steve and Peter looked to each other with no words, no additional comments needed to fill the silence that washed over.
What wasn’t said was understood, a connection that eerily sparked and teetered through generations and decades of life. A lot of days — most days since coming out of the ice, Steve felt exhausted, weighed down by all the miles in his bones.
Something about Peter, about that connection they shared in morals, in character, it renewed his will to fight.
Not for his own future, no. For theirs.
“Sorry about…” Peter broke the comfortable lull in conversation with a sheepish grimace. “Ya know, telling everyone...’bout the whole PSA thing.”
Steve groaned, letting his hand drop from Peter’s shoulder to scrub down the length of his face.
“No, Pete,” he grumbled, “I owe you an apology for those PSA’s.”
Outside the room and across the hall, Tony watched the interaction quietly, arms crossed with his back resting against the desk of the nurse's station.
Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he glanced over at the nearest wall and caught sight of a digital clock — it was past midnight. What could he say, he was a night owl, always had been. While it would be odd for anyone else to make visits to the kid at this hour, even his aunt having retired to the personal sleeping quarters in the compound, this was when Tony felt his best.
It helped that Peter had developed an odd sleeping schedule himself, medicated through most of the day, wide awake during the late hours of the night. He didn’t mind keeping the kid company, even if that meant browsing through Netflix until the sun started to rise.
And no, that feeling curling in his gut was not jealousy at Rogers having taken his spot tonight. That would be positively ridiculous.
Even if it was — ‘and it’s not’ he told himself— it was for the best. Tony needed to wean himself away. Peter would be returning home in a couple days, gone and back in Queens where he belonged. The kid had a life to get back to and Tony had made it his personal mission to ensure he would return to as much normalcy as possible.
Though it wasn’t a forever sort of departure, Tony had gotten so used to the easy access, the quick elevator rides and walk down the hall to see him. Dare he say, he had gotten spoiled.
He scoffed at the thought, turnint to leave with the heel of his foot spinning on the tile floors when —
“You know,” a voice stopped him dead in his tracks, “when I said to look after the boy, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
For a brief moment, Tony looked up to the ceiling, willing the patience to keep his curses from floating where others could hear. The base of his skull began to ache with the persistent sort of headache that came only from that voice.
“A little late in the evening to be scheduling your annual check-ups with the docs, don’t you think?” Tony chided, turning around to face the source of his aggravation. “Of course, I’ll never argue that a man of your age should be getting his prostate checked frequently —”
“Seven years later and you’re still a problem, Stark,” Fury bit back, strolling forward with hands deep inside his jacket pockets. “One that I still have to deal with.”
Tony watched Nick Fury walk up the hallway with an exasperation that ran deep, his presence practically zapping away any of the energy he had remaining. There wasn’t enough caffeine in the world to get him through this.
Shrugging a little too nonchalantly, he let his hip rest against the nurses station next to him. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Mhmm, do you smell that?” Fury asked cynically, dipping his head low. “Smells like some commercial grade bullshit to me.”
Fury wasn’t fazed. Once close enough, he mimicked Tony’s body language, the two now standing barely a foot apart at the nurses station.
The brunette haired nurse that sat behind the desk looked at the two of them timidly, her eyes darting back and forth before she immediately got up and left.
Tony rolled his eyes. “Why are you here? What do you want?”
Despite the question, Tony already had a gut feeling why the former director had made his presence, especially now of all times. There was barely a skeleton crew walking the medical ward they stood in, little to no audience to witness the encounter and no immediate excuse he could dodge away with.
It was a conversational trap, and one that he fell right into.
“What do I want?” Fury echoed, giving him a knowing look. “Well, in a perfect world I would have the real story of what happened down in that OsCorp facility. Not some cookie-cutter, cherry-picking nonsense that Rogers decided to spew.”
“Wouldn’t know what you’re talking about,” Tony airily insisted.
Fury’s frown deepened, leaving dark grooves in his brow. “I’m having a hard time believing that.”
“Hm,” Tony hummed, his fingers drumming against the counter. “Maybe you should trust people more.”
Fury straightened his posture, one eye squinting hard at Tony. “Last time I did that, I got the once in a lifetime opportunity to stand over my own tombstone.”
Tony’s fingers tapped insistently against the desk — drumdrumdrum — and he found himself using every ounce of control in his body not to lose it right then and there. He looked past Fury, biting down on his tongue both metaphorically and literally until he could form a proper response.
“So, let me get this straight. You came all the way down here just to question Director Hill’s conclusive and concluded report on what happened?” Tony forced a smirk. “You know you can always call me.”
Fury didn’t break eye contact. “Maybe I wanted to look you straight in the eye and see what you had to say for yourself.”
Tony walked past him, slapping the back of his hand against Fury’s leather-covered arm. “Still don’t know what you’re talking about, Nick.”
“That’s Fury to you,” he strongly chastised, spinning around to stare Tony down. “And I’d watch yourself here, Stark. You’re already on my shit-list.”
Tony turned on his own heels, mouth gaped wide open. “For what, exactly?”
He threw the man a look that oscillated somewhere between overly false innocence and deeply rooted annoyance.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Fury started to sarcastically say, folding his arms over his chest. “Nearly a goddamn decade and it’s starting to all blur together.”
Tony smiled teasingly. “I imagine the twenty-zero eyesight doesn’t help much with that.”
“You want a recent example?" Fury frowned, irritated. "If my memory serves me right — and tell me if I’m not recalling this correctly — I lent you classified SHIELD Intel that you decided to use as an opportunity to give yourself a side-kick.”
The anger hit Tony like a whip, red hot and as sharp as the finger he pointed at the former director. “That is not what this is —”
“I told you to look after the boy,” Fury reminded him, accusation laced through every syllable.
Tony threw his arms out wide. “And I think I’ve been doing a good job!”
Fury stared at him for a long moment, scowling.
As if to further make his point, the overhead intercom system paged a doctor somewhere within the compound, and a tech wheeled equipment past the both of them.
“Do I look dumb to you?” Fury finally retorted, his no-nonsense tone echoing the halls.
Tony blew out a deep breath. Okay, so maybe the infirmary wasn’t the best place to defend himself.
Fury began to walk away, beckoning Tony to follow him with the mere wave of his hand. Reluctantly he did, though it wasn’t without a dramatic eye roll and childish sigh.
The direction led them away from Peter's hospital room, the only reason he decided to tag along. Whatever they were discussing shouldn’t be eavesdropped on by spiderlings with enhanced hearing; they both knew that much to be true.
“Keep him on the ground,” Fury firmly repeated, leading them both out of the med-bay. “Not in the skies, and definitely not in the oceans. He belongs on the ground.”
“Right,” Tony snarled through his teeth. “Train him well now so that when he turns eighteen he’ll be a perfect candidate for you and your SHIELD operations, right? That’s what this is all about?”
Fury didn’t lessen his pace down the hallway. “You know part of our job is to monitor and regulate any unauthorized genetic mutations. That’s how we found out about him. And don’t forget that if we didn’t find out about him, you would have never found out about him.”
Tony stiffened, his mouth set in a thin line. “Really?”
Fury arched an eyebrow, sparing Tony a glance as they turned a corner. “You calling me a liar, Stark?”
Tony shrugged. “I’m just putting it out there. It wouldn’t be the first thing you’ve kept hidden from us.”
They both came to a stop outside the elevator lobby. Rather than make a move to access one of the many elevators, Fury instead crossed his arms, inclining his head as he stared Tony down.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Tony pursed his lips, seething with the energy leaching between them.
“OsCorp? Their ‘research’ studies? The highly illegal, under wraps experimentations they’ve been performing that you knew about? If SHIELD had handled this correctly the first time around, psychos like Mysterio, the rock android, the Chitauri heads — they would have never been a problem in the first place.”
“Despite what you may think, the Avengers don’t receive every single issue SHIELD comes across,” Fury harshly asserted, his words containing such bite that anyone else would have flinched at the mere sound. “We have other, better-qualified people working on those matters."
Tony popped his lips. “Yeah, well, I think it’s time you turn the case over to us. Before more people get hurt.”
“And I think it’s time you watch your place.” Fury took a step closer to Tony, putting them inches apart from each other. The intimidation was intense, his head cocked to the side while Tony’s chin stayed high up, his composure never faltering.
“You’ve been given a lot of leeway here, Stark. You don’t want to find out what it’s really like when the red tape comes into play.”
With that, Fury leaned to the side and pressed his thumb against the button for the elevator doors. Tony watched him with a sense of contempt, swiping his own thumb across his nose with a scoff.
“That’s it, huh?” Tony smirked with a cockiness that was drowned out only by his aggravation. “You were itching so bad to lecture me that you made a trip out here all by yourself to get the satisfaction of having the last word?”
“Don’t think so highly of yourself,” Fury easily dismissed, eyes locked on the elevator in front of them.
“No, really. I never showed up to national headquarters with the others, I never gave you the opportunity to ream me out in front of the new World Security Council, and now here you are.” Tony wagged a finger at him. “Proving once again that you can’t stand to church and state the idea of me not being actively involved in every damn thing this duct-taped-together team manages to pull off.”
Fury cocked an eyebrow high, craning his neck to look at Tony.
“You really don’t know, do you?”
Tony felt his pulse begin to race, jerky and painful in his chest as a protective surge of anger made his skin flush with heat. Between SHIELD and Fury, whatever he didn’t know couldn’t, in any way, shape or form, be a good thing.
He stepped forward, swallowing hard. “If this is about Peter, he’s a kid. Go away.”
Fury paused, taking one look at Tony before barking out a laugh.
“Oh, wow. And you’re giving me shit for keeping secrets?” Fury rested his hand against his stomach, nearly bent over from laughing. “Oh, that’s rich.”
The elevator doors slid open neatly, and Fury didn’t waste a second in stepping inside, all while Tony’s stare intensified on him.
“What are you talking about?” Tony tried to ignore the slight panic thrumming under his skin.
Fury turned around in the elevator, shoulders pulled back tight with his hands resting deep in his jacket pockets. “I’m talking about the welcome-wagon, Stark. After all, Rogers did make a deal with us.”
The elevator chimed at the exact second Tony felt his gusto fall away, replaced with a dangerous combination of curiosity and anxiety. His jaw tensed tightly, the muscles clenching so hard he worried they might lock.
“A deal?” A noticeable edge coated his question. “For what?”
Tony raised his eyebrows.
Fury raised his right back.
“You best sweep the floors and dust the shelves,” was his response. “You got a new housemate moving in.”
The elevator doors closed on Fury’s face, smug for a man who barely showed any emotion.
Feet rooted in place in the empty lobby, Tony could feel the wheels in his head churning at light speed, his face pinched with confusion as he stared blankly ahead.
What was that...?
And why would…?
His mouth ran dry, his jaw slacked open and sucking in all the air around him. He didn’t notice, not over the coiling anger that had his fingers digging into the palms of his hands, leaving dent marks from his fingernails.
The voice that told him to steady his breathing and calm himself down couldn’t be heard over screaming reality, a high-pitched sort of monster that formed into gut-punching realization.
“Motherfu—”