Tony feels like he's screwed a pooch of world record proportions, and even though he'll be paying the free clinic bills for the rest of his life, he'll never stop feeling guilty about his hybrid puppies. Or puppy, singular. And by puppy he really means teenager. One that's decidedly lacking his usual puppy-dog enthusiasm and has finally fallen asleep after a heartbreaking crying fit that leaves Tony feeling like he's just been waterboarded. And the puppy-child's not technically his, despite all the feelings he has to the contrary. So maybe this metaphor has gotten away from him a bit. Yes, it's gross, but it has history …

Long story short, he fucked up. Fucked up royally.

He still doesn't understand how, exactly. It was more important to try to cheer the kid up and give him a good Christmas than to assuage his own raging curiosity by digging into all Pete's emotional wounds. Considering the panic attack Peter had back in the living room and how hard he'd just cried, Tony's not sure he succeeded. There're several things about today that might haunt Tony for the rest of his life. Top of the list was that horrendous moment Peter thought Tony would send him back to foster care. He'd never seen the kid spiral so quickly. Every heartbreaking word made Tony want to vomit up everything he'd ever eaten. They'll stop me, or they'll find out, or they'll hurt me. I'd rather starve. Tony would never have known Peter spent a week in foster care if he hadn't had FRIDAY pull all his records before he recruited Spider-Boy for Germany. Neither Pete nor May had ever said a word. Now Tony needs to know what happened during that week.

He doesn't think he can handle knowing what happened during that week.

Also, the kid is literally starving. Tony could buy every single fast food franchise in the country and probably not even notice the hit to his bank account and Peter can barely eat now because his stomach isn't used to having enough food to feed a toddler, let alone an enhanced teenager with a supercharged metabolism. It's so wrong Tony wants to go on a hunger strike in protest.

This never should have happened. How could Tony let this happen? To his kid, his spidering, his son. He invented time travel to bring this precious child back from the dead and then left him on his own to deal with the death of his last living relative and the fact he was somehow forgotten by every person he ever knew.

"I'm gonna fix this, kiddo," he mutters into Peter's hair, which is still damp from his shower. "I'm gonna fix everything."

He's glad Peter isn't awake to respond. The kid clearly needs about two weeks of unbroken rest. The bags under his eyes remind Tony of the days he used to hide in his lab for 72 hours until JARVIS pretended to malfunction and set off an alarm that always fetched Pepper and unlocked the door.

Tony intends to ease Peter back against his pillows, tuck him in tightly, and stare at him a bit longer before he goes and freaks out under Pepper's loving care. But when he tries to extricate himself, he finds that one of Peter's hands is fisted in the back of his shirt. The other, even more problematically, is stuck to Tony's arm with those freaky powers of his. Even though his palm is completely flat against the silk of Tony's pajamas, it's as immovable as if Peter were clutching on with every ounce of his super strength.

"Huh," he huffs, endeared and heartbroken all at once at how desperately his kid has clung to him, even asleep. If only Tony could provide more than rudimentary comfort. Pete needs far more than just an unending embrace. He needs a father who's not a complete fuck-up.

He needs a world that hasn't altogether abandoned him.

But all he has is Tony.

It's not enough. It will never be enough.

But it's more than he had this morning. Tony's got resources at least. He's flush with resources. He'll make sure the kid has a safe place to live and warm clothes and as much food as his poor shrunken spider stomach can handle.

And he'll love him. Because he can't not. It's become engrained in him, somehow, this all-consuming love for this brilliant, selfless, endearing, heroic child. It's so deep rooted that all of Tony's cells are vibrating with the pain of it, the guilt, that he had left this boy he loves so much to suffer so long alone. He will buy this kid everything he needs for the rest of his life, and it will never scratch the surface of the atonement he's owed.

But all he can do right now is shift them both into a more comfortable position, trying to find a way that they both won't wake up with their limbs all pins and needles. Tony deserves the discomfort, but Peter doesn't. If he hadn't found Pete today, if Morgan hadn't insisted, then where would he have slept tonight? If he didn't have enough money for food, then how was he paying rent? And who would rent an apartment to a seventeen-year-old? Tony shudders at the thought that his kid might have been living on the street. Surely he'd have some dumbass selfless rebuttal about how it wasn't dangerous for him because of his powers. But that didn't mean it wasn't unbearably sad. How the hell had this happened? May Parker was no doubt vibrating with fury in her grave.

Tony will buy a more comfortable mattress in the morning. More pillows. More blankets. And he'll make a very sizable donation to any charity dealing with homelessness in NYC.

Only once he's finally got them both situated, Pete tucked all nice and cozy against his chest, does he realize that the kid isn't stuck to him anymore.

"Well played, Parker," he whispers into the kid's curls, which have grown long and wild. "Well played."

Technically he could slip away. But there's no way he's letting the kid out of his sight tonight. Not when he needs him. Needs someone, and Tony is the only one left.

"FRI," he whispers. "Let Pep know I'm not coming to bed. Kid needs me."

"Certainly boss."

"Thanks, dear."

He intends to stay awake 'til morning. There are so many thoughts he could wallow through. From the way Pete had looked collapsed in that graveyard on Christmas Day to all the tears he had cried once he was finally home. Their fight at dinner, the shame on Pete's face when he admitted he couldn't eat any more, and how Tony had said all the wrong things and then not been able to look at him.

How Peter had been certain—terrified and certain—that Tony was going to toss him off to child services and whatever horror he knew awaited there.

Yet somehow Tony falls asleep during his self-flagellation. He's old now. Old and soft, used to joining his wife in bed at a reasonable hour instead of frantically working each night away, fending off sleep with loud music and caffeine and manic genius. He never thought he'd be this person, too tired for the proper amount of self-hatred.

But he's completely unaware when the keening wakes him, a horrific sound gaining in volume and intensity. Tony's used to that when the nightmares are his own, but this wail of agony comes from the child now thrashing in his arms.

"Nonononononono. No, May, you can't. Please, May. Stay with me. Please."

And Tony is frozen. What does he say? What does he do? It's like Peter is dying all over again, crumbling to dust while Tony is useless. And Tony wants to be better—he swore to the universe that if he ever got Peter back he'd be better—but he's just as incompetent. History repeats. He's never enough.

"No. I just wanted to kill you myself!" his kid growls, and the sudden rage snaps Tony into action. He's never heard Peter this mad. Hadn't thought him capable. Every time they've argued, Peter's highest setting is more like a yapping puppy imitating an older dog than a snarling wolf.

But tonight his tone of voice is chilling. So Tony says, soft but firm, "Just a dream, bud. You gotta wake up," and then slides his hand down Peter's arm and squeezes.

It happens as fast as a car crash. One second Tony's fine and the next he blinks away stars and realizes that Peter has slugged him. "Shit," he swears as pain blooms and Peter keeps thrashing. "FRI, lights at fifty percent. Lights," he rambles as he scrambles away, knowing already that whatever hell his kid's trapped in, it will now be worse when he wakes. Even as his eyes water, Tony resolves to downplay this, even though the shock might have taken a year off his life. He hopes his face won't be bruised in the morning.

He hopes his jaw isn't dislocated.

"All right, Peter, it's time to wake up now." He manages the words without making the pain worse. He runs his tongue over his teeth and they're all still there. Wins, two of them. But Peter doesn't respond, doesn't wake. Tony can't touch the kid again, that much is clear, although all he wants to do is pull him back into his arms. That's the only thing that will help the smarting running up and down his left side. If he can soothe the kid his own pain will be inconsequential. But he's not a complete moron. Cuddling can wait until Pete's back in his right mind.

"FRI, little help here, doll? Alarm sound, maybe? Something soothing but urgent?"

The sound she chooses is the default alarm ditty from the most economical and sad StarkPhone competitor. Tony's about to chide her when Peter groans, blinks, and wakes.

The rage dissipates with the nightmare, leaving his kid sleep-tousled and befuddled.

"Thank god," Tony says.

"What are you doing in bed with me?" Peter squeaks.

"Wow, I haven't heard that in a long time." The words are out of his mouth before they cross his mind. Be better! he chides himself, feeling gross. "Christ, sorry."

Tony's thankful that Pete seems so out of it that his comment's gone right over his head. For about two seconds, anyway, until Pete's narrowed eyes widen. "Did I hit you?"

"Maybe." He wants to deny it, but his kid's no idiot. If he asks, he either remembers, or there's some physical evidence that Tony's not going to be able to hide without breaking into Pepper's cosmetics. Best to play this straight.

"Oh god, oh god. I'm sorry. You shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here." Peter presses himself back against the headboard and then scuttles up the wall. And Tony knows he can do that and has seen it before. But there's something undoubtably different when Spider-Man is wallcrawling and when it's Peter Parker, with bedhead and plaid Christmas pajamas at some witching hour of the night. The horror movie nightmare shit is so much worse because the kid is now sobbing from the ceiling, and without a gauntlet there's no way that Tony can follow.

"I'm fine. Promise. I once called a suit in my sleep. Pepper woke up with a charged gauntlet in her face. Scared the shit out of us both. This stuff happens. We're okay."

"It's not okay. I hurt you."

"Stung a little, Rocky Balboa, I'll give you that. You pack quite a punch. But it doesn't hurt as much as watching you cry up there. Can you please come down? For me?"

Peter shouldn't have to do anything for Tony. He doesn't owe the man anything. But guilt is a currency that always works on Pete. Tony's not a good enough person to avoid using it if it helps the kid out in the long run.

Peter blinks at him with wide, wet Bambi eyes and then drops. Tony's heart drops too, but his blood pressure skyrockets, even though Peter flips midair and lands in a crouch before Tony's finished reacting.

"Geez, kid. Not exactly what I meant."

"Sorry," Pete whispers into his knees. He's pulled his legs tight against his chest and wrapped his arms around them, as if he's trying to make himself small. It's wrong. This kid's supposed to be vibrancy and endless energy. Big plans. Big dreams. Big heart.

"No, Roo, don't be sorry. Not for anything."

"I attacked you!"

"You were having a nightmare. I was the one dumb enough to get within swinging distance. Rookie move. It's like I didn't spend years living with a bunch of traumatized super soldiers."

Peter peeks up. He looks so young peering out beneath a fringe of wild curls. But all the baby fat is gone from his face, replaced by sharp lines and sallow shadows. "The Avengers are traumatized?"

"You have no idea. We're all a mess, kid. And I might be the biggest mess of all. No shame in that. Now would you come over here?" Tony pats the space beside himself. "Please."

"I shouldn't."

"Bullshit. I want you to. And if you really feel bad about hitting me, then you should stop arguing and do what I say."

"That's not fair," Pete whines. And it's not. It's a low blow, a shitty tactic. But he knows it'll work.

"Yes, well," Tony grumbles back. "Seems like the world left fair behind a couple of months ago. Now come here. I have it good authority that I make a pretty good pillow."

Peter relents, moving slowly as if Tony might spook, which is ridiculous, because Tony could never be afraid of this child, despite all the power coiled in these precious supercharged limbs. Once he creeps close enough Tony slings an arm around his shoulder and pulls him down against his chest so Pete's head rests right where the reactor used to be, right above his heart. Tony's family has always been the best proof that it still beats.

Once they're settled one of Tony's hands makes its way into Peter's curls, stroking through them slowly. Sometimes a good back rub helps Morgan calm down. But Tony can't. Because he's noticed, during each of yesterday's desperate embraces, how he can feel each and every ridge in Peter's spine.

Tony's been starved twice in his spoiled life. Once in Afghanistan, and once in space. The Ten Rings had withheld food as a punishment to keep him weak and compliant, but Tony had known that they'd needed him too much to take it too far. As torture went, it was better than waterboarding. Better than waking up with a fucking car battery soldered to his chest.

But those endless weeks trapped with the Blue Meanie in a dying spaceship were a different kind of pain. As supplies dwindled and rations got smaller and smaller as they slowly accepted that there would be no repair and no rescue, hunger gnawed at him constantly, just as tenacious as despair. He felt his body shut down over and over, each insignificant bite of food restarting the process as his stupid stomach anticipated a salvation that wasn't forthcoming. Tony could cope with the way it made him angry; he'd wasted most of his life feeling angry after all. But he hated the way starvation made it hard to think. His brain had always been his most valuable resource, and in the end it atrophied like the rest of his muscles.

In his rare bursts of clarity after he'd allowed himself a bite of a tasteless protein bar, he'd been glad that Peter had died on Titan—almost quick, the pain and fear lasting only moments and not weeks. Because the only thing worse than losing someone was watching them suffer. Better to break apart fast than to waste away. Peter was never supposed to know such prolonged pain. Yet Tony had defied time for his son, and he'd suffered anyway. A quick, painful death and six weeks slowly dying. The worst of both worlds.

Tony doesn't understand why. Pete lives in a city bursting with food. Why hadn't he taken what he needed?

Morals?

Money?

Because he didn't think he deserved it?

Fuck.

Now Tony can't even give him a back rub to comfort him properly, because if every movement of his hand reminds him of that travesty, Peter will notice the way his heartrate spikes and his breathing gets shallow. And that will achieve the opposite of calming him down. Playing with his hair will have to do.

"That's nice," Peter hums, oblivious to Tony's inner turmoil. Finally he's done something right. It's clear, from the way his kid flinches away from contact and then leans in hard, that he's starved for touch as well as food. Tony worries the memory of that will last longer than the hunger. Pete's always been touchy-feely with his aunt and his little nerd brigade. Hugs, handshakes, ruffled hair, and arms slung over his shoulder. That used to freak Tony out, leave him on edge that the kid would look to him for physical reassurance like he had in the back of the car after Germany, when Tony had dropped the ball hard. Now he'd do absolutely anything to make the kid feel safe and loved, to fulfill that basic human need. He tucks a curl behind Peter's ear, then smooths his palm across the back of his head, scratching gently at his scalp.

"You're being so nice to me."

Tony wants to cry but doesn't dare let Pete hear the sob that threatens to tear him apart. This isn't niceness. It's atonement. And it will never be enough. "I'm always nice to you. Everyone should be nice to you. Your eyes put a puppy's to shame, and you're like, the most polite teenager on the planet."

"No one's nice to me anymore." Peter whispers it like a secret, and Tony's heart breaks again even though it's already been shattered. "Most people look right through me, like they can't even see me. And those that do—all they see is some good for nothing drop-out. A waste of space."

Tony knows all about loneliness. He's felt alone more often than not, but the truth is some of that was self-imposed. His childhood sucked. But he took the lessons he learned from Howard and Maria a bit too far. For most of his life he pushed people away, and very few cared enough to push back. But Peter has always depended on his inner circle, the small but ever loyal Friends of Spider-Man. Stripping that away from him must have been more tortuous than any physical pain. Tony would let Thanos break every bone in his body if it spared Peter from that. "You're not a waste of space! Even down on your luck you're better than any of them—"

"I thought I was gonna be alone for the rest of my life," he murmurs into Tony's chest.

"Well, you're not!" Tony holds on just a little tighter, ignoring bony knees and bony elbows and bony everything. "You've got me and your sister now. Pepper too. We're all in your corner, and we're not going anywhere. I promise, kiddo. You're never gonna be alone again. You're going to get so tired of me always being around that you're gonna wish for some solitude, but you're not gonna get any."

"Don't want any."

"Good. Then we're both in agreement."

Tony knows it won't last. The kid will want to go to school. Patrolling. College, one day. But for now, he lets himself pretend that Pete will never leave this cabin, where nothing can hurt him. And maybe, after endless months of proof his kid is okay, Tony will be able to forgive himself for all those weeks that he wasn't.

"Wanna tell me what that nightmare was about?"

"No."

Tony tucks another curl behind Pete's ear, then lets his fingers skim down his boy's face, all dry skin and warm tears. "Fair. But it seemed like a doozy. Might help if you talked about it."

"Wasn't really a nightmare. More like a memory."

Those are the worst, when the horror is true. Tony thinks of Peter's rage, his tearful admission yesterday that he'd almost killed someone. He really doesn't want to know what that's about. But Tony can listen, because Peter is here, safe, and for the first time in too long he's not alone with his demons. "I think it's after midnight. Boxing Day has arrived. You could tell me now."

"It's a long story."

"You can skip to the part you were dreaming about. I'm a smart guy. I think I can catch up."

"Don't want you to hate me," Pete mumbles.

"I could never!" Tony carefully, so carefully, as if he's handling a baby chick with his Iron Man gauntlet, turns Pete's face so it's not pressed into his chest. Tilts it just so that Pete has to look up at him. "Nothing you could ever say or do will make me hate you. Hell, you could strangle the wizard right in front of me and I'd just help you hide the body."

He's not expecting Pete to jerk away, his shiny eyes wide.

Tony reaches out to circle one of his wrists to keep him from moving too far. "That was just a joke. Bad taste. Sorry."

But Peter doesn't soften. There's tension in every line of his body. Tony cannot help himself. His mouth has always run faster than his brain. "You didn't strangle a wizard, did you?"

"No," Pete chokes out. "But Doctor Strange was there."

There's something in his tone beyond the guilt that raises the hair on the back of Tony's neck, like he's got a Tony Tingle of his own. Maybe it only works when his kid is in danger.

Who is he kidding? Eighteen hours ago he didn't even know one of his kids existed.

Which is a very mysterious, dare he say magical anomaly.

"Do I need to strangle a wizard?"

Pete shakes his head. "It wasn't his fault. It was mine."

"I doubt that very much."

"I almost killed someone! I wanted to kill someone. I think—sometimes—I wish I had."

He wants to say, "Oh, Roo." To gather his son back in his arms and rock him to sleep until they both forget this night ever happened. But he keeps thinking of Peter's tone in that nightmare—the incandescent rage, so unlikely anything Tony's ever witnessed when the kid was awake. He can't just sweep that under the rug. Anything that can make his kid that angry needs to be dealt with before decades have passed and he needs a shit ton of therapy.

"Who was he?" he asks instead, keeping his voice as neutral as he can manage.

"He called himself the Green Goblin." Pete's voice is so flat it's almost more disturbing than the rage. He pulls himself into a sitting position, and Tony hates every inch of distance between them. "He killed May because she tried to protect me. He told me it was my fault. That my morality was a weakness. And I know that's wrong, but after he killed her – I wanted to kill him. I wanted to make him pay for what he did to her. For what he did to me. I just kept punching him. But that wasn't enough. It didn't even seem to hurt. He just kept laughing. So I grabbed his glider – the one he used to-" Pete pauses to clear his throat and scrubs a fist across his eyes. "I was gonna slam it down on his neck. As many times as it took."

Tony's insides freeze at that violent little image. Truth be told he hadn't thought Peter capable. But he's thought worse. Done worse. "Why didn't you?" he asks, trying not to let his horror show. He's gotta be as neutral as Switzerland. Peter said he wanted to kill someone. Not that he'd done it.

"He stopped me."

"Who's he?"

"Peter 2."

Tony feels his eyebrow quirk. "Who the hell is Peter 2?"

"Me."

"Excuse me? Is this like a split personality situation?"

"More like a multiverse convergence situation," Peter mutters.

"Are you joking?"

Peter tilts his head, his voice a bit of a growl. "Does this seem funny?"

"Not remotely. The multiverse is real? Holy shit."

"That's five dollars for the swear jar." Pete's voice is so monotone, and most of the words he's saying so ridiculous, that Tony can't stop the laugh that bursts out of him.

"I'll give you ten dollars to tell me more about Peter 2."

"There's also a Peter 3."

Tony's mind is suddenly full of images of his own baby-faced Huey, Dewey, and Louie, fighting crime and leaving absolute chaos in their wake. "You've no idea how much I'd pay to see that. Were they all identical?"

For the first time that night, a smile steals across Peter's face, tiny and wistful but undeniable. "Nah. They kinda looked like me. But they were old. One of them was married. They were great, though, even though they didn't know who the Avengers were and had never been part of a team. But we're getting sort of off track."

"They stopped you. Because they're Peter Parker. So of course they did."

"That's not." Peter huffs and shakes his head. "Peter 3. He lost someone. His MJ. Her name was Gwen. He couldn't save her. And he said afterwards he stopped pulling his punches. So it's not like we can't go bad. Maybe Peter 2 stopped me because he knew he had to."

"Getting a little rough with criminals isn't 'going bad.'"

Pete crosses his arms so tightly across his chest that Tony can see them shake. "But it's not good! They're still people. With lives and families. And if I take one life, even if it's some supervillain who I think deserves it, what stops me the next time, and the next? If I start taking justice into my own hands, then maybe one day I'm the super villain."

Tony can't help it; he laughs, bracing his hands on his thighs as the sound comes straight from his belly.

"I'm really glad you think this is funny," Peter hisses.

"You, a supervillain? I do, Roo. I really do." He reaches out but Peter swats his hand away. "You'd be the worst supervillain in the world."

"I would not. I'm strong. I could be dangerous."

Tony knew it was entirely unhelpful to find Peter's pouting adorable in this moment. "In the heat of the moment, maybe."

"I slugged you in the face!"

"In the heat of the moment." Tony slides a little closer, testing the water. Pete doesn't shift away, though he's still gnawing his lip and wringing his hands. "Look, I don't care what comic books say. Most super villains are just dicks. Tragic backstories aside, they don't care who they hurt. That's why you could never be a villain. No matter how much power you have. Because you care. So damn much."

"I didn't care when I picked up that glider. I coulda done it. I could have decapitated him."

"If you're trying to shock me into disowning you, it's not going to work. My nickname for years was The Merchant of Death, remember?"

"Yeah, but that was your company. Your father built most of those weapons, and you shut down that whole division. It wasn't cause you killed people."

What had he ever done to deserve this child's unfailing support? He was wrong on all counts, but his defense warmed Tony anyway.

"But I have killed people. So many I've lost count. Some deserved it. Some were just collateral damage. Maybe I'm a super villain."

"Don't be dumb."

"Pep killed someone too. So she can't judge you either. I watched her do it. Aldrich Killian. Blew him right up." No need to mention that she'd been hopped up on Extremis, hot in both the literal and figurative sense.

"But you want me to be better than you."

That cuts right through him like a blade of his own making. "I shouldn't have said that. That was not a good mentoring moment. Classic Howard Stark. Zero stars. And I'm sorry. There's so many things I'd change about that whole debacle if I could. You were just a kid, and I've made much bigger mistakes as an adult. I don't expect you to be perfect. Nobody's perfect. And just cause you've got the biggest heart of anyone I know doesn't mean you're not allowed to be angry or do something you regret. Especially when a raging asshole kills someone you love and taunts you about it. That doesn't mean you're not a hero. It just means that you're human."

"But I'm not. Not really. I have these powers—"

"Peter Benjamin Parker." Finally he's angry. Angry that this precious kid could ever doubt his self-worth like that. "You are human. You're the most human human I've ever known. I don't care what percentage of your DNA comes from a spider. That doesn't make you any lesser then."

"You're right. It makes me more. It's so much easier for me to hurt someone. I have to check myself."

For a moment Tony feels like he's caught in a conversation about the Accords, and after all the ways he botched that the first time, he just can't handle it now, when he's vibrating with secondhand panic and a wizard probably messed with his brain.

"And sometimes you need to give yourself a break." He reaches out and clasps both of Pete's shoulders. Peter's breath hitches, but he doesn't pull away. "I know these shoulders are strong, but they can't carry the weight of the world all on their own forever. And they don't have to anymore."

"If he wasn't there—" Pete's voice breaks, his face crumbles, and Tony can't take it any longer. He pulls him forward until his face lands in the crook of Tony's shoulder, and then wraps his arms around his kid's trembling back.

"I'm glad he was. For your sake. I don't care about that asshole. I want to kill him myself for hurting you. But if no one had stopped you I'd have loved you anyway. There's nothing you can do to make me stop loving you. But the next time you get that angry, maybe I'll be the one to stop you. Or Ted. Or Peter 57. Or maybe we'll just be there afterwards to pick up the pieces. But it will be okay."

"Promise?" Peter whispers.

Tony presses his response into the top of Peter's head. It's a dangerous thing, offering hope, but he'd die a hundred times before he lets his boy stay not-okay. "Promise."

"But May died for me. How am I supposed to live with that?"

"Oh, Roo. That sucks. I'm so sorry you have to carry that. But as someone who was ready to kick it for both his kids, I can say with absolute certainty that she didn't regret it. Sure she was sad that she'd miss out on the rest of your life and you had to go on without her. But she didn't regret that you'd get to live if she didn't. All a parent wants is for their kid to be okay. So the best way to honor who she was and what she meant to you is to let yourself move on."

"I don't know how to do that."

"With time. And support. And maybe a good therapist. I'll help you, kiddo. You don't have to do this alone anymore. Maybe you don't believe that right now, but I'll wear you down eventually."

And Tony waits, not sure what else he can say, what else he can do. Grief had nearly destroyed him, and he didn't even like his parents. May had been Peter's rock, a verifiable saint in an Italian windstorm. Who was Tony to offer platitudes about coping with loss? All he really knows are all the ways he doesn't want Peter to respond. Sex. Drugs. Rock and roll. (The last one was okay, except that loud noises hurt Pete's ears.)

But he needs Pete to believe him. And for once the universe throws him a bone. "That sounds really nice," he mumbles, voice thick with mucus.

"Good man." Tony squeezes him a little tighter, letting himself feel the relief of a defused bomb. This is surely just the first of many freak outs about the shitstorm of a story Pete's still bottling up—multiverse convergence and other versions of Peter, good lord!—but if Tony can calm him down once, he can do it again. He'll do it a thousand times if that's what it takes.

When he starts to feel the strain in his back he forces himself to ease away, reaching up with his sleeve to wipe Pete's silent tears. "First step is to get some more rest. Can I get you anything? Water? Hot chocolate? I could put on a movie?"

"Stay?" Pete's voice is so heartbreakingly tentative. Tony doesn't know how to convince him that he could ask for absolutely anything and Tony would deliver it on a silver platter. Apparently neither the mountain of presents or all his heartfelt declarations have gotten that very important point across. Asking him to stay is no trouble at all.

Now if Pete had asked him to go, that would have been hard.

"Course I'm staying. Let me just find a more comfortable position for my creaky old bones."

Tony scooches back against the pillows and then taps on his chest. "Come 'ere, Roo."

The teen practically faceplants into his chest. Tony huffs a little as he tries to pull the sheets over them both. Once they're finally situated he realizes the angle's bad. He'd been planning on combing his fingers through Peter's hair until his boy fell asleep, but it's likely his arm's going to fall asleep first.

There's nothing for it. His spider-baby needs to be soothed, so Tony has to get his act together. Gingerly as he can, he lays a palm flat on Peter's shoulder blade and sweeps it slowly down Peter's back. As expected, Pete tenses at first, but after just a few seconds he presses into the touch. And it's not so bad, even though the kid clearly needs to put some meat on his bones. Not when he starts purring like a motor, his contentment vibrating against Tony's sternum.

"You like that, bud?"

"Mmm-hmmm." And Tony chuckles, despite himself, despite everything, because his kid is finally in his arms after so long and even at such a low point he's so fucking adorable.

Tony actually thinks the kid has purred himself to sleep when the hum is replaced by whispered words. "Are you real?"

His hand freezes at the unexpected question until Peter whines and Tony resumes his slow path up and down the kid's back. "What do you mean?"

"I keep thinking you must be a dream or a drone or a hallucination. Maybe I'm dying, and you're just my brain's way of sending me off with something nice."

"You're not dying," Tony hisses, his throat tightening at the very idea. "You're not allowed to die for another eighty or ninety years, minimum. And when you do go, at a very ripe old age, you're gonna see something a hell of a lot kinder than this. Today's been kind of a rough day."

"It's the best day I've had in a long time."

And Tony's heart stutters and swells and shatters and mends. Much as he hates himself, he's still the luckiest man alive. "Me too, buddy. Me too. But we're gonna raise that bar a helluva lot higher. To a level that doesn't include panic attacks and crying yourself to sleep."

"That sounds nice."

Tony bends down and kisses the edge of Peter's hairline. "I'm real, Peter. This is real. I'm here. You're here. And whatever went wrong six weeks ago I'm gonna fix it. I promise."

"I trust you," Peter says with a sleepy sigh, so fast it's like he didn't even have to think about it.

Tony only wishes he trusted himself.