I continue to be blown away by all of you who read and comment. Especially on a day like today after a difficult weekend of not feeling well and a long afternoon and evening of very, very stressful conversations, it is so worth it to come share this with you all.

This chapter's song is "Hero" by Chad Kroger.

Enjoy!

Chapter 3: The Love of a Hero

The month of July passed in a blur as far as Peter was concerned. He missed the house and his neighborhood and the people he had seen every day for years, but there was a lot to learn and love about the apartment in Astoria, too. This part of Queens wasn't so sleepy, closer in personality to the bustle of Manhattan, and just as vibrant. There were new places to get takeout, new kinds of restaurants to try, new grocery stores to learn.

At first, Aunt May was very strict about Peter not so much as stepping an inch farther from the building than Mister Carbonell's workshop, but slowly she learned the neighborhood, too, and felt better letting him take short walks. In Forest Hills, he had been allowed to walk all the way to the library as long as he promised to be back before dinner time. So a trip to the corner market was definitely a step in the right direction.

It was probably not a coincidence that Peter's growing freedom happened around the same time Mister Carbonell started asking Peter to help him carry his own groceries and things.

Not that Mister Carbonell really bought much food. Or, at least, he bought stuff, but he always seemed to have groceries that Peter didn't remember buying with him. It was just one of the many mysteries about the maintenance man that Peter noticed, but didn't ask about. He knew it was rude to pry into someone else's business, and he didn't want to offend Mister Carbonell — he liked him too much to want to hurt his feelings.

Anyway, by the first of August, it had become tradition for Peter to meet Mister Carbonell in the afternoon to walk to the good Italian deli six blocks away for sandwiches and pastas and treats. Sometimes they continued onto the grocery store for what Mister Carbonell called "essentials" and sometimes Peter would have a list from Aunt May, too. He would carry his backpack and Mister Carbonell would drag a cart behind him that was always dirty from the scrap metal and junk he picked up on weekends, and sometimes if the load wasn't too heavy he would let Peter pull it. Not only did that make Peter feel like he was helping, but Mister Carbonell would wear his backpack in return, and the tiny red and yellow backpack with the plastic Iron Man face looked funny on the man's larger frame.

Peter also ended up spending Thursdays when May worked late in the apartment workshop. Most of the time, he just planned on reading his books or building his Legos because Mister Carbonell had literal piles of things to fix for people. Peter found out that some of what came into the shop wasn't even from their building; others in the neighborhood brought him their small appliances, or their air conditioner units (a lot of those died every time it got really warm in the city), or even their computers. Mister Carbonell rarely turned anyone away, and never seemed to charge for the extra work.

So Peter really did try not to bother him too much. But that usually only lasted for the first hour or two. Then Mister Carbonell would look up from whatever was in front of him and say, "Hey, grab me the screws from the yellow shelf," or "I need you to hold this piece steady," or even "Do you think May would kill me if I taught you to use a soldering iron?" And then Peter would spend the rest of the visit helping work on whatever was on the table.

But the best days of all were Saturdays. The mornings were spent doing laundry with Aunt May while Mister Carbonell ran his weird errands which usually involved coming back with a cart of bizarre pieces that disappeared into the workshop never to be seen again.

Saturday afternoons, however, were for science.

After the Fourth of July, Mister Carbonell started what he called "chemistry for fun people" lessons. They burned through the little experiments in Peter's books in just two sessions (not even bothering with the majority because Mister Carbonell said they were too easy), and went onto more advanced things. The fume hood got repaired and set up, and Mister Carbonell added a new unlocked cabinet with materials he felt safe letting Peter access directly, and together they played.

It wasn't like class, with lectures and homework and readings. Every Saturday after lunch when Peter bounded down to the workshop, Mister Carbonell would be waiting. Sometimes they had an idea to try or a hypothesis to prove, but sometimes they just wanted to see what happened with things. Mister Carbonell was careful to make sure they never accidentally created anything dangerous, and they ruined more beakers every time, but it was fun.

"Pretty soon," Mister Carbonell said one day as Peter was configuring the little second-hand scale, "you could build your own gear, too. Maybe even a computer to do the calculations."

Peter blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah." The man cleared his throat. "I know you like the chem stuff, but if you ever wanted to learn to make things, not just fix fans and hair dryers, let me know."

Peter had no idea what his face looked like, but Mister Carbonell threw back his head and laughed.

"I'll take that as a yes."

"It's definitely a yes!" Peter yelled.

So even though Peter spent a lot of days at Ned's house, too, and hanging out with Aunt May whenever she wasn't working, the days he really remembered were the ones in the cramped, messy workshop with Mister Carbonell. Life in Forest Hills seemed a million years ago.

"I read once that if you live somewhere for a week, you'll forget you lived anywhere else," May said once. "I guess it's really true, huh?"

Peter couldn't help but agree.

He still felt the cold of grief a lot, far more often than he talked about, and everything he did still made him wish he could tell Uncle Ben about it, but none of that was anything he could change, so he just waited for those moments to pass. And if there were tears associated with them, well, he made absolutely sure to keep those to himself. Aunt May had enough to deal with — she didn't need to deal with his sad days, too.

"I think you and Uncle Ben would have liked each other," he said one day while Mister Carbonell was admiring Peter's most recent attempt at rewiring a stubborn clock radio that refused to work no matter how many parts he replaced or how many times he checked the connections.

He saw Mister Carbonell freeze, and something cloudy came into his eyes, but the man just gave his shoulder a squeeze. "That's pretty high praise, Pete."

The only strange thing about spending time in the workshop was the phone calls.

The first time it happened, they were threading a new chain through a garage door opener for one of the neighbors' elderly parents. Peter knew Mister Carbonell had a lot of different songs on his phone because the man played music when he was working almost constantly, but he didn't realize this one was a ringtone until Mister Carbonell swore under his breath.

Who uses the teddy bear picnic song for a ringtone? he couldn't help but wonder.

"Sorry, kiddo. I gotta take this or they'll bother me all night. Mind giving me some space?"

"Oh, no. I'll just...I'll just go out there." And he retreated to the door and sat down on the curb outside.

But Peter was curious, because how could he not be? So he scooted along the concrete until his back was right against the door and he could hear a little through the screen.

"If the first thing out of your mouth is you need a fix, I'm hanging up...What, did you put it through a microwave?...No, not today. Tomorrow...Not my problem...Anybody else opens it up and you're off the list...All the lists. I have lists...All right, fine, but only because you asked nicely...Make sure there's coffee waiting...Oh, that's cold, Kumquat...Later, flyboy."

Peter had scooted away just before Mister Carbonell pushed the door open. "Well, don't just sit there. I don't pay you to take breaks, Underoos."

"You don't pay me at all, Mister Carbonell."

"Yeah, well, keep up the good work and I might someday."

The calls came not every time Peter was in the workshop, but often enough. He learned that there were lots of different ringtones, because the next one was what sounded like a version of "God Bless America" if it was being sung underwater through a kazoo. That conversation had been a lot shorter.

"What, can't program your VCR?...No, it was a joke, don't make me explain it, oh my god...I'll look at it tomorrow...You do know they have people for this, right?...Don't get your tights in a twist, I'll handle it...You too."

There was a ringtone of Kermit singing "It's Not Easy Being Green," a song Peter asked him to play later because of how it made them both laugh called "The Pirates Who Don't Do Anything," even a ringtone of "This Girl is on Fire." Peter noticed that the kazoo one and the pirates one tended to happen around the same time or even on the same day, and so did the Kermit one and the girl one. But it was the teddy bear song that called most often.

"Are they your friends?" Peter got up the courage to ask on Saturday the week before his birthday. Three different calls — Kermit, Fire Girl, and Teddy Bear — had interrupted their afternoon, but Mister Carbonell didn't even seem upset.

"Yeah," he said. "They're all really busy, lots of important stuff going on, but they like to keep me in the loop."

"Do you get to hang out with them a lot? I see Ned on Tuesdays and Wednesdays and sometimes on Friday and we play video games at his house and next week he said we might go to the arcade if his mom isn't at work."

"You see your friend, I see mine," Mister Carbonell said, though somehow Peter wasn't entirely convinced. "Don't sweat it, short stuff. Hard to get lonely with you here helping me out."

But that did make Peter think. When he wasn't here, was Mister Carbonell lonely? Peter was lonely sometimes, especially when May was at work and Ned's mom couldn't pick him up and it wasn't one of his days in the workshop. He read his books and sometimes took walks and built new Legos to show Ned, but none of it quite filled the silence. Every now and again, he pulled out his clarinet and tried practicing, but it wasn't the same without the rest of the band around him.

Really, when it came down to it, Peter was an inherently social person. He didn't want a lot of friends, but he always wanted to have his small group of trusted people around him. He always wanted to have someone to talk to, someone to listen to him.

Before Uncle Ben had died, Aunt May and Uncle Ben had coordinated their work shifts so someone was almost always home with him. Maybe he'd go a couple of hours once a week on his own, even in summertime, but that was it. Now, though, it was a daily occurrence. He knew it was normal for other kids, that lots of kids had parents who worked all the time, but it was just one more painful thing to come out of Uncle Ben's death. And it was always when he was loneliest that the grief came back the strongest, too.

Of course, it was as he was thinking about these things that Mister Carbonell cleared his throat.

"Hey, Pete. By the way. I'm going to have to skip Monday and Thursday with you next week. A couple of things have come up that I can't put off."

Peter tried to hide his disappointment. "Oh. That's okay."

"Hmm, yeah you're super convincing, too. Give the kid an Oscar." He shook his head. "It sucks and I know it. But I promise I'll make it up to you on Saturday. Which, if memory serves, is also your birthday."

He blinked. "You know when my birthday is?"

Mister Carbonell gave him one of those looks he usually gave appliances that other people had tried and failed to fix. "Uh, yeah."

"O-oh. Well, then I'll have Saturday to look forward to." He paused. "When's yours?"

"Birthday?"

"Yeah."

"May twenty-ninth. But don't worry about it. Birthdays aren't important when you're a grown-up. We don't need to get a year older to eat cake."

Peter instantly committed it to memory anyway. Aunt May's was in May, too, on the fifth. Hopefully he wouldn't forget either of them later. Two years ago, he'd almost missed Aunt May's and Uncle Ben had to help him run around at the last minute to make a present.

But that brought back the sad feelings, so he pushed everything aside.

"Do you think maybe these transistors are the problem?" he asked, pointing at the project in front of him.

Peter didn't have to guess that he wasn't the only one grateful for a subject change. And as they bent their heads together over the stubborn pile of parts, Peter forced himself to let out a breath.

I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay.

Someday, he hoped, he'd tell himself that and really believe it.

-==OOO==-

Of course, Peter forgot to tell Aunt May that Mister Carbonell wouldn't be walking to the deli with him on Monday, and that was therefore the week she gave him the biggest list. He could fit a lot of it in his backpack, but not everything, and nine blocks to the grocery store was a lot to walk with a gallon of milk icing his back to the bone.

Peter knew Aunt May wouldn't mind if he didn't get milk and just explained things; she would just pick it up herself the next day after her shift. But that was just not fair. Aunt May worked so hard, every day, never resting, all to take care of him. She was all he had left, and she loved him so much even though they weren't related by blood, and she never thought he was a burden or a problem. And he loved her so fiercely — he always had. So anything, anything Peter could do to make life easier for her, he would do it. Even if it was difficult for him or made him uncomfortable, he would do it.

He didn't just feel that he owed it to Aunt May — he wanted to sacrifice for her as she'd done for him.

Still, the problem was with the milk.

Suddenly inspired, Peter rooted through Aunt May's closet and found her one rolling piece of luggage. It was bright pink with purple flowers on it — Aunt May said that meant no one ever confused it for theirs when she traveled — and it was big enough for all the groceries, but not too big for him to handle. And Peter didn't really care if it looked silly; nobody ever bothered anybody on the street, after all. So he grabbed the money Aunt May left for him and set off.

It was darkly overcast, and Peter wasn't even all the way to the store before he heard the first crackle of thunder and felt the drops of cold rain. The sidewalks began to empty, so Peter just started to run. He didn't mind getting wet, but he didn't want the bag to get too soaked before he had to use it for groceries.

He ducked into the store in time to flinch at a crash from above. The lights even flickered for a moment.

Peter sighed and pulled out the list from his pocket. It, too, was already wet, but at least it was still legible. Maybe he could talk the cashier into lending him a garbage back or two to use as makeshift ponchos — he'd done that in the past and it worked well enough.

Peter didn't bother with a cart since he had the luggage to roll around, so he began loading it with things that didn't require refrigeration first. May always forgot and shopped in whatever order she'd written things down, which was both really inefficient and meant frozen stuff sat for a long time melting before they even started for home. Peter methodically worked through the store, hoping that the rain would let up before he had to go back out in it.

"Hey."

Peter blinked in surprise at being addressed. There were four kids he didn't recognize standing around at the end of the baking-and-breakfast aisle. They were all bigger than him, but probably not much older.

Peter was well used to being the shortest of his age by now.

"Uh, hi?" he offered.

"You stealing that food?" one asked, pointing at his bag. "Because if you are, you suck at it."

"Yeah, way to grab the most obvious bag in the universe," another said.

"No, I'm not stealing anything," Peter was quick to say. "I just have a long walk home."

"Back to where? The girl's school?" the first one taunted. "You and your girly bag?"

Peter frowned. "Dude, really?" was all he thought to say, though. He was used to Flash Thompson's means of taunting him, and going for the 'girly' route was definitely the laziest approach.

"Aw, is the princess offended?" one of the others said, with falsely wide eyes. "Her matching pink castle is too pretty for us."

Peter took a deep breath and turned his back to walk away. Uncle Ben had always told him that some people just wanted to fight, and there was no point in giving them what they wanted if you didn't have to. But he was only just past the baking supplies (he was so glad May was having him buy a cake mix box for his birthday instead of trying it from scratch again this year) when he heard footsteps behind him.

"Don't walk away from me," came one of the voices, low and angry.

Peter swallowed. "I'm just trying to pick up groceries. Do you mind?"

"Yeah." A hand on his shoulder pulled him around to face a dark, dangerous grin. "Yeah, I think I do."

-==OOO==-

"Quite a storm out there," Rhodey said. "Glad I'm not flying in it."

"Aw, what, you afraid of a little thunder?" Tony threw back at him.

He'd finished most of what he needed to do at the Tower just a little while ago, so now it was time to kick back in the penthouse and hang out. He only came back about once a month unless he needed something specific from his lab, or had to pick up an order that couldn't be traced to Mario Carbonell, so it had been a while since he had lounged on his own furniture enjoying the floor-to-ceiling windows and view of the city.

Double bonus that Rhodey was here today, ostensibly because he needed an upgrade. Really, JARVIS always let Rhodey know when Tony would be here so he could drop by if he had the time. It was pretty easy for JARVIS to create an alert that convinced Rhodey's superiors to let him take a few hours off for "maintenance."

"I'm a pilot, Tones. We're trained to be wary."

"Planes get struck all the time. They're built for it. Hell, I built a lot of that tech. And the suit actually benefits from the added power. So you should maybe try it more often."

Rhodey smiled, but shook his head. "You know, I cannot take you seriously with that huge bush on your face. It's like some kind of horrible baby raccoon died on your chin."

"Hey, me and my beard take offense to that," Tony shot back. "I had no idea how much time I was spending every day keeping the cut perfect. Now I just roll out of bed and boom — good to go."

"Yeah, no. Do you even comb that monstrosity?"

"Yeah." Tony dumped as much sarcasm into his tone as he could. "I've got a special fork just for that. It's not even too rusty."

"Okay, all right." Rhodey put his hands up in surrender. "You like the beard. I got it."

It wasn't quite that. Tony liked the anonymity of the hermit beard. The worse it looked, the fewer people so much as glanced at him. He did have to chop at it sometimes to keep it from getting long enough to interfere in the work, but making it haphazard was actually kind of fun. Tony was trying to find the exact line between "facial hair" and "horrific rat nest" so he could keep it there. Maybe he'd get Peter to try his hand at it sometime.

Still, he didn't feel like explaining all that, and he had a feeling Rhodey already knew it anyway. That was the great thing about his best friend, practically big brother — Rhodey knew what he was thinking, and why, more often than he did.

"So, how long until you head out?" Rhodey asked.

"Eh, I'll wait until the storm lets up. Public transit is bad enough when everyone and their literal dogs aren't wet and smelly."

"Not taking the camo-suit?" Rhodey's face was fat with satisfaction at the barb.

"Okay, seriously. Quit calling it that." Tony frowned. "It's not 'camo'. They're retro-reflective panels, the same kind SHIELD uses, except scaled down to the size of a dime instead of the approximate size of a dishwasher. And, no. Just because you can't see the suit doesn't mean you can't see the repulsor jets. Haven't solved that yet."

"Not that anybody would notice in the storm," Rhodey said.

Tony ignored him. "All right, honeybear. We gonna hang out proper, or are you just gonna heckle me until I leave?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"Game of pool?" Tony grinned. "You're still down the last five games in a row. Wanna go for six?"

"Oh, it is on."

Half an hour later, they were arguing bitterly about an impossible shot when JARVIS spoke from overhead.

"Sorry to interrupt, sir, colonel, but I need to inform you of an alert per the PLUMBER protocol."

"Plumber?" Rhodey asked, looking up in confusion.

But Tony's blood was running cold. "What's wrong?"

"It is young Mister Parker, sir. He appears to be in some trouble."

"Where's May?"

"She is still at work. He is alone."

"Not for long he isn't." Tony threw the pool cue down and strode from the room. He forgot Rhodey was there until he cleared his throat.

"What's going on?"

"Kid who lives at the apartment. Good kid."

"And he's in trouble?"

"Yes, colonel," JARVIS said. "He has been detained at the local grocery store and he also appears to be injured."

Tony swore. "Guess I'm taking the suit after all. J, I need the Mark 44 up here ten seconds ago."

"It is already waiting on the platform, sir."

"Tony," Rhodey reached for him but Tony ignored him. He sighed. "What is it with you and taking in strays?"

"Don't talk about yourself that way," Tony said, cracking a smile even as he reached the door to the launchpad. Mark 44 opened at his approach. "Don't wait up."

"I'm calling you as soon as JARVIS says you're back in your little secret clubhouse for all the details, you know."

"I'll look forward to hanging up on you. Bye!"

He stepped into the suit and barely had the patience for it to close around him. JARVIS had already plotted in the course, including using the cloud cover and storm to hide him from any eyes that might be turned to the sky. Tony didn't even feel the usual rush of taking off, instead barking at JARVIS.

"Show me what's happening."

A grainy video that must be the security feed from the grocery store popped up in the HUD. It showed Peter, obviously soaked and dragging the ugliest piece of luggage Tony had ever seen around when he was confronted by some other kids. The video didn't have sound, but it was clear Peter was uncomfortable. He watched Peter turn to walk away and the boys followed him.

There was some shoving, Peter desperately trying to dodge the blows, and then for a moment the group was lost behind an endcap decoration that stuck out too far.

The next second, Tony could see liquid spilling out from the shelves. The other boys ran just as someone wearing the store's logo came around the corner and started yelling.

Tony touched down in the back alley where the delivery trucks parked. "Meet you at home, JARVIS," he said. He didn't bother to look back, knowing JARVIS would get the suit back into concealment. Instead, he ran up the alley and around the corner to slam into the store.

The good news was that, other than the pair of cashiers who normally worked at this time of day, there didn't seem to be anybody else around.

The bad news was that Tony could see Peter through the window of the manager's office. His face was red, he was obviously trying not to cry, and there was blood.

A howl of rage invaded Tony's throat.

"Sir, you can't go in there," one of the cashiers started to say when he made right for the office.

"Oh, yes I can," he snarled back.

He opened the door to hear, "...trying to stall won't help you, young man."

"Excuse me," Tony bit out, using his best pitbull in the boardroom voice, "but you should know better than to question a minor without an adult present."

Peter's head whipped around. "Mister Carbonell!"

Tony shot a glare at the manager and then ignored him. He grabbed the arm of Peter's chair and physically hauled it around so he could get a good look at the kid.

Peter was a wreck. Tony could see now that he wasn't just wet from the storm outside; he was drenched, head to foot, in what looked like oil. He also had a number of small cuts on his arms and hands that bled sluggishly, one on his cheek, and a growing, reddening lump on his forehead.

He was also trying desperately not to cry, and Tony didn't like how that made his breathing sound. He'd had the talk with May already about Peter's asthma and his rescue inhalers and how the slightest cold could give him pneumonia. Suppressing the crying was about to push the kid over the edge.

"Are you this boy's…?" the manager began.

"I'm a friend of the family," Tony snapped. "Now, I'm giving you fifteen seconds to explain to me why Peter is sitting here bleeding and you, instead of calling an ambulance or giving him first aid, have chosen to yell at him."

The manager's jaw went tight. "This boy is responsible for several hundred dollars worth of damages. He knocked over dozens of bottles of olive oil and the shelf itself may be damaged as well. I have been attempting to get him to tell me how to reach his family, but he is being obstinate."

"I'm not!" Peter spoke up, offended even as his voice caught. "I don't...Aunt May had to cancel her phone plan and I can't remember the number for her department."

Tony swallowed, forcing himself to calm down. Rage felt good, but it wouldn't help Peter.

"First of all, have you even checked your security cameras?" he asked. "I know Peter. I'm pretty sure he wasn't messing around or whatever you're implying. If I had to guess, I'd say he got helped into the shelf."

"No, I hadn't," the manager said. "I wanted to contact his parents first."

"Okay, quit with the assuming while you're at it," Tony said. "Peter lives with his aunt. Tell you what, I'll call May and you do what you should have done already and dig out a first aid kit."

The manager made an awkward cough. "I'm...I'm not supposed to treat customers. Liability and all that."

"Oh for the love of god. I'll do it. You get on those security tapes, huh?"

The manager nodded and headed out of his office to retrieve the first aid kit that was out in the open in case it was needed. Tony bent down, putting his hands on Peter's shoulders.

"It's okay, Underoos. You're not in trouble, you're not going to be in trouble, and I've got you."

"M-Mister Carbonell, I'm so s-sorry." Fat tears gathered in Peter's eyes and started to fall. "There were these other boys…"

"Of course there were," and he squeezed the shoulders he held, "and you were probably doing your best to keep away from them. I know you, kid. You're okay. I'll take care of everything." He shifted his grip to Peter's head and gently turned his jaw one way, then another. "Gonna be a hell of a bruise, though. You hurt anywhere else?"

"M-my side where I hit the shelf," he said.

Tony gestured and, upon getting a shaky nod in return, reached over to hike up the kid's thin t-shirt. With the aid of too much practice, he pushed on the skin along Peter's ribs that was already flushed and changing color.

"Well, more bruising, but nothing broken." Then he reached over the manager's desk, not caring that he dripped rainwater and oil from Peter all over everything, and grabbed for the box of tissues. "You start on your arms and I'll get your head."

By the time the manager returned, Tony had left a message for May and wiped up the worst of the slow trickle of blood from Peter's cheek. Peter had stopped wiping at his arms after he felt the bite of a sliver of glass. Tony took the med kit from the man's hands without a word and slammed it open. The tweezers were wrapped in plastic, so at least he wasn't going to give the kid a blood infection.

"This might hurt, buddy," he said softly.

Peter met his eyes solemnly and nodded. "It's okay."

Tony removed the shard of glass as gently as he could. Then, without asking the manager because his opinion wasn't relevant, he reached for the lamp on the desk and turned it on, training it on Peter's skin so he could look for more. The manager, wisely, opted to keep his mouth shut and started looking at the footage.

Other than a pained hiss from the kid now and again when Tony found another piece of glass, the only sounds were the whir of the air conditioner and the thunder roaring outside.

Tony checked three times to make sure he'd gotten all the glass before he started applying bandages. He used most of what was in the pitiful kit, and he was certain he'd never wrapped a scrape so carefully in his life, even his own. Maybe especially his own. Peter, to his credit, stayed quiet even when it probably hurt, and didn't flinch away.

It was Tony's phone ringing with the ringtone he'd assigned May's hospital, "9 to 5," that broke the quiet. Tony gave Peter's shoulder a pat as he answered.

"Hey, May."

"Tony, I got your message. Is Peter okay?"

"There was a thing that happened at the grocery store. Look, I've got the manager here. I'm sure he can tell you what happened." Glaring at the manager, he put the phone on speaker. "There, we can all talk to you."

"Peter, honey?"

"I'm o-okay, Aunt May."

"For a given value of okay," Tony said. "But let's get the facts first." He held out the phone and raised an eyebrow.

The manager cleared his throat. "Um. Miss, uh…"

"May Parker," Tony clarified.

"Miss Parker. Um. It appears that there were some boys in the store making some trouble. They approached Peter and he tried to walk away, but they followed him. They shoved him, and apparently they pushed him into one of the shelves. Several glass bottles broke, causing him some slight injury."

"Oh my god!"

"He's okay, May," Tony said at the same time Peter said, "I'm okay, Aunt May!"

"I have to admit," the manager said, clearing his throat, "that at first I thought Peter was at fault for the damage. I owe you both...all...an apology for jumping to conclusions." He looked at Tony, who waved it away, then fixed his attention on Peter. "It's obvious you weren't doing anything wrong. I'm very sorry for upsetting you, young man."

"Oh. Um. Thanks?" Peter said, surprised. "It's okay. They ran away. So you kinda...caught me red-handed." He smiled a little.

The manager actually smiled back and Tony decided he wasn't going to ruin the man's life for making Peter cry after all.

Those boys might be another story if he found them.

"Miss Parker, as much as Peter is not at fault for the incident, there is the fact that the damages — "

Tony interrupted him. "I'll pay for it."

May and Peter both yelled "What?" in the exact same tone of voice, May only delayed by virtue of being on the phone, and Tony snickered.

"It was our day to be out shopping," Tony winked at Peter, "and I kind of think that means this is on me. Besides, July was a good month for me. It's fine."

"Oh," May said on the phone. "Tony, I don't think I could…"

"You can and you will and I'm not arguing with you about it anymore. I'll turn your garbage disposal inside out if you fight me."

"He means it, Aunt May," Peter said, looking at Tony's face. "And I don't know how to fix that yet."

"Yeah, tiny kid fingers and spinning whirly blades of death is an activity reserved for after your next growth spurt." Tony shook his head. "Okay, so are we done here?"

"Just about," the manager said. "I'm afraid all of Peter's groceries were pretty much ruined by the spill. I can send somebody out into the store if you still have your list, though."

Peter shook his head. "I dropped it. But I can write it down for you."

May spoke over the phone. "Tony, could I have a word just with you please?"

"Sure thing." He stepped outside but deliberately placed himself in front of the window so the manager could clearly see him watching. The manager actually gave him a little nod of respect as he handed over a legal pad and a pen and watched Peter begin writing. Tony was worried it would look like his usual horrible scribble, but Peter appeared to be intentionally writing slowly.

"May?"

"Tony, is he really okay?"

"Looks like those kids shoved him pretty hard," he admitted. "He's got a bruise on his head and more on his ribs. And the shelf had glass bottles on it, of course, so he looks like he went a round with a lawnmower. But none of the cuts were bad and I already cleaned them and got the glass out."

May made a small, sad sound. "Parker luck strikes again," she murmured.

"Parker luck?" Tony repeated.

"Something Ben and his brother Richard used to say. For all our best efforts, bad luck seems to follow Parkers around." She drew in a slow breath. "I'm so glad you were there, Tony."

"I'm sorry I didn't prevent it."

"Most things can't be prevented, no matter how hard we try. They can only be fixed afterwards. All right. I've got a couple more hours here, unless you think I should come home right away?"

"If you're okay leaving him with me, I promise to keep an eye on him."

"I'd really appreciate it. I would come anyway, but I think it would just upset him. He always freaks out when I freak out. So I'll come home at the normal time and we'll try to keep the freaking out to a minimum."

"Okay. And May? I'm going to burn that godawful pink suitcase of yours. Just letting you know."

"You're going to what? Oh, never mind. You break it, you bought it, Tony."

"Deal. Try not to worry. He's okay, and I got him."

"Worrying about Peter is what I do. But I feel better with you watching over him."

"Always." The word came out before he knew he was going to say it, but he couldn't take it back now that it had been said. "See you later, May."

He was fairly sure May was laughing at him as she hung up.

Before he stepped back into the office to get Peter, Tony shut his eyes and forced himself to take in a deep breath.

This would be so much easier if he was Tony Stark right now, not Mario Carbonell. Tony Stark could have called Happy to bring a car to get them home. Tony Stark would have minions doing the shopping so Peter didn't have to. Tony Stark could have taken Peter to his personal medic to patch him up properly. Tony Stark could have set May up for life so Peter would never have to run errands alone. Hell, Tony Stark could set May and Peter up for life so neither of them ever had to run errands, period.

Yeah, but Tony Stark is the one who had to go to the Tower today, so being Tony Stark is the reason I wasn't here in the first place.

As many problems as being Tony Stark solved, there were still those it created.

He opened his eyes, and tucked his phone away after sending a quick text to JARVIS.

Well, there's more than one problem here Tony Stark can fix, and he's going to.

But it was Mario Carbonell who re-entered the office. "Alright, kiddo. That pink nightmare is going straight in a dumpster. Between the two of us, I'm sure we can carry everything back home and then you are getting a bath. You ready to try this again?"

"Yes, sir."

Tony didn't like the downcast note in Peter's voice, but that wasn't something to hash out in front of a stranger, so he just nodded. "You know both the cashiers, right?"

Peter nodded — he talked to everybody on their walks together, and pretty much everybody agreed that Peter was charming and wonderful. Which was good, because the first person Tony met who didn't appreciate the kid was probably a Chitarui in disguise.

"It okay if they do the shopping for him?" Tony actually deferred to the manager; he was proud of himself for that bit. It felt like growing.

"It's fine. You can just sit in here with me or out on the benches if you want. I need to talk to your friend about payment and we'll be done." He held out a hand. "And, Peter? Again, I'm sorry for jumping to conclusions. I hope you know you're welcome here any time. It's those boys who aren't."

"Oh. Um. Thanks. That's...nice."

Tony patted Peter's shoulder. "Go say hi to Rosa for me. I'll be right behind you."

The manager waited until Peter was out of the room before he looked up at Tony who remained standing. "I meant what I said. I apologize to you as well."

"Yeah, well, I might have been a tiny bit out of line."

"Not really. If somebody was watching one of my kids bleed, I'd probably tear them apart." He gestured. "Please sit. This will only take a moment."

Tony considered, then sank into the chair next to Peter's which had a few drops of blood still drying on the brown fabric. If I was Tony Stark right now, I'd be burning that thing, too.

"If it were almost any other shelf in the store, I probably wouldn't care if it got paid for. But the oil is expensive enough, and we're just a little operation. I can't eat that kind of cost right now."

"Don't sweat it." Tony pulled out his ever-present wallet. "I'll make you a deal. If I cover the cost, would you consider upping your security system? Couldn't help but notice that your footage is awful and you'll never identify those kids from that blurry mess."

The manager's eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. "That's...vastly more expensive than the shelf of olive oil."

"Like I said, I had a good July. And knowing that we're shopping here and so do a lot of others in the neighborhood, I'd feel better if your security system actually provided some measure of security."

"I…"

"Here, I'll call a guy I know. He'll bill me for it directly. He owes me a favor." He snapped off another quick text to JARVIS, knowing the AI would work with the right contractors through Happy and he didn't need to spare it another thought. Then he removed the single blank check he always kept tucked in the bottom of his wallet and reached for a pen. As much as he hated not using actual modern means to pay for things — normally people just invoiced Tony or his company — writing a check had an old school flair to it that he appreciated. And he also knew it wasn't easy to just run a credit card for a weird store expense on a system as old as this store used.

"That's very generous, Mister Carbonell."

"Call me Mario. Now, lay it on me. What's the damage?"

The amount named would have been pocket change, literally, to Tony Stark. He tacked on an extra couple of hundred dollars just to cover somebody cleaning up spilled oil — never a fun task — and to refill the first aid kit, and handed over the check.

They shook hands, and Tony left the office actually feeling okay about the guy. It wasn't as if Tony hadn't jumped to conclusions a few times...or a lot. And the man said he was sorry to Peter, and he did have nice employees who were currently telling Peter stories to make him laugh. Apparently something to do with a case of pickle jars and a dolly with one wheel that wouldn't turn. Peter's face was lit up again, and even his hair seemed perkier in spite of the oil that weighed it down.

The lump in his chest that was getting more familiar the more time he spent with the kid was back. Tony forced it down.

"Hey, you. Skedaddle. Peter's got a date with a shower and I've got an aunt to pacify with my unparalleled child-minding skills. Get your own kid to fuss over."

Peter looked up. "I think walking home is probably enough of a shower, Mister Carbonell."

"Yeah, no. It doesn't work that way and you know it. But if we make it home without drowning, I'll order dinner from that good Thai place."

Peter's grin got bigger. "For Aunt May, too?"

"No, she's on her own. Of course for May, too. If I ate Thai with you without her, I'm pretty sure she'd burn down my workshop and shove half a fish in my bed in retaliation."

"Pretty sure you're exaggerating, Mister Carbonell."

"Pretty sure you're stalling, Mister Parker." Tony clapped his hands. "We got groceries yet? Can this day get any longer? Come on, we got food to eat and Legos to do."

Which is precisely what they did. With the addition of an ice pack for Peter's ribs and his head, of course — Tony was an expert when it came to bruises and little shrapnel cuts, after all, and wound care was always more effective when you actually remembered to do it.

And when May got home two hours later to a Thai feast and Peter still shiny from the shower, she made a masterful attempt not to emote all over the kid. Though she did check every single one of his cuts herself before declaring Tony a more than adequate medic. Even if he did insist on using the box of band-aids covered with Iron Man for the post-shower round, leaving them with a red-and-yellow striped kid.

Then May threw some kind of Lego propeller part at Tony's head when he preened about his doctoring skills for too long. He threw a dragon back. It missed and bounced off Peter's knee. Peter shrieked like a pig being stabbed and lobbed a handful of little Lego people equipped for plastic medieval combat at them both in retaliation.

Peter fell asleep long before the two of them found all the Legos strewn about from the resulting scuffle.

It wasn't how Tony had expected to spend his night, but he couldn't be sorry about it, either.