Tony Stark was not one to ever feel uncomfortable. No matter the situation, he was able to adapt. But this situation was one that Tony Stark had no desire to adapt to—it was one he'd rather avoid all together.

"Coffee?" asked Rebecca, indicating a fresh pot on the coffeemaker. She poured a mug.

"No thanks," Tony said flatly.

"This will be a short visit then, hm?" Rebecca asked, taking the mug for herself.

"What do you want, Rebecca?" Tony asked.

"You know what I want, Tony. I told you on the phone. I want to see my son," she said. Tony stared her down, but she stared right back, her face open, honest.

"Eighteen years," Tony said. "Eighteen years and you never once wanted to even pick up a phone and call your son. Why now?" Rebecca sighed.

"Tony, I was young. I wasn't ready—"

"And now I've got an eighteen-year-old whose never met his mother and hasn't ever planned on it," Tony said.

"Well, does he even know that's an option?" Rebecca asked angrily. "Or did you invent some story? Did you tell him that I'm dead, is that why you don't want me to see him?"

"I've done a lot of things in my life, Rebecca," Tony said, "but I have never lied to my son. I've never abandoned him—hell, I think I've been a pretty damn good father, which isn't something I ever thought I'd say. And what I don't want is Peter getting hurt—something I'd say is fucking well unavoidable if you're in the picture."

"Excuse me?" Rebecca said, affronted.

"No, I stopped excusing you the day you handed Peter over and said goodbye for good," Tony said.

"Time was you weren't too sad about that," Rebecca snapped. "If I recall everything worked out just perfectly for you, didn't it Tony? You got your precious son and you've been what—raising him with that Boy Scout boyfriend of yours?"

"This is between you and me, Rebecca," Tony said in a low voice.

"Is it? Because I'm pretty sure it's between me and your whole little family, but I don't see them here," Rebecca said, crossing her arms. "Why is that, anyway? I never do see your little family anywhere—certainly not on the news."

"Rebecca—" Tony said in a warning tone.

"It's because of that boyfriend, isn't it? Too afraid to come out of the closet, Tony?" she searched his face. "No—no, it's the boyfriend isn't it? That makes sense. He's a bit old-fashioned, isn't he?"

"What do you want Rebecca?" Tony snapped again.

"I want to speak to my son!" Rebecca said. "I want to meet him face to face. And since I have no idea where you live, I guess I've got to go through you first, so that's what I'm doing." Rebecca stepped closer to him, staring him right in the eyes. "I want to see my son. I expect you to give me the address by Saturday evening."

"I don't have to give you anything," Tony said. "That's what those papers you signed meant, Rebecca. That I got Peter, no strings attached. Full custody. And in case you haven't noticed, which I doubt you have, he turned eighteen two months ago, so really this has nothing to do with you anymore."

"And it has nothing to do with you, either," Rebecca shot back. "This should be his decision, Tony. Not yours. Not even mine. His." Tony headed towards the door, and Rebecca followed him. "I want that address, Tony."

"If it's his decision, then he should decide whether or not you get that address," Tony said. He opened the door. "You'll hear by Saturday whether or not he wants you in his life."

"I want to hear his voice," Rebecca demanded. "If you call me on Saturday and tell me that he doesn't ever want to hear from me, and he doesn't talk to me, he doesn't tell me that—then I'm calling up the latest news channel and your life will never be anything close to private again, Stark."

"You really think that's what would be best for Peter, Rebecca?" Tony asked seriously. Rebecca pursed her lips. Tony put on his sunglasses and got in his car. He already knew the answer to that question. This wasn't about Peter. But what it was about, Tony had no idea. He backed out of the driveway, his thoughts troubled and dark. He needed a stiff drink—stat.

"You can't be serious, Tony," Pepper said. Tony and Pepper were in Tony's office at Stark Tower, where Tony had gone after his meeting with Rebecca and promptly gotten wasted. Tony groaned. "If you come in through the door like that and Peter sees you, Steve will kill you. Stay here tonight."

"Nope," Tony said, getting up from the plush leather chair and putting on his suit jacket. "It's almost dinnertime."

"Oh, Tony, just stay here a couple more hours and sober up," Pepper said. "You can't drive like this, anyway."

"Then I'll take the subway," Tony said. He could hear the slur in his voice, but he had to get home. Steve was already mad at him. A tiny, niggling voice in his head told him that Steve would be angrier if Peter saw Tony drunk, but he ignored it. He just wanted to fall asleep in his husband's arms and forget about the day. He pressed the button on the elevator and got in, putting on his sunglasses to hide his glassy eyes.

"The aftermath of this has nothing to do with me!" Pepper called out as the doors shut. After all, Tony Stark had never really changed. He was just himself out of the eyes of the public—and certainly out of the eyes of his son.

The door opened to the lobby, and Tony sighed—he never went out this way, onto the street. He always entered into the basement, driving his car or motorcycle out. This felt so…common. And indeed, there was such a scene happening in the lobby. Why was his receptionist running about like a chicken with its head cut off?

"Tony!" Tony looked harder at the people causing the scene, looking over his heavily tinted sunglasses. It was Natasha, Clint and—

"Peter?" Peter was collapsed on one of the leather couches, his face unbelievably white, his forehead sweaty. He was thrashing a bit, While Clint tried to pin him in place to keep him from hurting himself. "Oh, god, Peter!" He was at his boy's side before he even knew that he was moving. He took off his sunglasses—seeing his son nearly dead on a couch was the most sobering experience Tony Stark had ever had.

"We don't know what happened, Tony, he just came in here and collapsed," Natasha said quickly.

"Call Steve—someone call Steve," Tony managed to get out. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Natasha pull out her cell. He tapped Peter's face gently. "Pete? Peter, wake up son." He didn't care who might overhear him—his safety was already compromised. Peter moaned, his eyes sliding open briefly, and then falling back closed again.

"An ambulance has already been called," Clint told him. Tony had expected nothing less. He sat by Peter, trying to coax him back into consciousness, until the ambulance arrived and put him on a stretcher. Clint and Natasha said that they would follow in a car. Tony rode in the back of the ambulance as the EMTs hooked him up to an IV and monitored his vitals.

"Peter, it's me, it's Dad, Peter," Tony pleaded with his son, but he would not be stirred. Occasionally he would cry out, but not with words. Tony held his hand.

"Does your son have any allergies, Mr.…"

"Stark. And no, not that I know of. We've never had him tested," Tony said anxiously. The ambulance stopped, and Tony followed as they wheeled him into the hospital.

"You'll need to wait here for now, Mr. Stark," replied the EMT as another worker continued to wheel him away. Tony started forward but the EMT gently put a hand on his chest. "We need you to stay here, sir."

"My boy has just gone unconscious, he's crying out in obvious pain, you don't have any idea what's wrong with him, and you want me to wait here?" Tony demanded. "I'll go back there if I damn well please, he's my son—" Tony felt a hand on his shoulder.

"It's all right, we'll wait here," Steve said from behind him. The EMT looked at them warily but nodded and went back to his ambulance. Tony whirled around to face his husband.

"What the hell are you thinking? Peter needs us—"

"Last time I checked, neither of us were doctors," Steve said firmly. "We'll just be in the way. We need to let them do their jobs and help Peter, now, Tony." Steve looked at Tony hard, then sniffed. "Have you been drinking? And—what's that flowery smell?"

"Is that really important right now?"

"It's barely even seven o'clock," Steve said, sounding more perplexed than angry. "Tony, what's going on?"

"The EMTs have no idea," Tony said. "And I'll bet the doctor doesn't have any better idea either."

"I'm not talking about with Peter," Steve said. "I meant with you."

"I thought we'd dropped this."

"I'm not dropping anything that affects your mental health, Tony," Steve said seriously. He took Tony's hand. Tony marveled at the warmth—it was so much better than the warmth of alcohol. He could get so very lost in that glow, make himself drunk with Steve…but not at the moment.

"It's nothing, really, just—"

"Mr. Stark?" a doctor called out, sticking his body half out the door they'd wheeled Peter through. Tony practically ran.

"That's me—is Peter ok? What's going on back there?" Tony asked.

"We think your son will be fine," the doctor said uncertainly. "We're—well, his temperature is coming back down. His vitals are fine. We're not really certain what happened, Mr. Stark. As far as we can tell, it might have been anaphylaxis, but oddly there weren't any symptoms of swelling, except a mild bit on his hand, which appears to be a bug bite or sting of some kind—bee sting allergies are fairly common."

"So…he's going to be ok?" Steve asked.

"He should be fine. If you live through anaphylaxis, you'll be fine unless you're exposed to the allergen again. You can take him home now—I suggest you take him to an allergist at your earliest convenience to help prevent further attacks," the doctor said. He opened the door so that Steve and Tony could come back into the room.

A nurse was removing the IV from his arm, and another was setting up a wheelchair. Peter's eyes were open, but clearly not really seeing.

"Peter?" Steve asked worriedly, going straight to his bedside. Tony was right behind him.

"…Pops?" Peter asked groggily.

"Hey, kiddo, you had us really worried there," Steve said gently.

"I…why isn't there a ceiling?" he asked.

"You should go back to sleep, son," Tony said. With a small, involuntary sigh, Peter did just that. Steve picked him up and put him in the wheelchair gently so that they could roll him out. As soon as they were through the doors, Clint and Natasha were there, but they knew to save the questions for later. Nat only asked if he would be fine, to which Steve replied that he would be. Clint brought around his car to the front of the hospital, and they all drove home together, with Steve and Tony in the back, their boy asleep across their laps. When they got home, Steve picked him up and carried him to his bedroom—Peter was barely more than a pillow in weight to him. Tony followed, dragging a chair from the kitchen behind him. He plopped the chair in Peter's room, intent on not moving until his boy woke up again. Steve put a hand on his shoulder and kissed his cheek.

"I'll get you your tablet," he said.

"Try not to break it," Tony said. Steve rolled his eyes, but visibly relaxed. A teasing Tony was a good sign. He left the room. Tony held his son's hand, looking at his boy. He had unruly hair, only slightly lighter in color than Tony's. Peter had his eyebrows, and his jaw—but not his nose. His nose was Rebecca's. His mind—all Tony. But his heart—well, he'd gotten his heart from Steve.

Peter had only ever asked once who his mother was. Tony had told him it was a woman with whom he'd had a brief affair, that she'd not wanted children and signed him over to Tony permanently. Peter had been six years old, then. And he'd never asked again. He'd never asked who his 'real' father was—genetically speaking—and Tony doubted that, had he not inferred it from the discussion about his mother and his obvious similarities to Tony, he never would have. Peter was perfect.

Tony put his head in his hands. What was he going to do? Peter had never asked about his mother again, never indicated that it was a path he wanted to explore. And considering it was Rebecca, it was probably best that he didn't.

But what if he did? What if he wanted to know his mother? Tony had no right to keep him from her, and he knew that, but Rebecca was obviously up to something. And he didn't want his boy near anyone with less than genuine intentions. And what was he going to tell Steve?

"Here, Tony," Steve said, entering Peter's room again. He had his tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, with a bottle of ibuprofen stuffed in the crook of his elbow. "You'll probably need this. I'll get some water, too. Clint and Natasha are downstairs—they don't want to go until Peter's better." Tony took the tablet and the coffee.

"They should go on their date. Peter should be fine," Tony said.

"I'm not going to try to convince either of them to do something that they don't want to," Steve said with raised eyebrows. Tony chuckled.

"No I guess that's not a very good idea," he agreed.

"Are you going to be ok, Tony?" Steve asked softly.

"I'm fine, Steve," Tony said tiredly. "I just want to look after Peter right now." Steve nodded. He kissed Peter's forehead before leaving the room.

Tony Stark did not leave that chair the whole night through.

The day after, Tony and Steve stayed with their son. They watched movies and ate junk food, and Tony played hooky from work—though they actually called Peter in sick, not wanting to smirch his attendance record. Tony almost brought up Rebecca a thousand times, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He didn't want to have the conversation at all. But the next day, when Peter was still perfectly fine, the conversation couldn't be put off any longer—and not because Tony didn't want it to be.

Tony took Peter to school that morning on the back of Steve's motorcycle. He pulled back into the driveway, parked, and went inside. He still had to get ready for work, though he still hadn't decided whether or not he was going to bother going in. Couldn't they all get along fine without him? CEO, SCHMEO.

"So what's your plan for the day, Capsicle?" Tony called out. Steve didn't answer. "Steve?" Tony wandered back into the kitchen, just in time to see Steve hang up his cell phone, a very serious expression on his face. "Steve? What's wrong?"

"That was Pepper on the phone," Steve said quietly. Tony could not think of any possible situation in which that sentence would necessitate that particular amount of gravity.

"What did the lovely Miss Potts want?" Tony asked, pouring himself another cup of coffee. Steve continued to look at him very seriously. Tony put the coffee pot down.

"She wanted to know if you were going to be in at the office this morning," Steve said.

"Why didn't she just call me?" Tony asked.

"Because you failed to call yesterday. And the day before," Steve said. Tony blinked. Oh. Oh.

"Steve—"

"Let me guess, it's 'not what I think'," Steve said.

"I don't know, I'm not a mind reader," Tony said. "What do you think?"

"What do you think I think?"

"I thought we just established that I'm not Professor X, Steve."

"When I saw you, you were drunk and you smelled like a woman's perfume, and now Pepper calls and tells me you weren't really at work, that you lied to me—what the hell am I supposed to think, Tony?"

"Wait, you think I—Steve, I would never—how could you think that?"

"How could I not?" Steve demanded.

"Because you know me," Tony said.

"That's the problem, Tony," Steve said. "I do know you."

"Not as well as you think, apparently," Tony snapped, furious at this turn of events. There he was, his husband, staring at him with those big blue eyes, full of doubt—because he thought he knew Tony, and the conclusion he reached wasn't favorable. Tony Stark may never have changed completely, but there were lines he would not cross. Not anymore, anyway.

"Then what the hell happened? You've been acting weird for days, you get drunk, and you won't talk to me," Steve said, his voice pleading. "What's going on with you, Tony?" Tony sat down. He took a long swig of coffee. Steve took a seat next to him, taking his hand like he always did in difficult times.

"It's Rebecca," Tony said. Steve removed his hand. Tony groaned, "No, Steve, it's not—" The house phone rang. Steve picked it up, looking distressed. God, why did telemarketers have the worst timing? And why did Steve always feel the need to pick up and politely listen to their pitches? He had to sign them up for the do-not-call list, Tony resolved.

"Yes, this is Peter's father. He what? Yes, yes of course I understand. Three o'clock it is," Steve said. He hung up the phone.

"What was that about?" Tony asked. Steve pinched the bridge of his nose like he had a headache.

"Peter broke a kid's nose," Steve said. Tony laughed.

"What, did he kick the soccer ball wrong in gym class?" he asked.

"No, Tony, he punched him," Steve said. He grabbed Tony's coffee cup.

"Hey, I was using—" he stopped when he saw the look on his face. "Peter really hit someone?"

"Yes!" Steve said. He grabbed all the other dishes from breakfast and put them on the counter by the sink. He walked over and started rummaging through the pantry.

"Steve, what are you doing?"

"I'm looking for my gloves and apron," Steve said hotly.

"Oh, Steve—"

"Shut up, Tony." Tony clenched his jaw shut and got up from the table.

"I'm not cheating on you," Tony said.

"Shut up Tony," Steve growled. Tony pushed his chair in with far more force than necessary and went upstairs. He wouldn't call Pepper, but he wouldn't go into work either. He had far bigger things to worry about.

**Important additions have been made to this section from LID.**

[["Dad?" Peter blurted out as he walked through the door of the principal's office. Tony was surprised—he had expected to see another black eye, maybe some bruises and scrapes—but other than the fading black eye that he already had, he was injury-free. "Why aren't you at work?"

"Why aren't you being the good kid I know you are?" Tony countered. He got up to face Peter. "Why are you going around punching people?" Peter groaned.

"It wasn't like that, Dad—"

"Oh it wasn't like that? Then tell me how it was like Peter. Did you not break another student's nose?"

"He started it—"

"And you sure as shit finished it, didn't you?" Tony said hotly. Principal Mason cleared his throat.

"Uh, Mr. …Stark, sir…this is Mr. Parker's first offense here at Midtown High, and given information supplied by eyewitnesses, we've decided not to pursue any further disciplinary action. We trust you'll handle the situation at home," he said, looking clearly uncomfortable.

"Absolutely," Tony said, still giving Peter the look. He grabbed his jacket and put on his motorcycle helmet. Peter followed his dad out the door.

"Dad—"

"We'll talk about this when we get home," Tony said through his helmet. They left the school and Peter rode home on the back of his dad's bike. Before they went into the house, Tony warned Peter, "You've put Pops into a cleaning spree. Watch your step." Perhaps it wasn't fair. Tony had put him in a bit of a snit too, but it had been Peter who'd sent him over the edge.

"Peter!" Pops yelled as he walked into the hallway. Steve was definitely in full on evil-housewife mode—he had on pink rubber gloves, a full apron, and a feather duster in his hand. Tony would have laughed were it not for the murderous expression on his face. He'd laughed once when Cap was in his outfit—it hadn't ended well. "What were you thinking?"

"Uh," Peter said as Tony shut the door behind them and started for the kitchen.

"No, no, not the kitchen Tony, not with those boots on—"

"Oh, Steve, come on—"

"I'M JUST TRYING TO MAKE THE HOUSE LOOK NICE FOR ONCE!" Steve roared. Tony put his hands up slowly.

"No going in the kitchen. No stepping on the kitchen floor. Got it. I'm backing away now," Tony said. Steve pointed at Peter.

"You. Shoes off. Now," he said. He took off his gloves and handed them to Peter. "Go do the dishes."

"But—"

"Go." Peter unlaced his converse shoes and put them neatly by the door. He headed into the kitchen.

"I already gave him a hard time in the principal's office, Steve," Tony said softly. "I think we just need to talk this one out."

"He hit another kid, Tony."

"So? You were always hitting people and getting hit back in the forties—"

"It's not the forties anymore! He shouldn't be hitting people—"

"It was one kid, and probably an asshole—"

"I don't care if it was one kid or twenty, Tony, the principle's the same—"

"I would be a lot more concerned if it was twenty, actually—"

"You're not taking this seriously, are you? You never take anything seriously."

"Oh, Steve, come on, I told you, I already gave him a hard time of it—I just don't think he deserves any more shouting."

"Who said I was going to shout at him? When did I say that was the best way to discipline a kid?"

"You didn't have to say it—it's the way you're acting, I know that's what you were going to do—"

"What do you mean, the way I'm acting?"

"The cleaning—you're mad and you're taking it out on the furniture. You do this every time."

"I do this every time? I do this every time Peter hits someone? Right, of course, because this has happened so many times! Just because I yell at you after you do something stupid doesn't mean I'm going to yell at Peter—" Except that they both knew that he was yelling at Tony for doing something stupid, that he was cleaning the house because Tony had done something stupid, though Steve wasn't sure what it was yet.

"Then why did you send him off to the kitchen to do the dishes for which we have a perfectly good dishwasher?"

"So that I won't yell at him."

"That makes no sense."

"It makes perfect sense."

"I think your brain is still a bit icy, Capsicle—"

"Oh, God, we're not starting that again, are we? Because I'm not going down that road right now. You're on thin ice with me—" Steve screwed up his face, as Tony struggled to contain a laugh. Steve changed his wording. "You're in the doghouse with me, Tony."

"I shouldn't be, Steve—you never let me finish this morning. I'm not cheat—"

"—no, Tony, we're not talking about that right now, Peter's in the kitchen—"

"Do you hear anything?" Tony asked. Steve blinked.

"What? No, why?"

"Peter? Why's the water off?" Tony called.

"Uhhh, it's nothing Dad!" Peter yelled back. "Just—uh—looking for the soap." Tony raised an eyebrow, though Peter couldn't see.

"It's in the pantry," Steve said. Then he turned back to Tony and said in an undertone, "Why would you bring that up right now? Peter can probably hear us, he doesn't need to know about this."

"There's nothing to know!" Tony said, exasperated.

Crash! Crash! Bang! Thump! Horrible noises came from the kitchen. Steve rushed to the scene, Tony right behind him. Peter was slumped beneath the counter, surrounded by broken bits of china, wearing a pot for a hat.

"Peter!" said Steve. "Peter are you ok?"

"Uh, fine," Peter said, removing the pot. "But I think I broke the dishes. All of them." Steve offered him a hand up and Peter took it.

"That's ok, I never liked this pattern anyway," Tony said, picking up a broken bit of the floral-patterned dish and dropping it back onto the ground with another loud crash. Steve winced slightly. "These floors are dangerous like this. I keep telling you to use the swiffer—"

"You can't use a swiffer on a shellacked floor, Tony—"

"Then we'll just get new floors—"

"These floors are as old as me, you can't just get rid of them—"

"Oh, for God's sake, Steve, is that what this is about? Do you think I'm getting rid of you?"

"Peter is in the room!" Steve yelled, outraged. Tony looked around.

"Uh, no he isn't," Tony said. Steve looked around, and then he glared at Tony again.

"Yes, but you didn't know that," he said. "We shouldn't argue with him around, it sets a bad example—"

"Do you realize how small this house is? He can probably always hear us when we argue, and we've been doing it for years, no need to stop now—"

"There are certain things a kid shouldn't have to hear from his parents and them arguing is one of them!" Steve said.

"Are we really arguing about arguing?" Tony demanded. "Because I've done a lot of stupid things in my life but I think this is starting to take the cake." Steve sighed.

"Ok, yes, maybe this is getting a little ridiculous," he admitted.

"Are you going to let me tell you what I tried to tell you this morning now?" Tony asked. The oven beeped—Steve must have made something earlier for dinner. Tony didn't know—he'd been up in their room, tinkering with electronics all day.

"Only if you promise to keep these floors," Steve said, a bit sheepishly. Tony wrapped his arms around his husband's waist.

"Anything to keep you happy," Tony said. "I'll even get exact replicas of that awful china if you want." Steve rolled his eyes.

"Oh, please, no. That was a wedding gift, don't you remember? I've always hated it too," Steve said. Tony laughed, but then the house shook, a loud thud coming from upstairs.

"Peter?" Tony called out.

"I'm fine!" Peter yelled back. Tony exchanged a look with Steve and headed towards the stairs.

"Peter, what are you doing up there?" Tony shouted.

"Nothing!" Peter called back.

Nothing, Tony thought. If I had a nickel for every time I'd said 'nothing' to my Dad I'd own another Stark Industries. He walked up the stairs and knocked on Peter's door.

"Peter, open up," Tony said.

"Uh, I'm not decent," Peter called back.

"I don't care, open the door," Tony replied. Peter went to the door and opened it just a crack, peeking his head out. Tony raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing in there?"

"Stuff," Peter said.

"Stuff?" Tony repeated.

"Yeah, just...stuff," Peter said. He had a look on his face that Tony was far too familiar with. Tony Stark, usually impossible to embarrass, felt himself go red.

"Do w…do we need to have…a talk?" It took Peter a second, but then it dawned on Peter what Tony meant, and his eyes widened in horror.

"Oh, God, no—I'm not—that's not—oh gross, Dad!" Peter said, completely incapable of forming a coherent thought.

"Well, I don't know what to think—we hear all these weird sounds from up here, and you're not decent and you won't open the door—"

"If you have ever loved me, please stop talking now," Peter begged. Tony put his hands up.

"Fine, fine," he said. "I'm just looking out for you, Peter. Things have been…weird the past couple of days."

"Yeah," Peter said.

"Well…dinner will be ready soon—come downstairs in a bit," Tony said.

"How did you manage to get any dinner cooked while arguing like that?" Peter asked, almost impressed. Tony smiled grimly.

"We're used to it, Pete. I'm giving you fifteen minutes," Tony said. "And…try not to make too much of a mess in there…"

"GO AWAY," Peter groaned, shutting the door. Tony snickered as he went back down the stairs. Steve was finishing setting the table.

"Everything all right?" he asked. Tony nodded.

"He's up to something, but I have no idea what," Tony replied. Steve set down the last bit of silverware.

"Are we talking now?" Steve asked. "Because I'd really like to know what's going on." Tony sighed.

"Rebecca called me on Tuesday morning, completely out of the blue, demanding that she see Peter," Tony explained. "I asked her what she wanted but she refused to answer me. So I drove down there on Wednesday, and she made it very clear what she wanted—she wanted time with Peter, and she made it clear that she wanted to speak with him about it, that an answer from me wouldn't be good enough. I would just blow her off, but she threatened our family, Steve. Not our safety, but our secrecy. It might as well be the same thing, but what can I do? Go in, guns blazing and take her out? So she's demanded to speak with Peter by Saturday or else. And frankly, I don't know what to do," Tony finished. Steve stared at him for a good long while. "Well?"

"Well I think you fucking well should have told me on Tuesday!" Steve exploded. Tony was a bit surprised—Steve rarely cursed.

"Steve—"

"I mean, are you fucking kidding me right now? You've kept this from me all week for no damn good reason? You are such a fucking bastard, Tony Stark!" Steve yelled.

"Now, wait one minute—"

"You've been talking in secret with our son's birth mother and you didn't even think it rated a mention? You've been making all the decisions about whether or not Peter gets to see her without consulting me? Without consulting Peter? What the hell are you thinking, Tony?"

"I'm thinking I'm protecting you!" Tony said. "I'm thinking I'm protecting my son!"

"By keeping this from me?"

"You don't understand, Steve. She threatened—she threatened our secrecy," Tony tried to explain.

"Yeah, you fucking said that already," Steve snapped.

"Our secrecy, Steve. Ours," Tony said. Steve narrowed his eyes for a minute, and then they widened a bit as he suddenly understood that Tony didn't mean their address. He meant the whole package—that Iron Man and Captain America were married and lived together in Brooklyn with their teenage son.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me all of this for exactly those reasons!" Steve said.

"I was protecting you."

"You were protecting yourself," Steve snapped. They glared at each other long and hard.

"Um," Peter said, "dads? Is dinner ready?"

"What?" Steve asked. Tony wondered how long their son had been standing there. "Oh, yeah." He put on oven gloves and took a casserole dish out of the oven. "Take a seat, Peter."

Peter sat down, and his dads followed suit. Tony dished out casserole silently.

"So what happened today, Peter?" Tony asked finally.

"Flash was picking on Mark. Again. He was going to beat him up, so I distracted him so Mark could get away. I just dodged his punches at first, but when I turned my back to leave he charged at me and I punched him in the nose. That's it," Peter said. "And I didn't even really punch him—he mostly just…ran into my fist…"

"Well, Peter, that—" Tony started, with a funny look on his face, but after a moment, he couldn't contain it—he just started laughing. "He ran into your fist?"

"Mostly," Peter said. Even Steve had a small smile on his face.

"Is this the same kid that gave you the black eye?" Steve asked.

"Yeah," Peter replied.

"So you wanted revenge, huh?" Steve asked.

"No," Peter said insistently. "It just sort of…happened."

"Well, don't go around punching people, Peter," Tony said. "And…I think that covers it."

"Look Peter, I get that this kid is a bully," Steve said. "I don't like bullies. And I'm not going to tell you to run away, because they'll just keep coming. But next time—try not to break something, yeah?"

"Yeah, ok," Peter agreed. He dug into his casserole, and the family sat in silence for a while. Tony would have liked to think that it was comfortable silence, as often befell their little family—but he knew that wasn't the case. Steve's grip on his glass of milk was too hard, and Peter fiddled with the food on his plate. The silence was anything but comfortable. Peter finished up and put his plate in the dishwasher. His dads bid him goodnight. As soon as Tony heard the door upstairs close, he opened his mouth—and off he and Steve went again, around and around in circles, never getting anywhere.

At the end of the night, Steve had resolved to sleep downstairs again. And Tony couldn't even bring himself to care.