Author's Note: So, anyone else completely ruined by Endgame? 'Cause, yeah, I haven't recovered from it or haven't accepted anything, really. It just hurts too much, and as a result, I've been reading MCU fics like a maniac and solely writing stuff with happy endings. It's my way of protesting, lol.

When I finished writing this story, I realized that I almost completely ignored May's existence. I have no excuse as to why I did it, and no intention to fix the situation, so… let's just… move on? Sorry?

THIS HAS NO SPOILERS OF ENDGAME. CHILL.

Justin Hammer wasn't someone who Tony took seriously. Guy had always been an idiot with a whole lot of bravado, so Tony made a point to actively ignore him as best as he could, with their shared agendas and all. That's why, when Hammer was arrested, furious and burning with defeat, Tony didn't give a shit when he screamed his threats to the wind, uncaring about who might hear them.

"I'm going to strike you where it hurts, Stark," he had sworn, an ugly smile twisting his face. "When you least expect it, I'll fuck you over 'till you have nothing."

At that time, Tony thought that Hammer might've tried to go for Pepper. So, he protected her as best as he could — going overboard, doing too much, losing himself, invading her space, and pushing more security her way than she would ever need. Not because he thought Hammer's threats were something to be taken seriously, or because he didn't believe in the security he had in the first place all around the building, but because it was easier to assuage the guilt, to do something as he laid awake at night in bed, tossing and turning, wondering what could happen if only he didn't pay attention, if he wasn't on top of his game at all times.

So he did it. He pushed all of his countermeasures to his panic on her lap and considered the matter resolved — dealt with. Hammer was no one. A nobody. Not even worthy enough to be called a competitor, and in Tony's head, his threat was just another one on the pile of thousands they received every single day.

Pepper had Extremis and Tony was Iron Man. Between both of them, they had to be enough to fight against someone like Hammer.

And maybe they were.

The problem, however, was that Tony miscalculated.

Badly.

Fatally.

He dismissed the threat just because he could, because he wanted to, because his pride knew no bounds, even after all the warnings life tried to give him. And, as always, someone else paid the price — only it wasn't Pepper, this time.

It was much, much worse — because it was Peter.

Peter, who slipped through the cracks — metaphorical cracks that Tony wasn't even aware were there in the first place. The kid just kept showing up at his house, at his lab, in his kitchen, in the evenings, in the morning, late at night when Tony was exhausted, and tired, and his defenses were a little down, and the need for coffee pushed him out of his workshop. The kid was there, always looking way too happy and bright and excited and young — shit, so young — and he looked at Tony as though the engineer was the one who personally crafted every incredible thing that the world had to offer, just for his pleasure alone.

It was too much.

Too much like admiration, like true, honest feelings, like something he had to protect, like a responsibility. So Tony shied away, backtracked and tried to keep his distance, knowing it could only be bad for the kid to put Tony on any kind of pedestal, looking at him like a goddamn role model — even though it had to be painfully obvious that he was barely hanging there, trying to hold the endless fraying edges of his life together with the power of pure stubbornness alone.

Peter was fifteen, for the love of God. A kid. Always a kid, even when he threw himself in the middle of the battle, getting in the center of the mess, protecting everyone else but himself, always a quip ready at the tip of his tongue — perhaps especially then.

And fuck if he didn't remind Tony of his younger self — only better, so much fucking better, because Peter had a willingness to help, a desire to be useful, a need to assist all those who couldn't fight for themselves, and he did all of it without expecting a single damn thing in return. In fact, he actively resisted anything Tony tried to push his way, insisting he didn't need it, didn't deserve it.

Only he did. Peter deserved everything.

Anything.

The problem was that Tony pretended too much. He pretended to be okay with what happened in Siberia, pretended that he could be an Avenger again without any resentment for the past, pretended that he didn't have nightmares, pretended to not wake at night gasping for Pepper only to find out she wasn't there, that his bed was empty because he was a fuck up who couldn't share a bed with the woman he loved in fear of killing her.

Tony pretended with Peter, too.

Perhaps, most of all, he pretended with Peter.

Maybe it sounded simpler to just act like a benefactor. Someone who shoved technology into his arms, who provided him with all the medical and financial needs he might have, while keeping his distance, keeping the kid at arm's length, putting up a front, a façade, doing his usual tricks, acting like he was far too busy to answer Peter's phone calls or to text back at one in the morning.

And, in the end, Tony was good at pretending — at saying that none of it matter — and somehow, his mind convinced him that that was the way it was and that Peter saw him as nothing more than that old, rich guy who was eccentric enough to waste a little of his time with a teenager from Queens.

When he figured it out; it was already too late.

It began with a message.

One which Happy sent him at 15:47 on a Saturday afternoon — nothing more than a quick text to inform that Peter had missed his usual check-up for the week. It was nothing, dismissible. Tony looked at the message for maybe fifteen seconds before deciding that perhaps he was being a little too strict with the kid and that it didn't matter if his usual check-up happened a little later than usual. Who knows? Maybe the little nerd had gone and got himself a life.

If anything serious had happened, the Baby Protocol would've let him know.

So he ignored it.

It was one of his greatest regrets.

It took him two days to realize Peter was missing. Gone. Vanished, as though he had never existed in the first place. He was last seen exiting his school on a Thursday, and then there was nothing.

No leads, no clues, nothing that could indicate who had taken the kid or where he could possibly be. There wasn't footage of a strange, black van, or a kidnapper bragging on Twitter, or any loose ends, actually. It was professionally done, and it had been so long since that brief encounter that it didn't occur to Tony to piece the pieces together, to look for Hammer and what he was up to lately.

Instead, he gathered the Avengers — every last one of them — and got them on the job.

On the seventh day, the video arrived.

It was a lab of some kind — with sparkling white floors and metal walls surrounding the small space. There were no windows, no openings, no clue as to where they could possibly be.

Peter was strapped to the wall on the right side of the room by several cables — his entire body plastered to the metal, only his head loose and hanging. He was still wearing the clothes he had worn to class, now dirty and torn apart, barely clinging to his body. His head was uncovered, and it became clear why pretty quickly, because there was blood everywhere.

The kid's bleeding, heavily. Red, thick blood running from somewhere in his face all the way down to the floor. It's too much, and far too fast. He's not losing blood, no, it's gushing out of him in an endless stream. Only he's not screaming, or struggling, or even moving at all — he's just bleeding out and taking it.

Suddenly, somebody else entered the room, wearing a sharp, grey suit and sunglasses, in what appeared to be a mocking costume of Tony Stark's usual outfits. When he turned toward the camera, he smiled, clearly amused by the whole thing.

"Well, hello there, friends," he greeted, slowly approaching. "I imagine there's quite the crowd watching this, right now. Our friend spider does seem to gather sympathies wherever he goes."

Pepper drew a sharp breath. "Tony… Tony, that's Hammer. It's him."

And yeah, now that she mentioned, it was obvious.

"Fuck. Shit. That son of a bitch. I can't—" Only Tony's interrupted by Hammer's next words.

Hammer took off the glasses, slipping them into the pocket of his shirt. "I don't know how you do this, Stark. It's a pain to wear them all the time," he said, still amused. "But let's not dwell on that, right now. As I'm sure you've seen, I have a guest with me. Young Peter Parker. Who knew you were hiding Spider-Man? How naughty, Stark. Tsc, tsc."

He turned to someone who's off the screen. "Turn it on," he ordered, and immediately Peter began to scream, thrashing against the restraints as more and more blood flowed from his lips. He's clearly being electrocuted.

And it didn't stop. Peter just carried on screaming, for God knows how long, his voice turning coarser by the second.

When Hammer spoke again, it was over Peter screams. "Just so there aren't any misunderstandings between us, Stark, I want you to know that this isn't those types of videos. I'm not asking for money, or projects, or anything, really. I told you I would hurt you — that I would take whatever you loved the most. Well, here it is. Consider my debt paid in full."

Then he came closer to the camera, until his face was all that could be seen. "He's quite lovely, actually," Hammer whispered, smiling happily. "I might just keep him to myself."

And then the camera went back.

When the video ended, other screams began.

Tony grabbed Steve's arm and pulled him aside.

"Listen, Rogers," Tony said, raising his hand when the other opened his mouth to interrupt. He didn't have time for Rogers bullshit at the moment. "No—don't. Stop. I'm one hundred percent serious here. This is not Siberia, okay? This isn't us." He paused, letting the words sink in, allowing Steve to see how serious he was and how much he meant each word. "Peter is a kid. He's a fucking kid, and if I have to burn the whole block down and salt the earth as I leave, I won't spare a minute to say sorry."

"Peter's hurt, scared, suffering God only knows what at the hands of that piece of shit, and he's counting on me to get him out of there," Tony added, ignoring how there was a rock placed right over his chest, pressing down, constricting his diaphragm, and all of a sudden it got hard to breath, and his lungs wouldn't expand and the air just left his body. Left. "'Cause I promised him that I would — that I would have his back and I would always come for him. And I will — fuck you, I will keep that one promise even if it costs me everything."

Rage ran through his veins, burning, cauterizing. No one touched his fucking kid and got away with it. No one. "I won't hesitate this time — I won't pull my punches. Do you understand me?

"I understand," Steve said after a minute of silence, his eyes glued to Tony's, a somber expression on his face. He was taking Tony's words seriously — good. "How can I help?"

There's a bitter smile stretching his lips. "Tell me you know where they are keeping him."

Steve surprised him by saying, "I might have an idea."

Turned out super-heroes had really good hearing, and Steve could hear the airplane's engines even when drowned under Peter's screams. They alert the team, and Pepper's fingers are running across the tablet in her hands straight away, pulling Hammer's properties, his files, where he had been seen last.

As luck would have it, Hammer owned a private jet hangar in New Mexico.

After that, it was a no brainer.

"FRIDAY, get the quinjet ready," Tony barked the order before turning to the others. They were watching him, clearly waiting for him to call it. "We're moving. Now."

"Suit up," Steve said, grabbing Barnes' arm and rushing out of the room. Rhodey, Clint, Natasha, and Sam also left to get ready, suspiciously quiet and solemn. Suddenly there's only Bruce standing in front of Tony.

"If you're not in that quinjet in five minutes, I'm dragging you there myself," Tony informed, but Bruce was already shaking his head.

"I'm right behind you, Tony," Bruce said, placing a steady hand on Tony's shoulder, and that's the moment he realized he's shaking so badly that his entire body was trembling. "We're going to get him back. Let's go."

Tony wasn't about to argue.

They boarded the jet, with Clint piloting, and suddenly there was not a single rule of flighting that he wasn't violating, yet no one said a word, enduring the pressure and speed without a single word, all of them focused on the mission ahead.

Tony only spoke once. "Hammer is not leaving that place alive." And it's not an order, but it wasn't a suggestion either, and Natasha nodded in agreement, her hand steady on the gun strapped to her leg.

Tony's mind was a continuous loop of Peter. Peter. Peter. Peter was hurt. Peter was dying. Peter was in danger. Peter wasn't in his sight. Peter was in pain. Peter. Peter wasn't there. Peter. Where was Peter? He had to find Peter. He had to.

Only Peter wasn't there. He had once been, it was obvious, but there's not a single trace of his presence in the building. With only one glaring exception — one gigantic, heart-wrecking exception.

The mask — the Spider-Man mask Tony had spent weeks designing and putting together and fitting and adjusting to fit Peter perfectly — was left lying on the floor, torn and bloodied, yet still indistinguishable, the white eyes still intact, mocking Tony, taunting him with what he once had but had now lost. Maybe for good.

The place seemed empty and clean, otherwise — almost as though there's nobody there. Tony knew Hammer, however. How the man worked, how he dealt with things, and so, it's not a miracle that they begin their search from the back.

They find Hammer running away, surrounded by guards he thought would save his life from the Avengers. Which was so ridiculous, Tony might've laughed had the situation not been so dire. But his right hand is gripping the bloodied mask of his kid — who's still missing — and there's nothing funny about that.

"Where's Peter?" Tony demanded as the others took care of the guards. They were doing an efficient job of it — nobody who fell down got up again. Tony didn't spare them a glance.

"I warned you, Stark," Hammer said, gesturing openly to the empty space surrounding them. He was gloating, still under the illusion that he had won, that it was a game and that Tony had time to play into his fantasy. "All that genius, and for what? I took him from under your nose, and you never even saw it coming."

"Where. Is. He?" Tony repeated, raising his left arm and aiming straight for the head. In his mind, the time for warning shots had long passed. Around them, there were gunshots being fired, people screaming and begging for mercy, all of which Tony ignored, his focus destined to the person who could give him an answer, a lead, anything that would make finding Peter easier.

"Not here," Hammer confirmed, faltering a little when faced with his imminent death. "He's a nuance. More trouble than he's worth, to be honest. Kept trying to escape all the time — after the fifth day I sold him to the highest bidder." He grinned. "Sorry. Your invitation must have gotten lost in the mail."

The world stopped for a long moment.

"You sold my kid?" He finally asked, not even recognizing the sound of his own voice — deep and empty. Distant. In the back of his mind, Tony compared it to Barnes' early days.

The lack of apparent anger seemed to throw the other off. "Yes, Stark. Are you getting deaf in your old age?"

Tony ignored it. "Who?"

"I don't—"

Did the fucker think Tony was kidding? Well, let's see how sassy he would be without a goddamn arm. Tony aimed the repulsor to the left and shot, right at the shoulder. No words, no preamble, no fuss. Only a clean shot, strong enough to send Hammer's arm flying, and a dirty, dirty wound, gushing blood.

Hammer screamed, and Tony reveled in it.

"Who?" He demanded.

"Please, I. Fuck! Shit! My arm!" Hammer fell to his knees, trying to stop the bleeding with his remaining hand, but it's too much, and he's gonna die from that wound in a matter of minutes. When Tony raised his arm again for another hit, Hammer sang like a bird. "Grant Ward! It was Grant Ward, Stark! Bought the fucking kid for 18 million dollars from me."

He sold Peter like an animal. A possession. For scraps, too. That kid was worth so much more than that — did Hammer have any idea the genius he had in his hands or was he only focused on how loud he could make the kid scream?

"We're done here," Tony informed the others through the coms. "Peter's not here. Let's go."

Peter was not there. Peter's still lost.

"Copy that," came the various replies.

Tony walked until he stood over Hammer, wondering what would be the worst death for him. What he feared. What would feel the most satisfying to witness.

"I didn't mean it. I was just playing the game," Hammer said, folding, just like that. Giving up and begging for forgiveness, already knowing how unlikely he was to ever get it, but too desperate to resist.

"I know," Tony agreed, but he also knew the steel in his voice betrayed his true intentions. "And this is just losing."

Tony turned around, not sparing the corpses lying around the warehouse a single glance, grabbed Steve, who was the only one still there, waiting for him, by the waist, without pausing to warn him what he intended to do. They were flying away the second Steve wrapped his arms around the armor, holding steady.

"FRIDAY, knock it down," he ordered, gritting the words past his dry mouth, squeezing Steve tighter when the man threatened to turn to look back.

It took only seconds to hear the explosions.

Tony liked to imagine he could hear the faint screams coming from the rubbles.

The words burned as they left his mouth. "He sold him," he said, spitting the words out. "Grant Ward. Hammer sold Peter to a Hydra agent. Fucking Hydra."

"Fucking Hydra," Barnes echoed, his expression carefully blank.

"Do we know anything about this guy?" Steve asked.

"He worked for Coulson," Natasha informed, her eyes scanning through the file already in her hands. "I recognize him. They were really close, actually. Phil was his handler — he took it pretty hard when Grant turned out to be Hydra. I'll call him."

"You're right," Clint agreed. "I worked with him a couple of times. He was pretty arrogant, though. Only liked to work alone — never played well with others."

"You know anything relevant about him?"

"Other than he's pretty fucking good? No."

Steve's expression darkened. "How good?"

"Cap, he fucking pretended to be a perfect agent for years," Clint said. "He played motherfucker Phil Coulson... He's good."

Natasha agreed, nodding her head. "If he's hiding Peter — if he doesn't want us to find them — we're gonna have problems."

"I'm ready for the good news," Tony said, and it's not even a joke, 'cause he's exhausted, tired in a way hadn't felt before, and now that the adrenaline is crashing, the room is starting to spin.

"We know who has Peter. We know Hydra. We're not fighting blind anymore," Steve tried, as always, hoping for the silver lining. "That's gotta count for something."

It hurt, and it ached.

Tony paced around, holding two tablets in his hands, eyes glued to the bright screens, and he doesn't know why, because there's no new information, nothing in there that he hasn't read fifty times already. By then, he's almost got the whole thing memorized, etched into his brain, echoing all over his cranium, over and over again.

Grant Ward.

The guy was a ghost.

Just disappeared from the face of the earth with Peter, and no satellite or camera was giving Tony anything to work with. No single frame — nothing. Tony's using all of his resources to find one single kid, and he had nothing to show for it.

He barely noticed the doors opening and the footsteps echoing around the room, too busy staring at the tools in front of him — just waiting to be used, to be handled, to create something — and trying to wrangle to urge to flee.

A gentle voice brought him back to the present. "What are you doing?"

"I just don't know," he admitted in a weak voice. "I just don't know, Bruce."

There's a cup from Shake Shack in Bruce's hand, and Tony's didn't need three guesses to figure out what it was. Their strawberry milkshake had always been his favorite — Bruce knew that.

"I got this for you. Please, drink it," he said, placing the large cup next to Tony's hands, a soft look on his face.

Tony breathed out, the air burning as it left his body. He ignored the milkshake, just as he had ignored all other attempts from the others at feeding him. "I look at this lab, at my workshop, and there's my table, and my materials, and the suits, and my bots, and I used to feel at home here — like this was the only place I truly ever belonged to," he said instead, gesturing at the room at large. "And now I lost it."

"This is still your space, Tony. You haven't lost your creations."

"Haven't I?" Tony countered, trying to make Bruce understand, and suddenly it seemed of utmost importance that he explained it in a way that Bruce managed to get, for some reason. Someone had to know how much Peter's absence was carving a hole in his chest that just kept getting wider and wider, with each passing day. "I cannot look anywhere around here without feeling his presence."

Tony rubbed the back of his neck. "You know, I met this woman once who told me something I never quite understood," he added. "She said that I surrounded myself with the pretty and the vain, and that I knew nothing about true love and loss. The sacrifices that came with actually loving someone else. At the time, I remember thinking 'well, the joke's on you, lady, 'cause I've been losing people I love since always, basically.'"

Bruce's hand landed on his shoulder. "You don't have to do this if you don't want—"

"Shut up," Tony said, batting the hand away. There was more to the story. "I was on my high horse, thinking that I—I knew shit. Fuck me, though, right? Turns out that joke's on me, and she was right." He swallows past a lump in his throat. "She was right, and I was so goddamn wrong."

"You know," Bruce said when the silence stretched between them. "Peter's not dead, Tony. We have no evidence that he's dead. In fact, with his abilities, they are probably keeping him alive." Did he fucking think that was a good thing? "We need to keep hoping that he's alright — doing this, what you're doing, helps no one."

"Is that supposed to cheer me up? That they are keeping him alive?" Tony asked, and the desperation bled into his mind and into his voice as the pictures of the past and the future got mixed up in a bundle of horrifying scenes. "I know exactly why people like that keep prisoners alive… and h—how. Even if he comes back — and god he will, I'll make sure of it — just what pieces of him will be left behind?"

Peter. God, not his child — who's so fucking precious and good.

It had to be some kind of heresy to even imagine Peter being tortured, and yet, in a fit of masochism, Tony's mind kept conjuring all the ways they could be breaking Peter. Hurting him beyond repair, twisting his mind and remodeling his thoughts.

Bruce looked him right in the eyes. "You're here, aren't you? So am I, and so are the others, Tony. We'll do what we need to do, and he'll recover."

The problem was that Tony had wanted so much better for Peter. A better life, with not quite as many nightmares and haunted memories.

Tony had wanted everything for the kid.

Anything but this.

"Is that— are you rewriting your will?" Pepper asked, shocked.

"Just moving some things around. You know, not a big deal."

"Is that Peter's name?"

"Mr Stark has decided to make Peter Parker his sole heir," FRIDAY answered, although no one asked her nothing specifically and she sounded far too close to amused for Tony's comfort.

Pepper raised an eyebrow. "Sole?" She asked, but it's more of a useless confirmation at this point, a dig at his cagey behavior, a prod to try to weasel words out of him.

Perhaps on any other day, Tony might have dodged the underlying question, probably using a well-placed joke to worm his way to safety. But it was late, there's only Pepper there, and Tony sort of wanted to say it, wanted her to know it.

"Yeah," he said, looking at the tablet in his hands. "Figured if I got myself killed out there being an idiot, the least I could do was to make sure the kid has... possibilities."

"Most would use bigger words to describe the billions of dollars and amount of technology equipment you're signing away."

"Most people aren't billionaires and geniuses, and thus, will never have the opportunity to experience such endeavor."

Pepper's eyes were swimming with unshed tears at that point. Tony pretended not to notice it. "Proof that Tony Stark has a heart, hun?"

And she's right.

Too bad he noticed it so late.

They made it to the one month mark with no signs of Peter. Not a single one.

For some reason, the mark made Tony tether at the edge of an unknown precipice, feet dangling right at the border, his body leaning more towards the abyss, the free fall, and it's terrifying. The possibility of falling, of having the darkness swallow him whole, it's daunting in a way that everything else had failed to be. And maybe it was the stakes being higher than ever that made the pressure in his chest feel so constricting he could barely take another breath. It's the abyss — always the abyss with Tony.

He had faced it many times in his life — watched it from afar, faced it head on, trembled in fear of it, cried as it threatened to engulf him, tripped and fell around the edges, always so near the damnation, but still eluding the final stroke.

And yet it's Peter — Peter Benjamin Parker — who revealed himself to be the ultimate play, the final move in the chess game. He was the one would shatter the thin glass separating Tony from the abyss — the one who kept growing bigger and bigger as the years went on and the atrocities of life started to catch up to Tony. That small kid from Queens was his Achille heel, and Tony could not even muster enough energy to resent it — quite on the contrary.

Peter was just so good. So fundamentally good, and kind, and generous, and selfless, and caring, and somewhere along the way, in between sessions in the lab, and working together, and watching that kid be a better human being than any other that Tony had ever known, he had fallen. Fallen for his charms and his dorky ways, utterly unable to keep the distance he had promised to keep.

It was impossible — it had to be. If Peter had managed to make Tony feel, then no person on earth was safe from that kid's charisma. How could they be?

And as his thoughts drifted, Tony realized that it hurt. Thinking about Peter hurt so goddamn much, tugging at some dark corner of Tony's heart that he was sure he had been born without. That parental corner — the one who made adults coo at babies, and throw themselves in front of dangers to save kids, and grow into responsible people who served as role models. All that shit that Tony had never done.

He saved kids, all the time, of course. In battle, it was inevitable that he would run into little humans, and that he would be in a position to save them. Wanting them, feeling something for them, longing for them, loving them, though? That was a completely different ball-game — one which Tony had always denied wanting and needing.

Yet, ironically, there he stood, trembling in fear, staring right at the abyss, seeing with horrifying clarity how wrong he had been, how awfully parental he felt over Peter, and just how soul-crushing it would be to lose him.

There was just no way. No problem-fixing capacity strong enough to withstand the loss of his kid. Who he wouldn't even get to say goodbye to, in the end.

Peter would die in pain and alone, and Tony would never get the chance to tell him that he was incredible — not because he was a genius or Spider-Man, even though Tony could admire that too, but because his heart was still untouched by the darkness of the world, even after the shitty hand he had been dealt with by fate. He was an amazing kid, and Tony loved him.

And he would never get the opportunity to say that.

It was a thought maddening enough to shake the very structures keeping Tony Stark standing.

"Where's my kid?" Tony murmured to himself, swiping through the screens with his finger. Looking at the news. Reading about the murders. Trying to deny the truth. Searching. Looking for Peter across the globe.

"Fuck you, Rogers! Shut up!" Tony screamed at the soldier, running his arm across the table and knocking over everything that had been on it, papers and metal plates flying to the floor. "Where's my fucking kid?"

Pepper ran a hand through his hair, lightly petting his head. It was a soft caress, a careful touch, because she knows how easily triggered Tony could be those days.

At that moment, though, Tony was too busy holding back the tears burning at the back of his throat, swimming behind the lid of his eyes, clogging up his airway, choking him until he could barely breathe.

It was too much. Tony was about to lose it.

"Where's my kid, Pep?" He asked, nothing more than a whisper. "Where is he?"

Tony threw his head back, swallowing the whiskey straight from the bottle, without bothering with glasses, or ice, or even any pretenses at enjoying the flavor of the liquor whatsoever. Since Peter'd gone missing, Tony didn't drink to enjoy anything — it was punishment, simple as that.

"FRIDAY," Tony whispered, pleading for a response he knew his A.I didn't have. "Just… where's my kid?"

It took weeks, but Tony found it. The file. The encrypted file they needed.

The very next day he walked inside a room filled with every single person from the programming sector of SI. FRIDAY is already working on it, but Tony's desperate enough to try his chances with everyone, wanting to exhaust all possibilities, all angles. Tony Stark is a fucking genius, and so, smart enough to realize it would be stupid to try to do it all alone — when Peter's life hung on the balance.

"The first one to crack this code gets five million dollars," Tony barked to the rows of confused workers, and lines upon lines of code appeared on the screen, covering every inch of the white wall. They all gape at him, in disbelief, and Tony didn't have time for that, so he hit the tabletop with his hand, making them all jump in surprise. "Get to it."

The door's of his workshop opened and the assassin walked in. "We have him."

"What?" Tony asked, jumping up from his chair and dropping his tablets to the floor in his haste.

"He's in Atlanta," Natasha rushed to say, the words clipped. "We have him."

"Don't interfere," Tony ordered, serious as he's ever been.

"He's a hundred times stronger than you, Tony. Be reasonable. You won't go in your suit—"

"I refuse," he interrupted, raising a hand to stop Rhodey. "He's not an enemy. Peter's a kid, an innocent kid."

"Tony, we need a plan."

"I have a plan," Tony said. "Talk to Peter."

"Tones—," Rhodey tried to begin, but Tony didn't want to hear it.

"Don't start."

"He's dangerous," Natasha said, always straight to the point.

Fuck that point, though. Tony's not acknowledging the unspoken facts hanging in the air, he refused to believe in them. "So am I, so are you, so is everyone in this room, Natasha. Shut the fuck up. He's a kid — he's my kid. I don't care if he's murdered the state of Texas, I'm going to speak to him."

"No one's saying that you shouldn't go, Tony. Be reasonable. We're just trying to come up with a plan."

"I'm not going there wearing my suit of armor, I'm not allowing you guys near him, and I'm not attacking him to bring him in unconscious," Tony said, frowning. "I'm ignoring your plans because they all suck."

"Sam, what do you think?"

"Man, don't bring me into this. I not getting in the middle of Stark and his teenager — no way. He wants to go there and get his ass kicked? Fine by me."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Thanks for the help, Wilson."

Steve crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't like it. Let me come with you, at least."

"Yeah, not gonna happen," Tony said, and in another situation, he might have snorted. "Peter's not your biggest fan."

"Wonder why's that," Barnes mumbled from behind Steve.

Suddenly, Clint, who had been silent the entire way, sat next to Tony. "It's Peter. We're not saying anything. Tony knows him best, it's his kid, so he's calling the shots," he said, and his voice rang with an authority that wasn't usually there. "Trust me, if this were my kid, I would've punched you all for being so annoying."

Tony turned to face the archer, hoping the man's eyes were good enough so that he could see past his desperation all the way to the flicker of appreciation and gratitude there. "Thank you, Legolas."

"Don't mention it. We've got your back."

They were in a back alley.

They were in a back alley and Peter wasn't wearing the Spider-Man suit. He's wearing black from head to toe, three pistols strapped to his leg, and it aged him at least five years, which, in turn, made Tony wince. It wasn't a look that suited Peter — not the carefree kid he knew and loved.

"What are you doing here?" Peter asked the moment Tony entered his line of sight, and he didn't sound happy about Tony's presence.

"Came to see you, buddy," Tony said airily, keeping the desperate relief he felt at seeing Peter alive hidden behind his smile. "What's up with the new look? I didn't think you were much for the whole goth vibe."

Peter didn't even flinch. "It's not a look designed for fashion purposes," he corrected, running his eyes over Tony's outfit, and the noticeable lack of armor there. "No suit?"

"I usually only wear those against people trying to hurt me."

That did it. Peter's eyes lost their blankness for a second. "Are you going to run, then?"

"Should I?"

"Yes, honestly. You shouldn't have come here. I don't want you here."

"Well, tough luck, kiddo. Can't always get what you want," Tony said, losing hold of his control, losing focus, trying to gauge Peter's state, hoping to see a glimpse of what lay underneath all that poise. "Peter, are you alright?"

That same thing from before shined in his eyes, and that time, when he answered, Tony was convinced he was telling the truth for once. "Can hardly remember what being alright feels like," Peter mumbled, and Tony had to struggle to hear the words. It was a sucker-punch to the solar-plex — Peter's pain — and it left Tony gasping for air.

The kid wasn't ready to open up more than that, though, because he shut the topic down just as abruptly. "Where are the others?" He demanded, scanning the streets behind Tony.

Tony moved on, barely following the conversation as his mind spun. "I told them to stay back."

"That was a stupid decision."

"They seemed to think so, yes," Tony conceded.

"And you came without the suit," Peter said, and he sounded angry now. "That was just testing your luck, hun?"

"What can I say? I'm a risk-taker."

"Are we pretending I haven't murdered twelve people?" Peter asked bitterly, almost as if he's mocking Tony. "I know you know that they're on me." He pauses, tilting his head to the side. "Are the others listening? Never mind, what am I saying, of course they are. Have you told them that you little protege killed people?"

"Peter Parker wouldn't murder innocent people without a fucking good reason," Tony said in lieu of an answer, ignoring the pounding in his chest. Even if he had known — and he had, obviously — hearing Peter confirm how much blood there was in his hands now it's just mind-boggling.

The kid's whole expression darkened as he spoke, and Tony wondered if there was an inch of his heart that would survive that encounter with Peter. The sour and bitterness painted on his kid's face was exactly the sort of thing Tony had sworn to protect him from.

"Maybe you just don't know me so well, after all, Mister Stark," he spat, taking a step forward, closing the distance separating them, and Tony could weep in relief. No matter what he said, Peter still cared, still wanted to confront Tony. If he truly didn't care, then he would've turned around and left.

No, this was a cry for help, and Tony heard it nice and clear. Did Peter really believe he could throw a couple of harsh words in his face and Tony would bail? Did he not understand how Tony worked at all? Tony was a problem solver, and he refused to release the bone until he chewed it all the way through.

So he mirrored Peter's stance, shifting forward, leaving himself open and vulnerable. "On the contrary, mon cheri. I know you too well," he said, his smile all teeth and edges. "Is that what scares you?"

Peter's didn't answer; he's putting on a good show. Tony almost believed it, too, only right at the end, when the engineer began to panic, grasping at straws, trying to come up with a good dig, something that would make the kid give him a hint, anything, Peter's eyes flashed with terror.

It's quick. So quick, indeed, that Tony would have missed if he wasn't an expert at handling the little spider and hadn't been watching like a hawk, waiting for that exact moment. Peter's eyes flashed, and there's desperation shining there, an endless well of despair staring right at Tony, and at that moment he realized many things.

It was all about instincts.

Yeah, maybe he had data, and codes, and leads pointing him to a specific direction — showing him that Peter had decided to throw in the towel and become a fucking assassin, working for a faceless group of terrorists. However, right there, in that damp alley, Tony suddenly understood the instinct that people spoke so much about and yet he had never quite grasped. The feeling that made mothers throw themselves in front of bullets for their kids, risking their own lives without a moment of hesitation or a second of regret. It was that instinct of a parent who sees their kid hurting, in danger, screaming for help, and it superseded everything.

Tony saw Peter's eyes darken, his whole expression collapsing so wholly and thoroughly that it seemed he would never recover from the pain, and immediately a shot of heat spread throughout Tony's entire body, overcoming his senses and erasing any other thoughts from his mind. It was like all else was pushed to the corner to make room for a much more pressing concern — his brain shutting down to give room for the change.

Peter was in danger, Peter was hurting, and Tony would do anything to save him. Forget playing by the rules.

"Kid, you need to trust me here, okay? I'll do—" Tony stopped, 'cause Peter wasn't paying attention to him anymore. He's frowning, eyes distant.

For a moment, Peter turned his head to the side, and Tony saw the earpiece there, snug inside his ear shell. When the kid released a pained sound for a brief second, Tony realized that someone was talking to Peter right now, and whatever it was that was being said, the boy did not like it.

Before he could come up with a plan, however, Peter had already shifted again, meeting his eyes once more, only this time without any of the previous emotions swimming there. It happened too fast — one moment he turned to listen, and the next moment he had his eyes back on Tony, his face void of any sentiment. Blank. Just a whole lot of nothing, and Tony realized that whatever Peter was going to say next, it was bound to hurt.

"You need to leave," Peter said robotically. "I have nothing else to say to you."

"Well, guess what? I still have plenty to say." Only he didn't. Tony had no idea what he could say to make any of this right.

Peter seemed to expect the refusal, and his expression soon became mocking. "You do, don't you? 'Cause Tony Stark always has something to say. Always has to have the last word."

Tony's jaw dropped at the words, and maybe he physically tripped back because he felt like he had just been punched in the stomach. It wasn't just what he was saying — it was the way he did it. The ugly way in which his face was twisting, morphing into a mask of scorn and derision. Peter had never — should never — looked like that.

Only he wasn't finished. And Tony could do little else but to stand there and listen.

"You think you're saving me? Why? 'Cause you're Iron Man, a superhero?" Peter mocked, irony dripping from his crooked smile. "Get over yourself, old man. I don't need saving; I don't need you." He paused for a second, and Tony wanted to interrupt, but he couldn't. Perhaps he was too busy getting his heart broken. "Give up, Stark. I never needed you, in the first place — you were the one who always needed me."

"Peter…" Tony tried, but the words died out in his mouth. It was the truth, anyway. Tony had always needed Peter much more than the kid had needed him.

Peter raised a hand to stop him. "Maybe I just don't want to end up like you, have you ever thought of that?" He finally asked, turning his head to look at something over Tony's shoulder.

Suddenly, the words were coming from far away. Peter was speaking something else, his mouth moving with the words, but Tony could only hear the loud noise of his own heartbeat. It grew louder, and the walls began to close around him, and the feeling of being trapped threatened to overwhelm him. It was too loud, and Tony couldn't breathe.

Why couldn't he breathe?

There's nothing preventing him from pulling in the air, but his body couldn't seem to catch that message, and no matter how hard he tried to force his muscles, his lungs, it didn't matter. There was just no air. None.

He looked at Peter again, needing to keep his eyes on the kid, even as the lack of oxygen began to make his surroundings spin, and he caught the exact moment when the kid's mouth formed around the word "shit!" and he kicked Tony right in the sternum, sending the engineer flying back.

That's when he heard the gunshots.

Tony hit the wall and crashed against it, smashing his head against the concrete, and everything went black.

Tony woke up in the MedBay, the unmistakable white lights nearly blinding his eyes. When he turned his head, he saw all the Avengers standing inside the room, watching him with cautious eyes.

"P'ter," he called, looking for the kid.

"How you feeling?" Rhodey asked, stepping forward to grab him a cup of water. "About time. Here, drink that."

"Wh're's P'ter?" he insisted, ignoring everything else. He tried to remember exactly what had happened, but there were only flashes popping up in his mind.

Steve met his eyes. "He escaped, Tony. I'm sorry."

Tony couldn't believe his own ears. "You let him go?!"

"You almost died, Tones," Rhodey explained, an indecipherable look on his face. "He broke several of your ribs with that kick. You have a punctured lung, you know? Could've killed you."

No. That didn't sound right. Peter wouldn'—but suddenly the memories rushed back, and he could remember everything perfectly. Peter had kicked him, in fact. Hard enough to send him flying… and the bullets.

"Man, maybe you need—" Sam started, but Tony couldn't care less.

"The bullets," Tony breathed out. "Fuck!"

"It wasn't him," Clint explained, his jaw clenched. "There was a guy hidden in one of the apartments nearby. It was goddamn luck that none of the shots got you."

He was wrong. So wrong. "It wasn't luck," Tony corrected, already calculating the possibilities. "The curse... the kick. Shit. Shit. He was trying…"

Peter turning his head. Peter changing his tune. Peter looking at something over Tony's shoulder and trying to wrap up the conversation. Peter cursing.

"...Tony. Tony!" Rhodey called sharply, snapping his fingers in front of Tony's face until he got his attention. "What are you talking about, man?"

Tony blinked, realizing that had to be it. "Peter kicked me to push me out of the way," he said, his eyes widening. "He knew I was about to get shot. Fuck, Rhodey. He looked panicked for a second before he kicked me out of the way."

Tony paused. "The kid saved my life," he breathed out. "He knew."

Peter. Peter. Peter.

"Tony, you have to eat?" Eat? How could Tony eat when he wasn't sure if Peter was eating anything? Peter, who had a fast metabolism and needed three times as much food as Tony.

"Starving yourself is not gonna do him any good."

Christ, Tony wished they would all shut up. He didn't have time to sleep or to eat or to take a shower or any of that self-care that they insisted he needed. Couldn't they see that Tony was busy keeping himself busy? If his hands stopped, if he halted his moves even for the briefest of seconds, then he would have to accept that he was useless, that there's nothing he could do to help find Peter, and that's far too much to handle at the moment.

Tony kept reminding his brain that he needed oxygen, that breathing was a thing that he needed to do, and it wasn't optional. Yet, every time he noticed, he realized he was holding his breath and had been for God knows how long.

"He's killing people, Cap. Fucking murdering people — in cold blood. That's not him. Something is very wrong," Tony said, ignoring all else. "His suit had an Instant-Kill mode, you know. I programmed it, designed it. More of a precaution than anything else. Peter freaked out when he found out about it. Said he swore to never hurt somebody with his powers — even someone who might deserve it. That's just not the way he works."

Rogers had that stupid concerned look on his face, and Tony hated it. Wanted to smash his head against the counter just so it would vanish from his sights, in fact.

But that would be wrong and useless, so Tony carried on. "And he's been tested. Kid's been shot, stabbed, used as a human shield, held hostage, punched, kicked. He works on the ground, and that sort of thing is just another Thursday for him. Do you know how many time he has activated that mode, hun, Cap? Do you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Well, let me tell you. None. Not even a single time. Not even when he was hurt, or when he could've used to protect himself. He just ignores it. Asked KAREN to stop suggesting it, even."

And maybe Tony should've disabled the function. He should've.

"That's just how good of a kid he is. Best fucking thing humanity has going for it right now. And yet somehow somebody got him out there murdering people left, right, and center, without a single good justification," he said, looking away so he didn't have to face those blue eyes and their judgment. Tony just wanted to be left alone, why couldn't they just understand that? "And you want me to sleep? To eat, to rest? My kid is being used as an assassin, and you want me to fucking sleep? I'll sleep when I'm dead. Until then, if you want to help me, help me figure out how someone convinced him to do this shit. Cause let me tell you, Rogers, something's just not adding up."

The man slid the plate of food in his direction, ignoring all that he had just said. "I just came to tell you that Bucky and Natasha left. They decided to search for Peter undercover — figured they had the best chance at getting to him," he said evenly. "We'll find him, Tony. We haven't given up, alright? Please, eat."

Tony cracked it.

There, behind walls and walls of code, hidden deep, was Peter's file. And of course it was Hydra — it's always fucking Hydra.

They had an in-depth file on Peter, with any information they could gather of him, varying from personal data, to combat abilities, to possible uses in the field, to desired experimentations with his blood. It was clear that they had done their homework — following Peter for a long time to gather all that intelligence on him.

It's disgusting and horrifying to see what those fuckers want to do with the kid. The descriptions were cold and technical, as though they were talking about a weapon and not a fifteen-year-old boy.

That wasn't the worst part, however. What caught Tony's eyes was the last page of the document, which was destined to Peter's weak points. Not the physical, though. No, Hydra meant the connections that made the kid weak — his vulnerabilities. There were only three people there: May, Ned, and…

Tony.

Tony's name was highlighted and unlined. Clearly, they knew where they wanted to hit, given a chance. After all, why not strike two birds with one swing?

His name led him to another file, and that's when he realized how stupid he had been all this time.

Of course.

Of course Peter wasn't kidnapped. They wouldn't allow him outside if he had been abducted — Peter would've found a way to run, even if it had meant running away and disappearing for a while. The kid was good at staying on the ground, hidden. He could've done it.

No. Peter wasn't kidnapped. He was being blackmailed.

Peter's being threatened, and Tony knows precisely with what, 'cause there's a painfully detailed explanation of how it was done written right in front of his eyes.

It's a bomb.

A fucking bomb.

Tony wanted to cry, because, in the end, it was almost ridiculously easy. The bomb wasn't anything special or any new technology, as Tony had been fearing — it was just a simple bomb. And it made sense, actually. Hydra wasn't the organization that it had once been, they didn't have the money or the influence necessary to acquire materials for more advanced bombs, and in truth, why would they need it?

They had a fucking explosive inside the Avengers compound, ready to blow at any given second, and powerful enough to take down the whole building with everyone in it. It had been a fantastic opportunity for them — a flaw they'd only get to explore once, and they hadn't used it.

Hydra was toeing the tightrope, keeping Peter on a leash with the threat of killing the people he loved, while counting the minutes until their plan was discovered and stopped. They had to know that sooner or later Tony would find out about the bomb in his goddamn lab, so they were counting on him being too occupied by Peter's disappearance to give a damn about the box of new material sitting in the corner.

And they were right, of course. Tony would've never checked it if he hadn't cracked the code and read the file — which meant that, at that moment, right there, he was finally one step ahead in the game.

He dismantled the bomb in a matter of minutes, keeping the main structure intact to analyze later, but his mind was already five steps ahead, thinking about Peter, and how to get him back, how to let him know that they no longer had their bargaining chip, and he was free. It wasn't simple, since, once again, Peter had pulled the disappearing act, and they had no clue as to where he was. Which left Tony with not many options.

He could broadcast it in the news — leak the information and let it arrive in Peter's ears, but it was far too risky. There were no guarantees that Hydra wouldn't kill Peter as soon as they heard the news. So no, Tony couldn't risk it. It was a conundrum, and Tony had no idea how to address it.

Turned out, he didn't need to.

In the end, Nat and Barnes were the ones who solved the matter. Just showed up at the compound with bruises covering their bodies and Peter thrown over Barnes' shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

They somehow discovered that it was Hydra who was behind Peter's abduction and decided to bring down the entire base. It had been over a week since they left, however, and in the meanwhile, they hadn't peeped a word — not about where they were, what they were doing, or even if they had any less. They just showed up and announced that they killed all forty-eight people present, including Ward.

The darkness that was clawing at Tony's insides, screaming for revenge, for murder, for blood, rejoiced. Each drop of Peter's blood that had been spilled, Tony wanted each one accounted for in the blood of others — those who tortured him, who used his fucking kid and turned him into a monster, a killer, an adult even though he's still a child.

It demanded — the darkness. It's not willing to accept anything less than the price in the flesh. Fuck prisons and trials and sentences and lifetimes and any of that. It's too late for the jurisdiction system — it had been too late from the moment they touched a single strand of Peter's hair, and all that followed was but a confirmation of their death. Hearing the news only announced it to the others.

Being a billionaire, a genius, an influential figure, an Avenger, had to serve for something, and if that meant making all the records from those Hydra men disappear, well, Tony would take it. Would take it gladly, and he would savor the moment where he wiped the systems clean, leaving not one trace behind, making their deaths nonexistent.

From that moment on, they were nothing but dust flowing around the world — with no known origin and no landing point, just a bunch of dirt flying through space, forever.

Fuck them.

Tony stayed in the MedBay, despite medical recommendations, waiting for Peter to wake up. The kid drifted in and out of consciousness for three days, but when the kid did open his eyes to the world, he had quite a lot to say.

"You're an idiot," Peter murmured, and it's obvious that he was trying to go for a stern tone, but his voice cracked, and unshed tears were swimming in his eyes.

Tony wasn't about to dispute that, but he's lacking some context. "What did I do?"

"What didn't you do? You risked your life, fuck, I had to kick you away to keep you from getting shot. You kept trying to find me... even though I told you to stay away."

"Kid," Tony called, shaking his head. "There's no way I wouldn't have searched for you. Did you really think that I was going to give up that easy?"

"Easy?" Peter scoffed. "You could've died."

"Kid—"

"No. Don't even," Peter said, raising a hand to stop him, and he's on a roll. Tony decided to just give him a cup of water and listen quietly. "I need you to listen to me, 'cuz this is important. I know I don't look like much, and that maybe I whine about a lot when I'm with you, and I tell you about my school, and my friends, and a lot of teenager things, and maybe you see me as a child. But I'm not, Tony. I'm not, and I haven't been since that spider bit me, years ago."

Did he think Tony didn't know that? "I know—"

"Wait!" Peter continued, and he looked serious, so Tony closed his mouth and decided to just listen. "I have super powers, I patrolled the streets of Queens all by myself in that ridiculous onesie that I made for myself, and I survived every day, alright? And it's not that I'm not grateful, because I am, much more than you could ever know, but I can stop a bus with my hands, I can heal from broken bones in a matter of days, I can literally swing from the ceiling. I have powers, it's what I'm trying to say. You, on the other hand, you're just a man, Tony. If those bullets had hit you, you would be dead, no way around it."

"So I really need you to stop throwing yourself at everything, thinking that you're saving me, because if you die, well, then I feel like that's on me," Peter added, a wryly smile stretching his lips, and Tony got what he was trying to say. He remembered those words — of course he did. Not a day he was likely to forget.

"Hey, stop," Tony said, unsurprised by the kid's selflessness, but unwilling to agree with it. It was about time that Peter realized that he couldn't save everyone, and that it wasn't his job to do it. Somebody needed to protect him. "Kid, I'm Tony Stark. I'm a genius. I know that. I know about your powers, and I know what you can do — this is not about me thinking you're weak or something." He grabbed Peter's face in his hands, holding it gently, looking into his eyes, hoping that what he was about to say stuck in his brain like a permanent itch. "You're a kid, though. You're my kid, and no matter how old you are, or how fast you may heal from any wound that won't stop me if I see you in danger. That's just the way it is, and that's how it's supposed to be."

"You're not my dad," Peter croaked, but it's weak, as though he doesn't believe his own words, and his entire body language betrayed him. Even as he spoke, tears ran silently down his cheeks.

Tony was too exhausted to pretend. He had almost lost Peter — had lived without him for weeks, driving himself mad with concern, fear, regret, desperation, and angst. The time for games had long passed, for both of them. "Am I not?" He asked, staring right at Peter, refusing to allow the boy to hide or to run. He didn't want to leave anything unsaid between them. "I want to be."

For a moment, it looked like the kid would cave — fall apart right in between Tony's hand. But then he frowned, an agonizing look washing across his face, before he gently pushed the engineer away, wiping his own tears in the sleeves of his shirt and getting up from the bed. Tony's hands were left dangling in the air, empty.

"How can you say that? I caved, Tony." Peter exhaled, shaking his head lightly. "Stop working on excuses for me. Just...don't. I caved — it was me." He walked to the window and stayed there, looking at the outside, refusing to face Tony. "Ben once told me that with great power comes great responsibility. It's great advice — it truly is. I thought I could stay on the ground helping the little people...doing what I could. But I caved."

"It's concerning how little it took, to be honest," Peter added. "They showed me the footage, of the compound, the labs, your workshop. Your suit...the bomb. And that was it — nothing else mattered."

Tony knew the feeling, he wanted to say, but Peter wasn't done speaking — saying what he needed to say.

"I just...I want to say that I did it because of the people who work on the compound, because of the agents, because of the Avengers, because of Pepper, Happy. And I did—do care about them. But they knew — that's why the first person they showed me was you," the kid said, fisting his hands alongside his body, exuding tension. "I killed twelve people to protect you. To keep you safe."

"Peter, you did—"

"There were more, you know?" Peter interrupted, closing his eyes. "More files were waiting for me when I came back. Twelve was just a random number, just a moment you guys were able to save me. I wouldn't have stopped. Not at twenty, not at fifty, not at a thousand." Suddenly he punched the glass, hard enough for it to crack, even though it's reinforced glass and Peter barely seemed aware of the action. Tony jumped in place, surprised by the reaction. Peter hadn't been one for random acts of violence before. "I think this is what I hate the most about this entire thing — that now I know too much about myself and just how far I'll go if I have to. I always wondered in the back of my mind, never really taking the possibility seriously, and I guess I just...fuck, I just hate the answer."

It's a painful admission, and the words come out slowly of Peter's mouth, as though he has to force them out, one by one, to get the thoughts in order, to speak his mind, to explain himself. And it's heartbreaking to watch. Peter's crumbling, and Tony had no idea how to help. He's too busy being shocked by what the kid's saying, by what it meant, by the feelings behind it, dripping with sentiment and determination strong enough to wage wars.

Peter turned around, and their eyes locked instantly. Tony had no clue what his face must look like, but there's something burning in his throat, squeezing all the air out of his body. It's weird, and nothing like he had ever felt before, and Tony truly believed that if Peter were to ask him for anything right then and there, he wouldn't hesitate. Anything.

"I hate that I have no limits when it comes to you," Peter breathed out, like a prayer, a curse, carving the words on the air around them, and Tony had to bite his lips to prevent himself from saying that he, too, had no limits when it came to Peter. Not a single one. Only he couldn't bring himself to hate it.

Instead, he settled for a soft, "come here, kiddo," and opened his arms in a clear invitation. He desperately wanted to hold Peter, and thankfully the kid didn't hesitate. He waited only long enough to make sure Tony was being serious, then flung from across the room to settle into the engineer's chest.

Peter clung to him, hiding his face into the crook of Tony's neck and gripping his shirt so tightly they could hear the fabric tearing, bit by bit. Yet, neither of them moved from their places. If it were up to Tony, they would stay right where they were indefinitely, but it would get uncomfortable, so he shifted in place, backtracking until they were lying on the bed, Peter sliding almost on top of him, and shoved his face into the kid's hair and settled for the night.

He had his son in his arms — fucking finally — and he was going to enjoy every millisecond of the experience.

It took hours, but somewhere between the moments of quiet and Tony's soft mumbles of reassurement, Peter fell asleep — his hands still gripping Tony's shirt. It seemed a shame to waste the moment, so instead of following Peter's suit, he remained awake, resting his head atop of the kid's and allowing the scent of his shampoo to wash over him.

At one point, the door slid open, and Rhodey strolled inside, a plate of food in his hands. Before FRIDAY could announce his presence or the man could say something, Tony made an abortion motion with his head, pointing down to the sleeping spider in his arms, hoping the man would get his meaning and not disturb his kid. Peter needed all the sleep he could get.

"You need to eat," Rhodey whispered calmly, settling the plate of scrambled eggs and toast on the bedside table.

Tony was hungry, actually. So hungry that the smell of food was enough to get his stomach rumbling, but Peter had rolled until he was completely atop of Tony's chest, and thus, trapping both of the engineer's arms. If he wanted to eat, Tony was gonna have to dislodge the kid.

With those parameters, the choice wasn't even a struggle.

"Leave it," he said. "When I get free movement of my arms, I'll eat."

"Tones—"

"Leave it, Rhodey. I'm fine where I am — the food can wait, okay?"

What he wanted to say was that everything could wait, but that sounded too much like admitting a horrible weakness, and the words shifted into something else as he spoke. Somehow, though, his best friend seemed to read well between the lines, 'cause his eyes softened, and he nodded in agreement, leaving without another word.

Leaving Tony to hold his kid in peace.

"Hey, FRIDAY."

"Yes, boss?"

"Tell Pepper to arrange a press conference for me, will you? Something small, hand-picked," he instructed, his eyes never straying from the kid in his arms. "I have an announcement to make."

"I'm sorry," Peter said, twisting his hand in a nervous gesture, following Tony to his room. "I didn't mean any of it."

"What is it, this time?"

The kid fixed him with an incredulous look. "Atlanta? When we met, and I was the biggest asshole to you? That day."

"I think I can take a few harsh words," Tony said, hoping his face didn't betray the way his heart missed a beat at the mention of Atlanta. It has been more than a few harsh words, and they both knew it.

"I just said whatever I thought would get you angry at me. I'm so sorry, Tony. I am."

"Pete, look, stop. Stop with this apologizing thing. I was the one who got you kidnapped in the first place — this whole thing? My fault. You may say whatever you want about me — and it would all be true. I'm not mad." He paused. "You do know that, right? That Hammer—"

"I know," Peter confirmed, scoffing. "Hammer liked to talk. A lot. Really liked the sound of his own voice. He spoke a lot about you, actually. I think he has a crush."

Tony should laugh, but it didn't sound funny. "He never wanted anything from you, Peter," he said, sitting down on his bed. "It was just a way to get his revenge on me because I spent my life being an idiot to everyone around me."

Peter shrugged. "Seems to me that that one deserved it," he joked, only to immediately flinch at his own words, stumbling back in surprise. "I—I don't. I mean, I don't mean he deserved what— of course he was, but I just meant that—"

"Peter. Kid, stop," Tony said, grabbing his arm to prevent Peter from putting more distance between the two of them. "I get it. I wasn't thinking you meant anything else — and trust me, Hammer deserved every single thing he got."

And still, some dark corner of Tony's mind begged for more, wished that he could've prolonged Hammer's suffering for hours, days, months, just so that he could feel what it was like to lose hope. Tony wished he had seen how miserable he could get the man to feel before killing him. What he did was too easy, too quick.

Peter lowered his head, his voice heavy with tears. "How fucked up is it that I wanted to hurt him? I wanted to hurt him, Tony. And it feels like I almost asked for it, you know? I wanted to be the one hurting someone, and he sold me to a person who did just that — pushed me to hurt others," he murmured. "If that's not karma, what is it?"

"You didn't deserve a single fucking thing that happened to you, squirt," Tony said, gathering the kid in his arms and squeezing. It felt too much like he was holding the broken pieces of Peter in his arms, and he wondered how long he would be able to do so. "You were kidnapped, you were tortured. That's what's fucked up, Peter. Not you — never."

"Then why do I feel so bad?" Peter sobbed, hiding his face on Tony's shirt, his words muffled by the fabric.

"Our minds are a wonderful thing, kid. They are. But sometimes they can be our greatest enemies, too, if we're not careful. You just went through a very traumatic experience — don't judge yourself," Tony said, meaning each and every word. "Don't be like me, kiddo. Be better."

Peter's response was to sob even harder, his whole body shaking with the strength of his cries. Tony held on, waiting for the kid to tire out, to let go, to put everything out — he didn't know. He's not sure what he's waiting, only that Peter needed him and he wasn't about to do anything else other than remain where he was, arms locked around Peter, holding.

"Peter, I love you," Tony said, hardly believing he got the opportunity to say the words out loud, with Peter in his arms, listening, alive, watching him with those perfect brown eyes. "I love you so goddamn much that it frightens me. I need you to know that. I just—I needed to say. Needed you to understand that this wasn't some random kid I saved from a kidnap."

"Colonel Rhodes said you didn't eat," Peter croaked, his voice weak and tentative, as though he's trying to gauge how sincere Tony's being with him. How much he could believe in Tony's feelings. And that, well, that could not stand.

"I didn't eat, I didn't sleep, I didn't do anything other than search the world for you, kiddo," he admitted, carding his fingers through Peter's hair. "I'm so tired right now, I feel like I could sleep for a week and it wouldn't be enough."

Peter sagged in his arms, as though Tony's suffering confirmed something for him, and it's horrifying to watch. "You can — if you want to. I'll watch over you, I promise."

And the time for minced words had long passed, so Tony didn't hesitate to explain. "I'm not quite ready to have you out of my sight. Don't want to close my eyes."

"I won't leave," Peter said, also painfully honest. "I'll stay right here, with you, in your arms, until you're ready to wake up." He leaned closer, all but shoving his face into the engineer's neck, pressing his mouth on Tony's neck, saying the words against the warm skin there. "And when you do wake up, I'll still be here."

Instinctively, Tony's arm tightened around Peter, trapping the kid there. "Look, kid, I'm actually serious about this. If I come about and you're not—"

"So am I," Peter interrupted, and Tony realized that he did understand. He probably felt the same way. "Trust me, Mister Stark, I get it. I'm not in a rush to go anywhere. I'm good right here."

Tony winced. "I feel that by now you should be okay calling me Tony."

"Okay, Dad." It's what he said instead, whispering the words like they are a dirty secret and a prayer all at once, and Christ, it sounded so much better than his stupid name.

"Alright. That's cool. It's great. Let's go with that." Tony lowered his head to kiss Peter's hair, curling up his body around the kid, almost covering his smaller body with his own. "Is this okay?" He asked, unsure.

Peter only hummed in response, and Tony was perfectly aware that the kid was strong enough to send him flying across the room if he became uncomfortable at some point, so he relaxed, and finally, after what felt like an eternity, closed his eyes and went to sleep.

Tony was flipping a golden pancake when Peter emerged from the room, rubbing his eyes and with a bad case of bed-hair, and Tony could physically feel the moment his heart melted a little bit. God, that kid was just too fucking precious for that world.

"You hungry, buddy?" He asked, pointing to the stack of pancakes already ready at the counter. They are still there, untouched. Maybe because Tony couldn't force himself to move more than a couple of feet away from Peter, so he chose to use the small kitchen in his wing rather than the one in the communal area, and there's only the two of them.

"You left," Peter whined, sounding confused, clearly still in the process of waking up. "I thought the plan was to sleep for a week?"

"We did sleep for sixteen hours, to be fair. I don't think I've ever slept that much in my entire life — not even when I was a baby… or unconscious."

"I could go for another sixteen," Peter said, but he hoisted himself up on the counter next to the pancakes, sitting up to watch Tony cook.

"So could I, kid," Tony agreed, not able to resist the urge to reach forward and ruffle the curls on Peter's head. "But Pepper arranged the press conference I asked for, and it's in a couple of hours. I have to be there."

Peter leaned against the touch, unconsciously following the move when Tony withdrew his hand. "Press conference?"

Tony hummed in agreement. "Yeah, don't worry about it. Just gotta make a few announcements, and I'll be done. We'll go to back to bed after — how does that sound?"

Peter snagged a pancake, all but shoving it into his mouth. "Sounds awesome. Can I come with you?"

Tony tried to go for a casual tone when he replied. "Not into the room, I don't want that sort of exposure for you. But you can wait for me outside if you want," he suggested, trying to ignore the panic threatening to overcome him at the idea of not having Peter nearby, where he could see or hear him.

Peter nodded, agreeing too quickly to the idea. "I'll wait."

"Good, that's good." And just like that, Tony's heart is beating normally again. "You want something to eat with these pancakes, kid? 'Cause I don't think you're supposed to eat them like that."

"You got chocolate syrup?"

"Buddy, if I don't then someone is about to get fired."

"Do they know?" Peter asked, studying the door. "About me?"

"They know that you're Peter Parker. That you're my kid," Tony said, tugging at the knot of his tie. "Nothing else. No Spider-Man."

"Tony…"

"What?"

"Do you think Spider-Man still makes sense after all I did?"

"Peter, you are Spider-Man. Even if you never put the suit back on again, even if you decide that that's not the life for you anymore. You'll still be Spider-Man — because that's a part of you."

"I just feel like a fraud," he said, the corners of his mouth pulling down. "I spent so much time catching criminals and telling them not to do shit. Who am I to say anything now? I mean, it's not like I haven't done it, too."

"You know, kiddo, I've done shitty things as well," Tony said, catching Peter's chin in his hand and tugging it up until their eyes met. Tony knew too much about the panic stamped in those eyes. He held the kid's head, dragging the pad of his thumb over the soft skin — too much like a caress, and it was. "I don't have all the answers for you right now, okay? I wish I did, but I don't, so I gonna tell you only one thing: this isn't the end. It may feel like it, but it isn't, no matter what your mind's telling you. So let's just… live one day at a time, right?"

"One day at a time," Peter repeated, making no moves to get away from Tony's hold. In fact, he seemed content in letting the moment stretch indefinitely. "I don't know how I feel about that."

Tony took a step forward, bringing them even closer. "That's fine," he said, his eyes drawn to the movement of his own finger against Peter's cheek. "You've been holding the boat for weeks now, buddy. You saved my life. Now's my turn, hun? How about you let me handle everything, and you just worry about sticking close, okay?"

It was about time that Peter was allowed to cut loose. The kid had done more than enough, for longer than he should've, and it was obviously draining him to the point of mental breakdown, so, yeah, Tony was more than ready to take the wheel. He wanted it — couldn't wait to see Peter without the weight of a thousand lives in his back.

Peter raised his hand to cup Tony's, covering the hand that was still holding his face. He gave it a little squeeze of his own. "I think I'd like that," he said, and there's a flow of endless gratitude swirling in those beautiful eyes, mixing in with some other nameless emotion already there. Something that looked suspiciously like hope.

There were maybe thirty journalists in the room — all of them practically salivating over the opportunity to get the first scoop of whatever it was that Tony was about to announce. They remained in silence, though, as Tony sat down and tapped on the mic, going straight to the point.

"Let's get this started, shall we?" He said, skipping the pleasantries. He had somewhere else to be after this. "You've read my statement. We all know what this is about." Tony scanned the room and chose a woman at random, pointing at her. "You, in the red shirt. Go."

"Mr Stark," she said, jumping from her chair in her rush, "you called Peter Parker your kid. In the past, you've expressed quite strongly that you had no desire to have children. In fact, in your own words, you said you couldn't see kids in your future. What's changed?"

"Turns out I meant babies," Tony said, shrugging. "Babies are just not for me. Next."

A guy raised his hand. "Are you his biological father? Or are you formally adopting young Peter Parker?"

"No, I'm not," Tony said evenly. "And I would, you know, adopt the kid, but I'm pretty sure his aunt you have a few words to say if I tried. What can I say, Peter? Tough luck."

"Is he inheriting Stark Industries?"

"Sure. Who else? Next."

"Peter Parker has been dubbed a science prodigy. Do you see yourself in him, is that why you decided to take him under your wing?"

"Hey, no need to make me sound like a mother hen," Tony joked, but then turned serious. "I do see a lot of myself in Peter. But that's not why he's my kid, not really. The best parts about him are the ones that have nothing to do with me — they are all on him. The kid is the kindest, most selfless person I've ever met in my life. If that's the future, if this is the generation that's gonna take control of the world, then I couldn't be more proud."

Several hands raised at once, all eager to get him speaking more about Peter, no doubts, but Tony hadn't called that press conference to spew poetics about his kid, and he's been away long enough. Time to wrap that shit up.

"The true reason I've wanted to do this press conference wasn't to talk about Peter," Tony said, mentioning for them to lower their hands. He wouldn't be taking more questions. "But to say that I'll be stepping down." He paused, rolling the words around his tongue. "I'm retiring."

Hun, that didn't feel so bad.

Instantly they all went crazy, jumping from their seats, screaming questions at Tony, wondering what had made him take that decision, what he would do from now on, what did it mean for him to retire, but, most of all, the simple question that echoed around the room was: why?

And Tony answered, looking at no one in particular, addressing all the confused journalists at once. "Yeah, it's done. All my responsibilities pertaining to SI have been reassigned to different people, and, as always, Pepper will continue to do an amazing job as CEO. The R&D department is fully equipped to carry on my ongoing projects."

Before they could ask more, Tony raised a hand. "Hold your horses. Yes, I know what you'll ask, I also mean that I'm retiring from being Iron Man. Obviously, I'll still be around, and if the world ever needs it, I won't hesitate. But barring a disaster, I'm taking it easy from now on."

"But why?" A blond girl who looked about twenty-something asked, sounding close to tears for some reason.

"Honestly? I just want to enjoy the time I have with my kid," Tony explained, and he couldn't hold back a smile. God, Peter was just outside, and Tony couldn't wait to ditch this flock of noisy people and go back to his kid. His kid. "In some years he'll be going away to college, and I've already lost so many years of his life... It just seems like the logical move to make here."

Tony wasn't lying. In his mind, after all the shit that went down, nothing made more sense than wanting to glue himself to Peter's side and never let go again. Everything else could wait — would wait. It was about time that Tony used the power at his fingers to make a decision he wanted for once.

He got up from his chair, buttoned his jacket and looked straight at the girl who asked the question. She wanted to know why, well, that was it.

"When you write about my retirement, write that the reason Tony Stark decided to step back is because he's already too busy," Tony said, savoring the words as they left his mouth. Christ, it felt glorious. "I'm just too busy being a parent."

With that, he turned around and left the room, ignoring the screams and flashes going on behind him.

They heard him; they'll understand — Tony's busy getting to his kid.

AN2: So, yeah, Tony being Peter's dad is my new crack. I just want them to be mush and fluffy and in love with each other. I hope you guys liked this.

By the way, anyone get that Sherlock reference? Let me know.

As always, comments are greatly appreciated. If you feel like leaving one, I'll absolutely love it. Xoxo.