an: okay, I know this has trope has been used and abused, but I like it and this just kinda came to me. Also, I know it's a "five times" story but bc I'm not completely on board with the last chapter, instead of deleting it, I think I'm just going to do an extra chapter. I know I'm breaking the rules, but y'all can fight me later if you want.

4. (Alt. Chapter) / The House Party

"Oh hey, Mis'sr Stark...," Peter said, his face flushed, "I didn't know you were gonn'a be here."

A few blocks down, teenagers loitered around a house that was shaking from the bass of some song Tony didn't recognize. He made a mental note to call in a noise complaint later—maybe even show up in the suit and make some kids piss themselves. That Peter had started his night there was glaringly obvious.

Why he was currently alone, his ass parked on the curb and stumbling through basic English, was a mystery.

"Peter, you called me."

The kid started giggling hysterically.

"Okay, that's it. I don't like dealing with drunk adults let alone children. Get up; I'm taking you home."

He snorted, looking at Tony like something hilarious had just popped into his head and making no effort to stand up.

"Kid, if you make me get down on the asphalt and drag you into the car, it's not going to be pretty."

"You're bein' kinda bossy."

The last of Tony's patience was quickly dissipating into the night air.

"You're lucky I'm not being kind of murder-y right now. Now get in the car before I ground you for the rest of your life, which, by the way won't be very long if May finds out about the little stunt you're pulling right now."

"Y' can't ground me, 'cause you're not my dad," Peter slurred, eyes blinking rapidly at the man standing in front of him.

"Want to test that theory?"

Peters eyes ballooned to about ten times their original size.

"Wait... are you my dad?"

Jesus Fucking Christ.

"No, I meant test the fact that I can ground you, not—," but Peter was laughing again.

"Ned is gonna be so jealous when he finds out Iron Man might be my dad."

Tony gripped his hair, wanting to rip every last strand out of his head.

"Pete, I'm not your dad!"

He might as well have kicked the kid right in the gut judging from the look on Peter's face.

Tony sighed, swallowing his frustration as he sat down on the cement curb next to Peter.

"Look, I didn't mean it like that—," but he stops, nearly choking on the scent emanating from the boy.

"Jesus, kid, how much did you drink?"

Peter looks away guiltily, "I dunno, one or two... maybe three. It's hard to count now," he murmured.

"No way in hell are you this trashed on 'one or two or maybe three'. Try again."

"Okay, okay... like two or three bottles," he amends sheepishly, and this time Tony's eyes are the ones that nearly bug out of his head.

"Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"N-no," he stutters, "I just... I thought I'd keep drinking until everything stopped being so loud, y'know?"

"And it took you half a liquor store to get to that point? Pete, that much alcohol could put the fucking Hulk in a coma. I should take you to the hospital."

He shook his head violently, "No, no Mr. Stark, m'okay, I promise. My metabolism works faster than ev'rybody else's."

Tony scanned the kid, apprehensive, but Peter didn't look like he needed medical attention. A stern talking-to, however, was in order.

"Fine, no doctors. Yet. But you better start explaining what you're doing hanging out on a curb by yourself in the middle of the night."

"Well I couldn't call Aunt May because she'd be so worried so I tried to fly home but then these thingys," he said, punching his fingers at the web-shooters on his wrist, "wouldn't work so then I started walking and I just got so tired," Peter said, all in one breath.

"And why did you feel the need to drink yourself into oblivion?"

Peter stared at his feet on the pavement, avoiding Tony's eyes and willing his words to come out coherently.

"Th' other kids were drinking and it looked fun so I wanna'd to try," he said, putting a ridiculous amount of effort into keeping his body upright and not smashing his face in the ground.

The older man squeezed his fists together, trying to remind himself that he was angry at the situation, not the kid.

"You know, for a genius, that's some of the dumbest logic I've ever heard."

Okay, maybe he was a little mad at the kid.

"You're telling me that some idiots throw back a couple of cheap beers and suddenly you get the idea to drink them under the table twelve times over?"

"I di-," he stops, putting his hands out to steady himself, "I didn't mean to, but it wasn't working. Ever'thing was still so loud."

Peter winced, as if the volume on the world had just surged again.

"Did you consider asking to turn down the music? Or, even better, I bet your apartment is pretty quiet this time of night."

He couldn't fight the dizziness anymore and tumbled forward abruptly, but Tony was faster, and caught him before he made a permanent indent in the street.

Not wanting a repeat of the incident, he put an arm around Peter's shoulders and held on tightly until the kid looked at him with the saddest eyes he'd seen in a while.

"Not the music. It's the crying and the screaming. Doesn't go away."

Peter's head fell against Tony's shoulder and, instinctively, Tony squeezed him a little bit harder.

"Whose screams, Pete?" But he didn't need to hear his reply to know the answer.

"All th' ones I can't save," he said, hiccupping at the end. When Tony looked over, there were tears streaked down his cheeks.

A minute or two passed as Tony tried to find something reassuring to say, but he couldn't find the right words.

"Why didn't you say anything?" He finally asked, lifting Peter's drooping face to look him in the eyes.

Peter just gave him a sad smile.

"You got enough stuff going on, you don' need my stuff too."

His hand reached up to stroke Peter's hair before he stopped himself.

"Peter, keeping everything bottled up and waiting for the explosion isn't healthy."

"But... you do that all the time."

His eyes rolled to the back of his head.

"Yes, I do, which is exactly my point. Forty years from now, I don't want you to end up like me: not speaking to your friends, constantly sabotaging a relationship with the love of your life, and being a terrible role model to an impressionable kid."

Peter stuck his finger in the air, swaying a bit before he poked Tony right in the chest.

"You're a good role model," Peter argued.

"That's coming from my kid who's so inebriated he can't even sit up by himself. Let's just agree I'm definitely no Steve Rogers."

Tony didn't notice that his thumb had started making circles on Peter's back, or that the words my kid left his mouth. Peter did.

"I always liked Iron Man better than Capt'n America anyway."

Tony laughed.

"Come on, Pete, if I hadn't gotten to you first you'd have kicked my ass in Germany and followed Rogers off into the sunset. Don't delude yourself."

Peter mustered up all the sobriety he had left in him, because he had something important to say and he was determined to say it without collapsing into a heap of drunkenness.

"But Mr. Rogers didn't come find me. You did. You're the only one who didn't look at me like some fragile thing that might break at any second."

"You know, I'd find that a lot more convincing if you didn't smell like the inside of a whiskey barrel," but Tony couldn't hide the smile that snuck onto his face and pulled Peter into him.

"And before you get ideas, this isn't a hug, I'm just worried you might fall over."

Peter smiled into his chest.

"Alcohol isn't a coping mechanism, Pete," he said over the top of the kid's head, turning quietly serious again.

The boy's muffled voice retorted, "Doesn't taste good either."

Then he pulled his head back, feeling much more sober than he had thirty minutes earlier.

"Do we have to tell May?"

Tony sighed.

"Eventually? Yes," Peter winced as Tony continued, "I don't keep secrets from her anymore."

"But we don't have to tell her this second. For right now, let's go grab something to eat and soak up what's left of tonight's bad decisions. We can deal with your aunt and finding some better, legal ways of dealing with trauma in the morning. Okay?"

"Okay," Peter conceded, allowing Tony to walk him to the car.

They stopped at a fast food joint, and Tony ordered three cheeseburgers—one for himself and two for Peter—before making their way to the compound where Tony watched the kid sleep, making sure he didn't choke on his own vomit. He didn't want to have to explain that to May.

Peter woke up in a room he didn't recognize the next morning, a note taped to his forehead.

Before you panic and do something stupid—because I'm doubtful you remember much of last night and you seem keen on making stupid decisions—you're at the Avengers facility. May knows you're here (I'll let you decide when to tell her why). Call me when you return to the land of the living, hangovers are one of my (many) areas of expertise.

-T.S.

(P.S. This room is still yours. There's no mini bar, but I think it'll suffice. Use it whenever you need.)