Work Text:
Peter should have seen it coming.
Frankly, he should have seen a lot more coming. The bus, for example. The one Doc Oc had thrown at him. Or the day when his secrets caught up with him to bite him in the ass. Or the earth-shattering, all-encompassing, soul-crushing look of shock and disappointment on his father's face when he pulled the mask off Peter's head to reveal the bloody face of his only son beneath the red Spider-Man suit.
Feeling more miserable than ever before in his young life, Peter watched his parents yell at each other from different corners of the med bay. His uncle Bruce took care of the nasty cut that stretched from his elbow to his shoulder, but he hardly noticed the pain.
“Did you know, Tony? That he was out there? For months?” Steve asked.
Red blotches had appeared on his pale cheeks as he marched up and down. At some point, he'd pulled off his cowl and discarded the shield, but he still looked more menacing than Peter had ever seen him.
Tony matched his husband in volume, never one to back down from a fight. He was still wearing the bottom half of his armor, which made him level with Steve as he returned his glare. “Of course not! Do you really think I would've kept it from you if I knew?”
Bruce shifted nervously and threw a quick glance at the door through which Dr Cho had vanished when the shouting had started. He finished wrapping Peter's arm but didn't move from his side.
“Well, you should have known! We should have known!” Steve retorted. “Tony, our son has been out there, fighting criminals for almost half a year, nevermind that he is too young to do this, and you're telling me that you, the most brilliant computer whiz of this century, had no idea he was was sneaking out of the tower?”
“Four months. And I'm fifteen,” Peter interjected, but immediately regretted it when his father's usually so patient gaze landed on him. His eyes were shooting sparks.
“Do not correct me, young man.” Steve didn't yell at Peter, but the disappointment in his voice was almost worse. “You are in enough trouble as it is already.”
Peter ducked his head and began to fiddle with the strings on the sweatpants he was wearing. The faded MIT print on the side told him they belonged to his dad. Someone, probably Tony, had pulled them from somewhere so Peter wouldn't have to sit on the examination table in nothing but his boxers.
“Steve,” Tony demanded, snapping his fingers and successfully redirecting Steve's attention back to himself. “Our son is a genius. If he wants to sneak out, then he will find a way! This is the Avengers Tower, not a prison!”
“Then where did he get his suit from? This is your technology that got him into this mess!” Steve demanded next. He gestured at what had once been Peter's Spider-Man suit. The bloody shreds looked as if someone had thrown them into a grinder.
“I allowed him to tinker in the workshop like always. I had no idea what he was working on,” Tony shot back, indignation clear in his voice.
It became immediately apparent that this had also been the wrong answer.
Steve threw his hands into the air, hurt written all over his face. “Have you been so absorbed in your own work that you didn't notice that our son was working on a way to get himself killed with your weapons?”
Tony flinched. Peter flinched.
Bruce looked a little green around the nose and placed a soothing hand on his nephew's bandaged shoulder. It didn't help.
Peter exchanged a quick glance with his uncle, in it all the regret, the pain, and the knowledge that he had really messed up.
How could he have been so blind?
The day had begun so average, so normal, so uneventful that Peter should have known it could only end in a disaster.
The gentle sun had been high in the sky, and the first stray snowflake had quietly fallen from a stray cloud to land on Peter's fingertip. He'd changed into his self-made suit behind the dumpsters near his school after classes had ended, and aimlessly swung through the neighborhood.
He'd stopped two pickpockets, returned a stolen bike to its owner, bought a fresh hotdog for a little boy in a tutu, and webbed a band of very untalented robbers to a red brick building and alerted the police. He'd just taken the first bite of his afternoon snack (a fantastic tuna sandwich from his favorite bodega) when an explosion rattled him to his bones. Not even ten seconds later, sirens started blaring, and a cold shudder ran down his spine.
All of his senses were suddenly on high alert. He knew what this meant.
Hurriedly, he shoved the remains of his food into his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and jumped off the street lantern he had been sitting on. Fingers pointed, people gaped, and photos were snapped when he flew over the heads of the pedestrians in the streets below. Whenever Peter felt giddy, he struck a pose in mid-air for the kids on the playground, but the tingling sensation in the back of his head told him that something had seriously gone south and that there was no time for such tricks.
“KAREN, what's happening?” he asked the AI.
A smooth female voice answered him. Having the AI he'd helped his dad built years ago speak directly into his ear was a new addition to his Spidey suit. After two weeks of trying and failing, it had finally worked.
“Scanning the news feed,” KAREN answered.
A second passed. If she had access to the security cameras, Peter would have much more detailed intel, but as he didn't want to risk being caught hacking the official networks, he had to satisfy himself with the information the broad public had.
“There has been an incident in the sewer system," KAREN recited a news website. "An explosion destroyed the street and damaged the adjacent buildings. The inner structure of an office building has been affected. People are trapped. The police are on their way, but a fire down the street is blocking the way.”
Graceful, Peter swung around the corner of a building with practiced ease. Four months into his new life as Spider-Man, he had a good handle on his exciting powers.
“Shoot,” he mumbled against the cold wind whooshing in his ears.
In the distance, too far away for any normal human to see, he could already make out the cluster of crashed cars, of scared New Yorkers fleeing the scene. It looked way more serious than anything Peter had faced during his short career as Queens’ protector. His heart sank.
“We need to help them!” He tried to sound more confident than he was, and it would have worked if KAREN hadn't flashed a red warning over his HUD.
“I have to strongly advise against intervening, Peter,” KAREN said. “The police are calling the Avengers. A level 4 warning has been sent out.”
Peter had no idea what she was talking about, but also didn't feel like asking.
People were in danger, trapped in a building that might collapse at any moment. He might not have the Hulk's strength or his father's firepower, but he might be able to get a few civilians to safety until the cavalry arrived and he could escape to keep his identity secret.
He ignored KAREN's repeated warnings and landed on the bent hood of a destroyed car. Standing amongst the blaring sirens and the shouting firefighters, some very unpleasant memories from his childhood fought to resurface in his mind, memories of fire and blood, of rubble and loss.
“Gosh darn it,” Peter cursed under his breath as he took in the smoke rising to the sky, his pop's old-fashioned curse word escaping him.
Tony, the futurist, would have immediately started teasing him that growing up with a hundred-year-old had rubbed off on him – if he'd been around to hear it. But of course, he wasn't. Neither of his two fathers was here. Nobody knew what Peter was facing but himself and KAREN because nobody knew he was Spider-Man.
Usually, Peter was thankful for it because he was sure that neither of his parents would approve of their only son playing vigilante and following in his fathers’ footsteps.
But when the heat from the fire bit into his skin, when he took in the gaping hole in the concrete, when the smell of smoke and blood reached his nose, and when from the ruins of what had once been a bustling crossing a man emerged with tentacles protruding from his back…then, yes, Peter wished someone was there to back him up.
A few hours later, when evening was approaching and the sky outside the windows of the Avengers tower was slowly darkening, Peter's ears were still ringing from the last explosion. He was lying on his side on his bed in his room. His injured arm throbbed painfully. His head hurt.
He let his eyes wander through the room. The fading daylight illuminated the Lego Death Star on his sideboard. The tangled mess of cables that protruded from his half-finished computer looked like a heap of spiders in the dim light.
He scratched miserably over the bruising on his cheek. His extremely high metabolism had started demanding calories to keep the fast healing process up, but Peter was in no mood to go to the kitchen. He hadn't been grounded, which had come as a surprise, but he still preferred the solitude of his room over the rest of the penthouse.
After the horrible thing Steve had thrown into Tony's face, about how Peter almost killed himself with his dad's inventions, the super soldier had stormed from the med bay, leaving behind a ringing silence so loud that Peter had feared he'd gone deaf.
It had taken a moment for any of them to move, but then, uncharacteristically subdued, Tony had shed the rest of his armor pieces. Clad only in his undersuit, he'd asked his son in a low voice to go upstairs to rest his head. Peter was sure he wasn't concussed, but he didn't argue. For once, he'd followed his father's orders to a T.
He'd just exited the med bay when he saw his uncle Bruce feel his dad's ribs with a concerned look on his face. Tony had grimaced in pain. Then the sliding doors had closed behind Peter, separating the three of them.
Peter hadn't known he could feel even worse than he already did.
A knock on his door pulled him from his spiraling thoughts.
“Peter?” Tony's voice sounded muffled through the wood. “You missed dinner.”
Peter's stomach clenched. “I'm not hungry,” he lied.
“If your body is anything like your pops’ then you must be starving,” his dad replied, sounding almost as if he was smiling.
The mention of his other father made Peter press his lips together so he wouldn't cry.
“Your uncle made his signature dish,” Tony continued when Peter failed to answer. “I risked two fingers saving you some from your hungry family.”
It was embarrassing to admit, but it Bruce's Indian curry that sealed Peter's fate.
Tears started to gather in his eyes, and he was off the bed and on his feet in under two seconds. He nearly ripped the door off its hinges with how forcefully he threw it open to reveal his father, his hand still raised, prepared to knock again.
He had a whole speech prepared, had arranged and rearranged the words in his head during the hours he'd spent staring at his poster-covered walls. But the moment Peter laid eyes on his father's tired face, his mind was blank. All he could do was throw himself into Tony's open arms and cry into his shirt.
“Dad, dad, I'm so, so sorry,” he pressed out.
“Shhh,” his father soothed him like he'd done countless times before. He tapped him on his healthy shoulder with a soft grunt. “Loosen up a bit, underoos. Your old man is the only mortal of this family.”
Peter released his father, remembering how he'd flinched in pain when Bruce had taken care of him.
“I'm s-sorry, dad,” he apologized again. “I'm sorry for everything. For lying, and, and, and for making you sad, and for getting you injured.”
Tony pulled a bag of tissues from his pocket and handed it to Peter. “I know,” was all he said, and somehow Peter knew he did.
Wordlessly, he accepted the proffered tissues, cleaned his nose, and followed his father down the hallway to the kitchen where Bruce's curry filled the warm air with the smell of exotic spices.
He could still remember the first time he'd tried it, and the look of delight on Bruce's face when a nine year old Peter had bestowed the title of ‘uncle’ on him. Another stray tear ran down his cheek. Through the veil of it, he made his way to the table and accepted the plate Tony put in front of him.
While he shoved the food greedily into his mouth, Tony fiddled with the coffee machine.
“Decaf,” his dad said, saluting his son as he turned around. “Steve insists after 6 pm.”
Peter swallowed hard around the lump of curry, shame, and worry in his throat. “Where's pops?” he asked in a small voice.
“Down in the gym and destroying my reinforced boxing gear,” Tony sighed as he took the seat opposite Peter. He took a careful sip of his hot beverage. “Says he needs time to think.”
Peter put the spoon down and stared into his empty bowl. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt as horrible as today.
There were no excuses for what he'd done.
He'd lied to the faces of the two amazing men who'd saved him from the horrible orphanage he'd been sent to after his last blood relatives, Ben and May, had died in a horrible accident. They'd taken him in, given him not only a home but also a family to rely on and return to, and he repaid them by sneaking out and keeping secrets.
The look of disappointment on Steve's face had cut deeply into his heart, and the betrayal in his words had hurt worse than the metal tentacles Doc Oc had wrapped around him in an attempt to squeeze the life out of him.
Peter chewed on his split bottom lip and let his gaze wander through the room.
On a shelf to his left was Bruce's collection of Indian teas. Above it was his aunt Tasha's vodka that she'd brought from Russia and cherished like her first-born. One of Thor's spare cloaks hung forgotten over the back of a chair. A younger and more carefree version of Peter used to steal them to built the world's best blanket forts. Clint, his other uncle had left a pair of his purple sunglasses on top of the fridge. They had been a bit of a joke gift he'd received from Tony for his birthday last year, but everyone loved them.
And on the door of the fridge, held up by rainbow colored magnets, were their photos.
Clint and Nat doing shots after a successful mission. Thor and the Hulk wrestling. Aunt Pepper and uncle Rhodey visiting for Christmas. Steve and Tony kissing a six year old Peter on the cheeks underneath the mistletoe.
The air in the kitchen became hotter.
Two years ago, when he'd been thirteen, Peter had, for the first time in his life, skipped school to hang out with the ‘cool kids’.
Happy had thrown a fit when the principal had called. Tony had been tempted to hack the NSA. Steve had been ready to infiltrate the school. Natasha and Clint had been about to alert SHIELD. Bruce had needed to retreat to his meditation room so he wouldn't hulk out. Thankfully, his uncle Thor had been off-world. Peter couldn't and didn't want to imagine what would have happened if the god of thunder had found out that his favorite (and only) nephew had vanished.
Why had Peter led himself to believe that the band of misfits he called family would react more mildly to learning that he was Spider-Man than them finding out he was coughing up a lung from his first cigarette on an abandoned playground instead of sitting his Spanish exam?
He took a deep breath.
“Dad,” he started, glad that his voice sounded less shaky than before. Peter looked into his father's eyes. Those were eyes he trusted with his life.
Why didn't he realize this before?
“Dad. I'm sorry. I never meant to lie to you or to pops. It just…it just happened,” he began. “After the spider bit me, I suddenly had these powers, and it was exciting and new, and I thought I could finally be like you. I can help people, dad. I can be a hero. I wanted to tell you, but I didn't know how. I knew you'd worry, but I wanted to make you proud, and I was scared you'd tell me to stop being Spider-Man because you worry. And I can't do that, dad. I have these powers that I can't ignore. But now you're disappointed, and pops won't look at me, and…”
Peter choked on his words. His breath was coming fast.
“Hey,” his father began, but Peter shook his head.
“And I'm the reason pops is so angry with you,” he burst out. He clenched his fists on the table. His nails dug into his palms. “That's the worst of it. You can ground me all you want, but I don't want to see you scream at each other. I hate it. Pops said such horrible things to you because of me. I made the suit myself, dad. You didn't do anything to get me into this mess. Pops was wrong. He shouldn't have shouted at you for it.”
Peter had another monologue prepared, but he started hiccuping halfway through his last sentence and was forced to stop.
Tony had listened to his speech with an unnervingly calm and composed expression, but now that Peter broke down in front of him, he could no longer keep a straight face. He reached over to pet Peter's hair like he'd done a millionth times when he'd been a little boy. And just like always, knowing deeply in his heart that his dad would never refuse him, Peter found himself once again in Tony's arms.
He didn’t know how long they sat like that, but in the end his tears dried and his heart calmed. It still felt raw when his father squeezed his arm to get his attention.
“Come with me for a moment, Peter. Join your old man in the workshop,” he said and rose from his chair.
Confused, Peter rubbed over his eyes with the back of his hand. But he followed Tony's lead, and together they left the kitchen.
When the father and son duo stepped out of the elevator and into the wide open workshop, the first thing Peter saw was how Butterfingers and DUM-E froze in their attempt to sort through Tony's toolbox. He inhaled the smell of metal, motor oil, coffee, and his father. He stepped into the room.
Huge windows, spanning from floor to ceiling, allowed the spectator a breathtaking view over the city of all cities. Floating holograms and diagrams threw their soft blue glow onto the half-finished projects lying on the various tables. Peter spotted an improved version of a solar-powered emergency generator, a dented armor plate, bits of different fabrics for Steve's new suit, and blueprints for the rotor blades of the helicarrier. When the beeping robots abandoned their task to roll up to him to get their cuddles, he patted their claws, welcoming them like siblings.
“Do you know what your pops’ greatest weakness is?” Tony asked. He'd strolled through the room and taken a seat at his usual worktable, where a half-finished gauntlet was waiting for him. He picked up a screwdriver and rummaged through a small box full of screws.
Surprised, Peter glanced at him, his hands still on the robots. He shook his head. Then, when he realized that his dad couldn't see him, he said, “No.”
Tony secured one of the loose plates on the back of his gauntlet before turning around to point at Peter with his tool. “You.”
Peter swallowed. “Me?”
His father nodded. “You,” he repeated and threw the screwdriver back onto the table. “Steve is a super soldier. He can't get sick, his body heals incredibly fast, he is as strong as an elephant and eats about as much.”
Peter snickered.
“He is nearly a hundred years old,” his father continued, his face uncharacteristically serious all of a sudden. Gone was his restless energy and Peter felt the focus of one of the smartest men of the world rest on him. It weighed heavily.
“And every person he knew growing up is dead.”
Peter swallowed again. His smile faded.
“When I first met your pops, he was bitter and depressed. It took us a while to pull our heads out of our asses but in the end, he said yes when I asked him.” Tony pulled another chair up for Peter and patted it.
Peter took the chair next to Tony's. He touched the surface of the table. Between the bits of scrap metal and wires, tools and empty coffee cups stood a framed picture of his parents’ wedding day. He often wished he'd been there to witness it.
“And then you came along. For the first time, Steve had something that was only his. Something he was afraid to lose. This family. You.” Tony grasped Peter's healthy shoulder and pulled him forward so they were looking eye to eye. “The only time I ever saw your father cry was when you called him your pops for the first time.”
Peter was lost for words. His throat was dry. He felt as though someone was pressing a pillow to his face.
“Steve is angry with you because he’s scared. I'm too,” Tony whispered. “We are proud of you, underoos, we are proud because you want to help people who can't help themselves. But we'd be proud of you anyway, even if you didn't have super cool spider powers. You are our son.”
Peter rubbed over his eyes, already knowing he was about to submit to his tears.
“I love you, dad,” he croaked. “And I'm proud to be your son. But…but pops shouldn't have shouted at you. It's not your fault that I sneaked out. I tricked JARVIS, and I took KAREN with me. And it was that lunatic Doc Oc who got to me. Not your weapons. It's not your fault, dad. You need to believe me.”
Tony gave him a smile that made him look more exhausted and more tired than Peter had ever seen him. “I know, kiddo. And Steve knows, too.”
“Then why-” Peter began, but Tony held up a hand.
“I am responsible for a lot of deaths in this world, Peter. It's not a secret. Before I became the man I'm now, I was known as the Merchant of Death. I admit your father hurt me with his accusation, because it reminded me of the horrible nickname I was once so proud of. But I heard much worse in my life, and I delivered much worse. Ask your aunt, Tasha.” He gave Peter a wink. “When Steve and I first met, we were ready to tear each other apart. But we got past it. We grow with each fight and each apology.”
“So…you're not going to break up because of me?”
The words slipped out before Peter had time to think about them. But now that he heard his own voice, he knew that was what had haunted him ever since Steve had stormed out of the med bay. His fathers were perfect for each other. The idea that it had been Peter's childish wish to be a hero that drove them apart was torture. He'd lose everything, his home, his family…his dad, his pops.
Cold dread settled in his stomach and he was on the brink of hyperventilating.
Tony's abrupt laughter short-circuited his brain.
“And here I thought you were a genius, Peter.” Tony shook his head. “Your father won't get rid of me that easily. I told him so a hundred times before. It'll take some time, but we always solve our problems together. That's who we are. And that's who we wish for you to be as well.”
When Tony opened his arms for a hug, Peter melted into his embrace.
“I'm sorry for being such an idiot, dad,” he mumbled into his father's shoulder.
Tony rubbed over his back, mindful of his injuries. “You're still young. That's your only fault, Peter. I was once like you are now, and I know that it's not easy. Take your time becoming an adult and let your old men back you up. We'll work on the safety of your suit together. You get a headset to call pops or me if you need us, and your Mission Impossible aunt and uncle offered to help train you.”
Peter felt the tears well up again. He hid his face in his father's shoulder. “Thanks, dad. For being the best dad in the world.”
He felt Tony's chuckle more than he heard it, and his arms wrapped a little tighter around him.
“We love you, Peter,” he promised. “But you're still grounded for a month.”
Later, when the night had reached its darkest point and thick snowflakes were falling from the sky, the sliding door to the workshop opened with a quiet whooshing sound.
Tony didn't have to turn around to know who had come to find them. The telltale sounds of his husband's footsteps came closer and stopped beside the couch he was lounging on. He didn't look up from the screen where the final minutes of The Empire Strikes Back were playing out.
“Tony?” Steve asked.
Tony nodded at their sleeping son in lieu of answering. Peter's eyes were still puffy and red rimmed, his hair a mess, and his shirt rumpled. He'd fallen asleep on his father's shoulder halfway through the movie, but Tony hadn't had it in him to wake him.
“He’s growing up so fast,” he mumbled.
Carefully, he extracted the almost empty popcorn bowl from his son's lax grip before it could fall, and patted the free cushion beside him for Steve to join them.
Steve hummed low in his throat as he sat down. The couch dipped slightly. “How is he?”
“JARVIS told me his injuries are healing fast. In another day or two, he'll be as good as new.”
Tony brushed his son's bangs from his forehead and let his fingers ghost over the cuts and bruises blooming on his skin. Peter looked younger when he slept, much more like the child he still was to his parents.
“Sometimes I forget how old he already is.”
Steve stayed quiet and watched the pair of them for a couple more minutes in the soft blue glow of the TV. “Tony,” he began, and Tony turned around to watch the gorgeous man he'd married, already knowing what was coming next. “Tony…I'm so-”
Tony silenced him with a finger to his lips. “Steve.”
Steve gently took his hand and pulled it into his lap. He laced their fingers.
“No, Tony. I was wrong. I should have never raised my voice.” He swallowed and Tony watched his Adam's apple bob. “Seeing Peter like that, bloody and in that suit…I was so scared, Tony. I lost it. It was unfair of me to blame you, and I need you to know how sorry I am. You were right when you said that he'd find a way out of the tower if he wanted to. It was that mad doctor who hurt him. Not you. You saved him today, Tony.”
Tony studied Steve's face. He was looking like death had warmed over, as if he'd been the one who'd been hit with a bus instead of their son. There were shadows under his red eyes, proof that he'd been crying. His hair was more messy than Tony had ever seen it, and his knuckles were bloody from mauling the sandbags for hours.
“Thank you for apologizing, Steve,” he told him and squeezed his fingers. “But it wasn't I who saved him. We did this together. Like we always do.”
Steve smiled, all sad and in love and breathtakingly honest. “You are the best father any child could wish for.”
Now it was Tony who had to fight the tears rising in his eyes. The day was taking a toll on him. First, the attack of Doc Oc, then the discovery that their son was a web-slinging vigilante, the fight with Steve, the emotional talk with Peter, and now his husband's apology. Having Steve say to his face that he was a good father was almost too much. He wasn't made for so many emotions.
“Kiss me, you big buffoon,” he whispered and tilted his chin up.
Smiling even broader, Steve leaned in and did just that. Their lips met like they'd done a hundred million times in a hundred million different lives, and Tony sighed happily as his husband's familiar scent surrounded him.
They opened their mouths, and their tongues danced as they tasted each other. It was gentle and slow, sincere and full of all the things they didn't say: I love you, I need you, don't ever leave me, only you, only our family.
“I grounded him for a month,” Tony whispered against Steve's kiss-swollen lips when they came up for air after some very long moments. He couldn't remember when Steve’s hands had come up to frame his face, but he melted into the soft touch. “He didn't even put up a fight. Must really be feeling guilty.”
Steve rubbed their noses together. “You grounded him until after Christmas?”
Tony gave Steve's plush bottom lip a little nip. “Yeah, because I know you wouldn't. You can't admit it, but I know how proud you are of Peter for wanting to help.”
Steve’s cheeks reddened, which was all the answer Tony needed. He tugged on his husband's sweater to pull him closer.
“Grab that blanket over there for me, big guy,” Tony told him and pointed at the pile of fluff on the floor. “Peter is stealing all the warmth from my body, and I demand super soldier cuddles as an apology.”
Steve snorted in good humor, but grabbed the blanket as ordered. It was an old, ratty thing that Steve had given him for their one month anniversary all those years ago, and which Tony cherished like it was another of his robotic children. He wrapped it around all three of them like a cocoon.
Steve hummed happily. Tony sighed in contentment. Peter wrapped his arms around them in his sleep.
“This is the best,” Tony murmured when they were finally settled and the popcorn bowl was back in his lap. The Return of the Jedi had just begun playing and Steve's hand had come up to gently stroke his hair. Tony wanted to purr.
“Tony?” Steve said his name, and, like always and ever, Tony looked up.
“What?” he asked.
Steve smiled at him. “I love you.”
Tony returned it. “I love you too.”