Peter blames the orange sheet for it all.
Chngchngchngchngchng.
Peter's sewing leg bumps up and down, rattling the desk. He stoops over it, English homework nearly finished, head in his hand. Setting sun casts enough light to see the orange paper in a crinkly wad. Hidden behind a stack of Shakespeare.
It's ruined the colour orange for him. He hates it now. Hates the very sight of Mr. Hangford's signature and the way one crinkle makes it look like a smiley face.
How dare it be cheery.
Peter turns at a rap on his bedroom door. He quickly shoves the sheet further out of sight.
A spike of brunette hair precedes Clint's entrance. "Hey, champ. Supper in ten, okay?"
Peter nods. When Clint doesn't move, knuckles still on the door frame, Peter frowns.
"You're probably the only kid on the planet I'll have to say this to, but stop studying."
With an appropriately teenage eye roll, Peter smiles.
"Seriously, come on." Clint loops his arm in a beckoning motion. "Nat chose the pizza place so it should be good."
Reluctantly, Peter closes the book on his Othello essay and watches the archer slip out the door. An eruption of voices and Thor's laugh signals the arrival of food. Peter sits back, the chair creaking, and scrubs his eyes.
You have to tell them. These weird crying fits won't go away until you do. Show them the stupid paper.
There's been two other episodes since the first five days ago, when Peter hugged Steve and when someone congratulated him for the robot.
Why can't he cry at predictable times?
Resolved, Peter jets to his feet with a scowl.
In a seldom event, all six are gathered on the two L-shaped sectionals in front of the TV. Pepper curls up at Tony's side and the team is munching on slices of chicken Alfredo. There's a light chatter of voices but most are engaged in the NBA game.
"Grab yourself some food, solnyshko," Natasha calls, eyes still on the screen. "I even ordered that garlic toast you like."
Peter bypasses the island, overflowing with boxes. His sock feet are soundless and because of it the adults don't notice him until he's standing directly in front of the couch. Peter plants himself a good arm's length away.
His hands are at his sides, fists clenched. Though sweatpants and 'I love band' shirt don't exactly make a commanding figure, the open struggle on his face sure does.
Tony takes one look at him and blanches. "Friday."
The TV switches off.
"Sweetie?" Pepper scooches forward until she's perched, elbows on her knees. "Do you need help with something?"
Yes! Peter nods. I do!
"Are you feeling ill?" Thor ventures.
Peter shakes his head. His scowl has dissolved, leaving squirming brows and twisting lips. He can't look any of them in the eye. Talking is hard enough, let alone in front of them all, explaining this latest shortcoming.
Just tell them, you idiot.
He tries. He really does. He even points to his bedroom. "I…I…the…p…"
The seven exchange rapid-fire gazes with each other. A silent, alarmed conversation using just their eyes.
"Son?" Steve sounds quietly wrecked and it matches the way Peter feels. "We're not going anywhere. Take your time."
Something inside of Peter snaps at the words.
He slides his hands over his face. His chest feels shredded, tendons of searing pain dripping open.
More tears! They drench his hands and down the front of his shirt.
What is wrong with me?
A panicked cry comes from the couch, sounding like Clint.
"Peter?"
"Little one—"
There's a flurry of motion as several rise to their feet in unison.
Peter, however, is gone before Clint can scoop him up.
It should go in a record book somewhere. That Bruce Banner, fugitive for half of his adult life, slept in past seven o'clock.
When he wakes, he's confused for a moment. Not about his surroundings, for the ventilation's low drone reminds him he's in a first world country. Lying on his right side, he gazes at the clock and is shocked to see it's 7:30 in the morning.
Must have been more tired than I thought.
No, he's confused about what woke him up. He hadn't set an alarm and the sun's been up for an hour or so, ruling it out as the culprit.
His droopy eyes sweep beyond the clock to a little hand curled in the edge of the comforter.
Peter looks unsure, biting his lip and casting furtive glances at Bruce's bedroom door. He's been MIA since last night's fiasco so Bruce relaxes to see the boy. Unhurt, if pale.
Paper is waded in his right hand.
"Hey, Peter," Bruce whispers.
Peter jumps and locks eyes with the physicist.
"Good to see you." Bruce keeps his speech slow, hoping it will calm that wild colt look in Peter's eyes. "You okay?"
It's unheard of for Peter to come into their rooms like this. They've offered, of course, but he never takes them up on it.
Bruce distantly wonders what is eating Peter. What makes him so desperate that he's having trouble speaking, just like the early days.
Little fingers find Bruce's sleeve.
Bruce pulls back the comforter, a silent invitation. Peter deflates with an audible sigh of relief. He's already dressed but he slides under the covers. Bruce tugs the blankets up around them both.
Peter doesn't stay on the other side of the queen size bed but tucks himself to Bruce's chest, nose cold on Bruce's pectorals even through his shirt.
He freezes in surprise.
Peter is snuggled tightly to him, hugging himself. His knees are bent back but they brush Bruce's.
"What's going on in that head of yours?" Bruce doesn't quite know what to do and is both touched and worried that Peter came to him for help. He's not usually the first choice.
So he wraps both arms around the boy, rubbing up and down the bony spine. "Hmm?"
In answer, Peter's hand snakes out from its hidey hole and presses to Bruce's chest. Bruce reaches down.
It's a torn off sheet from the notepad a therapist gave to Peter. It's small enough to fit in Peter's pocket but the lines are big if his hands feel shaky.
Bruce unfolds the paper.
'May's grave,' it reads.
Blinking, Bruce tucks his chin to press his nose against the crown of Peter's hair. He murmurs into the freshly showered curls. "You want me to drive you there?"
The head on Bruce's chest nods.
A whole universe of tension bleeds out of Bruce. Finally—something he can actually give Peter. Something straightforward and achievable. It's a Sunday so he's not even missing classes.
"Here's my deal, Peter: I'll drive you into Queens if you eat breakfast on the way there. Sound fair?"
Peter lifts his head. Bruce quickly moves his elbow so it cradles the boy's neck. His cheeks are sunken with lack of sleep and skipped meals. Peter's nose wrinkles.
Ignoring the guilt, Bruce shakes his head. "That's the deal, Peter. I'm happy to do this for you but you need to eat."
There's real deliberation in Peter's face. Bruce is simultaneously amused and sleepy. He can wait out a fifteen year old with ease.
After a minute, Peter nods. He does the ASL sign for food, then another.
Bruce kisses the messy curls. "Sure, Peter. Let's do waffles."
"See? That's all it is. He's just been working up to ask us about visiting May."
"No." Tony unfolds one of his arms to point at Clint. "You didn't see him in the lab Tuesday. It took me almost thirty minutes to get him calm. No way was that a result of him being unable to ask me about the grave."
Clint looks tired. More tired than them all. He's still in his combat gear and leather gloves, refusing to sit at the kitchen table like the others. He paces at the head of it. The two am mission call went well but it involved lots of getting shot at.
He's frayed.
"We'll know when Bruce gets back with him, either way," he finally says.
They watch Bruce and Peter through the windows, hand-in-hand on their way to the garage. Bruce says something to Peter and the boy nods. He signs. Tony recognizes this one.
"Fri?"
"Yes, boss?"
"Put waffles and bacon on the next grocery order."
"Right away."
Thor's voice is the quietest yet, to everyone's astonishment. His burly hand tightens around a coffee mug. "He hasn't been himself of late. Last night proved that."
"He was doing so well," Steve laments. His head has long since landed in his hands. "Where did we go wrong?"
"You guys are the worst," says Natasha. She twirls a spoon in pirouettes on the table. "It's only been eight months since we adopted him. He's not just going to magically get better."
"But that's just it." Both of Tony's hands are free now and gesturing. "Before Tuesday he was talking more, laughing. He seemed…"
Steve sighs. "Happy."
"Yeah," Tony agrees. "Happy."
Silence smothers the table. Long enough for the fresh coffee pot to chirp and Clint to waver on his feet. Tony hooks a foot around the archer's ankle and shoves him onto the empty chair.
"That's it." Steve's voice is resigned. He stands. "I'm calling him in."
"No." Tony stands too. "The big guns didn't work for Peter before and they won't now."
Natasha eyes them, gaze narrowed. "I thought Peter quit working with the psychologist months ago, when he wouldn't talk."
Tony stares the captain down. "He did."
"This isn't the big guns," says Thor. "It is a familiar face."
"It's still ganging up on him." But Tony's arguing tone fades. They've been circling around this discussion for weeks. "Peter needs a friend. Not a shrink."
Natasha finally joins the huddle to place both hands on Tony's shoulders. Tony knows he's lost even before her lips quirk up in a faint smile.
She squeezes once. "Why not both?"
Transatlantic flights suck. End of discussion.
Uncomfortable seats mixed with turbulence, a drug scare, and virtually zero leg room can make joints pop even hours later. Reveal muscles that should stay unknown.
Sam arches his back and feels the crack of stiff joints—exhibit A.
"Welcome, Wilson."
Sam flaps a hand. He swipes his compound ID card with the other. "That's dumb, Friday. Don't call me that."
"What would you prefer? Boss almost had me call you 'Avengers aviator' or, my personal favourite, 'angry bird.'"
It's an effort not to trip over his own feet in absolute shock, but Sam manages it. He keeps his grip on the duffel—barely—and jabs a finger at the ceiling.
"Don't you ever repeat or call me those, Friday. Sam is fine."
"Of course, Mr. Sam Bird, sir."
"I swear I'm going to murder Stark in his sleep, using a lava lamp, for this…I'll show him angry and he won't be laughing then…this is why I kept my own dang apartment…"
Sam is still muttering epithets under his breath when the elevator opens onto the communal area, a combined kitchen and entertainment living room space. It's completely dark, made worse by the one am, pitch black outside the wall of windows.
A bottle of Heineken sits the island counter top, abandoned.
Sam drops his duffel on the couch and stretches some more. Truthfully, he was glad for Tony's call and the chance to get out of the VA, out of this special assignment in Khartoum.
Counselling for the military has its perks but it also brings with it too many images of blood and memories of lost colleagues. A chance to quit the post hasn't come up.
But even his boss couldn't say no to Tony Stark.
That beer looks pretty tempting and it's getting warm, all by itself. Sam reaches for it—
The pat pat pat of small, bare feet running across tile is the only warning Sam gets before a hundred pounds of teenager hooks a hand in Sam's leather jacket and flings himself behind him.
Sam takes a half step back to balance. "Good to see you too, Muay Thai. What's it been…a month?"
Then Sam feels the bit drill quivering running up his jacket. Peter rests his head on Sam's back. A muffled sob chokes out of him, so strong Sam's spine buzzes.
"Easy, Peter." Sam twists around to rest his palm on top of the boy's head. Peter's eyes are painfully big and his nostrils flare with each heaving breath. Worry clogs Sam's throat. "Hey, hey. What's the hubbub?"
Peter's grip on his jacket is so tight it shakes. He's dressed for bed, in fleece bottoms and a colossal sweater Sam suspects belongs to Thor. There's a fear charged set to his eyes and mouth.
This look Sam knows too well.
A million questions zip around Sam's brain. He hears heavier shoes running down the hall and straightens. One of the kitchen knives is in his hand faster than a breath, legs braced for an attacker.
Not on my watch, you don't.
The figure comes into view. He takes one look at Sam and peekaboo of Peter's face and leans over his knees. "Oh, thank God. You caught him. For having no powers at the moment, he's fast."
"Rhodes?" Sam cries, dropping the knife onto the counter. "I nearly threw this at you!"
Rhodes ignores him to drink in Peter's face and attempt to communicate something with his furrowed brows. His face is calm but his eyes reflect a sharp hurt.
"Peter?" he murmurs.
Peter ducks out of sight behind his human shield.
Rhodes drags over a metal step-stool, placed there by Tony for Peter to reach the top cupboards, and slumps on the second step. He loosens his tie with a ragged exhale. Elbows resting on his knees, he rubs his palms together.
"I heard you having a nightmare. I was in your room to check on you, Peter. It's just me."
Slowly, inch by inch, Rhodes stretches out his right hand.
Nobody moves for a minute…two minutes…five…
"I'd sooner take a bullet than hurt you." Sam would never have heard Rhodes' whisper if it wasn't so dead still. "Talk to me, Peter."
Both men wince at Rhodes' choice of words but it's a pistol shot for Peter. He balls into a flurry of motion, darting out from behind Sam and over to the island.
He snatches up a miniature notepad there and scribbles out four words. With a sharp huff, he slams the pad in Rhodes' palm, still held out.
Rhodes reads the message. Then he stares at Peter for a long heartbeat.
"James?" Sam asks softly.
Rhodes holds up the pad for Sam but doesn't look away from Peter.
'YOU LET THEM GO,' the paper reads in childish, block letters.
Sam puts the subconscious clues together in a blink: the abandoned bottle, the made up beds he can see from open bedroom doors, the fact it's only Rhodes here watching over Peter.
"Well, yeah. Of course I did." Rhodes cocks his head. "The mission is just to assess a nuclear threat in Beijing. Easy stuff for them."
The t-zone of Peter's face folds together, crushed origami, like he's trying with all his might not to cry.
"If they can stop an army from space, this is a cake walk," Sam offers.
Peter's breathing picks up. Rhodes and Sam meet each other's eyes. Concern and mental alarm bells flood both their faces.
Rhodes leans as close in Peter's space as he dares. "They've gone on lots of missions since adopting you, bud. You've never had this much trouble with it."
The worst part of the clear emotional battle on Peter's face is that he wants to take Rhodes' hand. He wants the contact. But he won't let himself have it. It's deeply, cuttingly disturbing.
He settles for tapping the pad in Rhodes' hand over and over again. An accusation, a desperate and helpless cry without Peter having to say a word at all.
A tear escapes Peter's defenses.
"Come 'ere, Pete." Rhodes reaches for him but the boy trips backwards, shaking his head.
"Sorry, Rhodey. 'M sorry!"
"Aww, Peter. You have nothing to apologize for. I love you, bud." Rhodes' eyes are terrible to behold, wracked and strung out.
Peter backs up so far he bumps into Sam. Sam makes a gamble—this could backfire—and shepherds Peter forward.
Rhodes sees what he's doing and holds out both hands now, dropping the notepad. Peter shakes his head but he doesn't fight Sam when he nudges him into Rhodes' chest.
The colonel wraps the teen up carefully yet firmly in his arms, rocking them like Steve always does.
Peter doesn't hug back.
Rhodes glances up and asks a question with his eyes.
Sam has never felt so useless in his life, especially since Tony called him personally for this. He's never encountered this behaviour before, not in one so young, never with someone who barely speaks.
Not when Peter was doing so phenomenally well last time they met. There's no textbook for this kind of behavior.
He answers back with a sigh:
I'm as lost as you are.