Chapter 15
The ride to the hospital was shrouded in a silence so profound it seemed to absorb the hum of the road beneath them. The world outside the Porsche's windows blurred into a muted palette of city lights and passing shadows, offering no distraction from the weight pressing down on them. Tony's hands gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel, knuckles pale, his fingers curling and uncurling around the cool, textured surface. The new Porsche purred with each shift, the manual transmission providing Tony a simple, tactile comfort—something he could control when everything else felt uncertain. His right hand moved with muscle memory, guiding the stick shift through gears, each motion precise and deliberate. Driving a stick had always been a kind of meditation for him; it demanded focus, a grounding ritual that kept his thoughts from spiraling into the dark what-ifs.
Beside him, Natasha sat with her back straight but not rigid, a quiet strength radiating from her. She had one hand resting on her knee, the other laid gently over Tony’s forearm. Her thumb moved in small, rhythmic circles against his skin, a silent reassurance. She didn’t look at him often, her attention split between the road ahead and the rearview mirror, where Peter sat, his silhouette a stark contrast to the vibrant world outside. Her fingers on Tony’s arm were light but deliberate, an anchor in the storm, and he found himself leaning into the touch, drawing from her steadiness.
In the backseat, Peter sat pressed against the door, his cheek resting against the cold window. His breath fogged the glass, creating small, ghostly patches that faded and reformed with each exhale. His hoodie swallowed his frame, the sleeves pulled over his hands as his fingers twisted the fabric in anxious, repetitive motions. His eyes were fixed on the passing scenery, though it was clear his mind was somewhere far darker, the view outside nothing more than a moving backdrop to the chaos inside his head. The silence was suffocating, wrapping around them like a shroud, and yet none of them moved to break it, as if speaking might shatter the fragile truce between grief and hope.
It was Peter who finally spoke, his voice small and fragile, cutting through the quiet with a tremor. “What... what am I supposed to say?” His reflection stared back at him, pale and uncertain, a boy on the edge of a precipice.
Tony’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror, his expression softening, the lines of his face no longer sharp but etched with quiet concern. “There’s no right thing to say, kid. You don’t need to have a script.” His voice was steady, but beneath it lay an undercurrent of helplessness. He was a man who thrived on solutions, on fixes, yet here he was, offering only the honesty of having none.
Natasha turned slightly in her seat, her body angled just enough to catch Peter’s gaze if he looked her way. “Take your time,” she added, her tone a blend of gentle and firm. “Say what feels right, or say nothing at all. You can just... be there. There’s no timer.”
Peter’s lips parted, then pressed together, his brow knitting in quiet distress. His fingers tightened on his hoodie, twisting the fabric until his knuckles turned white. “What if... what if I mess it up?” His voice was barely above a whisper, as if saying it aloud would make the fear more real.
“You won’t.” Natasha’s response was immediate, unwavering. “This isn’t a test. You just need to be there. That’s enough.” She spoke with a confidence she didn’t fully feel, but it was impossible to tell. Every syllable was a balm, a promise.
Tony shifted gears, the click of metal a brief distraction. His jaw worked as he searched for the right words, his tongue brushing over the inside of his cheek. “We’ll be right there with you,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “And if you need space, that’s okay too.”
Peter’s shoulders hunched, his frame folding inward. “You guys don’t have to—”
“We want to.” Natasha’s voice softened, threading through the silence like a lifeline. “That’s what family does.”
The word hung in the air, suspended between them. Family. It was a promise and a challenge, an invitation to belong when belonging felt impossible. Peter didn’t move, but the tension in his body shifted, a subtle change that only Natasha and Tony could sense. His fingers stopped their restless twisting, his hands settling against his lap, still and small.
Tony hesitated, his mind a mess of logistics and emotions. “We’re not trying to push you, Pete. We know this is... a lot. But you’re not alone. Not now, not ever.” His grip on the wheel tightened, and Natasha’s hand on his arm steadied him, kept him from crumbling under the weight of his own words.
Natasha leaned forward slightly, her expression open, patient. “Family means showing up. It means sitting in the hard stuff together. And we’re here for you—no strings attached.”
Peter’s lips twisted into a small, bitter smirk. “You guys really think of me as family?”
“Yeah.” Tony didn’t hesitate, his response immediate and warm. “I mean, I don’t go driving my good cars around for just anyone.”
A soft, incredulous laugh escaped Peter, and for a moment, the heaviness lifted, just a fraction.
“But... I’m just a kid,” Peter mumbled, his voice thick with uncertainty.
“A kid who’s been through more than most adults,” Natasha countered, her gaze unwavering. “But you’re still allowed to be a kid. No one’s expecting you to handle this alone.”
Peter’s fingers curled into his hoodie again, but not as tightly. “I... I don’t know how to do this.”
“Neither do we,” Tony said, his honesty raw and unapologetic. “But we’ll figure it out together.”
A beat of silence passed, then Peter sat up straighter, his voice dipping into a formal tone. “Thank you, Mr. Stark. And... Miss Romanoff.”
Tony’s brows lifted, a flicker of amusement breaking through. “Mr. Stark?” he repeated, a hint of mock offense in his tone. “What am I, your math teacher?”
Peter blinked, the formality slipping. “I mean... what else am I supposed to call you?”
“Tony,” he said, dragging out the name like it was the most obvious answer in the world.
“And definitely not ‘Miss Romanoff,’” Natasha added, a smirk teasing at the corner of her lips. “I feel ancient just hearing it.”
Peter’s mouth opened and closed, his uncertainty endearing. “So... Natasha?”
She nodded, a glimmer of approval in her expression. “Much better.”
“Yeah, not that formal crap,” Tony teased. “Next, you’ll be asking if you need to call me ‘sir.’”
Peter hesitated, a small grin breaking through. “I mean, I could try ‘Uncle Tony,’ but that feels weird.”
Tony made a face. “Okay, you know what? Mr. Stark isn’t sounding so bad after all.”
Natasha’s laugh filled the car, warm and real. “We’ll figure out the labels later. Right now, all that matters is being there for May.”
The hospital loomed ahead, its stark white façade bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. The Porsche rolled to a stop under the awning, and the world outside the glass walls seemed to shift—brighter, colder, more clinical. Tony exhaled, a measured breath that did little to steady the rush of emotions tightening his chest. He put the car in park and turned to Peter, his expression gentle but firm. “I’ll handle check-in. Nat, why don’t you take him up?”
Natasha nodded, already unbuckling her seatbelt. She opened Peter’s door, extending a hand that he took without hesitation. His palm was clammy against hers, his grip tight and desperate, as if letting go would mean losing the last shred of control he had. Tony watched them go, his lips pressed into a thin line before he turned toward the sliding glass doors of the hospital.
The lobby was a blur of neutral tones and soft chatter. Tony approached the reception desk, flashing his ID and offering a tight smile that did nothing to hide the exhaustion beneath it. His name opened doors—metaphorically and literally—as the receptionist quickly arranged for their access to the private floor where May had been moved, courtesy of Stark Industries’ generous funding. His company had practically built this wing, and yet it felt hollow now, the privilege a thin veneer over the reality of why they were here.
Meanwhile, Natasha led Peter through quiet hallways, their footsteps muffled by polished tile. The private floor was designed to be serene, almost homey, with soft lighting and warm hues that failed to mask the antiseptic undertone. Peter’s steps slowed as they approached May’s room, his breathing shallow, each exhale shaky and uncertain.
“It’s okay,” Natasha murmured, stopping a few feet from the door. She didn’t push, didn’t rush him, simply stood there as a quiet presence. “Take your time.”
Peter stared at the door handle, his body wound tight, his free hand balled into a fist. “What if... what if I can’t do it?” His voice cracked, raw and exposed.
“There’s no right or wrong here,” she said softly. “Just what feels okay for you. If you want to go in, I’ll be right by the door. If you need a minute, we can wait.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he fought back the wave of emotions threatening to break free. “I don’t want her to be alone.”
“She’s not,” Natasha assured him. “She hasn’t been. The doctors, the nurses—they’ve been with her. And now, so are we.”
Peter’s shoulders slumped, and he leaned into her, his forehead brushing against her shoulder. Natasha wrapped an arm around him, the gesture careful, as if she were afraid he might break. “I’m scared,” he whispered, the confession muffled against her jacket.
“I know,” she said, her voice a delicate thread. “But you’re not alone. You don’t have to be brave right now. Just be here. That’s enough.”
After a long, quiet moment, Peter pulled back, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand. His eyes were red-rimmed, his lashes damp, but there was a resolve there—a fragile, trembling thing, but real. “Can you... can you stay by the door?”
“Of course.” Natasha didn’t hesitate. She stepped aside, giving him the space to move forward while keeping herself a steady, unmoving shadow at the threshold.
Peter took a shuddering breath and pushed the door open. The room was dim, bathed in the soft glow of machines that beeped and hummed, keeping time with a rhythm that felt both comforting and cruel. May lay in the center of it all, small and pale, her body a fragile outline against the sterile white of hospital linens.
His steps were slow, measured, his shoes whispering against the tile. He reached her side and lowered himself into the chair, his body folding into itself as he reached for her hand. Her skin was cool, her fingers limp against his, and for a moment, the weight of it all seemed too much.
Peter brought her hand to his face, pressing it against his cheek, his eyes closing as fresh tears slipped free. His shoulders trembled, and he made no effort to hide the quiet sobs that escaped him. “I’m so sorry,” he breathed, his voice fractured and soft. “I’m so sorry, May. I should’ve been there. I should’ve protected you.”
He paused, his lips pressing against her knuckles, the gesture filled with a desperation that only came when goodbye felt too final. “I... I larb you,” he whispered, their secret phrase wrapped in the innocence of childhood, a shield against the weight of saying ‘I love you’ when it had felt too big, too real. “I larb you so much.”
The door clicked softly behind him, and if Peter noticed, he didn’t react. Natasha stood just outside, her back against the wall, her hands folded in front of her. Her expression was a careful mask, but Tony, approaching from down the hall, could see the cracks beneath. He slowed as he reached her, his arm slipping around her waist, grounding her as much as she grounded him.
“Doctors said her brain activity’s... it’s nearly gone,” Tony whispered, his lips brushing the shell of Natasha’s ear, his voice so low it was barely a breath. “They’re just keeping her organs going.”
Natasha’s jaw tightened, her eyes remaining fixed on the door. “Does he know?”
Tony hesitated, his thumb drawing slow circles against her hip. “If he wanted to, he could hear us. But... I think he’s too wrapped up in saying goodbye.”
Her eyes closed, lashes dark against her pale skin. “He shouldn’t have to do this.”
“No,” Tony agreed, his voice tight. “But he doesn’t have to do it alone.”
They stood there, a quiet, unwavering presence, as Peter’s soft murmurs drifted through the door. He spoke to May in whispers, sharing memories, apologies, promises. His words were woven with grief and love, a boy trying to find closure when the world had offered him none.
Natasha leaned into Tony, and he tightened his hold, their bodies a silhouette of support. They were not his parents, not yet, not officially. They weren’t pushing him to call them family or to see them as anything more than what he was ready for. But they were here, standing at the edge of his pain, ready to catch him if he fell.
Peter’s voice was small when it came, barely more than a breath over the rhythmic hum of machines. “Can you come in?”
Natasha and Tony exchanged a glance, an unspoken question and answer in the space of a heartbeat. Tony led the way, his hand slipping from Natasha’s waist as they stepped into the room. The sterile chill of the hospital air seemed to deepen, the soft beeping of monitors filling the silence with a steady, inevitable countdown.
Without a word, Tony grabbed two chairs from the corner, the legs scraping softly against the tile as he pulled them to May’s bedside. Natasha took the one on Peter’s left, and Tony settled on his right, creating a cocoon of safety around the boy. Peter sat in the middle, his small frame dwarfed by the oversized hospital chair, his hands wrapped around May’s, his knuckles pale from the force of his grip.
They sat in silence. There was nothing to say, nothing that wouldn’t feel empty or hollow in the face of what Peter was losing. Instead, they offered their presence—unwavering, solid, the quiet promise that he was not alone.
And yet, beneath that steady façade, doubts gnawed at Tony and Natasha like a slow-burning fire.
For Tony, it struck hard and fast, like a hammer blow to the chest. What the hell were they doing? He was Iron Man, a billionaire, a genius, a hero—but a father? He wasn’t ready. Hell, he barely knew how to keep himself in line most days. And this wasn’t just any kid; this was Peter Parker, a fourteen-year-old with the weight of the world on his shoulders. The thought of letting him slip into the foster system, of being shuffled through indifferent homes, or worse—ending up on SHIELD’s radar as a potential child soldier—made Tony’s skin crawl. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t. But was he enough?
And Natasha... She was a weapon, finely honed, built to destroy and deceive. She had spent her entire life mastering control, silencing emotions, and slipping into roles that blurred the lines of who she truly was. The idea of being someone’s guardian, of being anything close to a mother, sent ripples of discomfort through her. What if her influence warped Peter? What if she taught him the wrong lessons, led him down the wrong path? But despite the doubts, her resolve was ironclad. She was in this—all in—and nothing could shake that.
They shared glances, fleeting but heavy with meaning. A brush of Tony’s thumb against his knee, the slight tilt of Natasha’s head. They didn’t need words to communicate, the air between them thick with their shared fears and silent promises.
The quiet stretched on until Peter’s voice cut through it, raw and tired. “I know she’s gone.” His lips trembled, a fresh wave of tears slipping free. “I... I can feel it. She’s not here anymore. And I... I want them to turn the machines off.”
A sharp ache bloomed in Natasha’s chest, and Tony’s expression cracked, the mask of composure giving way to the raw, unfiltered sorrow beneath.
Natasha reached over, her hand finding Peter’s. “Okay,” she whispered. “We’ll make sure it’s peaceful.”
Tony swallowed, his throat working around the tightness there. “Peter... do you want a hug?” His voice was hesitant, as if the wrong word might shatter them all.
Peter’s watery eyes lifted, confusion shadowing his features. “Do you... do you mean it?”
A corner of Tony’s mouth quirked up, the barest hint of his usual sarcasm breaking through. “Nah, I just ask people that for fun.” He opened his arms, the gesture as much an offering as it was a plea.
Peter hesitated only a second before leaning into him, his small body folding into Tony’s chest. Tony wrapped his arms around him, careful but firm, one hand rubbing slow circles over Peter’s back. His warmth was an anchor, a quiet, steady reminder that he was there—that he wasn’t going anywhere.
“Come here,” Tony murmured, tilting his head toward Natasha.
She moved without hesitation, folding herself around them both. Her arms slipped around Peter’s shoulders, her cheek resting against the top of his head. They sat like that, a tangle of limbs and warmth, a makeshift family bound together by grief and the quiet promise of something more.
Peter’s sobs filled the room, muffled against Tony’s chest, and neither of them moved to pull away. They stayed until the tremors in Peter’s body subsided, his breathing slowing into something deep and steady.
When they finally eased back into their chairs, Tony’s hand remained on Peter’s shoulder, a grounding weight. “Do you want to be here when... when it happens?”
Peter nodded, his expression resolute despite the redness around his eyes. “Yeah. I... I don’t want her to be alone.”
Tony’s expression softened, pride and sorrow intertwining behind his eyes. “Okay. I need to sign some papers and talk to the doctors. I’ll be right back.”
He stood, giving Natasha’s hand a squeeze before stepping out of the room. His shoulders straightened as he moved down the hall, slipping back into the role of the responsible adult, the one who could handle the logistics while the world fell apart around them.
Natasha stayed close, her fingers threaded through Peter’s. She didn’t say anything, just sat with him, their breaths the only sound in the quiet room.
The door opened with a soft hiss, and Tony stepped back into the room, a doctor and a nurse trailing behind him. The doctor offered Peter a gentle, practiced smile—the kind reserved for delivering bad news, the kind that tried to be warm but landed somewhere between pity and sorrow.
Tony moved to Natasha’s side, his arm brushing against hers, and together they stood at the edge of the room, giving Peter space while remaining close enough to catch him if he needed them.
The doctor’s hands moved deftly over the machines, pressing buttons and silencing the persistent beeps that had become the room’s quiet soundtrack. The nurse began to disconnect the wires, her motions soft and careful, as if waking May would be an unthinkable sin.
Peter held May’s hand, his fingers still wrapped around her delicate bones. When the final monitor dimmed and the room settled into a stillness that felt absolute, Peter let out a long, shuddering sigh. His thumb traced over the back of May’s hand, memorizing the softness of her skin, the way her fingers fit perfectly within his. He brought her hand to his lips, his mouth brushing her knuckles with the tenderness of a son saying goodbye.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so, so sorry. I larb you.” The phrase, their little secret, hung in the air, bittersweet and fragile.
The medical staff stepped back, giving the boy his moment. Tony nodded his thanks, and they slipped quietly out of the room.
Silence wrapped around them, heavy and suffocating. Five minutes passed, each second a stone in their chests. Peter didn’t move, his forehead resting against May’s hand, his shoulders hunched beneath the weight of it all.
When he finally drew back, his face was pale, exhaustion etched into every line of his young features. “I need to leave,” he murmured, his voice thin and threadbare.
Natasha reached out, her hand brushing over his back. “Okay. Whatever you need.”
They stood, guiding him gently, their hands a soft pressure at his shoulders. Peter moved with them, his feet dragging, his body a marionette pulled by invisible strings.
The hallway felt too bright, the white walls and fluorescent lights a harsh contrast to the dim room they left behind. They walked in silence, past nurses and doctors who averted their eyes, past waiting rooms where families held each other close.
When they reached the car, Tony unlocked the doors, and Peter slipped into the back seat without a word. Natasha took the passenger seat, her fingers finding Tony’s as he started the engine.
The drive began in quiet, the only sounds the soft purr of the engine and the whisper of passing traffic. Tony’s grip on the steering wheel was firm, his knuckles pale, and Natasha’s hand remained a grounding weight on his thigh.
They shared glances, each wondering how to break the silence, how to offer comfort without pressing too hard. Tony opened his mouth once, then closed it, his words catching in his throat. Natasha turned in her seat, her lips parting with a soft inhale, but no words came.
In the back, Peter sat motionless, his eyes staring out the window at the city that seemed to move on, uncaring, while his world crumbled. His reflection in the glass looked ghostly, the shadows under his eyes dark and sunken.
After minutes that stretched into an eternity, Peter spoke. “Am I... am I going into the foster system?”
Tony’s head snapped up, and Natasha’s brows knit together, the question landing like a punch to the gut.
“What?” Tony’s voice was sharp, but he softened it immediately. “No. God, no. That’s never going to happen.”
Peter didn’t look at them, his eyes still fixed on the passing cityscape. “But... I don’t have anyone. Not really.”
“That’s not true.” Tony’s voice steadied, his words careful but certain. “May... she already gave me partial custody a while ago. Just in case. I think she... I think she knew.” His voice wavered, but he pushed through. “It won’t be hard to switch it to full custody. I mean, I am Iron Man. Legal paperwork is kind of my thing.”
Natasha turned to face Peter fully, her expression open, a quiet strength radiating from her. “We’re here for you, Peter. We’re not trying to replace May or take over your life. We know this is... it’s a lot. And nothing has to change overnight. There’s no rush, no pressure. We just want you to know you’re not alone.”
Peter’s fingers tightened around the seatbelt, his knuckles turning white. “I don’t... I don’t even know what to call you.”
“You can call us whatever you want,” Natasha said softly. “Tony, Nat, or if you ever feel comfortable... But only if you want to. No expectations.”
Tony nodded, his eyes catching Peter’s in the rearview mirror. “This is all at your pace, kid. We’re not going anywhere.”
There was a beat of silence, the words settling in, wrapping around Peter like a blanket. “It’s just... it feels like too much.”
“I know,” Natasha whispered. “And we’ll take it one step at a time. You don’t have to figure it all out today, or tomorrow, or even next year. We’re here for the long haul.”
Peter’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression a mix of vulnerability and fear. “I’m tired.”
Tony’s hand tightened on the wheel. “Then rest. We’ll get you home. Your home. Our home, if you want it to be.”
Natasha reached back, her fingers brushing over Peter’s knee, a gentle anchor. “We’ve got you.”
Peter didn’t say anything more, but as his head rested against the window, his eyes slipping closed, the weight of his grief seemed to ease, if only a fraction.