Stabbing the button for his floor, Tony watches the ring flare to life and thinks about what awaits him beyond the quiet elevator shaft of the former Avenger's Tower. An ambush from Pepper? An empty floor?

Honestly, Tony doesn't know which option he'd prefer.

The lobby was deserted when he arrived. The weary billionaire had nodded at the stationed guard, slipped him a twenty since it's late and he must be dead on his feet.

Lord knows Tony is.

Even pondering his exhaustion, he keeps a running list of all the tasks he must accomplish before the weeks out. Announce the new product line. Attend some bullshit corporate party. Meet with the board; Meet with the shareholders; Meet with the lawyers. Hit replay and go again. Yada, yada, yada. Take two. Or three. Or four, whatever. You get the picture; the ass-kissing's never over.

At this rate, Tony will be lucky to retire before he's eighty. Scratch that, eighty-five, no—ninety. Mark his words. It'll be another thirty or forty years before he's allowed to step down. That is—if he doesn't perish in the superhero business first.

One day, someday…Tony's gonna want out. Let's just hope that wish gets honoured. Someday soon; sooner than anybody thinks.

There he goes again. Wishful thinking.

Heaving a full-bodied sigh, Tony scrubs his gritty, achy eyes, hooks his brown gradient aviators in his breast pocket, and steps out.

Dead silence.

So quiet you could hear a pin drop.

"F.R.I.D.A.Y, email Pepper. Tell her negotiations went well, we'll debrief tomorrow. Actually, set a reminder for me to call her. She'll have my head if I forget."

The housekeeper has been and gone. The penthouse is the same as when he left; three days ago. Dumping his suitcase at the door, he crosses the room to the refrigerator, prying open the heavy door and surveying its contents.

Of course, on the technical side of things, everything meets the stinking-rich standard that is expected of him: top of the line kitchen, outfitted with the latest and sleekest stainless steel appliances. But sustenance-wise, it's just a bunch of spoiled leftovers from when Peter was last here and half-eaten take-away. To his credit, he usually gets groceries delivered every Wednesday because it's the middle of the week and that's the day Peter usually comes over after school, along with overnight stays each weekend.

God, you'd think he had joint custody of the kid with the way he divides his time between here and his aunt's.

But since he was out of the country, he decided to forgo the order this week.

Back before everything had gone to hell, Tony had a standing order—enough to feed a small army—but when the Avengers disbanded in disgrace, it soon became clear to Tony that the service was no longer required and he was forced to cancel it. Without the bottomless pits of Bruce and-uh, Rogers, and so few hungry guests to cater to, the fresh produce went off and he had no choice but to throw it out. It was a painful reminder that no matter how hard he tried or how much money he threw around, his efforts would nonetheless go to waste.

Until -

Until Peter started coming round and he had to reinstate the subscription.

The couch the team piled on for pizza and popcorn on movie nights is now the spot where Peter flings his backpack when he bounces in and later falls asleep with his head buried in Tony's stomach, an old nature documentary from Netflix playing onscreen.

The refrigerator that was wrestled open by whoever emerged the victor of a vicious tug-of-war each morning (Nat, always Nat; pinching a water and the freshest produce for her muesli without fail), is now the proud owner of several amateur blueprints and designs of Peter's that Tony had FR.I.D.A.Y scan and copy so he could keep them as mementos for himself. Peter groaned and blushed the first time he dropped by and noticed the rough prototype of the CPR administrating robot—which later secured first place at the Midtown science fair—pinned to his mentor's fridge. Yet, even now, six weeks later, he has yet to glance at it without smiling.

As for rest of the communal area where all sorts of horseplay and childish team-bonding shenanigans once took place? These days there are school books piled on the glass coffee table and cramped flashcards forgotten amid the puddle of blankets Peter has to dig himself out from under after an impromptu nap (Tony may have gotten a tad carried away that one time, okay, two times, but he just looked so soft and rosy-cheeked, and he couldn't fight the urge to bundle the exhausted teen up, safe and sound, if lacking a little sleep).

There are zip-up hoodies and quirky tees with science puns mixed in with his laundry. Stray Legos to accidentally impale the vulnerable flesh of his heel when making the trek to the kitchen for a glass of water in the dead of night. Little touches here and there that by themselves are unremarkable, but all add up to make a home that means the whole damn world to a broken man like Tony.

He snubs the saran-wrapped bowl of wrinkled salad in favour of a severely depleted tub of vanilla frosting. Popping the lid, he uses his index finger to scrape out a decent-sized chunk and stuffs it in his mouth, drawn deep into thought.

Could he rustle up something quick?

Sure.

Is he going to?

Ha, fat chance of that any time soon.

Tony feels the stress of the past six months snaking around his throat—twisting, squeezing—and he's moments away from a full-blown panic attack when his ringtone blares in his hand.

"Incoming call from Peter Parker," F.R.I.D.A.Y's automated voice comes out of nowhere. "Originally intended for Mr. Hogan, per the recent updates to the 'Terrible Twos' protocol, I am obligated to divert the call to your cell. Shall I continue or would you like me to transfer young Parker's call?"

"No need, F.R.I.D.A.Y, thank-you. Put him on. It's been too long since I've checked up on the squirt."

He holds the phone to his ear. Despite his fatigue, he's ready. Eager, even. For once, he doesn't have to inject false cheer in his tone.

"Hello. This is Tony Stark, billionaire-slash-genius-slash-fashion icon speaking. How may I help baby spidey today?"

"M-mr. Stark?" Peter's astonished voice brings a genuine smile to his face. He didn't have much time to talk to him over the past couple days and had to scrape by on a quick ten, maybe fifteen minute skype call. The boy trips over himself hurrying to explain. "Wh-? How? I didn't call you. Wait. That came out wrong. I-I didn't–that's not –And I told you not to call me that!"

"Nice to hear you, too."

Peter backtracks quickly. "Sorry, sorry! It's not that I'm not pleased to hear from you, I am. I just, I could've sworn I dialled Happy—"

Poor kid sounds so worked up. Tony decides to go easy on him.

"Relax, kid. You did," he placates, "But it's your lucky day. Instead, you got me. What's up?"

"Oh. Well. I-I didn't want to bother you. This-oh, man, this is so stupid. I feel terrible, Mr. Stark. I wouldn't have called if I'd known- you don't want a dorky kid bothering you—"

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" Tony intercepts, tone softening with the kind of indulgent sensitivity he reserves only for Peter. "What's going on?"

For a moment Tony panics Peter got hurt on patrol, heart lodged in his throat.

He can feel his blood pressure climbing.

Dammit. He wasn't here to keep an eye on him; make sure he was eating properly, sleeping well, wasn't overexerting himself. He should have been more careful, more attentive. This is all his fault—

But then he remembers the alert in the suit, and - and suddenly he can breathe. Peter would be wearing the suit, right? Right. Everything's fine.

"No. It's-it's silly," Peter frets. "I shouldn't - I only rang 'cause you said I should never hesitate to ask for anything and Aunt May was all, 'you won't know unless you try,' and Ned kept telling me I was being a dumbass and of course you wouldn't laugh in my face, but – Mr. Stark. It's stupid. You're gonna think I'm a needy little kid and I'm not. I knew I shouldn't ha—"

"Kid, kiddo, relax, it's okay. Calm down. I'm not going to judge you, squirt; I would never judge you. Please, whatever it is…tell me."

"I can't," Peter whines, softly, and Tony can only imagine how he's cradling the phone against his shoulder and covering his face with one hand, nibbling on the sleeve of his sweatshirt like he always does when he's anxious.

"Deep breaths, kiddo. Let it out." He exaggerates his breathing to make it audible over the line. Slow. Steady. He wishes he were there in person to draw him into a hug, pat his back. "Now…whenever you're ready, tell me. What is it, buddy? I can't help unless I know what's wrong."

"Can I…" Peter blows out a shaky breath. He swallows hard. "CanIcomeovertomorrow?"

Tony blinks. "Uh…I'm sorry. Could you repeat that? Please. Slowly this time?"

Peter coughs. "I said…c-can I come over tomorrow? I get that it's late notice and I don't usually come over Thursdays, and it's only a day earlier than we planned so I can wait, I totally can. You don't have to say yes. It's dumb, I know. I swear it's okay to say no, Mr. Stark. I'm not a little kid. I don't need you to…" He cuts himself off, unwilling to follow that train of thought any further. "Just—if May calls, whatever you do, please don't answer; for both our sakes. I know you must be super jet-lagged and have a ton of better things to do, and the last thing you need is me trailing at your heels. It's just…you've been gone forever—"

"Three days. Go on."

"And…I don't know. I wanted—" He exhales sharply in frustration. "Doesn't matter what I want. Ignore Aunt May. Don't listen to a thing she says. If she uses the word mopey, it's just 'cause she's overdramatic and doesn't realise how embarrassing she's being—"

"Kid. Kid," Tony cuts off his nervous rambling. "Yes. The answer is yes. I would be thrilled to have you."

"Wait. Really?" Jeez, Pete. No need to sound so shell-shocked. If Tony didn't want him around, he wouldn't be around. Simple. "You…you don't think it's stupid?"

"Why would I think it's stupid?" he answers, quite honestly baffled and maybe a little hurt by Peter's dumbfounded disbelief. "I missed you too, you know. If you wanna stay the whole weekend, I'm all for it. Count me in; I can't wait—and all that. Those movies won't watch themselves."

"But, but won't you have loads of other stuff to do? I don't want to keep you from anything important—"

Tony considers for a moment that running list of everything he has to accomplish.

Even so…even so-

His gaze lands on a familiar face and, right then, he makes a snap decision.

"More important than you, Underroos?" Tony laughs. "Are you kidding me? There's no competition."

As Peter laughs and cheers before launching into an animated spiel, Tony smiles fondly, losing himself in the adorable surge of elation and ideas.

On the wall, hangs a framed photo of their adventures trick-or-treating at Halloween. Both opted to go as themselves: Peter, in his homemade suit, complete with red ski-mask, sleeveless hoodie, fingerless gloves and hideous welding goggles. Tony —wearing what Peter repeatedly cackled was the perfect disguise—snapped on a cheap, elasticated Iron Man mask to contrast with his Tom Ford suit and off they went.

The mask got irritating after a while, so he threw caution to the wind and lifted it up. That's when Peter demanded a picture to commemorate the occasion, though he found it difficult to stay still long enough to capture one. Especially when, spurred by Tony, they held a competition to see who could pull off the funniest faces. Behind the camera May was in stitches, highly entertained by their antics. By the time the image was taken, Tony was grinning ear to ear, arm slung over a beaming and bright-eyed Peter's shoulder, squeezing tight.

There's a spark of laughter and life in his eyes that has been missing for such a long time, he'd almost forgotten what it looked like.

It didn't matter that Peter had to keep clarifying who he was, or that Tony ended up half-carrying him home. It was a memorable night of mischief, and magic, and fun. And that's how they'll remember it —for years to come.

In a small flat in Queens, Aunt May regards her nephew in amusement as he paces around the living area, gesturing wildly with excitement and talking a mile a minute, too fast for his mouth to possibly keep up.

"We can suspend your silly sugar limit! Ned's gonna be so jealous. His parents never let him eat candy after midnight. Like a gremlin, Mr. Stark! A gremlin! MJ says it's why he's so afraid of swimming. Ooh, ooh, and pizza! We have to get pizza, Mr. Stark; from that place down the street. It's your favourite, right? And MM's! And, and Skittles! Oh, please, Tony. Can we? Please can we?"

Aunt May rolls her eyes and shakes her head, the corner of her lip curling into a faint smile. Peter is like any other little boy right then, babbling breathlessly to his Dad.