Thank you so much for all of the support you've given me for this story! I'm so thrilled with the response, you guys are very inspiring! :)

"Hold still if ye please, young sir," ordered the white-haired Scottish tailor as he peered over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. He drew his tape measure down Peter's leg, measuring his inseam while the boy fidgeted impatiently. "I'll be done with ye soon enough."

Wrinkling his nose, Peter huffed out a breath as Tony smirked in amusement. Getting fitted for a suit was, he admitted, an immensely boring task, as there wasn't much else to do but just stand there and be fussed over. But apparently it was especially boring if you were a seven-year-old kid who really, really, really wanted to get back to building his weird Lego airplane and finish his sandwich from Delmar's Deli. The owner at Delmar's had even given both Peter and Tony the footlong special of the day on the house, in honor of Peter's aunt and uncle.

"Haven't you ever worn a suit before, kid?" Tony asked him as the tailor pinned up the too-long pant legs.

"No," Peter grumbled. "I only like wearing clothes that are comfy."

"Hmm," Tony said, trying to hide his smile. "Well, it'll only be for the funeral. Afterwards you can change into something more… comfy. Capiche?"

Peter pursed his lips. "Capiche."

"Ah, there we are, ye wee rascal," the older man said as he slid the final pin into the hem. "All finished."

"Finally!" Peter lamented as the tailor helped him out of the charcoal grey suit jacket. Gathering up his new Old Navy sweatpants, t-shirt, and hoodie that they'd stopped to buy on their way back to the hotel, Peter ran to the bathroom to change, nearly tossing the offensive suit pants at the poor tailor once he was done.

"This will be ready by tomorrow midday," the tailor said, carefully arranging the pint-sized suit on a hanger. "As will yours, sir."

Slipping a twenty dollar bill into the man's hand, Tony showed him to the door, turning back to find Peter digging into his flattened sandwich.

"You're hungry again already?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Uh huh," Peter mumbled around a mouthful of ham. He held out the half-eaten sandwich. "Want some, Mr. Stark?"

"Nah, I'm still full," Tony said, patting his stomach. "It was good, though, I'll admit."

"Best sandwiches in Queens," Peter said proudly as he took another bite. "Uncle Ben would take me there sometimes on Saturdays for lunch. Then we'd usually take a walk afterwards, and I'd always save some of my bread so I could feed the pigeons." Swallowing his bite, he took a sip of his fruit punch. "Are there pigeons by your house?"

"Aahh," Tony stammered. "I think there's probably some seagulls, but I'm not too sure about pigeons."

"Oh," Peter said, thinking. "Do the seagulls like bread?"

"Okay, I think we're all set now," Pepper said as she walked into the living room, saving Tony from having to answer. "We're supposed to be at the funeral home by 10am the day after tomorrow, and the service starts at eleven. I also called Ms Wilson and gave her the funeral information so she knows it's been taken care of." She shot a nervous glance at Peter and lowered her voice. "Do you think we should have open caskets? I don't know if that would be easier on the kid or harder."

Tony's brow furrowed as he looked over at Peter, who was back to working on his Lego aircraft. His own parents had been too badly injured from their car crash to allow for open caskets at their funeral, and Tony hadn't ever been sure if he'd have preferred to see them again or not. He and his father had had yet another argument right before they'd left on their trip, and while Maria Stark had tried to pacify the two of them, as she usually did, there remained a lingering lack of closure that still gnawed at Tony to this day. More than he cared to admit, actually.

"Let's keep them closed," Tony whispered. "If the kid asks, we can always open them for him privately."

"All right," Pepper said, making a note on her tablet. "Then as long as the suits come back okay, I think we're ready."

Tony let out a sigh as he wrapped an arm around Pepper's waist. "Thank you."

"You don't need to thank me, Tony," she answered, resting her head against his shoulder. "This is what I do. It's what I've always done."

Yeah, but this isn't even in your job description anymore," Tony reminded her. "You were promoted, remember?"

"Yeah," she said on an exhale. "I guess old habits die hard." She raised her head to look at him. "I will need to get back to work right after the funeral, though. The whole Expo thing still isn't finished, and—"

"It's okay," interrupted Tony. "I doubt me and the kid will be staying here all that much longer anyway."

"His room at the house should be ready by the end of the week," Pepper said. "And I ordered a bunch of Lego sets too, so hopefully he won't get too bored."

"Yeah. Good thinking."

"We should talk about who's going to watch him during the day, though, Tony," she said. "I mean, I'll be working, and you'll be working, and we probably shouldn't let him just wander around the house by himself—"

"No, no, I'll watch him," Tony interjected. "I can work and keep an eye on him at the same time. JARVIS'll help me."

Pepper gave him a skeptical look. "You? Who can't even remember to stop and eat once you get engrossed in one of your projects? Who can go for three days or more without sleeping? Which isn't healthy at all, by the way, and probably not the best thing to model for a small child."

Tony scowled. Sure, there were times—okay, maybe more often than not—where he was so involved in what he was doing that the need to eat or sleep just became a nuisance. Tony even often thought of sleep as time wasted. There were only twenty-four hours in a day, after all. It seemed like such a waste to spend as much as a third of that time sleeping.

Besides. No sleep meant no nightmares.

Pepper, however, did not think sleep was a waste of time, and made sure to get at least six hours every night, no matter what else was going on. And ever since their relationship had evolved from professional to romantic, Tony had to admit that sharing a bed with her had its definite advantages. He'd even gotten to the point, albeit slowly, where he was able to enjoy the cuddling afterwards.

"Eh, it's not like the kid's hard to watch," he said. "He hasn't been hardly any trouble at all here so far. If anything, he can bring his Legos or his chemistry set or whatever down to the garage and work alongside me. I'll set up a space that's clear of any potential flying or flaming objects and we'll be fine. I'll even introduce him to Dum-E. Dum-E's just like a kid; I'm sure they'll get along great."

Pepper pursed her lips. "Tony, I don't know. First of all, I'm not sure there is any space down in that garage that is truly clear of flying objects, and second of all, it's not that hard to hire a nanny. I mean, the kid's gonna want to go places, and do things outside of the house from time to time."

"So?" Tony retorted. "Why can't he do things with me? Why can't I take him places?"

"Because taking him places would require that you actually socialize, Tony," Pepper countered. "With people. Perhaps even other people with children. And you really think that it's gonna be okay for the kid to be anywhere near you at the house, given your tendency towards your so-called 'accidents'?"

"I'm not gonna let him get hurt, Pep," Tony snapped. "Give me some credit here!"

"I don't mean you'd do it on purpose, Tony," said Pepper in a wounded voice. "You're just not as careful as you could be sometimes… okay, most of the time. And old habits tend to die hard."

Tony rolled his eyes. "I know that, Pepper! I'm not an idiot. I'm prepared to do—"

"I'm just trying to tell you that there's nothing wrong with hiring a babysitter, Tony! It's how most people do it—"

"And I said no! I don't want to just shove him off on someone else as soon as we walk through the goddamn door! The kid's been shoved off on other people his whole fucking life already!" Tony was so worked up he didn't even realize he was yelling until Peter's head snapped up, a look of pure terror spreading across his round face. It only took a split second for Tony to decide he never wanted to see the kid look at him like that ever again.

"Sorry, kid," he said in a gentler voice, raising his arms in what he hoped was a placating gesture. "Didn't mean to startle you like that."

But Peter's pale cheeks only grew paler. "Are you mad at me?" he asked, his small, high-pitched voice trembling.

"No, no, absolutely not," Tony assured him, his heart dropping down into his stomach as Peter's chin started to shake. Tony knelt down next to him and gently ruffled his curly hair. "Hey, kid, I promise I'm not mad at you. I just… have a tendency to get… loud sometimes. It's kind of a lousy habit that all the Stark men tend to have. But if it scares you, I'll try not to do that anymore. All right?"

Sniffing, Peter nodded slowly, his lower lip still twitching. "I don't like loud," he whispered. "Bad people are loud. And scary. They used to wake me up at night when I was sleeping."

"Bad people?" Tony asked, frowning as a swell of protectiveness welled up inside him, followed right on its heels by a healthy dose of anger. Who would dare…?

"What bad men, kid?"

Peter gulped and shook his head, which only served to alarm Tony even more. "Hey!" he said gently as he cupped Peter's shoulders. "No one's gonna hurt you, I promise. I won't let 'em. Okay?"

"P—, promise?" Peter asked in a wobbly voice, his big brown eyes glassy with tears.

Oh shit, don't cry! Please don't cry! I'm not ready to handle that yet!

"Of course!" Tony assured him. He pulled back and winked. "No one's dumb enough to mess with Iron Man."

He didn't miss the way the kid's eyes flicked over to his own Iron Man helmet and Lego figure, both resting on the coffee table next to the chess set.

"Okay," said Peter, and inhaled a shuddering breath. "If you say so."

"Just 'cause I'm curious, though," Tony said. "Can you tell me who these bad people were? And who they were mad at?"

Biting his lower lip, Peter reached behind him and grabbed his polar bear, squeezing him tightly against his chest. "I—, I don't know who they were," he whispered. "I never saw them, just heard them. They'd only come at night. But they were always mad. And really, really loud."

Tony shot a quick glance up at Pepper, relieved to see her furiously tapping notes into her tablet as the boy spoke. "Um, can you tell me why these people were mad at your uncle?" Tony couldn't imagine who in the hell would be mad enough at Ben Parker to come and yell at him in the middle of the night. From what Peter had told him, his Uncle Ben had worked as an electrician, which in Tony's mind was not a profession that would usually invoke such strong anger. But this was in Queens, and he supposed anything was possible.

Peter's watery brown eyes widened in shock, and his head shook so hard that a stray curl flopped down over his forehead. "No, it wasn't at my uncle's house!" He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "It was at my house!"

"Your hou—, you mean, your parents' house? These people were yelling at your mom and dad?" Tony asked. He cocked his head when Peter nodded, thinking. "How old were you when this was going on, kid?"

"Th—, three," Peter stammered. Tony could tell he was barely holding back his tears, and he felt a sharp twinge of remorse, realizing he was most likely giving off his don't cry vibe quite strongly. For a seven-year-old, the kid was remarkably perceptive.

"All right," Tony said, trying to sound soothing. "Just one more question and I'll shut up about this. Okay?"

"Mmm-hmm," Peter murmured.

"Do you know why these people were yelling at your parents?"

"N—, no," answered Peter. "But it wasn't very long before my mom and dad had to go away." He paused, burying his face so hard into George's plushy head that his next words were muffled. "And then they never came back."

Tony huffed in frustration, but heeding his promise to drop the subject, he ruffled the kid's hair one more time and got back up to his feet. "All right, kid. It's all right. Why don't you… um… go back to your Legos now."

Peter glanced over at his nearly finished Lego creation, which, Tony realized, didn't resemble any kind of aircraft he'd ever seen before. "I don't feel like building anymore. Can we watch a movie instead?"

"Um, sure?" Tony said, picking up the remote from the coffee table and turning on the big-screen television mounted on the opposite wall. "What do you wanna watch?"

"Can we watch Star Wars?" Peter asked as he and George climbed up onto the couch. "That's one of my favorites!"

"Yeah, sure, kid," said Tony, flipping through the various channels until he got to the On Demand section. "Um, there's about a hundred movies called Star Wars. Which one is it?"

Tony was not at all prepared for the look of complete and utter childish shock that crossed Peter's face. "You mean, you've never seen Star Wars?"

"Um, no," Tony mumbled sheepishly. Watching movies, like sleep, had always seemed like a colossal waste of time to him in the past. "Why? Is that a bad thing?"

Peter only continued to stare at him in disbelief, causing Tony to fidget uncomfortably. "What? Am I like the first person you've ever met who hasn't seen it?"

"Yeah!" exclaimed Peter. "They're really old movies, so I thought all grown-ups had seen them. Well, I guess the newer ones aren't as old, but—"

"Yeah, yeah, fine," Tony grumbled as he plopped down on the couch. "So which one do you wanna watch?"

"Well… if you've never seen them, then I suppose we should watch Episode I. But I don't like the newer ones as much as the old ones, so…". Peter tapped his chin as he thought. "Never mind. Let's watch Episode IV anyway. It's the first one."

Tony didn't bother asking why in the hell the first one was called Episode IV as he selected the correct title and pressed the play button on the remote. Pepper excused herself a few minutes later, saying she was heading down to the business center to do some work. It wasn't until the movie was nearly half over that Tony realized Peter had inched his way so close to him on the couch that his head was pressed up against Tony's arm, and his face had relaxed into the most contented look that Tony had yet seen on him. They weren't even really talking, save for the times when Peter would point something out or comment on a particularly favorite part of the movie.

Is it really this easy to spend time with a kid?

Having not spent more than maybe a few minutes once or twice a week with his own dad, and that time being spent mostly being ignored while Howard Stark worked, Tony once again felt those disconcerting, conflicting emotions welling up inside him. Protectiveness. Pride. And perhaps the most uncomfortable of all, tenderness. The cacophony of odd feelings caused Tony to shiver, and he was grateful that the kid was too engrossed in the movie to notice his discomfort. He was a Stark, dammit. He wasn't supposed to have feelings like this. Especially for some random kid that he just met a couple days ago.

But perhaps the most unnerving part was that he seemed powerless to stop them. Tony hated not being in control. He'd spent his entire life burying his emotions down in a place so deep, he wasn't sure if he was even capable of unearthing them anymore.

It seemed as if no one had thought to inform the kid of that, however. So he was just going about, being his charming little self, and not even realizing he was slowly but effectively peeling away the innumerable layers of Tony's internal armor.

"Hey," Tony said a while later, as the Rebel pilots were beginning their assault against the very-aptly-named Death Star. He pointed to the fighters flying on the screen and then to Peter's Lego aircraft resting on the table. "You were building one of those, huh?"

"Uh huh," replied Peter. "It's an X-wing fighter. My friend at school has one, and I helped him build it when he got it. But I've never had my own before."

"Hmm," said Tony distractedly. "Well, now you do. How 'bout that?"

"Yeah! And now we can do our own attack on the Death Star! Except, our Death Star is really just a big rubber ball, because they haven't made a Death Star Lego set yet. But my friend's gonna get it as soon as they do, and then we can build it together!"

"That's good, kid," Tony mumbled, alternatively clenching and flexing his fingers. In addition to everything else, he wasn't used to going this many days without working on something, and he could tell he was starting to get restless. And when he got restless, his mind had a tendency to wander into those very dark places that he'd just as soon never visit again, and that often required consuming large amounts of alcohol in order for him to re-forget.

Plus, he very much wanted to check in with JARVIS and see if he'd been able to learn anything else about the going's-on down in New Mexico.

First huge green rage monsters, now extraterrestrials. What the hell is going on here? Why is all this happening all of a sudden?

He wondered if old General Ross was aware of New Mexico yet. For SHIELD's sake, Tony hoped not. The drunken, paranoid fool would probably try to commandeer whatever technological remnants were left behind and attempt to turn them into weapons.

As soon as the movie credits rolled Tony jumped to his feet, so suddenly that he caused Peter to tip over sideways onto the couch.

"Sorry, kid," Tony said, trying to smile at him. "I… um… just need to make a phone call. Are you good for a few minutes?"

"Uh huh," Peter said warily. "Are you—?"

Tony's heart was staccato drumming against his arc reactor, and he inhaled a shaky breath, trying to compose himself. "I promise I'm not mad at you, okay? I just need to check on a few things. I'll be back in a bit, and then we can play chess if you want. Sound good?" Chess was a very methodical and strategic game; it would hopefully help to soothe his troubled mind.

"Okay," said Peter, his features relaxing slightly. "Sounds good."

"Cool," said Tony as he turned towards the bedroom, grabbing his phone as soon as the door closed behind him. "Talk to me, JARVIS."

"Good day, sir," JARVIS replied.

"Any updates on the situation in New Mexico?" Tony asked, pacing back and forth on the thick carpet.

"There's a meeting scheduled for today at a secure SHIELD facility to discuss the incident, but I've not yet been able to break through their newly updated firewall."

"All right, that's point one for when we get back," Tony stated. "Keep trying anyway. Maybe you'll get lucky and sneak in."

"I often do, sir," said JARVIS.

"Yeah, yeah. Point two, JARVIS. What's General Ross been up to these last few days?"

"General Ross has been busy covering the recent destructive incident at Culver University."

"Uh huh," Tony said, tapping his chin. He really needed to trim his beard tonight. "Any update on that?"

"None that I've seen, sir."

"Which means that he's up to something," Tony muttered. Suspicious to the point of outright paranoia, General Ross often kept complete or near-complete radio silence when he was up to something he ought to not be doing, in order to maintain deniability later on if things went south. He was more slippery than a wet politician, and just as slimy as one when he so chose.

"Keep another eye on him, will ya, JARVIS?" said Tony. "Let me know the moment he surfaces again."

"As always, sir."

"All right. Just one more thing then," said Tony. "Has there been any mention in the news about the kid?"

"A few mentions of area Iron Man sightings on various social media outlets, sir," replied JARVIS after a moment's pause. "But no specific mention of the boy by name."

Tony breathed out a sigh of relief. It was a testament to Pepper and her excellent work behind the scenes that they hadn't been inundated with reporters as of yet. The sooner he was able to get the kid to his home in Malibu, which was far more isolated than New York City, the better he'd feel. "Good. Keep me updated. I wanna know if the kid's name pops up somewhere, no matter where it is."

"Very good, sir."

The morning of the funeral service dawned cloudy and somber, as Tony supposed it should for the funeral of a tiny kid's beloved aunt and uncle. Peter was still asleep on his hide-a-bed when Tony shuffled into the living room, stifling a yawn. Crouching down next to the bed, Tony gently ruffled the kid's hair, trying to wake him without startling him.

"Hey, kid," he murmured. "It's time to get up. We need to get ready to go."

"Mmm," Peter mumbled as he rolled over with his eyes still squeezed tightly closed, raising his arms above his head to stretch and knocking George the polar bear onto the floor in the process. Tony picked up the bear, handing him back to Peter as the kid's eyes blinked open once.

"Still 'leepy," he said, curling his slight body around his bear. "Don' wanna get up."

"I know, kid, but you gotta get up and get ready now," Tony said. "You can take a nap afterwards if you want to."

Peter's eyes flew open, narrowing as they focused in on Tony. "I don't need a nap. I'm not a baby," he grumbled, wrinkling his nose. "I'm a big boy."

Tony couldn't help but smile at the indignation in the kid's voice. "Okay then, big boy, get up and let's eat something before we get ready."

They ate their breakfast in a somewhat comfortable silence, looking out the huge window at the vast, bustling city below while Peter fed George his usual Lucky Charms marshmallows and finished both his own and Tony's leftover orange juice.

"All right," Tony said once the last piece of bacon was gone. "Let's get you ready now, yeah?"

In an instant, Peter's entire demeanor changed. His chin started to shake, and his shoulders curled inward as he looked up at Tony. "Um… um… "

"What's wrong, kid?" Tony asked, kicking himself for asking what appeared to be a really stupid question.

"It's just," Peter squeaked, burying his face into George's neck. "Auntie May always had me wash my hair before special occasions, and I think this definitely qualifies as a special occasion… but—"

"But, what?" prompted Tony.

"But every time I try and wash my hair by myself, soap gets in my eyes!" he cried, shaking his disheveled head. "And it hurts!"

"Yeah, well, eyes tend to hurt when you try and wash them with soap," Tony quipped, trying to lighten the mood. Please don't cry, please don't cry! "I know mine have never particularly enjoyed being washed."

"Can you help me?" Peter asked, sniffing. "Please? I wanna look extra nice for Auntie May today. I think she'd like it."

"Aahh," Tony stammered. Up until this point, Peter had taken care off all his own showering and dressing and other bathroom needs on his own, insisting that he was more than capable of doing everything himself. And Tony had been completely fine with that. He looked frantically around the room, as if he expected that someone else would materialize out of thin air who knew how to wash a seven-year-old kid's hair. But Pepper had already gone down to the funeral home to take care of any last-minute preparations and to verify the security, and there was no way Tony could ask Happy to help with something like this. He didn't know anything about kids either.

If only Jarvis were here!

"Please, Mr. Stark?" repeated Peter, his huge brown eyes boring deep into Tony's soul. "Please?"

What the hell. I am fucking Iron Man. If I can survive months of torture and captivity in a goddamn cave in Afghanistan, I can surely survive washing one little boy's hair.

"Sure, kid," Tony said after a moment's pause. "You… um… go get started, and then just, ah, yell when you're ready. Okay?"

Peter's bony shoulders sagged in relief. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Stark! Thank you!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, go on," Tony said gruffly, watching as Peter ran into the bathroom, followed by the woosh of water as the bathtub started to fill.

"I'm ready now, Mr. Stark!" the kid's high voice called out through the closed bathroom door a few minutes later. Swallowing hard, Tony gingerly opened the door, relieved when he found Peter surrounded by an opaque layer of bubbles.

"All right," Tony said as he knelt down next to the tub and grabbed the removable shower head. "Um… let me know if the water's too hot, okay?"

"Uh huh," Peter replied, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as Tony began rinsing his curly brown hair. Lathering it up with shampoo and rinsing again—taking extra care to not get any of the soap near the kid's eyes—only took a total of about three minutes. Not hardly something, Tony realized with shame, worth getting so worked up over.

"I can do the rest myself now, Mr. Stark," Peter said once all the shampoo was washed away, his soaking wet curls plastered across his forehead. "Thank you."

"Yeah, okay," Tony said, pushing himself back up to his feet. "Come on out when you're dry and I'll help you get into your suit."

"Uh huh."

Once he was dressed in his own brand-new suit, Tony stood at the mirror in the living room, glaring at his reflection as he adjusted his tie. "Yeah, you're a Stark all right, you asshole," he mumbled. "But I guess you don't have to be that kind of a Stark."

"Can you help me now, Mr. Stark?" a small voice suddenly said from behind him. Tony whirled around to find Peter, dressed in his undershorts and undershirt with his hair still damp, gingerly holding out the mini garment bag that held his suit.

"Yeah, sure, kid," he said, taking the garment bag and laying it carefully down on the couch. He had to stifle a chuckle when Peter wrinkled his nose as Tony tied the tie around his neck.

"Too tight," Peter complained, tugging on his shirt collar. "Don't like it."

"Like I said, kid," Tony said as he fastened the small silver cufflinks. "It's only for the funeral. After it's over you can hoodie it up to your heart's content. Capiche?"

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Um, capiche."

"All right, here ya go," said Tony as he helped Peter into the suit jacket just as a knock sounded at the door. Tony checked his watch. "That's Happy, so it's time to go. Ya ready?"

Looking over at his Iron Man helmet, Peter stared at it for a moment before giving his head a light shake and reaching for George instead. "Yeah, I'm ready."

The ride to the funeral home passed in a somber silence, matching the mood brought on by the overcast skies. Entering the elegantly decorated building guarded by two plainclothes NYPD officers, Tony wasn't too terribly shocked when a group of about ten women practically pounced on Peter as soon as they walked through the door. Pepper had warned him that some of May Parker's nurse colleagues were less-than-thrilled with the news of Peter coming under the guardianship of Tony Stark. And, like many New Yorkers, they weren't at all afraid to state their minds.

"Mr. Stark," one of the women said as she broke away from the fussing and cooing group. "I'll have you know, sir, that if my husband and I could have worked it out somehow, little Peter would've been coming to live with us."

"That's very kind of you, ma'am," Tony said in a clipped voice, his eyes scanning the room and counting four additional NYPD officers, one posted at each corner. Thank you, Pepper, he thought. "However, I can assure you—"

"Peter has our phone number, Mr. Stark," she interrupted, peering at him through narrowed eyes. "And I've told him to call if he ever needs anything. Anything at all, be it day or night. Do you understand me?"

Tony bit the inside of his cheek, trying to keep his temper intact. "I appreciate that, ma'am—"

"His aunt and uncle were good people, Mr. Stark," the lady continued, practically spitting the words in Tony's face. "The best kind of people. Little Peter deserves only the best, wouldn't you agree?"

Inhaling sharply, Tony walked straight over to the group of women and tapped Peter on the shoulder, giving the boy a wink as he looked up. Peter smiled back at him, wrapping his thin fingers around Tony's proffered hand.

"He'll get only the best with me, ma'am," Tony said firmly as he tugged Peter away from the group. "Now, if you'll excuse us, I believe the service is about to begin."

Peter surprised Tony by remaining relatively stoic during the hour-long service, his rather blank expression only wavering at the end, when the two mahogany caskets were carried out and loaded into the hearses for the ride to the cemetery. He was even able to maintain his remarkably brave stoicism while the celebrant read from a prayer book as the caskets were loaded onto the metal frames, to be lowered into the ground once the crowd had dissipated.

It wasn't until the final well-wishers had hugged and kissed and fussed over Peter to their heart's content and walked away that Peter's lower lip started to shake. Clutching George tightly to his chest, Peter shuffled over to the twin caskets, carefully running his small palm along the length of each one. Tony felt Pepper's hand on his arm as she leaned in to whisper into his ear.

"He's struggling, Tony," she said sadly. "I think it's finally hitting him that they're gone."

Tony could only nod his head as he watched Peter lean in towards Aunt May's casket, whispering something too soft for him to hear. As soon as he finished speaking he bit down hard on his bottom lip, his brown eyes flicking over to Tony, then flitting away just as fast with a sharp shake of his head.

Tony's heart twisted in his chest as he watched the kid repeat the process with his Uncle Ben, his teeth digging harder and harder into his lip as the seconds ticked by. He was trying desperately not to cry, and Tony knew it was because he was afraid that Tony, his hero, would be ashamed of him if he did.

"What the hell is wrong with you, boy?" Tony heard his father's voice say in his head, chastising him as a young Tony sobbed over the loss of his beloved maternal grandmother. "Stark men don't cry!"

Stark men don't cry. Stark men don't cry. Those words would reverberate through Tony's head roughly fifteen years later, at the funeral service of his own parents. He remembered standing there at his parents' gravesite next to Obadiah Stane, outwardly cool and unflappable as hundreds of people wished him well, his blood ice-cold in his veins and a lump in his throat the size of a ping-pong ball. And once it was all over, and Obadiah had delivered him back home, Tony had proceeded to drink himself into oblivion for the next three days straight.

Stark men don't cry. They just bury their emotions in work and alcohol, because that's so much better. Isn't it?

Well, to hell with that.

Briefly squeezing Pepper's hand, Tony released her and walked over to Peter, resting his hand gently on the kid's shoulder. "Hey, kid," he said softly. "It's okay."

Peter inhaled a shuddering breath, his eyes wide as he looked up at Tony. "N—, no. I—, I'm okay, M—, Mr. St—, Stark. R—, really."

"I mean it," Tony insisted, keeping his grip on the kid's shoulder. "It's okay."

"No!" Peter yelped, shaking his head. "I—, I'm okay! I just—"

"Peter!" Tony said sharply, mentally kicking himself when the boy jumped at his biting tone. But the sound of his proper name coming from Tony's lips for the first time since they'd met at the DSS office was enough for him to stop his yammering and focus in on Tony's face.

"Peter," Tony repeated, more gently this time as he knelt down, cupping the boy's shoulders with both hands. "I mean it. It's okay to cry."

Peter stared at him for two more heartbeats before the dam finally broke. Huge, fat tears spilled over his eyelids, streaming in rivulets down his round cheeks as the boy threw his arms around Tony's neck, burying his face in Tony's chest.

"Why did they all have to leave me, Mr. Stark? Why?" Peter sobbed, his breaths coming in huge, shuddering gasps. "My mommy and daddy, and my aunt and uncle? Why does everyone always leave me? Why? Why?"

Tony winced as he awkwardly patted Peter's back, trying not to think about the tears and snot and spit pooling on the front of his brand-new Tom Ford suit, and focus instead on the way his heart was cracking in two for the tiny kid crying in his arms. The realization that Tony was really all that Peter had now hit him like a repulsor blast to the chest, and Tony pursed his lips in determination.

"I don't have an answer for that, kid," Tony said softly. "But I'm gonna promise you something right now."

"What's that?" choked Peter.

"I promise," Tony said, drawing the small boy flush against his chest. "That's not what I'm gonna do."

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