#sending you love & prayers gentle pete

[lailoken]

A while back, my husband and I took in an injured rooster we found wandering a rural highway. We called him Gentle Pete, as he was unusually docile and affectionate. He recovered well from his initial injuries and had a happy life with our chickens for several months. Recently, however, he appears to have suffered a stroke. We were sad to see him struggling, but we dedicated ourselves to giving him a loving and comfortable last few days. To prevent him from being picked on, we brought him into our greenhouse and set up a little shelter and feed station for him. He spent much of his time sitting in potted plants and letting us gently stroke his back or feed him treats.

He finally passed away as a result of his health issues, but he died peacefully while sleeping in his favorite plant (a small lemon tree). I am grateful for chances like these to not only spread kindness to animals in need, but to familiarize myself with Death as an old and loving godparent.

[ironfidus]

Every Fifteen Minutes (3)

Summary:

“In honor of Peter Benjamin Parker,” the obituary reads. “2001 - 2017. Peter B. Parker, 16, died on the 5th of February, 2017, as a result of injuries sustained in a car crash involving a drunk driver…”

Tony can't finish reading. He swears his heart stops. “FRIDAY,” he croaks.

He doesn’t have to finish the order; FRIDAY, as if reading his mind, activates his Iron Man suit and sends it to envelop his body. Tony is shooting through the skies before he even fully realizes it.

OR: Peter Parker was in a car crash—except... he wasn’t. One forgetful Spider-Kid, one sleepy best friend, and one misleading post on social media all lead to a disastrous turn of events, culminating in the arrival of an unexpected guest at Midtown High.

Read here on AO3 (@a_matter_of_loyalty)

:::

Chapter 3: the sky’d be falling (and I’d hold you tight)

Chapter Summary: Peter wakes up.

Or: Tony and Ned finally realize Peter is alive and there was never any car crash at all.

:::

Tony’s heart thumps loudly in his chest.

Peter.

Thud. Thud. Thud thud thud—

He whirls around so quickly he nearly falls and suffers from whiplash, Douglas Fitzpatrick and Principal Morita immediately forgotten. The rest of the goddamn world falls away, out of sight and out of mind.

The groan was quiet, barely even audible, but Tony would recognize that voice anywhere.

For the umpteenth time today, his heart stutters, suspended in time, and then stops. “Peter?” he trembles, the kid’s name no more than a whisper on his tongue. Tentatively, haltingly, he abandons Fitzpatrick and Morita both, making his way back to Ned and Peter—Peter, his stupid, reckless, self-sacrificial, brave kid who is still lying on the ground, a sight that predictably sends a shot of pain piercing Tony. But beyond the instinctive pain, a glimmer of hope balloons in his chest, too, spreading through the rest of his body with unrivaled warmth. “Pete.”

“Peter…? Are you… Can you hear me?” Ned chimes in from beside him, and Tony knows then that he can’t be hallucinating. It feels like a dream, but the same hope he feels is painted across Ned’s face, too.

Right in front of their eyes, Peter’s face muscles twitch.

Tony’s heartbeat picks back up at a hundred miles per hour.

Watching Peter wake up feels like watching the birth of a star. Peter yawns, stretching his limbs like a cat that’s been curled up for too long, and all the while, Tony watches in breathless awe. After a few heart-stopping seconds, Peter sits up, and his eyes instantly catch sight of the scene they make, his best friend and his mentor looming above him with equally hopeful expressions on their faces—

And then Peter beams, hand lifting up in a wave, laughter erupting from him like a shower of protons—a supernova. His smile is dazzling, and it feels a little like watching the sun come out from behind the clouds. It’s like a burst of fireworks splashing across the midnight sky. It’s like the comfort of chocolate and marshmallows, like basking in the hot glow of a campfire.

It’s like hope rising up from a sea of misery.

(Tony never again wants to see Peter's brightness fade, to see the stars in his eyes die out.)

Ned pushes forward first, forcefully slotting himself in front of Tony. Tony doesn’t mind; he’s content with watching and waiting, now that he knows there is a Peter to wait for at all. Besides, he knows what this means to Ned; he knows Ned’s heart broke just as his did.

Ned grips Peter tightly by his shoulders, frenzied eyes meeting his best friend’s. “Peter… Peter. Peter Peter Peter,” Ned chants breathlessly, Peter’s name falling from his mouth like a litany of prayers all blurring together. Ned blinks, once, and the tears overflow his cheeks in a series of cascades. “You’re awake. God, you’re okay.”

“Ned?” Peter blinks, too, but instead of tears, there is only confusion and incomprehension in his eyes. Still, despite his own bewilderment, there is a reason he and Ned have always been best friends: no matter what, they are invariably there to support one another. For Ned, Peter doesn’t hesitate to ignore his budding uncertainty and reach out with his own arms, enwrapping his friend in a soft yet solid embrace, wordlessly providing the reassuring presence Ned needs even without knowing it. 

“Ned,” Peter whispers in a hushed, gentle croon, a murmured lullaby to soothe Ned’s frayed nerves. “I’m okay,” he echoes Ned’s near incoherent babbles without prompting. “I’m okay, Ned.”

Ned doesn’t hesitate to enfold Peter in his own arms, crushing Peter to him with an urgency that transcends speech. 

Peter swallows, repeating his comforting whispers despite the unease that filters through him. Ned has always been his proverbial rock in the midst of disaster, his anchor to normalcy—to the life of Peter Parker, not Spider-Man. It’s unsettling to see Ned like this: devastated and crying in his arms, shoulders convulsing with the force of his sorrow. 

(He became Spider-Man to protect families like his own; to prevent the tragedy that stole Uncle Ben from him from happening to countless others. He became Spider-Man to provide the people with a sense of safety, a sense of security, a sense of comfort.

How can he hope to comfort his neighborhood when he can’t even comfort his own friend?

Ned was never supposed to know sadness like this, grief like this.)

“Peter,” Ned snivels, burying his face in the crook of Peter’s neck. The collar of Peter’s shirt grows damp beneath his face. “You can’t – you can’t leave me, Peter. You’re my best friend. You’re my brother.”

Unbidden, tears spring to Peter’s own eyes, drawn out by the raw anguish evident in his best friend’s entire demeanor. He may not understand, but he doesn’t have to understand to know that Ned needs him right now. “I know,” he whispers. “You’re my brother, too. I’m not going anywhere, I promise. I’m right here.”

Peter holds Ned, keeping him close, for a few minutes longer, unwilling to draw back before Ned does. He’ll stay like this for as long as Ned needs it.

Eventually, as the minutes tick by, Ned’s whimpers quieten and his shoulders stop shuddering. When he finally—albeit reluctantly—pulls away from Peter, it’s with a shaky smile and reddened eyes. Thank you, his smile says, more effectively than words ever could. 

Peter smiles back, understanding that Ned’s gratitude extends far beyond the impromptu hug. 

It’s only now, after Ned has visibly calmed, that Peter allows his initial confusion to resurface.

“Ned, what’s going—” he freezes suddenly when his eyes catch onto something, or rather someone, over Ned’s shoulder. Ned had blocked his view of their surroundings earlier, and his concern for Ned had clouded his attention anyway, but now that Ned has retracted himself somewhat, Peter can see the familiar outline of his mentor against the backdrop of his high school. 

His mentor. Mr. Stark. At his high school.

“Wha – Mr. Stark!” Peter squawks, voice strangled and high-pitched (read: embarrassed) as he meets Tony’s eye—oh, that’s right, he said his classmates don’t believe he knows me, as if he’s the lucky one, Tony recalls faintly—but it does nothing to tame the pleased, albeit shy, smile that crawls up his lips. “Oh, my god. Mr. Stark, what are you doing here?”

The question comes like an accusation, tinged with both confusion and worry.

Tony isn’t worried. How can he worry about anything when Peter’s awake and whole? Maybe that’s why he says in response to Peter’s question, heart on his sleeve: “I came here for you.”

Peter blinks once. Twice.

And then, as the words sink in, as Peter wraps his mind around the quiet admission, he chokes. “Mr. Stark!” he splutters, embarrassment growing as he becomes abruptly aware of where, exactly, he is. Ned’s distress had blinded him to all else earlier, but now, with no distractions to redirect his focus, he feels the presence of his entire student body all too distinctly. Under his schoolmates’ palpably shocked and interrogatory stares, Peter feels naked and defenseless, vulnerable before the world.

The realization that his classmates, people he sees and socializes with everyday, not only witnessed a private moment between him and Ned, but is also now privy to him interacting with Tony Goddamn Stark in all his grandeur, punches into him with the force of an asteroid. Peter blanches visibly, struggling to find words as he valiantly tries (and fails) to ignore his classmates’ piercing gazes, “Why – I thought – I don’t—”

“I thought you were dead,” Tony interrupts, a mere whisper, thick and stained with the lingering fears of the day. 

Peter falls silent, his voice stolen from his larynx. Embarrassment and mortification deflating immediately, he gawks, openmouthed and uncomprehending, at Tony. 

Tony’s jaw shifts. When FRIDAY first alerted him of the dreaded post that spurred him towards Midtown High today, he cursed himself for never letting Peter know before it was too late—know how much he’d come to mean to Tony, how deeply he’d snuck his way into Tony’s life, how he’d redefined love and family as Tony sees it. 

Now that it turns out it’s not too late—now that Peter is breathing and awake and alive, chest rising and falling with the proof of it—Tony won’t let Peter doubt his place in Tony’s life ever again. He’s done hiding, done pretending.

Life is too short, and he has too much to lose.

(It’s a lesson Peter learned early—far earlier than him—Tony thinks. He should have realized it from the very beginning, when he barged into a homely apartment in Queens and met Peter Parker for the very first time, small and timid and startlingly determined in his cramped room, the brightest fire burning in his eyes as he stared Tony down and said, unwavering:

When you can do the things that I can, but you don’t, and then the bad things happen... they happen because of you.

Tony had never forgotten those words.

Even back then, Peter had known the fragility of life and the importance of making every second count—while Tony had been clueless. For so long, he’d taken things—people—for granted; he’d simply assumed Rhodey and Pepper and Happy and later Peter would stay in his life for as long as he wanted.

It is a fool’s assumption. Because sometimes, it’s not up to you. Sometimes, choice doesn’t weigh in.)

(Tony is scared of letting people in. Has always been scared, ever since his father and Obadiah Stane taught him the taste of betrayal. 

But he’s more scared of not letting Peter in, of losing Peter, he finds.)

“I thought you were dead,” he repeats, and there is something too honest—too exposed—in his voice to deny. He meets Peter’s eyes and lays his heart bare: “I thought I’d lost you.”

Peter blinks rapidly, eyes pooling with tears. “Mr. Stark,” he says with a weak laugh, voice watery with choked amazement, “you’re going to give people the wrong idea if you keep talking like that.” A tentative grin curls on his face. He jokes, “God forbid anyone realizes Tony Stark has a heart.”

Tony laughs, his first since this morning. It feels freeing, like a vice grip has been released from around said heart. “Let them,” he says when he’s stopped laughing, warm eyes turning fierce and steely. Peter blinks, startled, and Tony smiles, soft but determined. “Let them.”

Peter resembles a deer caught in headlights. “B-But—”

Your reputation, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t need to; Tony can read the worry in his eyes. You’re Tony Stark. What about your company? What about the press? What if they— 

Oh, Pete, Tony thinks. You precious, precious kid. Peter was always worrying about others; he was always putting others first. Putting Tony first. Tony shakes his head in disbelief, because—As if I care what they think about me. As if any of that matters more than this, more than you. 

He doesn’t care. Nothing matters more.

“I don’t care,” he murmurs aloud resolutely, taking another step towards Peter, hands twitching with the urge to take his kid into his arms, to press two fingers to the side of his neck and feel Peter’s pulse—Peter’s life—beating against the pads of his fingers. “I just spent the last hour or so”—has it really only been an hour? It feels like a lifetime has passed—“thinking you were dead.”

Peter blinks again, the words Tony didn’t say echoing loud and clear in the air between them. His tears spill over in a rush at last, tracking their way down his cheeks. With a startled, nasally laugh, Peter reaches up and rubs at his cheeks with the undersides of his wrists, brushing the tears away.

The motion of Peter’s hands finally redirects Tony’s attention to the side of his head—or rather, to the blood that smears it. Oh, my god. His stomach twists in horrified realization.

“Oh, shit.” Tony’s heart lurches to his throat as his single-minded focus on he’s alive he’s alive he’s alive dwindles slightly, replaced by reawakened fear for what he almost lost and could yet still lose. How could he have forgotten? Stupid. So stupid. In his defense, he’d been too caught up by the fact that Peter is actually alive and breathing to pay attention to the obvious bleeding wound on his head, but still—

He’s a terrible mentor, he thinks. Shit. How long has it been? What if he has a fucking concussion, Stark? “Peter,” he chokes out, voice strangled with urgency, “you need to… you need to get to the hospital, or the medbay, or—wait, the paramedics are already here. Shit, we’ve wasted so much time already and your head—”

Red. So much blood. Tony’s stomach turns. He’s seen a lot of injuries in his time, both due to his wild past and his occupation as Iron Man, but Peter’s wounds have always affected him in ways no one else’s can. 

This is Peter, and he’s bleeding from the head. Tony should have flown him to the nearest hospital ten minutes ago.

But for reasons he cannot discern, Peter doesn’t seem to share his concerns. “What?” Peter’s brows furrow. He looks at Tony like he’s grown two heads, instead of the other way around. “Mr. Stark, I’m fine,” he protests.

“You’re not fine,” Tony hisses, his heart racing in his ribcage. Thoughts of head wound and concussion and internal bleeding sweep through his mind, like vultures looking to feast on the nearest rotten carcass. “Fuck. You need medical attention now—”

Speaking of which, why haven’t the paramedics loaded Peter onto the ambulance yet? Sure, Tony and Ned have been fretting over him, but it’s their job to make sure that Peter is in perfect condition. 

Tony’s just about to turn and bark at the paramedics to get your asses over here and get my kid to the goddamn hospital when Peter yelps, “Mr. Stark, I’m not hurt. Really!” He gives Tony a meaningful look. “Why would I be—? I haven’t even gone on the web yet today.”

“Peter,”—he swivels around to face the kid again, eyes narrowing—“there is blood on your face. Stop pulling your ‘I’m Fine, I Swear’ routine. That stopped being believable a long time ago.”

“I don’t have a routine— and I really am fine this time!” Peter persists. “Look, it’s just—” he reaches up and swipes a hand through the blood, offering his newly blood-covered hand to Tony.

Tony stares. He resists the immediate, instinctive urge to recoil, instead trying to assess the situation and figure out why the fuck Peter is holding out his blood-covered hand.

“See?” Peter huffs, and Tony doesn’t. “It’s not real blood, Mr. Stark.”

Wait, what. Tony’s brain short-circuits. Now that Peter’s mentioned it, though, Tony considers the notion and realizes that Peter’s supposedly blood-covered hand is missing the distinctive smell of blood, of rusted copper and iron. What the fuck.

Peter smiles far too triumphantly at the dawning look of realization on Tony’s face. “I wasn’t even injured,” he insists.

“B-But— I—” Tony stammers incredulously. “What is all this, then? Why were you…” he trails off, not quite able to make himself voice the words, and instead simply gestures at the scene around them—the cluster of paramedics and police officers looking skittishly from Tony to his Iron Man suit and back again, the handcuffed teenager cowering against one of the police cars, the gathering of students, Peter with (fake?) blood still on his face.

Tony swallows once, and then clears his throat forcefully. “I thought… I thought you were in a car crash…?”

Peter’s eyes widen as the first drops of understanding finally sink into him. Oh. Oh! “Oh, my god. Oh, my god. I wasn’t — Mr. Stark, I wasn’t actually in a car crash. I promise. Wait, is that why you thought I—? That’s why you’re here?”

Tony nods hesitantly, still reeling from shock. 

Peter mouths one more oh, my god as he shakes his head frantically, waving his arms back and forth as if to discourage that belief. He looks like he isn’t sure whether to bemoan their luck or giggle at the insanity of their situation. “Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark. This is just a simulation. It’s all part of an educational program Midtown is participating in.”

Tony makes a guttural, dumbfounded noise at the back of his throat, so taken aback that he can’t even find the words to respond to that. A… program?

Peter finally gives in and snickers lightly, equal parts amusement and sheepish regret on his face. “It’s called Every Fifteen Minutes,” he explains apologetically, registering now why his mentor appears so haggard before him, as if he’s been through a war. “It’s meant to raise awareness about the dangers of drinking-and-driving and stuff. I’m sorry if you’ve been…” he shakes it off with a grimace. “I would have told you earlier, but I kind of – heh – fell asleep.”

Tony instinctively takes in the entire scene again, his gaze absently drifting back to the car wreck, the lineup of emergency responders, the gaggle of students and staff. He should have realized the second he appeared that there is something distinctly wrong about an honest-to-god civilian crowd gathering to goggle at a crime scene. 

He shakes his head and zeroes in on the handcuffed student for the umpteenth time—only this time, he pushes past the haze of anger and considers all the facts through an impartial lens. He remembers, abruptly, his jarring realization that the student seemed to show no signs of intoxication whatsoever. In light of his newfound perspective on the situation, Tony can only think: oh.

“Oh,” he repeats aloud, half-ashamed. The other half of him is still far too relieved to care about his mistaken assumptions.

Peter gives another giggle. “Yeah, oh,” he mocks. 

Tony’s heart skips a beat. Despite knowing full well that Peter is making fun of him, he can’t help but smile contentedly at his stupid, stupid kid, eyes crinkling at the corners. Call him biased, but Peter’s laugh is the best sound in the entire world.

Peter presses his lips together to muffle the rest of his laugh before he tilts his head, searching for his best friend once more. The second he locks eyes with Ned, he raises his eyebrows and aims a questioning gaze at the other boy. “And why were you crying, Ned? Did you... did you think this was real, too?” He looks endearingly confused. “The teachers handed out pamphlets weeks ago, remember?”

Ned flushes when Tony turns to stare at him, visibly unimpressed. “How was I supposed to know that was today?” Ned protests, grumbling under his breath. After a prolonged moment, he scratches his cheek sheepishly and admits, “I completely forgot about that. I didn’t even connect the dots until you mentioned it.”

Peter squints. “Ned...” he draws out and proceeds to list, the teasing grin on his face growing with every passing second: “Mr. Harrington told us it would be today. Principal Morita sent out emails in advance—both to us and to our emergency contacts, to make sure we’re all informed. One of the officers literally came into our class and notified us that I’d be the ‘casualty’ from our class.”

“Oh,” Ned mumbles to himself, even more embarrassed now.

“Leeds,” Tony groans, eyes slitted in incredulous disapproval, “really?”

Ned splutters incoherently, trying to defend himself to the sound of Peter’s suppressed giggles.

:::

After the initial rush of adrenaline has faded from all of their systems, Tony dusts off his pants, briefly eyeing the dirt-stained patches at his knees with resignation, and beckons for Peter to stand. “We’re leaving,” he announces in a voice that dares anyone to disagree. He shoots Principal Morita—who is still standing a few feet away from Fitzpatrick, posture ill at ease although comprehension (dazed comprehension, but comprehension nonetheless) seems to have finally dawned on him after witnessing Tony Stark’s reaction to Peter’s awakening—in particular, a pointed glare. “Let’s go, Pete.”

Naturally, no one disagrees. 

Peter shrugs, rising to his feet from where he’s been sitting cross-legged on the ground. “Good thing I’ve been excused from the rest of my classes,” he says, knowing better than to argue with Tony right now. 

Tony nods jerkily. He turns to Peter’s sidekick with a questioning look. “Ted, you coming?” he offers graciously; he knows he certainly wouldn’t want to be separated from Peter after the roller-coaster of a lunch hour he’s had.

Tony’s prompt return to using the familiar nickname Ted startles Ned for a moment, but he’s too relieved by the reason why Tony’s calling him ‘Ted’ again to care. 

Ned hesitates, conflicted gaze darting to Peter—hungrily drinking in the sight of his best friend, alive and well—before he sighs and declines, audibly disappointed, “I can’t. Unlike someone,”—he shoots Peter a mock-annoyed glare that Peter promptly responds to with a self-satisfied grin—“I actually do still have to attend my last classes of the day.” 

Tony nods in sympathetic understanding.

Ned faces Peter with narrowed eyes. “But you and I are going to have a long, long call tonight. Don’t even think of skipping out,” he declares decisively, not giving Peter any choice in the matter.

Peter laughs, nodding easily. “I’ll hold you to it,” he agrees readily.

Ned relaxes minutely and nods, an expression of immeasurable gratitude rising in his eyes.

“Okay, kid, come on,” Tony breaks the moment, being the first among the three to finally remember all of the eyes on them. “I think we’ve all had enough of being stared at for one day. I grew up hounded by the media circus and even I’m fazed by all of this gawking,” he jokes.

Peter nods in agreement, shuffling closer to Tony self-consciously. Tony obligingly shifts so that he’s covering Peter from the prying stares as best he can. 

“Where are we going?” Peter asks, privately grateful for Tony’s unspoken show of support. He knows he can always count on Mr. Stark to try to shield him from the rest of the world. “Is Happy picking us up?”

Tony sucks in a sharp breath. Absolutely not, he wants to snap. You aren’t going anywhere near a goddamn car if I have anything to say about it. 

Of course, he knows now that it was all just part of one elaborate educational program. He knows that Peter was never in any danger at all. 

But that knowledge doesn’t erase the hour in which he’d existed in his own personal limbo, suffering under the impression that Peter is dead. It doesn’t erase the panic, the fear, the grief. It doesn’t erase the fact that he can’t bear the thought of Peter getting within ten feet of a car.

He also knows, logically, that he can’t keep Peter sheltered forever. Peter will have to get back in a vehicle eventually, whether it’s a school bus or Happy’s—technically Tony’s—car. There’s nothing he can do about that.

But for once, he doesn’t want to listen to logic. For right now at least, he can prevent Peter from climbing aboard a car. For right now, he can do something about it.

“Nope,” Tony decides, reaching out and gripping Peter by the shoulders. Unapologetically, he turns Peter around and steers him down the street, away from Midtown High, smothering his amusement as Peter half-twists in his hold and waves a cheery see you later at Ned. Fortunately—for everyone’s sake—no one tries to stop Tony from leaving with Peter in tow (likely still too shocked to do anything but gape uselessly). “We’re going to walk. Think of it as extra exercise to keep your blood flowing. Your growing teenage body needs to stay active, you know. Keeps your immune system strong and all that—”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter interrupts, completely deadpan, and pauses long enough to look around in search of eavesdroppers before he continues, voice lowered, “I’m literally Spider-Man.”

“—So! Exercise,” Tony concludes loudly, expertly ignoring Peter. He’s only vaguely aware of his Iron Man suit silently trailing after them in the air, FRIDAY intuitively steering the empty armor.

Peter just sighs, accepting it for what it is. Still, he makes one last attempt to make Tony see reason. “Mr. Stark, my bags are still in my locker. I need my books for homework.”

Tony is suddenly and vividly reminded of sitting beside Peter on his cramped twin bed, trying to convince the kid to join him in Germany only for Peter to argue that he had homework. It’s such an insignificant, silly detail, but it’s a response that is so perfectly Peter that Tony is abruptly struck by how precious Peter is. It reminds him, inexplicably, of Peter’s unwavering sense of responsibility.

Oh, kid. And just like he did last time, Tony waves it off. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “We can come back to take your bags later.” And by “later”, he means: after he’s fussed over Peter a sufficient amount.

Peter seems to understand his unspoken implication, giving Tony an unamused look. “So how are we going to get to the Tower?” he asks, bypassing the issue of his missing books for the moment.

He’s been around Tony far too often, if he can read Tony this easily, Tony thinks. He should probably be concerned, but he finds he doesn’t really care. Peter seems to be the exception to all of his rules.

“Unless, of course, you plan on walking the entire way there,” Peter adds skeptically.

Tony simply raises his gaze to the sky, where Iron Man hovers above them. “Have you forgotten that I have a flying suit?” he says. 

Peter follows his gaze expectantly and laughs, shaking his head as if to say I should have known.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Tony coaxes, trying to make light of the situation and ignore the elephant in the room that is his irrational fear of letting Peter get too close to a four-wheeled vehicle (or any wheeled vehicle, period). “Just think of it as express delivery service.”

Peter snorts. “You’re impossible, Mr. Stark,” he complains, but he indulgently follows Tony further away from his school, so Tony counts it as a win. “So, where are we walking to now? Or are we headed to the Tower directly?”

Tony considers it. He really, really doesn’t want to return to the reality of Tony Stark, owner of a multibillion dollar corporation, just yet. For at least a while longer, he just wants to stay like this: relaxed in the presence of his kid, where he doesn’t have to be anything or anyone but Peter’s almost-father as he reassures himself of Peter’s continued existence. 

He makes up his mind. “No,” he says. He doesn’t hesitate to change direction, luring Peter away with the promise of a treat—“You’ve been wanting to visit that new ice cream parlor near your school, right? You mentioned something about that last weekend.”

Peter stops short, staring at Tony in unmitigated awe. “You… you remember that?” he whispers.

Tony pauses, too, glancing sidelong at the kid. He huffs as if offended. “Peter, some people would say that I’m the smartest man alive,” he reminds Peter with an arched eyebrow. “Of course I remember. Or do you doubt my memory capacity?”

“No! That’s not… that’s not what I meant,” Peter stammers. “I just thought… I guess I didn’t realize you were actually paying attention. I know I ramble a lot, so…”

Tony softens. “Of course I listened, kid,” he says, and somehow, he sounds even more offended than when he thought his intelligence was in question. At the same time, though, he sounds immeasurably fond. Adoring, even—the way Peter sounds, sometimes, when he’s gushing over an endearing kitten. “I always listen to you.”

Peter sniffles. Tony graciously ignores it and urges Peter along once more with a murmured come on. Peter hastens to follow and falls into lockstep with his mentor.

In the end, they walk away together, side-by-side, as the Midtown High students and staff watch on in openmouthed shock.

:::

“Don’t ever do that to me again, or I swear, Peter, a drunk driver will be the least of your worries,” Tony threatens once the Midtown High gaggle of gawkers are out of earshot, but the still-present tears in his eyes and the disbelieving—awed—smile on his lips betray the truth. He has no room left for anger when all he can feel is relief. Relief and so, so much gratitude. Thank God you’re okay. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and slings an arm around Peter’s shoulders, tugging him close. His body seems to be acting of its own volition as he ducks his head slightly and presses a kiss to the crown of Peter’s head.

Peter flushes bright red, but beyond the embarrassment, there’s something giddy about the bounce in his step and the way he burrows closer to Tony’s side.

Tony’s heart swells. This kid. “I can’t lose you, kiddo,” he murmurs.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter says meekly, guilt flashing across his eyes and drowning out his quiet elation at Tony’s blatant show of affection. The last thing he’d ever wanted to do was add to his mentor’s burdens. “I swear I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“You better not have meant to. You know I have heart problems, kid,” Tony accuses, and though he means to come across as playful, the words reveal something raw and broken inside him, reflected in the scratchy quality of his voice.

A pause. And then, like the first ray of sunlight after a tumultuous storm, Peter teases, “I knew you cared.” But despite his mirthful facade, a hint of sincerity shines through as Peter grips Tony’s hand in his own, like a terrified little boy hanging on to his lifeline—a guiding light in the dark, someone to look up to and someone to follow.

(It’s easy, sometimes, to forget that Peter is still just a teenaged boy, lost in the real world.

Other times, it’s impossible to forget it—to forget that tragedy took Peter’s innocence from him far too soon; to forget that despite his maturity and strength and sense of responsibility, Peter is only a child.

In times like these, Tony can’t forget. All he can do is hold on tight and hope he can keep Peter grounded. Hope he’s enough to remind Peter that he isn’t alone.)

Tony is tempted to play along, to laugh and dismiss Peter’s words with a roll of his eyes and a “get real, kid.” But the memory of Peter’s blood-splattered face is still too fresh in his mind, so instead, he blurts out, all too honest, “Of course I care about you. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

Peter falls silent, wide-eyed as he stares at his mentor.

Tony swallows, squeezes Peter’s hand tightly in a moment of comfort for the both of them. “You’re – you’re like… like Sullivan Junior.” Young and pure. An innocent child—my innocent child. “You know?”

“Uh,”—Peter raises an unimpressed eyebrow, his stunned awe momentarily back-burnered—“I have no idea who that is, Mr. Stark. If he’s from one of your old movies, then I’m going to need some background context.”

Tony shoves Peter with a huff. “They’re not old!” he protests, the beginning of a familiar argument buzzing between them. It’d be so simple, so natural, to fall back into their usual back-and-forth, their easy banter. But he’s tired of running away from this—from the pride and fondness and affection he feels for Peter—and so he pushes the beckoning urge away and says, “You’d be Simba, if I were Mufasa—that’s a reference a kid your age can understand, right?”

Peter sniffles. “Makes sense that you’d make yourself a king,” he jokes reflexively, even as his mind buzzes with the implication of Tony’s words.

Tony snorts a laugh, quiet but unfeigned. He lets himself enjoy the comfortable atmosphere settling around them—enjoy the reassurance of Peter’s warm hand in his, the steady heartbeat pulsing in Peter’s wrist tangible against Tony’s thumb—for a moment or two before he clarifies, so plainly that there can be no mistaking his meaning: “You’re like my kid, Peter.” And then, because he always calls Peter ‘kid’ and he doesn’t want there to be any doubts left—“Like my son.”

Peter’s vision blurs with tears. “Mr. Stark—”

“And you’re such a good kid, Pete,” Tony breathes, and the praise washes over Peter like the sunset. Inevitable. Real, natural, genuine. It settles like the truth. Perhaps the truest thing Tony has ever said to Peter.

There’s so much more Tony wants to say, too.

Maybe:

I’m so lucky to know you. More than that—more than just knowing you—I’m so lucky that I get to have this. That I get to have you in my life.

Or:

You’re the best person I know, Pete. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you, but I promise I’ll do everything in my power to one day become worthy of you.

Or:

Thank you for being here. For being you.

Or:

You’re not allowed to ever die, you hear me? You can’t ever leave me.

Instead, Tony looks Peter in the eye, basks in the warm hot chocolate hue that feels like home, and simply settles on: 

“I love you, kid.” 

Because this – this is the most important thing. This is what matters most. And as long as Peter knows that, as long as Peter knows his place in Tony’s heart… the rest will follow. 

They’ll find their way. 

As if to reaffirm Tony's thoughts, Peter subconsciously steps closer towards his mentor, like a child blindly reaching out for their parent in a crowd full of strangers. “I love you, too, Mr. Stark,” he whispers, breathless as if he’s caught in a dream—but despite the awed disbelief in his voice, there is also certainty. Conviction. Peter doesn’t need to think about this—about what Mr. Stark has come to mean to him, beyond his initial starry-eyed impression of the famous Avenger. It’s been a long time since he’s seen Mr. Stark as just a hero, as just Iron Man, as just anything. “I've thought of you as a father figure for a while now.”

Tony, unable to help himself, drops another kiss onto Peter’s forehead. Peter blinks rapidly and clutches his mentor’s hand—his dad’s hand, he thinks giddily, because he can call him that now—tighter, feeling rather than seeing the tender smile on Tony’s face.

“I’m glad,” Tony murmurs, and his heart feels like it’s about to burst from all the joy and bliss flooding him. Peter beams up at him in response, and as Tony imprints the sight of Peter’s happiness in his memory forever, he can’t help but think, again:

This is the most important thing.

:::

They get their ice cream eventually, Peter eagerly and unashamedly wolfing down half a dozen scoops as he recounts the day’s events with animated gestures and infectious laughs. 

All the while, Tony watches Peter over his own scoop of ice cream, his gaze openly affectionate and doting, his heart rate gradually slowing and settling with the reassurance that Peter is right here.

(The Iron Man sentry watches, too, FRIDAY’s sensors online and on the alert for potential dangers to Peter Parker’s person. Peter has never felt more safe.)

:::

Once they’ve devoured enough ice cream to satisfy both their appetites (which unsurprisingly takes a lot more scoops for the growing Spiderling than it does for Tony), Tony leaves a wad of cash on the table and shepherds the kid out the door. 

The glass doors swing shut behind them. Tony beckons the Iron Man armor to him and, once re-suited up, promptly opens his arms in a wordless invitation.

Peter rolls his eyes in exasperation, but obligingly steps into the space between Tony’s arms with nothing more than a tolerant huff. Tony absolutely does not sigh in inaudible relief as he grips Peter tightly and blasts off into the skies.

As the familiar neighborhoods of his hometown begin to shrink in the distance, Peter’s reservations gradually leach away into the open air. He lets out an involuntary yawn. Eyes helplessly drooping closed, Peter nestles his head more comfortably against Tony’s metal-plated chest.

Within seconds, he’s out cold again.

Shaking his head in amused disbelief at the kid dozing off in his arms, Tony inwardly melts at the implicit show of trust. Granted, Peter could probably fall asleep anywhere—as evidenced by his earlier untimely power nap in the middle of the road—but still. Just the thought that Peter feels safe and secure enough to drift off as they hurtle through the air at high speed, Tony’s arms the only thing keeping Peter from plummeting to his death?

Well.

Peter’s faith in him will never stop leaving him breathless.

The thing is, Tony doesn’t have any of his biological family left. 

Truthfully, he’s never even known family, not really—or, at least, he’s never known the type of family Peter and May represent, bound together by unconditional love and trust, existing in a pocket universe of their own making, a safe haven closed off to the rest of the world.

Tony’s own immediate family is nonexistent. He barely remembers his grandparents; he has no siblings to call his own; and as for his parents, well—he lost them long before fate and the Winter Soldier took them from him for good. He lost them to his mother’s neglect and long absences, to his father’s harsh disapproval and cutting remarks, to years of silent suffering behind closed doors. 

He used to think he barely knows what family even means. 

But when he looks at Peter now, unashamedly snuggled up to him, face open and vulnerable and trusting even in sleep, he thinks he might finally understand. He doesn’t need blood to tell him that this is what family should feel like: warmth and safety and a home away from home.

He thinks he might have found family in Peter—in late night dinners with the two of them trading half-baked ideas for quirky gadgets and suit modifications over the kitchen table; in working side-by-side with Peter in comfortable silence, a well-oiled machine; in movie marathons spent crowded on the couch, Peter’s head on his chest and Pepper’s hand in his; in lab sessions filled with them hollering at each other across the room, Peter diligently working on calculations or doing homework on the floor; in long car rides across the bustling city, Peter rambling in his ear and Happy chuckling from the driver’s seat; in weekend sleepovers and early morning runs with Peter and Rhodey on either side of him; in watching baking competition shows with Peter and his aunt in their pajamas, Peter sandwiched between the two adults on the Parkers’ beaten couch. 

A family forged through an eternity of contented moments, away from the glaring, unforgiving media spotlight that accompanied every waking moment of his childhood.

He may not have the DNA to prove that there’s love there, but he doesn’t need it. This is his family—they are all his family—and he belongs to them more than he has ever belonged to his parents.

He glances down at Peter, tucked securely in his arms, unguarded and trustful as Tony flies him across the New York skies. All at once, Tony feels so much love swell inside him that he thinks he might implode from the enormity of it.

Peter is his family, and Tony loves him fiercely. It comes naturally, then—the realization that he’d do anything for this precious kid draped across his arms. 

I’ll protect you always, he thinks, a promise burning bright in his chest. It’s a promise he means to keep, for the rest of his life. No matter what struggles you have to face—whether it be gun-toting criminals or drunk teenagers behind the wheel—come rain or shine, I’ll be here.

I am here, kid.

Forever. 

:::

:::

:::

BONUS #1:

Tony does, eventually, agree to accompany Peter back to Midtown High—ostensibly to retrieve Peter’s bags and books, but in reality for his own ulterior motives. As Peter makes his way to his locker, Tony makes a detour to a different locker, having discreetly consulted FRIDAY for the name and identity behind the Twitter account that posted Peter’s obituary earlier that day. With all the resources at his disposal, it takes him no time at all to locate Flash Thompson’s locker.

That’s where Peter finds him a few minutes later, schoolbag slung over one shoulder. Peter narrows his eyes at his conspicuous mentor. “What are you doing in front of Flash’s locker, Mr. Stark?” he asks suspiciously.

Tony just smiles, but there’s a wicked gleam to it. “Nothing,” he lies, thinking of the passive-aggressive (read: aggressive as hell) letter he’d printed on official Stark Industries stationery and slipped into the offending locker, in which he’d not-very-subtly threatened to completely obliterate Flash’s academic career and generally make his life miserable if he even looked at Peter the wrong way again. 

His smile widens as he ushers Peter away without so much as a backwards glance. “Absolutely nothing at all.” 

:::

BONUS #2:

(If Tony Stark goes home that day and immediately messages May to badger her to get him listed as Peter’s second emergency contact in Midtown High’s system—just to prevent another misunderstanding like this, he pleads, and he isn’t lying, but that isn’t his only reason, either—well, that’s his business.)

:::

BONUS #3:

When the time to participate in the Every Fifteen Minutes program rolls by once again the next year, students are expressly banned from taking pictures during the event to prevent another fiasco (ft. another Helicopter Parent, even if not Tony Stark). 

Notably, Peter Parker is not asked to be one of the casualties again.

:::

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3