𝑬𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒀𝒐𝒖

The first thing Peter registered was the warmth of sunlight filtering through the large windows of his room, painting golden streaks across the ceiling. With a groggy groan, he rolled over, letting himself sink further into the soft, rumpled sheets. His hand instinctively reached for his phone on the nightstand to check the time—8:32 AM. Not too early, not too late, but definitely late enough that others in the compound would already be awake.

He stretched lazily, feeling his muscles loosen after the previous day’s training. His black sweatpants hung low on his hips, and a worn-out MIT shirt was slung over the chair in the corner of the room. He wasn’t in a rush to throw it on. Mornings like this were rare—a bit of quiet before the storm.

He sat up, rubbing his face with both hands, pushing his messy, sleep-tousled hair back from his eyes. He wasn’t the wide-eyed kid stepping into Stark Tower anymore; he was a 21-year-old MIT graduate, a full-time Avenger, and—though he rarely admitted it—a lot more like Tony Stark than he’d realized.

With a sigh, he shook off the heavy thoughts and dragged himself out of bed, snagging the MIT shirt off the chair as he went. No shoes, just socks—because, honestly, who wore shoes around the compound unless they were training?

As he walked toward the kitchen, he could hear the familiar morning sounds—the steady hum of the coffee machine, Sam’s low chuckle, the clatter of dishes. By the time Peter wandered in, the usual morning chaos was in full swing, and the smell of fresh coffee hit him first, warming him as he made his way toward the counter.

Sam Wilson was already perched at the breakfast bar, nursing a cup of black coffee like it was the elixir of life. Across the room, Bucky Barnes stood by the stove, poking at what looked suspiciously like burnt eggs with a fork.

“Morning, kid,” Sam greeted without looking up from his tablet. “Rough night?”

“Something like that,” Peter muttered, running a hand through his hair again. “You guys left me the good coffee, right?”

Sam smirked. “Depends. How fast can you move?”

Before Peter could respond, Clint Barton strolled in from the hallway, wearing his usual sarcastic grin and a hoodie that was two sizes too big. “Bet you five bucks Bucky ruins those eggs before they hit the plate.”

“I heard that,” Bucky grumbled without turning around. He jabbed the pan again, and Peter had to bite back a laugh. Super soldiers could stop world-ending threats, but somehow, cooking was still a challenge.

Peter slipped past them toward the coffee pot, carefully avoiding Clint’s playful attempt to ruffle his hair. “Hands off,” Peter warned, shooting Clint a mock glare. “I already woke up looking like this. I don’t need extra help.”

“Touchy, touchy,” Clint teased, grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl and flopping onto the couch nearby.

Peter poured himself a mug, inhaling the steam like it held the secret to happiness. As he turned back to the room, Natasha Romanoff strolled in, her usual unreadable expression in place, though there was the faintest hint of amusement in her eyes.

“Morning, Pete,” she said smoothly, glancing at the burnt eggs on the stove with a raised eyebrow. “Looks like Bucky’s at it again.”

“Don’t you start,” Bucky shot back, though there was no real heat in his voice.

Peter grinned over the rim of his coffee cup. “Y’know, we could always... let Bruce handle breakfast next time. He does that thing with the pancakes—”

“Not a chance,” Bucky interrupted. “This is a matter of pride now.”

Natasha gave Peter a small smile, one that said she’d already accepted the impending disaster but found the whole thing mildly entertaining.

Peter took a seat next to Sam, cradling his coffee as conversations bounced around the kitchen. It was moments like this—surrounded by people who had fought, bled, and survived together—that felt the most surreal to him. He wasn't just Spider-Man anymore. He was part of something bigger, something that felt... permanent.

He let his gaze drift to the others, cataloging them out of habit—Sam scrolling through reports, Bucky battling with the stove, Clint on his second banana, and Natasha leaning casually against the counter. It was easy to feel like the kid among them, but Peter knew better. He'd earned his place here.

Still, something felt off this morning. Maybe it was the way Bucky was unusually quiet or the way Sam kept checking his tablet. It was subtle—barely noticeable—but Peter had learned to trust his instincts.

“Is there... something going on?” Peter finally asked, breaking the easy silence.

Natasha's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of something—acknowledgment, maybe—in her eyes. “We're waiting on a call from Fury,” she said simply.

Peter frowned, lowering his coffee cup. “Is it about a mission?”

“Probably,” Sam answered, not looking up. “Something about a time anomaly. They’ve been monitoring it since the Infinity War. It's not urgent yet, but you know how these things go.”

The reminder made Peter’s chest tighten with a wave of anxious memories from the Infinity War aftermath. They’d saved everyone in the end, but with that came consequences—the stones had altered time and space in ways they hadn’t fully understood. And now, that imbalance seemed to be pushing back.

The clink of metal tools broke the flow of conversation as Tony strolled into the kitchen, holding a datapad in one hand and fiddling with a small gadget in the other. He was dressed in a faded AC/DC T-shirt and well-worn jeans—classic Tony Stark at his most comfortable. His hair was still slightly damp, like he’d just stepped out of the shower but didn’t have the patience to dry it properly. Tony paused briefly at the doorway, his eyes scanning the room before settling on Peter with a moment’s warmth, a soft flicker of pride that disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

“Morning, geniuses. And Barton,” Tony greeted, flashing a grin.

Clint shot him an exaggeratedly offended look but was too busy peeling a second banana to respond.

Peter couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. “Hey, Dad. How’s the latest world-saving project going?”

Tony winked. “Oh, you know. Just tinkering with something that may or may not blow up the entire building if I sneeze wrong.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “That’s comforting.”

Tony dropped the gadget onto the counter with a casual flick of his wrist, then turned to Peter, giving him a once-over. “You look like you just crawled out of a laundry basket.”

Peter groaned. “Thanks, I feel very seen.”

“Good. Because I’m all about nurturing your self-esteem.” Tony poured himself a coffee, black with two sugars, before turning back to Peter. “You ready to finally show me what that fancy MIT degree was good for today, or are you just here to mooch off the compound’s Wi-Fi?”

Peter smirked. “Why not both?”

Tony leaned a hip against the counter, sipping his coffee with an air of casual ease that Peter knew was entirely calculated. “I’m gonna need your brain today, kid. Got a little situation I’m working on, and you’re the best one to help me with it.”

Peter tilted his head, curious. “Does this ‘situation’ involve lasers?”

“Not exactly.” Tony’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something Peter couldn’t quite read.

Natasha straightened slightly, sensing the shift in Tony’s mood. “This about the call from Fury?”

Tony gave a short nod. “Yeah. We’ve got a... wrinkle in the timeline. Nothing catastrophic, but it needs fixing.” He glanced at Peter. “And guess who’s the lucky contestant best equipped to handle it?”

Peter blinked. “Me?”

“Ding, ding,” Tony said, reaching to ruffle Peter’s hair. “You, with your weird spider metabolism and enhanced durability, are apparently the only one who can survive the trip through time without ending up scrambled like those eggs Bucky keeps trying to revive.”

Peter made a face, swatting Tony’s hand away. “Wow, that’s... super reassuring.”

Tony grinned. “That’s what I’m here for.” The atmosphere in the kitchen shifted subtly as the reality of Tony’s words settled over everyone. Even Bucky turned away from his unfortunate eggs, leaning one hip against the counter with a thoughtful frown.

“Look,” Tony continued, leaning back against the counter with a sigh. “This mission isn’t just about going back for fun—it’s clean-up duty. When we used the Infinity Stones, we threw the universe out of sync, even if we didn’t realize it at the time and-”

Just then, Tony paused mid-sentence, setting his datapad down on the counter and reaching into his pocket. Peter looked on, curious, as Tony fished around for something, mumbling to himself. After a few seconds, Tony pulled out a crumpled handkerchief and held it out toward Peter.

Peter recoiled instinctively. “Uh, what are you doing?”

Tony raised an eyebrow, reaching for the handkerchief again. “You’ve got something on your face, genius. Just—hold still.”

Peter threw his hands up, shaking his head as Tony advanced. “Nope. Ew, Dad, seriously?”

Tony ignored him, reaching over to swipe at an invisible speck on Peter’s cheek. “Hold still, I swear, you kids don’t know how to keep your faces clean,” he muttered, finally satisfied after Peter ducked and squirmed away.

Peter gave him a horrified look, stepping back. “I’m twenty-one, Dad! That’s… that’s gross.”

Tony just smirked, slipping the handkerchief back into his pocket with an unapologetic shrug. “See, I knew I still had to keep you in check,” he quipped, giving Peter a light pat on the shoulder before returning to the datapad.

Peter grimaced, wiping his cheek. “If you ever do that again, I’m defecting to Asgard.”

“Noted,” Tony replied, completely unfazed, a hint of amusement in his eyes as he returned to discussing the mission.

“So... what exactly do I have to do?” Peter asked, trying to keep his voice casual as he leaned back against the counter, gripping his coffee mug.

Tony tapped a few commands into his datapad, pulling up a hologram in the middle of the room. It displayed a complex web of dates and events, all spiraling outward from a central point—the Infinity War.

“Long story short,” Tony began, his tone more serious now, “when we used the stones to bring everyone back, it created a tiny crack in the space-time continuum. We thought we’d patched it, but something shifted again recently. Fury’s team picked up on the anomaly—it’s subtle but growing. If we leave it alone, it could unravel everything we fought to fix.”

Peter’s stomach churned uneasily. “And I’m the one who has to go... back?”

Tony’s eyes softened just slightly as he turned to look at Peter. “You’re the only one who can. Thor’s off-world, Steve’s busy training the new recruits, and Bruce... Well, let’s just say the Hulk’s not exactly designed for a delicate job like this. But you—between your healing factor and spider abilities, you’re the best choice. Your body can withstand the process without turning into soup.”

Peter grimaced. “Great. Nothing like getting chosen for a mission because I won’t turn into soup.”

Tony snorted, trying to inject a bit of levity back into the conversation. “Hey, better than being chosen because you will turn into soup.”

Peter chuckled, despite the knot of anxiety still twisting in his gut. He took another sip of his coffee, mulling over Tony’s words. “Okay, so... how far back are we talking? Five years?”

“That’s the plan,” Tony said, setting his mug down and folding his arms across his chest. His tone was casual, but Peter knew his dad too well—there was that telltale flicker of tension around his eyes. “We need you to slip in, make a tiny adjustment to stabilize the timeline, and pop back out. Quick, clean, no problems.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Since when does time travel come with no problems?”

Tony flashed a grin, ruffling Peter’s hair like he used to when Peter was younger. “Where’s that optimism you usually have?”

Peter swatted Tony’s hand away but couldn’t stop the smile creeping onto his face. “It died in a ditch somewhere between ‘not turning into soup’ and ‘making it back in one piece,’ I think.”

“You’ll be fine, Pete,” Tony said, his tone softening. His eyes lingered on Peter for a moment longer than usual, like he was committing this moment to memory. “I trust you. You’ve got this.”

Peter held his dad’s gaze, feeling the familiar warmth of that trust settle over him. It was the same look Tony gave him before every major mission—the one that said, I believe in you, even if you don’t believe in yourself yet.

“Thanks, Dad,” Peter muttered, trying to shake off the sudden weight of the moment. He didn’t need to get all sentimental now. There was still plenty of time to panic later.

Tony clapped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently before stepping back. “Alright, genius. Finish your coffee, then meet me in the lab. We’ve got a time machine to play with.”

Peter sighed dramatically, though he couldn’t help the small grin tugging at his lips. “Is this gonna be one of those ‘science experiments gone wrong’ things?”

Tony winked as he turned to leave. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Peter lingered in the kitchen a little longer than necessary, savoring the warmth of his coffee and the easy flow of conversation. The compound felt unusually alive this morning, with small conversations weaving in and out like a low hum beneath the surface.

Sam leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him, his muscles straining under a fitted black Henley. His beard had filled out nicely over the years, giving him a rugged, older-brother kind of vibe that made Peter feel like the annoying little sibling—though Sam would never say that out loud.

“You know,” Sam drawled, glancing at Peter. “If this mission involves any of that multiverse nonsense, you better be prepared. Last time was a headache.”

Peter chuckled. “Please, if it’s multiverse stuff, I’m calling Doctor Strange and letting him sort it out.”

“Good plan,” Natasha said smoothly, her red hair tucked into a neat braid over her shoulder. She wore a sleeveless black top that showed off her toned arms and a pair of fitted combat pants. There was something timeless about Natasha—like no matter how many years passed, she remained perfectly composed, perfectly dangerous.

Clint, sprawled out on the couch like a cat in a sunbeam, grinned at them from under the hood of his oversized sweatshirt. His blond hair was shorter now, the faded sides grown out just a little, but he still looked every bit like the troublemaker Peter had always known. “Can we all agree that if Peter screws up the timeline, we just blame it on Bucky?”

Bucky shot him a glare, his dark hair falling into his eyes. “You realize I could snap your neck in under five seconds, right?”

Clint smirked. “Yeah, but you won’t. You like me.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “He tolerates you. There’s a difference.”

Peter grinned as the banter rolled around him. Despite the teasing, there was an underlying affection in everything they said to each other. This was his family—flawed, sarcastic, and maybe a little broken, but family nonetheless.

Bucky crossed his arms over his broad chest, the vibranium arm catching the light as it shifted. “Just don’t mess up whatever it is you’re doing today, Parker. I don’t need Fury breathing down my neck because Spider-Boy broke the universe.”

“Spider-Man,” Peter corrected, though there was no real bite in it.

Bucky just gave a half-smile, the closest thing to a compliment Peter figured he’d get.

“Anyway,” Sam said, standing and grabbing his coffee, “you better go before Tony starts blowing stuff up just to get your attention.”

Peter groaned, already feeling the impending weight of whatever science experiment his dad had cooked up. “Right. See you guys later.”

“Don’t get lost in time,” Natasha quipped with a small smirk.

“I’ll try not to,” Peter replied with a grin, giving them a mock salute before heading out.

Peter jogged down the hall toward the lab, his Spider-Man suit tucked under one arm. His footsteps echoed lightly in the corridor, and he could already hear the hum of machinery coming from the lab up ahead.

The lab door hissed open, revealing Tony hunched over the time machine, deep in concentration. His AC/DC shirt clung to his frame, the worn fabric showing off the subtle definition of his shoulders and the slight curve of his biceps. His dark hair, still damp from his shower, curled just slightly at the edges—one of those little details Peter hadn’t noticed until now.

“About time,” Tony called without looking up, his voice carrying that easy mix of sarcasm and affection. “I thought I was gonna have to send Clint to drag you here by your ankles.”

Peter rolled his eyes, stepping inside. “You really think Clint could take me?”

Tony grinned as he straightened, wiping his hands on a rag. “Nah, but it’d be fun to watch him try.”

Peter set his suit on the nearest table and crossed his arms, eyeing the sleek, glowing frame of the time machine in the center of the room. “So this is it? The thing that’s gonna keep the universe from imploding?”

Tony gave an exaggerated shrug. “Either that, or it’s gonna turn you into a time burrito. Fifty-fifty shot.”

Peter shot him a look. “You’re not supposed to say stuff like that before a mission, Dad.”

Tony just smirked, the same mischievous glint in his eye that Peter had grown up with—the one that always made him feel like everything would be okay, no matter how crazy things got.

“Relax, Pete,” Tony said, clapping a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I’ve got everything under control. You’ll go in, make the adjustment, and be back here before you can say ‘quantum entanglement.’”

Peter gave him a skeptical look. “You know, that really doesn’t make me feel better.”

Tony’s grin widened. “That’s the spirit.”

Peter grabbed the Spider-Man suit from the table and slipped out of his MIT shirt, tossing it onto the nearest chair. The suit stretched over his body, fitting snugly like a second skin, molding perfectly to his newly sculpted physique. The past few years had changed him more than just emotionally—his body had evolved, no longer the lanky, awkward teenager that Tony had first taken under his wing.

His shoulders were broader now, and the suit hugged the firm cut of his chest and the lean taper of his waist. As Peter pulled the suit over his arms, the fabric clung to the sharp definition of his biceps and the faint, snaking veins along his forearms, a result of years of web-slinging and intense physical exertion. His abs, cut deep and visible even beneath the stretch of the suit, were evidence of the countless battles he’d fought, and his thighs—thick with muscle from swinging across the city—pressed against the fabric as he adjusted his stance.

Damn, Peter thought briefly, not out of vanity, but with a simple acknowledgment of how far he’d come physically. At 21, he was no longer the skinny kid who needed constant saving. He was Spider-Man—built for strength, agility, and resilience.

Tony stood by the console, eyes on the readouts, but his gaze flicked over to Peter for a brief second. It was a fleeting look, one that lingered just a bit too long on the subtle differences in Peter’s appearance—the broader shoulders, the stronger frame, the way the suit now clung to him in ways that underscored how much he’d matured. But Tony quickly looked away, brushing it off in the same way any father would when they realized their kid wasn’t a kid anymore.

“You’ve really filled out the suit since the last time we did this,” Tony commented casually, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

Peter snorted, not taking it seriously. “Yeah, well, you were the one always nagging me about keeping up with my training.”

Tony winked at him, though there was nothing more than the usual playful banter between them. “Told you it would pay off.”

Peter just rolled his eyes beneath the mask, not giving it much thought. He wasn’t one for vanity—his body was just a tool, a means to an end when it came to saving people. If the suit fit better now, it just meant he was doing his job right.

Once fully suited up, Peter adjusted the mask in his hands, turning it over a few times before slipping it on, feeling the familiar snugness against his face. The lenses clicked into place, and with them, a sudden wave of focus settled over him. The weight of the mission became more real with each passing second.

Tony leaned back against the console, his expression a mix of pride and that undercurrent of nervous energy he always tried to hide when Peter was about to head out on a dangerous mission. “Alright, genius,” Tony said, folding his arms across his chest. “Here’s how it works. You step into the machine, I send you back, and you pop out five years ago. You make the adjustment, and you’re back here in—what?—forty minutes, tops. Piece of cake.”

Peter arched an eyebrow, glancing at the sleek, glowing frame of the time machine. “You make it sound so easy. Just a quick trip through time, no big deal.”

Tony grinned, that familiar sarcastic edge in his voice. “You know me. I make everything sound easy.”

Peter chuckled, despite the tension humming in his chest. He knew Tony was trying to keep the mood light, but beneath the banter was a father who, despite all his confidence, still worried. And it wasn’t just because Peter was his protégé. This was personal—family-level personal.

Stepping into the time machine’s frame, Peter took a deep breath, feeling the hum of energy beneath his feet. The air around him seemed to shimmer with the latent power of the machine, the soft blue glow reflecting off the metal panels. He shifted slightly, the suit hugging every muscle as he prepared himself mentally for what was about to happen.

Tony’s eyes lingered on Peter for a moment longer, his gaze flicking over his son’s form as if reassuring himself that everything was in place—that Peter was ready. But if he noticed how much Peter had grown, how much more solid and capable he looked now, Tony didn’t say anything. Instead, he masked whatever flicker of realization he had with his usual smirk.

“Okay, Spider-Man,” Tony said, his tone somewhere between light and serious. “You’re good to go. Just remember—don’t talk to your past self, don’t step on any butterflies, and for God’s sake, don’t accidentally doom us all.”

Peter barked out a laugh, the sound muffled by his mask. “Thanks, Dad. Real confidence booster.”

Tony’s grin softened into something warmer, more genuine. “You’ve got this, Pete. I’ll be monitoring everything from here. Just go in, make the fix, and come back in one piece. Simple.”

Peter nodded, slipping his mask fully into place and feeling that familiar rush of focus wash over him. “Got it. See you in forty minutes.”

As Tony adjusted the last few settings on the console, his gaze softened, something unreadable lingering in his eyes. “You’ll do great,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, almost lost beneath the hum of the machine. There was a flicker of something else there, too—a look that held the weight of battles fought and almost lost, of a life he barely made it through but had come back to, for Peter and for this.

“You got me through the end of the world once,” Tony added, almost to himself. “I know you can handle this.”

Peter’s breath caught for a split second, the usual playful comeback caught in his throat. Tony’s words, though softly spoken, hung heavy in the air, each one carrying the weight of a man who’d fought back from the brink—and done it for his son.

Swallowing hard, Peter gave a small nod, something unspoken but fierce in his eyes. He reached up, adjusting his mask one last time, but his gaze remained on Tony. “I won’t let you down,” he said, his voice steady, yet just slightly hoarse. “You know that.”

A faint, knowing smile tugged at Tony’s lips. “I know, kid.” He squeezed Peter’s shoulder briefly, grounding them both in a touch that said everything words couldn’t.

For just a heartbeat, they stood there, father and son—no masks, no missions, just the quiet understanding between two people who had survived the impossible together. And then, without another word, Peter turned and stepped into the machine, ready for whatever came next.

And then, with a flash of light and a roar of energy—the world around him disappeared