Everyone thinks it will be Tony. Heaven knows the man has given everyone else nicknames based on films and bad TV shows.
It seems like a matter of time.
Until the eight month mark.
"I did not draw the short straw!" Steve protests at Peter's miming. The soldier puts a hand on his hip. "I want to be here."
Peter gives him a dubious look. One where his head dips down but his eyes do not.
Steve bristles under the expression. "If you must know, Bruce and Tony and I had a huge fight about who should be allowed to represent you. They, of course, have expertise on their side."
Peter pokes him in the bicep.
"Yes," says Steve, not a little smug. "I won."
Peter pokes him again and mouths, 'How?'
"I argued that all six of us legally signed as your equal responsibility guardians so I have the right to be a part of your school life."
Poke.
"Okay, so I may have given an inspirational speech about your need for different kinds of role models—"
Poke.
"Fine!" Steve throws up his hands. "I told them I'd do their laundry for a month! There. You happy?"
Peter isn't fooled by the mock anger. He grins a small, private grin and nods, tugging twice on Steve's button up hem.
It is a quirk none of the adults can figure out. When shy or needing something, Peter tugs on their clothing exactly twice, like an old fashioned door bell.
It drives Clint nuts—he's consulted child psychologists and specialists and none of them have any idea why Peter clings to the habit. It doesn't help matters any that Bruce full well understands why Peter does it but won't tell the others.
"It's not mine to tell," Bruce always says before Clint answers with a flick to the physicist's forehead.
Steve's eyes are fit to burst with joy and he ruffles Peter's hair.
It is just the two of them in the hallway. All the other kids have gone inside on this sunny Saturday. Even through the closed gymnasium doors Peter can hear the scramble of students. Laughter. Techno music faintly underneath all the conversation and bustle.
Peter wrings his hands.
"Hey." Steve hunches a little to catch Peter's eye. "You're going to be great. Thor talked to the judges yesterday and they said your presentation board is all they need for evaluation. And you flying the drone, obviously."
A science fair. What a stupid thing to be nervous about.
Steve must read this sentiment in Peter's eyes because he shakes his head. "I'll let you in on a little secret if you promise not to tell Tony."
Intrigued, Peter finally glances up. Steve's hand is on his shoulder, warm and firm but not harsh. Not hitting. None of them ever hit or raise their voice. They deserve a child better than Peter for that alone.
Thankfully Steve does not read this thought. He tugs Peter to his chest so that the teen can feel Steve's heartbeat between his shoulder blades.
Steve coughs above him, red in the face. "I was absolutely terrified to get my first needle. A vaccine, I can't even remember which now. I used to faint at the sight."
His voice drops to a conspirator's whisper and at a sudden heat, Peter realizes the man put both arms around his chest without Peter noticing. An improvement from the gasping at contact when they first adopted Peter.
Peter grasps Steve's wrists where they cross over his sternum.
"Have you ever noticed Bruce treats me alone in the lab after missions?"
Peter's head bobs.
Steve smiles. Peter doesn't know how he knows this, since he's staring ahead now. But Steve definitely smiles. It's a release of tension all throughout the soldier's body. "I'm still afraid of needles. Even tiny ones for morphine shots or IV lines. I don't faint as much but…Bruce is nice about it. He's the only who knows—and now you."
Peter is a deer in the headlights for a moment before he beams. He makes an 'x' over his heart.
"Thanks, Pete," says Steve. He gives his boy a squeeze, releasing him. "You're a man of your word."
After that Steve just stands there and apparently this is one of those 'honourable life lessons' where Peter has to do this 'for himself because it will build Peter's character, Tony' and all that.
So Peter pushes open both gym doors and yeah, it's a wave of everything to his senses. But he gets there.
Then he spies MJ through the melee. She's set up her table across the lane from him. She waves in a beckoning motion when she sees him. Her project has something to do with oysters. Or phosphorous. Peter's not sure which.
Honestly, with MJ it could be both.
Her father stands to the side. All around the twenty or so booths parents are trees planted beside their children.
Steve doesn't disappoint. The only difference is that he's worn a baseball cap to at least try and keep a low profile.
It works. No one stops for an autograph. Peter feels terrible that he's glad Tony didn't come. He doesn't need that kind of attention.
Peter's booth is already prepped and decorated. He just has to load the computer and unplug the custom drone from its charging station. Steve thumbs through emails on his phone.
"Medical delivery drones?" asks Principal Morita, reading the board headline, and Peter nods eagerly. "How does that work?"
Steve puts the phone down.
Peter clicks coordinates into a few graphs split on his laptop screen. Instantly, the drone whirs into action. It zips over the heads of science fair crowds, towards a refreshments cart at the back.
Little titanium claws retract and pick up a whole basket of chocolate chip cookies.
Principal Morita's brows disappear into his hairline.
Peter watches while his creation (no help from Tony whatsoever, thank you very much) zooms back to their table. There are awed "wows" from people watching the display.
With precision to rival a surgeon's, the drone sets the basket down, plucks the top cookie, and sets it in Morita's open palm.
"I can see how that would have useful applications in the field, Mr. Parker," says one of the judges who has wandered over. "Especially in disaster areas our medics can't reach."
Peter nods. His face is flushed with pride and so is Steve's and really, what more can Peter ask for?
Morita and other parents spend at least twenty minutes playing with the laptop screen. They make the drone pick up items and turn off the light switch. Everyone is captured by it.
The judges in all their tweed coat glory have just begun taking notes on a clipboard when someone erupts into flames.
Peter flinches horribly, nearly dropping the drone. Steve catches it and him.
Someone just…bursts into flames.
Well, not someone's whole body. Just her arms from the elbows down.
Peter puts it together in a blink: Harvey's volcano malfunctioned and spit sparks onto the table next to his—
MJ's table.
She doesn't scream, just makes an awful warbling sound of shock and flaps her orange engulfed arms. Steve reacts before anyone has time to gasp. He yanks MJ by the back of her shirt so that she dunks arms-first into the water bucket under her table.
When she straightens, the flames erupt again.
Steve stares bug eyed at what seems to be a macabre magic trick. Then he squints at her display.
"Phosphorus?" he breathes.
MJ nods at Steve. She's drawn blood from biting at her lip.
Peter spies the solution twenty feet across the gym. He knows he'll never be able to run there and back before the phosphorus melts MJ's skin for good.
With a press of the button, the drone speeds for the pail of traction salt and sand used by Coach in the winter to melt the ice. It picks it up and hurls Peter's way at 80 kilometers per hour before he's taken two breaths.
It is still too far.
Peter jumps five feet in the air and snatches the pail handle from the drone's claws. It's this vantage that allows him to see the volcano about to spit fire again.
A cry is rent from the back of his throat. Steve focuses on the injured sound immediately, eyes darting to Peter and if that isn't the most instinctive parenting thing any of them has ever done then Peter is a fish.
"Everybody down!" Steve hollers.
Adults, judges, and students flatten just in time for Harvey's Mount Vesuvius to explode in a display of baking soda, red dye, and electrical sparks.
Peter leaps to the ground and runs at MJ. He bowls her over, spilling the copper salt and sand in a mound over her body.
It works: the fire vanishes. MJ's sweater is toast but her skin is only puckered in places. The table covers them from the worst of the electrical sparks, though Steve drags both teens out with a worried look creasing his face.
It seems impossible but the gymnasium clock doesn't lie—the whole ordeal has only taken four minutes.
At least ten parents call 911. Then Peter's life is flashlights in his eyes, MJ's father crying, Steve quietly explaining to EMTs why his kid won't respond to questions, and strong arms leading him away from the gym.
Only when the doors close does Peter hear Steve's litany.
"Deep breaths, Pete. That's it. We're okay. Take as long as you need."
The two stand there, Peter trying to get his breathing under control, Steve visibly unwinding as the adrenaline fades. It is long enough for EMTs to whisk MJ away on a stretcher.
Not before she holds her hand out to Peter. He comes over. She places a trophy in his hands. 'Third Place,' the plaque reads. MJ has her own, reading 'Second Place.'
Peter smiles.
"It's true," says MJ, as if Peter's face is a statement. "We lost to Abraham's fancy frequency translator. I still think we're the best. Good job, bro."
Peter gives her a shaky hug, best he can with the stretcher rails between them.
Steve and Peter wave when MJ is finally loaded into the ambulance. It is just the two of them once more.
Steve snakes an arm around Peter's shoulders. "That's enough saving the day for one science fair, Frodo."
Peter jolts. Steve doesn't notice, now sending a quick text to Bruce about the situation.
With hesitant starts and stops, Peter splays his hand on Steve's chest. The buttons are cool under his fingers. "Samwise."
Not even an air-to-ground missile can startle Steve but apparently Peter's raspy goblin voice does the trick. He actually drops the phone. He picks it up and hugs Peter all in one go. Steve's tone sounds casual but Peter can feel his body vibrating.
"That's very flattering, Peter. Samwise is always my favourite character."
And suddenly it is the funniest thing in the world right now that Captain America accompanied him to a high school where they show his motivational videos and Peter's first spoken word in eight months is a stupid Lord of the Rings character.
Stupid. Absurd. Unreal.
It's so funny that Peter is off laughing before he can take another shallow breath. His face is crimson and his eyes scrunched and when something wet falls down his cheeks, Peter's not sure if he's laughing or sobbing and either way oxygen is at a premium.
The world lurches.
Peter opens his eyes to see them seated on the floor, Steve against a set of lockers and Peter's back to his chest. Rocking them like he always does, Steve whispers things in Peter's ears that are too hard to focus on because breathing.
Everything is pulsing and Peter only realizes he's scratching at himself when Steve's arms pin his own across the chest.
Breathe.
Steve bends his knees so that he is a crib between Peter and the world. It is this, of all things, that begins the calming process. Peter can finally hear beyond the ringing.
"I'm so proud of you, son. Always will be."
Something spears Peter through the lungs and blossoms into a hope that makes his eyes sting.
There is a wet and smacking sound coming out of Peter's mouth and it must frighten Steve because the grip tightens. Ribs press into Steve in a quick breath.
There are so many movie-based nicknames in the following weeks. Steve calls Peter "Lewis, like that Robinson's movie" and "Toto" and "Inigo Montoya" and "hobbit" and "Tigger" and…
But in this moment, Peter hears something he hasn't entertained since he was four years old.
Peter presses a hand just over his heart. "Son?"
Steve bundles him into a cocoon of super soldier and presses his lips into the hair around Peter's temple.
"Yeah," Steve whispers, choked. "Son."