A/N: I'm not entirely sure why I told you I'd post these in the first place but I kind of want to show you that this exists in the story without ever really being out there? Idk.

There's two outtakes (about 1k each) and I tried to explain where they're coming from in front of each. I hope you enjoy this, keep in mind it's not really finished posting material but I always like reading/seeing this kind of stuff that happens behind the scenes.

Oh, and thank you all so much for your comments. This Christmas fic was a true joy for me to do, especially when I got to read everything you had to say about it. Hope y'all had a great start to the new year! x

Thursday, December 20th: snowflake hair

This is a like a different version for the snowman building part that just didn't want to work. It felt like I was trying too hard to make it meaningful and then switching back to it being really easygoing and it just wouldn't go anywhere. There are a few things in there, though, that I liked, so I thought I'd post it. (This actually ended in the middle of a sentence because I always stop writing in the middle of sentences somehow, so I just bullshitted something to make a final period, honestly.)

"Hey Mister Stark," he calls out, smile a little wider than before with a warm feeling in the center of his chest. "You want me to pick up your snowball to put it on top of mine?"

He has already made it to the spot they had chosen for their snowman in advance and watches his mentor still roll his ball around, meticulously patting the fairly big snowball every few meters to keep access snow from falling off.

"Gimme a sec," comes the reply in a quiet rumble, "According to my calculations the ball should have the perfect size by the time I get to you. But you can pick it up from there."

Peter nods and pats his own snowball a little, too, so it could be a match for his middle counterpart. "Hey Mister Stark," he then asks because the man seems distracted enough, "What are you getting me for Christmas?"

There's a pause and it's almost enough to have him hope for an actual answer. A lot of times Mister Stark would speak before thinking when his mind is busy on other projects and these moments of weakness are the only time for Peter to get anything out of him that he doesn't want him to know. Suffice to say he has quickly become a master of asking the important questions at the most random times.

"Nothing because you're an ungrateful brat," he calls back, though, and Peter sticks out his tongue at him.

Doesn't mean he'd have to stop trying now. "I'm guessing it's not clothes, right? Because you just got me clothes."

"Why? Did you get me clothes?" Mister Stark laughs rolling his snowball over and leaving it ins Peter's care while he picks up another batch of snow, already forming the next one.

The teenager picks up the heavy ball that weighs next to nothing in his hands but does make it hard not to get his head get stuck in the snow seeing as it's huge. "What if I did?"

Mister Stark watches him intently for a couple of seconds before deciding, "You didn't. But I really did like the wrapping paper, so even if it's just another gift made entirely out of webbing, at least I have some beautiful wrapping paper to with it. Might even save it for next year."

Peter frowns as he catches the small ball his mentor throws at him and starts rolling it. "Please tell me you're not one of those people who takes ages to unwrap their package and then reuses it afterwards. Because my grandma always did that and I hate it.

"My mum used to do that. Probably to draw out the gift giving to annoy me because, shockingly enough, I have never been known for my patience."

The admission comes light and easy and it's almost weird how not awkwardly Mister Stark says it. Normally, everything to do with his mother is said in an almost reverent whisper as if to not taint the treasured memories. This, though, is just a side fact thrown into a conversation for the heck of it.

Peter knows he only let it slip because he feels at ease and relaxed and, for some reason, trusts him and it makes his heart grow a few sizes. "Well," he mockingly considers for a bit, "if you do that we cannot celebrate Christmas together. I will not let you made me wait."

"You wound me," the older man grins, hand resting over his heart in mock hurt but eyes glistening with fondness. "What am I supposed to tell Rhodey and Happy now? They were so excited when I told them you were coming over on Monday. And your aunt was delighted at the prospect of not having to cook."

"Wait!" He stops working for a second, "We're coming over for Christmas? That's actually a thing you talked about with Aunt May? Why didn't you tell me?"

Ignoring Peter's scandalized expression completely, he walks over to pick up the finished snowball to put it on top, pressing and turning until it wouldn't fall off again.

"Tada."

"One," Peter starts, unimpressed, "That snowman is not even close to being finished and two, don't ignore my question."

When Mister Stark only creases his forehead in confusion he bends down with a sigh and starts picking up snow to pack between the sections. "See? That's so it looks more uniform and not just like three separate snowballs stacked on top of each other."

"Fine." The other man joins him in giving their snowman a proper shape. "It was supposed to be a surprise, by the way. Your aunt wanted to have something up her sleeve should you fall into one of your moods again before Christmas."

"That – that's nice," he stutters, "I didn't think anyone noticed."

He put so much effort into making everyone else think he's okay when he's not that it still feels weird when people see behind the façade so easily.

"Please," his mentor scoffs but his hand comes to rest in the middle of Peter's shoulder blades in a silent 'I'm here'. "Now, how about a face?"

"I've got his nose." Peter bites his lip, hunting for the carrot he had picked up from Tony's rooms when the man had gotten ready and presents it with a final whoop. "And I think instead of eyes we should give him one of your sunglasses since we don't have pebbles or charcoal here and uh – I'm not sure about the mouth."

"He can have my scarf," Mister Stark says offhandedly, already taking the piece of clothing from his neck and handing Peter the spare sunglasses he seems to be keeping in the inside pocket of his coat. "Can't have our snowman be dressed in anything less than Tom Ford and Cartier, right?"

"Mister Stark?" Peter stares up at the man, wide eyes following his smooth movements in wrapping the scarf around the snowman. "How much do these cost?"

"Together? Eh, about one and a half grand?"

"Wha –"

"Peter!"

But it's too late. The boy has already run the older man over and keeps throwing snow into his face, all the while laughing almost maniacally.

"You." Throw. "Can't." Another batch of snow. "Give." He rolls over, protecting his face from an attack. "A snowman." He splutters, gasping through the snow in his face. "Thousand dollars."

The attacks stop then but when he has blinked away the snow in his eyes and he can see Mister Stark again, he falls right back into the snow, face bright red with the cold and he's grinning up at his mentor through his icy lashes.

Saturday, December 22nd: bundling up

This is the dream Peter woke up from before they went star gazing. I wanted to write it down so I would know how to reference it when he's up again and I actually did some research on dream interpretation so if you want – feel free to tell me what you think all of this means!

He feels the bile rise up in his throat, blinking away the tears when the acid tears through his esophagus but he can't stop. He won't. They're behind him.

He's too scared to turn around to check if they're still there. He just keeps running, feet hitting the pavement so hard some of the topping breaks and the tiny stones splash in every direction, including his calf. It hurts. It's bleeding, he feels the warm substance run down his leg and he almost slips on it when he turns a corner.

There's a house, a mansion. He's running towards it without a second thought. He just wants to be safe.

Safesafesafe. What does that feel like? He's not sure he remembers.

His hands clutch his backpack to his chest. They can't have it. They won't. They would have to kill him for it.

Finally, he's in the house but the first two rooms are full of water and he almost slips when he opens them. Another one is spitting fire and the fourth houses a three-headed-monster that goes for his head before he pushes the door closed.

There's only one door left, at the very end of the corridor. The door is slightly ajar and he doesn't waste any time, just sprints towards it, not caring how he scrapes his shoulder on the solid wood when he hits it.

It's empty.

There's nothing in the room but he doesn't consider turning around. He has to stay here and stay safe. They won't get him in here.

With shaky hands and uneven breaths he pulls out the nickel-titanium alloy mask from his backpack and gently sets it on his lap, fingers stroking over the cool metal carefully, delicately. (It's not really nitinol. He just likes to pretend it is.)

They're safe. Safesafesafe.

Suddenly all walls in the room flicker and come to life to show a news clip. A hord of reporters is shoving their microphones and cameras into Tony Stark's face and he grimaces in sympathy. Cold anger is boiling in his stomach at the sight of them crowding his mentor, his superhero and, once more, he feels the bile rise and this time he spits it out.

That's when someone else appears on the scream and for the first time there's a sound to the recording.

"Mister Stark, who is that with you?" "Mister Stark what are you saying to people claiming that he is your son?" "Mister Stark, who would you consider your brightest intern?" "Mister Stark we heard he's not –"

Tony Stark turns around, sunglasses off and arm slung lazily around a young boy, his spitting image.

"I'd tell them that they are absolutely right. He is my son. He's the brightest boy I have ever met, I mean he's gotta, ya know? He's my kid."

My kid, my kid, my kid, my kid

Something in Peter crumbles at the words and when he looks down at his lap, the mask he's been clinging to for so long, the thing he has tried to protect from the shadows chasing him – it's gone. Vanished.

And the screens keep playing Mister Stark gushing about his kid. He's smiling brightly, not a hint of sadness, not a hint of trauma. Just, happiness because he has his kid.

Before the conscious part of his brain can form a command, his legs are already moving and he's bolting out of the room once more. Back into the daunting corridor with the many doors that hide his worst fears.

There's a little girl sitting in a corner that wasn't there before. She's curled in on herself, trying to hide her head in her knees. Her shoulders are shaking and when she looks up and meets Peter's eyes, the fear in her eyes is a direct link to his own heart beating too fast in his chest.

He moves towards her, blocking her from the snake that's slowly slithering towards her without a thought. He needs to protect her. If she doesn't survive, he won't either – it's a fact he feels to be true in his very core.

When he looks up at the snake, ready to fire a web at it, he pauses for a split second.

Green eyes are staring right into his soul and he hears its voice in his head.

"Not you," it hisses over and over and over again.

Not me, not me, not m-

The snake has gotten into his head and the tiny moment it has gained is enough for it to lunge forward and sink its teeth into Peter's arms before he strangles her.

The lifeless reptile falls to the floor with a loud thud that barely registers with him.

He's looking for the little girl but she's gone. In her place is a mirror and when he looks at it – he finds green eyes staring back at him but he can't reach out to smash the glass. He can't do anything anymore. His arms are sticking to his body, his face a stiff grimace of fear.

He's paralyzed. And terrified.