AN: It's so nice to be back writing for this fandom again! Hope you all enjoy the promised peacetime, we're-not-about-to-die-every-five-seconds fic in the series! This one's more about healing after all the trauma and how to move forward when the future is really scary sometimes.

Bon apetit!

"Dude, no way. Seriously?"

Peter's head is a wash of dizzying colours and popped bubbles of explosive sounds. He blinks. "Way."

"Like, for real?"

To be honest, Peter's been asking himself the same question for the last ten minutes, as it's entirely within the realm of possibility that he hallucinated the whole interaction. He replays the big moment in his head: the build up, the awkward fidgeting, that three letter, single syllable, "Yes. Yes, of course, Peter" looping around his brain in delicious circuits.

"I think so." Peter looks down at his hand, the warm spot he can still imagine. "I didn't pass out or anything, totally successful."

Ned blows out a noisy, burbled breath. "Never thought I'd see the day this side of eleventh grade."

"What?" Peter makes a face. "You doubt me?"

"No, no! Of course not, Peter! It's just, well…" Ned teeter totters his hand back and forth.

That, combined with his pitying eyes and skeptical squint, is enough for Peter to bristle. It wakes him from the shockwave. He halts on the top step of the school entrance with sudden, abrupt force that is almost…almost a stomp.

April sunshine glints off the cars lined up and waiting to pick up their children. It blinds Peter for a moment, further goading his irritation.

"You're lucky enough to have two parents, Ned. That's the perfect number of parents—the max. Do you know how many parents I have, Ned, huh?"

Ned grimaces. "Six."

"Six!" Peter flails a hand. "At least six!"

"Are you going to tell them?" Ned prompts. His voice carries that just so gravity of wisdom that Peter hates and loves in equal measure, which says he understands far more than anyone else in a given situation.

Peter's eyes bug. "Are you kidding me? Ned, they'd eat me alive. Tony alone would be a bona fide nightmare to deal with."

"You don't know that."

"Do we really want to find out?"

Ned's brow quirks. "I certainly do—and I want a front row seat for it. But clearly you don't, which I respect. Just don't keep it on the down low for long."

"Down low?" Something slimy squirms in Peter's gut, all twisted and shy. "I'm not keeping it on the down low."

"Okay, then you're keeping a secret."

"Wait. I take it back." Peter rushes to wave his hands. "We don't use that word around my parents anymore. 'Secret' is like contraband in the compound no matter what the context. We are definitely keeping this on the DL."

"Keeping what on the DL?"

Ned whirls and by the time Peter's eyes search the sea of adults to find that loved voice, he's already grinning.

It takes him a beat longer to find Clint than usual, mainly because he's not dressed like usual. Instead of a leather jacket and jeans—being Clint's version of 'dressy'—he's donned in dress pants, collared blue shirt, and a silk vest. Satin overlay on the cuffs sheens under afternoon sunlight, complementing a pair of diamond cuff links.

He looks…good. Really good. It's immediately suspicious.

"Why do you look like Tony?" Peter fires back.

Ned leans back to roar at that one, but Clint gestures to himself with a tall thermos and an offended expression. "Rude. I'll have you know I am fully capable of cleaning up in fancy attire when the occasion requires it. Do you know how many missions I've done that require me to go undercover at high roller parties and casinos?"

"No," says Peter, still fighting a smile, "I mean those are actually Tony's clothes. What gives?"

"Charity dinner tonight." Clint takes a sip. "I agreed to accompany Pepper as her plus one, a 'representative of the team' for any reporters, since Tony's still away in Malibu. There's free food so I'm in."

"Pepper asked you and not Nat, easily the most diplomatic member out of all of you?"

Clint grumbles into his hot chocolate. "Extra rude. Kids are mean these days."

Ned giggles some more and though Clint tries to hide it, Peter spies his own grin hidden behind the cup.

"So everything's cool, champ?"

Peter nods. "Yep. Better than cool, even."

"Nice." Clint tugs Peter under one arm and they wave goodbye to Ned. "Because this whole semester has been oddly chill and normal and I don't want to jinx it."

Peter holds up his hand in the Boy Scout pose. "I would never."

"Oh sure." Clint watches fondly while Peter steals a sip of his hot chocolate. "Where have I heard that before?"

A strange burning ricochets down Peter's throat so that his eyes water. "There's totally a spritz of rum or something in this. Gross."

It's Clint's turn to laugh, loud and long.

Peter, for the zillionth time, savours that this is his life now: the simple feel of Clint's arm across his shoulders, the banal domesticity of being picked up from school, classmates filing around them, a beautiful day without a cloud in sight.

He'll never take it for granted again.

He's also desperately relieved that Clint bought the attempt at distraction, or is at least pretending to, so that Peter doesn't have to explain this whole harebrained thing that wasn't even supposed to work in the first place.

Now that it has…Peter has no idea where to start.

For all Clint's preening and peacock strutting, when he finally clicks his key fob, it isn't the chirp of an expensive car that greets them, not the vroom of one of Tony's racers…

Peter sees the headlights wink to life on the curb and ribs Clint. "Tony is going to kill you if you get his clothes dirty. Which you are if we're riding that thing through downtown traffic. In the spring."

"Yeah, well." Clint retrieves an extra helmet off the back and hands it to Peter. He downs the last of his hot chocolate while swinging a leg over the motorcycle and revving the engine. "If I can't have a little fun at Tony's expense, then what's the point?"

Despite the fact that Peter's presence in their lives made them all homebodies, with predictable hours and—gasp—consistent eating schedules, the compound is still quite a nocturnal place. They're used to working overtime in the lab or insomniac patterns of never going to bed at all or working undercover in different time zones.

Whatever the reason, usually at least one person is awake in the compound at one in the morning.

Although…this hasn't been quite so common of an occurrence since their retirement. Aside from humanitarian work or designing new security and agricultural solutions, they don't do urgent work.

So Bruce is more than a little surprised to hear mutters and the hiss of overflowing pots in their dark kitchen.

An awful burning smell accompanies it.

He actually passes the kitchen in his sleepy state, taking a break from a long sequencing project that still doesn't work quite the way he wants it to, before all of this hits.

He stops.

Cants his head in confusion.

Walks backwards.

It isn't any of the Avengers or Pepper making a lasagna at this witching hour. Not a dish Thor left covered and forgot to turn the burner off.

It's Peter.

Bruce just watches for a moment, the way Peter darts between a rising loaf of garlic bread on the counter, that he's supposed to be kneading, and two pots bubbling over onto the stove. Bruce can't tell what is in these, except that one has tomato sauce and the other seeps a translucent, olive oil looking fluid.

To top it all off, a tea kettle whistles.

Peter rushes to take it off the smaller burner. There's flour in his curls, sauce all over his shirt in designs that would make Jackson Pollock proud, and something sticky between his fingers. He looks a bit like a child caught poking his fingers in a mother's evening meal.

Bruce keeps his steps slow and quiet, rounding the island at a gentle crawl so as not to startle the frazzled teen. Peter doesn't notice him at all, too busy caught up in trying to salvage the tomato sauce.

"Peter?" Bruce murmurs low in his throat. "You need some help?"

His son still jumps a tiny bit at the intrusion, turning fearful and panicked eyes onto Bruce that scream help me!

Bruce does, immediately flipping off the sauce burner and removing the…olive oil? No, it's supposed to be some type of pudding…completely. The tea he pours into his chipped sunflower mug and Peter's smaller, Death Star shaped and themed cup, a Christmas gift from Tony in his travels to California.

Deflating, now that the crisis is over, Peter accepts the cup with a weary nod. "Thanks, Bruce."

With a shallow prod to Peter's shoulder, Bruce herds them to sit at the island. They sip quietly in the dark, affording Bruce an opportunity to study the boy and try to make sense of this bizarre encounter.

Peter's in his pajamas, long T-shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and his eyes look well rested, so no insomnia or nightmares to blame. His legs, too short for the barstool, swing a little. Still, he's grown a good few inches since losing the need for a cane—Tony celebrated that victory, his 'suped up protein bars,' for weeks.

Peter feels the scrutiny and sighs. "I'm fine, Bruce."

"Mhmm." Bruce blows on his tea and takes a sip. "Wanna tell me what you're doing making a three course meal at one thirty in the morning, then?"

"Sorry about the mess," says Peter, blatantly avoiding the question. "I'll clean it up."

"I don't care about the mess, Peter. You didn't do anything wrong—I just want to know why this couldn't wait until daylight hours."

Peter squirms on his seat. He avoids Bruce's eyes to pick at grooves in the Death Star's ceramic. His nose wrinkles when he gets another whiff of the botched sauce.

"Peter?" Bruce bends to catch his eye. "Was it because you didn't want any of us to know about what you're doing?"

There's a frustrated tilt to Peter's lips. "Maybe."

"I see." Bruce sits back.

They sip some more, and the not-quite-pudding finally stops bubbling. Bruce rises to place the garlic bread in the oven to cook, probably the only thing on this menu that Peter got sort of correct, thanks to one of Nat's cook books sitting on the counter.

Peter takes a noisy slurp that makes Bruce smile.

Having a younger person in the house has changed them all, irreversibly, in ways they'd never take back. Peter is like helium, lightening each step and floating them up towards a future they never dared dream about before now.

"Hey, Bruce? Where's your family from?"

Bruce turns, resuming his seat. "My family? I was born in Ohio…"

"No, I mean, where are you from?" Peter circles the hand not clasping the mug to his chest. "Like, historically? Genealogy and all that stuff?"

"You're referring to the Banner surname?"

"Yeah, exactly."

Peter's gone a little red while asking this question, and Bruce senses that it's taken him a lot of courage to voice it at all. The teen's eyes dart around but he's leaned forward, attentive, to soak in however Bruce answers.

"I'm…not all that sure, to be honest. I've never done research on it, so I don't even know what part of the world it originates from." Bruce leans in too, just so Peter can rest his head on his shoulder. "I don't exactly love my last name after how its owners have treated me."

Peter goes quiet. "Oh. Sorry I asked."

"None of that," Bruce scolds softly, cupping the curly head. "You're never in trouble for asking questions."

"I know May was Italian," says Peter, once he's calmed. "But she was related to me by marriage…not sure about Parker."

Bruce finally glances around at the mess of food, the sauce and the pages of the cook book he's flipped to, and puts it together. "Peter, are you trying to make authentic Italian food?"

A pause. Peter physically hesitates, stiff against Bruce for a moment.

Then he nods. "I've never really learned how to cook and I…I need to, you know?"

Bruce doesn't know, not even remotely.

Cooking and food have always been about survival in his case, whatever was needed to keep on the move, not starve. Wolfed down in stilted moments of hiding or while huddled in the storage compartment of a train or in rice fields or…

Until recently, he never had the luxury of caring about what he ate or how nicely it was prepared. His heritage was never something he wanted to consider at all, best kept far away from conscious thought.

But then Bruce gazes down into those big, matching brown eyes, and though he may not understand what prompted this need to secretly learn to cook—he sees a boy looking up, trying to make sense of the world and enjoy it all in one.

Bruce feels a melting, zapping sensation in his chest. "Would you like me to teach you?"

Peter freezes, visibly stunned. Then his hard frown stretches into a taffy bright smile and his eyes light up with excitement.

"Really? You mean…we can make something together?"

"Sure, I'd love to." Bruce barely gets the words out before Peter has one of his hands in both of his own, tugging him over to the counter. Bruce laughs, accepting the side hug. "I'm not sure what Parker is—Old English or French, probably—but why don't we start with an easier dish than fusilli."

Peter watches Bruce dig out an onion and a hoard of root vegetables. "Are we making soup?"

"Close. Stew, which is native to a lot of cultures around the world in their various forms. Sound good?"

"Let's do it." Peter rubs his hands together.

Bruce hands him a fine knife. "You chop onions to sauté in a fresh pot while I do the veggies."

"Sauté?"

"Err…turn the heat on and brown them a bit with some butter or oil at the bottom. Then we'll add veggies and broth."

"Gotcha," says Peter, though Bruce is fairly certain he very much does not process any of this. He's reminded that May was not the best cook, though an enthusiastic one. Neither is Nat, for that matter, regardless of how good her books are.

"Ah! Ah!" Bruce saves Peter's fingers a nasty slice by tugging them out of the blade's path. "Careful. Chop like this, tip to wrist. See?"

Peter watches Bruce for a minute, slicing the carrots.

Then Bruce, seeing that he's still struggling, grasps Peter's smaller hand in his burly one. He threads the knife up and down. The feel of the boy's fingers are warm, petite, sticky with the cooking disaster and soft all at once.

Bruce's heart softens with them.

"It's an elliptical motion," says Peter, once he gets the hang of it and Bruce steps back. "That creates a focal point of pressure at the bottom of the loop. A clean cut."

"Exactly." Bruce's brows rise over his glasses. "I'm impressed."

Peter beams at the praise and Bruce marvels, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that this whole relationship is a second chance, for all the team. To be the parents none of them, aside from maybe Thor and even then not so positively, ever really had.

"Thanks, Bruce."

Bruce ruffles his boy's hair. "You're welcome. I may not know the reason why you wanted to cook right now, but any time you need help, I'm here."

Peter's back to red cheeks and that shy crinkle in his nose, more hushed this time. The oven dings on their garlic bread and Bruce takes it out while keeping an eye on Peter's wayward fingers.

Once it's cool, Peter tears off a piece from the loaf's bulb and pops it in his mouth. He chews it around for a solid thirty seconds, taking his time, face scrunching and then releasing.

"This tastes terrible."

Bruce laughs.