Fury stares him down, his one eye tunneling through his words to grasp at his intentions. Tony sits very still. Back straight. Attentive. Not shirking away from the intensity that threatens to reveal him whole.

Fury stares some more, then cracks a grin and leans back into his chair. "Tony Stark." he drawls, "Never thought I'd see you again."

Tony quirks his brows. "Never thought I'd come to this side of the world either."

The blare of honking drivers and the faint thrum of the subway reverberate in the New York City air. Tony breathes through it, his hyper-sensitivity forces the scratching of Officer Blair's Lotto card from the next room into his ear-drums, he hears the sound of two copiers churning out the contents of police files, a woman laughing into the phone. The NYPD's seventh precinct has never once been quiet, but the cacophony of it all suits Captain Nick Fury just fine.

Tony thinks he could get used to it.

Fury's tone says relax, but Tony's in the lion's den and he isn't one to forget it. "You staying here for the next while?" Fury asks, hands clasped over the desk.

"Permanently." Tony says immediately.

Unconsciously, his fingers grip into the handles of his chair. Fury's eyes dart to his tense knuckles but they're back on his face just as quickly. "Okay. Anything I need to know about?" he stares at him meaningfully but Tony doesn't take the bait.

His jaw tightens. "Nothing you haven't already snooped out." Tony's foot starts shaking, something antsy crawling all over him. "Are we done yet? With all this have my daughter home my eight stuff or can we get to what's actually important?"

Fury almost looks amused. "And what might that be?"

Tony stands up, plants both hands on his desk. "The case."

"Peter! Have you seen my keys? They're not on the thing!"

Twisting his lip, Peter pauses mid-bite. "I think…maybe…wait didn't you put them in your jacket yesterday?"

May smacks a hand to her forehead groaning. Peter snickers into his cereal, "Peter make sure you always put your stuff back in the same place." he mimics, laughing at her half-hearted glare.

Hands on her hips, May tries to look stern but she can't help but laugh, "Way to kick a girl when she's down Pete."

Peter flashes a cheeky grin before May runs back into her bedroom, pulling out her spring jacket and digging into the pockets with a quick, "Aha!" before rushing back to him.

All at once, the light-heartedness in her eyes fades and something haunted clouds the brown of her eyes. May looks at him for a moment, imperceptibly biting her lip before taking three steps towards him and pulling him in for a tight hug. "May?" his fingers grip the back of her shirt.

He feels her take a deep breath from where she's pressed against his shoulder before she pulls away slowly. "Is everything okay?" he asks again, gentler this time.

Her smile is small, but she brushes the hair from his eyes like she's done a thousand times before and Peter has the strangest feeling that he should be trying to memorize this moment. "Nothing sweetie. I just really love you, you know that?"

Peter smiles, a little wary, a little touched, "Yeah. I love you too May."

She smiles at him again and he watches her leave to work with questions in his eyes. "Are you coming back at seven today?"

"Earlier probably." There's something weird in how she says it, but Peter can't put his finger on it.

"Ok great! I'll make some pasta or something and we can eat together."

May shoots him a grateful smile before waving her goodbyes. The door clicks shut behind her and Peter finds himself faltering in the silence. May was usually an open book, but today- not just today- the past while…she'd been keeping something back. Not hiding, just…keeping. He'd ask her about it tonight. Whatever it was, maybe he could help her. Or at least try.

Resolved, Peter quickly washes his dishes and grabs his backpack. School first, then Decathalon practice, and then May. Yeah, that sounds good. He has all the time in the world.

"You'll be working with Detectives Rogers and Odinson. I figure out of everyone here, they're the least likely to punch you in the face." Fury says with a wry note.

Tony looks unaffected, used to that kind of reaction ever since he started doing what he's doing. Police detectives didn't tend to take kindly to snarky consultants with three times their IQ. But that's the way the world works isn't it?

Rogers is tall, stern, the perfect all-American boy. Odinson, in contrast, is broad, buoyant, and smiles so wide Tony thinks he has a condition. He can already picture it now. Rogers, the no-nonsense, by the book cop who gets worn down by the puppy-like excitement of his partner who teaches him to soften up. Resisting the urge to grimace, Tony tries to present a somewhat neutral image of himself when Rogers glances up at him, eyes judgy and ascertaining. "You must be Stark." he holds out his hand, "I've heard a lot about you."

"Yeah I get that a lot." Tony replies, grasping his hand and hiding his wince when Rogers squeezes hard.

Odinson surges forward, a hard look in his eyes and Tony gets a flash of a storm. The man looms over him, close enough that Tony can see the tiny scars on his collar. Odinson stares at him. Tony stares right back. "Is this the part where you ask me out or am I just that out of your league?"

Odinson blinks before he booms in laughter. Clapping Tony on the chest, the detective looks oddly pleased. "I like this one." he glances down, something teasing in his eye, "Bit smaller than I thought you'd be. Didn't you take down a mob in London?"

Tony makes a face. "And you're a lot more giant than I thought you'd be. NYPD hiring Harry Potter characters?"

Fury makes a rumbling sound in his throat. "If we could all get off the testosterone train for a second, we have a crime to get to."

Tony nods, at full attention, "Send me the location. I'll meet you there."

"Sounds best." Rogers nods and if Tony cared more about what people thought about him, he'd say he didn't like that hard stance, arms crossed and eyes narrowed like Tony was a criminal who ran out on bail.

"Great." he replies, in false cheer, "It means so much to me that you approve."

Tony strides out the door, calling a taxi and flashing him the address on his phone. He isn't here to make friends. He doesn't even need them. Never has. He's just here to solve crimes. One more distraction so he doesn't think of her-

No.

No more of that.

He has bigger fish to fry anyway.

He arrives at a cul-de-sac in a nicer end of town. The house is large, a well-maintained front lawn hosting an array of shrubbery and flowers meticulously groomed. Tony's senses go into hyperdrive. The smell of the gardenias, the number of windows, no marks on the ground. He catches sight of a muddy footprint, slammed into the front door as though to break it open. He can see the wear on the hinges, the streak of the mud as the man slid his foot off. Size eleven. Boot style.

Fury steps in front of him. "First respondents found signs of a struggle in the kitchen and in the master bedroom." Tony makes no sign of listening, pulling out his phone and typing quickly.

"But no Ms. Delaney."

Tony pauses. "Ransom demand?"

Fury shakes his head and Tony frowns like he's in thought before walking past him and the other detectives crowding around the kitchen. The detectives are already inside, but Tony heeds them no mind. He traces his way through the house imagining dozens of scenarios all at once, eliminating each one the evidence disproves it. He heads straight to the living room, examining the bland art all rich people had on their walls, but pausing at a set of photographs hanging neatly in a 3x3 grid on the wall. The first column has two rectangular frames of couple photos, the middle column two oval frames with just who he assumes is Mr. Delany, and the final column another set of rectangular couple photos.

He can sense Fury watching him and he's proven right when moments later he asks, "What is it?"

Tony doesn't look back at him, peering at the photos, something odd tickling him but nothing specific. "Not sure." he admits.

Fury scoffs. "That's a first."

"I guarantee I still know more than the rest of your detectives combined though." Tony turns around, a challenge in his raised brows. "Wanna bet captain?"

Fury raises his hands in the hair, "Hey, hey, I'm just here to facilitate your re-entry. No need to go all feral."

Tony gives him a look before staring at the pictures again. "Did you find her phone yet or is that still gone too?"

A detective Tony hasn't met yet- nor does he want to- rushes over to hand it to Fury when he asks and Tony wastes no time going through it to find what he needs. He slides through Ms. Delany's photos, an attractive women in her thirties with dyed red hair and compares them to the ones on the wall. "Alright so she either lost a crazy amount of weight in what has to be two weeks, which is ridiculously unlikely, or she had a crazy amount of plastic surgery in the past two years." Tony clicks the phone shut. "More likely."

Fury squints. "She looks the exact same in both photos Stark."

Tony whirls around, holding a finger in the air. "Exactly." he gestures to the wall. "Look at the frames. The oval ones are older, been here longer, but the square frames are newer. And which ones feature Ms. Delaney." Fury flattens his expression. Tony raises a brow, "You didn't start believing in coincidences since I've been gone have you Captain?"

Fury gives him half a scoff.

"Alright look." Tony pulls out her cellphone again, "She has tons of pics of herself all pretty and glamorous, but after two years? Poof. Not a single photo. But there are tons of everyone else. Surgery." he singsongs.

Fury still looks unconvinced, but Tony really doesn't need Fury's approval and stalks off, bending at the carpet to sniff at it, waving his hand to waft up any lingering scent. Everything is a clue and yet no one ever seemed to look.

Standing up abruptly, Tony decides to join the party in the kitchen, walking in on Rogers scribbling in his notebook while Odinson stares at the glass shards on the floor. There's a smear of blood next to the pieces and the glass appears to be the remains of a cup. Rogers looks up from his notepad, looking at him like he doesn't belong, but Tony ignores him, "Fury! Get in here!"

Rogers snaps his notepad shut, crossing his arms and shifting his stance to express his disapproval. Tony rolls his eyes. Odinson steps back, cocking his head like Tony is a circus trick he'd been wanting to see all day. All right. They wanted a show? He'd give them a show.

Tony steps back, planting his feet apart, hands clasped in front of him. "Get ready to be blown away kids." with a dramatic flourish, Tony points to the glass. "Ms. Delaney knew her attacker. She let him right in actually."

Rogers scoffs, "Captain are we seriously going to waste our time-"

Tony carries on like Rogers hadn't said anything at all. "There are two broken glasses on the floor, if you had bothered to count the number of shards you probably could've deduced that yourself, but," Tony shrugs, his expression unreadable, "obviously, she was pouring a glass of water for her guest before he assaulted her."

Rogers nods condescendingly, "Right, yeah, that makes sense. That's exactly what I would do after some guy busts down my door."

Rogers stares him down until Tony sighs, crouching to the floor to dig around under the fridge before pulling out a solid piece of the cup; the perfectly intact base that matched another base in the pile on the floor. "Two bases. Two cups Mr. Skeptic."

Odinson grins a little. "Alright Stark. Two glasses. But how do you explain the footprint?"

"I thought you'd never ask." Pulling out his phone, Tony holds out the snapshot he took of the footprint. "If you look closer, you can see a drop of blood near the sole. I guarantee if you run it through the lab it'll turn up a positive for Ms. Delaney's blood. And?" he holds out his arms, "How could that blood have gotten there?"

Rogers scowls.

Tony grins. "The blood on his shoe is proof that he made that print after getting to our victim. Not before. That means she knew her attacker and he tried to hide it."

Tony steps out the kitchen, patting Rogers on the chest, "Don't worry big guy, you'll catch up."

Tony's halfway to the living room before he calls out, "Oh. And he took something too. Where's Mr. Delaney?"

A sheepish man with round-rimmed glasses and a tweed coat is brought into the room. Tony wastes no time. "Over there, on that table. Something's missing. What?"

"How could you possibly know if something was missing?" Rogers bites.

Tony makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, his antsy energy giving him a spazzy quality as he walks to the centre of the room. "If you could pay attention, you'd see that everything in this room is perfectly symmetrical. Two side tables, six picture frames, three decorative objects, only two there. Something's missing. You can even tell from the slight discolouration of the wood." impatiently, Tony turns back to Mr. Delaney, "Well?"

"I-I, yes. There was…That was where Annabelle kept her mother's music box."

Just like that, Tony's lively demeanor disappears. He looks almost deflated, like he had heard something he expected but still wished were unreal. "I see."

Ignoring everyone, Tony turns immediately for the stairs. He finds the bedroom with no trouble. Predictably, the rest followed. "This isn't a kidnapping case anymore." Tony looks at the bed sheets in disarray and the lamp pushed from its place on the bedside table. "It's a murder."

"Stark, you've been right so far. But there's no body." Odinson says, scrutinizing the rest of the room.

But Tony can't stop looking at the lamp and there's the scent of blood in the room. He can't see any. But he knows it's there. The hypersensitivity of his nose won't let him be until he finds it. His eyes draw back to the lamp. He jolts, swiveling around to face the detectives. He holds his arms out like a child trying to fly and skids down the room before shaking his head and trying again.

"Captain-" Rogers says, no doubt trying to complain more, but Fury just raises a hand, watching Tony silently.

Tony slides down again before stopping, an eerie expression on his face. "She's in the safe room."

"What safe room?" Fury asks, voice low.

Tony points behind him. "The one behind that wall." he says, nonchalant.

Rogers uncrosses his arms, stepping forward. "Her husband didn't say anything about that."

Tony shrugs. "He probably didn't know. But look," he plucks a marble out of the decorative bowl across them, "all that reinforced steel makes the floor just the slightest bit uneven because of all that extra weight." He drops the marble, eyes locked on it as it rolls slowly but steadily down towards the wall.

Eyes drawn again to the lamp, Tony shoves his fingers behind the night stand, fiddling around until he found what he was looking for. He presses the switch and the wall behind him moves to reveal a small steel room. The marble rolls inside before coming to a complete stop as it gets trapped in a pool of blood.

Annabelle Delaney's eyes are vacant.

Tony looks away.

"I don't usually hope I'm wrong…but this time, I really wish I was."

"Alright so a little bit of salt…" Peter mutters to himself, tossing in a dash or two into the boiling water before stirring in the pasta.

"Ok Google, set timer for eight minutes." His old Galaxy 4 vibrates as the command goes through and Peter leaves to go sit at the kitchen table, filling out math homework sheets while he waits for the food to cook.

He's lost in thought solving quadratic equations when his phone blares violently. Jolted from his focus, Peter grabs the phone, relaxing when he sees General Heart Hospital as the caller ID. Oh. Just May then. He doesn't know why she'd call from her work rather than use her cell, but Peter answers the call, a smile on his lips. "Hey May, what's up?"

The person on the other line takes a breath. It sounds almost sad. "Is this Peter?"

Peter furrows his brows. "Marisa?"

Marisa's one of May's nurse friends. She'd been over a few times, enough for Peter to vaguely remember the way she speaks, but he has no clue why she's calling. "Peter, you need to come to the hospital. It's May."

Peter's entire world dissolves.

"She's been in a car accident. And it's…" Peter doesn't want to hear it.

Absolutely cannot hear it. Not May. Not to him. Not to them. "I'm coming. I'm coming. Please- just- just-"

"We're going to do our best Peter." Marisa promises softly.

But Peter already knows it won't be good enough. It never is with the Parkers. And always, always. He's the one left behind.

Peter sprints the entire way. He's restless on the subway, jumpy and frantic. When he races into the hospital, he navigates the familiar halls until he gets to reception. Hala's expression saddens, a weathered strength of constantly losing and saving souls in her eyes. "She's in surgery, you know where to go."

Peter doesn't have the capacity to remember to be polite before he's running down the hall. He turns the corner, bumping into a doctor, a built guy twice his size with a forester type beard and unexpressive eyes. Peter mumbles an apology, not really caring much about anything until he gets to the surgery wing. He collapses on the waiting chair. Someone comes to talk to him. The clock is ticking in the background. The tears blur the ugly table and magazines and other crying people.

Peter doesn't know how long he waits.

He can't feel much of anything anymore. He replays their final moments together. Not bad. Sweet. Tender. Not enough though. Should have been more. They deserve more. May. May. May. He just wants his aunt. He just wants May.

Peter's head falls into his hands.

"May Parker?"

Peter chokes. Launching upwards, all but running in the surgeon's direction. "Yes. Me. That's me. I'm Peter. Her nephew. Is she-is she okay?" the surgeon looks like he's about to frown, give his typical I'm so sorry we did everything we could speech and Peter shakes his head, "No-please. Please don't tell me-"

"Peter, I think we should sit down."

Peter can't feel his legs. He can't feel his own heartbeat. He's led back to the waiting room chairs and he falls into the seat. Just…falls. "Peter, your aunt was involved in a car accident. On-lookers say she was acting erratically in the car right before it happened. She lost control of the wheel and crashed into the side of a building."

Peter gapes. What the- what the hell is this guy saying to him right now? May is-was? No, she- she drove more safely than anyone Peter knew. And she would never- she would never do that- that wasn't- that wasn't her.

"What does that even mean? That doesn't make any sense." he insists, trying to show the universe it was wrong- it was wrong to take May Parker because this wasn't supposed to be how it ended. It wasn't.

The surgeon softens again. "Peter…were you aware that your aunt was on anti-depressants?"

Peter's face slackens. Incredulity written in every sharp edge. "What?"

"First responders found a prescription bottle for bupropion in her purse and judging from the medication label and the quantity, it seems she was taking more than the recommended dose. We tested her blood and it confirmed our hypothesis. Unfortunately, one of the side effects of the medication is inducing first-time seizures in individuals not typically pre-disposed to them and based on witness statements, we believe this was all a tragic mistake."

Peter stands up, legs quivering. "Of course this is a tragic mistake. You- you don't know her. She wasn't depressed and she wasn't taking medicine and she- this makes no sense! This makes no goddamn sense!" Peter's yelling now and he's making a scene but he can't help it because this isn't right, it isn't right.

"Peter-"

"No!" Peter rips his arm away, running back down the hall intent on finding Marisa.

"Ms. Hala. Ms. Hala, I need Marisa, where is she? I need to talk to her. Please." the receptionist frowns, glancing at him and then the screen, conflict in her eyes.

"Peter I'm not sure-"

"Ms. Hala please."

She stares at him a bit longer before acquiescing, looking through the schedules. "She should be attending the fourth floor today."

Peter runs two steps a time yelling Marisa's name. He finds her when she pokes her head out, tears filling her eyes the second she sees him. "Oh Peter." her voice wobbles and suddenly he's in her arms. "I wanted to find you after I heard but I needed to stay here."

He pulls away quickly. "It's fine." he says, cavalier, "Did you hear what they're saying about her? About May?"

She stares at him wide eyed. "Peter honey what are you-"

"Was she taking anti-depressants?" Peter pushes, every part of him pleading.

"I don't- I don't know Peter. I don't know. But they found the bottle in her purse and May's been-" pain paints a shadow across her face, "May had been acting weird for weeks now. It wouldn't be the most surprising thing."

The world freezes around him. May had been weird. Evasive, paranoid, scared. She said she had to take care of something. Something important that she couldn't tell Peter. Did she mean this? Her mental health? Depression? Why wouldn't she have said anything? Why wouldn't she tell him?

He must've said it out loud because suddenly Marisa has him in her arms again and she's patting his head. "Oh Peter. She probably just didn't want you to worry."

But that's bullshit and Peter pulls away. "No. This isn't right. It isn't right!" and he turns in the other direction and runs as fast as he can go.

He squints as the sunlight pierces through his eyes as he surges out the hospital, fumbling to pull his phone out of his pocket. He calls an Uber and feels clenched right down to his atoms as they drive down the crowded New York city streets. They pull up at his apartment and he storms into it, throwing open his door as though he can find answers where there were none before. He stumbles inside, everything in the apartment hurts him now. Taunts him. Every surface is a memory of May and he can't deal with that right now.

Not now.

Not ever.

How was he supposed to move on when everything was wrong?

He bursts into May's room, determined to find something to prove- to prove what? Peter stops, his breathing heavy. If May's crash wasn't an accident, then that meant it was a…Peter shakes. He doesn't know which one is worse. May was a nurse. She saved people for a living. She was kind and funny and witty and down-to-earth and it couldn't be possible…

Peter tears apart her room anyway.

He throws open drawers and rifles through her things and ransacks anything that could hide a secret worth killing over. Finally, he finds it.

It's a medical file, swiped from the hospital. George Miller. Age seventy-three. Died from heart failure. Ruled: natural causes. It's May's handwriting. Peter knows it. He flips through to the bottom where the previous notes are and finds his brows furrowing. May had combed through her notes, highlighting as she went. George was fine, feeling good that morning. And then died of a heart attack two hours later.

And that isn't suspicious. People die all of the sudden every day. But May's hand-writing is frantic in the margins WHAT ABOUT THE ISCHEMIA? WHAT ABOUT THE MARK? It was underlined four times.

Peter drops the file, pulling out his phone and googling everything he didn't know. Ischemia: reduced blood flow preventing the heart from receiving oxygen. A severe blockage of one of the heart's arteries that can lead to a heart attack. Peter squints, so then it was natural.

Peter flips back in May's notes, where she's highlighted the epinephrine dose over and over. Something connecting in the back of his mind, he googles ischemia ephinephrine and is bombarded by academic journal after academic journal detailing the link in adrenaline causing ischemia…and leaving that distinctive mark. It wouldn't have been possible for the epinephrine given after the heart attack to save the man to cause the ischemia. There would have had to be more of the drug in his blood for to it have that lethal effect. That means-

Peter falls to the floor.

George Miller was murdered. And May had figured it out.

"I'm telling you it wasn't an accident!" Peter's yelling in the middle of the NYPD seventh precinct and twelve hours ago he would have died at the thought, but he can't be stopped now.

The detective, Rogers, he thinks, tries to drop a comforting hand on his shoulder but Peter shirks back, glaring. "Son. I know it's hard when a loved one dies but we did all the checks-"

"You evidently didn't- if you had, you would have seen this!" Peter waves the file in Rogers' face but the man doesn't lose his cool, just keeps giving him that same placating face.

"I'm sorry. There's nothing we can do."

Peter can hear the door to the captain's office open and close shut and hopes he isn't going to kick him out. But Peter has to keep trying. He has to. The only thing keeping the grief that threatens to consume him whole and leave nothing at all is his mission to bring his aunt justice. "What do you mean there's nothing you can do? It says so right in the file! George Miller was murdered and it looked like an accident because the epinephrine that killed him got disguised by the epinephrine the doctors used to resuscitate him!"

Rogers narrows his eyes, his arms unclenching from where they were crossed at his chest and Peter thinks finally he's gotten through to him when the file is snatched from his hand by someone behind him. Peter whirls around, gaping at a man with the most chiseled goatee, skimming over the file, lips pursed. "Your aunt. How did she die?" the man says and Peter's too taken aback to tell him he really doesn't have any authority to go asking questions.

"A car accident."

"And you think someone tampered with the car?"

"No. Someone put a bottle of anti-depressants in her purse- um, bu-" he frowns.

"Bupropion." The man supplies.

"Yeah…that. They said she took too many of the pills and she had a seizure in the car so she lost control. And then she-" Peter trails off, just looking at the man, expression saying it all.

The man frowns, lip tugging in sympathy. "I'm sorry kid. But if it makes you feel any better, you're right."

Peter's eyes widen. His heart hammers in his throat. "What?"

The goatee guy snaps the file shut, staring him right in the eye. "The man, Miller, he was murdered."

Rogers stands up, "Stark you really think it's a good idea to say that to him right now?"

The man- Stark- tilts his head like a challenge, "Say what? The truth?" he looks back at Peter, completely ignoring the detective, "I'll take your case. I'm waiting for some DNA evidence anyway. You have school or something?"

"N-no sir."

"Great. Then you can come with me to the hospital. Fill me in on absolutely everything you know. Even the smallest detail could be important."

The man turns abruptly, speed-walking out of the bullpen and Peter jumps to match his pace. "Wait. Are you a detective here?"

The man curls his nose. "God no. I'm a consultant."

Peter's expression scrunches. "So like…you consult on crime?"

The man sighs. "I'm what they call the department's last resort. A tricky case no one has the handle on? They call me." he glances at Peter from the corner of his eye. "Don't worry. You'll see the show soon enough. But for now, all you need to know is that I'm Tony Stark. And I'm going to catch whoever did this to your aunt."