Chapter 14
It had been a few days since Tony’s panic attack, and while things weren’t perfect, they were... better. There was progress. Tony was still Tony—struggling with not overworking himself, trying to find value in himself beyond his inventions, his bravado, and his endless deflections. His journey was far from over, but at least he was walking it, not running away from it.
Natasha, too, was finding her own version of peace. The nightmares still came, but they were softer around the edges. The violent jolts that used to rip her out of sleep had dulled, and sometimes, in the haze of a bad dream, she found an anchor—the warmth of Tony’s arm draped over her, his steady breathing against her back. It made all the difference, knowing she wasn’t alone. Not anymore.
Today, the sun bathed the kitchen in a soft, golden glow. Natasha had just gotten back from her first solo outing in the city during the daytime—an accomplishment that had left her feeling lighter. And Tony had just returned from a long morning of SHIELD meetings, his tie already discarded and his shirt sleeves rolled up, ready to dive into something that wasn’t bureaucracy.
They stood side by side in the kitchen, surrounded by fresh herbs, colorful vegetables, and a half-empty bottle of red wine that Tony had cracked open to “enhance the experience.” Natasha watched as he expertly chopped garlic, his knife skills more precise than she’d expected.
“So, what exactly is so special about this pasta recipe?” she asked, eyebrow raised as she stirred the simmering sauce.
Tony shot her a grin. “It’s a Stark family secret. Handed down through generations. I heard from the old Stark Manor staff my mom used to make it on Sundays, they said it was the only thing that got my dad to shut up for five minutes.”
Natasha’s lips quirked. “So it’s magic, then?”
“Oh, absolutely.” He tossed the garlic into the pan, the sizzle filling the space between them. “Though, fair warning, if you learn this recipe, you’re legally obligated to marry me.”
She snorted. “Good thing I’m not scared of commitment, then.”
Tony’s grin widened. “I knew I picked the right Russian assassin to teach.”
As they worked together, the air filled with the rich aroma of tomatoes, basil, and spices. Natasha couldn’t help but notice how natural this felt—domestic, even. It was something she’d never really let herself want before.
“Pass me the oregano?” Tony asked, his voice soft, unhurried.
She did, their fingers brushing, and a spark zipped up her arm. It made her smirk. “You know, you’re way better at this than I thought you’d be.”
“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow as he sprinkled the herbs into the sauce. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t know... I figured you’d sound like a white guy trying to say ‘mozzarella’ with too many syllables.”
Tony’s laugh was bright, echoing off the kitchen tiles. “Well, I hate to disappoint.”
And then, to her surprise, he switched seamlessly into Italian, his voice taking on a warm, melodic cadence. “Sei molto più bella quando ridi, lo sai?”
Her eyes widened. “Okay, that’s not fair. You can’t just say something charming without a translation.”
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I said, ‘You’re even more beautiful when you laugh, you know?’”
A flush crept up her neck, but she masked it with a smirk. “Is that the only trick you’ve got?”
“Not even close.” He set the spoon down and turned to face her fully. “I can speak English, Spanish, French, Mandarin, Japanese, Italian, Urdu, Korean, and... Russian.”
Natasha’s jaw dropped slightly, and a new heat filled her expression. “You’re telling me you’ve been holding out on me this whole time?”
He chuckled. “Well, you never asked.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Prove it.”
His smirk turned wolfish, and without missing a beat, he launched into perfect Spanish. “Eres la mujer más increíble que he conocido.”
Her lips parted, and he switched to French. “Tu es la lumière dans chaque pièce où tu entres.”
Then Mandarin, his tone respectful, yet intimate. “你是我所有选择中的唯一选择。”
And finally, in Russian, his voice dropped an octave, each syllable wrapping around her like silk. “Ты моя вселенная, Наташа.”
Her breath hitched, and the hand holding the spoon tightened around the handle. “Okay, that’s... really unfair.”
“Is it?” His eyes gleamed with a mischievous light. “You’re the one who asked.”
She took a step closer, closing the space between them, her expression a mix of curiosity and something more. “You do realize this is just another thing I’m going to hold over you, right?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Her lips curled into a slow, predatory smile. “Good.”
He swallowed, but the smile never left his face. “Should I be scared?”
Her fingers brushed against his, delicate and deliberate. “Depends.”
“On?”
“If you keep being this charming or if I have to put you in your place.”
“Maybe I’d like that,” he shot back, his voice a low rumble.
“Может быть, мне это понравится,” Natasha replied smoothly in Russian, her voice a silk ribbon winding through the room.
The effect on Tony was immediate. His eyes widened slightly before they fluttered shut, and a low, appreciative purr rumbled from his chest. “God, Romanoff, say that again,” he murmured, his grin widening as if her accent alone was a sweet indulgence.
She smirked, a mischievous glint in her green eyes. “Only if you earn it.”
“Oh, I intend to.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “And I always collect.”
Their banter slipped back into English, the kitchen a stage for their playful back-and-forth. The simmering pasta sauce sent a fragrant aroma wafting through the air, but neither of them seemed to notice. They were too busy trading verbal jabs and sly smiles, their hands brushing as they moved around each other.
Natasha’s knife work was precise as she diced fresh basil, her movements effortless. “You know, Stark, I’m starting to think you only asked me to help so you could show off.”
“Me? Show off?” He raised an eyebrow, stirring the sauce with an exaggerated flourish. “I’m hurt, Romanoff. I thought you’d know by now—everything I do is a humble act of service.”
She snorted. “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”
Tony’s eyes sparkled. “Well, Your Majesty, would you like to do the honors?” He held out a spoon with a dollop of sauce, the gesture surprisingly earnest beneath his playful facade.
Natasha leaned in, lips parting as she tasted the sauce. Her expression shifted, and she nodded approvingly. “Not bad. Maybe I’ll keep you around.”
“I’ll take that as high praise.” He leaned against the counter, arms crossing over his chest as he watched her. “You know, if this whole super-spy thing doesn’t work out, I might just open an Italian bistro. ‘Stark & Romanoff’s’—has a nice ring to it.”
“Maybe I’ll let you.” She tossed the basil into the pan, the sizzle punctuating her words. “Under my management, of course.”
Their laughter mingled with the gentle bubbling of the sauce. It was easy, natural—the kind of moment neither of them had allowed themselves to have for too long. But beneath the surface, there was something else. Something waiting.
She snorted. “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”
Tony’s eyes sparkled. “Well, Your Majesty, would you like to do the honors?” He held out a spoon with a dollop of sauce, the gesture surprisingly earnest beneath his playful facade.
Natasha leaned in, lips parting as she tasted the sauce. Her expression shifted, and she nodded approvingly. “Not bad. Maybe I’ll keep you around.”
“I’ll take that as high praise.” He leaned against the counter, arms crossing over his chest as he watched her. “You know, if this whole super-spy thing doesn’t work out, I might just open an Italian bistro. ‘Stark & Romanoff’s’—has a nice ring to it.”
“Maybe I’ll let you again.” She tossed the basil into the pan, the sizzle punctuating her words. “Under my management, of course.”
Their laughter mingled with the gentle bubbling of the sauce. It was easy, natural—the kind of moment neither of them had allowed themselves to have for too long. But beneath the surface, there was something else. Something waiting.
Natasha set down the knife, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “We should go back to that Italian place sometime. The one we went to a few weeks ago.”
Tony’s expression softened, but there was a shadow behind his smile. “Yeah. I’d like that.” He hesitated, fingers tapping lightly against the countertop. “You know, I was told that’s where my parents had their first date.”
The casual tone did nothing to mask the weight of his words. Natasha’s brow furrowed, the pieces of the story not quite fitting together. “You’ve only been there once before, right? You said that night…”
“Yeah.” He nodded, his voice quieter now. “I went alone. A few years back. I just… I wanted to see it. What they saw. But I couldn’t bring myself to go back. Not until you.”
Her lips parted, surprise threading through her expression. “You really never took anyone else there? Not even a… hook-up?”
“Nat, I’d never lie to you again, I promised.” His voice was steady, a promise woven into every syllable. “You’re the only person I wanted to share that with. And that night—that was the second time I’d ever been there.”
Her breath hitched, the air between them charged and fragile. Before she could fully process it, her back hit the cool surface of the fridge, Tony’s lips crashing against hers. His hands were on her hips, firm yet gentle, and her legs wrapped around his waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Their kisses were fervent, an unspoken conversation of want and need. His grip was possessive, her fingers tangling in his hair as if to ground herself in him. Her lips moved against his with a hunger that matched his own, the kitchen fading into nothing more than a blurred backdrop to their world.
Her mouth left his, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, over his temple, down the curve of his neck. His breath came out in shuddering exhales, and when she found the sensitive spot just beneath his ear, his knees nearly buckled.
“Natasha,” he breathed, her name a prayer and a plea.
She pulled back, her lips swollen, her eyes a storm of green and grey. “Keep saying my name,” she ordered, her voice rough and commanding. “Please.”
Tony’s expression shifted to something wicked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “And if I don’t?”
Her glare could have pierced steel. “Then you’ll find out exactly what it feels like to be sexually frustrated and told no.”
He swallowed, his bravado shrinking beneath her intensity. “Yes, ma’am.”
Before either of them could move, Friday’s voice cut through the room, sharp and urgent. “Sir, there’s an emergency.”
Tony’s head fell back with a groan, his hold on Natasha tightening as if to anchor himself to this moment. “Friday, not now—”
“It’s about Peter.”
The air in the kitchen turned to ice. Tony’s entire body went rigid, his knuckles blanching white against Natasha’s hips. His breath hitched, a flicker of fear shattering his earlier bravado. With a practiced gentleness, he set her down, his hands lingering at her waist as if afraid to let go.
The moment her feet touched the ground, his demeanor shifted. The nanotech bracelet on his wrist unraveled in a seamless flow, crawling over his skin to form his Iron Man suit. Metal met flesh with a soft hiss, the familiar hum of technology a balm against his fraying nerves.
“Friday, where is he?” His voice was sharp, but not unkind. He kept it even, steady—the kind of calm that was all the more terrifying because of the storm brewing beneath.
“Mr. Parker has been instructed to come to you, sir.”
Tony’s jaw tightened, the metal of his suit clinking as he forced himself to stay still. He looked every bit the invincible Iron Man, but his eyes betrayed him—dark, haunted, afraid. “Instructed? He’s fourteen. Where is he now?”
A blue hologram flickered to life, painting the room in soft neon hues. The GPS showed a small dot moving steadily toward their location, a thin line tracing Peter’s path through the city. The ring Tony had given him—a subtle, inconspicuous piece of tech—was doing its job, but it didn’t make the reality any easier.
“Friday.” His voice dropped, an edge of steel threading through it. “What happened?”
The AI hesitated, a rare occurrence that only made Tony’s anxiety coil tighter in his chest. “Peter requested I not disclose the details. However, his current condition includes internal bleeding. His enhanced healing factor indicates he will recover within the next three hours.”
Tony’s fists clenched, the servos of his suit whirring softly. “That’s not fine.”
Natasha had been silent, her sharp green eyes darting between Tony and the hologram. The pieces fell into place with a quiet click, and she stepped forward, her voice cutting through the tension. “Who is he, Tony?”
His shoulders sagged, the weight of the world pressing down on him. “He’s Spider-Man.”
Her lips parted in shock, the revelation landing like a physical blow. “Spider-Man is a kid?” She shook her head, a mix of disbelief and anger twisting her features. “He’s fourteen?”
Tony exhaled slowly, the sound brittle and worn. “I know. I know how it sounds.” He ran a gauntleted hand through his hair, the nanotech retracting enough to reveal the man beneath the armor. “But I couldn’t stop him. I tried. I took the suit away, I grounded him, I even tracked his web fluid supply. Nothing worked. He was still out there—mask or no mask.”
“So you made him a suit.” Her tone was sharp, but not unkind. “You enabled him.”
“The only way I could keep him safe.” His voice cracked, the rawness of his admission laying him bare. “If I couldn’t stop him, I could at least make sure I knew where he was. I could make sure he had backup if he needed it.”
Natasha’s expression softened, the anger melting away to reveal a deep, aching empathy. She knew what it was to fight too young, to be thrust into a world where childhood was a luxury. And now, seeing Tony—this genius, billionaire, hero—reduced to a man who just wanted to keep a kid safe, it shifted something inside her.
Her hand moved on instinct, calloused fingers brushing against the sharp line of his jaw. She cupped his cheek, her thumb tracing soothing circles against his skin. His armor had retracted partially, the cool metal giving way to warmth beneath. “You did the right thing,” she murmured. “Knowing what I know now, I agree with you. I always knew Spider-Man was young... but fourteen? That’s a kid.”
A ghost of a smile played at her lips, the corner of her mouth quirking up. “Honestly, I thought Peter might’ve been some secret Stark offspring you never told me about. I mean, after your panic attack... You called out his name. I just assumed.”
Tony let out a breathy laugh, one that sounded more like a wheeze. His shoulders sagged, the tension unwinding ever so slightly. “No, no bio kids. Not that I know of, anyway.” His voice turned softer, his eyes distant. “But Peter... he’s the closest thing I’ve got. I mentor him. I try to guide him. I don’t know if I’m doing it right, but I’m trying.”
He leaned into her touch, his cheek pressing into her palm as if it was the only solid thing in a world that constantly shifted beneath him. The nanotech of his suit melted away, retracting into the slim bracelet on his wrist. His breathing steadied, each inhale matching the slow rhythm of her thumb against his skin.
“Friday?” he asked, his voice rasping.
“Mr. Parker is close. Approximately two minutes away.”
Tony pulled back slightly, his body wound tight again. He began to pace, his steps measured but betraying his unease. His eyes never left the holographic tracker, watching the small dot that represented Peter inch closer and closer.
Natasha leaned against the counter, her arms crossing over her chest as she observed him. “Do you want me to go?”
“No.” The word slipped out fast, too fast. He stopped mid-step, turning to face her with a vulnerability that cut through the tension. “I mean, you can if you want to. I get it if this is too much, or if you don’t want to—”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The conviction in her voice brought him to a halt. His lips parted, but no words came. Instead, he nodded, a silent acceptance that spoke volumes.
She pushed off the counter, moving to stand in front of him. Her hands found his, grounding him. “We’re in this together. Whatever happens.”
He squeezed her hands, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Thank you.”
Before Natasha could respond, a loud thud echoed through the room, accompanied by the dull smack of flesh against glass. Both Tony and Natasha whipped their heads toward the sound, only to see a familiar red-and-blue blur plastered against the bulletproof sliding glass door.
“Oh my God.” Natasha’s brows shot up.
Tony exhaled, the tension breaking through his shock. “Kid…”
With a soft hiss, the glass door slid open, and Peter Parker tumbled inside, his limbs akimbo as he hit the polished floor with a thud. His mask was already halfway off, and with shaky hands, he ripped it away completely. His face was blotchy and wet, tears streaming down his cheeks as his breathing came in ragged gasps.
“Peter!” Tony rushed forward, his arms wrapping around the kid before he could even scramble to his feet. The force of the embrace seemed to startle Peter, his body going rigid before he melted into Tony’s hold.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Peter’s voice was a broken chant, muffled against Tony’s chest. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve— It was so stupid—”
Tony pulled back just enough to cup Peter’s face, his hands firm but gentle. “Hey, hey. What are you even talking about? What are you doing in Malibu? That’s, like, three thousand miles from New York.”
Peter hiccuped, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. His eyes darted between Tony and Natasha, the latter offering him a soft, patient look. “I was... I was gonna surprise you. Aunt May had this annual training thing in LA. It was supposed to be a mini-vacation for me too. R&R, y’know? The whole thing was paid for by the program.”
“I missed the first flight. I— I thought I had time, but I was too late.” His voice cracked, a jagged break that made Natasha’s chest ache.
“Too late for what?” Tony’s voice was a whisper, as if he already knew the answer but needed to hear it.
Peter’s knees buckled, and Tony caught him, guiding him to the couch. As they sank into the cushions, Friday’s calm, clinical voice filled the silence.
“Sir, I have an update. May Parker was admitted to Los Angeles General Hospital earlier today. She sustained a gunshot wound while attempting to de-escalate a situation involving a manic individual. She is currently in critical condition.”
The words hung in the air like a noose.
“No... No, that’s not—” Peter buried his face into Tony’s shoulder, his entire frame wracked with sobs. “I should’ve been there. I could’ve— I could’ve done something.”
“Peter.” Tony’s voice was steady, but there was a tremor beneath it. He held the boy tighter, his hand cradling the back of his head. “It’s not your fault. You did everything you could.”
“But I didn’t,” Peter choked out. “I... I was helping. There was this train— It was gonna derail. People—kids—were on it. I had to. I thought... I thought I had time.” His fists clenched the fabric of Tony’s shirt, his knuckles white. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know it would be my last chance.”
Tony’s jaw tightened, the muscle there flexing as he struggled to keep his composure. “Kid...”
Peter’s breathing was shallow, his body curling in on itself as the weight of his guilt threatened to crush him. Tony guided him to sit fully on the couch, his hands never leaving Peter’s shoulders. But the strain showed—the awkwardness of a man who’d spent his life deflecting emotions, now trying to support someone through unimaginable grief.
His eyes found Natasha’s over Peter’s bowed head. The plea in his expression was raw, desperate.
Natasha hesitated, her own breath hitching. Comfort had never been her strength, not when it came to others. But she pushed through it, crossing the short distance and settling on the coffee table directly in front of Peter.
She reached out slowly, her hand finding his and wrapping around it with a firm but gentle grip. “Hi, Peter.” Her voice was soft, coaxing. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Natasha.”
Peter sniffled, lifting his head just enough to see her through the haze of his tears. “Yeah... I remember.”
She offered him a small smile, the kind that was warm and reassuring but not overly bright—like a light left on in the dark. “You’ve had a rough day, huh?”
He nodded, his lip trembling.
Without another word, Natasha reached up, her fingers brushing through his tousled hair. She smoothed the strands away from his forehead, the gesture both motherly and measured. Peter blinked, the touch grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.
Tony shifted beside him, his arm still awkwardly draped over Peter’s shoulder. He withdrew it slowly, his hand hovering uselessly in the air as if he couldn’t quite figure out where to put it. His fingers fidgeted, curling into a loose fist and then opening again. Words danced on the tip of his tongue, but none of them felt right. Nothing he could say seemed enough.
He glanced at Natasha, his expression a mix of helplessness and fear. She caught his eye, offering a subtle nod. Something unspoken passed between them—a transfer of responsibility, of trust.
Natasha leaned forward, keeping her movements slow and deliberate. “Peter,” she said softly, her voice a gentle hum. “Can you take a deep breath for me?”
Peter’s breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling in quick, uneven bursts. His hands had drifted to his hair, his fingers gripping tight enough to make his knuckles go white. Natasha’s gaze sharpened, but her tone remained calm.
“Hey,” she continued, her hand moving to cup his cheek. “Breathe with me, okay?” She took a slow, exaggerated breath, her chest expanding visibly. “In... and out.”
Peter’s lips parted, and he tried to mimic her, but the breath hitched in his throat, breaking into a sob. His grip on his hair tightened, strands pulling at the roots.
“It’s okay,” she murmured, her thumb brushing a stray tear away from his cheek. “You’re safe. You’re allowed to feel this.”
Tony’s hands flexed on his knees, his fingers digging into the fabric of his pants. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yeah, kid. You don’t have to hold it all in.” His voice was hoarse, but he managed a small, wavering smile.
Peter choked on a breath, his face crumpling. “I... I can’t. I can’t fix it. She’s—” His voice splintered, and he bit down on his lip until it nearly bled. “When I got to the hospital, they... they said she was in a coma.”
Natasha’s expression remained steady, a soft anchor in the storm. “Oh, Peter...”
“They told me her brain activity was... depleting.” His shoulders shook, the tremors rippling through his whole body. “They said it like—like they were trying to prepare me. They’re gonna pull the plug.”
A fresh wave of tears broke free, and Peter’s hands twisted tighter into his hair. His strength—his cursed, relentless strength—threatened to pull it free from the roots. Natasha’s hand moved swiftly, her fingers wrapping around his wrists with a firm but gentle grip.
“Hey,” she said, guiding his hands down to his lap. “None of that. You don’t deserve to hurt yourself.”
Peter’s eyes, wide and glassy, searched hers. “But it’s my fault. It’s always my fault.”
“No.” Natasha’s voice was steel wrapped in velvet. “None of this is your fault. Not Aunt May, not the strangers you can’t save, not the worlds problems.” She released one of his wrists to cup his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. “You are not responsible for the cruelty of this world.”
“But I—”
“No.” She cut him off, but there was no harshness to it. “You’re fourteen. You’re a kid, Peter. You’ve already done more good than most adults ever will. You saved a train full of people today. You did that. And that is not nothing.”
Peter’s lip quivered, his breath hitching as his mind wrestled with her words. “But I should’ve been with her. I should’ve known—”
Tony, finding his voice, slid closer. He rested a hand on Peter’s back, rubbing slow, soothing circles. “You did what you had to do, Pete. You made a choice to save lives. That’s what heroes do.”
“But I’m not a hero.” Peter’s head hung low, his shoulders hunched. “I’m just... I’m just a stupid kid. I couldn’t even save my own family.”
“You’re not stupid.” Natasha’s tone was resolute, leaving no room for argument. “You’re brave. You’re kind. And you’re allowed to grieve.”
Her words seemed to seep into him, unwinding the tension in his muscles bit by bit. She reached out, using her thumb to gently wipe away the streaks of salt on his cheeks. “You can still see her,” she whispered. “You can still say goodbye.”
Peter’s lashes fluttered, a fresh wave of tears pooling but not spilling over. “What if she... What if she hates me?”
Tony’s grip tightened, his own breath shuddering. “She could never hate you, kid. You’re her whole world.”
Peter let out a soft, broken noise, his body swaying forward. Natasha caught him, wrapping her arms around him in a careful embrace. His forehead pressed against her shoulder, his fingers clutching at the hem of her shirt.
She held him, her chin resting atop his head as she rocked him gently. “I know it hurts,” she murmured. “But you’re not alone. We’re here.”
Tony moved closer, his shoulder pressed against Peter’s. He didn’t know how to say the right things, but he didn’t pull away. His hand remained steady on Peter’s back, the warmth of his palm a quiet promise.
The minutes stretched, the room filled with the quiet sounds of Peter’s sobs and the soft rhythm of Natasha’s voice. She spoke to him in low tones, offering small reassurances and bits of her own story. She told him of her own losses, of the lives she couldn’t save, and the ghosts she still carried.
Peter’s breathing began to even out, his chest rising and falling in a more measured rhythm. His grip on Natasha loosened, and he leaned back, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen but a little clearer.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice small but genuine.
Natasha brushed his hair back, her lips curling into a gentle smile. “Anytime, Peter.”
A fragile silence settled between them, broken only by the soft hum of the Malibu waves crashing against the cliffside below. Tony stood a few feet away, his hands jammed into his pockets as he watched Natasha cradle Peter’s face. She remained seated on the coffee table, her fingers weaving through his hair with a rhythm so gentle it seemed to pull the tension straight from his body.
Peter’s eyelids drooped, his breathing evening out as exhaustion finally claimed him. Natasha’s thumb traced soft arcs over his cheekbone, her expression open and tender—an image so foreign and yet so perfectly natural that Tony’s breath caught in his throat.
He shifted his weight, his mind swirling with logistics and what-ifs. The reality of it all began to sink in—the legalities of guardianship, the upheaval of Peter’s life, and his own role in all of it. He needed to move to Queens. He needed to become more than just Iron Man to this kid.
And yet, as he stood there, the weight of it pressing against his chest, all he could focus on was Natasha. How effortlessly she had slipped into this maternal role, how each soft touch and whispered word had coaxed Peter from the edge of his grief.
She was incredible. Not just because of her strength, her history, or the countless lives she’d saved—but because of this. The quiet, gentle way she held the broken pieces of a boy’s world in her hands, treating each shard with reverence.
The realization hit him hard. He loved her. He loved her more than he thought he could ever love anyone. And he wanted this—her, Peter, a family. The thought both terrified and thrilled him.
After about fifteen minutes, when Peter’s breathing had settled into the steady rhythm of sleep, Tony reached out and tapped Natasha’s shoulder. She looked up at him, reluctance clear in the way her hand lingered on Peter’s temple. He gestured towards the kitchen, his expression soft but insistent.
She eased herself off the coffee table, her movements fluid and quiet. Tony took a moment to pull a throw blanket over Peter before following her, his footsteps nearly silent against the hardwood floor.
In the kitchen, Tony leaned against the marble island, his hands gripping the edge as if he needed the grounding. Natasha mirrored him, her arms crossed loosely over her chest.
He spoke first, his voice a low whisper. “I think you’re the most amazing human being in the world.” His lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. “You handled that better than I ever could’ve.”
Natasha’s expression softened, but there was a crease of worry between her brows. “Tony...”
“No, let me finish,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “I want you more than anything. I do. But I have a responsibility to Peter.”
Her posture stiffened, her arms falling to her sides. “Are you... Are you breaking up with me?” Her whisper was sharp, almost a hiss, but the tremor beneath it betrayed her.
“What? No! God, no.” Tony’s eyes widened, and he took a step closer. “I’m giving you a way out.”
Her brows knitted together, confusion blooming. “A way out of what?”
He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I’ve been thinking about this the whole time. The truth is, I need to step up and be Peter’s guardian. He has no one else. I need to move to New York, to give him some sense of stability. And I know that uproots everything. We’ve barely been together, and I don’t want to push anything on you.”
Natasha stared at him, her expression unreadable. “If the roles were reversed, would you leave?”
“Absolutely not.” His answer came without hesitation, conviction threading through every syllable. “I’d never even consider it.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she exhaled slowly. “Then there’s your answer. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Nat...”
“No.” She cut him off, her voice stronger now. “I’ll help however I can. I’m not saying I should be his guardian—I’m not exactly the poster woman for motherhood.”
Tony shook his head, stepping closer. “You’re good with kids. I’ve seen it with Clint’s kids. I saw it just now with Peter. You’re... You’re amazing.” He hesitated, the words tumbling out. “I’d love it if you were around while I parent. And if you wanted to step in and parent too, I’d welcome it. Open arms, no pressure.”
Her lips quirked into a small smile. “If you put it that way, I’m all in.”
He reached for her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “I’m all in too.”
The moment hung between them, warm and steady. Then, from the living room, a muffled cry shattered the quiet.
Tony and Natasha exchanged a glance before rushing back to the couch.
Peter sat upright, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and unfocused. His hands fisted in the blanket, knuckles bone-white. “Uncle Ben... Aunt May... They’re gone.” His voice was thin, stretched tight with panic. “My parents... I’m... I’m a monster.”
“No, you’re not.” Tony moved quickly, sitting beside him. He gripped Peter’s shoulder, strong but not suffocating. “You’re not a monster. You’re a kid.”
Peter shook his head, fresh tears spilling over. “I need to leave. I... I shouldn’t have come.”
Natasha dropped to her knees in front of him, her hands wrapping around his. “You’re not a burden, Peter. You did the right thing by coming here. We’re glad you did.”
Tony took a breath, his voice steady. “I’m already making arrangements to move to New York. I was planning on it anyway—this just speeds things up.”
Peter blinked, his lip quivering. “You’re... You’re moving, Mr.Stark?”
“Yeah, kid. And you’re not a burden.” Tony’s voice softened. “I wanted to be more involved with you anyway. You’re family. And I know it’s not the right circumstances to say this, but I’ve always been proud of you.”
Natasha squeezed his hands, her thumbs brushing gentle circles over his knuckles. “I know we’re practically strangers, but that means you don’t have to pretend with me. No expectations. You can just... be.”
Peter’s lips parted, a shaky breath escaping. His brows pulled together, a fresh wave of uncertainty washing over him. “But... this isn’t right,” he murmured. “You guys shouldn’t have to deal with me. I’m just... a mess.” His voice wavered, and he drew his knees up to his chest, shrinking into himself.
Natasha leaned in closer, her voice steady and soft. “Peter, listen to me. You’re not a burden. You’re a kid who’s been through hell, and you deserve safety, stability—hell, you deserve the world. We’re not here because we have to be. We’re here because we want to be.”
He shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes. “But what if I’m too much? What if I just make everything worse?”
Tony, who had been sitting on the edge of the couch, leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Then we’ll figure it out. Together.” His tone was firm but not harsh. “Kid, I’ve made a career out of screwing things up and then fixing them. You think you’re too much? I’m Tony freaking Stark. I’m the king of ‘too much.’”
Peter blinked, a hesitant smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You’re definitely ‘too much,’” he mumbled.
Natasha’s lips twitched, a quiet laugh escaping her. “See? You fit right in.”
Peter’s expression wavered, the hint of a smile quickly swallowed by a shadow of doubt. “But... what if I mess up? What if this doesn’t work?”
“Then we keep trying,” Natasha said. “It’ll be hard. We’re not promising it’ll be perfect. In fact we’re probably promising chaotic events to occur… But compared to everything you’ve been through? This’ll be a breeze.”
Peter snorted, the sound almost foreign in its normalcy. “A breeze? Yeah, sure. Nothing like casual teenage trauma bonding.”
Tony let out a chuckle, the tension in the room easing just a bit. “I mean, if we’re comparing trauma, I think I win. I did get kidnapped by terrorists, after all.”
Natasha shot him a look, her eyes narrowing playfully. “Oh, please. I was brainwashed and forced to assassinate world leaders. Top that.”
Peter, despite himself, rolled his eyes. “You guys are so weird.”
Tony leaned back, a smug grin on his face. “Weird? Kid, we’re trendsetters.”
“Yeah,” Peter quipped, his voice still thin but laced with a sharper edge. “Trendsetters for trauma and bad coping mechanisms.”
Natasha laughed softly, the sound wrapping around them like a warm blanket. “Well, we’ve all got a bit of that. Lucky for you, we’re experts in fumbling our way through it.”
The banter was light, the kind that skimmed the surface of their pain while offering a lifeline. Peter’s shoulders slumped, the fight slowly bleeding out of him. The sadness lingered, but beneath it, a fragile acceptance began to take root.
Tony reached over, nudging Peter’s knee with his own. “We’re all a little broken, Pete. But that just means we can help each other put the pieces back together.”
Peter bit his lip, his eyes glossy but no longer overflowing. “You really mean it?”
Natasha nodded, her hand still clasped around his. “Every word. We’re all in.”
A quiet hung between them, filled with unspoken promises and the soft hum of the ocean outside. Peter took a breath, and while it wasn’t entirely steady, it was a start.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”
“Now let’s get to that hospital?”