The dawn we built

Monday
The tower felt impossibly vast without the chaos of their full contingent. Tony stood in the lab, surrounded by holographic displays showing crisis points across the world, each one a beating red wound that needed attention. His fingers traced patterns in the air, manipulating data streams with practiced precision, but his mind kept drifting to the empty spaces around him.

“Boss, you’ve been staring at the same projection for eleven minutes and fourteen seconds,” FRIDAY’s voice cut through his thoughts, her Irish lilt tinged with what might have been concern if she’d been human.

“Just thinking, FRI,” Tony muttered, blinking away the fugue state he’d drifted into. “Running simulations. Important genius stuff.”

“Of course, Boss. And shall I also log your current activity under ‘staring into space while missing your friends’?”

Tony scowled upward. “Getting awfully sassy for a program, aren’t we? I’ve got half a mind to downgrade you to a toaster.”

“Ms. Potts would be disappointed. She quite enjoys having someone in the building who can keep track of your coffee intake.”

“And I don’t enjoy being ganged up on by my wife and my AI,” Tony retorted, though there was no heat in it. He pulled up a new display, forcing himself to focus on the detailed schematics of a water purification system designed for areas with damaged infrastructure. “Where’s the kid? Isn’t it past school hours? He should be swinging his way here by now.”

“Peter is currently seventeen minutes away, Boss. He texted to inform you that he stayed after school to help with the science club’s rebuild project.”

Tony felt something warm unfurl in his chest at that. Even with everything the kid had been through, he still found time to help others. “That’s… good. That’s good.”

He immersed himself in work, manipulating the schematics to improve efficiency in the filtration system. The minutes ticked by in comfortable solitude, broken only by the occasional query to FRIDAY or muttered curse when a calculation didn’t align with his expectations.

The soft whoosh of the elevator doors broke his concentration. Tony didn’t turn immediately, maintaining the pretense of being deeply absorbed in his work, but his shoulders relaxed infinitesimally at the sound of familiar footsteps.

“Hey, Mr. Stark!” Peter’s voice carried that perpetual note of enthusiasm that seemed impervious to trauma or exhaustion. “Sorry I’m late. We were working on this really cool solar panel design for the school roof, and MJ had this idea about maximizing exposure based on the building’s orientation, and—”

“Breathe, kid,” Tony interrupted, finally turning to face his… protege (kid). Peter stood there, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair slightly mussed, practically vibrating with energy. “School rebuilding going well?”

Peter dropped his backpack and moved to Tony’s side, eyes immediately scanning the holographic display. “Yeah, it’s actually pretty amazing. Everyone’s pitching in, even Flash, which is weird but kind of nice? But holy cow, is this the new filtration system? Did you integrate the nanotech filter?”

Tony couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. The kid’s mind worked at a pace that few could match, jumping from topic to topic with dizzying speed yet somehow maintaining perfect clarity throughout. “Still working on it. The nanoparticles keep clumping when exposed to certain contaminants.”

Peter’s brow furrowed as he studied the schematic. Without asking permission, he reached out and manipulated the display, zooming in on the molecular structure. “What if…” He bit his lower lip, a habitual gesture when deep in thought. “What if we coated them with a hydrophobic polymer? Something that would repel the organic materials but still capture the heavy metals?”

Tony cocked his head, considering. It wasn’t a bad idea. “FRIDAY, run a simulation with Parker Parameter Alpha-7.”

“Already calculating, Boss,” FRIDAY replied, a note of amusement in her digital voice.

Peter beamed at having his suggestion taken seriously, and Tony felt that familiar twist in his chest—part pride, part protective instinct, part something deeper he didn’t care to examine too closely. The kid had wormed his way into Tony’s life and heart with a persistence that would have been annoying if it weren’t so endearing.

“How’s the arm?” Tony asked casually, nodding toward Peter’s left shoulder, which had taken a nasty hit during the final battle.

Peter rotated his shoulder automatically, a fleeting grimace crossing his features before being replaced with forced nonchalance. “Oh, it’s fine. Super healing, remember? Barely notice it anymore.”

“Uh-huh,” Tony replied skeptically. “That’s why you’re favoring your right side and grimacing every time you lift that backpack, which, by the way, probably weighs more than you do. What are you carrying in there, vibranium bricks?”

“Just books,” Peter protested. “And maybe a few parts I salvaged from the computer lab. They were gonna throw them out, Mr. Stark! Perfectly good circuitry!”

Tony shook his head, amusement battling with exasperation. “Dumpster diving again, Parker? I thought we agreed you had access to the best tech in the world right here.”

“It’s not dumpster diving if they hand it to you,” Peter argued, his expression so earnestly defensive that Tony had to bite back a laugh.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, kid.” Tony gestured to a workbench across the lab. “Speaking of tech, I’ve got something for you. Been working on upgrades to your suit while the galaxy’s mightiest heroes are out saving the universe.”

Peter’s eyes lit up with unfiltered excitement, his shoulder pain apparently forgotten as he bounded across the lab like an over-eager puppy. “New upgrades? Is it the conductive webbing we talked about? Or the enhanced sensory dampeners for when things get too overwhelming? Or—”

“All of the above,” Tony interrupted, pulling up a new holographic display. “Plus a few extras. Thought we could work on implementing them together. Unless you’ve got homework?”

Peter’s face did a complicated dance between responsibility and desire. “Well, I do have this calculus problem set, and an essay for Ms. Warren’s class, but…”

“But calculus is a joke to you, and I happen to know you finished that essay during lunch period because you texted me asking about the ethical implications of AI development in post-crisis societies,” Tony finished for him, arching an eyebrow.

Peter’s cheeks colored slightly. “I just wanted to make sure I got it right.”

“Kid, you quoted three research papers I published and two I haven’t published yet. Pretty sure you’ve got it right.” Tony tossed a holographic schematic toward Peter, who caught it reflexively. “Suit first, then we’ll video call your aunt to let her know you’re staying for dinner. Pepper’s ordered from that Thai place you like.”

“Yes!” Peter pumped his fist in the air. “The one with the spring rolls that make you cry?”

“The very same,” Tony confirmed, suppressing a shudder at the memory of the spice level that had literally brought tears to his eyes. “Though I’m sticking with the mild options because I’m not a masochistic spider-child with enhanced taste buds.”

Peter laughed, the sound bright and uncomplicated in a way that seemed almost out of place in their post-Snap world. Tony found himself smiling in response, the emptiness of the tower momentarily forgotten in the face of Peter’s irrepressible enthusiasm.

They settled into work, the familiar rhythm of invention and collaboration filling the space between them. Tony guided without hovering, suggested without dictating, and watched with poorly concealed pride as Peter made improvements that even he hadn’t considered.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter said after a comfortable silence had stretched between them, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “Do you think everyone’s okay out there? Like, really okay?”

Tony’s hands stilled over the holographic interface. He glanced at Peter, noting the careful way the kid avoided eye contact, focused intently on the wiring he was manipulating. “They’re the most capable, stubborn group of people in the universe, kid. They’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, but…” Peter’s voice trailed off, his fingers fidgeting with a screwdriver. “Last time we all split up, things didn’t exactly go well.”

The unspoken history hung between them—the civil war that had fractured the team, the losses they’d suffered, the five years that Peter had missed while Tony had lived with the weight of his failure.

Tony set down his tools and moved closer, placing a hand on Peter’s uninjured shoulder. “This isn’t like last time, Pete. We’re not divided, we’re coordinated. Everyone’s checking in regularly. Thor’s already sent three messages today, mostly complaints about interstellar cuisine and requests for Pop-Tarts when he returns.”

Peter’s mouth quirked upward. “Really?”

“Really,” Tony confirmed. “And Steve sent a detailed mission report that was so boring I fell asleep reading it. Everyone’s fine. They’ll be back on Friday, probably all trying to talk over each other about who had the worst accommodations.”

“Okay,” Peter nodded, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “That’s… that’s good.”

Tony squeezed gently before releasing him, maintaining the casual demeanor that made these moments bearable. “Besides, they know I’d build a time machine again and kick their asses if they didn’t come back. Once was enough.”

Peter smiled, the expression a little more subdued than his usual grin but genuine nonetheless. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

“For what? Threatening time travel? Pretty sure Pepper’s forbidden that particular activity, along with creating sentient appliances and adopting any more strays.” He ruffled Peter’s hair, ignoring the teenager’s protests. “Now, show me what you’ve done with the sensory dampeners. And don’t think I didn’t notice you tweaking my original design.”

“I just thought if we recalibrated the neural interface to prioritize specific stimuli based on predetermined threat levels…” Peter launched into a technical explanation, his enthusiasm returning in full force.

Tony listened, offering suggestions and challenges in equal measure, but part of his mind remained on Peter’s question. Were they all really okay out there? The rational part of his brain knew they were—these were Earth’s mightiest heroes, after all. The irrational part, the part that had watched the kid disintegrate in his arms and had spent five years drowning in that failure, wasn’t quite so easily convinced.

As if sensing his thoughts, FRIDAY interrupted softly. “Boss, incoming transmission from Colonel Rhodes.”

Tony’s head snapped up. “Put him through, FRI.”

A holographic screen materialized above the workbench, showing Rhodey’s face. The background suggested he was on a quinjet, the interior humming with the familiar sound of the engines.

“Hey, Tones,” Rhodey greeted, his expression tired but alert. “Just checking in before I go dark for a few hours. Diplomatic mission in—” He paused, catching sight of Peter. “Hey, Spider-Kid. How’s school?”

“Hi, Colonel Rhodes!” Peter waved enthusiastically. “It’s good! We’re rebuilding the science lab, and I’m helping design the new computer systems, and—”

“Condensed version, kid,” Tony interrupted gently. “Platypus here has important world-saving to do.”

Peter ducked his head. “Right, sorry. School’s good, Colonel.”

Rhodey’s laugh was warm and genuine. “Glad to hear it. And it’s Rhodey to you, remember? ‘Colonel’ makes me feel old.”

“Rhodey,” Peter amended, looking pleased at the informal address.

“So, honeybear,” Tony interjected, “diplomatic mission where? And please tell me you’re wearing the suit I upgraded with the enhanced translators, because your Latverian is atrocious.”

“Classified, and yes,” Rhodey answered, rolling his eyes. “Some of us actually follow security protocols, Tony.”

“Boring,” Tony declared. “How’s the leg bracers holding up? Any pressure points? Calibration issues?”

Rhodey’s expression softened slightly at the poorly disguised concern. “Working perfectly. Your tech, my charming personality—we’re making progress.”

“Good,” Tony nodded, satisfied. “You’re still on for Friday? Morgan’s been asking about her ‘Uncle Rhodey’ and his magic moving legs all day.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Rhodey assured him, his smile warm. “Tell the little miss I’ve got a surprise for her.”

“If it’s another stuffed animal, we’re going to need a bigger room,” Tony warned. “The kid’s got an army of them already.”

“No spoilers,” Rhodey replied with a grin. “Gotta go, diplomatic security escort’s here. See you Friday, Tones. Stay out of trouble, Spider-Kid.”

“No promises,” Peter replied cheerfully.

“Try not to start any international incidents,” Tony added. “We’ve got enough to handle already.”

The transmission ended, leaving Tony and Peter in companionable silence for a moment.

“See?” Tony said finally. “Everyone’s checking in. Probably more for my benefit than theirs, but I’ll take it.”

Peter nodded, looking more relaxed. “It’s nice, though. Knowing everyone’s connected even when they’re apart.”

Tony’s throat tightened unexpectedly at the simple observation. “Yeah,” he managed. “It is.”

They returned to their work, the comfortable silence occasionally broken by technical discussions and Peter’s increasingly complex questions. The afternoon stretched into evening, and eventually, the lab doors slid open to reveal Pepper, looking immaculate despite the long day of meetings.

“There you are,” she said, her tone a perfect blend of exasperation and affection. “It’s nearly eight, and neither of you answered when FRIDAY announced dinner.”

Tony looked up, genuinely surprised. “Is it that late already?”

“Time flies when you’re being a science nerd,” Pepper replied dryly. Her gaze softened as it landed on Peter. “Hello, Peter. How was school?”

“Hi, Ms. Potts! It was great! We’re rebuilding the science lab, and Mr. Stark and I are working on water filtration systems and suit upgrades, and—”

“And breathing is apparently optional,” Tony interrupted, his lips quirking. “Give the woman a chance to escape before you start the full dissertation, kid.”

Peter flushed. “Sorry, Ms. Potts.”

“It’s Pepper, Peter, and don’t apologize,” she corrected gently. “I enjoy your enthusiasm. It’s a refreshing change from the monosyllabic grunts I usually get from this one when he’s deep in a project.” She nodded toward Tony.

“I do not grunt,” Tony protested.

“You absolutely do,” Pepper countered. “Especially when you’re working on something important. It’s all ‘hmm’ and ‘mmph’ and occasionally ‘pass the soldering iron’ without looking up.”

Tony opened his mouth to argue, caught Peter’s barely suppressed grin, and closed it again. “Fine. I grunt. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” Pepper replied, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Now, both of you wash up. May will be here in twenty minutes, and Morgan is already setting the table, which means everything is at toddler height and we’ll all be eating on our knees.”

“I’ll help fix it,” Peter offered immediately, already moving toward the door.

“Thank you, Peter,” Pepper said, her smile warm. As he passed, she reached out to straighten his collar in a casually maternal gesture that made Tony’s heart constrict. “Your aunt called. She’s bringing dessert.”

Peter’s face lit up. “Her walnut date loaf?”

“I believe so,” Pepper confirmed.

“Yes!” Peter pumped his fist in the air again. “Best day ever!”

He bounded out of the lab with the inexhaustible energy of youth, leaving Tony and Pepper alone.

“That kid,” Tony shook his head, a mixture of exasperation and fondness coloring his tone. “Walnut date loaf? Really? Of all the desserts in the world, that’s what gets him excited?”

“It’s his aunt’s recipe,” Pepper reminded him gently. “It’s about more than the taste.”

Tony’s expression softened. “Yeah, I know.” He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around Pepper’s waist. “Hi.”

Pepper’s smile was gentle, the lines of stress around her eyes softening as she returned the embrace. “Hi yourself. Productive day?”

“Genius-level productive,” Tony confirmed. “The kid’s idea for the filtration system might actually work. We’re running simulations now.”

“I knew he’d figure it out,” Pepper murmured, pressing a kiss to Tony’s temple. “You’ve been stuck on that problem for days.”

“I wasn’t stuck,” Tony protested immediately. “I was… exploring all possible avenues before settling on a solution.”

“Mmhmm,” Pepper hummed skeptically, her fingers tracing soothing patterns at the nape of his neck. “And how many cups of coffee did this ‘exploration’ require?”

“An entirely reasonable amount,” Tony defended, then, at Pepper’s knowing look, “FRIDAY, you snitch.”

“I merely keep Ms. Potts informed of relevant health metrics, Boss,” the AI replied, sounding not at all apologetic.

“Traitor,” Tony muttered.

Pepper laughed softly, the sound vibrating against his chest. “Come on, caffeine addict. Let’s go help Morgan before she decides the floor is the new dining table.”

Tony followed her toward the elevator, his hand finding hers automatically. “Any word from the others?”

Pepper’s fingers tightened around his, understanding the casual question for what it really was. “Steve and Bucky checked in from Eastern Europe—they’ve made contact with three displaced communities and coordinated supply drops. Carol sent a brief message from orbit; she’s assisting with satellite repairs. Bruce reports that the Wakandan research team has made breakthroughs in sustainable agriculture techniques.”

Tony nodded, absorbing the information like a man dying of thirst might absorb water. “Good. That’s… good.”

“They’re all coming back, Tony,” Pepper said softly as the elevator doors closed behind them. “Friday will be here before you know it.”

Tony rested his forehead against hers for a brief moment. “I know,” he whispered. “I just… I got used to having everyone around.”

“I noticed,” Pepper replied, her tone gently teasing. “Our grocery bill tripled. Do you have any idea how much food Thor consumes in a single day?”

Tony snorted. “Pretty sure he ate an entire cow. Called it a ‘light midday repast’ or some Asgardian nonsense.”

“And Rocket’s constant ‘upgrades’ to the security system?”

“Paranoid trash panda,” Tony agreed, though there was no heat in it. “FRIDAY’s still finding unauthorized weapon caches in the air ducts.”

“Not to mention Quill’s insistence on playing the same twenty songs at full volume during breakfast.”

“If I hear ‘Hooked on a Feeling’ one more time, I’m launching his tape deck into the sun,” Tony threatened, his lips twitching.

Pepper’s laughter was soft and knowing. “You miss them.”

Tony sighed, dropping the pretense. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I do. It’s… it’s too quiet without them.”

“I know,” Pepper said simply, taking his hand as the elevator doors opened. “But we’ve got May, Peter, Morgan, and Rhodey when he gets back from his mission. That’s plenty of chaos for one evening.”

As if on cue, a small tornado in the form of a four-year-old girl came barreling toward them, dark hair flying behind her. “Daddy! Mommy! Peter’s helping me set the table and he says we can use the special plates with the Avengers on them and I want to sit on the Hulk plate because green is my favorite color today!”

Tony caught Morgan as she launched herself into his arms, her small body fitting perfectly against his chest, solid and real and miraculous. “Is that so, little miss? Yesterday your favorite color was red.”

“That was yesterday, Daddy,” Morgan explained with the exaggerated patience of a child speaking to a particularly slow adult. “Today it’s green. Tomorrow it might be purple like Auntie Nebula.”

“Of course, how silly of me,” Tony replied gravely, hoisting her up to sit on his shoulders. She giggled, her small hands finding anchor in his hair. “Lead the way to these special plates, then. I call dibs on Iron Man.”

“Nu-uh,” Morgan objected immediately. “Peter already said he wants Iron Man.”

Tony felt something warm and complicated expand in his chest at that. “Did he now? Well, I suppose I can settle for Captain America.”

“Captain America is for Uncle Rhodey,” Morgan informed him. “He called dibs last time.”

“The betrayal,” Tony complained, heading toward the dining area with Morgan perched on his shoulders like a queen on her throne. “My own family, conspiring against me.”

Pepper followed, her eyes soft with an affection she didn’t bother to disguise. “I saved Thor for you,” she offered.

“The point-break plate? With the tiny lightning bolts around the edge? I’m touched, Pep.”

“I thought you’d appreciate it.”

As they entered the dining area, Peter looked up from where he was carefully arranging cutlery around colorful plates adorned with stylized versions of the Avengers. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, and there was a smudge of grease on his cheek from the lab work, but his smile was bright and genuine.

“Hey, Mr. Stark! Morgan’s been telling me all about her day at preschool. Did you know they’re learning about space? I told her I could help with her project. I mean, if that’s okay with you and Ms. Potts—Pepper,” he corrected himself quickly.

“I think that sounds wonderful, Peter,” Pepper replied warmly.

Tony helped Morgan down from his shoulders, his heart full as he watched his daughter immediately attach herself to Peter’s side, looking up at the teenager with unabashed hero worship. “Pete’s going to help with space?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Kid, you’ve literally been to space. That’s like asking Thor to help with a project on thunder.”

Peter flushed. “Well, yeah, but space is cool, Mr. Stark. And Morgan’s really interested in the moon and stars and stuff. I thought maybe we could build a model of the solar system? Or a telescope? Something educational but fun.”

“A telescope!” Morgan bounced on her toes, excitement radiating from her small frame. “Can we, Daddy? Please?”

Tony pretended to consider it, though he knew he was powerless against the combined forces of Morgan’s puppy eyes and Peter’s earnest enthusiasm. “I suppose we could clear some space in the lab for a little astronomy project. As long as it doesn’t interfere with your actual schoolwork, Pete.”

“It won’t, I promise!” Peter assured him quickly. “I’m all caught up, and MJ’s helping me stay organized with a study schedule so I don’t fall behind again.”

“MJ, huh?” Tony smirked, noting the way Peter’s cheeks colored at the mention of his friend. “The scary one with the crisis drawings?”

“She’s not scary,” Peter defended immediately, then reconsidered. “Okay, maybe a little scary, but in a good way?”

“Uh-huh,” Tony nodded, his smirk widening. “Well, tell Ms. Not-Scary I appreciate her keeping you on track. Can’t have my intern falling behind in school.”

Pepper cleared her throat pointedly. “Peter is more than an intern, Tony,” she corrected gently.

Tony’s expression softened as he met Peter’s eyes. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “He is.”

The moment hung between them, weighted with things that remained unspoken but understood—the bond forged in battle, strengthened by loss, and cemented in the quiet moments between crises.

The elevator chimed softly, breaking the moment. “That’ll be May,” Pepper said, moving toward the entrance.

“And that’s my cue to wash up,” Tony declared, ruffling Morgan’s hair as he passed. “Can’t have Aunt Hottie thinking I’m a complete slob.”

“I heard that, Stark,” May’s voice carried from the elevator, followed by her appearance in the doorway, a covered dish in her hands and an affectionate smirk on her face.

“It was a compliment!” Tony protested, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Mm-hmm,” May hummed skeptically, setting the dish down on the counter before turning to embrace Peter. “Hey, baby. How was school?”

As Peter launched into an enthusiastic recap of his day, Tony slipped away to wash up, the weight of the empty tower temporarily lifted by the presence of this smaller, no less vital, family unit. Friday would bring the rest of their chaotic clan back home, but for now, this was more than enough.
***
Tuesday
Dawn broke over New York City in a spectacular display of orange and pink, the sun’s rays catching on the gleaming surfaces of skyscrapers still under repair. Tony stood on the balcony of the penthouse, a steaming cup of coffee clutched in his hands, watching the city come alive below. The rebuilding efforts were visible from this height—construction cranes dotting the skyline, the systematic repair of infrastructure damaged during the battle and the chaotic return of half the population.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Tony didn’t startle at Pepper’s voice behind him—he’d sensed her approach in the subtle shift of air, the familiar cadence of her footsteps. She moved to stand beside him, her own cup of tea sending tendrils of steam into the cool morning air.

“It’s a mess,” Tony replied, though there was no bite in his words. “But yeah, beautiful. Resilient.”

Pepper leaned against him slightly, her shoulder pressing into his in a casual intimacy that grounded him more effectively than any elaborate reassurance could have. They stood in comfortable silence, watching the city shake off the remnants of night to face another day of reconstruction.

“The U.N. representatives want to move tomorrow’s meeting up to this afternoon,” Pepper said finally, her tone carefully neutral. “Secretary Ross is pushing for immediate implementation of the revised Accords.”

Tony’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice even. “Of course he is. Bureaucratic opportunism at its finest.”

“Tony…” Pepper’s voice held a note of warning.

“I know, I know,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Diplomatic cooperation, international coordination, blah blah. But Pep, the ink’s barely dry on these revisions, and half the people they affect aren’t even on the planet right now. Thor’s off doing guardian of the galaxy stuff, Banner’s in Wakanda, Carol’s literally in orbit—”

“Which is why we need to be there,” Pepper interrupted gently. “To make sure their interests are represented. To ensure that the framework being established is flexible enough to accommodate the unique needs of our extended family.”

“Family,” Tony repeated, the word still strange on his tongue despite its growing familiarity in his heart. “Is that what we’re calling the disaster magnet formerly known as the Avengers?”

Pepper’s smile was small but genuine. “It’s what Morgan calls you all. What Peter says when he talks about weekend gatherings. What Thor boomed across the dining room on Sunday when he raised that ridiculous mug of his.”

Tony’s expression softened at the memory—Thor standing to make a toast, his voice carrying the weight of centuries as he spoke of bonds forged in battle and strengthened in peace. “Well, Point Break does have a flair for the dramatic.”

“Like someone else I know,” Pepper teased, nudging him gently.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Tony replied with mock indignation. “I am the picture of restraint and subtlety.”

Pepper’s laugh was warm and genuine. “Says the man who flew into a wormhole with a nuclear missile.”

“That was one time,” Tony protested.

“Or built a legion of autonomous suits.”

“A reasonable security precaution.”

“Or announced to the world ‘I am Iron Man’ when the cards clearly said to stick to the cover story.”

“Okay, you might have a point there,” Tony conceded, his lips quirking. “But in my defense, I’ve gotten better with age. Like a fine wine or a particularly expensive whiskey.”

“Or a stubborn mule,” Pepper added, her eyes dancing with affection.

“Wounded, Ms. Potts. Absolutely wounded by your cruel words.”

Pepper leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek, her lips warm against his skin. “You’ll survive, Mr. Stark. Your ego is remarkably resilient.”

They fell back into comfortable silence, finishing their respective drinks as the sun climbed higher in the sky. The peaceful moment was shattered by the distinctive sound of small feet running at full tilt toward them.

“Daddy! Mommy! Peter texted and he says he’s coming right after school to work on my space project!” Morgan barreled onto the balcony, still in her pajamas, a tablet clutched in her small hands. “Look, I’ve been researching telescopes all morning!”

Tony raised an eyebrow, taking the tablet from her. “All morning, huh? It’s barely seven, little miss. How long have you been up?”

Morgan’s expression turned evasive, a look Tony recognized all too well from his own reflection. “Just a little while.”

“FRIDAY?” Pepper prompted.

“Miss Morgan has been awake since 5:43 AM, researching astronomical instruments and consuming three chocolate chip cookies from the pantry,” the AI reported dutifully.

“Traitor,” Morgan muttered, in an eerie echo of her father’s frequent accusation.

Tony bit back a laugh, exchanging an amused glance with Pepper. “Cookies for breakfast, Morgan? Really?”

“I was hungry,” Morgan defended. “And thinking is hard work. Peter says sugar helps the brain.”

“Does he now?” Tony made a mental note to have a word with the teenager about nutritional advice. “Well, how about we get some actual food in you before you continue your scientific research? Can’t build a telescope on cookies alone.”

“Can too,” Morgan argued, though she allowed Tony to shepherd her back inside. “Uncle Bruce says cookies have carbohydrates which are important for energy.”

“Uncle Bruce also turns green and smashes buildings when he gets angry, so maybe let’s not use him as our primary nutritional resource,” Tony countered, guiding her toward the kitchen.

Pepper followed, her expression a mixture of amusement and resignation. “I’ll make pancakes while you try to explain the concept of a balanced breakfast to your daughter.”

“My daughter? She gets the sweet tooth from your side of the family,” Tony protested.

“Nice try, but my mother was a dental hygienist. Your father, on the other hand, kept a candy drawer in his workshop.”

Tony paused, genuinely surprised. “How did you know that?”

Pepper’s smile turned mysterious. “I have my sources, Mr. Stark.”

The morning progressed in a whirlwind of activity—pancakes and fruit for breakfast, followed by Morgan’s excited planning for her space project, interspersed with Tony’s calls to various team members scattered across the globe and beyond. Through it all, Tony found himself hyperaware of the time, counting down the hours until their U.N. meeting, mentally rehearsing arguments and counterarguments for whatever Ross might throw their way.

By the time Happy arrived to take Morgan to preschool, Tony’s casual demeanor was beginning to fray at the edges, his movements taking on the slightly manic edge that Pepper recognized as pre-meeting anxiety.

“Everything will be fine,” she assured him as they prepared to leave, her hand smoothing invisible wrinkles from his suit jacket. “The revisions are solid. We’ve got the backing of 117 countries. Even Ross can’t bulldoze that kind of consensus.”

“Ross excels at bulldozing,” Tony muttered, adjusting his tie for the third time. “It’s his one marketable skill.”

Pepper stilled his fidgeting hands with her own. “Tony. Look at me.”

He met her gaze reluctantly, his brown eyes troubled.

“We’ve faced worse than Thaddeus Ross and lived to tell about it,” she reminded him gently. “This is just a meeting. Words on paper. We’ve got the moral high ground, the legal backing, and, most importantly, each other.”

Tony’s expression softened. “When did you get so wise, Potts?”

“Around the same time I agreed to marry a superhero with an allergy to reasonable working hours and a propensity for flying into alien invasions,” she replied dryly. “Someone had to be the voice of reason.”

“Lucky me,” Tony murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to her lips.

The meeting was every bit as contentious as Tony had anticipated. Secretary Ross sat across the polished conference table, his expression set in lines of rigid authority as he outlined his proposed amendments to the already-revised Accords.

“The fact remains, Mr. Stark, that we have enhanced individuals operating with minimal oversight, making unilateral decisions that affect global security,” Ross argued, his voice carrying the weight of military command. “The recent crisis only underscores the need for stricter controls.”

Tony leaned back in his chair, projecting a casual confidence he didn’t entirely feel. “The recent crisis, Mr. Secretary, was resolved precisely because those enhanced individuals had the freedom to respond without wading through red tape. If we’d waited for committee approval, we’d all be dust. Literally.”

Ross’s jaw tightened. “That’s speculation.”

“That’s fact,” Tony countered. “I was there. You weren’t.”

“Tony,” Pepper murmured, a gentle warning.

He inhaled deeply, reining in his temper. “The point is, Secretary, the revised Accords already include substantial oversight measures. What you’re proposing goes beyond oversight into micromanagement. These aren’t robots or soldiers—they’re individuals with unique abilities who have repeatedly put their lives on the line to protect this planet. They deserve some measure of autonomy.”

“Autonomy leads to Sokovia. To Lagos. To—”

“To saving half the universe,” Tony interrupted, his patience fraying. “Look, I was the poster boy for the original Accords, remember? I believed in oversight. I still do. But what you’re suggesting isn’t oversight—it’s a leash, and a short one at that. Our people won’t accept it, and frankly, they shouldn’t have to.”

The debate continued for hours, points and counterpoints lobbed across the table like grenades. Pepper intervened periodically with calm, legally sound arguments that took some of the heat out of the exchange, her diplomatic skills smoothing the ragged edges.

The conference room buzzed with tension as Ross’s voice cut through the air, sharp as a blade. “You can’t possibly expect us to give carte blanche to enhanced individuals after everything that’s happened.”

Tony’s fingers drummed against the polished table, an irregular heartbeat betraying the calm exterior he fought to maintain. The weight of the argument pressed against his chest, a phantom pressure reminiscent of nights spent staring at the ceiling, haunted by all the ways he’d failed.

“No one’s asking for carte blanche,” he replied, voice measured despite the storm brewing beneath. “What we’re asking for is respect for people who have literally died—some more than once—protecting this planet.”

Pepper’s hand found his knee under the table, a gentle pressure that anchored him to reality. A silent reminder: breathe.

“The fact remains,” Ross continued, shuffling papers with unnecessary force, “that we need accountability.”

“And you have it,” Pepper interjected, her voice calm but unyielding. “Section 7 of the revised Accords outlines comprehensive reporting requirements for all authorized interventions. Section 12 establishes a review committee with representatives from 117 member nations. What more do you want, Secretary Ross? A tracking chip implanted in their necks?”

The flash of consideration in Ross’s eyes made Tony’s blood run cold.

“That was rhetorical,” he snapped, leaning forward. “Let me be perfectly clear. Any attempt to place tracking devices on any enhanced individual will be met with the full legal and technological force of Stark Industries, and trust me when I say our legal department makes your military tribunals look like a preschool debate club.”

The U.N. representative from Wakanda—a composed woman named Nakia whom T’Challa had personally recommended—cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should return to the actual text of the revisions,” she suggested, her accent lending gravity to the words. “Secretary Ross’s concerns about response time in crisis situations are addressed in Article 4, which provides for immediate action in planetary-level threats with retroactive reporting.”

Tony shot her a grateful look. Diplomatic reinforcements had arrived at precisely the right moment.

The discussion continued for another grueling hour, Ross’s demands gradually eroding against the wall of unified opposition. By the time the meeting concluded, the revised Accords stood largely intact, with only minor concessions on reporting timelines.

As they exited the building, Tony loosened his tie with a sharp tug. “Well, that was about as pleasant as dental surgery without anesthesia.”

Pepper’s lips quirked. “I thought it went rather well, actually. Ross only threatened international sanctions twice.”

“A new personal best,” Tony agreed dryly. He checked his watch, the specialized face displaying multiple time zones where various team members were currently stationed. “Peter should be out of school by now. FRIDAY, any word?”

“Peter has sent a message indicating he’s headed to the tower with, and I quote, ‘the coolest space books ever’ for Morgan’s project,” FRIDAY’s voice reported from his watch.

Tony’s expression softened, the tension from the meeting melting away at the thought of what awaited him at home. “Let’s not keep the resident astronomer waiting, then.”

The drive back to the tower passed in comfortable silence, Pepper reviewing notes on her tablet while Tony gazed out the window, watching the city gradually rebuild itself. Construction crews worked on damaged buildings, new scaffolding rising like exoskeletons against the skyline. People moved with purpose, carrying on despite the trauma of having either disappeared for five years or lived through a half-empty world.

Resilience. It never ceased to amaze him.

When they arrived at the tower, the lab was already humming with activity. Peter had beaten them there, his backpack disgorged across one workbench, textbooks and hand-drawn designs scattered in organized chaos. Morgan sat on a stool beside him, her small legs swinging as she pointed excitedly at something in an astronomy book.

“And that’s called the Great Red Spot,” Peter was explaining, his voice animated with the particular enthusiasm he reserved for scientific explanations. “It’s like a giant storm on Jupiter that’s been going for hundreds of years!”

“Hundreds of years?” Morgan’s eyes widened with appropriate awe. “That’s older than Daddy!”

Peter’s laugh was bright and sudden. “Way older. Even older than Captain Rogers!”

“I heard that,” Tony announced as he entered, though his mock scowl couldn’t disguise the fondness in his eyes. “Besmirching my good name to my own daughter, Parker? That’s low, even for you.”

Peter’s smile was immediate and unguarded, a flash of genuine joy that still caught Tony off guard sometimes. The kid had seen too much, lost too much, and yet somehow maintained that essential brightness at his core.

“Mr. Stark! How was the meeting? Did they accept the revisions? Is Secretary Ross still being difficult? Ms. Pot—Pepper said it might run long, so we started researching telescope designs, and Morgan has some really cool ideas about what she wants to see, and we found this book that shows how to track the phases of—”

“Breathe, Pete,” Tony interrupted, the familiar instruction delivered with a warmth that belied its brevity. He dropped a kiss on Morgan’s head before perching on the edge of the workbench. “Meeting went fine. Ross was Ross, but we managed to keep the reasonable parts of the Accords intact while shooting down his more dictatorial impulses.”

Peter nodded, relief evident in the slight relaxation of his shoulders. “That’s good. I was worried he might try to push through the registration database again.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’ve been reading the drafts?”

“Well, yeah,” Peter replied, as if it were obvious. “It affects me too, right? Plus, MJ’s really into international law and human rights, and she has opinions. Lots of opinions.”

“I bet she does,” Tony murmured, making a mental note to invite this MJ to the next strategy session. Anyone who could keep up with Peter intellectually and had strong opinions on international governance was someone worth knowing. “So, what’s this I hear about telescope designs? Planning on spying on the neighbors, or do we have grander galactic ambitions?”

Morgan bounced in her seat, her excitement palpable. “We’re gonna see Saturn’s rings, Daddy! And the Andromeda Galaxy! Peter says we can build a reflector telescope that’s strong enough to see stuff that’s millions of light years away!”

“Is that so?” Tony raised an eyebrow at Peter, who had the grace to look slightly sheepish.

“Well, not exactly millions of light years with the home setup we’re planning, but definitely some impressive celestial bodies,” Peter clarified. “I thought we could start with a basic Newtonian reflector design and then maybe add some Stark tech enhancements? If that’s okay with you, of course.”

Tony pretended to consider it, though he’d already mentally set aside lab space and resources for the project. “I suppose we could sacrifice a few materials for the sake of scientific education. What were you thinking for the primary mirror?”

Peter’s eyes lit up, and he launched into a detailed explanation of potential mirror compositions and focal lengths, his hands moving animatedly as he laid out calculations and design specifications. Morgan watched with rapt attention, occasionally interjecting with questions that revealed a startling understanding of basic physics for a four-year-old.

Tony listened, offering suggestions and challenges in equal measure, the tension from the meeting gradually dissipating in the familiar rhythm of collaborative creation. This was where he felt most at home—surrounded by ideas and innovation, watching a younger mind stretch and grow under his guidance.

The afternoon slipped away in a comfortable blur of designs and calculations. At some point, Pepper appeared with food, insisting they break for dinner. May arrived shortly after, having finished her shift at the hospital where she’d returned to work after the Blip.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, dropping a kiss on Peter’s head before accepting a plate from Pepper. “The ER was packed. Reconstruction accidents, mostly. People trying to rebuild faster than is strictly safe.”

“No change there, then,” Tony quipped, though there was no bite in it. “Humanity rushing headlong into danger in the name of progress. It’s practically our species motto.”

“Says the man who built a flying metal suit in a cave,” May retorted, her eyes twinkling behind her glasses.

“With a box of scraps,” Peter added solemnly, before breaking into a grin at Tony’s betrayed expression.

“Et tu, Parker?” Tony clutched his chest dramatically. “The youth of today have no respect for their elders.”

“I respect you, Mr. Stark,” Peter assured him earnestly. “I just also think it’s funny when May calls you out.”

“Traitor,” Tony muttered, though there was no heat in it.

Morgan patted his hand consolingly. “I still respect you, Daddy. Even though you’re really, really old.”

The adults burst into laughter at Tony’s indignant expression, and dinner devolved into a comfortable exchange of teasing and updates on their respective days. FRIDAY interrupted briefly to announce an incoming transmission from Wakanda, and Bruce’s holographic form materialized above the dining table.

“Hey, everyone,” he greeted, his massive green form somehow conveying gentle awkwardness despite the size. “Hope I’m not interrupting dinner.”

“Uncle Bruce!” Morgan exclaimed delightedly. “We’re building a telescope! Do you want to see when it’s done?”

Bruce’s smile was warm. “I’d love that, Morgan. Maybe you can point it at the stars over Wakanda and wave to me.”

“That’s not how telescopes work,” Morgan informed him seriously. “Peter explained that telescopes collect light, not send it. So I could see you, but you couldn’t see me.”

Bruce chuckled, shooting an approving look at Peter. “Teaching astronomy to the next generation of Starks, huh? Good man.”

Peter flushed with pleasure at the compliment. “Just the basics, Dr. Banner. Morgan’s a quick study.”

“Just like her dad,” Bruce agreed, his gaze shifting to Tony. “Speaking of, I wanted to update you on our progress here. T’Challa’s research team has made significant advancements in sustainable agriculture methods that could help address food shortages in areas affected by the sudden population return. We’re combining traditional Wakandan techniques with some of the distributed farming systems we developed during the five-year gap.”

Tony nodded, slipping easily into the rhythm of scientific exchange. “Any application for the urban vertical farm projects we’ve been prototyping?”

“Absolutely,” Bruce confirmed. “In fact, that’s partly why I called. Princess Shuri has some modifications to the hydroponic filtration system you might want to integrate. I’m sending the specs now.”

“FRIDAY, route to my private server,” Tony instructed automatically. “Tell Shuri her timing is impeccable. The kid and I were just debugging similar systems for disaster relief deployment.”

Peter perked up. “The nanofiltration units for contaminated water sources? Those would work great with the Wakandan modifications!”

The conversation flowed into technical details, Morgan eventually losing interest and dragging May to the living area to show her the space books they’d found. Pepper remained, asking pointed questions about implementation timelines and resource allocation for the agricultural projects.

Eventually, Bruce signed off with promises to check in again the next day, his holographic form dissolving into particles of light that scattered across the dinner table.

“Look at us,” Tony mused, leaning back in his chair. “Saving the world through sustainable agriculture. Not exactly the glamorous heroics they make movies about.”

“Maybe they should,” Peter suggested earnestly. “I mean, feeding people is pretty heroic, right?”

Tony studied the teenager thoughtfully. “Yeah,” he agreed softly. “It is.”

The evening wound down slowly, Peter and Morgan returning to the telescope designs while Tony and Pepper reviewed Shuri’s modifications to the filtration system. May joined them after a while, offering practical insights from her experiences with relief work.

“People need to feel self-sufficient,” she pointed out, examining the holographic model of a vertical garden structure. “After the Snap—after losing everything—being able to grow your own food gives back a sense of control.”

Tony nodded slowly, making a note to redesign the community implementation plan. “Good point. We’ll adjust the distribution model to focus on community-led installation rather than dropping in pre-built systems.”

“The apartment complex across from us started a rooftop garden during the five years,” Peter added quietly. “Mrs. Chen said it kept them connected when everything else fell apart.”

A comfortable silence fell over the group, each lost momentarily in their own memories of that fractured time. Tony found himself studying Peter’s profile, struck again by the strange duality of his existence—the boy who had turned to dust in his arms, and the young man sitting before him, solid and real and impossibly resilient.

“Well,” May broke the silence, glancing at her watch, “it’s a school night, and someone has a biology test tomorrow.”

Peter groaned. “It’s just cellular respiration, May. I could pass that in my sleep.”

“Then you’ll ace it wide awake after a full night’s rest,” she countered, already gathering her things. “Come on, Spider-boy. Even superheroes need sleep.”

Peter sighed but began collecting his backpack, carefully tucking away the designs they’d created. “I’ll work on the mirror calculations tomorrow,” he promised Morgan, who looked distinctly disappointed at his departure. “And maybe we can start assembling the frame if your dad approves the materials list.”

“Oh, so I’m ‘your dad’ when it comes to approving expensive lab materials,” Tony observed dryly. “Convenient demotion from ‘Mr. Stark.’”

Peter’s smile was entirely too innocent. “Just helping Morgan develop her persuasive speaking skills. It’s an important life skill.”

“Uh-huh,” Tony replied skeptically. “And it has nothing to do with the industrial-grade reflective coating on that materials list that costs more per square inch than some cars?”

“It’s for science, Daddy,” Morgan interjected, her brown eyes wide and pleading in a perfect imitation of Peter’s puppy-dog expression. “For learning. Don’t you want me to learn?”

Tony threw up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ve created monsters. Manipulative, brilliant monsters.”

Peter’s laugh was bright and genuine as he shouldered his backpack. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Stark.”

“Six o’clock sharp,” Tony confirmed. “We’ve got those filtration prototypes to test before your school day starts.”

“Yes, sir!” Peter offered a mock salute before turning to Pepper. “Thanks for dinner, Ms.—Pepper.”

“You’re always welcome, Peter,” she replied warmly.

After goodbyes were exchanged and May had herded Peter into the elevator (but not before Tony had slipped a new prototype web shooter into the side pocket of his backpack), Morgan began the inevitable bedtime negotiations.

“Just one more hour, Daddy,” she pleaded, clinging to his leg with the determination of a barnacle. “I’m not even tired.”

“The yawn you just tried to hide suggests otherwise, little miss,” Tony countered, scooping her up. “Besides, we need to test those telescope designs tomorrow, and that requires a well-rested Morgan brain.”

Morgan considered this logic, her small face scrunched in thought. “What if I go to bed but you tell me a story first? A really long one about space?”

“A transparent delaying tactic,” Tony noted, carrying her toward her bedroom. “But I’ll allow it. One space story, reasonable length, and then it’s lights out for tiny astronomers.”

As he tucked Morgan into bed, surrounded by stuffed animals and glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling (a project Peter had helped with, insisting on astronomical accuracy in their placement), Tony felt a profound sense of contentment wash over him. This quiet moment—his daughter warm and safe, his wife reviewing reports in the next room, Peter heading home with May, the tower humming with the familiar sounds of FRIDAY’s systems—was worth every battle, every sacrifice, every moment of pain that had led here.

“Daddy?” Morgan’s voice was already heavy with approaching sleep. “When everyone comes home on Friday, can we have a stargazing party with the new telescope?”

Tony smiled, brushing her hair back from her forehead. “I think that sounds perfect, Morgan. The whole family under the stars.”

“The whole family,” she repeated, her eyes drifting closed. “I like that.”

“Me too, little miss,” Tony whispered. “Me too.”
***
Wednesday
Dawn came earlier than Tony would have preferred, heralded by FRIDAY’s gentle reminder that he had promised to meet Peter at six for the filtration tests. He groaned into his pillow, feeling every one of his years in the stiffness of his joints and the lingering ache in his right arm, still not fully recovered from wielding the gauntlet.

“It’s 5:30 AM, Boss,” FRIDAY informed him. “Peter will arrive in approximately 30 minutes. Current weather conditions are clear, 62 degrees Fahrenheit. The filtration test samples have been prepared according to your specifications.”

“Thanks, FRI,” Tony muttered, carefully extracting himself from Pepper’s sleeping form. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake, her breathing remaining deep and even. The soft morning light filtered through the windows, casting her in a gentle glow that made his chest tighten with a familiar ache of gratitude and disbelief. After everything, she was still here. They were all still here.

He showered and dressed quickly, making his way to the lab with a steaming cup of coffee clutched in his hand like a lifeline. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city beginning its day, the early morning light painting the buildings in hues of gold and amber.

“FRIDAY, pull up the filtration schematics and the latest water quality data from the affected regions,” Tony instructed, settling into his workspace. Holographic displays materialized around him, bathing the lab in a blue glow.

“Also, how’s our spider-kid tracking? Still on schedule?”

“Peter is currently three blocks away, moving at approximately 47 miles per hour via web-slinging. Estimated arrival in two minutes and seventeen seconds.”

Tony smiled to himself, imagining Peter swinging through the early morning city, likely giddy with the freedom of movement despite the early hour. Sure enough, exactly two minutes later, the soft chime of the exterior access panel announced his arrival.

Peter tumbled in through the special entrance Tony had designed for him, performing an unnecessary but impressive flip before landing lightly on his feet. He pulled off his mask, his hair sticking up in all directions, face flushed with exertion and eyes bright with the particular joy that web-slinging always seemed to bring him.

“Morning, Mr. Stark!” he greeted, his voice carrying that perpetual note of enthusiasm that made Tony simultaneously exhausted and energized. “I brought breakfast!”

He held up a brown paper bag that emitted the unmistakable scent of fresh bagels. “Mr. Delmar’s nephew reopened the deli last month. They’re still working out some supply issues, but the bagels are amazing.”

Tony accepted the offering with a nod of appreciation. “You’re a gift to humanity, Parker. Coffee’s fresh if you want some.”

“Yes, please,” Peter replied, making his way to the coffee station Tony had installed specifically to keep himself and his protégé properly caffeinated during their work sessions. “I was up late finishing that biology review, and then there was this mugging on 39th, and by the time I got home it was already past midnight, and—”

“Slow down, kid,” Tony interrupted gently. “Breathe between sentences. Basic human function.”

Peter grinned sheepishly, doctoring his coffee with an amount of sugar that made Tony’s teeth ache just watching. “Sorry. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about the filtration problem, and what if the issue isn’t the nanoparticles themselves but the binding agent we’re using to adhere them to the substrate?”

Tony raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself. “Go on.”

Peter launched into a detailed explanation of his theory, his hands moving animatedly as he outlined a potential solution involving a modified polymer coating. Tony listened, occasionally interjecting with questions or refinements, but mostly allowing the kid’s natural brilliance to unfold.

“That… might actually work,” Tony admitted when Peter finally paused for breath. “FRIDAY, run a simulation using Parker Parameter Beta-12.”

“Simulation running,” FRIDAY confirmed. “Estimated completion time: seven minutes.”

Peter beamed, the simple praise lighting him up from within in a way that made Tony’s chest ache. The kid was starved for validation, for the acknowledgment of his intellect and contributions. It was a need Tony recognized all too well from his own youth.

“While that’s running, let’s take a look at those samples,” Tony suggested, moving toward the testing station they’d set up the previous day. “We’ve got water from six different crisis points, each with unique contaminant profiles.”

They worked in comfortable synchronicity, testing and refining the filtration prototypes against increasingly challenging water samples. Peter’s modifications to the binding agent proved successful in most cases, though they hit a roadblock with particularly oil-contaminated samples from a coastal region.

“The hydrophobic coating repels the water along with the petroleum products,” Peter observed, frowning at the test results. “We need something that can selectively bind to the contaminants without affecting the water molecules.”

“What if we reversed our approach?” Tony suggested, manipulating a holographic model of the molecular structure. “Instead of trying to catch everything bad, we could design the filter to only allow water molecules to pass through, using a semipermeable membrane with precisely calibrated nanopores.”

Peter’s eyes widened as he considered the possibility. “Like biological cell membranes! They use selective permeability to control what moves in and out.” He grabbed a tablet, fingers flying across the surface as he sketched out a modified design. “We could even incorporate some of the principles from the Wakandan agricultural systems Dr. Banner sent over—they’re using similar technology for moisture retention in arid regions.”

Tony watched as Peter worked, a familiar warmth spreading through his chest. This was what he’d always wanted for his legacy—not weapons or even the flashier aspects of being Iron Man, but this: using technology to solve real problems, mentoring the next generation of innovators who would take those solutions further than he could imagine.

They lost track of time, deeply engrossed in refining the new approach, until FRIDAY’s gentle reminder broke through their focused bubble.

“Boss, it’s 7:45 AM. Peter’s first class begins in 45 minutes.”

Peter’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Oh man, I’m gonna be late again! Ms. Warren already gave me detention last week for tardiness!”

“Relax, kid,” Tony soothed, already moving toward a workbench where a small device sat charging. “I’ve got you covered. New toy for you to test.”

Peter approached cautiously, his expression a mixture of excitement and wariness. “Is this what I think it is?”

“If you think it’s a portable short-range teleportation device designed to get teenage vigilantes to school on time, then yes, it is exactly what you think it is.” Tony held up the palm-sized device with a flourish. “Range is limited to about five miles for now, and it needs a twelve-hour recharge between jumps, but it should get you to Midtown with time to spare.”

Peter’s jaw dropped. “You made me a teleporter? Like, a real, actual teleporter? Like in Star Trek?”

“More or less,” Tony shrugged, though he couldn’t quite suppress the smile tugging at his lips. The kid’s unabashed enthusiasm was infectious. “Though I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this particular invention to Pepper just yet. She has some concerns about the potential molecular stability across the quantum transition.”

“Molecular stability?” Peter repeated, his enthusiasm dimming slightly. “Uh, Mr. Stark, is this safe?”

“Perfectly safe,” Tony assured him, mostly believing it himself. “I’ve tested it on organic matter. Bananas, lab rats, one of Barton’s old boots that he left behind. Everything arrived intact, down to the cellular level.”

Peter still looked skeptical. “Have you tested it on yourself?”

“Not yet,” Tony admitted. “But I have complete confidence in the engineering. My engineering, specifically, which is the best engineering on the planet, possibly the galaxy.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Stark,” Peter hesitated. “May would kill me if I got my molecules scrambled trying to avoid detention.”

Tony sighed, setting the device down. “Fair point. The Mark VII teleportation device remains in beta testing, then. Back to conventional web-slinging for you, Spider-Man.”

Peter grinned, already heading for his backpack. “Rain check on molecular destabilization? We can work on it this afternoon. I was thinking about the quantum entanglement problem, and I have some ideas based on Dr. Banner’s papers on gamma radiation and dimensional phasing.”

“After school,” Tony agreed. “And bring those ideas. If anyone can solve the quantum entanglement issue, it’s the kid who hacked my multi-million dollar suit with a decade-old laptop.”

Peter’s cheeks colored slightly at the reminder of his earlier exploits. “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”

“Not a chance, kid,” Tony confirmed with a smirk. “Now get going before Ms. Warren adds to your growing collection of detention slips.”

Peter pulled on his mask, heading for the exterior access panel. “See you at four, Mr. Stark! We can work on the telescope frame with Morgan after the filtration tests!”

“Four o’clock,” Tony confirmed. “Don’t be late, or I’m testing the teleporter on you whether you like it or not.”

The kid’s laugh echoed through the lab as he launched himself out the window, a streak of red and blue against the morning sky. Tony watched until he disappeared among the buildings, then turned back to the workbench with a soft sigh.

“FRIDAY, continue running simulations on the new filtration design. Incorporate Peter’s modifications to the membrane structure.”

“Running now, Boss,” FRIDAY confirmed. “Also, Ms. Potts is awake and asking for your location.”

“Tell her I’m in the lab, being responsible and productive and definitely not testing experimental teleportation technology on minors.”

“I believe that falls under the ‘things I’m not supposed to lie about’ protocol, Boss.”

Tony snorted. “Just tell her I’m in the lab and I’ll be up for breakfast in ten.”

“Message delivered. She says, and I quote, ‘If you’re working on that quantum teleporter again, you’re sleeping on the couch.’”

Tony’s eyebrows shot up. “How does she always know?”

“Boss, with all due respect, your obsession with teleportation technology has been a consistent pattern since 2015. Ms. Potts merely applied basic pattern recognition.”

“Et tu, FRIDAY?” Tony muttered, already moving toward the elevator. “I’m surrounded by sass from all sides. An AI, a teenager, and a five-year-old, all judging my life choices.”

“Don’t forget Ms. Potts,” FRIDAY added helpfully.

“As if I could,” Tony replied, though there was nothing but affection in his tone.

When he reached the penthouse, Pepper was seated at the breakfast counter, reviewing reports on a tablet while Morgan sat beside her, meticulously arranging blueberries on her pancakes to form what appeared to be a solar system.

“Daddy!” Morgan exclaimed, abandoning her breakfast artwork to launch herself into his arms. “I made space pancakes! The blueberries are planets and the syrup is the Milky Way!”

Tony hoisted her up, examining the creation critically. “Very scientifically accurate, little miss. Though I think Saturn’s rings might need a bit more definition.”

“That’s what I told Mommy, but she said we shouldn’t play with our food,” Morgan confided in a stage whisper that was clearly audible to Pepper.

“A terrible limitation on scientific inquiry,” Tony agreed solemnly, earning himself a pointed look from his wife.

“Don’t encourage her, Tony,” Pepper warned, though her lips twitched with suppressed amusement. “I’ve already had to explain why we can’t use the pancake batter to create ‘accurate topographical moon models’ this morning.”

“A tragic oversight in culinary education,” Tony declared, setting Morgan back on her chair. “Clearly, pancake topography should be part of every preschool curriculum.”

Morgan nodded emphatically. “That’s what I said!”

Pepper shook her head, though her expression remained fond. “You two are impossible before coffee.”

“Speaking of impossibilities,” Tony segued smoothly, helping himself to coffee from the pot, “how do you feel about quantum teleportation as a solution to morning commute issues?”

Pepper’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Tony…”

“Purely hypothetical,” he assured her quickly. “A thought experiment. Academic curiosity.”

“The last time you had ‘academic curiosity’ about teleportation, you materialized one of Clint’s boots inside our bedroom wall.”

“A minor calibration issue,” Tony defended. “And in my defense, the boot was intact. Structurally sound, even.”

“It was embedded in drywall, Tony. At three in the morning.”

“Details,” he waved dismissively, though he was fighting a smile. These moments of domestic normalcy—bickering with Pepper over breakfast while Morgan created edible astronomy—were precious beyond measure. “Anyway, what’s on the agenda for today? More Ross wrangling? Corporate domination? Taking over small countries through the strategic application of clean energy initiatives?”

Pepper’s expression shifted to something more serious. “Actually, I have meetings with the resettlement commission all day. There are still thousands of people displaced by the Return who need housing, employment, legal assistance.”

The lightness in Tony’s chest dimmed slightly. For all their progress, the aftermath of the Snap and the subsequent Return remained a logistical and humanitarian nightmare. Five years of altered life, of adjusted populations and resources, upended in an instant when half the universe’s inhabitants suddenly reappeared.

“Anything I can do?” he asked, the flippancy gone from his voice.

Pepper’s smile was gentle, understanding. “You’re already doing it. The filtration systems, the agricultural initiatives with Wakanda, the arc reactor powering the new housing developments—all of it helps.” She paused, reaching across the counter to squeeze his hand. “Not everything needs to be solved by Iron Man, Tony. Sometimes Tony Stark: engineer, innovator, philanthropist does more good.”

He nodded, though the weight of responsibility never quite left his shoulders. “Keep me updated on the commission’s needs. If there are tech solutions we’re not implementing, I want to know.”

“Of course,” Pepper agreed, glancing at her watch. “I need to head out soon. Morgan’s playdate with Gerald is at ten—Happy’s taking her to the lakehouse to check on the alpaca.”

“I still can’t believe we own an alpaca,” Tony muttered, shaking his head.

“Technically, Morgan owns an alpaca,” Pepper corrected with a smile. “A birthday gift from her overindulgent father who apparently couldn’t think of a more reasonable pet.”

“He was sad at the petting zoo!” Morgan interjected. “And his fur is so soft, and he only spits sometimes.”

“A ringing endorsement,” Tony replied dryly. “Fine, give Gerald my regards. Tell him I expect an improvement in his spitting habits by our next meeting.”

Morgan giggled, returning to her breakfast with renewed enthusiasm. The morning progressed in a comfortable rhythm of domestic routine—Tony helping Morgan clean sticky syrup from her hands, Pepper gathering her materials for the day’s meetings, FRIDAY providing weather updates and schedule reminders.

When Happy arrived to collect Morgan for her alpaca playdate, she insisted on bringing her space books to show Gerald. “Alpacas need to learn about astronomy too, Daddy. It’s important for everyone.”

“Far be it from me to deny Gerald an education,” Tony agreed, helping her pack the books into a small backpack adorned with stars and planets. “Just try not to get syrup or alpaca spit on the pages, okay? Peter would be heartbroken.”

“I’ll be super careful,” Morgan promised solemnly.

Happy appeared in the doorway, his perpetually worried expression softening slightly at the sight of Morgan. “Ready for alpaca duty, boss?”

“Uncle Happy!” Morgan launched herself at him with the same enthusiasm she showed for everything in life. Happy caught her with practiced ease, swinging her up into his arms.

“There’s my favorite Stark,” he declared, earning an indignant “Hey!” from Tony. “All ready for our alpaca adventure?”

“I brought space books for Gerald,” Morgan informed him seriously. “Peter says learning is good for everyone, even animals.”

“Is that so?” Happy replied, shooting Tony a look that clearly said, ‘What have you done now?’ “Well, I’m sure Gerald will appreciate the educational opportunity.”

As they prepared to leave, May called, her face appearing on the holographic display in the living room. “Tony? Is Peter there? He left his biology textbook at home, and he has that test today.”

“He left for school about an hour ago,” Tony informed her. “Want me to have FRIDAY send a drone delivery?”

“Would you? That would be amazing.” May’s relief was palpable. “I’d bring it myself, but I’m already running late for my shift.”

“Consider it done,” Tony assured her. “How are you holding up, May? Need anything else?”

May’s smile turned wry. “Besides a 48-hour day and maybe a clone to help with the laundry? I’m managing. The hospital’s still understaffed, but we’re making it work.”

“Let me know if Stark Medical can provide any additional support,” Tony offered. “Equipment, staff, funding—whatever you need.”

“I will,” May promised. “And Tony? Thank you. For everything you’re doing with Peter. He’s… happier than I’ve seen him in a long time.”

Tony felt a warmth spread through his chest, accompanied by the familiar twist of protective affection he’d come to associate with Peter. “The kid’s special, May. Working with him is… it’s good. For both of us, I think.”

May’s expression softened with understanding. “Yes. I think it is.”

After arranging the textbook delivery and seeing Morgan and Happy off, Tony returned to the lab, the quiet suddenly noticeable in their absence. He immersed himself in the filtration project, refining Peter’s membrane design and running simulations on various contaminated water sources.

The hours passed in a productive blur, interrupted only by a brief call from Rhodey updating him on the diplomatic mission. His friend looked tired but satisfied, reporting progress in negotiations with a formerly hostile nation now seeking integration with the post-Return world order.

“How’s the leg bracers holding up?” Tony asked, leaning forward slightly, his eyes searching for any hint of discomfort in his friend’s posture. Years of friendship had taught him to read between Rhodey’s lines, to catch the winces he tried to hide.

Rhodey shifted, the subtle mechanical whir of the exoskeleton barely audible through the call. “Good as new,” he answered with practiced casualness. “Though the left actuator still catches a bit during extreme lateral movement.”

Tony’s fingers twitched, already itching to fix the problem. “I’ll have a look when you’re back. Might be time for the Mark IV upgrade anyway—I’ve been playing with a new neural interface that should reduce response time by another 12 milliseconds.”

“You know, some people just ask ‘how are you’ and leave it at that,” Rhodey remarked dryly, though his eyes crinkled with fondness.

“Boring people,” Tony countered. “Unimaginative people. People who don’t care enough to solve problems.”

Rhodey’s laugh was warm and familiar, a sound that had anchored Tony through decades of chaos. “Never change, Tones.”

“Not planning on it, platypus.” Tony paused, allowing a moment of sincerity to slip through. “Miss you around here. Morgan’s been asking when Uncle Rhodey’s coming home so she can show him her ‘space map.’”

Something softened in Rhodey’s expression. “Tell the little astronaut I’ll be back Friday with bells on. And maybe a souvenir from space, if I can swing by the atmospheric station on the way home.”

“She’ll hold you to that,” Tony warned. “The kid has a memory like a steel trap. Gets it from her mother.”

They chatted for a few more minutes about the upcoming weekend gathering before Rhodey was called away to another meeting. As the holographic display faded, Tony found himself staring at the empty space where his friend’s image had been, struck by a moment of quiet gratitude for this second chance—this impossible, precious opportunity to live in a world where the people he loved were still in it.

The thought carried him through the afternoon’s work, a gentle undercurrent beneath the surface concentration as he refined prototypes and finalized designs for the filtration systems. He lost track of time, as he often did when deep in creation, until FRIDAY’s voice broke through his focus.

“Boss, it’s 3:47 PM. Peter will be arriving in approximately fifteen minutes. Also, Ms. Potts has sent a message regarding tonight’s dinner.”

Tony blinked, surfacing from the creative trance. “What about dinner?”

“She says, and I quote, ‘Don’t forget we’re hosting May tonight. Please be showered and wearing clothes without burn holes by 7 PM. And yes, we discussed this yesterday.’”

A vague memory of a conversation over breakfast yesterday floated back to him. “Right. Dinner. May. Got it.”

“Shall I add it to your calendar with multiple reminders?”

“Your lack of faith wounds me, FRIDAY,” Tony replied, though he was already saving his work and organizing the lab for Peter’s arrival. “But yes, set reminders at 6:00, 6:30, and 6:45.”

“Done, Boss. Would you like me to also select an appropriate outfit from your wardrobe?”

“Now you’re just being passive-aggressive,” he muttered, though there was no heat in it. He’d programmed FRIDAY with a touch of Pepper’s practical efficiency and a dash of his own sardonic humor, creating an AI that often felt more like an exasperated friend than a digital assistant.

He was just finishing up when the lab doors slid open and Peter burst in, his backpack already half-off one shoulder and his words tumbling out before he was fully in the room.

“Mr. Stark, you’re not going to believe this! Ms. Warren’s test was completely different from what she told us to study, but then I remembered that thing you said about mitochondrial energy transfer when we were working on the nanotech power cells last month, and it totally applied to cellular respiration, so I think I aced it, and then at lunch, Ned and I were talking about the teleporter, which I definitely did not tell him specific details about but just mentioned conceptually, and he had this idea about quantum stabilization that might actually work if we—”

“Breathe, kid,” Tony interrupted, the familiar instruction delivered with fond exasperation. “Oxygen. Brain. Basic biological necessity.”

Peter sucked in a dramatic breath, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry. Excited. Science. You know how it is.”

“Intimately,” Tony agreed, already moving toward the workbench where the filtration prototypes waited. “Good day at school, then?”

“Yeah, actually! Even Flash was almost bearable. He’s still adjusting to the whole five-years-gone thing, so he’s been weirdly subdued lately.” Peter dropped his backpack and bounced on his toes, eyes already scanning the lab. “So, are we working on the filtration system or the telescope frame with Morgan first? Or—” his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “—the teleporter?”

Tony arched an eyebrow. “The teleporter that I definitely didn’t mention to you this morning, because if I had, Pepper would have my head, and you would be complicit in my untimely demise?”

Peter nodded solemnly. “That’s the one.”

“Filtration system first,” Tony decided, trying and failing to suppress a smile at Peter’s obvious enthusiasm. “Morgan’s with Happy at the lakehouse visiting her alpaca, so we’ve got about an hour before the tiny taskmaster returns and demands we fulfill our telescope-building obligations.”

“Gerald!” Peter’s face lit up. “How’s he doing? Still spitting at Happy?”

“With remarkable accuracy, according to the increasingly disgruntled text updates I’ve been receiving all afternoon.” Tony pulled up a holographic display of their latest design. “Now, let’s see if your membrane modifications passed the simulation trials.”

They fell into an easy rhythm, working side by side as they refined the design. Tony found himself increasingly impressed by Peter’s intuitive understanding of the tech, the way he anticipated problems and proposed solutions that were both innovative and practical. The kid had a natural gift that reminded Tony painfully of his own youth, but with none of the cynicism or damage that had shadowed Tony’s early brilliance.

“Try inverting the polarity on the outer layer,” Peter suggested, manipulating the holographic model with practiced ease. “If we create a negative charge at the membrane surface, it might help repel the petroleum-based contaminants while allowing the water molecules to pass through.”

Tony considered it, running mental calculations. “Might work. FRIDAY, run a simulation with Parker Parameter Beta-13, adjust for inverted surface charge.”

“Running simulation now,” FRIDAY confirmed.

While they waited for the results, Peter hopped onto a stool, spinning it absently as his mind jumped tracks. “So, who all’s coming on Friday? Morgan mentioned a big family gathering, but I wasn’t sure if that meant just us or… you know. Everyone.”

Tony recognized the carefully casual tone, the way Peter tried to make the question sound offhand when it clearly mattered to him. It was a familiar mannerism, one he’d come to recognize as Peter’s attempt to protect himself from potential disappointment.

“Everyone who can make it,” Tony replied, matching Peter’s tone but watching him closely. “Rhodey’s flying in from his diplomatic mission, Bruce is teleconferencing from Wakanda—actual teleconferencing, not experimental quantum teleportation, before you get any ideas. Barton’s bringing his family; apparently, his kids have been demanding a playdate with Morgan. Romanoff’s coming unless a global crisis intervenes, which with her is always a fifty-fifty proposition. Thor’s still off-world with the Guardians, but he sent a message that he might ‘grace us with his godly presence’ if they’re in the quadrant.”

With each name, Peter’s expression brightened incrementally, the cautious hope in his eyes growing more pronounced. Tony felt a twinge in his chest—the kid still couldn’t quite believe he belonged in this circle, that he was wanted and expected and included without question.

“And of course, you and May are non-negotiable attendees,” Tony added casually, scrolling through simulation data without making eye contact. “Morgan has informed me that ‘family isn’t family without Peter and Aunt May,’ and I’ve learned not to argue with her decrees.”

The smile that bloomed across Peter’s face was worth every battle Tony had ever fought, every sacrifice he’d ever made. It was the pure, unguarded joy of a kid who’d lost too much, finding his place in a makeshift family that had somehow, against all odds, found each other.

“Cool,” Peter said, his voice slightly rough around the edges. “That sounds—yeah. Cool.”

The moment hung between them, warm and significant, until FRIDAY’s voice broke through.

“Simulation complete. Parker Parameter Beta-13 with inverted surface charge shows 97.8% filtration efficiency across all test samples.”

“Ha!” Peter pumped his fist triumphantly. “It worked!”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Tony teased, though pride was evident in his voice. “You’ve got good instincts, kid.”

Peter ducked his head, still unused to direct praise despite Tony’s increasingly frequent attempts to provide it. “It was just basic chemistry. Opposite charges attract, like charges repel. Elementary school stuff.”

“Applied to a nanoscale filtration system designed to provide clean water to disaster zones,” Tony pointed out. “Give yourself some credit, Parker. Not many high school juniors are solving global water contamination issues between calculus homework and crime-fighting.”

Before Peter could respond, the lab doors slid open to admit a whirlwind of energy in the form of Morgan Stark, her dark hair escaping from once-neat braids and her clothes bearing suspicious alpaca-related stains.

“Daddy! Peter! Gerald ate my space book!” she announced, skipping into the lab with Happy trailing behind her, looking significantly more worn out than when they’d left that morning.

“He did not eat it,” Happy clarified wearily. “He tried to eat it. There’s a difference.”

“His teeth made marks on Jupiter,” Morgan explained seriously, pulling a slightly damp book from her backpack to display the evidence. “See? Gerald thinks Jupiter is delicious.”

Peter’s laugh was bright and immediate as he knelt to examine the book. “Well, Jupiter is mostly gas, so maybe Gerald was just trying to tell you he thinks the book smells good?”

Morgan considered this theory with adorable seriousness. “Maybe. But he still shouldn’t eat books. That’s not good for alpacas or planets.”

“Wise words, little miss,” Tony agreed, shooting an amused look at Happy, who had collapsed onto the nearest chair with a dramatic sigh. “Rough day in alpaca paradise?”

“That animal,” Happy declared, pointing accusingly at Tony, “is a menace. A long-necked, fluffy menace with surprisingly accurate spitting capabilities and no respect for personal boundaries or Italian leather shoes.”

“So, a good day, then?” Tony interpreted, grinning when Happy’s glare intensified.

“Uncle Happy chased Gerald around the lake three times,” Morgan reported happily. “It was very funny. Gerald was winning.”

“Traitor,” Happy muttered, though there was no heat in it. “See if I take you for ice cream next time.”

Morgan’s eyes widened in theatrical horror. “I take it back! Uncle Happy wasn’t funny at all. It was very serious alpaca business.”

Peter bit his lip to suppress a smile, exchanging an amused look with Tony that spoke volumes about their shared affection for the little girl’s antics.

“Speaking of serious business,” Tony prompted, “I believe someone promised to help build a telescope frame this afternoon?”

Morgan gasped, previous alpaca adventures instantly forgotten. “The telescope! Peter, you promised to help make it super strong so we can see all the way to where Uncle Thor lives!”

“Well, not quite that far,” Peter hedged diplomatically. “But definitely to Saturn’s rings, which are pretty awesome too.”

Happy hauled himself to his feet with a groan. “If you’ve got the munchkin handled, I’m going to go home and shower off the alpaca smell before dinner. May mentioned something about bringing dessert?”

Tony didn’t miss the slight flush that crept up Happy’s neck at the mention of May’s name, nor the way his hand automatically smoothed down his rumpled shirt. A development worth monitoring, he noted with interest.

“7 PM sharp,” Tony confirmed. “Pepper’s orders. And yes, May’s bringing dessert. Something Italian, I believe.”

Happy nodded, just a touch too casually. “Right. Good. Italian’s good. I’ll, uh, see you then.”

After Happy’s departure, the lab transformed from a space of scientific innovation to one of creative chaos as Morgan unpacked her telescope designs—drawings that merged childish enthusiasm with surprising technical understanding, clearly influenced by her time with both Tony and Peter.

“We need a really strong base,” she explained authoritatively, “so the telescope doesn’t wobble when we’re looking at stars. Wobbling makes the stars get all blurry, right Peter?”

“Exactly right,” Peter confirmed, already assembling materials. “The steadier our mount, the clearer our view will be.”

Tony watched them work together, Morgan perched on a special step stool he’d designed for her lab visits, Peter patiently explaining each component as they assembled the frame. There was a gentle fluidity to their interaction, an easy rhythm that made Tony’s chest ache with a peculiar mixture of pride and something deeper, more vulnerable.

This is what he’d fought for. What he’d nearly died for. These quiet moments of creation and connection, this future where the people he loved could simply exist, safe and whole and engaged in the ordinary miracle of living.

The afternoon slipped away in a blend of technical adjustments and childish giggles, punctuated by impromptu science lessons as Peter answered Morgan’s endless stream of questions with the perfect blend of accuracy and accessibility. By the time they’d completed the basic frame, with Morgan insisting on tightening every bolt herself (with careful supervision), Pepper appeared in the doorway, elegant despite the long day of meetings visible in the slight fatigue around her eyes.

“I see the scientific geniuses are hard at work,” she observed with fond amusement.

“Mommy!” Morgan abandoned her wrench to race toward Pepper. “We built a telescope frame! It’s super sturdy, and Peter says we can probably see Neptune with it when we’re done!”

“Well, maybe on really clear nights,” Peter clarified, wiping grease from his hands. “The light pollution in the city makes it tricky, but Mr. Stark mentioned something about adaptive optics that might help.”

“Just a little something I’ve been tinkering with,” Tony supplied, moving to press a gentle kiss to Pepper’s temple. “How was the resettlement commission? Progress?”

Something in Pepper’s expression tightened slightly. “Some. The housing situation is improving with the new prefab units, but there are still legal nightmares around property ownership, marriages, inheritances… five years creates a lot of complicated situations.”

Tony nodded, understanding all she wasn’t saying in front of Morgan. The Return had brought joy but also unprecedented complications: people coming back to find homes sold, spouses remarried, jobs filled. The world had moved on without them, and reintegration was proving to be a messy, painful process for many.

“We’ll figure it out,” he promised quietly, squeezing her hand. “One problem at a time.”

Pepper’s smile was tired but genuine. “We always do.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s almost six. May and Happy will be here in an hour, and someone needs a bath before dinner.” She gave Morgan a pointed look.

“Do I have to?” Morgan whined, looking down at her clothes, which now featured both alpaca evidence and mechanical grease. “I’m a scientist, and scientists get dirty.”

“Scientists also know about bacteria and hygiene,” Pepper countered smoothly. “Bath. Now. You can tell me all about the telescope while we wash your hair.”

Morgan sighed dramatically but took Pepper’s outstretched hand. “Fine. But I’m wearing my NASA pajamas to dinner.”

“A reasonable compromise,” Pepper agreed, winking at Tony. “Peter, you’re welcome to use the guest bathroom if you want to clean up before May arrives.”

“Oh! Um, yes, thank you, Ms. Potts—I mean, Pepper,” Peter stammered, suddenly aware of his own grease-stained appearance. “That would be great.”

As Pepper led Morgan away, Tony began organizing the lab, his movements precise and efficient. “FRIDAY, save all filtration test data and compile results for presentation. And update the telescope schematics with today’s modifications.”

“Done, Boss,” FRIDAY confirmed. “Would you also like me to order the specialized mirror coating Peter specified? Current supplier estimates delivery by Friday morning.”

“Perfect timing,” Tony approved. “Put it on the express list. I want Morgan to have her first stargazing experience with the completed telescope this weekend.”

Peter, gathering his things, paused. “Mr. Stark? Do you think… I mean, would it be okay if Ned and MJ came to the stargazing party too? They’ve been really interested in the project, and Ned’s never seen a real telescope in action, and MJ pretends not to care about space but she actually has all these books about female astronomers, and—”

“Kid,” Tony interrupted gently, “yes. Your friends are welcome. The more the merrier.”

The relief and excitement that washed over Peter’s face made Tony realize how important this was to him—not just building the telescope, but sharing this part of his life with the people who mattered to him.

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter said softly. “That’s… yeah. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Tony replied, deliberately casual to give the kid space to process his emotions. “Now go get cleaned up before May shows up and thinks I’ve been putting you to work in a coal mine.”

Peter grinned and hurried off toward the guest suite, leaving Tony alone in the lab for a moment. He surveyed the space—the half-built telescope that represented hours of collaboration between the two most important children in his life, the filtration system that might save countless lives in disaster zones, the scattered evidence of minds at work, creating and solving and growing.

This, he thought again, was worth everything.

—-

Dinner was a lively affair, with Morgan holding court from her booster seat, regaling everyone with a dramatic retelling of Gerald’s literary taste test while May and Happy exchanged glances that grew increasingly obvious as the evening progressed.

“And then,” Morgan continued, waving her fork for emphasis, “Gerald looked right at Uncle Happy and went ‘PTTHHHT!’” She mimicked a spitting sound with impressive accuracy. “And Uncle Happy did a dance!”

“It wasn’t a dance,” Happy clarified, his dignity somewhat compromised by the blush creeping up his neck. “It was evasive maneuvering.”

“It looked like dancing to me,” Morgan insisted. “Very jumpy dancing.”

May’s laugh was warm and unrestrained, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she looked at Happy with undisguised affection. “I’d pay good money to see that.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Happy grumbled, though he couldn’t quite suppress a smile when May’s hand briefly covered his on the table.

Tony caught Pepper’s eye across the table, raising an eyebrow in silent communication. She responded with the smallest nod and a subtle smirk that confirmed his suspicions: something was definitely developing between May and Happy, and Pepper had already noticed.

“So, Peter,” May redirected, perhaps sensing Happy’s embarrassment, “how did the biology test go? Was the textbook delivery a success?”

“Yeah, it arrived just in time, thanks to Mr. Stark,” Peter confirmed. “And I think the test went really well. Ms. Warren included this question about ATP production that totally connected to what we’ve been working on with the energy transfer in the nanotech, so I was able to explain it super thoroughly.”

“He’s being modest,” Tony interjected. “The kid basically revolutionized our filtration system this afternoon with an elegantly simple solution that might just solve our oil contamination problem.”

Peter ducked his head, his cheeks coloring at the praise. “It was just basic chemistry, really.”

“Basic chemistry that none of our R&D department thought of in six months of development,” Tony pointed out. “Don’t downplay your contributions, Pete. Confidence is scientifically proven to enhance cognitive function. I read that somewhere. Probably.”

“Pretty sure that’s not a real study, Tony,” Pepper remarked dryly.

“It should be,” Tony insisted. “I’ll fund it myself. ‘The Correlation Between Self-Confidence and Genius-Level Problem Solving: A Stark Industries Research Initiative.’”

May smiled at the banter, her eyes warm as they moved between Tony and Peter. “Well, study or no study, I’m proud of you, Peter. And grateful for all the opportunities you’re getting here.” She directed the last part to Tony and Pepper, a depth of emotion in her simple words.

“Peter earns every opportunity,” Pepper replied gently. “He’s exceptional. And a wonderful influence on Morgan, who now wants to build a particle accelerator in her bedroom.”

“A small one,” Morgan clarified seriously from her seat. “For experiments.”

“Bedroom particle accelerators are restricted to children over ten,” Tony improvised quickly. “Official Stark household rule. Very strict.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed, assessing whether this was a real rule or one being created on the spot. “What about a small chemistry lab?”

“We’ll discuss appropriate bedroom science later,” Pepper intervened smoothly. “Right now, I believe May brought dessert?”

“Cannoli from that place in Queens Peter loves,” May confirmed, rising to help clear the dinner plates. “They just reopened last month after the… after everything.”

A brief shadow passed over the table at the reference to the five-year gap, the unnamed catastrophe that had reshaped all their lives. It still happened sometimes—these moments where the conversation bumped against the edges of their collective trauma, reminding them of all they’d nearly lost forever.

Peter, with the resilience of youth, broke the tension. “Their cannoli are the best in New York. Maybe the world. Mr. Delmar says the baker uses a secret ingredient that’s been in their family for generations.”

“Well, now I have to try these world-famous cannoli,” Tony declared, deliberately lightening the mood. “Though I warn you, I spent a summer in Sicily in my misspent youth, so my standards are criminally high.”

Dessert was served with coffee for the adults and milk for Morgan, who insisted on having her cannoli served on her “special plate”—a ceramic creation painted with wobbly stars and planets that Peter had helped her make during one of their weekend projects.

“The conference call with Secretary Ross went well, then?” May asked as they enjoyed the dessert, which lived up to Peter’s enthusiastic endorsement.

Tony’s expression darkened slightly. “If by ‘well’ you mean ‘we managed to prevent him from implanting tracking devices in enhanced individuals,’ then yes, it went swimmingly.”

“He didn’t actually suggest that,” Pepper interjected, though her tone suggested it wasn’t far from the truth.

“He considered it,” Tony countered. “I saw it in his eyes when you mentioned it rhetorically. The man has never met a civil liberty he wouldn’t happily violate in the name of security.”

“Tracking devices?” May repeated, her voice sharpening with concern as her eyes automatically sought Peter. “For people like—”

“Not happening,” Tony assured her firmly. “Not while I have breath in my body and lawyers on retainer. The revised Accords maintain accountability through reporting structures and the international review committee, not invasive surveillance.”

“And the vote passed with significant majority support,” Pepper added. “Ross’s more extreme proposals were rejected. T’Challa’s representatives were particularly effective in arguing for enhanced rights.”

May nodded, though the worry didn’t entirely leave her eyes. Tony understood—Peter’s dual identity placed him in a uniquely vulnerable position, too young to legally sign the Accords yet impossible to exclude from their implications.

“You should have heard him in the meeting,” Pepper continued, a hint of pride in her voice. “He told Ross that any attempt to track enhanced individuals would be met with, and I quote, ‘the full legal and technological force of Stark Industries,’ and that our legal department makes military tribunals look like a preschool debate club.”

Happy snorted. “Bet that went over well.”

“Like a lead balloon,” Tony confirmed cheerfully. “His face turned that particular shade of purple that always makes me concerned he’s going to stroke out mid-tirade.”

Peter leaned forward, eyes wide. “So what happened? Did they agree to all the revisions?”

“Most of them,” Pepper replied. “We had to compromise on reporting timelines for non-emergency interventions, but the essential protections remained intact. The new framework acknowledges the necessity of enhanced individuals while establishing reasonable oversight.”

“Mostly reasonable,” Tony amended. “There’s still too much bureaucracy for my taste, but it’s a workable solution that doesn’t involve treating people with abilities as weapons to be regulated.”

The conversation continued, drifting from the Accords to lighter topics as the evening progressed. Morgan, despite her protests that she wasn’t tired at all, began to droop in her chair, her eyelids growing heavy as she valiantly tried to follow the adult conversation.

“I think someone’s ready for bed,” Pepper observed gently.

“Not sleepy,” Morgan mumbled unconvincingly, her head nodding forward. “Wanna stay with Peter.”

“Tell you what, little miss,” Tony offered, scooping her up with practiced ease, “how about Peter helps tuck you in and maybe reads a quick story? If he doesn’t mind, that is.”

Peter’s face lit up. “I’d love to! I brought that book about the girl astronomer we were talking about last week.”

Morgan perked up slightly at this prospect. “The one who discovered the pulsing stars?”

“Pulsars,” Peter corrected gently. “And yes, that’s the one. Jocelyn Bell Burnell. She found them when she was still a student.”

“Like you,” Morgan observed sleepily, reaching out to Peter as Tony transferred her into his arms.

“Kind of, yeah,” Peter agreed, adjusting her weight with the effortless strength that sometimes still startled Tony, a reminder of the power contained in his lanky teenage frame. “But I haven’t discovered any pulsars. Yet.”

“You will,” Morgan said with absolute conviction. “You’re the smartest. After Daddy and Mommy.”

Peter laughed, carrying her toward her bedroom. “That’s quite a compliment. I’m honored to be third smartest in your rankings.”

Their voices faded down the hallway, leaving the adults to finish their coffee in a moment of comfortable silence.

“He’s good with her,” May observed softly. “He always wanted siblings, you know. Before… everything.”

Tony nodded, understanding the weight of what wasn’t said—before Peter lost his parents, before Ben, before the world turned upside down repeatedly for a boy who deserved nothing but stability and love.

“They’re good for each other,” he replied simply. “She brings out his playfulness. He feeds her curiosity.”

“And they both have you wrapped around their little fingers,” Pepper added with affectionate amusement.

Tony didn’t bother denying it. “Guilty as charged.”

The evening wound down gradually, with May and Happy leaving together—an arrangement that prompted knowing looks from both Tony and Pepper but deliberate restraint in commenting on it. After they’d gone, Tony found himself drawn to Morgan’s bedroom, where Peter was just finishing the story.

“…and even though many people didn’t believe her at first, she kept studying the signals, kept looking at the data, until eventually everyone had to acknowledge her discovery,” Peter was saying softly, his voice gentle but animated. “Now pulsars help scientists map the universe and understand how stars work. All because one person paid attention to something unusual and didn’t give up.”

Morgan yawned, her eyes fighting to stay open. “I’m gonna discover something too, someday. Something nobody’s ever seen before.”

“I believe you will,” Peter assured her. “And when you do, maybe you’ll let me assist in your lab.”

“You can be my science partner,” Morgan decided magnanimously. “Like you are with Daddy.”

Peter’s smile was soft and genuine. “I’d be honored, Morgan Stark.”

Tony remained in the doorway, unnoticed by either of them, a witness to this moment of connection that made his chest tight with emotion. There had been a time, not so long ago, when he couldn’t imagine being a father—when the very concept seemed so foreign to his damaged, chaotic life that he’d dismissed it outright. Now he stood watching two children who had claimed pieces of his heart in different but equally powerful ways, forging their own bond that existed independently of him but was made possible by his survival.

The enormity of that gift—of simply being alive to witness this—hit him anew.

“Goodnight Mo,” Peter whispered, carefully extracting himself from where she’d snuggled against his side during the story. “Sweet dreams about space discoveries.”

“Night, Peter,” she mumbled, already drifting off. “Love you.”

Peter froze for the briefest moment, something vulnerable flickering across his face before he responded softly, “Love you too, kiddo.”

He turned toward the door, startling slightly when he saw Tony there. “Oh! Mr. Stark. I was just—she wanted the story, and I—”

“You’re good with her,” Tony said simply, echoing May’s earlier observation but investing it with all the weight of his own complex emotions. “Thank you.”

Peter ducked his head, a gesture Tony had come to recognize as his way of processing praise or affection that touched him deeply. “She makes it easy. She’s a lot like you, you know.”

“Poor kid,” Tony joked reflexively, though the comment settled warmly in his chest.

They walked together toward the living room, where Peter’s backpack waited by the elevator.

“Happy texted that he’ll pick me up in about twenty minutes,” Peter explained, checking his phone. “He had to drop May off first.”

“Did he now?” Tony remarked innocently.

Peter rolled his eyes, though a smile tugged at his lips. “They think they’re being subtle. It’s kind of adorable.”

“And you’re okay with it? Happy and your aunt?”

Peter considered the question seriously. “Yeah, I am. Happy’s good person. And May deserves to be happy.” He paused, wincing slightly. “No pun intended.”

“A tragic linguistic coincidence,” Tony agreed solemnly.

They fell into comfortable silence for a moment, the city lights twinkling through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the room in a soft glow.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter’s voice was hesitant. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot, kid.”

“Do you ever… I mean, after everything that happened, with Thanos and the Snap and bringing everyone back… do you ever just stop and think about how crazy it is that we’re all here? That we get to have nights like this?”

The question pierced straight through Tony’s carefully maintained composure, striking at the heart of the gratitude and disbelief that sometimes overwhelmed him in quiet moments.

“All the time,” he admitted quietly. “Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night just to check that Pepper’s still breathing beside me. That Morgan’s still safe in her bed. That you’re still answering your phone when I call.”

Peter nodded, understanding in his eyes that went beyond his years. “I still have nightmares about turning to dust. About being… gone. But then I wake up, and I’m here, and May’s in the next room, and I get to come to the lab and work with you, and it all feels like some kind of miracle, you know?”

“I know exactly what you mean, kid.” Tony’s voice was rough with emotion. “It is a miracle. One we fought like hell for, but a miracle nonetheless.”

The elevator chimed softly, announcing Happy’s arrival. Before Peter could move toward it, Tony reached out, pulling him into a brief but fierce hug.

“See you tomorrow, Pete,” he said simply, releasing him before the moment could become awkward for the teenager. “Six AM, filtration prototypes. Bring your brain and your appetite.”

Peter’s smile was brilliant, his eyes suspiciously bright. “Yes, sir. Goodnight, Mr. Stark.”

“Goodnight, kid.”

As the elevator doors closed behind Peter, Tony remained standing in the quiet living room, the warmth of the evening settling around him like a protective shield against all the darkness they’d faced and overcome.

“FRIDAY,” he said softly, “mark today in the good days protocol.”

“Added to the log, Boss,” FRIDAY confirmed. “That’s five consecutive good days. A new record since implementation.”

Tony nodded, satisfied. “We’re on a roll, FRI. Let’s see if we can make it six tomorrow.”

He made his way toward the master bedroom, where Pepper was already preparing for sleep, the gentle domestic rhythm of their evening routine as precious to him as any technological breakthrough or world-saving mission.

This, he reminded himself again, was what they’d fought for. What they’d won. The chance to live these ordinary days that, strung together, created a life worth all the sacrifice it had taken to preserve it.
***
Thursday
Dawn broke over the city in a wash of pale gold, the early morning light filtering through the windows of the tower and casting long shadows across the floor of the lab where Tony had been working since 5 AM, unable to sleep past the first hint of sunrise.

“FRIDAY, run the simulation again with the modified polymer bonding,” he instructed, rotating the holographic model to examine it from all angles. “And pull up the test results from yesterday’s membrane trial.”

“Running simulation with Parker-Stark Polymer Version 7,” FRIDAY confirmed. “Test results displayed on your left, Boss.”

Tony smiled slightly at the name—he’d started referring to their joint projects with both their names, a small acknowledgment of Peter’s contributions that never failed to make the kid flush with pride. It was a simple gesture, but one that seemed to matter deeply to Peter, whose hunger for validation and belonging was sometimes so palpable it made Tony’s chest ache.

He was deep in analysis when the lab doors slid open and Bruce’s voice filled the room, transmitted from the communications array in Wakanda.

“Early start, even for you,” Bruce observed, his massive green form materializing as a hologram in the center of the lab. “It’s what, 5:30 there?”

“5:47,” Tony corrected automatically. “What can I say? Genius waits for no sunrise. Besides, not all of us need nine hours of green giant beauty sleep.”

Bruce’s laugh was warm and familiar. “Touché. Though I actually sleep less in this form. One of the few perks of the transformation.” He gestured toward the holographic models surrounding Tony. "

Bruce’s holographic form studied the filtration system schematics with interest, his massive green fingers manipulating the projection with surprising delicacy. “The membrane polarity inversion was Peter’s idea? Smart kid. We could’ve used this approach for the water purification systems in Lagos.”

“That’s the plan,” Tony confirmed, pride evident in his voice. “The Parker-Stark design could cut implementation costs by 60% while increasing efficiency. One step closer to universal clean water access.” He paused, rubbing absently at his right arm—a lingering habit from when the wounds were still healing. “How’s Wakanda treating you, Big Green?”

Bruce’s expression softened. “It’s… peaceful. Shuri’s running circles around me in the lab, of course. That kid makes both of us look like we’re playing with tinker toys.” He hesitated, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features. “The children here aren’t afraid of me. That’s… new.”

Tony recognized the weight behind those simple words—Bruce’s lifelong fear of frightening others, of being seen as a monster rather than a man. “Kids are the best judges of character,” he replied quietly. “Always have been.”

A comfortable silence settled between them, two scientists who had traveled through hell together and somehow emerged on the other side.

“The arm bothering you again?” Bruce finally asked, nodding toward Tony’s unconscious rubbing motion.

Tony dropped his hand with a rueful smile. “Phantom pains. Helen says it’s normal, given what the gauntlet did to the nerve endings. Nothing compared to what it could have been had Carol not taken the gauntlet.”

What it nearly was, hung unspoken between them—death, sacrifice, an ending rather than this unexpected second chance.

“Speaking of Helen, she’s been asking about the neural interface you’ve been developing for Rhodey’s braces,” Bruce mentioned, deliberately changing the subject. “She thinks it might have applications for spinal injury patients beyond enhanced individuals.”

Tony’s eyes lit up, his mind already racing with possibilities. “Send her the specs. Tell her I’m open to collaboration on civilian applications. Might need to simplify the calibration process for non-military medical personnel, but the core tech should translate.”

Their conversation drifted to technical details, the familiar terrain of innovation and problem-solving where both men found their surest footing. They were deep in discussion about adaptive neural pathways when FRIDAY interrupted.

“Boss, it’s 6:00 AM. Peter Parker has arrived and is headed to the lab.”

As if on cue, the lab doors slid open to reveal a decidedly sleep-rumpled Peter, clutching a massive travel mug that almost certainly contained a concoction with a caffeine content that would make medical professionals wince.

“Morning, Mr. Stark! I had this idea about the poly—Dr. Banner!” Peter’s tired expression transformed instantly into wide-eyed enthusiasm. “I didn’t know you were calling in today! How’s Wakanda? Is Princess Shuri there? Did you get to see the vibranium processing facilities? I’ve been reading about their molecular stabilization techniques and it’s just completely revolutionary for—”

“Breathe, kid,” Tony interjected, the familiar admonishment delivered with undisguised fondness. “Oxygen. Brain. We’ve covered this.”

Peter sucked in an exaggerated breath, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry. Excited. Science. You know.”

“I do know,” Bruce agreed warmly. “And Wakanda is amazing. Shuri sends her regards, by the way. She mentioned something about ‘updating your embarrassingly primitive web-shooter design.’ Her words, not mine.”

Peter lit up like a Christmas tree. “She got my message! Did she like my ideas for the impact absorption system?”

“She called them ‘not entirely stupid,’ which from Shuri is basically a Nobel Prize,” Bruce replied with a smile. “She’s integrating some of your concepts into a project she’s working on for the Dora Milaje.”

The naked pride on Peter’s face at this news made Tony’s chest constrict. The kid still couldn’t quite believe that his ideas mattered, that his brilliance was recognized by people he admired. Tony made a mental note to facilitate more direct collaboration between Peter and Shuri—two young geniuses who could someday change the world in ways even he couldn’t imagine.

“Don’t let it go to your head, Parker,” Tony teased, ruffling Peter’s already chaotic hair. “Some of us had functioning particle accelerators before we could drive.”

“Some of us still can’t drive properly,” Bruce muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

“I heard that, Mean Green,” Tony shot back without heat. “And creative driving is a legitimate skill set.”

Peter snorted into his enormous coffee mug. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Et tu, Underoos?” Tony clutched his chest in mock betrayal. “Ganging up on me with Banner at six in the morning? I’m wounded. Devastated. Questioning all my life choices that led to this moment of betrayal.”

The banter flowed easily between them, a rhythm established through years of friendship and solidarity. Bruce updated them on the Wakandan outreach programs, the efforts to rebuild communities hardest hit by the Snap and its reversal. Peter chimed in with questions about gamma radiation applications in cellular regeneration. Tony contributed sardonic commentary and brilliant insights in equal measure.

It was good, this sense of purpose and collaboration. A far cry from the Avengers’ fractured beginnings, when they’d been more a collection of damaged individuals than a true team. Now, even scattered across the globe, they functioned as a unit, bound by shared trauma and hard-won trust.

“I should get back,” Bruce said eventually, glancing at something off-screen. “Shuri’s waiting to show me her latest ‘improvement’ to my lab space, which probably means she’s rewritten half my research parameters and reorganized my entire workflow.”

“The burden of working with prodigies,” Tony commiserated with an exaggerated sigh, deliberately ignoring Peter’s indignant “Hey!” in the background. “Tell Her Royal Smartness that I expect a full report on my holographic rendering engine updates. And that if she keeps poaching my ideas, I’m sending her an invoice.”

Bruce’s laugh was full and genuine, so different from the cautious, subdued scientist they’d first met years ago. “I’ll pass that along. See you both on Friday? Virtually, at least.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Tony confirmed. “Morgan’s prepared a full interrogation about Wakandan wildlife. Be prepared to discuss rhinos in exhaustive detail.”

After Bruce’s hologram flickered out, Peter turned to Tony with undisguised excitement. “So, are we working on the filtration system first, or the neural interface for Colonel Rhodes? Or—” his voice dropped conspiratorially, “—the teleporter?”

“The teleporter that absolutely doesn’t exist and that I would never develop without exhaustive safety protocols because I value my continued marriage to Pepper Potts?” Tony clarified with a raised eyebrow.

“That’s the one,” Peter confirmed solemnly.

“Filtration system first,” Tony decided, pulling up the latest prototype designs. “We’ve got a meeting with the UN disaster response team next week, and I want a working prototype by then. After that, we can tackle the neural interface updates before Rhodey gets back.”

Peter nodded, already examining the holographic model with intense concentration. “I was thinking about the polymer matrix density. If we reduce it by 12% but increase the cross-linking, we might get better flow rate without compromising filtration.”

They fell into work with the easy synchronization of minds that understood each other, trading ideas and building upon each other’s thoughts without needing to explain the basic principles. Tony found himself continually impressed by Peter’s intuitive understanding of complex systems, the way the kid could pick up the thread of an idea and run with it in unexpected but brilliant directions.

“FRIDAY, run simulation with Parker-Stark Modified Matrix Version 8, flow rate at 125% baseline,” Tony instructed after they’d refined the design.

“Running simulation now, Boss,” FRIDAY confirmed.

While the program processed, Tony studied Peter, noting the shadows under his eyes that suggested less than optimal sleep. “Everything okay in teenage superhero land? You’re looking a bit zombified around the edges, kid.”

Peter shrugged, a too-casual gesture that immediately raised Tony’s hackles. “Just the usual. School, patrol, homework. May picked up extra shifts at the hospital—they’re still understaffed since half the medical personnel came back and found their positions filled.”

Tony nodded, understanding the implications. May working longer hours meant Peter was handling more on his own, probably extending his patrol hours while sacrificing sleep. “You know the house rule about patrols.”

Peter sighed, reciting with the tone of someone who had heard this multiple times: “Homework first, home by midnight on school nights, and no engaging with weapons traffickers without backup.”

“And?” Tony prompted, giving him a pointed look.

Another sigh. “And text updates every hour so you don’t have a coronary worrying about me.”

“That’s the one,” Tony confirmed, trying to keep his tone light despite the very real concern that gnawed at him whenever Peter was out alone in Queens, confronting dangers that would make most adults flee in terror. “I’ve got a cardiologist on speed dial specifically because of your spider-shenanigans, Parker.”

Peter rolled his eyes, but there was affection beneath the teenage exasperation. “I’m careful, Mr. Stark. Promise.”

“Humor an old man and his anxiety disorders,” Tony replied, only half-joking. “Speaking of which—suit check. When was the last time you ran a full diagnostic on Karen’s systems?”

The slight hesitation before Peter answered told Tony everything he needed to know. “Um, recently? Like, very recently. Super recent. So recent it’s practically happening right now in a parallel universe.”

“Upload the suit to the mainframe,” Tony instructed, trying not to smile at Peter’s terrible attempt at evasion. “FRIDAY, comprehensive diagnostic on the Spider-Man suit, priority on the parachute deployment system and emergency protocols.”

“On it, Boss,” FRIDAY responded, as Peter reluctantly connected his suit to the system.

“It’s fine, Mr. Stark,” he insisted. “Just a little glitch with the web-shooter pressure control. Nothing major.”

“A ‘little glitch’ is how we end up with you pancaked on the sidewalk because your web didn’t deploy properly at a crucial moment,” Tony countered, his tone sharper than intended. The image of Peter falling—of Peter hurt or worse—still had the power to send ice through his veins, to trigger the cascade of anxiety that never quite went away.

Peter must have heard the genuine fear beneath the snark, because his expression softened. “I really am being careful. The suit alerts me if any critical systems are compromised. I would’ve fixed it this weekend if it hadn’t resolved on its own.”

Tony took a breath, forcing himself to dial back the protective instinct that sometimes overwhelmed rational thought where Peter was concerned. “I know, kid. Just… humor me, okay? The gray hairs on my head are at least 60% your fault.”

“Only 60%?” Peter grinned. “I’m slacking. I should aim for at least 75%.”

“Don’t push it, Spider-Baby,” Tony warned, though there was no heat in it. “I still control your lab access privileges.”

Their banter was interrupted by FRIDAY’s announcement: “Simulation complete. Parker-Stark Modified Matrix Version 8 shows 98.2% filtration efficiency with 127% flow rate improvement.”

“Yes!” Peter pumped his fist triumphantly. “It worked!”

Tony smiled, genuinely impressed. “Not bad, kid. Not bad at all.” He studied the results, mentally calculating the real-world applications. “With these numbers, we could process contaminated water almost twice as fast without sacrificing purity. That could make a significant difference in disaster zones.”

The pride on Peter’s face at the simple praise was something Tony still found both heartwarming and heartbreaking—a reminder of how deeply the kid valued his approval, how earnestly he sought to prove himself worthy of Tony’s attention and mentorship.

“Let’s fabricate a physical prototype,” Tony decided. “FRIDAY, prep the molecular printer with the new polymer specifications. We’ll run live tests this afternoon.”

“Already in progress, Boss,” FRIDAY confirmed.

“Daddy.” Morgan’s voice preceded her entrance to the lab, the five-year-old barreling through the doors in unicorn pajamas, her hair a wild tangle of bed-head. “Peter! Daddy, you promised to wake me up when Peter got here!”

“Princess, it’s 6:30 in the morning,” Tony pointed out reasonably. “Normal children are still asleep, dreaming about candy and ponies and whatever else occupies the minds of tiny humans.”

“I’m not normal,” Morgan declared with supreme confidence. “I’m a Stark.”

“Can’t argue with that logic,” Peter agreed with a laugh, kneeling down to Morgan’s level. “Morning, Mo. We were just working on the water filters.”

Morgan’s eyes lit up. “The ones to help people have clean water? Can I help? Please? I’m very good at science.”

Tony exchanged an amused glance with Peter. Morgan’s enthusiasm for “helping” in the lab typically resulted in unexpected variables being introduced to carefully controlled experiments—like the time she’d decided that the polymer samples needed “decoration” and had added an assortment of glitter to them while Tony’s back was turned.

“How about you help by being our official project recorder?” Tony suggested diplomatically. “You can document our progress with drawings. Scientists need thorough documentation.”

Morgan considered this seriously, head tilted in a gesture so reminiscent of Pepper that it made Tony’s heart squeeze. “Can I use the special lab notebook? The one with the holographic pages?”

“Absolutely,” Tony agreed, retrieving the child-friendly tablet he’d designed specifically for Morgan’s lab visits. It looked like a professional device but was programmable with safety parameters and couldn’t access anything dangerous. “Document everything you observe. That’s what good scientists do.”

Satisfied with her important role, Morgan settled at a small workstation Tony had set up just for her, tongue poking out in concentration as she began sketching what appeared to be a highly creative interpretation of the filtration system—one that inexplicably included what looked like a dragon.

“Dragons aren’t typically part of water purification systems,” Peter noted, peering over her shoulder with mock seriousness.

“This one is,” Morgan replied with absolute certainty. “He breathes special fire that kills all the germs but doesn’t hurt the water. His name is Filtron.”

“Filtron the Filtration Dragon,” Tony repeated, fighting to keep his expression appropriately grave. “Revolutionary. We’ll have to include him in the patent application.”

Peter bit his lip to suppress a smile, eyes dancing with amusement. “Excellent scientific reasoning, Mo. Very innovative thinking.”

The lab settled into a rhythm—Tony and Peter working on the prototype fabrication while Morgan provided running commentary and increasingly elaborate drawings of Filtron’s adventures in water purification. It was domestic and ordinary and precious in a way Tony never could have imagined his life becoming.

Pepper found them like that an hour later, still in her silk pajamas but with her tablet in hand, already reviewing the day’s meetings. She paused in the doorway, taking in the scene with a soft expression that never failed to make Tony’s heart rate quicken.

“I see the science camp is already in full swing,” she observed, crossing to press a kiss to the top of Morgan’s head and then Tony’s cheek. “And apparently we’ve added cryptozoology to the curriculum?”

“Filtron is a very important scientific discovery,” Morgan informed her mother gravely. “He’s going to help children have clean water.”

“Well, we can certainly use all the help we can get, dragon or otherwise,” Pepper replied without missing a beat. One of the things Tony loved most about her was her ability to engage with Morgan’s imagination without condescension. “Have any of these brilliant scientific minds considered breakfast, by any chance?”

Peter’s stomach growled audibly in response, causing Morgan to dissolve into giggles.

“Peter’s tummy says yes!” she announced. “It’s talking!”

“Traitor,” Peter muttered to his midsection, his cheeks coloring slightly.

“The metabolisms of teenage superheroes wait for no man,” Tony quipped, setting aside the component he’d been calibrating. “FRIDAY, put the fabrication on pause. We’ll resume after sustenance has been acquired.”

“Parameters saved, Boss,” FRIDAY confirmed. “Estimated completion time for prototype: 3 hours, 42 minutes after resumption.”

The four of them made their way to the kitchen, Morgan skipping ahead with her tablet, eager to show Pepper her latest scientific illustrations. Tony found himself hanging back slightly, watching as Peter engaged Morgan in a serious discussion about whether Filtron should have blue or purple scales.

“He’s good with her,” Pepper murmured, slipping her hand into Tony’s. “They both are. With each other.”

Tony nodded, squeezing her fingers gently. “Sometimes I think the universe got it right, at least in this one small way. Bringing those two together.” He paused, the familiar weight of what they’d nearly lost pressing against his chest. “After everything.”

Pepper’s understanding was immediate and complete—one of the countless reasons he loved her. She didn’t try to dismiss the shadow that still sometimes fell across them when they remembered how close they’d come to a very different outcome.

“The universe had help,” she reminded him softly. “From a very stubborn man who refused to accept the unacceptable.”

Tony’s smile was crooked. “Stubborn is one word for it. Reckless, foolhardy, catastrophically self-sacrificing—”

“Heroic,” Pepper interjected firmly. “Loving. Unwilling to live in a world where Peter Parker turned to dust in your arms.” She met his gaze steadily. “I know you, Tony Stark. I’ve always known you. And I know that you would make the same choice again, even knowing the cost.”

She was right, of course. She always was. Tony would have moved heaven and earth, would have paid any price, to bring Peter back—to give him the chance to grow up, to fulfill the potential that had been so violently interrupted. The fact that he’d survived his own sacrifice was a miracle he still struggled to believe he deserved from Carol’s side, even though she told him a thousand times that it had been her choice to do so.

“Luckily,” he said lightly, deflecting from the emotion threatening to overwhelm him, “the current scenario involves breakfast rather than existential heroics. A battle I’m much better equipped to handle these days.”

Pepper’s smile told him she saw right through his deflection but was allowing it. “A battle that involves feeding two individuals with metabolisms that defy conventional nutritional science. I’d almost rather face Thanos again.”

Tony clutched his chest in mock offense. “First, too soon. Second, I’ll have you know that my pancake game has reached legendary status. Morgan has declared them ‘the best in the universe,’ and she’s a very discerning critic.”

“Morgan also thinks ketchup belongs on scrambled eggs, so her culinary opinions are suspect at best,” Pepper countered, her eyes dancing with familiar mischief.

“An unforgivable breach of breakfast protocol,” Tony agreed solemnly. “We’re working on rehabilitating her palate.”

They entered the kitchen to find Peter already helping Morgan set the table, the little girl standing on a step stool as she carefully arranged forks with the seriousness of someone diffusing a bomb.

“The dragon plates, Peter! We need the special dragon plates for Filtron!” she was insisting.

“Of course,” Peter agreed, changing course to retrieve the plates in question from the cabinet. “How could I forget? Filtron needs his own kind for breakfast.”

Tony caught Pepper’s eye, a silent conversation passing between them—gratitude for this moment, for these children, for the simple joy of a morning together when so many mornings might never have been.

Breakfast was a chaotic affair, with Peter and Morgan engaged in an increasingly elaborate narrative about Filtron’s adventures while Tony attempted to defend his pancake-flipping technique from Pepper’s good-natured criticism.

“The flip is essential to proper pancake aeration,” Tony insisted, executing a particularly ambitious maneuver that nearly ended with breakfast on the ceiling. “It’s science, Potts. I wouldn’t expect a CEO to understand the complex physics involved.”

“The complex physics of showing off, you mean,” Pepper retorted, calmly catching the pancake that had veered off course and returning it to the griddle with practiced ease. “Some of us prefer our breakfast without aerial acrobatics.”

“Some of us lack vision and creativity,” Tony countered, dropping a kiss on her cheek as he slid past her to grab more butter.

Their familiar bickering continued, the verbal sparring that had been the foundation of their relationship since Pepper had first walked into his life and refused to be intimidated by his chaos. It was comfort and home and everything Tony had never dared hope for during his wilder years.

“Mr. Stark makes pancakes like he flies the Iron Man suit,” Peter observed to Morgan in a stage whisper. “Lots of unnecessary flips and spins.”

“Style points matter, Parker,” Tony defended himself, pointing the spatula accusingly. “Don’t corrupt my daughter with your utilitarian approach to breakfast preparation.”

“I like the flips,” Morgan declared loyally. “They’re exciting. Sometimes they land on Mommy’s head.”

“One time,” Pepper clarified, shooting Tony a look that was somewhere between exasperation and affection. “That happened one time, and only because your father was trying to impress Rhodey with a quadruple flip that defied several laws of physics.”

“Rhodey appreciated the artistry, even if he pretended otherwise,” Tony maintained. “Besides, you looked cute with maple syrup in your hair.”

Pepper’s retort was interrupted by her phone buzzing with an incoming call. She checked the screen and her expression sharpened into professional focus. “I need to take this. It’s the Secretary of State’s office.”

The atmosphere in the kitchen shifted subtly—a reminder that beyond their domestic bubble, the world continued to grapple with the aftermath of unprecedented catastrophe, with political and social upheaval that demanded constant attention.

Tony watched as Pepper strode from the room, already slipping into her CEO persona, voice crisp and authoritative as she greeted the caller. The familiar pride swelled in his chest—her brilliance, her strength, her unwavering commitment to doing what was right even when it was difficult. They were well-matched in that stubbornness, at least.

“Is the Secretary still being mean about the special people rules?” Morgan asked, her small face serious as she looked up at Tony.

Tony blinked, momentarily thrown by the perceptiveness of the question. It was easy to forget sometimes how much Morgan absorbed from the adult conversations around her, how her young mind processed the complex realities of their world.

“Secretary Ross has some ideas about how to handle enhanced individuals that we don’t agree with,” Tony explained carefully, setting aside the spatula to give his daughter his full attention. “Mommy and I are working to make sure the rules are fair for everyone.”

Morgan nodded solemnly. “Because Peter is special and he helps people. And you don’t want mean rules to stop him.”

The simple clarity of a child’s perspective never ceased to amaze Tony. He glanced at Peter, who had gone very still, his expression caught between discomfort and something deeper, more vulnerable.

“That’s exactly right, little miss,” Tony confirmed, reaching out to smooth a wayward curl from Morgan’s forehead. “We want Peter and people like him to be able to help others without being afraid.”

“Good,” Morgan declared with the absolute certainty of a five-year-old. “The Secretary should be nicer. You should tell him that.”

“Oh, I’ve told him,” Tony assured her with a wry smile. “Multiple times, with increasingly creative language that you are definitely not allowed to repeat.”

Peter snorted softly at this, relaxing slightly. “I think Colonel Rhodes described it as ‘the most eloquent diplomatic incident he’s ever witnessed.’”

“Rhodey exaggerates,” Tony dismissed, though there was no denying he’d come perilously close to causing an international incident during one particularly heated exchange with Ross. “Besides, he was smiling when he said it. Internally. Deep, deep internally.”

The conversation shifted to lighter topics as they finished breakfast, but Tony noticed that Peter had grown quieter, a slight furrow between his brows suggesting he was mulling over something troubling.

“Alright, Morgan Stark, bath time,” Tony announced once they’d cleared the dishes. “You’ve got syrup in places that syrup has no business being.”

“But the lab!” Morgan protested immediately. “Filtron needs more documentation! Science is happening!”

“Science will still be happening after you’re clean,” Tony assured her. “Peter and I need to run some boring calibrations anyway. Very dull. No dragons involved whatsoever.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Promise you won’t do any exciting science without me?”

“Cross my heart,” Tony vowed solemnly. “Nothing but tedious, mind-numbing technical adjustments until you return, freshly scrubbed and dragon-ready.”

This seemed to satisfy her. “Okay. But hurry.” She turned to Peter with all the gravity a small child could muster. “Don’t let him do the exciting parts without me, Peter.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Peter promised, giving her a conspiratorial wink. “I’ll make sure he sticks to the boring stuff.”

As Tony led Morgan toward the bathroom, he called over his shoulder, “Take a break, kid. There’s orange juice in the fridge that’s calling your name. We’ll head back to the lab in twenty.”

Once Morgan was happily splashing in the tub, surrounded by an armada of bath toys and chattering about Filtron’s underwater adventures, Tony’s thoughts returned to Peter’s troubled expression. The Accords were still a sensitive subject, especially for the younger enhanced individuals who faced unique legal challenges due to their age.

Tony had fought tooth and nail to ensure that minors like Peter would be protected under the revised agreements, that they wouldn’t face the same registration requirements or restrictions as adults until they reached legal age. But the battle wasn’t over—Ross and his allies continued to push for stricter controls, for monitoring systems that came dangerously close to the very surveillance state Tony had always feared.

“All done, Daddy!” Morgan announced, interrupting his thoughts. “Can I wear my science shirt today? The one with the periodic table?”

“Excellent choice,” Tony approved, helping her out of the tub and wrapping her in a fluffy towel. “Very appropriate for lab work.”

By the time they returned to the kitchen, Peter was seated at the island counter, staring thoughtfully into a glass of orange juice. He looked up with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey, Morgan! Looking very scientific,” he commented, taking in her periodic table t-shirt and leggings covered in mathematical equations—an outfit she had specifically requested after discovering that “real scientists dress for scientific success,” a phrase she’d picked up verbatim from Bruce during a video call.

“I’m dressed for optimal experimental condoditions,” she informed him seriously, climbing onto the stool beside him. “That’s what Uncle Bruce says is important.”

“Uncle Bruce is very wise,” Peter agreed solemnly, keeping his thoughts about her mistake deep within his soul. “Although his fashion choices are limited by the fact that he’s, you know, huge and green.”

“I like him green,” Morgan declared. “He gives the best piggyback rides.” She paused, considering. “But sometimes he breaks furniture by accident.”

“An occupational hazard of being the strongest Avenger,” Tony remarked, studying Peter’s expression. The kid was putting on a good show for Morgan, but something was definitely bothering him. “Morgan, why don’t you go check on Filtron’s documentation? Make sure all your scientific observations are properly recorded before we head back to the lab.”

Morgan nodded enthusiastically, sliding off her stool and scampering toward the tablet she’d left on the coffee table, giving Tony a moment alone with Peter.

“Alright, spill it, Underoos,” Tony said quietly, leaning against the counter. “What’s going on in that overactive brain of yours? And don’t say ‘nothing’ because your poker face is tragically underdeveloped.”

Peter hesitated, toying with his glass. “It’s just… the Accords stuff. With Secretary Ross.” He glanced toward where Morgan was happily drawing, confirming she was out of earshot. “I heard what you told Morgan. About making sure the rules are fair so people like me can help.”

Tony nodded, waiting patiently for Peter to continue.

“It’s just… you and Ms. Potts are fighting these huge political battles, risking your reputation and probably making really powerful enemies, all to protect enhanced people’s rights.” Peter’s voice had dropped almost to a whisper. “To protect me. And I just… I don’t want to be a burden. Or make things harder for you when you’ve already sacrificed so much.”

The naked vulnerability in Peter’s eyes hit Tony like a physical blow. After everything they’d been through—after nearly losing each other forever—the kid still worried about being a burden, still couldn’t quite believe he was worth fighting for.

“Peter,” Tony began carefully, struggling to find the right words for what seemed so obvious to him. “This isn’t a burden. Protecting your rights—and the rights of every other enhanced individual—isn’t a sacrifice. It’s the bare minimum of what you deserve.”

Peter looked unconvinced, his fingers tracing anxious patterns on the countertop.

“Look at me, kid,” Tony said gently, waiting until Peter’s eyes met his. “What would you do, if you saw someone trying to implement rules that would hurt Morgan? Rules that would limit her future or put her in danger?”

“I’d do anything to stop them,” Peter answered immediately, without hesitation. “Whatever it took.”

“Exactly,” Tony agreed. “Because that’s what we do for the people we—” He faltered momentarily over the word, still finding it difficult to voice the depth of his attachment to this kid who had somehow become so central to his life. “For the people we care about. For family.”

Something shifted in Peter’s expression—surprise, followed by a cautious sort of hope.

“You and Morgan and everyone like you deserve the freedom to become who you’re meant to be,” Tony continued, finding his stride. “Not because of what you can do, but because of who you are. And I’ll fight Ross and anyone else who tries to limit that, not because it’s a burden, but because it’s the right thing to do. And because—” He took a breath, pushing past his habitual emotional barriers. “Because I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.”

Peter swallowed hard, his eyes suspiciously bright. “Thank you, Mr. Stark,” he said quietly. “For everything.”

Tony cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the raw emotion of the moment but determined not to deflect with humor as he so often did. “No thanks needed, kid. Just keep being the hero I know you are. The rest is just details we’ll figure out together.”

The moment was interrupted by Morgan’s triumphant shout from the living room: “Filtron has defeated the Dirt Monsters! Science victory!”

Peter laughed, the tension breaking. “Sounds like our project has taken a dramatic turn.”

“Science often does in the Stark household,” Tony agreed, relieved to see the shadow lifting from Peter’s expression. “Now, let’s get back to the lab before Morgan recruits Filtron for more battles against hygiene-related villains.”

—-

The rest of the morning passed in a productive blur of scientific collaboration, interrupted occasionally by Morgan’s increasingly elaborate Filtron narratives. By midday, they had successfully fabricated the first physical prototype of their improved filtration system—a sleek, compact device that showed promising initial test results.

“FRIDAY, compile the test data and send it to Bruce and Shuri for review,” Tony instructed, examining the flow rate measurements with satisfaction. “Include a note that this was primarily Parker’s brainchild.”

“I can’t take credit for that,” Peter protested immediately. “It was totally a group effort. You were the one who figured out the molecular binding issue.”

“After you identified the problem in the first place,” Tony countered. “Learn to accept credit where it’s due, kid. It’s a valuable life skill.”

Before Peter could argue further, FRIDAY interrupted: “Boss, incoming call from Secretary Ross. Ms. Potts suggests you join the conference.”

Tony’s expression darkened slightly. “Of course he’s calling during designated lab time. The man has an unerring instinct for disrupting scientific breakthroughs.” He turned to Peter and Morgan, who was currently using a pipette to carefully add food coloring to a beaker of water in what she had deemed a “very important comparison experiment.”

“Duty calls, I’m afraid,” Tony sighed. “Government officials to outwit, civil liberties to defend, the usual Thursday activities.”

Peter nodded understanding. “No problem, Mr. Stark. Morgan and I can continue the calibration tests.”

“Under strict adult supervision,” Tony clarified, giving Peter a pointed look. “Which, despite your numerous admirable qualities, you do not yet qualify as. FRIDAY, ask Happy to come to the lab. And Peter—”

“No unauthorized experiments, no adjustments to the prototype without approval, and absolutely no teleportation attempts of any kind,” Peter recited dutifully. “We’ll stick to the approved testing protocol.”

“That’s my responsible spider-kid,” Tony approved. “I’ll be back as soon as I’ve finished verbally eviscerating the Secretary of State while maintaining just enough diplomatic civility to avoid international incident.”

He ruffled Morgan’s hair as he passed. “Be good for Peter and Happy, little miss. No recruiting them for world domination schemes.”

“Only science domination,” Morgan agreed solemnly. “That’s allowed.”

“A concerning loophole I’ll address later,” Tony remarked dryly, already heading for the door.

The conference was being held in Pepper’s office, a sleek, elegant space that somehow managed to be both intimidating and welcoming. Tony found her standing by the window, tablet in hand, her expression set in what he privately called her “CEO battle face.”

“Ross is already online,” she informed him quietly as he entered. “Along with representatives from twelve UN member nations. The proposal for enhanced identification requirements is back on the table.”

Tony’s jaw tightened. “Of course it is. Because apparently ‘no’ is a challenging concept for certain government officials to grasp.”

Pepper’s lips twitched slightly, but her eyes remained serious. “This is delicate, Tony. Ross has been gathering support among the security-focused nations. We need to tread carefully.”

“Careful treading is your department,” Tony reminded her, straightening his posture and adjusting his expression to something approaching diplomatic neutrality. “My job is to be just charming enough that they don’t immediately hang up, but annoying enough that they want to end the meeting quickly and give us what we want.”

“A strategy with a remarkably high success rate,” Pepper conceded with a small smile. “Just… try not to call anyone a ‘bureaucratic parasite’ this time? The French representative is still holding a grudge.”

“I maintain that was a compliment in context,” Tony replied, straightening his tie with practiced nonchalance. “The French have a rich tradition of appreciating the finer nuances of insult as art form.”

Pepper’s answering look managed to convey both deep affection and profound exasperation—an expression she had perfected over years of managing Tony Stark in all his various incarnations. “Just… try for diplomatic today? For me?”

Tony’s face softened, the armor of sarcasm dropping momentarily to reveal the depth of feeling beneath. “For you, Potts? Anything.” He brushed a gentle kiss against her temple. “Even playing nice with Ross, though I maintain he brings out the worst in everyone within a fifty-mile radius.”

“Noted,” Pepper replied, squeezing his hand briefly before her professional demeanor reasserted itself. “Let’s get this over with.”

The conference room’s display flickered to life, revealing Secretary Ross’s perpetually stern countenance, surrounded by smaller windows containing various UN representatives. Tony settled into a chair beside Pepper, deliberately casual, thumbing through data on his tablet as though the meeting were merely an inconvenient interruption to his day.

“Secretary Stark, Ms. Potts,” Ross greeted them with the barest hint of civility. “I trust we haven’t interrupted anything important.”

“Just potentially revolutionizing global water access,” Tony replied smoothly, not looking up from his tablet. “But by all means, let’s revisit enhanced registration requirements for the—” he made a show of checking his watch, “—fourteenth time this quarter. I’m sure the outcome will be dramatically different.”

Pepper shot him a warning glance, which he acknowledged with an imperceptible nod. Opening salvo delivered. Dialing back now.

“What Secretary Stark means,” Pepper interjected with practiced diplomacy, “is that we remain concerned about the ethical and practical implications of the identification requirements as currently proposed.”

The meeting progressed into a tense discussion of biometric scanning, mandatory registration, and monitoring protocols—all couched in the language of security and public safety, but carrying undertones of control that made Tony’s jaw clench with barely suppressed anger.

“These enhanced individuals have capabilities that can represent significant threats to global security,” Ross insisted, his voice carrying the weight of absolute conviction. “History has demonstrated repeatedly that without proper oversight—”

“History has demonstrated repeatedly that targeting specific populations for surveillance and control invariably leads to abuse,” Tony interrupted, his tone deceptively mild despite the steel beneath. “Your proposal would subject children—children, Ross—to monitoring simply because they were born different.”

“Children grow up, Stark,” Ross countered. “And I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the destruction that can be caused by enhanced individuals, regardless of age.”

Tony leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “And I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that those same enhanced individuals saved half the universe, Secretary. Including, presumably, some people in this very meeting.”

The French representative—still apparently nursing a grudge—cleared his throat. “The issue is not one of gratitude, Mr. Stark, but of ongoing security. Extraordinary powers require extraordinary oversight.”

“And what about extraordinary rights?” Tony challenged. “What about the right to privacy? The right to develop and grow without constant surveillance? The right to make mistakes without ending up on a government watch list?”

The discussion deteriorated from there, with various representatives weighing in on both sides. Tony found himself increasingly frustrated by the circular nature of the arguments, the willful blindness of those who saw enhanced individuals as weapons to be controlled rather than people to be protected.

Throughout it all, Pepper remained a steadying influence beside him—redirecting the conversation when it veered toward unproductive confrontation, offering reasonable alternatives to the most draconian provisions, building alliances with sympathetic representatives through subtle appeals to shared values.

It was a masterclass in diplomatic navigation, and despite his frustration, Tony found himself once again in awe of her abilities. Where he charged forward with fiery rhetoric and uncompromising ideals, she found the narrow paths through seemingly impassable terrain, negotiating compromises without sacrificing core principles.

Two hours into the meeting, a breakthrough finally emerged. The German representative, who had remained largely silent until then, offered a proposal that shifted the framework entirely—focusing on behavior rather than identity, on actions rather than inherent traits.

“What if,” she suggested carefully, “we were to establish monitoring only in cases where enhanced abilities have been used in criminal activities? Rather than preemptive registration of all enhanced individuals, we could implement a system similar to how we handle conventional weapons permits—innocent until proven otherwise.”

A thoughtful silence followed this proposal, broken by Pepper’s measured response. “That approach would address the legitimate security concerns while respecting civil liberties. Stark Industries could support a framework built on those principles.”

Ross frowned, clearly dissatisfied with the compromise, but several other representatives were nodding in agreement.

“Additionally,” Tony added, seizing the moment, “any such framework would need explicit protections for minors. Enhanced children deserve the chance to grow up without the shadow of government surveillance, to learn to control and use their abilities responsibly before facing adult scrutiny.”

The conversation shifted then, from confrontation to genuine negotiation, with various representatives suggesting refinements and safeguards to the new approach. Ross continued to push for broader monitoring, but found himself increasingly isolated as consensus built around the behavior-based framework.

By the meeting’s end, a tentative agreement had been reached—one that would require substantial revision of the original proposal, protecting enhanced individuals from blanket surveillance while still addressing genuine security concerns.

As the various representatives signed off, Ross remained, his expression unreadable. “This isn’t over, Stark,” he said quietly. “The security risks are real, whether you acknowledge them or not.”

“The human rights concerns are equally real,” Tony replied evenly. “But I’m glad we found some common ground today, Secretary.”

After Ross’s image winked out, Pepper let out a long breath, tension visibly leaving her shoulders. “That was… unexpectedly productive.”

“Your diplomatic wizardry at work,” Tony acknowledged, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile. “Ross didn’t know what hit him when you started building that coalition of the reasonable.”

Pepper’s answering smile was warm but tired. “It’s a temporary victory at best. Ross will be back with another approach, probably within weeks.”

“And we’ll be ready,” Tony assured her, reaching across to take her hand. “Always are.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of the struggle—ongoing, never truly finished—settling between them. This was their world now: building a future where people like Peter, like Wanda, like all enhanced individuals could live without fear of persecution or control.

“Speaking of being ready,” Pepper said eventually, her expression softening. “How are the lab adventures progressing with our resident spider-hero and dragon illustrator?”

Tony’s face lit up, the political battle temporarily forgotten in favor of domestic joy. “Currently developing a water filtration system that may or may not include a fictional dragon named Filtron. Morgan has appointed herself Chief Documentation Officer, which primarily involves drawing dragons breathing ‘germ-killing fire.’ Parker’s actually made a breakthrough with the polymer matrix density. Kid’s brilliant when he’s not being stubbornly self-deprecating.”

“He reminds me of someone,” Pepper remarked dryly, giving Tony a pointed look. “Though at least he has the excuse of being sixteen.”

“I have no idea what you’re implying,” Tony replied with mock innocence. “I’ve never been self-deprecating a day in my life. Self-aggrandizing, yes. Self-deprecating, never.”

Pepper’s laugh was genuine, a welcome release after the tension of the meeting. “You keep telling yourself that, honey.”

They made their way back toward the lab, discussing the next steps for the enhanced rights initiative, the upcoming board meeting, Morgan’s school progress (exceptional, naturally, because Stark), and the dozen other threads that made up the tapestry of their shared life.

As they approached the lab, the sound of Morgan’s delighted giggling reached them, accompanied by what sounded suspiciously like Happy’s grumbling protests.

They entered to find a scene of controlled chaos: Happy Hogan stood rigidly in the center of the room, his perpetually serious expression strained as Morgan circled him, apparently measuring various dimensions with a child-sized tape measure. Peter was nearby, ostensibly monitoring the filtration prototype’s data, but clearly struggling not to laugh.

“And your arm circumference is…” Morgan was saying with scientific seriousness, stretching the tape measure around Happy’s bicep, “…exactly perfect for dragon riding! You can officially be Filtron’s assistant dragon rider, Happy!”

“I’m honored,” Happy replied stiffly, shooting a pleading look toward Tony and Pepper as they entered. “Mr. Stark, Pepper. Good timing. Morgan was just… conducting experiments.”

“I can see that,” Tony observed, lips twitching with barely suppressed amusement. “Very thorough methodology, Morgan. Excellent scientific rigor.”

“I’m documenting Happy’s dragon-riding compatibility,” Morgan explained earnestly. “Peter already passed his test. He has the highest compatibility score because he’s sticky.”

“Hard to argue with that logic,” Tony agreed solemnly. “Spider-stickiness is definitely an advantage in theoretical dragon riding scenarios.”

Happy took the opportunity to extricate himself from Morgan’s scientific scrutiny, straightening his tie with as much dignity as he could muster. “Everything’s been fine here. No incidents. No unauthorized experiments.” He hesitated, glancing at Peter. “Although there was a small… situation with one of the polymer samples.”

Peter winced slightly. “It was a minor miscalculation. The molecular binding accelerated faster than expected. Nothing dangerous,” he hastened to add. “Just a bit… sticky.”

“Sticky is a recurring theme today,” Tony noted, looking between his protege and his security chief with amused suspicion. “Exactly how sticky are we talking?”

In answer, Happy held up his watch—which had a small glob of what appeared to be semi-transparent polymer firmly adhered to its face. “The kid says it’ll dissolve in about an hour. Until then, I can tell you it’s exactly 12:36. Permanently.”

“On the bright side,” Peter offered optimistically, “this accidental formulation might have applications for temporary adhesives. High-strength but time-limited bonding could be useful for emergency structural repairs.”

Tony couldn’t help but smile at Peter’s instinctive pivot to potential applications. It was one of the things that made the kid such a natural scientist—the ability to find opportunity in unexpected results, to view mistakes not as failures but as doors to new discoveries.

“Document the formula and run some controlled tests,” Tony instructed, moving to examine the filtration prototype. “Happy, consider your watch a noble sacrifice to the scientific process.”

“Always happy to contribute to the advancement of science,” Happy muttered with impressive sarcasm, checking his phone instead. His expression shifted subtly, a flicker of something almost like nervousness crossing his usually impassive features. “By the way, May called. She’ll be here around six for dinner. Asked if we need her to bring anything.”

The slight color that rose to Happy’s cheeks at the mention of May was impossible to miss, at least for those who knew him well. Tony exchanged a knowing glance with Pepper, who smiled discreetly.

“Tell her just herself,” Pepper replied smoothly. “We’ve got everything else covered.”

Happy nodded, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, and stepped away to make the call, his posture noticeably straighter than usual.

“He gets all weird when May calls,” Peter observed quietly to Tony, watching Happy’s retreat with a mixture of amusement and mild discomfort. “It’s kind of sweet but also kind of… weird.”

“Weird is Happy’s natural state,” Tony replied, keeping his voice low. “Add May to the equation and we enter unprecedented territories of weird. But it’s good weird. He smiles more when she’s around. Didn’t think his face muscles knew how to do that before May came along.”

Peter laughed softly, then grew more serious. “How did the meeting go? With Secretary Ross?”

Tony considered how much to share, aware of the kid’s tendency to shoulder burdens that weren’t his to carry. “Better than expected, actually. We might have found a compromise that protects enhanced individuals’ rights without completely dismissing legitimate security concerns.”

The relief on Peter’s face was palpable. “That’s… that’s really good news, Mr. Stark.”

“One battle in a long war,” Tony cautioned, not wanting to offer false hope. “Ross isn’t going to give up easily. But we’ve bought time and gained allies.” He squeezed Peter’s shoulder gently. “The important thing is that you don’t have to worry about this. Your job is to be a kid, go to school, do your spider-thing within reasonable parameters, and occasionally help me revolutionize global water access.”

Peter smiled, though a shadow of worry remained in his eyes. “I know. I just… I want to help. With the bigger stuff too, sometimes.”

Tony studied the young face before him—still so young, yet carrying experiences that had aged him in ways invisible to casual observers. The determination in those eyes, the unwavering sense of responsibility that had survived dust and resurrection and the near-end of everything.

“You will,” Tony assured him quietly. “But not by sacrificing your chance to just be Peter Parker sometimes. The world needs Spider-Man, sure. But it also needs the kid who gets too excited about molecular chemistry and makes polymer goo that sticks to Happy’s watch.”

Peter ducked his head, embarrassed but pleased. “Fair point.”

“Now,” Tony continued, voice brightening as he clapped his hands together. “Let’s see how our filtration system is performing. FRIDAY, give me the latest test results.”

The lab settled into a rhythm of productive work, with Peter and Tony fine-tuning the prototype while Morgan continued her “documentation,” which had evolved to include detailed specifications for dragon-riding equipment that Happy would allegedly require for his assistant dragon-rider duties.

Pepper excused herself to handle some SI business calls, dropping a kiss on Tony’s cheek and extracting a promise from Morgan to help set the table for dinner later. Happy continued his security rounds, checking in periodically with updates that somehow always included an unnecessary mention of May’s impending arrival time.

As the afternoon progressed, Tony found himself occasionally pausing just to absorb the scene around him—the casual back-and-forth with Peter as they problem-solved together, Morgan’s imaginative narration providing a whimsical backdrop to their technical discussions, the sunlight streaming through the lab windows and catching the dust motes in golden suspension.

These moments still struck him sometimes with unexpected force—the sheer improbability of this life he now lived. After Afghanistan, after New York, after Sokovia, after Siberia, after Titan… after everything, to find himself here, surrounded by family (because that’s what they were, blood relation or not), working on projects that might genuinely help rather than harm, felt like a miracle he hadn’t earned but was desperately grateful for nonetheless.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter’s voice broke through his reverie. “You okay? You kind of zoned out there for a second.”

Tony blinked, refocusing on the filtration system specs hovering in the holographic display. “Just thinking. Dangerous pastime, wouldn’t recommend it.”

Peter didn’t look convinced, but before he could press further, FRIDAY’s voice interrupted.

“Boss, incoming call from Colonel Rhodes. He says it’s urgent but not an emergency.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “That’s an intriguingly specific categorization. Put him through, FRI.”

Rhodey’s face appeared on a nearby screen, his expression torn between exasperation and barely contained amusement. “Tony. We need to talk.”

“Always happy to hear from you, Platypus, but your face is doing something concerning right now. Are you having some kind of facial spasm, or is this a new expression I should be aware of?”

Rhodey closed his eyes briefly, as though gathering patience. “I’ve just received some… interesting information regarding Barnes and Rogers. From a contact in Eastern Europe.”

Tony’s interest sharpened immediately. “Are they okay?” Despite their complicated history, genuine concern colored his voice. The post-Snap world had put many things in perspective, including old grudges.

“Oh, they’re fine,” Rhodey assured him, his expression still caught in that strange middle ground between amusement and disbelief. “In fact, they’re apparently enjoying wedded bliss in a small village in Romania.”

A beat of stunned silence, then:

“I’m sorry, did you just say ‘wedded bliss’?” Tony repeated slowly, certain he had misheard.

“According to my sources,” Rhodey confirmed, “Barnes and Rogers have been ‘married’ for the past three days in a remote village called Văratic. Apparently, they were spotted kissing by some elderly locals who then insisted on a proper wedding to ‘preserve Barnes’ virtue.’”

Peter, who had been pretending not to eavesdrop, made a strangled sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh.

“The best part,” Rhodey continued, clearly enjoying Tony’s stunned expression, “is that the villagers, most of whom have limited vision, are under the impression that Barnes is a woman—just, you know, unusually tall and muscular with a deep voice.”

Tony blinked rapidly, processing this information. “Barnes. As a blushing bride. With Rogers as the groom.” A slow smile spread across his face, growing wider by the second. “Please, please tell me there are pictures. I will pay you actual millions for photographic evidence of this momentous occasion.”

“Better,” Rhodey replied, grinning now. “There’s video. The village mayor’s grandson apparently livestreamed parts of the ceremony on Instagram before Barnes noticed and nearly crushed the kid’s phone. But the internet is forever, my friend.”

“FRIDAY, find that footage immediately,” Tony instructed, practically vibrating with gleeful anticipation. “This is a national—no, global—treasure that must be preserved for future generations.”

“Already located, Boss,” FRIDAY confirmed. “Downloading now.”

Peter had given up any pretense of not listening, edging closer with poorly concealed curiosity. “So, um, Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes are… married? Like, not for a mission or anything?”

“Apparently,” Tony replied, his expression suggesting Christmas had come early, “our star-spangled man with a plan and his brooding bestie got caught in a compromising position and are now living as husband and… husband-who-the-villagers-think-is-a-wife in rural Romania.”

“The best part,” Rhodey added, “is that according to my source, they’re not exactly in a hurry to correct the misunderstanding. They’ve been having family dinners with the mayor, accepting homemade preserves from the village grandmothers, and generally settling into domestic life.”

Tony’s expression shifted from pure amusement to something more contemplative. “Well, well, well. Cap and Robocop, sitting in a tree. Literally, possibly, given the rural setting.”

“You’re taking this remarkably well,” Rhodey observed, studying his friend’s face. “I half expected you to short-circuit at the news.”

Tony shrugged, surprising even himself with his lack of shock. “After everything we’ve been through? Two super-soldiers finding happiness together barely registers on the weird scale anymore.” He paused, a mischievous glint entering his eyes. “Though I reserve the right to mercilessly tease both of them about this for the next several decades.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Rhodey agreed solemnly.

“Footage downloaded and ready for viewing,” the AI announced.

“Save it for dinner,” Tony decided after a moment’s consideration. “May and Pepper should definitely be part of this viewing experience.” He turned back to Rhodey’s image. “Speaking of which, when are you getting in tomorrow? We’ve got the full crew assembling for the weekend.”

“Barring any international incidents, I should land around noon,” Rhodey replied. “Looking forward to seeing everyone. It’s been too long.”

“Too long indeed,” Tony agreed. “Morgan’s been practicing her ‘Uncle Rhodey’ tackle-hug. I recommend wearing reinforced kneepads.”

After a few more minutes of casual conversation and good-natured ribbing, Rhodey signed off, promising details about his current mission once he arrived in person.

Tony turned to find Peter staring at him with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. “What?” Tony asked defensively.

“Nothing, it’s just…” Peter hesitated. “You seemed really okay with that. About Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes being… you know.”

“Together?” Tony supplied, raising an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Peter shrugged, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “I just thought… with everything that happened between you guys… in Siberia…”

Tony’s expression softened as he understood the kid’s confusion. “That was never about who Rogers loved, Pete. It was about trust. About choices made and secrets kept.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “And honestly? That feels like several lifetimes ago now.”

He glanced toward where Morgan was still deeply absorbed in her dragon documentation, oblivious to the adult conversation. “Nearly losing everything has a way of putting old grudges in perspective. Rogers and I… we’ve made our peace. Mostly. We’ll probably never be braiding each other’s hair at slumber parties, but I don’t begrudge him happiness. Especially after everything we’ve all been through.”

Peter nodded slowly, seeming to process this. “That’s… that’s good. Mature.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Tony replied dryly. “I have been known to exhibit adult behavior on rare, special occasions.”

“Like eclipses,” Peter agreed solemnly, though his eyes danced with mischief. “Rare astronomical events.”

“Watch it, Underoos,” Tony warned without heat, cuffing the kid gently on the shoulder. “Or I’ll tell Morgan you volunteered to play ‘dragon obstacle course’ again.”

Peter’s mock horror was comical. “Please no. I still have glitter in places glitter should never be from last time.”

Their banter was interrupted by FRIDAY once again. “Boss, Colonel Rhodes has sent a file marked ‘For Tony’s Eyes Only - Barnes-Rogers Wedding Footage.’”

Tony’s eyes lit up with unholy glee. “Save to my private server, FRI. That’s going in the blackmail collection.”

“You have a blackmail collection?” Peter asked, sounding both horrified and impressed.

“Of course I do,” Tony replied matter-of-factly. “I’m a futurist, kid. Always planning ahead.”

—-

The remainder of the afternoon passed in a productive blur of scientific progress and Morgan’s increasingly elaborate dragon mythology. By five o’clock, the filtration prototype was performing beyond expected parameters, with a 99.1% purification rate and flow efficiency that exceeded their original target by nearly 30%.

“We need to run extended trials,” Peter pointed out, studying the results with justifiable pride. “Make sure the membrane holds up over prolonged use without degradation.”

“Already setting up the automated testing sequence,” Tony agreed, fingers dancing across the holographic controls. “FRIDAY will monitor and record results overnight. If all goes well, we’ll have a viable prototype to present to the UN disaster response team next week.”

He straightened, stretching to relieve the tension of hours bent over delicate components. “Not bad for a day’s work, Parker. Between this and the neural interface updates, we’re on a roll.”

Peter ducked his head slightly at the praise, still not entirely comfortable with direct compliments despite his undeniable brilliance. “It’s mostly your tech, Mr. Stark. I just helped with some adjustments.”

“False modesty doesn’t suit you,” Tony replied, fixing Peter with a pointed look. “Own your contributions, kid. The polymer matrix redesign was all you, and it’s what makes the whole system viable.”

Before Peter could formulate a self-deprecating response, Morgan appeared between them, tugging insistently at Tony’s sleeve. “Daddy, it’s almost time for Aunt May to come. We need to get ready for dinner!”

Tony checked his watch, surprised to find it was indeed approaching six. “Good catch, little miss. Let’s get this place cleaned up so your mom doesn’t evict us from the lab permanently.”

As they began shutting down non-essential systems and securing the prototype for overnight testing, Happy appeared in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

“May just texted,” he announced, attempting and failing at casual nonchalance. “She’s about ten minutes out. I, uh, thought you might want to know.”

“We’re eternally grateful for this critical security update, Hap,” Tony replied dryly, exchanging an amused glance with Peter. “I assume you’ll be personally escorting her from the entrance? For security purposes, of course.”

Happy’s ears reddened slightly. “Standard protocol for all visitors.”

“Of course,” Tony agreed solemnly. “Particularly important for visiting nurses with exceptional hair.”

Peter made a small choking sound, caught between embarrassment at the discussion of his aunt and amusement at Happy’s transparent infatuation.

“I’ll just… go meet her,” Happy muttered, retreating with as much dignity as he could muster.

“He’s got it bad,” Tony observed once Happy was safely out of earshot. “Has for years now.”

“It’s weird,” Peter admitted, scrunching his nose slightly. “But also kind of nice? I mean, Happy’s… Happy. He’s solid. Reliable.”

“High praise indeed,” Tony remarked, helping Morgan gather her drawings. “And May deserves someone reliable after everything she’s been through.”

Peter nodded slowly, considering this. “Yeah. Yeah, she does.”

They made their way upstairs to find Pepper already in the kitchen, elegant as ever despite having changed from her business attire into more casual clothes. She was arranging something in a large casserole dish, the delicious aroma of Italian spices filling the air.

“Mommy!” Morgan exclaimed, racing over to present her stack of scientific documentation. “Look! I recorded all the dragon science! Peter and Daddy made the water cleaner work really good, and Filtron helped by breathing his special fire on the germs!”

“That sounds like excellent teamwork,” Pepper replied seriously, examining the drawings with appropriate appreciation. “Filtron seems like a very scientifically valuable dragon.”

“He is,” Morgan confirmed earnestly. “Happy is going to be his assistant rider. He passed all the measurements.”

“Lucky Happy,” Pepper remarked, shooting an amused glance at Tony. “I’m sure he’s thrilled about his new duties.”

“Ecstatic,” Tony deadpanned. “Though currently he’s occupied with his other important responsibility of greeting May with maximum awkwardness.”

As if on cue, the sound of voices in the entryway announced May’s arrival, accompanied by Happy’s unusually animated conversation.

“The security upgrades I was telling you about are really state-of-the-art,” Happy was saying as they entered the kitchen. “Completely redesigned the perimeter sensors last month.”

“Fascinating,” May replied with what appeared to be genuine interest, though her eyes twinkled with barely suppressed amusement. “You’ll have to show me the specifications sometime.”

Happy looked like he might faint from happiness at this prospect. “Absolutely. Anytime. Security specs are, you know, my thing.”

“Living dangerously with that flirtatious talk about security systems, May,” Tony greeted her with a warm smile. “You’ll give Happy heart palpitations.”

May laughed, the sound bright and genuine as she set down the dessert she’d brought. “Someone has to appreciate his expertise.” She crossed to wrap Peter in a quick hug. “Hey, sweetie. How was the science day?”

“Great!” Peter replied enthusiastically. “We made a breakthrough with the filtration system. The flow rate is way better than we anticipated, and the purification numbers are holding steady at—”

“English, please,” May requested with fond exasperation. “Non-genius version.”

Peter grinned sheepishly. “We made clean water happen faster.”

“That’s my boy,” May approved, ruffling his hair affectionately. “Saving the world one water molecule at a time.”

“Aunt May!” Morgan exclaimed, tugging at her sleeve. “I made scientific drawings of Filtron! He’s our dragon consultant!”

“A dragon consultant sounds very important,” May agreed seriously, bending to Morgan’s level. “I’d love to see these scientific drawings.”

As Morgan launched into an elaborate explanation of Filtron’s various abilities, the adults exchanged warm glances over her head—this strange, wonderful found family they’d created together, brought even closer by shared trauma and recovery.

Dinner was a relaxed affair, with conversation flowing easily between serious topics (the enhanced rights initiative, May’s work with post-Snap reintegration programs at the hospital) and lighter ones (Morgan’s preschool adventures, Peter’s latest academic achievements, Happy’s increasingly transparent infatuation with May).

“So,” Tony said casually as they were finishing the main course, “Rhodey called with some interesting news today. Apparently, Rogers and Barnes have entered into a state of domestic bliss in rural Romania.”

May’s eyebrows shot up. “As in…?”

“As in married,” Tony confirmed with undisguised glee. “Accidentally. To each other. In a small village where the elderly residents believe Barnes is a woman with unusual physical characteristics.”

Pepper nearly choked on her wine. “You’re not serious.”

“Never more serious in my life,” Tony assured her solemnly. “FRIDAY has procured video evidence of the joyous occasion, which I propose we view for dessert entertainment.”

Even Happy looked intrigued by this development. “Captain America and the Winter Soldier. Huh. Didn’t see that coming.”

“Clearly you weren’t paying attention,” May remarked thoughtfully. “The way they looked at each other during the reunion and then the party? Pure longing. Very romantic, in a star-crossed, century-spanning tragedy kind of way.”

All eyes turned to May in surprise.

“What?” she defended herself. “I have eyes. And I read historical romance novels. Their story has all the classic elements—childhood friends separated by war and time, one believed dead, the other frozen in grief, then reunited against all odds only to find themselves on opposite sides of a conflict… It practically writes itself.”

“Aunt May reads books where people kiss a lot,” Peter explained to Morgan in a stage whisper, his cheeks slightly pink.

“Kissing is gross,” Morgan declared with the absolute certainty of a five-year-old. “Except when Mommy and Daddy do it. That’s okay because they’re married.”

“Very wise,” Tony agreed, struggling to keep a straight face. “FRIDAY, dim the lights and queue up the Rogers-Barnes wedding footage. Let’s see this historic moment for ourselves.”

The footage was everything Tony could have hoped for—grainy smartphone video showing a clearly mortified Bucky in what appeared to be a hastily assembled outfit of white shirt and dark pants, standing beside a bemused but suspiciously contented-looking Steve Rogers in the village square. An elderly man was performing the ceremony in rapid-fire Romanian, while local villagers looked on with expressions ranging from misty-eyed sentiment to frank curiosity.

The moment when the elderly officiant motioned for them to kiss caused Barnes to flush a shade of red previously unknown to science, while Rogers, with a mischievous glint that few had ever seen in Captain America’s eyes, dipped his “bride” dramatically and planted a kiss that was definitely not appropriate for the presumed gender dynamics of the situation. Several elderly women could be heard tittering in shock while others applauded enthusiastically.

The video ended abruptly, presumably when Barnes noticed they were being recorded and moved to intervene.

A moment of stunned silence followed the end of the footage, broken by May’s thoughtful observation: “Rogers has game. Who knew?”

This unleashed a torrent of laughter and commentary, with everyone talking over each other to dissect what they’d just witnessed.

“The look on Barnes’ face!” Tony wheezed, wiping actual tears of mirth from his eyes. “Priceless. Absolutely priceless.”

“I can’t believe they’re just… going along with it,” Peter marveled, his expression caught between embarrassment and fascination.

“After everything they’ve been through?” Pepper remarked softly. “Maybe pretending to be married in a village where no one knows their history as supersoldiers is exactly the peace they’ve been looking for.”

This perspective quieted the room momentarily, a more somber recognition of what Rogers and Barnes had endured settling over their amusement.

“Well,” Tony said finally, raising his glass in a toast, “here’s to finding happiness wherever you can. Even if it involves accidentally becoming a Romanian village bride with a metal arm.”

“To happiness,” the others echoed, clinking glasses around the table.

The rest of the evening passed in comfortable conversation and shared laughter. May recounted stories from the hospital’s reintegration efforts—the reunions between colleagues who had lost and found each other again after the Snap, the challenges of rebuilding a healthcare system with suddenly doubled demand and restored but disoriented staff.

Tony and Pepper updated the others on the enhanced rights initiative, carefully editing certain details for Morgan’s benefit but making sure Peter understood the progress they’d made against Ross’s more extreme proposals.

Through it all, Tony found himself continually pausing to absorb these moments—May and Happy sitting just slightly closer than strictly necessary, Morgan gradually nodding off against Peter’s shoulder as the evening progressed, Pepper’s hand finding his under the table in a gesture of quiet solidarity. The ordinary miracles of connection and family that had once seemed impossibly distant from his life.

As the evening wound down, May reluctantly announced she needed to head home, citing an early hospital shift the next morning.

“Happy can drive you,” Tony suggested immediately, ignoring the security chief’s transparent attempt to appear nonchalant about this prospect. “Safer than taking the train this late.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” May demurred, though her smile suggested she wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea.

“No imposition,” Happy insisted with suspicious eagerness. “It’s on my way. I mean, it’s not technically on my way, but it’s not significantly out of my way. And even if it was, which it isn’t, security considerations would make it a reasonable detour. From a professional standpoint.”

“Well, with such a compelling security analysis, how could I refuse?” May replied, her eyes twinkling with barely suppressed amusement.

After goodbyes had been exchanged—including a sleepy hug from Morgan, who had to be gently extracted from Peter’s side where she’d fallen asleep—and promises made for May to return for the full weekend gathering, Happy escorted May to the car with the careful attention of a man guarding the Crown Jewels.

“Ten bucks says he finally asks her out tonight,” Tony murmured to Pepper as they watched the pair depart.

“Not taking that bet,” Pepper replied wisely. “May’s clearly just waiting for him to work up the courage.”

With the Tower settling into evening quiet, Tony and Pepper moved through the familiar rhythm of after-dinner cleanup while Peter helped Morgan prepare for bed. The comfortable domesticity of the moment struck Tony anew – how strange that this life, so far removed from the chaotic existence he’d once led, now felt like his most genuine reality.

“You’re thinking too loudly again,” Pepper observed, handing him a plate to dry. “I can practically hear the gears turning.”

Tony accepted the plate, a small smile playing at his lips. “Just contemplating the improbability of domestic bliss, Potts. Not long ago, I was flying nukes through wormholes. Now I’m drying dishes and worrying about enhanced rights legislation.”

“Hmm,” Pepper hummed, arching an eyebrow. “And which do you prefer?”

“The dishes, obviously,” Tony replied without hesitation. “Though I reserve the right to occasional bouts of nostalgia for the days when the greatest threat to humanity wasn’t whether Morgan would agree to brush her teeth before bedtime.”

Pepper’s laugh was soft and knowing. “Speaking of which, I should go make sure she’s not convincing Peter to read her a seventh bedtime story. That boy cannot say no to her.”

“No one can,” Tony pointed out. “She’s got my charm and your determination. Lethal combination.”

“God help us all when she’s a teenager,” Pepper agreed, drying her hands and pressing a kiss to Tony’s cheek before heading upstairs.

Tony finished putting away the last of the dishes, his movements slow and deliberate. The quiet of the house wrapped around him like a blanket – not the suffocating silence of an empty mansion that had haunted so many of his nights, but the gentle hush of a home where loved ones slept safely.

He wandered into the living room, picking up Morgan’s scattered drawings of Filtron the water-purifying dragon. Her creativity delighted him endlessly – the perfect blend of scientific curiosity and uninhibited imagination that children possessed before the world taught them to separate the two.

“FRIDAY,” he called softly, “any updates on the filtration tests?”

“All parameters holding steady, Boss,” the AI reported. “Current purification rate at 99.12% with flow efficiency at 127.3% of baseline expectations.”

Tony nodded, satisfaction warming his chest. Another project that might genuinely help rather than harm. Another step toward the legacy he wanted to leave – one of creation rather than destruction.

The sound of quiet footsteps on the stairs drew his attention. Peter appeared, looking slightly rumpled but pleased with himself.

“Mission accomplished,” he announced in a stage whisper. “Morgan’s asleep. Only took four stories and a solemn oath that we’ll continue dragon documentation first thing tomorrow.”

“You’re a natural,” Tony commented, gesturing for Peter to join him on the couch. “The Morgan-whisperer.”

Peter flopped down with the loose-limbed grace of a teenager, somehow managing to look both awkward and perfectly at ease. “She’s easy to please. Just needs someone to take her seriously.”

“Something you excel at,” Tony observed. “Taking people seriously when others might dismiss them.”

A slight flush colored Peter’s cheeks at the praise. “Just… you know. Treating people how I’d want to be treated.”

Tony studied the young face beside him – still so young, despite everything those eyes had seen. The thought always caught him off guard, how much Peter had endured and yet somehow retained his fundamental goodness, his unwavering belief in people.

“How’s school?” Tony asked, deliberately shifting to more neutral territory. “Any interesting projects besides web fluid optimization and saving the world one patrol at a time?”

Peter brightened. “Actually, yeah! My robotics team is working on an assistive tech project – designing low-cost prosthetic enhancements that could be 3D printed in resource-limited settings.”

“Ambitious,” Tony remarked, genuinely impressed. “What’s your approach to the power supply issue?”

“That’s where we’re stuck,” Peter admitted. “We’ve got some ideas about kinetic energy harvesting, but the storage systems are either too bulky or too expensive for what we’re trying to achieve.”

Tony’s mind immediately began churning through possibilities. “Have you considered a hybrid system? Something that combines piezoelectric elements with flexible graphene supercapacitors?”

Peter’s eyes widened. “That… could actually work. The piezoelectric components could harvest energy from normal movement patterns, and graphene supercapacitors would provide the storage density without the bulk…”

“FRIDAY, pull up the relevant material specs and create a new project folder,” Tony instructed, already moving toward his tablet. “Let’s rough out some preliminary designs.”

What began as a casual conversation rapidly transformed into an impromptu engineering session, with holographic models hovering between them as they refined concepts and debated implementation details. The technical challenge absorbed them completely, time slipping away unnoticed as they worked.

“If we layer the piezoelectric film like this,” Peter suggested, manipulating the hologram with practiced ease, “we could increase the harvest efficiency without compromising flexibility.”

Tony nodded, already building on the concept. “And embed the graphene storage cells within this matrix structure to distribute weight more evenly.”

A soft clearing of a throat interrupted their flow. They looked up to find Pepper leaning against the doorway, watching them with fond exasperation.

“It’s nearly midnight,” she pointed out gently. “Some of us have school tomorrow.”

Peter blinked in surprise, glancing at his watch. “Oh man, I didn’t realize it was so late!”

“Time flies when you’re revolutionizing adaptive prosthetics,” Tony quipped, though he looked slightly sheepish at Pepper’s knowing look. “We’ll wrap this up, honey. Just saving the world one engineering problem at a time.”

“Of course you are,” Pepper replied dryly. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Her expression softened as she added, “Peter, your room’s all set up. Fresh towels in the bathroom.”

“Thanks, Pepper,” Peter replied, already working to save their progress before shutting down the projection.

After Pepper had retreated upstairs, Tony helped Peter finish organizing their notes and models, making sure everything was properly saved for future reference.

“We’ll pick this up tomorrow,” Tony promised. “After school and Morgan’s dragon documentation, of course. Priorities.”

Peter grinned. “Of course. Dragon science comes first.”

As they shut down the system, a comfortable silence settled between them. Tony found himself again struck by how natural this felt – working alongside Peter, the casual back-and-forth of ideas flowing without ego or tension, just pure collaborative creativity.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter’s voice was quieter now, slightly hesitant. “Can I ask you something?”

“Fire away, kid.”

“Do you think…” Peter paused, seeming to gather his thoughts. “Do you think that what you did today, with Secretary Ross and the registration stuff… will it really make a difference? For people like me?”

The question hung in the air, weighted with all the vulnerability and hope that Peter rarely allowed himself to show so openly. Tony considered his response carefully, knowing platitudes would ring hollow to someone who had experienced firsthand what it meant to be enhanced in a world increasingly wary of such differences.

“I think,” Tony said slowly, “that it’s a battle we’ll be fighting for a long time. Ross and people like him aren’t going to change their fundamental view overnight. But today? Yeah, I think we moved the needle. Created space for a framework that protects rather than persecutes.”

He met Peter’s eyes directly. “I can’t promise you a world without prejudice or fear, kid. But I can promise you’ll never face those battles alone. Not while I’m around.”

Something shifted in Peter’s expression – a subtle easing of a tension he carried so constantly he probably didn’t even notice it anymore. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

“Nothing to thank me for,” Tony replied simply. “Just doing what any halfway decent mentor would do.”

Peter smiled, knowing better than to argue with Tony’s deliberate understatement. “Goodnight, Mr. Stark.”

“Night, kid. Don’t let the bedbugs bite. Or the spider-bugs. Whatever might be attracted to your particular genetic makeup.”

Peter rolled his eyes good-naturedly and headed upstairs, leaving Tony alone with his thoughts once more.

He moved to the windows overlooking the lake, watching the moonlight silver the water’s surface. So much had changed since the days when he’d careened from one crisis to another, always reacting, never truly living. The quiet moments like these – they were the true victory, he realized. Not defeating Thanos, not even surviving the impossible. But this: having a home filled with people he loved, doing work that mattered, finding purpose beyond adrenaline and destruction.

“Tony?” Pepper’s voice called softly from the stairs. “Coming to bed?”

He turned, taking in the sight of her – tousled hair, gentle eyes, the quiet strength that had anchored him through more storms than he deserved to survive.

“Yeah,” he replied, feeling something in his chest expand with simple gratitude. “Coming home.”
***
Friday
“Petey! Petey! Wake up! Dragon science day!”

Peter groaned softly as an enthusiastic five-year-old bounced on his bed with the energy only a child could muster at – he cracked one eye open to check the time – 6:28 AM.

“Morgan,” he mumbled, “the sun is barely awake yet.”

“Dragons don’t care about the sun,” Morgan informed him seriously, continuing to bounce. “Filtron says we need to document his water-cleaning powers before breakfast.”

Peter reluctantly pushed himself up, rubbing his eyes and trying to gather his thoughts. Morgan sat back on her heels, watching him expectantly, her Iron Man pajamas slightly rumpled from sleep.

“Did Filtron also say that dragons and their assistants need to let humans sleep until at least seven?” he asked hopefully.

Morgan considered this with adorable seriousness. “Nope. He said science waits for no one. That’s what Daddy always says too.”

“Of course he does,” Peter muttered, unable to suppress a smile despite his interrupted sleep. “Alright, little miss. Give me five minutes to brush my teeth, okay? Then we can do dragon science.”

“Three minutes,” Morgan countered, narrowing her eyes in a perfect imitation of her mother’s negotiation face.

“Four minutes, and I’ll help you add fire effects to Filtron’s drawing,” Peter offered.

“Deal!” Morgan exclaimed, scrambling off the bed. “I’ll get my science equipment ready!”

As Morgan raced off, Peter dragged himself out of bed, the last vestiges of sleep falling away as he contemplated the day ahead. Friday – which meant school, but also coming back to the Tower afterward for the weekend gathering. The thought buoyed his spirits as he quickly freshened up.

Four minutes later, true to his word, he appeared in Morgan’s room to find her surrounded by colored pencils, markers, and several sheets of paper already covered in dragonic illustrations.

“Okay, Dr. Stark,” Peter said, dropping into a cross-legged position beside her. “What’s on the dragon science agenda for today?”

Morgan launched into an elaborate explanation of Filtron’s various water-purification abilities, complete with sound effects and dramatic hand gestures. Peter listened with appropriate seriousness, asking clarifying questions and offering scientific suggestions that Morgan incorporated with solemn consideration.

They were deeply absorbed in coloring a particularly detailed diagram of Filtron’s “special germ-killing fire breath” when Pepper appeared in the doorway, already dressed for the day in a crisp business suit.

“I see the dragon research team is hard at work,” she observed, smiling at the sight of them surrounded by colorful drawings.

“Morning, Pepper” Peter greeted her, suddenly conscious of his rumpled sleep clothes and bedhead. “Morgan was just explaining how Filtron’s specialized flame can target harmful bacteria while preserving beneficial microorganisms.”

“Impressive selective targeting capabilities,” Pepper replied with perfect seriousness. “I’m sure that research will be revolutionary in the field of dragon-based water purification.”

Morgan beamed with pride. “It’s very important science, Mommy.”

“The most important,” Pepper agreed, bending to kiss the top of Morgan’s head. “But scientists need breakfast to fuel their brains. How about pancakes downstairs in fifteen minutes?”

“With blueberries?” Morgan negotiated.

“With blueberries,” Pepper confirmed. “And chocolate chips if you clean up your science equipment before coming down.”

As Pepper disappeared toward the stairs, Morgan immediately began gathering her art supplies with newfound urgency. “Chocolate chip motivation,” Peter observed with amusement, helping her organize the markers by color.

Downstairs, they found Tony already at the kitchen counter, coffee in one hand and tablet in the other, hair still slightly damp from a shower. He glanced up as they entered, a smile spreading across his face at the sight of Morgan’s excitement and Peter’s valiant attempt to tame his curls into something resembling order.

“If it isn’t my favorite scientists,” Tony greeted them. “Productive morning session?”

“Super productive,” Morgan confirmed seriously. “Peter helped me draw Filtron’s special fire. It’s blue for the extra germ-killing power.”

“Blue fire, of course,” Tony nodded sagely. “Much more effective against waterborne pathogens. Basic dragon science.”

Peter caught Pepper’s eye over Morgan’s head, sharing a moment of quiet amusement at Tony’s seamless entry into his daughter’s imaginative world. It was one of the things that had surprised Peter most about Tony Stark as a father – his complete willingness to dive headfirst into Morgan’s flights of fancy, treating her ideas with the same seriousness he might give to an MIT research proposal.

Breakfast unfolded in comfortable chaos, with Morgan recounting her latest preschool adventures while Pepper reminded Tony about various meetings and Peter tried to calculate whether he could reasonably finish his Spanish homework during lunch period.

“Happy’s taking you to school today, Peter,” Tony mentioned, sliding a plate of pancakes across the counter. “He’s got some security consultations in the city anyway.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Peter began, but Tony waved off his protest.

“Already arranged. Plus, he needs the distraction. He spent half the night texting me about whether he should ask May to dinner tonight before everyone else arrives.”

“Did he actually ask for advice, or are you just inserting yourself into his love life?” Pepper inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“Technically, he asked if I thought May had any dietary restrictions he should be aware of,” Tony admitted. “But the subtext was clearly ‘help me, Tony, I’m hopelessly infatuated with this woman and don’t know how to form words around her.’”

Peter groaned, burying his face in his hands. “This is so weird.”

“What’s weird?” Morgan asked, chocolate smeared adorably around her mouth.

“Adult friendship dynamics,” Tony answered smoothly. “Very complicated stuff. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“Is Uncle Happy in love with Peter’s aunt?” Morgan asked with the devastating directness of a child.

A moment of stunned silence followed before Tony burst out laughing. “Nothing gets past you, does it, little miss?”

“Mommy says you get a funny look on your face when you love someone,” Morgan explained matter-of-factly. “Uncle Happy gets that look when Aunt May is here.”

Pepper cleared her throat, fighting a smile. “I think that’s enough relationship analysis for breakfast. Peter, you’re going to be late if you don’t get moving.”

Grateful for the intervention, Peter hurriedly finished his pancakes and dashed upstairs to get ready for school. By the time he returned, backpack slung over one shoulder and hair somewhat tamed, Happy was waiting in the kitchen, keys in hand and expression carefully neutral.

“Ready to go, kid?” Happy asked, checking his watch. “Traffic’s going to be brutal if we don’t leave now.”

“Ready,” Peter confirmed, bending to give Morgan a quick hug. “See you after school, Morgan. We’ll continue our dragon research then.”

“Don’t forget!” Morgan insisted seriously. “Filtron will be waiting!”

“Wouldn’t dream of disappointing a dragon,” Peter assured her solemnly before turning to Tony and Pepper. “Thanks for breakfast, Pepper. See you later, Mr. Stark.”

“Have a good day at school, Peter,” Pepper replied warmly. “Try to pay attention in class despite all the exciting dragon research awaiting you.”

“And remember,” Tony added with a pointed look, “straight home after the last bell. No extracurricular activities today. Rhodes is flying in, and he specifically requested ‘Parker time’ before the full chaos descends.”

Peter nodded, understanding the subtext – no Spider-Manning today. Not with everyone gathering for the weekend. “Got it, Mr. Stark. Straight home.”

The drive into the city with Happy proved to be exactly as Tony had predicted – a master class in nervous avoidance of the topic clearly foremost in the security chief’s mind.

“So, uh, weather’s supposed to be good this weekend,” Happy remarked stiffly as they hit the main highway. “Clear skies. Warm for March.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Peter replied noncommittally, hiding a smile as he texted Ned about their physics homework.

After several minutes of stilted commentary about traffic patterns and the declining quality of the city’s infrastructure, Happy finally cleared his throat. “So, uh, your aunt. May. She’s coming tonight for dinner?”

“Yep,” Peter confirmed, deliberately keeping his tone casual. “She’s got the late shift at the hospital today, but she should be at the Tower by seven.”

Happy nodded, fingers drumming nervously on the steering wheel. “That’s… good. Good. I was thinking, you know, since Colonel Rhodes is arriving and it’s kind of a special occasion, maybe we could… that is, if she wanted to…”

Peter took pity on him. “I think Aunt May would really like it if you asked her to dinner sometime, Happy.”

Happy’s head snapped toward him so quickly that the car swerved slightly. “What? I wasn’t… I mean, I was just thinking about tonight’s dinner arrangements…”

“Sure,” Peter agreed easily. “But just so you know, she talks about you sometimes. In a good way.”

The transformation of Happy’s expression from nervous tension to cautious hope was almost comically dramatic. “She does? What, uh, what does she say?”

“That you’re reliable,” Peter offered, remembering his conversation with Tony. “And funny, in your own way. And that she appreciates how you always make her feel safe without being overprotective.”

Happy processed this information with the careful concentration of a man defusing a bomb. “That’s… good. That’s really good. So you think if I were to ask her to dinner sometime – not tonight, obviously, with everyone there, but maybe next week…”

“I think she’d like that,” Peter confirmed, trying not to laugh at Happy’s transparent relief.

The remainder of the drive passed with Happy in noticeably higher spirits, even humming along to the radio as they navigated through increasingly congested city streets. As they pulled up outside Midtown Tech, Happy seemed to remember himself.

“Right, so, after school. I’ll pick you up. Three-fifteen sharp.”

“I can just take the train,” Peter offered. “Save you the trip.”

Happy fixed him with a stern look. “Boss’s orders. Door-to-door service. Besides, I’ll be in the area anyway. Security consultation at Stark Industries Manhattan office.”

Peter knew better than to argue. “Three-fifteen. I’ll be waiting out front.”

“And Parker?” Happy called as Peter exited the car. “Thanks. You know, for the… advice.”

Peter grinned. “Anytime, Happy.”

The school day passed in a blur of classes, the normal academic challenges providing a grounding counterpoint to the extraordinary elements of his life. In physics, Mr. Warren praised Peter’s latest lab report on quantum tunneling effects. In Spanish, he managed to complete his homework during the first ten minutes of class while Señora Garcia was taking attendance. In history, he nearly dozed off during a documentary about the Louisiana Purchase, earning a sharp elbow in the ribs from MJ and her patented “I-saw-that-loser” smirk.

At lunch, he sat with Ned and MJ, halfheartedly picking at the cafeteria’s attempt at lasagna while Ned expounded enthusiastically on the latest Lego set he’d acquired.

“It’s the Imperial Star Destroyer, dude,” Ned was saying, gesturing with his fork for emphasis. “Over four thousand pieces. My mom says I can only work on it if I maintain my GPA, but it’s going to be epic.”

“That’s great, Ned,” Peter replied, stifling a yawn. “Sorry, didn’t get much sleep last night. Lab work with Mr. Stark ran late, and then Morgan was up at the crack of dawn for ‘dragon science.’”

MJ raised an eyebrow. “Dragon science?”

“Morgan’s latest obsession,” Peter explained. “She’s created this whole mythology around a dragon named Filtron who helps purify water with his special fire breath. It’s actually pretty adorable.”

“So you’re essentially a part-time superhero, part-time high school student, and part-time dragon researcher,” MJ summarized dryly. “Impressive résumé.”

Peter laughed. “Don’t forget part-time lab assistant and full-time disaster magnet.”

“Speaking of disasters,” Ned interjected, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “did you see the news about that thing in Romania? With Captain America?”

Peter nearly choked on his milk. “What news?”

“Some blurry footage surfaced of him and his friend – you know, the Winter Soldier guy – in some tiny village,” Ned explained. “The internet is going crazy trying to figure out what they’re doing there.”

“Probably just lying low,” MJ commented with a shrug. “Can’t be easy being a formerly brainwashed assassin and a technically-still-wanted former Avenger.”

“Yeah, probably,” Peter agreed, carefully neutral. The thought of the actual wedding video stored on Tony’s private server made him struggle to maintain a straight face. Some secrets were definitely worth keeping.

The conversation shifted to other topics, and Peter allowed himself to be drawn into Ned’s enthusiastic plans for their next robotics team meeting. The normalcy of it all – sitting in a high school cafeteria, discussing homework and Lego sets and robotics competitions – sometimes felt surreal juxtaposed against the other aspects of his life. But he had learned to treasure these moments of ordinary teenage existence, knowing better than most how fragile and precious they truly were.

When the final bell rang at 3:05, Peter made his way directly to the front entrance, determinedly ignoring Flash Thompson’s snide remarks about his “internship” as he passed. Sure enough, Happy’s car was already idling at the curb when he emerged from the building.

“Ten minutes early,” Peter observed as he slid into the passenger seat. “Eager to get back to the Tower?”

“Traffic considerations,” Happy replied with forced nonchalance. “Nothing to do with who might or might not be arriving later this evening.”

“Riiiight,” Peter drawled, buckling his seatbelt. “Purely logistical.”

Happy cleared his throat. “So, how was school? Learn anything life-changing?”

Peter grinned at the transparent change of subject. “Just the usual. Physics, Spanish, the history of territorial expansion. Nothing compared to dragon science with Morgan.”

“That kid’s imagination,” Happy remarked, shaking his head as he navigated through the after-school traffic. “Gets it from her father. Tony used to come up with the most ridiculous ideas at three in the morning. Difference is, half of his actually worked.”

“Mr. Stark told me about the time he decided to create an AI-controlled toaster that could predict your preferred level of browning based on your sleep quality,” Peter mentioned, remembering Tony’s late-night stories of his more eccentric creations.

Happy snorted. “That thing was a menace. It kept burning my toast because it decided I wasn’t getting enough REM sleep. I finally threatened to throw it out the window after it refused to toast anything for me for three days straight.”

The drive back to the Tower was filled with Happy’s surprisingly entertaining stories of Tony’s pre-Iron Man antics – tales of spontaneous trips to Tokyo because Tony wanted authentic ramen at 2 AM, security nightmares at Monte Carlo casinos, and the time Pepper had to talk Tony out of buying an entire sushi restaurant because the chef refused to serve him after he redesigned their refrigeration system without permission.

“He’s different now,” Happy said eventually, his tone more reflective. “Still Tony, still brilliant and impulsive and exhausting, but… grounded. Never thought I’d see the day, honestly.”

“Morgan and Ms. Potts,” Peter suggested. “They changed him.”

Happy nodded, then glanced sideways at Peter. “You too, kid. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Peter blinked in surprise. “Me?”

“You gave him something to focus on beyond himself,” Happy explained, looking slightly uncomfortable with the emotional territory but pressing on nonetheless. “Someone to mentor, to protect. Responsibility for someone else’s growth. It’s different from being Iron Man or saving the world. More personal.”

The idea that he might have had such an impact on Tony Stark – the man who had been Peter’s hero long before he ever met him – was overwhelming. Before Peter could formulate a response, Happy, clearly at his limit for emotional conversation, abruptly changed the subject.

“So, Colonel Rhodes should already be at the compound. Boss mentioned something about new prosthetic adjustments.”

Peter accepted the conversational pivot gratefully. “Yeah, Mr. Stark’s been working on a neural interface upgrade. Smoother response time, more intuitive kinesthetic feedback.”

“Between you and me,” Happy remarked, “it’s good to see Rhodes back to full strength. Those first few months after Germany…” He shook his head. “Tony took it hard. Blamed himself, of course.”

Peter nodded, remembering the complex mix of emotions that had surrounded discussions of the Accords aftermath. So much had happened since then – Thanos, the Snap, the desperate fight to bring everyone back – that those earlier conflicts sometimes seemed to belong to a different lifetime altogether. Yet the ripples from those events still shaped their present in countless ways.

As they turned onto the long driveway leading to the Tower, Peter caught sight of a familiar figure on the porch – Colonel James Rhodes, leaning casually against the railing, deep in conversation with Tony. Both men looked up at the sound of the car approaching, their expressions brightening.

“Right on schedule,” Happy announced with satisfaction as he parked. “Told you we’d beat the traffic.”

Peter grabbed his backpack and hopped out of the car, waving to the two men on the porch. “Colonel Rhodes! Hey!”

“There he is,” Rhodey called, straightening up with a warm smile. “The boy wonder himself. Come here, kid.”

Peter bounded up the steps, accepting Rhodey’s firm handshake that smoothly transitioned into a one-armed hug. “Good to see you, sir.”

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Rhodey?” the colonel admonished good-naturedly. “Looking good, Pete. Growing like a weed.”

“Fast metabolism,” Peter explained with a shrug. “Sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. School and all.”

“Education first,” Rhodey agreed solemnly, though his eyes twinkled. “Besides, it gave me and Tony some time to catch up. And by ‘catch up,’ I mean review increasingly ridiculous footage of a certain super-soldier wedding.”

Tony grinned mischievously. “FRIDAY’s been working her magic. She’s compiled all available social media posts from the village into a comprehensive documentary. Working title: ‘I Now Pronounce You Cap and Buck.’”

Peter groaned even as he laughed. “Mr. Stark, that’s terrible.”

“Terribly brilliant,” Tony corrected. “We’re considering sending it out as a holiday card this year.”

Rhodey shook his head, though his expression was fond. “You’re incorrigible, Tones. Always have been.”

“It’s part of my charm,” Tony replied breezily. “Now, let’s head inside. Morgan’s been asking about her Uncle Rhodey since dawn, and I promised her you’d be subjected to a full dragon briefing upon arrival.”

“Dragon briefing?” Rhodey questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“You’ll see,” Tony assured him, clapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Just nod seriously and ask appropriate questions about flame temperature and purification methodology.”

As they entered the Tower, Peter couldn’t help but smile at the familiar warmth that enveloped him. For all the extraordinary elements of his life – the powers, the battles, the brush with cosmic forces that had nearly erased half of existence – it was these moments that felt most miraculous: the simple joy of coming home to people who understood both parts of his life, who accepted him fully as both Peter Parker and Spider-Man.

The sound of running footsteps preceded Morgan’s appearance at the top of the stairs, her face lighting up with delight as she spotted Rhodey.

“Uncle Rhodey!” she shrieked, launching herself down the stairs with reckless abandon.

Rhodey braced himself, opening his arms to catch her as she hurled herself at him with complete trust. “There’s my favorite Stark!” he exclaimed, swinging her up into a hug. “You’ve grown at least a foot since I saw you last month.”

“That’s because I eat all my vegetables,” Morgan informed him seriously. “Even the green ones that Daddy tries to hide under the mashed potatoes.”

“Betrayed by my own offspring,” Tony lamented, clutching his chest dramatically. “The treachery.”

Morgan giggled, still clinging to Rhodey like a koala. “Daddy, I have to tell Uncle Rhodey about Filtron! He needs to know about the dragon science!”

“Dragon science, huh?” Rhodey repeated, adjusting Morgan more comfortably in his arms. “Sounds fascinating. Why don’t you give me the full briefing?”

As Morgan launched into an enthusiastic explanation of Filtron’s various properties and abilities, the adults exchanged amused glances over her head. Peter caught Tony’s eye, noting the soft contentment in his mentor’s expression as he watched his best friend and daughter together.

This, Peter realized, was what they had all fought so desperately to preserve – not just existence itself, but these precious connections between people, the quiet joy of family both born and chosen. In the face of cosmic threats and potential annihilation, it was these small moments that truly mattered: Morgan’s unrestrained enthusiasm, Rhodey’s patient attention, Tony’s unguarded affection for them both.

Morgan was still deep in her dragon exposition when Pepper emerged from her home office, her professional demeanor softening immediately at the sight before her.

“James,” she greeted warmly, crossing to place a kiss on Rhodey’s cheek. “I thought I heard the Morgan alarm go off. I see you’re getting the full Filtron briefing.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Rhodey replied sincerely. “I’m learning about specialized dragon fire and its application in water purification technology.”

“Very cutting-edge research,” Pepper agreed with perfect seriousness. “Morgan’s leading the field.”

“Mommy,” Morgan interjected importantly, “Uncle Rhodey needs to see my scientific documentation. It’s important for his understanding of dragons.”

“After dinner, sweetie,” Pepper suggested gently. “Uncle Rhodey just arrived, and I’m sure he’d like to settle in first.”

Morgan considered this, her small face scrunched in thought. “Okay,” she conceded finally. “But it’s very important scientific information.”

“The most important,” Rhodey assured her solemnly. “I’ll review it with my full military attention after dinner.”

Satisfied with this commitment, Morgan allowed herself to be set down, immediately racing off to gather her various dragon illustrations for the promised review session.

“Every time I see her, she’s grown another year’s worth of personality,” Rhodey observed, shaking his head in wonder. “Pure Tony in miniature form, but with Pepper’s organizational skills. Terrifying combination.”

“Tell me about it,” Tony agreed proudly. “She negotiated an extra thirty minutes of lab time yesterday by presenting a three-point argument about educational development and the importance of hands-on learning. Complete with visual aids.”

“She gets that from her mother,” Pepper pointed out dryly.

“The presentation skills, absolutely,” Tony conceded. “The stubborn determination to get lab access? Pure Stark DNA.”

As the friendly banter continued, Peter slipped away to change out of his school clothes, dropping his backpack in his room – and it still gave him a small thrill to think of it that way, his room, with personal items accumulated over countless weekends spent at the Tower.

When he returned downstairs, he found Tony and Rhodey in the kitchen, deep in conversation while Tony prepared coffee. Peter hesitated in the doorway, not wanting to interrupt what seemed like a serious discussion.

“…still concerned about the southeast region,” Rhodey was saying, his expression grave. “Intelligence suggests increased activity along the borders. Nothing concrete yet, but the pattern is reminiscent of pre-Sokovia mobilization.”

Tony nodded, his face thoughtful. “And Ross?”

“Playing it close to the chest,” Rhodey replied. “Officially, he’s advocating for enhanced surveillance of the region, but my contacts say he’s pushing for more direct intervention behind closed doors.”

“Even after today’s agreement?” Tony questioned, frowning.

“Especially after,” Rhodey confirmed grimly. “He sees it as a setback to his broader agenda. The man doesn’t give up easily, Tony.”

“Nor do we,” Tony stated firmly, then glanced up, noticing Peter in the doorway. His expression immediately lightened. “Hey, kid. Just catching up on some boring geopolitical shop talk. Nothing for you to worry about.”

Peter stepped fully into the kitchen, knowing he wasn’t being entirely dismissed but also recognizing Tony’s protective instinct to shield him from certain burdens. “Is it about the enhanced registration stuff?”

Tony and Rhodey exchanged a brief look before Tony sighed. “Partially. Ross isn’t happy with the compromise we reached today. We’re just discussing potential… strategic considerations.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Peter offered, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders.

Rhodey smiled, warm and reassuring. “Best thing you can do right now is keep being exactly who you are, Peter. Young, brilliant, and fundamentally decent. You represent everything we’re fighting to protect.”

Before Peter could respond to this unexpectedly profound statement, Tony cleared his throat. “Speaking of brilliant, why don’t you tell Rhodey about that piezoelectric energy harvesting concept we were working on last night? Right up his alley with the prosthetic applications.”

Peter leaned forward, eager to explain his latest project, but before he could get a word out, Tony's phone buzzed with an incoming call. The billionaire glanced at the screen, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

As the sun began to set, painting the New York skyline in brilliant oranges and golds, Peter leaned forward on the couch, eager to explain his latest project. Before he could get a word out, though, Tony's phone buzzed with an incoming call. The billionaire glanced at the screen, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

"Well, well, well. Speak of the devil and he shall appear." Tony held up the phone, displaying Steve's contact information. "It's the blushing groom himself."

Peter's eyes widened. "Wait, what?"

Rhodey, who had been quietly nursing his coffee by the window, snorted and nearly choked. "Put him on speaker. This is too good to miss."

Tony's eyes gleamed with unholy glee as he accepted the call. "Steven Grant Rogers-Barnes! Or is it James Buchanan Rogers-Barnes now? The Tower of Matrimony congratulates you on your nuptials!"

A weary sigh emanated from the speaker. "Tony, please. We need to talk about what you're doing with that footage."

"What footage?" Tony asked innocently, winking at Peter. "The touching ceremony where seven Romanian grandmothers mistook your boyfriend for a beautiful long-haired maiden and insisted you make an honest woman of him? That footage?"

Peter's jaw dropped, his latest web-shooter modifications completely forgotten as he stared at Tony in disbelief.

"It wasn't—" Steve started, then exhaled heavily. "Look, we were just trying to keep a low profile. The kissing was..."

"The kissing was what got you into this mess," Rhodey chimed in, grinning. "Public displays of affection in front of the village elders. For shame, Captain America."

"Rhodes? Who else is there?" Steve's voice took on a note of panic.

"Just me, Colonel Rhodes, and Peter," Tony replied cheerfully. "And FRIDAY, of course, who's been doing a masterful job compiling the 'Winter Wedding' video package."

Peter struggled to contain his laughter, imagining the mortified expression on Captain America's face. The laughter bubbled up in his chest, a welcome release after the week of quiet worry while the teams were away on missions. This wasn't just Tony being Tony—it was the first real moment of lightness since everyone had scattered to the winds.

"Tony, this isn't funny," Steve insisted, though there was a hint of resignation in his voice. "Those grandmothers were very insistent, and one of them had a shotgun."

"A shotgun wedding!" Tony crowed delightedly. "Even better! Please tell me someone got that on video."

"The old woman was using it as a walking stick," came Bucky's gruff voice from somewhere in the background. "But she kept gesturing with it very... persuasively."

"Is that the blushing bride I hear?" Tony called out. "How's married life treating you, Barnes?"

"I will end you, Stark," Bucky growled, but there was no real heat behind it—just the familiar rhythm of their peculiar friendship that had somehow grown from the ashes of shared trauma.

"That's Mrs. Rogers to you," Rhodey corrected, sending Peter into a fit of silent giggles.

"Anyway," Steve continued, clearing his throat, "we're heading back to New York. We should be there by tomorrow evening."

"Perfect!" Tony exclaimed, and something in his voice changed—something that Peter had come to recognize as Tony hiding genuine emotion behind a wall of sarcasm. "We'll have the reception ready. I'm thinking white lilies, a five-tier cake, and doves. Definitely doves."

"Tony—" Steve began warningly.

"And of course, we'll need to arrange for your wedding night accommodations. FRIDAY, does the honeymoon suite have rose petals?"

"Not yet, Boss, but I can order some," the AI replied, sounding entirely too amused.

Peter could practically hear Steve's teeth grinding through the phone. "We're not actually married, Tony. It was just a misunderstanding that got out of hand."

"That's not what the Romanian village records say," Tony sing-songed, his eyes already distant with planning. "FRIDAY has obtained a copy of the certificate. It's all very official. Signed by the village elder and everything."

"What?" Both Steve and Bucky exclaimed simultaneously.

"Oh yes," Tony continued blithely. "Apparently, kissing in the town square, followed by a traditional ceremony conducted by seven grandmothers, one with a shotgun-walking-stick, is legally binding in that particular region. Congratulations, you crazy kids."

A long silence followed, broken only by what sounded like Bucky muttering something in Russian. Peter wondered how many of those words would have gotten him grounded if May had heard them.

"We'll see you tomorrow," Steve finally said, his voice tight with forced calm. "And Tony?"

"Yes, my star-spangled friend?"

"I'm going to remember this. Every single word."

"I'm counting on it," Tony replied cheerfully. "I've already had FRIDAY order 'Just Married' t-shirts for everyone. Yours says 'I married a former assassin and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.'"

The call ended abruptly, leaving Tony, Rhodey, and Peter in various states of amusement.

"That was the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed," Rhodey declared, wiping a tear from his eye. "Please tell me you're not actually ordering those t-shirts."

"Oh, I absolutely am," Tony confirmed, already typing on his phone. "And a banner. And possibly a cake with their faces on it."

Peter looked between the two men, both consumed with laughter. "Mr. Stark, don't you think that's a little... excessive?"

"Kid," Tony said solemnly, placing a hand on Peter's shoulder, "when two super-soldiers accidentally get married in a Romanian village because babushkas with shotguns mistake one of them for a woman, there is no such thing as excessive."

Rhodey nodded sagely. "This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We've earned this after everything we've been through."

Peter recognized the truth behind Rhodey's humor. After the battles, the losses, the countless nights when Tony paced the lab with haunted eyes—they deserved this moment of absurdity. He'd watched Tony prepare the Tower for everyone's return, creating personalized welcome baskets while pretending it was "just basic hospitality." The man who had once defined himself by his isolation now found purpose in gathering his found family close.

"But what if they get really mad?" Peter asked, though he couldn't help laughing at the mental image of Steve and Bucky's faces when they saw whatever Tony was planning.

"Mad?" Tony scoffed. "Rogers needs to learn to laugh at himself occasionally. And Barnes... well, he married Captain America. He knew what he was signing up for."

Morgan chose that moment to burst into the kitchen, her arms full of colorful dragon drawings. "Daddy! I need more blue marker for Filtron's special fire!"

Tony immediately shifted gears, kneeling down to examine the drawings. The transition from mischievous prankster to devoted father happened in the blink of an eye—one moment plotting elaborate wedding receptions, the next fully immersed in his daughter's fantasy world.

"Let's see what we've got here, little miss. Ah, yes, definitely need more blue. The special fire is looking a bit pale."

"Uncle Rhodey," Morgan said, turning to the colonel with wide, earnest eyes, "did you know that Uncle Steve and Uncle Bucky got married? Daddy says they're going to have a big party!"

Rhodey's eyes widened as he looked at Tony, who appeared simultaneously proud and chagrined. "You told her about that?"

"She may have overheard parts of the conversation," Tony admitted, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink. "Kid's got supersonic hearing when it comes to gossip."

"Are they going to have a dragon at their party?" Morgan asked eagerly. "Filtron would be perfect for a wedding!"

"I think that's a wonderful idea," Rhodey agreed seriously. "Every wedding needs a water-purifying dragon."

"I'll make them a special drawing," Morgan decided, already pulling out more paper. "With extra blue fire for luck!"

As Morgan settled at the kitchen table with her art supplies, the adults exchanged amused glances.

"You know," Rhodey remarked quietly, "for all the teasing, I'm actually happy for them. They've been through hell and back. They deserve some happiness, even if it came via Romanian grandmothers with shotguns."

Tony's expression softened momentarily, that rare unguarded look that revealed the depth of feeling he usually kept hidden. "Yeah. But if you tell anyone I said that, I'll deny it and recalibrate your leg braces to walk you straight into the lake."

The warm moment was interrupted by FRIDAY's voice. "Boss, Ms. Potts would like to inform you that the first arrivals have been sighted. The Quinjet carrying Ms. Romanoff and Mr. Barton is making its approach."

Tony's face lit up with renewed mischief. "Perfect timing! Fresh victims for the wedding news!"

"Should we warn them?" Peter asked, glancing toward the front of the house.

"Absolutely not," Tony and Rhodey replied in unison.

---

As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, Natasha Romanoff entered the living room with the silent grace that had made her legendary, while Clint Barton trailed behind her, lugging several duffel bags. Even through their composed façades, Peter could see the weight of their mission etched in the subtle tension around their eyes.

"Why do I always end up carrying your stuff?" Clint grumbled, dropping the bags with a dramatic sigh.

"Because you lost our bet," Natasha replied smoothly, her lips curving in a small smile. "Next time, don't challenge a spy to a game of observation."

"The rules were unclear," Clint protested. "How was I supposed to know the barista had three cats, not four?"

"The cat hair distribution on her apron was inconsistent with a four-cat household," Natasha explained patiently, as though speaking to a child. "Basic deduction."

Their bickering was interrupted by Tony's enthusiastic entrance. "If it isn't the world's deadliest assassin and the guy who never misses... except when betting against said assassin."

Something in Tony's posture had changed, though only those who knew him well would notice. The casual slouch had straightened ever so slightly; his hands, usually in constant motion, stilled briefly as he took in the sight of his returning teammates. For a moment, relief flickered naked across his face before the mask of indifference snapped back into place.

"Stark," Natasha acknowledged, her sharp eyes immediately noting his barely contained excitement. "You look like you're about to burst with something. What's happened?"

"I'm wounded by your suspicion," Tony replied, placing a hand over his heart. "Can't a man simply be delighted to see his friends?"

"Not with that particular expression," Clint observed, dropping onto the couch. "That's your 'I have dirt on someone' face."

"Well, since you asked so nicely," Tony began, practically vibrating with glee. "Our dear Captain America and his faithful sidekick have gone and gotten themselves hitched in Romania."

Natasha's eyebrows shot up, while Clint sat bolt upright. "What?"

"Married," Tony elaborated unnecessarily. "Wed. Joined in holy matrimony. Put rings on it."

"I know what 'hitched' means, Tony," Natasha said dryly. "I'm questioning the circumstances."

"Circumstances being seven Romanian grandmothers, one with a shotgun, who mistook Barnes for a woman after catching them kissing in the village square," Rhodey supplied helpfully as he entered the room. "And apparently, it's legally binding."

Clint fell back onto the couch, howling with laughter. "Oh my god, that's the best thing I've ever heard! Please tell me there's video!"

"FRIDAY has compiled quite the collection," Tony confirmed smugly. "We're planning a special screening for when the newlyweds arrive tomorrow."

"They're going to kill you," Natasha stated matter-of-factly, though her lips twitched with suppressed amusement.

"Worth it," Tony declared. "Besides, Rogers needs to learn to embrace his mistakes. And by 'mistakes,' I mean accidentally marrying his best friend because Romanian grandmothers have questionable eyesight."

Peter, who had been hovering in the doorway, finally entered the room. "Hi, Ms. Romanoff. Mr. Barton."

"Hey, kid," Clint greeted, still wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "You heard about the Captain America wedding extravaganza?"

"I was there for the phone call," Peter confirmed, unable to suppress his own grin. "Mr. Stark is planning a reception."

"With t-shirts," Tony added proudly. "And possibly a wedding cake topper featuring Cap's shield and Barnes' metal arm in a heart shape."

"This is either the best or worst idea you've ever had," Natasha observed, her expression unreadable.

"Oh, it's definitely the best," Rhodey assured her. "You should have heard the call. Rogers was practically having an aneurysm."

"And Barnes?" Natasha asked, a hint of concern beneath her amusement.

"Threatening bodily harm, but in a fond, newlywed sort of way," Tony replied breezily. He reached out suddenly, squeezing Natasha's shoulder in a quick, firm gesture that conveyed more than words— 'I'm glad you're back safe. I was worried.' His eyes flickered briefly to a shallow cut on her jawline, but he said nothing.

She responded with a slight nod—'I'm fine. We're fine.'—before the moment passed, their unspoken language as familiar as breathing.

Clint shook his head in wonder. "After everything we've been through – aliens, robots, that weird thing with the reality stones – Captain America accidentally gets married in Romania. The universe has a sense of humor after all."

"Uncle Rhodey!" Morgan's voice called from the kitchen. "I finished my wedding dragon drawing!"

"Wedding dragon?" Natasha repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Morgan's latest obsession," Tony explained, the pride in his voice unmistakable despite his casual tone. "A water-purifying dragon named Filtron who apparently now does weddings."

Morgan appeared in the doorway, holding up a colorful drawing with unmistakable pride. "Look! It's Filtron at Uncle Steve and Uncle Bucky's wedding! He's breathing special blue fire to make their love extra strong!"

The adults collectively melted at the earnestness in her voice, even as they struggled not to laugh at the image of a large blue dragon hovering over crude stick figures with distinguishable shield and metal arm.

"That's beautiful, Morgan," Natasha said sincerely, kneeling down to get a better look. The gesture revealed a tenderness few were privileged to see from the Black Widow. "I'm sure they'll love it."

"I made Uncle Bucky a special dress," Morgan explained, pointing to the stick figure with long brown hair and what appeared to be a triangular white shape attached to its body. "Daddy said he was the bride."

Clint made a strangled noise as he tried to contain his laughter, while Rhodey turned away, shoulders shaking with silent mirth.

"That's... very thoughtful," Natasha managed, her composure impressive. "The white really brings out his eyes."

Tony, looking simultaneously proud and guilty, patted his daughter's head. "It's perfect, little miss. We'll frame it for them."

"But why is Uncle Steve so small?" Clint asked, pointing to the noticeably shorter stick figure.

"That's how he used to be," Morgan explained with absolute certainty. "Daddy showed me pictures. He was tiny before he got special medicine."

Peter bit his lip, trying desperately not to laugh as Tony's eyes widened in mild panic.

"I may have shown her some pre-serum photos," Tony admitted. "For... historical context."

"Of course," Natasha agreed, her eyes dancing with amusement. "Historical context is very important."

After Morgan had proudly displayed her artwork to everyone, Pepper appeared to guide her away for dinner preparations. Tony watched them go, the softness in his gaze lingering even after they'd disappeared from view. Peter had seen that look before—the expression of a man who still sometimes couldn't believe his good fortune, who carried the weight of potential loss in every moment of happiness.

"Your welcome baskets are in your rooms," Tony said abruptly, turning back to Natasha and Clint. "Nothing special, just basic necessities. Don't make a big deal about it."

Natasha's lips curved in a knowing smile. "Wouldn't dream of it."

---

The arrivals continued throughout the evening, each met with the same pattern of Tony's transparent attempts at nonchalance crumbling with each reunion. Bruce returned from Wakanda, bringing promising research developments and gifts from Shuri. Tony's greeting for Bruce was perhaps the most unguarded – a bear hug between old friends that needed no pretense.

"The lab's been too quiet," Tony admitted as they parted, a rare moment of complete honesty. "FRIDAY's tired of being the only one who gets my science jokes."

Peter watched from the sidelines, cataloging each reunion like precious data: the way Sam clapped Tony on the shoulder with genuine warmth, how Wanda's hesitant approach was met with gentle acceptance, Vision's formal greeting softening into something more human under Tony's irreverent response.

And through it all, Tony maintained the façade of casual indifference, though it grew increasingly transparent. His greetings were punctuated with sarcastic comments about "houseguests depleting his resources," but his actions—the way he ushered everyone to comfortable seats, ensured drinks were distributed, and surreptitiously checked for injuries—told a different story.

As the first stars began to appear in the darkening sky, Tony pulled Peter aside. "Help me finalize the reception plans. If we're going to embarrass Rogers and Barnes tomorrow, we need to do it properly."

Peter grinned, recognizing the request for what it was—not just help with party planning, but Tony's way of sharing something with him. "I'm on it, Mr. Stark. What did you have in mind?"

Tony's eyes gleamed with anticipation. "Well, kid, I'm thinking we need to go full throttle. Banner's been briefed, Thor's promised to try to make it from Norway—said something about 'not missing the blessed union of his shield-brothers' even if he had to 'ride the Bifrost through a dimensional storm.'"

"You told Thor it was a real wedding?" Peter asked incredulously.

Tony shrugged, unrepentant. "I may have implied that Rogers and Barnes were embracing their long-suppressed feelings in a traditional Earth ceremony. Thor seemed very moved."

"This is going to be a disaster," Peter predicted, though he couldn't quite hide his smile.

"The best kind," Tony agreed, rubbing his hands together. "Now, about that banner..."

---

The next morning dawned bright and clear, the kind of perfect spring day that seemed designed for celebrations. The Tower hummed with anticipation as Tony's grand reception plans took shape. True to his word, he had ordered custom t-shirts for everyone, a three-tier wedding cake topped with miniature shield and metal arm, and a banner that read "CONGRATULATIONS CAPTAIN & SERGEANT ROGERS-BARNES" in red, white, and blue letters.

Morgan, who had appointed herself "official wedding dragon coordinator," was arranging her Filtron drawings around the room with Pepper's help. Each illustration depicted the imaginary dragon performing various wedding-related duties, from carrying rings to breathing decorative fire.

"Daddy, when will Uncle Steve and Uncle Bucky get here?" Morgan asked, carefully taping a drawing to the wall. "I want to show them my special wedding dragon book."

"Soon, little miss," Tony replied, checking his watch. His expression flickered briefly—a shadow of old anxiety, of waiting for people to return who sometimes didn't. Peter recognized it from his own mirror. "FRIDAY, any update on our honeymooners' ETA?"

"Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes are approximately 20 minutes from the Tower, Boss," FRIDAY responded. "They appear to be traveling by motorcycle."

"Perfect," Tony rubbed his hands together gleefully, the moment of vulnerability gone so quickly Peter might have imagined it. "Places, everyone! Reception committee, assemble!"

As the residents of the Tower gathered in the main living area, Natasha pulled Peter aside. "You've got the camera ready?"

Peter nodded, patting his pocket where his phone was hidden. "Mr. Stark said to get their initial reaction, then send it to FRIDAY for the compilation video."

Natasha's lips curved in a small smile. "Good. This may be the only time we ever see Rogers genuinely speechless."

The sound of motorcycles approaching drew everyone's attention to the entrance. Moments later, the elevator doors opened to reveal Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, both looking travel-worn and wary.

Their expressions shifted from caution to utter disbelief as they took in the scene before them: the banner, the cake, the assembled Avengers all wearing matching "ROGERS-BARNES WEDDING 2023" t-shirts, and Morgan in the center, holding up a large drawing of a blue dragon.

"Welcome home, newlyweds!" Tony called out, raising a champagne glass. "The reception is just beginning!"

Steve stood frozen, his mouth working soundlessly, while Bucky's eyes narrowed dangerously. Peter discreetly aimed his phone at their faces, capturing the moment for posterity.

"What... what is all this?" Steve finally managed, his voice faint.

"Your wedding reception, of course," Tony replied innocently. "We couldn't let such a momentous occasion pass without proper celebration."

"Tony," Steve began, his tone a mixture of exasperation and resignation, "we're not actually married."

"The Romanian village records say otherwise," Tony countered cheerfully. "But don't worry, we've made it very festive. Morgan even created a special wedding dragon for the occasion."

On cue, Morgan stepped forward, holding up her drawing. "This is Filtron at your wedding! He's breathing special blue fire to bless your marriage!"

Bucky's murderous expression softened instantly as he knelt down to Morgan's level. "That's... that's real nice, squirt. Blue fire, huh?"

"It's his strongest fire," Morgan explained seriously. "For extra love power."

"Well, that's very thoughtful," Steve said, his own expression melting at Morgan's earnestness. "Thank you, Morgan."

"See?" Tony stage-whispered to Rhodey. "The Morgan defense. Works every time."

"I heard that, Stark," Bucky growled, though there was less heat in his voice now.

Peter observed the subtle shifts in Bucky's demeanor—the way his tense shoulders had dropped a fraction, how his eyes had softened around the edges. For all his projected irritation, there was something in Barnes that responded to the absurdity, to the warmth of being included in the family's ridiculous antics rather than treated with wary distance.

"Come on, guys," Clint called from beside the cake. "You've got to cut this thing. It's got your shield and arm on it and everything."

Steve and Bucky exchanged a look that contained an entire conversation, before Steve sighed deeply. "You're all enjoying this way too much."

"Absolutely," Natasha confirmed with a small smile. "This is the most entertaining thing that's happened in months."

"Fine," Steve conceded, his lips twitching despite his best efforts. "One cake cutting. Then this ridiculous reception ends."

A cheer went up from the assembled group as Steve and Bucky approached the cake table. Tony handed them a knife with a red, white, and blue ribbon tied around the handle.

"You have to hold it together," Tony instructed, his eyes gleaming with unholy amusement. "It's tradition."

"I'm going to stab you with this," Bucky muttered, but he placed his hand over Steve's on the knife nonetheless.

As they cut into the cake, FRIDAY played the Wedding March, and Clint let loose a handful of confetti. Peter continued filming, knowing this footage would be treasured for years to come.

"Speech!" Tony called out. "The grooms must give a speech!"

"I'm not making a speech," Bucky stated flatly.

"Come on, Buck," Steve said, surprising everyone by playing along. "It's tradition."

Bucky stared at Steve in disbelief before shaking his head. "Fine. Here's my speech: Thanks for the cake. If anyone calls me Mrs. Rogers again, I'll demonstrate exactly how many ways I know to kill someone with my metal arm."

"So romantic," Clint sighed dramatically.

"Your turn, Captain," Tony prompted, grinning.

Steve cleared his throat, looking around at the assembled group—at the faces of people who had become his family in this strange future world. There was a moment of unguarded emotion in his eyes, a flash of genuine feeling that caught Peter by surprise.

"Well, I guess I'd like to say... thank you all for being here to celebrate our... unexpected nuptials."

A ripple of laughter went through the crowd.

"While the circumstances were certainly not what we planned," Steve continued, a small smile playing on his lips, "I suppose there are worse fates than accidentally marrying your best friend of over a century."

"Damn straight," Bucky agreed, unexpectedly slipping his arm around Steve's waist. (There was nothing straight about the wedding or that stance, Bucky.)

"So thank you for the reception," Steve concluded, raising his glass. "Even if it's entirely ridiculous and Tony's never going to let us live it down."

"Never," Tony confirmed cheerfully. "This is going in the Avengers history books."

As the celebration continued, with cake being distributed and Morgan eagerly showing Steve and Bucky her entire collection of dragon drawings, Peter found himself sitting next to Natasha, watching the scene with a warm feeling in his chest.

"They're actually enjoying it," he observed quietly. "Even though they're pretending to be annoyed."

Natasha nodded, her expression softening. "Sometimes the family you choose is the one that teases you mercilessly about your accidental Romanian wedding."

"Is that a Russian proverb?" Peter asked, grinning.

"If it's not, it should be," she replied with a small smile, her eyes lingering on Tony as he fussed over the cake distribution. "He needed this, you know. Having everyone back. The pranks, the teasing—it's his way of processing relief."

Peter nodded, understanding exactly what she meant. He'd seen the way Tony had paced the Tower in the weeks leading up to everyone's return, the way he'd obsessed over the welcome baskets, preparing for every contingency. "It's like he doesn't know how to just say he missed people."

"Some wounds make that hard," Natasha replied softly. "Some losses teach you not to acknowledge what matters until it's gone."

The afternoon wore on, the initial shock of the reception giving way to genuine warmth and camaraderie. Even Bucky eventually relaxed, though he still threatened bodily harm whenever Tony referred to him as "Mrs. Rogers." His elaborate descriptions of what he'd do to Tony with his metal arm grew increasingly creative but somehow less menacing, delivered with what might almost be called reluctant amusement.

As the sun began to set, casting golden light through the Tower windows, a sudden rumble of thunder shook the building. Moments later, Thor's booming voice echoed through the room.

"WHERE ARE THE JOYOUS NEWLYWEDS? I COME BEARING GIFTS FROM ASGARD!"

Tony's eyes widened in delighted surprise. "He actually made it!"

Thor strode into the room, resplendent in ceremonial Asgardian armor, his cape billowing dramatically behind him. In his arms, he carried what appeared to be a large, ornate chest.

"CAPTAIN! SERGEANT!" Thor boomed, spotting Steve and Bucky. "CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR BLESSED UNION!"

Steve opened his mouth, presumably to explain the misunderstanding, but was cut off when Thor enveloped both him and Bucky in a bone-crushing hug.

"My friends," Thor continued, his voice slightly less thunderous but no less enthusiastic, "I bring the traditional Asgardian wedding gift for warriors of great valor: the Mead of Eternal Brotherhood!"

He placed the chest on the table with a heavy thud and opened it to reveal several ornate bottles of golden liquid.

"It is said that the Mead of Eternal Brotherhood strengthens the bond between warriors who have pledged their lives to one another," Thor explained proudly. "It is a rare honor, typically reserved for the royal family, but for the union of Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes, I could offer no less!"

Bucky eyed the bottles with interest. "Is that... space alcohol?"

"Indeed!" Thor confirmed enthusiastically. "Brewed by the finest meadmakers of Asgard, aged for a thousand years, and blessed by the Allfather himself!"

"Does it work on super-soldiers?" Steve asked, looking intrigued despite himself.

Thor beamed. "It was created for gods, Captain. I believe it will be... effective."

Tony clapped his hands in delight. "This just keeps getting better! FRIDAY, we're going to need footage of supersoldiers getting drunk on Asgardian mead. For science, of course."

"Of course, Boss," FRIDAY replied, sounding amused.

As Thor began pouring the golden mead into glasses, Peter felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked down to find Morgan watching the proceedings with wide eyes.

"Is that real magic drink?" she whispered, clearly fascinated.

"Something like that," Peter replied with a smile. "But definitely not for kids."

"Can Filtron have some?" Morgan asked. "Dragons can drink magic things."

"I think Filtron would prefer water," Peter suggested gently. "To keep his special fire nice and blue."

Morgan considered this, then nodded seriously. "You're right. He needs to stay hydrated for maximum fire power."

On the other side of the room, Thor was leading Steve and Bucky through what appeared to be an Asgardian wedding toast, complete with synchronized drinking and ritual words.

"TO THE UNION OF WARRIORS!" Thor proclaimed, raising his glass high. "MAY YOUR BOND BE AS ENDURING AS THE STARS AND YOUR LOVE AS FIERCE AS BATTLE!"

"To the union of warriors," everyone echoed, some more solemnly than others.

As Steve and Bucky drank deeply from their ornate glasses, the mead's effect was almost immediate. Steve's eyes widened in surprise, while Bucky let out a low whistle.

"That's... potent," Steve remarked, his cheeks already flushing slightly.

"The finest Asgardian mead," Thor confirmed proudly. "Now, we must proceed with the traditional warrior-bonding dance!"

"Dance?" Bucky repeated skeptically.

"Oh, this I have to see," Tony declared, grinning from ear to ear. "FRIDAY, cue the music. Something appropriately... ceremonial."

"I'm afraid I don't have Asgardian ceremonial music in my database, Boss," FRIDAY replied.

"Allow me," Thor offered, pulling out what looked like a small stone from his pocket. When he pressed it, ethereal music filled the room, somehow both ancient and otherworldly.

"Now, my friends," Thor instructed, positioning Steve and Bucky in the center of the room, "you must mirror each other's movements, as warriors do in battle. It symbolizes the unity of your spirits."

Peter watched in amazement as Thor demonstrated a series of movements that seemed to be a cross between a warrior's combat stance and a formal dance. To everyone's surprise, Steve and Bucky began to follow along, their enhanced reflexes allowing them to pick up the complicated sequence with relative ease.

"The mead's working," Natasha murmured, looking impressed. "I never thought I'd see Barnes voluntarily dance."

"I never thought I'd see Captain America accidentally get married in Romania," Clint countered, filming the proceedings on his phone. "Yet here we are."

As the dance continued, the other Avengers gradually joined in, attempting to mimic the movements with varying degrees of success. Bruce politely declined, instead sitting with Morgan and helping her draw what she described as "Filtron's wedding dance moves." Tony, however, threw himself into the dance with characteristic showmanship, executing the steps with a combination of precision and dramatic flair that had Peter doubled over with laughter.

Peter found himself pulled into the circle by an enthusiastic Thor, who proclaimed him "the young warrior of spiders" and insisted he learn the dance "for future matrimonial possibilities."

"I'm not... I don't have..." Peter stammered, feeling his face heat up.

"Nonsense!" Thor boomed cheerfully. "All warriors must know the bonding dance!"

As the evening wore on, the initial mockery of the reception gave way to genuine celebration. The Asgardian mead continued to flow, finally having the effect that ordinary alcohol never could on the two super-soldiers. Steve's normally perfect posture relaxed, while Bucky's perpetual scowl softened into something that almost resembled contentment.

"You know," Steve said at one point, his arm slung casually around Bucky's shoulders, "as far as accidental weddings go, this one's not half bad."

"Could've been worse," Bucky agreed, his speech slightly slurred. "Could've married Wilson."

"I heard that!" Sam called from across the room, having arrived mid-celebration.

"You were meant to!" Bucky shot back, raising his glass in a mock toast.

The Guardians were the last to arrive, their ship settling onto the landing pad with Rocket's characteristic blend of precision and unnecessary flourish. They tumbled out bickering about something incomprehensible to Earth ears, but their faces lit up at the sight of the assembled group.

"Is this a party?" Quill demanded by way of greeting. "Nobody told us there was going to be a party."

"Not just any party," Tony replied, clapping him on the shoulder. "A wedding reception. Rogers and Barnes got hitched in Romania. There were grandmothers involved. And a shotgun."

Quill's expression shifted from confusion to delight. "You Terrans have the weirdest customs. I love it."

Rocket eyed the proceedings skeptically, his gaze landing on the increasingly intoxicated super-soldiers. "What's wrong with those two? I thought they couldn't get drunk."

"Asgardian mead," Thor explained proudly. "The drink of gods and warriors!"

"I gotta try some of that," Rocket declared, already making his way toward the ornate chest. "If it can take down Captain Perfect Hair over there, I need to know what we're dealing with."

Groot, who had been quietly observing the proceedings, stretched one of his limbs toward the mead. "I am Groot?"

"No, you cannot have any," Rocket scolded, swatting the limb away. "Last time you had alcohol, you grew flowers all over yourself and started singing. It was embarrassing."

"I am Groot," came the disgruntled reply.

Thor beamed at the newcomers, his boisterous enthusiasm somehow increasing with each passing moment. "Friends from the stars! Come, join us in celebrating the union of these two noble warriors!"

As the Guardians integrated into the celebration, Bruce Banner found himself retreating to a quieter corner of the room. The noise and energy of the gathering, while joyful, pressed against his senses in a way that still sometimes overwhelmed him. The delicate balance between remained a constant meditation, even in moments of celebration. (Lies, his bones are just too old to be dancing.)

Thor noticed Bruce's withdrawal almost immediately. For all his boisterous energy, the god of thunder possessed a surprising attentiveness to those he cared about. With a final clap on Quill's shoulder that nearly sent the man stumbling, Thor made his way over to Bruce, his movements becoming noticeably gentler as he approached.

"Banner," Thor greeted, his voice dropping to what he clearly believed was a whisper but still carried across the room. "You do not join in the merriment?"

Bruce smiled, a slight tension easing from his shoulders at Thor's familiar presence. "Just taking a breather. It's a lot of... everything."

Thor nodded sagely, as if Bruce had imparted the deepest wisdom. "Indeed. The celebration of love is powerful magic, even for those who are not directly involved."

"Is that what this is?" Bruce asked, gesturing toward Steve and Bucky, who were now attempting to teach Drax the proper way to throw a punch without actually hitting anyone. "A celebration of love?"

Thor's expression softened, his single eye reflecting a depth of understanding that many overlooked beneath his warrior's exterior. "Is that not what all celebrations truly are? The acknowledgment that we have found something worth cherishing in this vast and often cruel universe?"

Bruce blinked, momentarily taken aback by the unexpected philosophy. "That's... surprisingly poetic, Thor."

"I contain multitudes, Banner," Thor replied with a wink that was both playful and strangely intimate. "As do you, more literally than most."

A laugh escaped Bruce, genuine and warm. "I guess I do."

Thor settled beside him, their shoulders almost touching. For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, watching as Tony attempted to teach Morgan and Groot a simplified version of the Asgardian wedding dance.

"Wakanda has been good for you," Thor observed quietly. "You seem more at peace with yourself."

Bruce nodded, appreciating that Thor had noticed. "Shuri's been helping me understand the relationship between me and the Other Guy. It's not perfect, but..."

"But you no longer see him as merely a monster to be contained," Thor completed, his voice free of judgment.

"No," Bruce agreed softly. "Not just a monster. A part of me that I'm learning to accept."

Thor's hand came to rest on Bruce's shoulder, warm and reassuring. "That is the greatest victory, my friend. To make peace with all aspects of oneself."

Something in Thor's tone made Bruce look up, really look at the god beside him. Behind the jovial exterior, Bruce saw the shadows of Asgard's destruction, of the losses Thor had suffered. The weight of kingship, of survival, of leading his people through their darkest hour.

"You're speaking from experience," Bruce observed gently.

Thor's smile turned wistful. "When one has lived as long as I have, experienced as much loss and change as I have... one learns that the greatest battle is often with oneself."

Their eyes met, a silent understanding passing between them. Two beings who had experienced transformation beyond what most could comprehend—one through gamma radiation, the other through the crucible of loss and responsibility.

"To transformation," Bruce said quietly, raising his untouched glass of mead.

"To transformation," Thor echoed, clinking his glass against Bruce's. "And to finding those who accept us through every form we take."

The moment hung between them, charged with something neither was quite ready to name. Then Thor's face broke into a wide grin, dispelling the tension. "Now, Banner, you must try some of this mead! It is the finest in all the realms!"

Bruce laughed, shaking his head. "I'm not sure that's a good idea. The Other Guy might have some opinions about Asgardian alcohol."

"Precisely why you should try it!" Thor insisted, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Perhaps he enjoys a good celebration as much as the rest of us."

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of," Bruce replied dryly, but he found himself smiling nonetheless.

Before Thor could press the issue further, their attention was drawn to the center of the room where Tony was now standing on a chair, glass raised high.

"Ladies, gentlemen, gods, raccoons, and trees," Tony announced, his voice carrying over the music and chatter. "I'd like to propose another toast to our accidentally wedded super-soldiers!"

"I'm not a raccoon!" Rocket objected loudly, while Groot simply raised his glass with an amused "I am Groot."

Tony continued undeterred. "As we all know, Captain Tight-Pants and the Winter Smolder have been circling each other for, oh, about a century now. It took seven Romanian grandmothers and a shotgun to make it official, but here we are!"

Steve groaned, burying his face in his hands, while Bucky merely raised his middle finger in Tony's direction, a gesture that somehow managed to convey both annoyance and reluctant amusement.

"To Steve and Bucky," Tony continued, his voice softening just slightly. "Who prove that even in our ridiculous, dangerous, world-saving lives, there's still room for accidental happy endings."

"To Steve and Bucky," the room echoed, raising their glasses.

As the toast concluded, the music shifted to something slower, more melodic. Thor's eyes lit up with recognition.

"Ah! The Asgardian waltz of bonded warriors!" he exclaimed. "Most appropriate for this moment in the celebration."

Bruce watched as Thor strode into the center of the room, clapping his hands to gain everyone's attention. "My friends! It is time for the traditional first dance of the newly bonded!"

Steve and Bucky exchanged a look, a silent conversation passing between them. Then, to everyone's surprise, Steve extended his hand to Bucky with a small, slightly crooked smile.

"Well, Buck? Shall we give them a show?"

Bucky hesitated for only a moment before taking Steve's hand. "Why not? We've already gone this far with the charade."

As the two super-soldiers moved into the center of the room, Thor began to explain the steps of the dance to them. Bruce noticed the way Thor's hands lingered as he positioned Steve and Bucky, the gentle guidance that spoke of deeper understanding than most gave him credit for.

"They complement each other," Thor observed as he returned to Bruce's side, watching Steve and Bucky begin the dance. "The Captain's steadfastness and Barnes' adaptability. A formidable pairing."

"They've been through hell together," Bruce replied softly. "Multiple times."

"The strongest bonds are forged in fire," Thor agreed, his eyes reflecting distant memories. "As are the strongest hearts."

As Steve and Bucky moved through the steps of the dance, other couples began to join them. Pepper pulled Tony onto the dance floor, his theatrical protests fooling no one. Peter found himself being dragged into the dance by Wanda, his face flushing a brilliant red as he concentrated on not stepping on her toes. Vision sat very unamused on the couch.

Across the room, Sam leaned against the wall, watching the proceedings with a mixture of amusement and something that might have been wistfulness. He did not notice Colonel Rhodes approaching until the man was beside him.

"Not joining the dancing?" Rhodey asked, his voice casual but his eyes observant.

Sam shrugged, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Not really my scene. Besides, someone needs to maintain some dignity around here."

"Ah, dignity," Rhodey mused, taking a sip of his drink. "Overrated, in my experience."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "That so?"

"Absolutely," Rhodey confirmed, his expression serious despite the laughter in his eyes. "I've found that dignity is often just an excuse to avoid doing things that might actually be fun."

"Is that your professional military opinion, Colonel?" Sam asked, the teasing tone in his voice belying the sharpness of his words.

"That's my personal opinion as a man who's spent way too much time cleaning up after Tony Stark," Rhodey replied with a chuckle. "You learn to embrace the absurdity after a while."

Sam's gaze drifted back to the dance floor, where Steve and Bucky were now executing a surprisingly graceful turn. "They actually look good together. Don't tell them I said that."

"Your secret's safe with me," Rhodey assured him, then added with deliberate casualness, "So, when are you going to claim your dance?"

Sam's head snapped around, his eyes narrowing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Rhodey said innocently. "Just that it seems like a waste to stand on the sidelines when there's perfectly good dancing happening."

Sam studied him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "You asking me to dance, Rhodes?"

"I might be," Rhodey replied, meeting Sam's gaze steadily. "If you're not too concerned about your dignity."

A slow smile spread across Sam's face. "Well, when you put it that way..."

Without further preamble, Sam pushed himself off the wall and extended his hand to Rhodey. "Shall we show these amateurs how it's done?"

Rhodey's answering grin was bright enough to light up the room. "Lead the way, Falcon."

As they moved onto the dance floor, Tony's voice called out, "Look at that! The Air Force and the actual air force joining forces!"

Sam rolled his eyes as he and Rhodey found their place among the dancers. "Does he ever stop?"

"Not in the entire time I've known him," Rhodey replied, his hand settling comfortably on Sam's shoulder. "You get used to it. Eventually."

"I doubt that," Sam muttered, but there was no real heat in his words.

As they began to move in time with the music, Sam found himself unexpectedly impressed by Rhodey's skill. "You're not bad at this, Colonel."

"Military balls," Rhodey explained with a shrug. "You learn to dance or you spend a lot of evenings standing awkwardly by the punch bowl."

"Smart man," Sam acknowledged, his hand tightening slightly on Rhodey's waist as they executed a turn.

"I have my moments," Rhodey replied modestly. Then, his voice dropping slightly, he added, "How's the wing testing going?"

Sam's expression brightened noticeably. "You heard about that?"

"I might have looked over some schematics," Rhodey admitted. "Tony's been talking about the improvements. Said something about incorporating some of the War Machine tech into the new design."

"It's incredible," Sam said, enthusiasm evident in his voice. "The maneuverability is unlike anything I've flown before. It's like... it's like they're not even wings anymore. More like an extension of my body."

Rhodey's eyes softened at Sam's obvious passion. "I know exactly what you mean. When the suit is working right, it's like it's not even there. Just you and the sky."

"Exactly," Sam agreed, surprised and pleased by the understanding. "Most people don't get that. They think it's just about the tech, the firepower."

"But it's about the freedom," Rhodey completed the thought. "The perspective."

Their eyes met, a moment of perfect understanding passing between them. Then Sam cleared his throat, a hint of color touching his cheeks. "You know, for a guy with mechanical legs, you've got some pretty smooth moves."

"Stark tech," Rhodey replied with a wink. "Accept no substitutes."

As the dance continued, Peter found himself taking a break near the refreshment table, watching the unexpected pairings on the dance floor with fascination. Natasha appeared beside him, silent as always.

"This is not how I expected today to go," Peter admitted, gesturing to the scene before them.

Natasha's lips curved in a small smile. "Days rarely go as expected around here. That's part of the charm."

"Charm isn't exactly the word I'd use," Peter said, though he couldn't keep the affection from his voice.

"Family, then," Natasha suggested quietly. "Messy, unexpected, but there when it counts."

Peter nodded, understanding exactly what she meant. His eyes drifted to where Morgan was now sitting on Vision's shoulders, directing him around the room like a royal steed. "It's good. All of it. Even the weird parts."

"Especially the weird parts," Natasha corrected gently.

Across the room, Bruce found himself being pulled to his feet by Thor. "Come, Banner! You must join in the dance!"

"Thor, I really don't think—" Bruce began, but his protest was cut short by Thor's enthusiastic grasp.

"Nonsense! The waltz of bonded warriors is meant for all who share a battlefield! And have we not shared many?"

Bruce couldn't argue with that logic, not when Thor was looking at him with such earnest enthusiasm. "Fine. But I'm not responsible for any broken toes."

Thor's laugh boomed across the room. "Your concern is noted, but unnecessary! I am a god, after all. I can withstand the mightiest of warriors stepping on my feet!"

As Thor guided Bruce through the steps of the dance, Bruce found himself relaxing into the rhythm. Thor's hand was warm and steady against his back, his movements surprisingly graceful for someone of his size.

"You're good at this," Bruce observed, slightly surprised.

Thor smiled, a touch of nostalgia in his expression. "My mother insisted that both Loki and I learn the royal dances of Asgard. She said that a king must be as comfortable on the dance floor as on the battlefield."

"Wise woman," Bruce remarked.

"The wisest," Thor agreed, his voice softening with memory. "She would have enjoyed this celebration. The laughter, the joy amidst the chaos."

Bruce squeezed Thor's hand gently, understanding the complex grief that still lingered in the god's heart. "She would be proud of you, Thor. Of the king you've become."

Thor's eye shimmered with emotion, but his smile remained steady. "Thank you, Bruce. Your words mean more than you know."

As they continued to dance, Bruce became aware of a subtle shift in the atmosphere around them. Thor's movements became more deliberate, his gaze more intense. The hand on Bruce's back drew him slightly closer, closing the distance between them by mere inches.

"Thor?" Bruce questioned softly, not pulling away but seeking understanding.

"On Asgard," Thor began, his voice low and serious, "the waltz of bonded warriors is not merely a celebration of martial brotherhood. It is also a dance of... deeper connections."

Bruce felt his heartbeat quicken, the implications of Thor's words settling between them. "Deeper connections?"

"Indeed," Thor confirmed, his eye never leaving Bruce's face. "Between those who have faced death together, who have seen the best and worst of each other, and chosen to remain side by side nonetheless."

Bruce's throat felt suddenly dry. "That sounds... significant."

"It is," Thor agreed solemnly. Then, his serious expression breaking into a gentle smile, he added, "But do not worry, Banner. I do not presume. I merely wished to share the tradition with you."

But there was a question in Thor's eye, unspoken but clear. Bruce found himself considering it, weighing the possibilities, the complications, the potential. The man he had been before Hulk would have retreated, would have analyzed and overthought until the moment passed.

But he was not that man anymore.

"And if I wanted to learn more about this tradition?" Bruce asked carefully, his voice steady despite the flutter in his chest.

Thor's smile widened, a brightness returning to his expression. "Then I would be honored to teach you, Bruce Banner. For as long as you wish to learn."

As their dance continued, Bruce felt a strange sense of peace settle over him. Here, in this moment of celebration—a ridiculous, absurd celebration of an accidental wedding—something genuine was taking root.

Across the room, Tony caught sight of Thor and Bruce dancing, saw the way they leaned into each other's space, the quiet intensity of their conversation. He nudged Pepper, nodding toward the pair.

"Look at that," he murmured. "Big Green and Point Break, finally figuring it out."

Pepper smiled, leaning into Tony's side. "About time, don't you think?"

"Definitely," Tony agreed. "Though I have to say, I didn't see the accidental wedding reception being the catalyst for everyone's romantic epiphanies."

"Sometimes people just need a reminder," Pepper observed softly. "Of what's possible, even in our complicated lives."

Tony's arm tightened around her waist, his expression softening as he pressed a kiss to her temple. "Have I told you lately how lucky I am?"

"Yes," Pepper replied with a smile. "But I never get tired of hearing it."

As the evening wore on, the celebration showed no signs of slowing. The Asgardian mead continued to flow, loosening inhibitions and sparking increasingly outlandish stories. Rocket and Bucky had somehow ended up in a heated debate about the merits of various types of metal arms, with Rocket insisting he could build "something with actual firepower" if Bucky would just let him "tinker a little."

"I'm not letting you anywhere near my arm," Bucky stated firmly, though his words were slightly slurred from the mead. "I've seen what you consider 'improvements.'"

"Your loss," Rocket shrugged, clearly unbothered. "Could've given you a built-in flamethrower."

"Because that's exactly what he needs," Sam interjected dryly, having rejoined the conversation after his dance with Rhodey. "More ways to set things on fire."

"Fire is a perfectly valid tactical option," Rocket defended, his fur bristling slightly.

"I actually agree with the raccoon on this one," Bucky said, nodding solemnly.

"NOT A RACCOON!" Rocket shouted, drawing amused glances from around the room.

Meanwhile, Steve found himself cornered by Drax, who was asking increasingly detailed questions about the wedding ceremony.

"So these grandmothers, they were skilled warriors?" Drax asked, his face serious.

"Not... exactly," Steve tried to explain, running a hand through his hair. "They were just, you know, regular grandmothers. With a shotgun."

"Ah," Drax nodded as if this clarified everything. "On my planet, the grandmothers are often the most feared warriors. They have lived long enough to know the most efficient ways to kill."

Steve blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. "That's... that's not really how it works on Earth."

"A pity," Drax replied, genuinely disappointed. "Your mating rituals would be more interesting with combat involved."

Before Steve could formulate a response to that, Morgan appeared at his side, tugging on his sleeve. "Uncle Steve, I made you and Uncle Bucky a special wedding present!"

Steve's expression immediately softened as he knelt down to her level. "Did you now? What is it?"

Morgan held out a small, clumsily wrapped package. "It's for both of you. Daddy helped me make it."

Steve carefully unwrapped the gift to reveal a small, handmade snow globe. Inside, two tiny figures—one with a shield, one with a silver arm—stood together beneath a miniature version of Morgan's blue dragon.

"Morgan," Steve breathed, genuinely touched. "This is beautiful."

"It's Filtron watching over you," Morgan explained seriously. "He'll keep you safe with his magic blue fire."

Steve felt a lump form in his throat at the earnestness in her voice, the genuine care in her gift. "Thank you, Morgan. This means a lot to me."

"You have to show Uncle Bucky," Morgan insisted. "It's for both of you."

"I will," Steve promised, carefully tucking the snow globe into his pocket. "Right now, in fact."

As Steve made his way across the room, weaving through the increasingly rowdy celebration, he found Bucky in deep conversation with Rhodey about the tactical advantages of different aerial maneuvers. The sight made Steve pause momentarily, struck by the normality of it—Bucky, engaged in a ordinary conversation, relaxed and animated in a way Steve had feared he might never see again.

"Buck," Steve called, approaching the pair. "Morgan made us a wedding present."

Bucky looked up, his expression softening at the mention of the little girl. "Yeah? What is it?"

Steve carefully withdrew the snow globe, holding it out for Bucky to see. "Filtron's watching over us, apparently."

Bucky stared at the snow globe for a long moment, his eyes tracing the tiny figures beneath the blue dragon. Then, to Steve's surprise, he let out a soft laugh. "That kid is something else."

"She is," Steve agreed, watching as Bucky gently took the snow globe, turning it over in his hands with a care that belied his fearsome reputation.

"We should thank her properly," Bucky decided, his voice gruff but warm. "This is... this is really something."

As they made their way back to Morgan, Steve found himself touched by Bucky's reaction. The small, thoughtful gestures—the way Bucky knelt down to Morgan's level, the genuine gratitude in his voice as he thanked her, the careful way he asked about Filtron's special powers—revealed the man beneath the Winter Soldier, the Bucky that Steve had always known was still there.

"You're good with her," Steve observed quietly as Morgan ran off to show her father that the super-soldiers had received their gift.

Bucky shrugged, but there was a softness in his expression. "Kids are easy. They don't care about what you've done. They just care about who you are right now."

Steve felt the weight of those words, the simple truth in them. "Morgan's lucky to have so many uncles looking out for her."

"Yeah, well," Bucky said, his voice turning gruff again. "Someone's gotta make sure she doesn't turn out exactly like Stark."

Steve laughed, clapping Bucky on the shoulder. "Admit it, Buck. You're enjoying this."

"I admit nothing," Bucky replied solemnly, though his eyes betrayed his amusement. "Except that Asgardian mead is no joke. I haven't felt this buzzed since that time in London in '43."

"The pub by the docks?" Steve asked, memories of another lifetime flooding back. "When you challenged that British naval officer to a drinking contest?"

"And won," Bucky added with a smirk. "Though I couldn't walk straight for two days after."

"Some things never change," Steve observed, nodding toward Bucky's slightly unsteady stance.

"Says the man who's swaying where he stands," Bucky retorted, reaching out to steady Steve with a hand on his arm.

The touch lingered, a moment of connection extending beyond the simple act of support. Steve found himself studying Bucky's face, noting the relaxed set of his shoulders, the hint of a smile that no longer seemed forced.

"What?" Bucky asked, noticing Steve's scrutiny.

"Nothing," Steve replied, shaking his head. "Just... glad you're here, Buck."

Bucky's expression softened, understanding the depth of meaning behind Steve's simple words. "Yeah, well. Where else would I be? Someone's gotta keep you out of trouble."

Before Steve could respond, Tony's voice cut through the ambient noise of the celebration. "Attention, everyone! It's time for the newlyweds to cut the second cake!"

"Second cake?" Steve repeated, bewildered. "When did a second cake happen?"

"While you two were busy with your heart-to-heart," Tony explained, appearing beside them with a flourish. "Thor insisted on providing an Asgardian wedding cake. And let me tell you, it's... something."

"Something good or something concerning?" Bucky asked suspiciously.

"Both," Tony admitted cheerfully. "Apparently it's traditionally served at Asgardian warrior weddings. Thor says it 'enhances martial prowess.' I'm choosing not to ask for specifics on that."

Steve and Bucky exchanged a look of mutual wariness. "Do we want to know what's in it?" Steve asked.

"Probably not," Tony replied, still grinning. "But Thor's very excited about it, and I'm not going to be the one to disappoint a god with lightning powers."

"Fair point," Bucky conceded, allowing himself to be led toward the center of the room where Thor stood proudly beside what could only be described as a architectural marvel in cake form.

The structure rose at least three feet tall, a gleaming golden creation adorned with intricate patterns and what appeared to be actual, tiny sparks of electricity dancing across its surface.

"Behold!" Thor proclaimed, gesturing grandly at the cake. "The traditional Asgardian Warrior-Bond Celebration Cake! Crafted with ingredients from the finest realms of Yggdrasil!"

"It's... sparking," Steve observed uncertainly.

"Indeed!" Thor confirmed, beaming with pride. "The essence of lightning, captured in sweet form! A symbol of the power that flows between bonded warriors!"

"Is it safe to eat?" Bucky asked bluntly, eyeing the occasional spark with suspicion.

"Of course!" Thor assured him, though his enthusiasm did little to alleviate their concerns. "The electrical component is merely decorative. Mostly."

"Mostly?" Steve repeated, his voice rising slightly.

"A minor tingling sensation is to be expected," Thor clarified, waving a dismissive hand. "Nothing a super-soldier cannot handle!"

Tony leaned in, whispering loudly, "If you start glowing, we'll know it's working."

"Not helping, Stark," Bucky muttered, though a reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

As Thor handed them an ornate knife that looked more like a ceremonial dagger, the room gathered around to witness this new development in the improvised wedding reception. Peter, who had been quietly documenting the proceedings, positioned himself for the best angle.

"Together now," Thor instructed, guiding their hands to the cake. "And as you cut, you must recite the traditional Asgardian warrior-bond oath!"

"The what now?" Steve asked, alarmed.

"Fear not," Thor assured him, "I shall guide you through it. Repeat after me: 'By blade and blood, by shield and honor...'"

Steve and Bucky exchanged a look of resignation before dutifully repeating, "By blade and blood, by shield and honor..."

"'We pledge our strength as one force, our hearts as one beat...'"

"We pledge our strength as one force, our hearts as one beat..."

"'From this day until Valhalla claims us!'"

"From this day until Valhalla claims us," they finished, pushing the knife into the cake.

As the blade broke the golden surface, a shower of tiny sparks erupted, dancing around their hands in a display of miniature lightning. The crowd gasped, then broke into applause, while Tony looked absolutely delighted by the spectacle.

"That's going in the highlight reel," he declared, nodding to FRIDAY who was undoubtedly capturing every moment.

To everyone's surprise, the cake, once served, proved to be delicious—a complex blend of flavors that somehow managed to be both sweet and invigorating. As promised, it left a slight tingling sensation on the tongue, not unpleasant but definitely unusual.

"This is actually really good," Sam admitted, looking somewhat surprised as he took another bite.

"Of course it is," Thor replied, sounding almost offended that anyone would doubt it. "It is a royal recipe, passed down through generations of Asgardian kings!"

As the celebration continued well into the night, the various groups began to intermingle in increasingly unlikely combinations. Drax and Rhodey engaged in an intense discussion about the most efficient ways to disable enemy vehicles. Rocket somehow ended up teaching Morgan how to build a miniature spacecraft out of napkins and silverware. Natasha and Wanda sat with Pepper, deep in conversation about something that had all three of them periodically glancing at Tony with knowing smiles.

Bruce and Thor remained close throughout the evening, their conversation flowing easily from scientific discoveries to Asgardian mythology. More than once, Peter noticed Bruce's hand resting comfortably on Thor's arm, or Thor's fingers brushing against Bruce's as they shared a drink.

Sam and Rhodey, having broken away from their respective conversations, found themselves back in each other's orbit, settled comfortably on one of the couches with a plate of Asgardian cake between them.

"So," Sam began, his voice casual but his eyes attentive, "what's next for you, Colonel? Back to the Pentagon?"

Rhodey shook his head, taking another bite of the cake. "Not immediately. I've got some leave built up. Thought I might stick around for a while, help Tony with some of the new recruits."

"The new recruits, huh?" Sam repeated, a small smile playing at his lips. "Wouldn't happen to include a certain Falcon, would it?"

"It might," Rhodey admitted, meeting Sam's gaze. "If he's interested in some advanced flight training."

"I think he'd be very interested," Sam replied, his smile widening. "Especially if it involves showing off his new wings."

"I bet he would," Rhodey agreed, his own smile matching Sam's. "Maybe we could work out a schedule. Say, starting tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow sounds perfect," Sam said, raising his glass in a small toast. "To new partnerships."

"To new partnerships," Rhodey echoed, clinking his glass against Sam's.

The Asgardian cake had worked its peculiar magic on the gathering, leaving behind a pleasant warmth that seemed to radiate from within. As the night deepened and the smaller groups began to disperse toward their quarters, Steve found himself leaning against the balcony railing, Morgan's handcrafted snow globe turning slowly in his hands. The tiny figures—one with a shield, one with a metal arm—caught the ambient light from the city below, creating miniature constellations of reflection.

"Careful with that," Bucky's voice came from behind him, low and relaxed in a way Steve hadn't heard in decades. "It's our most valuable wedding gift."

Steve smiled, not turning immediately. "I don't know. Thor's enchanted mead might give it a run for its money."

Bucky joined him at the railing, his metal arm glinting with the same subtle luminescence as the snow globe. For a moment, they stood in companionable silence, shoulders nearly touching as they gazed out at the sprawling cityscape.

"Think those Romanian grandmothers would be proud of the reception?" Steve asked finally, a teasing note in his voice.

Bucky snorted, a sound caught between amusement and disbelief. "They'd be scandalized by half of it and demanding more of Thor's mead for the other half."

"The shotgun would definitely make an appearance," Steve agreed, his smile widening at the absurdity of it all.

Another comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the distant sounds of the city and the occasional burst of laughter from inside the tower where the last of the revelers were still enjoying themselves.

"Strange day," Bucky observed finally, his voice contemplative.

"Strange life," Steve countered, turning the snow globe over in his hands. "Did you ever imagine we'd end up here? Seventy years in the future, surrounded by gods and geniuses and talking raccoons?"

"Not even on my wildest nights at the dance hall," Bucky admitted, something wistful creeping into his tone. "Though to be fair, my imagination never stretched much further than making it through the week with enough money for rent."

Steve nodded, memories of their cramped Brooklyn apartment surfacing like bubbles in still water. "Simpler times."

"Not better," Bucky said firmly, surprising Steve with his certainty. "Just simpler."

Steve studied his friend's profile, noting the stubborn set of his jaw, the clarity in his eyes that had been hard-won after years of HYDRA's control. "No? You don't miss it? Before... everything?"

Bucky considered the question, his metal fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the railing. "I miss parts," he admitted finally. "The certainty. Knowing exactly who I was, what I stood for." His gaze swept across the technological marvel that was Stark Tower, taking in all it represented. "But this world... it's something else, Steve. The possibilities. The scope of it all. Even with everything that's happened, I can't help thinking we're lucky to see it."

Steve found himself momentarily speechless, struck by Bucky's perspective. It was so easy to fall into nostalgia, to romanticize the past they'd shared. But Bucky, who had more reason than most to resent the future they'd been thrust into, was choosing to see the wonder in it.

"When did you get so wise?" Steve asked, only half-joking.

Bucky's smile was tinged with something darker. "Wisdom's just a pretty word for pain that's had time to settle." He shrugged, the movement deliberately casual. "I've had plenty of both."

Before Steve could respond, Thor's booming voice carried from inside the tower. "Another round for the newlyweds! The night is still young by Asgardian standards!"

"That's our cue to disappear," Bucky muttered, though his expression remained fond. "I've had enough Asgardian celebration to last me through my next seventy years in cryo."

Steve laughed, pocketing the snow globe carefully. "Coward."

"Tactician," Bucky corrected, already moving toward the shadows at the far end of the balcony. "There's a difference."

Steve followed, their footsteps falling into the synchronized rhythm they'd perfected during countless missions, both before and after the ice. This, at least, hadn't changed—the instinctive understanding of each other's movements, the unspoken coordination that made them such effective partners in the field.

They made their way to a secondary balcony, one level down and farther from the celebratory chaos. This space was more utilitarian, less manicured—meant for function rather than aesthetic appeal. The perfect hiding spot for two super-soldiers seeking a moment's respite from well-meaning but exhausting friends.

"Think they'll come looking for us?" Steve asked, settling against the wall with the familiarity of someone who had used this escape route before.

"Eventually," Bucky confirmed, joining him. "But Stark will get distracted by some new brilliant idea first, and Thor's already three sheets to the wind. We've got time."

Steve nodded, content with this assessment. Above them, music still filtered through the tower, the occasional burst of laughter punctuating the melody. It was strange, he thought, how quickly the absurdity of an accidental wedding had transformed into something genuinely warm. Something that, despite its unconventional beginnings, felt right somehow.

"You know," Bucky began, his voice taking on the particular quality it assumed when he was navigating difficult territory, "this whole thing—the wedding, the celebration—it's ridiculous."

"Completely," Steve agreed readily.

"But..." Bucky hesitated, searching for words. "It's also kind of perfect, isn't it? That after everything—the war, HYDRA, fighting each other, fighting together—we end up here. Still side by side. Still..." He trailed off, unable or unwilling to finish the thought.

"Still us," Steve supplied quietly, understanding what Bucky couldn't quite articulate. "Different, but still us."

Bucky nodded, relief evident in the loosening of his shoulders. "Yeah. That's it exactly."

As the night deepened around them, the stars barely visible through the city's ambient light, their conversation drifted to lighter topics—memories of the evening's more absurd moments, speculations about the developing dynamics between their teammates, comfortable silence punctuated by shared observations.

When the first hints of dawn began to color the eastern sky, they finally made their way back inside, moving quietly through the sleeping tower. The common area showed all the evidence of the celebration—empty glasses, discarded plates, furniture rearranged to accommodate impromptu dancing. In the center of it all, Morgan's blue dragon drawing had been given a place of honor, propped up against a vase of flowers Tony had somehow procured in the middle of the night.

"Some wedding," Bucky remarked, surveying the chaos with a bemused expression.

"Some life," Steve countered, echoing their earlier exchange.

As they parted ways for what remained of the night, something shifted between them—an acknowledgment, perhaps, that the ridiculous charade had contained kernels of truth. That their bond, forged in the crucible of a shared past and tempered by separation and reunion, was as real and binding as any formalized union could be.

---
For Tony, however, the celebration had stirred something deeper—a recognition of how far they'd all come, how much had changed since the days of suspicion and barely concealed hostility. Watching Steve and Bucky together, seeing the way they moved in perfect sync, he was reminded of his own journey with the Winter Soldier. The rage he'd felt upon learning the truth about his parents' deaths. The cold determination to make someone—anyone—pay for that loss.

And now here they were, sharing the same space, fighting alongside each other, celebrating together. The contradiction of it struck him as both absurd and profound.

As the night deepened, the tower hummed with the energy of reunion. Exhausted bodies sprawled across comfortable furniture, voices overlapped in the sharing of experiences and challenges faced during their week apart. Each person carried the weight of their respective missions – the progress made and the work still to be done – but in this space, for these hours, they allowed themselves to simply be together, united by purpose and the fragile, precious bonds of chosen family.

Tony moved among them, ostensibly checking that everyone had what they needed, but actually reassuring himself of their presence, their wholeness. Natasha, observant as ever, caught his eye across the room and raised her glass in silent acknowledgment of what he couldn't say aloud.

We came back. We always will.

As the conversation gradually died down, people drifting toward their rooms with murmured goodnights, Tony found himself alone on the balcony, the city lights spread below him like earthbound stars. The cool night air carried the scent of impending rain, a cleansing promise after the weight of separation. He leaned against the railing, letting the distant sounds of the city wash over him, a counterpoint to the comfortable murmur of voices behind him as the tower settled into night.

He sensed rather than heard the presence that joined him, the slight shift in the air that signaled he was no longer alone. He didn't turn immediately, allowing Bucky the choice to retreat if he wished. But the other man settled against the railing a few feet away, his metal arm gleaming dully in the city lights.

They stood in silence for a long moment, the space between them filled with unspoken history. When Bucky finally spoke, his voice was low, barely audible over the ambient sounds of the night.

"I've been trying to find the right words," he began, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. "To apologize. For your parents." The words hung in the air between them, heavy with decades of pain and regret.

Tony turned then, studying Bucky's profile – the tension in his jaw, the weariness etched into the lines around his eyes. "You know, I spent a long time wanting to blame you," he replied finally. "It was easier that way. Cleaner."

Bucky nodded, accepting the weight of those words without defense.

"But the thing is," Tony continued, "the Winter Soldier killed my parents. And you're not him." He paused, searching for words adequate to the complexity of his feelings. "Being brainwashed doesn't make you guilty. It makes you another victim."

Bucky's head turned sharply, surprise evident in his expression. "That's… not what I expected you to say."

A wry smile touched Tony's lips. "Yeah, well, therapy's good for something, I guess. And time." He shrugged, the movement deliberately casual. "Look, we could spend the rest of our lives haunted by the things that have been done to us and through us. God knows I've got my share of nightmares. But at some point, you have to decide whether you're going to let the past define you or just inform you."

"That simple, huh?" Bucky's voice carried a hint of bitterness, but also a questioning note, as if he wanted to believe it could be true.

"Nothing simple about it," Tony admitted. "But necessary. Otherwise, what's the point of any of this?" He gestured broadly, encompassing the tower, the city, the world beyond. "We fight to protect people, to give them futures. Seems hypocritical if we don't try to claim some for ourselves."

Bucky considered this, the tension in his shoulders easing incrementally. "Steve says something similar. Calls it 'moving forward.'"

"Don't tell him I agree with him," Tony quipped. "It'll go to his head, and his ego barely fits through doors as it is."

The joke broke something open between them, a tentative channel where genuine conversation might flow. Bucky's mouth quirked in a half-smile. "His head was always too big for his body, even before the serum. Used to pick fights with guys three times his size, convinced he was invincible."

"That doesn't surprise me at all," Tony said, settling more comfortably against the railing. "Tell me more about pre-serum Steve. I bet he was a nightmare."

Bucky's smile grew more genuine. "You have no idea. This one time, at Coney Island…"

As the stories flowed, the night air seemed to lighten around them. The weight of their shared history didn't disappear—it couldn't, not completely—but it shifted, becoming something they could carry together rather than a barrier that kept them apart. In the sharing of memories, in the laughter that gradually replaced tension, they found a tentative path forward. Not forgiveness, perhaps, not yet, but understanding. The beginning of something that might, with time and care, grow into a genuine alliance.

Behind them, the tower stood as a testament to second chances, to the possibility of rebuilding after devastation. Just as Tony had reconstructed his life after Afghanistan, just as Bucky was reconstructing his identity after decades of control, perhaps they could reconstruct this relationship—not erasing the painful past, but building something new alongside it.

The rain that had been threatening all evening finally began to fall, gentle at first, then with increasing intensity. Neither man moved to seek shelter. There was something cleansing in the cool drops, something symbolic in their willingness to weather this small discomfort together.

"You know," Tony said finally, turning his face up to the rain, "I think this might be the strangest 'wedding reception' aftermath conversation in history."

Bucky's laugh was unexpected, a rusty sound but genuine. "Add it to the list of weird shit we've lived through."

"That list is getting uncomfortably long," Tony observed dryly.

"Tell me about it," Bucky agreed, running a hand through his rain-dampened hair. "Sometimes I think my life couldn't possibly get any stranger. Then Thor shows up with enchanted cake and proves me wrong."

The shared joke eased something further between them. When they eventually moved back inside, the space between them had decreased, the careful distance they'd maintained now seeming unnecessary. The tower welcomed them back, warm and dry, a sanctuary housing the most powerful defenders Earth had ever known, now quiet in the vulnerable moments of rest.

In the common area, they found Steve asleep on the couch, a book open on his chest, his face peaceful in a way it rarely was when awake. Bucky paused, his expression softening at the sight.

"He waits up for everyone," he explained quietly. "Can't sleep until he knows everyone's safe."

Tony nodded, understanding all too well the particular anxiety that came with leadership, with caring too much. "Some things the serum doesn't change."

"No," Bucky agreed, his voice fond. "Some things are just Steve."

As they parted ways for what remained of the night, the tower settling around them like a protective shell, Tony found himself reflecting on the strange, winding path that had led them all here—enemies turned allies, strangers turned family. The complexity of it was staggering, the improbability of it nearly miraculous.

Outside, the city continued its restless rhythm, unaware of the extraordinary gathering of heroes who had once again found their way home to each other – flawed, exhausted, but together. In the moments before sleep claimed him, Tony's last thought was simple but profound: this, with all its chaos and complexity, was worth fighting for. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new missions, new threats to face. But tonight, in this tower, everyone had returned. And for now, that was enough.
***
Sunday
The morning light filtered through the tower's expansive windows with cruel intensity, highlighting the aftermath of Thor's Asgardian celebration like evidence at a crime scene. The common area resembled a battlefield of a different kind—empty glasses forming crystalline constellations across every surface, discarded plates bearing the remnants of last night's feast, furniture askew as if rearranged by a localized hurricane, and at least one of Clint's arrows inexplicably embedded in the ceiling.

Tony squinted painfully at the coffee machine as if it had personally offended him, nursing what had to be his third cup of coffee. The liquid did little to ease the pounding in his temples, a relentless reminder of exactly how much of Thor's special brew he'd consumed.

"FRIDAY," he rasped, voice sandpaper-rough, "dim the windows to sixty percent."

"Of course, Boss," the AI responded, her voice mercifully lowered to accommodate Tony's fragile state. The windows obediently darkened, casting the room in a more forgiving light.

Across the room, Clint lay sprawled across an armchair, one leg hanging over the armrest, an arm flung over his eyes. "If I ever agree to drink anything Thor brings to a party again," he muttered to no one in particular, "I want someone to shoot me with one of my own arrows."

"That could be arranged," Natasha replied from her perch on the kitchen counter. Unlike most of the others, she appeared remarkably composed, sipping hot chocolate with the serenity of someone who had paced herself appropriately. Her hair, still damp from a morning shower, framed her face in soft red waves—a stark contrast to the disheveled appearance of her teammates.

"Perhaps you should have considered the consequences before challenging a god to a drinking contest," Vision observed from his position by the window, his synthetic body mercifully immune to the effects of alcohol. Wanda, curled in an armchair nearby, shot him a look that suggested she might reconsider their relationship if he continued to be so logical before noon.

Bruce shuffled in, glasses slightly askew, his rumpled clothing suggesting he'd slept in them. "I don't understand," he murmured, accepting a cup of coffee from Tony with pathetic gratitude. "The Other Guy usually metabolizes alcohol too quickly for me to feel anything."

"Asgardian mead isn't alcohol," Thor announced, striding into the room with infuriating vigor, his voice booming despite the collective wince it produced. "It's distilled from the nectar of flowers that bloom once every thousand years in the eternal fields of Vanaheim! A gift fit for warriors and gods!"

"Inside voice, Point Break," Tony groaned, pressing his palms against his temples. "Some of us don't have the constitution of an immortal space viking."

Thor's laughter, though slightly modulated, still resonated painfully through the room. "My apologies, Stark. I forget how fragile Midgardians can be." He, in stark contrast to everyone else, bounded into the common area with the energy of someone who had just returned from a rejuvenating vacation rather than a night of excessive celebration. His booming voice sent ripples of pain through the collective hangover of the room.

"My friends! What a glorious morning after a magnificent celebration! Who wishes to partake in traditional Asgardian morning-after mead?" The chorus of groans that greeted this suggestion seemed to puzzle the god, who looked genuinely confused by the concept that more alcohol might not be the universal solution it was on Asgard.

"Your Earth constitutions are remarkably fragile," he observed, though he lowered his voice slightly in deference to the suffering around him.

From the far corner of the room, where he'd been silently nursing his own coffee, Bucky cast a baleful look at the Asgardian. "I've survived being frozen, thawed, brainwashed, and frozen again. I've been shot, stabbed, and thrown from moving vehicles. None of it prepared me for your 'nectar.'"

Steve, sitting beside him with his own cup of coffee, nodded in solemn agreement. The super-soldier serum had apparently met its match in Asgardian brewing techniques. "I haven't felt this bad since 1936, when Bucky convinced me to try bathtub gin."

The elevator doors slid open, revealing Sam leaning heavily against the wall. "Everyone still alive?" he asked, shuffling toward the coffee pot with the careful gait of someone whose equilibrium remained questionable.

"Technically," Rhodey replied from his seat at the dining table, where he'd been methodically working his way through a plate of dry toast. "Though I'm considering the alternative."

The Guardians, scattered around the common area in various states of disarray, presented a similarly afflicted tableau. Peter Quill lay face-down on the couch, one arm dangling toward the floor, emitting occasional groans that suggested consciousness, if barely. Beside him, Gamora sat cross-legged, her posture perfect despite the previous night's revelry, observing the suffering around her with quiet bemusement.

"I am Groot," came a miserable mumble from beneath a pile of cushions.
Rocket, perched on the back of an armchair with bloodshot eyes, nodded in agreement. "Yeah, kid. Never again."

Drax alone seemed unaffected, standing by the window with his arms crossed, watching the morning cityscape with interest. "Your bodies are weak," he observed matter-of-factly. "On my planet, we celebrate for weeks without pause. This was barely an evening's entertainment."

"Yeah, well, on my world, we don't usually mix tequila with whatever the hell Thor brought," Tony retorted, wincing as the sound of his own voice reverberated painfully in his skull.

"Not all of us have your impressive physiology," Vision replied diplomatically. The synthezoid, immune to the effects of alcohol, had been quietly tidying the space, gathering discarded glasses and plates with methodical precision.

Beside him, Wanda sat with her legs tucked beneath her, red energy dancing between her fingertips as she attempted to soothe her own headache through more mystical means. "I can help," she offered to the room at large, "but I make no promises about side effects."

"Last time you tried to cure my hangover, I spoke backward for three hours," Clint reminded her from beneath his arm. "I'll take the headache."

Loki materialized from whatever shadow he'd been lurking in, immaculate as always, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I find your collective suffering quite entertaining," he observed, helping himself to a cup of coffee. "Almost worth the tedium of having to attend the festivities in the first place."

Thor beamed at his brother, either missing or deliberately ignoring the sarcasm. "See? Even Loki enjoyed himself!"

"That is absolutely not what I said," Loki clarified, but the correction was lost in the general commotion of Peter's arrival.

The youngest member of their extended family stumbled in, looking shell-shocked and clutching a glass of water as if it contained the secrets of the universe. "Mr. Stark," he began, his voice a mixture of awe and horror, "did Thor really turn Dr. Banner's lab coat into a flock of ravens at some point last night, or did I dream that?"

Bruce's head snapped up, alarm replacing his previous misery. "He did WHAT to my lab?"

Thor's booming laugh did nothing to soothe the collective tension. "Fear not, Bruce! The transformation is merely temporary... I think." The atmosphere of hungover chaos and bickering was so complete, so all-consuming, that not a single person noticed the first ominous vibration in the floor. Not even Natasha, with all her training, registered the subtle shift in air pressure that preceded catastrophe.
The second tremor, however, was impossible to ignore.

"FRIDAY," Tony began, setting down his coffee with deliberate care, "please tell me that's just my hangover making the building shake."

"I'm afraid not, Boss," the AI responded with what almost sounded like resignation. "It appears someone is attempting to breach the emergency stairwell door on level 87."

"Attempting?" Natasha raised an eyebrow, sliding off the counter and into a more defensible position.

"Succeeding," FRIDAY clarified as a distant boom echoed through the building. "Security protocols have been overridden with what appears to be... several blocks of C4 explosive." The room transformed in an instant, hangovers forgotten as weapons materialized, positions were taken, and powers activated. Even Quill managed to straighten up, his Quad Blasters appearing in his hands as if by magic.

"Seriously?" Tony sighed, his nanotech housing unit glowing as it prepared to deploy. "We just finished cleaning up from the last attack. Can't evil take a day off?" The elevator indicator light began moving rapidly upward, the digital display showing the numbers climbing with alarming speed.

"FRIDAY, lock down the elevator," Steve commanded, shield ready.

"I've tried, Captain," the AI responded. "The override comes from within the building's systems. Whoever is coming knows exactly how to bypass our security."

Thor's hammer flew to his hand, electricity crackling around him. "Another wedding gift, perhaps?" he suggested hopefully.

"If it is," Rocket growled, climbing onto Groot's newly awakened shoulders with a weapon that looked capable of vaporizing a small moon, "they have terrible timing." The numbers on the elevator display reached their floor, and a hush fell over the assembled heroes. For one suspended moment, the only sound was the soft ping as the doors began to slide open.

And then chaos erupted.

The distinctive sound of metal shrieking against metal tore through the fragile quiet, followed by a cacophony of alarms and the unmistakable report of small-arms fire. Every person in the room snapped to attention, battle-ready despite their compromised state, reaching for weapons both conventional and extraordinary. The previous night's celebration evaporated in an instant, replaced by the familiar tension of impending combat.

"FRIDAY, report!" Tony barked, the Iron Man gauntlet already forming around his hand, the nano-particles crawling across his skin like liquid metal seeking purpose.

"Intruder in the east stairwell, Boss," the AI responded, her voice calm despite the evident security breach. "Single individual, female, armed. She's... she's disabled three security protocols and appears to be—" The AI's voice faltered, a rare occurrence that sent a chill through the room. "She's moving faster than my tracking systems can process. Security cameras are going offline sequentially."

The AI's report was cut short by the sound of the emergency stairwell door being kicked off its hinges with spectacular force. It crashed into the common area, skidding across the polished floor before coming to rest against the coffee table, leaving a trail of expensive splinters and shattered hopes for a peaceful morning.

In the doorway stood a figure silhouetted against the emergency lighting of the stairwell—a woman of medium height, her blonde hair pulled back in a tight braid, her stance wide and aggressive. She held a pistol in each hand, both trained unerringly on the assembled group. The red emergency lights cast her in crimson, giving her the appearance of having stepped straight from a nightmare.

"WHERE IS SHE?" the woman demanded, her voice sharp with fury and heavy with a Russian accent that seemed to double the weight of each syllable. "Where is body of my sister? What have you done with Natasha?"

The room froze in collective confusion—all except for Natasha herself, who remained perched on the counter, mug of hot chocolate paused halfway to her lips, an expression of amused resignation settling across her features.

"Yelena," she began, her voice calm but pitched to carry.

The blonde woman didn't react, instead advancing into the room with lethal grace, her eyes scanning each face with barely contained rage. "I have traveled across seventeen countries. I have infiltrated seven secure facilities. I have interrogated twelve SHIELD agents, four Hydra operatives, and one very confused hot dog vendor in Budapest who claimed to know everything." Her voice rose with each statement, the Russian accent thickening as her emotion increased. "And now I find all of you—Earth's mightiest heroes—" she spat the title like a curse, "—having breakfast party while my sister's body is not even cold!"

"Yelena," Natasha tried again, slightly louder.

"Do you know what I had to do to get here? I stole jet from Kazakhstani military base. Not good jet. Soviet-era piece of garbage that made noises like dying whale. I had to land in field because American airspace is, how you say, territorial about unauthorized aircraft. Then I had to steal car. Not even good car. Minivan. With cartoon fish stickers on windows. Very humiliating for former Red Room assassin to drive vehicle advertising 'Baby on Board.'"

Her rapid-fire monologue continued without pause for breath, guns still trained on various vital organs around the room. "Then I arrive at famous Avengers tower only to discover security system that child could bypass with paperclip and chewing gum. Is this how you honor memory of world's greatest spy? With inadequate security measures?"

"Yelena!" Natasha said firmly, sliding off the counter.

The blonde continued as if she hadn't heard, advancing further into the room, forcing several Avengers to step back to avoid the swing of her weapons. "In Red Room, they teach us we are not real people. That we are weapons to be used and discarded. I believed this for many years. But Natasha—she showed me different truth. She showed me that even weapons can choose where to aim themselves." She paused, but only for the briefest moment, not long enough for anyone to interject. "Also she taught me how to make proper American pancakes. Not like sad Russian pancakes. Fluffy ones. With maple syrup from actual trees, not chemical factory in Volgograd."

Her eyes locked on Clint with particular venom. "You were her partner. Her friend. You let her fall."

Clint, to his credit, didn't flinch from the accusation, the weight of Vormir still heavy in his eyes. "If there had been any other way—"

"There is always another way!" Yelena shouted, cutting him off. "You Americans with your dramatic sacrifices! In Russia, we do not throw away our best operatives. We find solution that does not involve cliff! Could you not tie rope? Build safety net? Use one of fancy flying suits?" She gestured wildly at Tony. "This man is supposedly genius. He builds time machine but cannot figure out how to catch falling woman?"

She spun toward Thor, who had been watching the exchange with wide eyes. "And you! God of Thunder! Can you not summon lightning to carry person? In Russian stories, gods are useful. American gods just stand around looking pretty with fancy hammers."

"Actually, the hammer's a recent acquisition," Thor began to explain before Yelena cut him off.

"I do not care about hammer backstory! I care about why room full of supposedly most powerful people on earth could not save one woman! Is Thor god of thunder or god of inadequate rescue attempts? Is Iron Man genius or just man who likes expensive metal pajamas?"

"YELENA!" Natasha's voice cut through the room like a whip-crack, finally penetrating her sister's tirade.

Yelena froze, her entire body going still in the way that only highly trained assassins can achieve—a perfect, unnatural stillness that seemed to drop the temperature in the room by several degrees. Slowly, with mechanical precision, she turned her head toward the sound of the voice. Her eyes widened, the first genuine shock replacing the calculated fury that had driven her this far.

For a long moment, she simply stared at Natasha, her expression unreadable. The guns in her hands dipped slightly, then raised again as suspicion narrowed her eyes.

"What trick is this?" she demanded, her voice suddenly soft and all the more dangerous for it. "Skrull? LMD? Some Stark technology to ease your guilty consciences?" Her gaze flicked to Tony. "Did you build replacement Natasha to make yourself feel better about letting real one die? Does it come with preset combat modes and collection of tight black outfits, or did you have to program fashion sense separately?"

Tony raised his hands in surrender, the ghost of his usual sardonic smile touching his lips despite the guns pointed in his direction. "As impressive as my tech is, even I can't replicate that level of terrifying competence. And for the record, her fashion sense would require quantum computing I haven't mastered yet."

"It's really me, Лeночка," Natasha said quietly, using the childhood diminutive that no one else would know. "No tricks. No technology. Just... complicated." She set down her mug and stepped forward, hands open at her sides in the universal gesture of peace.

Yelena's eyes narrowed further, her stance shifting almost imperceptibly. "If you are Natasha, tell me something only she would know. Something from before. Not mission detail that could be in file. Something personal and humiliating that real Natasha would not want announced in room full of superheroes with their perfect hair and unblemished moral compasses."

Without hesitation, Natasha responded in rapid-fire Russian, her voice soft but clear. The words flowed between them like a private current, carrying memories and shared pain that no one else in the room could access. As she spoke, something in Yelena's rigid posture began to crack—small fissures appearing in her armor of rage and suspicion.

When Natasha finished speaking, silence reclaimed the room. For several heartbeats, no one moved. Then, with careful deliberation, Yelena engaged the safeties on both pistols and slid them into the holsters at her hips.

"This explanation," she said finally, her voice tight with controlled emotion, "it better be good. And it better involve bringing pain to whoever made me believe you were dead for three months. I had to wear black clothes. I had to light candles. I had to sit through memorial service where Nick Fury spoke for forty-seven minutes about your 'contributions to global security.' Do you know how boring Fury is when he is being respectful? Is like listening to dishwasher read financial report."

Natasha's smile was small but genuine. "I promise it will be worth the wait." She gestured toward the kitchen. "There's still hot chocolate."

Yelena's expression softened fractionally. "With the little marshmallows?"

"Of course with the little marshmallows. What am I, a monster?"

"You might be," Yelena countered, still not entirely convinced. "Real Natasha once ate last piece of cake I was saving in refrigerator in Budapest safe house. Only monster does this to sister who just disarmed three bombs and had to swim through sewer system."

The tension in the room dissipated by degrees as the sisters moved toward the kitchen, Yelena maintaining a careful distance from the others, her body language still coiled with residual suspicion. The others exchanged bewildered glances, uncertain whether to resume their previous activities or prepare for another explosive outburst.

"So," Sam ventured after a moment, "does someone want to explain who exactly just kicked in a reinforced security door and threatened to kill us all before breakfast?"

"She seems... passionate," Bruce offered diplomatically, adjusting his glasses with fingers that still trembled slightly from the adrenaline rush. "Family resemblance is strong in the terrifying department."

Natasha, reaching for a clean mug, cast a warning glance at the group. "She's my sister. Half-sister. It's complicated."

"Everything with you is complicated," Clint muttered, but there was no real heat in his words. "Normal people send text messages when they're upset. Your family kicks down doors and pulls guns."

"Normal is boring concept invented by people too afraid to live properly," Yelena declared, accepting the mug of hot chocolate from her sister. She took a deliberate sip of her drink, eyes flicking meaningfully toward Tony over the rim of her mug. "Six minutes. That is how long it took me to bypass your security. Six minutes is embarrassing time. In Moscow, we have shopping malls with better protection than your tower."

Tony, never one to back down from a challenge, straightened despite his hangover. "Six minutes to get through seventeen layers of biometric security and quantum-encrypted protocols is actually pretty impressive. But if you're offering consultation services, I'm always open to improvement."

"I do not consult. I infiltrate. I assassinate. I disappear." Yelena's matter-of-fact delivery made the statement all the more chilling. "But since my sister apparently lives here now with her..." she gestured vaguely at the assembled heroes, searching for an appropriate term, "...colorful colleagues who dress like they lost bet with costume designer, perhaps I make exception. My fee is very high. Also I require office with window. And dedicated parking space. And access to weapons vault. And no one touches my yogurt in communal refrigerator."

"We can afford it," Tony replied dryly. "Though the yogurt thing might be asking too much. Thor has boundary issues with dairy products."

"Is true," Thor admitted with surprising earnestness. "I find Midgardian fermented milk products fascinating. Particularly the ones with tiny colored spheres."

"Those are called 'sprinkles,' Point Break," Tony sighed, rubbing his temples. "And they're not supposed to be in yogurt."

Yelena nodded once, as if the matter were settled, then turned her full attention back to Natasha. "Now. You will explain how you are not dead when whole world says otherwise. And why you did not think to inform your only sister of this important detail. I had emotional breakdown in middle of assignment in Prague. Very unprofessional. Target escaped because I was crying into sniper scope. Had to chase him through three countries to complete job. You owe me travel expenses at minimum."

Natasha sighed, leading Yelena toward one of the couches. "It's complicated. And classified. And involves time travel."

"Of course it does," Yelena muttered, rolling her eyes. "Americans and their time travel. In Russia, we accept death like adults. Here, you build machines to go back and change what you don't like." Despite her words, she followed Natasha willingly, settling beside her with the careful grace of someone still half-expecting a trap. "Next you will tell me there are talking animals and sentient trees, like in children's cartoon."

As if on cue, Rocket wandered into view, muttering under his breath about inadequate coffee supplies. Yelena stared, blinked once, then turned back to Natasha with an expression of profound accusation.

"You have died and come back to life and now you live in tower with talking raccoon. This is what you choose to do with second chance at life? Not tropical island? Not peaceful retirement in countryside? You stay with dysfunctional superhero family and furry weapons expert?" She shook her head in disbelief. "I thought I was the sister with poor life choices."

"I'm not a raccoon!" Rocket snapped, ears flattening against his head.

"And I am not easily surprised assassin, yet here we are, both experiencing identity crisis," Yelena retorted without missing a beat. "What else you have hidden in this tower of misfit toys? Talking plant? Alien royalty? Man who turns into giant green rage monster?"

Bruce gave a small, awkward wave from across the room.

"Unbelievable," Yelena muttered, taking another sip of hot chocolate. "Is like I have entered fever dream after bad pierogi."

As the sisters began their private conversation, the rest of the room gradually resumed its previous activities, albeit with a new undercurrent of wary attention directed toward their unexpected guest. The Guardians, in particular, seemed fascinated by the newcomer, though they maintained a respectful distance.

"Is she another Terran assassin?" Drax asked no one in particular, his usual lack of volume control carrying the question to every corner of the room. "She speaks with the forceful honesty I appreciate in warriors."

"Former," Clint corrected quickly, before Yelena could take offense. "Like Nat. Reformed."

"Reformed is generous word," Yelena called over her shoulder without turning. "I prefer 'selectively homicidal.' I still kill people. I am just more choosy about which people. Like dating, but with more garroting wire and less awkward dinner conversation."

Rocket's ears perked up with interest. "I like her," he declared, climbing down from his perch to get a better look. "Reminds me of Gamora, but with more words and fewer swords."

"I do not need many swords," Yelena informed him seriously. "I can kill man seventeen different ways with hairpin. Twenty-four if you count ways that take longer than five minutes. Those are mostly for people who deserve to suffer, like human traffickers or men who explain things to women who already know."

Gamora, who had been silently observing the entire exchange, inclined her head slightly in what might have been agreement. "The resemblance is... not entirely superficial."

Peter Quill, finally rousing himself to semi-alertness, peered over the back of the couch. "Are we being attacked? Why are there more assassins than usual in the living room? And why does this one sound like bad Soviet propaganda film?"

"Because I was raised in bad Soviet propaganda film," Yelena replied without missing a beat. "Where do you think they find children for Red Room? From happy homes with loving parents? No. They take girls with nothing to lose and everything to prove." She paused, her expression momentarily somber before brightening artificially. "But on plus side, I can drink vodka without flinching and know thirteen different recipes for borscht. Very useful skills in modern America."

"Family reunion," Tony informed Quill succinctly, refilling his coffee mug. "Turns out our resident super-spy has a sister with an equally terrifying skill set and a flair for dramatic entrances. And apparently an encyclopedic knowledge of Russian cuisine."

"Half-sister," both women corrected in unison, then exchanged the briefest of smiles.

"Blood is not what makes family," Yelena added, her voice softer than it had been since her arrival. "Shared trauma is stronger bond than DNA. This is why in spy movies, villain and hero always have deep connection. Is not sexual tension as Americans think. Is recognition of matching psychological damage." She glanced around the room, taking in the eclectic gathering of heroes with new consideration. "This, I understand. You are not team. You are found family of broken people who have seen too much and lost too many. You stay together because no one else understands weight you carry."

The observation, delivered with such casual certainty, created a ripple of surprise among the Avengers. It was Vision who finally broke the thoughtful silence that followed.

"While I cannot speak to the 'broken' characterization," he said mildly, "the family assessment is... not inaccurate."

"Definitely broken," Clint muttered into his coffee, earning a small chorus of rueful acknowledgments. "Some of us more than others."

"Brokenness is not weakness," Yelena declared with surprising gentleness. "Kintsugi—Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold. Makes object more beautiful, more valuable for having been broken. Same with people. Your cracks and repairs are what make you interesting. Perfect people are boring. They never have good stories at dinner parties." She tapped her chest. "I have been shot here. Twice. Makes excellent conversation starter."

"She's somehow more terrifying when she's being philosophical," Sam whispered to Rhodey, who nodded in solemn agreement.

Yelena nodded, satisfied with this confirmation of her assessment. Then, with the abrupt change of subject that seemed characteristic of her conversational style, she turned back to Natasha. "Now, before you explain how you cheated death, you must tell me why there is tree person drinking coffee by window and why raccoon is walking on two legs. Is this normal for America now? Have I missed important evolutionary development while I was disposing of human trafficking ring in Kazakhstan? Or is radiation leak problem in New York water supply? Because if so, I have just consumed large mug of potentially contaminated hot chocolate and do not wish to grow tail."

"I am Groot," replied the tree person in question, raising his mug in greeting.

Yelena blinked once, then turned to Natasha with an expression of profound accusation. "He speaks only three words? This is most efficient communication I have ever encountered. Russians would approve. Why can't all Americans be this direct? Instead of twenty words when three will do."

"I am Groot," Groot agreed, nodding sagely.

"See? Perfect conversation. No unnecessary details. No meandering point. Just clarity."

And just like that, the strangest morning-after in the tower's history continued, now featuring one more dangerous, damaged, distinctly lovable addition to their unlikely family—one who could apparently talk the ears off a statue while maintaining perfect trigger discipline, and who seemed determined to critique every aspect of Avengers Tower from its security systems to its breakfast options before the day was through.