He's found something.
Two weeks after writing the new program, waiting patiently for it to finish, he has something.
After sifting through the one hundred and twenty-four hits from his program, ruling out purse-snatches that slipped through his algorithm, a small child throwing a fit and causing a big enough scene to attract his attention, an undercover police officer watching a different scene unfold, he's found his guy.
Tony thought it would feel different.
There's not enough, yet, for facial recognition, but it's more of a tangible link to his mother's killer than he's ever had before. The man in the photo Tony had pulled from the footage is wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses—typical, Tony thinks, and so cliché—a dark jacket, and jeans.
A cell phone is pressed to his ear.
Tony's made sure. He's made sure he's not wrong. He's taken the parameters of the man's surroundings, the angles and dimensions of his face, and based on the angle of the tilt of his head, the body language, the way he's oriented in one direction, he's checked his math and he's sure that the man's eyes are resting on a point approximately ninety-nine feet off the ground.
The building his mother had fallen from had been ninety-six feet.
And, cross-checking the layout of the street and buildings behind the man, putting it against the landscaping surrounding the crime scene, he's looking in the right direction.
Tony takes a shaky breath, staring at the grainy photo for so long his eyes begin to hurt.
The man is scowling, his lips closed tight in an unhappy expression. His eyes are hidden by the shades, but his nose is crooked. The hand clutching the phone is big and corded with taut muscles; he was clenching it tight.
Tony can't believe he's staring at the man—at least, one of them—complicit in his mother's murder. He has to close his eyes for a moment, looking away from the screen. After all these years, he's finally, finally a step closer.
Tears build in his eyes, and angrily, frustrated, he wipes them away. It's not the time to cry. It's time to find this son of a bitch.
Tony gets to work.
…
It's harder than TV makes it seem.
The good guys hack into some big government mainframe, run the bad guy's face, or whatever they have of it, and they get a match or a few possible matches in a few seconds. It's quick, clean, and easy.
TV got it wrong, and Tony's pissed.
He's got off-the-radar programs running in every database he can think of—FBI, CIA, DEA, Homeland Security, hell, even the NSA—but there are millions of faces to cross-reference and eliminate, and it's taking much longer than he thought it would.
He's getting antsy.
Inevitably, when he's forced to sit and do nothing but wait for more information to come to light, he can't help but wonder what he's going to do.
Sure, he's a genius with scary intellect and an armada of weapons and defense gear at his disposal, but he's still a small fourteen-year-old. How is he going to confront him? How's he going to approach him?
Hell, how's he going to get to him? He can't even drive.
Well, he can, but not legally.
He sighs, leaving his program to run and going to the kitchen to grab something to drink. Glancing nostalgically at his kitchen table, he flashes back to two weeks ago, when the chairs were occupied. He pauses.
He's angry, to be perfectly honest.
He's known the six of them for…what, a year? Barely known them at all. He's seen them all of twice. Between him and all six of them, they've had…maybe four meaningful conversations. Bruce is an exception—they'd connected from the start because of their similar age and intellect. The others…Tony knows he'll never get along with them, not really.
Bucky is too stand-offish to ever really get to know him; Tony's wealth and cocky attitude have stigmatized him too much in Bucky's eyes. Clint's, too. Natasha won't hesitate to kill him in his sleep. Thor is…well, he admits he doesn't know much about Thor. The guy seems easygoing for the most part, but his past is dark, too, and he hasn't made any attempt to really get to know Tony. Granted, there hasn't been much opportunity for it, but at least Natasha, Steve, and Bruce had all struck up conversations with him.
Steve. Steve is…well, the guy's…Tony doesn't even know. He's just…Golden Boy. The guy's so damn polite all the time, and Tony doesn't deal very well with those types. He's used to dealing with the stuck-up adults who make snide, thinly veiled comments of judgment and disgust behind your back when they know you can hear them anyways. He's used to Howard and Obadiah shouting at him, holding nothing back, leaving absolutely no scathing comment unsaid.
He doesn't know if Steve's said one negative thing to or about him yet, and that pisses him off, because he knows that everyone who interacts with him has something bad to say.
That's just how it is.
He scrubs a hand down his face and grabs a Gatorade, going out on the back deck to get some cool night air. It's nowhere near sunrise, but the stillness of the garden helps him think. Even though he knows Howard is inside, close to him, the enclosed backyard and the overflowing garden with the small lily pond is like a separate, isolated world. It's his corner of solitude in a cruel world.
He takes a swig of Gatorade, wondering about his future.
Howard and Obadiah don't plan on dying anytime soon, but he knows that when they do, he'll take over the company. That is, if he's still alive.
He shudders, though the night isn't that cold.
He wonders what he'll do with it. With everything in him, he wants to shut it down. He wants to completely eradicate the name 'Stark' from the weapons world, but he knows the Board, the world's elite with their own stakes in the company, will never let that happen. Even if he is the owner, the complex political relationships that make the company run make him literally unable to make the decision himself.
But he doesn't want to make weapons anymore.
He doesn't kill. He doesn't want to kill.
Unwillingly, he thinks back to that night four years ago, when he saw the news that left him nearly catatonic for a week. The one time he did kill.
The last time.
His father had been particularly kind to him that week. In the months before, he'd been generous with his time and praise. He'd let Tony help him in the laboratory, where the magic happened. He'd let Tony assist him with his inventions, and he'd put away the alcohol for a solid two weeks.
His mother had been away on business for a couple of her Foundations, but when he'd called her, ecstatic that his father was even speaking to him without raising his voice or his hands, his mother had been instantly wary. She'd told him to be careful.
He'd been young, stupid, and desperate to gain his father's approval.
And he had. He had. He'd built the most intricate weapon he could—the Jericho Missile.
His father had put a hand on his shoulder and for the first time in his life, as they watched the news air together, his father smiled and told him he was proud of him.
All it cost was two-hundred and thirty-six innocent lives.
His father had walked away, and Tony had watched the news for a moment more before collapsing, Jarvis barely catching him before he hit the floor, rushing him to their private clinic upstate. He didn't speak again for six days.
When he did, he resolutely told his father that he would never, never, build another weapon for him again.
That was when Howard broke his arm. But Tony hasn't broken his promise.
Tony shakes his head. He'll find a way. Once the company is his, no matter how long it takes, no matter how much he suffers to get there, once the company is in his name, they won't sell so much as another bullet.
Looking at the muted stars blocked out by the city lights, he wonders what his future will bring. Maybe, once he's twenty-one, he'll have enough freedom to get in contact with Rhodey and Pepper again. Will they even remember him by then? Will they want to talk to him? Will too much have changed for them to just pick up where they left off?
He finishes his Gatorade, forcing himself to trudge back inside. The What Ifs will do nothing for him now. They won't be relevant for another seven years, anyhow. He doesn't know if he'll survive seven years, anyways.
He doesn't have time for that, now. Right now, he has a mission.
He goes back to check on his program fully expecting there to be nothing new. Fully expecting to have to wait another two days, two weeks, two months…but there's a match.
There's a match.
Tony throws himself into the desk chair so quickly that it almost topples over, but he manages to right himself as his fingers fly across the keyboard, entering the name into every database he can think of, watching as reports upon reports pop up, and somewhere in the back of his mind he's thinking that this is going to take so much time to sort through but he can't even bring himself to be annoyed because there's a name now.
There's a match. There's a face. There's a name.
Lance Freeman.
Somewhere, a small voice says that it doesn't sound like the name of a killer. But Tony will stop at nothing to find this man, because dammit he's so close.
Criminal record. Extensive criminal record. Two counts of aggravated assault, one count of stalking. A couple restraining orders, a few years in jail…he was released earlier than his sentence was up. Tony looks at the day he was released, and looks up the corresponding police file on him.
Freeman was released two weeks before his mother died after a visit from an unnamed stranger.
Tony gets to work.
…
Four hours later, he has a lead.
He traced the burner phone back to a shady little place in Harlem that keeps good records. They're secure, too, but not secure enough to keep him out. Freeman's a regular, buying burner phones and bullets and a gun here or there; he's got a running tab, so Tony figures he's in good standing with the owners, if they're letting him rack up that much debt. And the tab extends back years, his first purchase made just before his mother's death.
It was a twenty-five-dollar purchase. The description simply read "burner." It was more than likely the burner phone the man had used to call his mother.
That's the first place he'll go.
But he'll need a ride.
Tony groans, putting his head on his folded arms. He can't take one of his father's cars; that's like asking for a death sentence. But what other option does he have? His favorite fugitives probably aren't toting around a minivan, either.
Tony sighs.
An hour later, in shades, a baseball cap, and his oldest, rattiest dark hoodie, he flags down a taxi passing by. He'd walked himself four miles to the edge of the city.
"221 Shady," he says, trying to make his voice sound a little deeper, but he's intelligent enough to know there's no hiding the fact that he's very much a kid. "Harlem."
The cab driver glances in the rearview mirror, a cigar hanging from his lips, and chuckles. "I ain't been doing this fa twenty years ta get scammed by a grade-schoola, kid. Keep walkin'."
Tony, who's been folding the money in his lap, sends a hundred-dollar bill folded into a paper airplane in a steady line until it takes a nosedive onto the dash in front of the driver. "Another hundred when we're there."
The cab driver's eyes go wide, and he grins. Tony's reminded of a shark. "Well, I guess I can spare da time."
It's started to rain at some point, and Tony stares out the glassy window, the already dull outside darkened further by the rain-washed glass and the sunglasses he's wearing.
His heart is racing.
This is the first concrete lead he's had in years. In all the time he's been working on his mother's case. He watches a raindrop trace its way down the window, slipping into the lip formed between the glass and the door, settling on the steady trickle there, disappearing.
Is he doing the right thing?
Should he send everything to the police anonymously and let them handle it? Should he send it to Jarvis and ask him to keep looking into it?
Should he let it drop completely?
He squeezes his hands into fists at his side, angry at himself for even considering that last thought. He is not giving up on his mother.
Ever.
She deserves justice, and by God, he is going to get it for her.
The cab slows to a stop.
"A hundred, kid," the cab driver says, his window cracked as he tips the cigar out of the window, the ash falling lifelessly to the pavement. The stubborn smolder is extinguished as soon as the first raindrop hits it. "Den you're on ya own."
Tony wordlessly hands the man a hundred-dollar bill and steps out of the car, immediately drenched by the sheets of rain. The cab driver takes off without another word.
Ohhhh man. Yeah, he's stepped into the shady part of Harlem, alright.
He's glad he's wearing all the dark, ratty clothing. It's impossible to tell who he is with everything on him; he looks like just another homeless kid. He stares at the little shop in front of him, the neon lights signaling that it's open. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, then breathes out.
He knows what to do. He's brought plenty of cash, stored safely in a concealed pocket within his hoodie. He'll ask for the man's whereabouts, or his habits, or his usual hangouts, and he'll pay nicely for the information.
He hopes it will work out as well as it does in his head.
With a shaking hand, already shivering from the cold rain still soaking him, he reaches for the door—
It opens before he can grab it, and someone knocks into him, bumping into him hard enough to send him crashing to the flooded ground, landing undignified on his butt.
"Oh, sorry, I didn't see you. You okay?"
Tony starts. He knows that voice.
Slowly, he looks up…
…and locks eyes with Clint Barton.
"Son of a bitch," Tony says, scrabbling to stand, to dart away, but realization dawns in Clint's eyes and he grabs Tony's arm before he can.
"Tony?" He asks, not trying to hide his shock. "What the hell are you doing out here?"
"Keep your voice down," Tony hisses, adjusting his sunglasses, peering past Clint to see—yep, there's Steve, and oh, Bucky too, and—
Tony's knees go weak. Had it not been for Clint's grip on his arm, he would've fallen back to the pavement.
Lance Freeman is standing right there.
Right in front of him.
Tony can't quite make himself move. He doesn't know whether he wants to stalk right up to the man and kill him with his bare hands or run the other direction before he panics. He wants to question the man. He wants to demand names, and figures, and he wants to ask why. He wants to ask the man if he has a mother. How it would feel if she was ripped away from him.
But he can't move.
"Tony," Clint says again, giving his arm a little shake. The scene in the open doorway, silhouetted by the pouring rain and the dark street, is drawing curious eyes all around the shop. Steve and Bucky have noticed it, noticed him, and are coming towards Clint wearing matching expressions of surprise.
But Tony can only freeze as Lance Freeman glances over and locks eyes with him.
Tony's still wearing his sunglasses, despite the darkness and the rain. It's impossible to tell where his gaze is resting. But even if Lance only sees it as a casual glance at a kid drawing too much attention, Tony's spine tingles like someone is walking on his grave for the brief second he locks eyes on the man.
The moment's over, and the eye contact is broken, but Tony feels like his entire world has changed.
"Tony!" Steve snaps in front of his face, putting a hand on his shoulder and steering his pliable body back out into the pouring rain, shrugging on a raincoat hanging by the door. "Come on, let's get out of here before someone recognizes you."
Tony vaguely feels himself being led away. Steve keeps a solid hand on his shoulder, steering him through the dark streets silently, Bucky and Clint trailing behind. Tony subconsciously considers his running into them and realizes it's really not all that spectacular of an encounter. The shop is well-known for being lax with criminals and fugitives, and it stocks all kinds of unsavory weapons and gadgets; it's no surprise that the six vigilantes would be frequent shoppers. Hell, they probably had loyalty cards.
He's shivering by now. His sweatshirt is soaked entirely through, rain dripping from his chin and nose and fingers, falling behind the shades and into his eyes. He's miserable.
And he didn't get to ask one damn question.
He feels Steve come to a stop under an awning a couple blocks away from the shop where the four of them are mostly sheltered from the rain. Steve pushes his hood back and runs a hand over his wet hair, letting out a breath that mists in front of him. "So, Tony. You're definitely not supposed to be in this part of town."
Tony comes out of his stupor, looking up at the three of them, blinking the rain from his eyes. "I was looking into something. Where's the other half of the Power Rangers?"
"Any particular reason you chose that shop?" Bucky asks, his arms crossed. His eyes are narrowed. "It's not a good place to come often, kid. Full of killers. And they're nearby, keeping watch on our next target."
Tony flinches at the first half of his answer and looks down. "I needed to see someone. Ask some questions about someone."
"Why?" Steve prods, his voice low. He sounds almost gentle. Tony realizes he must look pretty miserable if Steve is using that voice with him. "Tony, you shouldn't be out here. At all, but especially not by yourself. What's so important that you had to come alone?"
Tony shrugs half-heartedly, looking at the sopping pavement at his feet. He doesn't want them to know about his mother.
"Why'd you get so scared when you looked in the shop?" Clint piped up, adjusting the heavy-looking duffle bag on his shoulder. "You looked like you'd seen a ghost."
Tony shrugs again, angrily this time. "It doesn't matter, okay? If it's such a bad place, why were you guys there?"
"Oh, yeah, let's just pop into Wal-Mart and grab a few things," Clint says sarcastically, his eyebrows raised. "Seriously? It's the off-the-books shop in New York. Everybody in the shadows finds their way at some point. It's full of shady characters—including yours truly, I guess—but who the hell would you be looking into who goes there?"
Tony opens his mouth to respond, then shuts it again, finally taking off his sunglasses and dragging a hand down his soaked face, shivering again. "He was there—the guy I needed to ask about. That's why I froze up."
"He was there?" Steve confirms, eyebrows furrowed. When Tony nods, he looks behind him at the other two. "We've at least spoken to everyone in there. I can't guarantee we'll have the answers, but what are your questions?"
Tony's floored for a second. He hadn't expected that response, and now that he has an opportunity, no words are coming. He settles for, "When was the first time you guys came here?"
Steve blinks at the question, then looks at Clint and Bucky for help. "What, a year and a half ago? Maybe a little more?" Clint shrugs helplessly, nodding.
Bucky says, "Think it was closer to two years—maybe a year and nine months, something like that. It was for that job in Jersey, remember? The restaurant owner."
Steve snaps his fingers, nodding. "Yeah, that was it. Why?"
Tony sighs. "You can't help me, anyway. The guy I'm looking into was…part of something that happened three years ago, so you won't know about it."
Steve gets that concerned look again, and Tony's about ready to bolt. He doesn't like this. He doesn't like being questioned so intently with nowhere to go, no immediate escape. The cold and the claustrophobia are both creeping in, and he needs to get away.
"You can stop being so secretive, you know," Clint says with a raised eyebrow and an easy smile. "If I know you, you know all our dirty little secrets. The media's broadcasted them all, anyways, but you're a tech genius, or whatever, and you seem to be picky about who you help. You probably know all about us."
Tony bristles at the accusation, but he can't help the twinge of guilt knowing that it's true.
He takes a deep breath, thinking quickly, and deeply. He hasn't told anyone, anyone, about his hunt for his mother's killer. He goes through the reasons why—his father and Obadiah would…be angry (that's an understatement). Jarvis could help, no doubt, but…he doesn't want to drag the man into yet another illegal mess. He can't risk Jarvis.
And…that's it. That's all the people he could feasibly tell.
So what's stopping him, really, from telling them?
He considers it. The six of them are much more adept to the shadowy parts of New York than he is. They'll know more rumors, have more information, than any computer system he can hack, or any amount he can throw at someone to bribe information out of them. They can get into and out of the shady places inconspicuously, while he'd be recognized before he'd fully gotten himself through the doorway.
The pros outweigh the cons, and he knows it.
He's thought too long, and they're staring at him. Taking a deep breath, fisting his hands at his sides as he shivers, he looks away. "Lance Freeman. I'm looking into Lance Freeman."
Steve blinks, and Clint doesn't bother to hide the surprise that comes across his face. Bucky remains impassive as ever. "Freeman? We've crossed paths with him a couple times. I don't trust him, but he's good for a quick contact."
Tony flinches at Steve's casual description of the man. "Do you know anything about a job he worked three years ago?" Describing his mother's murder as a "job" almost makes him sick, but he swallows down the bile and fear rushing up his throat.
"I don't think so," Clint answers, looking apologetic. "He hasn't mentioned it. I know he got out of prison early around that time, though. He was in for a couple felonies. Stalked his ex-wife, I think? Assaulted a couple boyfriends?"
Tony scoffs, turning away from them, walking up and down the span of the covered awning. His body is buzzing with adrenaline. He's actually asking the questions he spent so long thinking about, getting answers, no matter how useless. He's doing this.
He's actually doing this.
"What?" Clint asks, noticing his change in attitude.
"He should rot in jail for the rest of his miserable life," Tony spits, pressing both palms against his forehead, sliding them both up into his slick hair, baseball cap flapping off onto the soaked concrete, forgotten. "God…"
"What did he do?" Bucky asks, finally showing curiosity. Steve glances at him, and Tony can tell that that's been on his mind, as well. "Three years ago."
Tony stops, fisting his hands in his hair and looking up at the tattered awning. It's dark and raining and miserable, and he wants to be at home. He remembers one night a few years ago, they had a particularly bad storm, and Tony had been a little scared—okay, terrified. He hated thunder.
He'd crawled in bed with his mother. He'd been nine at the time. He snuggled down into the warm blankets and nuzzled himself into her arms. She'd woken up just enough to give him a warm smile before wrapping her arms around him, holding him close for the rest of the night, and he wasn't quite so scared after that.
Thunder rumbles nearby, the street illuminated for just a split second by a crack of lightning in the distance.
"He helped kill my mother," he finally spits, heaving a breath.
It's the first time he's said it out loud to another person.
His mother didn't kill herself. She was murdered.
He doesn't look at the others as the words leave his lips, but he hears Steve take a sharp breath. Clint, conversely, lets out a miserable whoosh of air, and shakes his head in Tony's peripheral. Tony barely catches the clench of Bucky's fists before he turns away.
Tony takes a calming breath, trying to regain some semblance of control, and lets it out. "I should…go. Home. I probably can't get back into the shop tonight, anyways. Sorry for interrupting your night."
He makes to go, walking quickly with his head ducked. He leans down to snag the baseball cap, and as he rises, Steve gently grabs his arm. He doesn't turn around.
"Tony," Steve says, and the earnestness in his voice is startling. "I'm sorry."
Tony shakes his hand off softly, putting his baseball cap on and replacing his shades. "Don't worry about it."
Steve shifts awkwardly, then says, "You've got your phone, right?" Tony nods, feeling the lump in his pocket. "Good. Remember what I said. This applies, too. If you have to come back, text one of use first, see if we're in the area. It's better than coming alone."
Tony nods again, giving the barest smile. "I will. Tell Bruce I said hi." Steve nods.
"I'll ask around," Bucky says suddenly, and Tony whips towards him in sheer surprise, his eyes wide behind the shades. Clint and Steve are both staring at him in surprise as well, but Bucky's got eyes only for Tony, and they're sharp and determined. "About Freeman, and about three years ago. If we go back to the shop soon, I'll ask around, see what the rumors are. I'll text you what I find out." He gives the barest, barest hint of a smile, and Tony's surprised to realize it's the first time he's ever seen Bucky smile like that. "So for God's sake, stay out of this area, okay, kid? You're gonna get yourself into trouble."
Tony's breath hitches, and after a moment of tense silence, the rain pounding into him, he lets out a breathy laugh. "Thank you."
Bucky nods, then turns to go, dragging Clint behind him. With one last nod and a sad smile in Tony's direction, Steve turn and walk the other way. Clint turns and calls, "Take a taxi, okay? Don't accept rides from strangers!"
Tony gives him the middle finger solely on principle, and hears Clint laugh before walking away. He turns the corner onto the street without looking back, glancing down the dark road to see a lone taxi idling a few hundred feet away. He steps up to the curb and waves a hand, yawning behind the sunglasses. He's exhausted, physically and emotionally. He can't wait to get home and sleep some.
The taxi drives slowly in his direction, rolling to a stop by the curb. Tony, not thinking much other than of warmth and getting out of the rain, opens the backdoor.
As soon as he does, there's a hand shooting out and clamping around his wrist, keeping him still as two men pile out of the backseat, grabbing him. He barely has time for his eyes to widen in surprise before they're struggling, manhandling him into the backseat. One of them clamps a hand over his mouth and takes his arm, the other taking his other arm and pushing him towards the open door.
"Quit squirming, you little shit," one of them hisses. Tony's struggling desperately, squirming in their hands and lashing out with his legs, but between the two of them, they manage to wrestle him into the backseat. As soon as the door is shut, the driver's hitting the gas, and they're on their way to God-knows-where.
"Let me go!" Tony shouts, panic building in his chest as he continues to struggle even though he's locked in a moving car. He knows escape is pointless, he knows he's too confined to put up much of a fight, but his heart is hammering in his chest, panic bubbling up in his gut and rushing up his throat, his lungs spasming as the adrenaline races through his body—
One of them finally gives up on getting him secure and punches him square in the jaw, knocking Tony back against the seat and his other captor, who's quick to wrap his arms around his stunned form. The other one yells something at the driver, who throws back a plastic bag with a cloth inside. Tony kicks out again, hoping to dislodge it from the man's hand, but he just growls and rips the bag open, plucking the cloth out and shoving it onto Tony's face.
Tony shuts his eyes instinctively, still wriggling, fighting the arms around him and lashing out with his legs where he can, but as soon as he takes a breath, his limbs are flooded with lead. His mind is overpowered by the sickeningly sweet smell, pressing in on his mouth and nose unrelentingly, and he fights to stay conscious as his limbs slowly fall limp. His head falls back against his captor's shoulder, and the arms around him shift to accommodate his deadweight.
Tony feels his eyes flutter closed, the cloth still firmly pressed over his face.
Tony's last thought is that this is Clint's fault for suggesting he take a taxi.
A/N: Hey! Sorry it's been so long! Hope you guys liked this chapter :) it was fun to write! I liked Tony being able to be a little more vulnerable with the others. Sorry Nat and Bruce and Thor were absent; I'll work them in next chapter :) as you've probably guessed, this chapter is part one of two…hopefully I won't leave you guys hanging on his cliffie too long!
As always, thanks so much to all my lovely reviewers: Christine-Danielle, TwilightGlow3, NostalgicFangirl, TwistingFaith, 123cassie123, The Violent Kurumi, Ammy of Asgard, Oriande Moonshadow, Whovianeverlark17, Beakers47, PoisonIvy533, ShadowedRose17, guest, Luckias, TC Howl, Shadow, Black' Victor Cachat, and Stormshadow13! Also, over 100 followers on 3 chapters? I'm blown away, guys. Thank you so much!
NostalgicFangirl: Thank you! And SAME I love them. They did, thanks! Lol yeah it's tragic
Guest: Hey, thanks so much for the review and suggestions! Don't worry, as the storylines become more intertwined I'm definitely going to be playing around with some points of view, so you'll definitely get to see some other perspectives! And I'll definitely look deeper into some of the other relationships going on, too :) thanks for reading!
Shadow: hahaha thank you so much! I KNOW Bruce is PRECIOUS. And I'm toying with it…like I think I may bring in Sam Wilson at some point, but I'm not sure yet. And BABY PETER sounds WONDERFUL, but I'm not sure if I'll get to that this story. Maybe in the sequel, if I get that far X'D thanks for the suggestions! Any other characters you'd like to see?
Thanks so much to everyone for the continued support! Drop a review if you have a minute!