Fantasy-Land
Peter Parker does not take promises lightly.
A promise is an important thing. It’s a precious thing. It’s like a nugget of gold amid a pan of sand and pebbles, like the first glint of morning sunlight that skitters across the ocean’s surface. It glimmers and gleams, it pledges something more to those who honor it. A promise is something special, a true promise something rare. So often is it examined to find fool’s gold, soft and brittle beneath pressure, or covered by the clouds of confusion and miscommunication that render it false. But when a promise shines through, when a promise delivers, it is powerful. It is important.
Above all, a promise is a commitment. It is a bond of trust, a pledge to uphold. A promise broken is worth less than fool’s gold, darker than clouded skies above dark waters. A true promise requires thought, requires dedication.
When Peter Parker promises to do something, he keeps that promise.
The thought settles heavily on his shoulders and pushes a breath from his lungs, slow and heavy and nearly silent in the air that surrounds him. The wind is still cool, calm with the chill of night despite the golden light that is now tinging the edges of the horizon, spilling in glittering fragments across the shifting blue expanse of waves where they meet the still-dark sky. He inhales slowly and the cool scent of dew slips into his lungs, tiny droplets of water quivering on the surface of the green leaves that surround him, mist stretching out in silver-white swaths below him and out toward the coast, resting silently as they wait for the first morning rays to gain strength and chase them away. The tree branch beneath him sways softly, ever so softly, in the gentle breeze that rises up from the ocean tinged with the scent of salt and seawater, everything around him fresh and vibrant with life.
The vibrance, usually so freeing, settles like a weight on Peter’s shoulders. He lets out another sigh, his chin resting against one knee as the other leg dangles down, swaying beneath the branch he perches on.
A promise is a powerful thing.
He promised to get Tony Stark home. And he will. He will.
Even if he has no idea how.
Another ocean-flavored breeze shifts the long bangs against his forehead. Peter reaches up, absentmindedly brushing the wavy locks out of his face without much thought. Not that he is looking at anything in particular, exactly. Not that he even needs the visual, not with the way that he has this landscape memorized.
The thought twists his gut, and his eyes flutter shut, the blackness a comfort in the face of the landscape of his home.
Something rustles below and Peter’s eyes flicker back open, vibrant greens and blues once again pressing into his gaze as he leans forward to peer down at the ground. There is another distant rustling in his ears and this time his eyes catch movement to go along with it. Instinctively Peter’s body tenses, one hand moving to clutch the tree branch below… but then a head comes into view and a short bit of voice drifts up to him, something familiar and recognizable. Peter relaxes, his hand once again drifting to rest against one leg as his chin settles on his knee. He hears Tony’s voice again, low and muttering and too far for Peter to make out any words, but it seems like the man is talking to himself.
He is probably wondering where Peter went though. It must have been more time than he had thought.
Peter once again glances to the horizon, and then back to the forest behind him, the place where he is meant to be looking, the place that is most likely for Goblin to be. But he has already looked, and he is fairly certain they are safe. They already waited it out in the hidey-hole for a significant amount of time, and Goblin never did have the longest attention span.
A shiver runs down Peter’s back, and it has nothing to do with the lingering chill in the air.
“Peter!” The shout really isn’t quite a shout, more of a slightly raised voice that is just enough to reach Peter with enough clarity for him to register his name. It sounds like it could be part of a series of repetitions of his name, and Peter feels his gut twist a bit with a sense of guilt. He probably should have come down sooner. How long had he been up here, simmering in his thoughts, when he said he was just poking out to check for danger?
His thoughts are a miry bog, easy to get stuck in… but he had made a promise. He does not take promises lightly.
Peter leans forward, his propped-up leg dropping to dangle down with his other one while each of his hands reach down to grasp the smooth branch beneath him. Once he has a tight grip he leans back, quick and slippery as he begins to fall, gravity tugging at his clothes and beckoning him into its embrace. But even as he flips over his hands grip tight around the branch, pulling him upright once again as he falls. He only holds on a moment, letting go with a swift swing of his legs that brings him in toward the trunk of the tree with the force of the momentum. His feet find holds in the smooth, slippery bark, and his hands grasp at it with as much traction as he is able to find. There is hardly any, but Peter was planning on that; he has hardly found purchase on the trunk before he is pushing away from it and sliding down the smooth stalk, tree bark moving swiftly beneath his fingers and bare feet kicking out at passing branches to keep his speed at a manageable pace. The method is quick, faster than any other way down, at least until he deems himself close enough to the ground to give one mighty push out from the trunk and suddenly he is in midair, his back curling into an arch as he flips himself over, smooth and swift as he cuts through the air.
A moment later he lands, soft and with only a bit of aftershock running up his legs, right in front of Tony Stark.
The man jumps, his eyes wide and a sharp word bursting out of his mouth. He stumbles back a few steps, hand clutching at his shirt just above his heart and his shoulders heaving with heavy breaths, his eyes blown out as he shakes his head, pupils flickering up and down. His mouth falls open, closes as he looks at Peter, then opens again as he glances up at the tree that he came from. “You can’t do that, warn a guy next time!”
Peter ducks his head sheepishly, his gut twisting a bit as he rubs a hand nervously though his hair. Mister Stark is breathing hard… did Peter actually scare him? That wasn’t his intention, he was just trying to get down fast… “Sorry.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Mister Stark waves a hand, still shaking his head and glancing from Peter to the sky above in bewilderment. “Just— where on earth did you come from?”
“The tree,” Peter responds simply, his lips twitching up at the gaping look on the man’s face. He moves a hand to gesture up at the tree, just in case that helps Mister Stark.
It does not seem to help Mister Stark. In fact the man’s eyes just seem to get wider as he stares up at the tree, at the branches that arch out over their heads. “That’s… no, you can’t have climbed that.”
Peter tilts his head, a bit of confusion seeping into his bones. He glances back up at the tree… it’s a perfectly good tree. He can’t see a problem with it. “Why not?”
“The lowest branch is at least fifteen feet up.”
“Feet?” Peter asks, more confusion mixing with what was already there.
Mister Stark waves a hand, brushing the question off with the movement. “It’s a unit of measurement.”
It would take more than fifteen of his feet to get up to the branch that was closest to them. Perhaps Mister Stark’s feet are bigger than his own? But then the measurement would be different for each person’s foot, wouldn’t it?
“Sounds like a pretty bad measurement,” Peter says.
It must have been a funny statement, because Mister Stark lets out a little huff-laugh. “Yeah, well it works.”
Peter doesn’t think it works well. The branch doesn’t look anywhere close to fifteen feet away. But he doesn’t push it, instead shrugs. “I needed a good view,” he explains quickly, remembering that he was the first one out of the hidey-hole for a good reason. “I think we’re safe now. The sun’s coming up.”
He points toward the ocean, and it is easy to see the sun now. Some of the mist is already dissipating in the heat of its rays shimmering across the water. It adds a soft gold outline to everything; the rocks by the shore, the trees that stretch up closer to them, to Tony Stark as he turns around to face the coming sunrise. It outlines his sharp jaw and his narrowed eyes, the finely-shaven goatee on his face and the firm set of his shoulders. He is not a tall man, not necessarily, but he is at least a head’s height above Peter. He is distinctly an adult.
Peter drops his gaze, his fingers twisting painfully into the worn fabric of his red shirt.
Adults… adults do not exist in Neverland. Adults should not be in Neverland… not human adults, anyway. It is called “the land of youth” for a reason, is it not? Humans do not age, do not grow up.
Humans do not enter, not unless Neverland wants them to… not unless someone from Neverland wants them to.
“So where are these…” Peter snaps out of his thoughts and stops fidgeting with the hem of his shirt as Mister Stark speaks. The man holds up a hand, flicking it in another nonchalant gesture that seems to carry just a hint— perhaps more than a hint— of annoyance. “Fairies. Pixies. Whatever they’re called. Where do we find them?”
“Pixies,” Peter supplies helpfully, grateful for the excuse to get out of his head, for the feeling of words falling out of his mouth into waiting ears. “They’ll be just outside Pixie Hollow, that’s where they tend to hang out. The ones that we want to talk to, at least. They like to stay outside of the Hollow.”
Well, like to stay outside and are asked to stay outside are pretty much the same thing, are they not? There is hardly a difference between the statements. Peter does not like the idea of deception, but this is something different entirely.
“Pixie Hollow,” Mister Stark repeats. He makes another huffing laugh, shaking his head as he does. “Subtlety is not a commodity, I take it?”
Peter does not fully understand those words, and he cocks his head a bit further to the side in his confusion. Mister Stark is not even looking at him though; instead he is looking out to the horizon, flecks of gold glinting on the surface of his eyes as he looks out over the waters from the hill that they stand on.
“So what direction is this… Pixie Hollow place?” Mister Stark’s eyes are once again on him, and Peter quickly racks his brain for the directions. It’s been a while since he visited the Hollow, especially from this direction. It does not take long for him to dreg up the memories though; he has been over every inch of this island so many hundreds of times that he has likely traced every possible route to every possible place twice over.
“It’s not far,” Peter promises quickly, sure that is something that Mister Stark would be worried about. He bounces on the balls of his feet, popping up on his toes as if that would better let him see as he swivels his head around to the left, to the right— which one would be North from this point?— until his eyes catch on a familiar landmark. He reaches out to point at it the moment that he locates it, bouncing a bit more before he turns his attention to Mister Stark. “There! It’s just past the Lion rock!”
Mister Stark frowns, his eyes narrowing as he peers in the direction that Peter is pointing. “Lion rock?”
“That big rock out there, the one that’s rising up out of the river. The one that looks like a lion reaching up to the sky,” Peter explains, still pointing to the rock. It is not hard to miss. It is practically a mountain, the way that it rises up from the ground with huge, boulder-like paws and a weather-worn maw that seems to reach up to eat the clouds above, a spire of rock just like an arm reaching up to pin its prey in midair. Stone pours down like a great, shaggy mane around the stone lion’s shoulder, thick and strong and powerful. The stone creature makes Peter smile as he looks down at him and his ferocious frozenness.
Beside him, Tony finally points toward the formation. “That big one, there?”
“Yeah,” Peter nods confidently.
“That looks nothing like a lion.”
Peter frowns, glancing over at the man. His eyes are squinted, judgemental as he looks out at the rock spire ahead of them, his jaw set and his eyes sharp. Maybe he is looking at it the wrong way.
“The tallest part is the paw,” Peter explains helpfully, moving closer so that his arm is out in front of Mister Stark, his fingers wide as he points toward the specific parts of the stone lion. “He’s reaching up, see? Like he’s trying to eat the sky.”
Mister Stark snorts, like a sharp exhale. “That’s ridiculous.”
“No, it’s not,” Peter says simply because Mister Stark is simply wrong. “See, the biggest parts are his mane, and that split in the rock is his jaw. And oh, oh that big tree just behind him is like his tail. The one with the really tall trunk and leaves only at the top?”
The judgemental look in his eyes only seems to deepen. “That’s not even part of the rock.”
“It still looks like it is a part,” Peter says, his hand dropping to his side as he looks up expectantly. “See him now?”
Mister Stark squints, his eyes narrowed. Then he lets out another sharp exhale, this one more like a huff, and shakes his head. “I think you’re ridiculous.”
Peter frowns a bit at that. In his opinion it’s Mister Stark that is the ridiculous one if he cannot see the very obvious lion rising out of the ground in front of them. But he decides not to push it; Mister Stark dislikes him enough as it is, he really does not want the man to downright despise him.
He really doesn’t want that.
“Come on,” Peter says flatly, the little smile that had curled at the edges of his mouth dropping away as he turns away from Mister Stark, trying his best to shove away the painful feeling that twists in his chest and throat. They need to get moving if they want to reach Pixie Hollow before dark.
They need to get moving if they want to get Mister Stark home. Peter had promised that he would. He is going to keep that promise. The twisted feeling in his gut has no place in matter.
Peter leads the way, only pausing to pick up the bundle of cloth that he left at the bottom of the tree earlier that morning while Mister Stark is busy looking out over the landscape, his eyes still squinted and his eyes focused on the water that stretches out to the horizon. It is only a moment, but a moment is all that Peter needs to snatch up the black fabric, to tie it tightly around his waist in the way that he used to watch his brothers tie things— tight enough to ensure it wouldn’t fall no matter how much running he did, not tight enough to impede his movements at all. He hardly had the fabric in place before he was moving forward, painfully aware of Tony Stark’s gaze turning back to him and catching on the sight of the jacket.
Peter knows he should offer it back. It was, it is Mister Stark’s jacket, and it is not like Peter is wearing it or anything. It was given to him under different circumstances, before their hands had touched and Neverland had rushed back to reclaim him, before he had unwittingly dragged Tony Stark with him. He knows that he should give it back, that he does not deserve to keep it. And yet no matter how much he knows it, can feel Mister Stark’s gaze down to his bones… the black fabric stays tight around his waist as he begins to lead the way to Lion Rock.
The twist in Peter’s gut tightens, and he knows that he carries far more guilt than the simple inconvenience of Mister Stark calling for him moments prior. But the twist is a messy, clouded knot, and Peter would rather swallow it than risk the nausea it would require to examine its coils. So swallow he does, decisive and dry, and then he pushes aside a few palm fronds to lead Mister Stark down the slope of the hill.
The sun is high in the sky before Tony even realizes it has moved, time slipping through his fingers like the meager grains of sand that it truly is. The realization is disorienting, and Tony pauses momentarily in his tracks to squint up at the sun as if to challenge its decision to continue moving across the sky. Of course, the sun does not respond, simply continuing its creeping ascent as man on the ground squints up at it in meaningless defiance. The loss of time feels strange on his skin. It is not the same as when he loses track of time in his office, when he is caught up in work and does not realize it is past the time to close down until Jarvis calls him. That sort of time loss prickles his skin in the form of numb limbs, stale breath, a natural feeling of the hours past. Now all he can feel is the burn of his legs, the too-clear air in his lungs, and the distinct lack of an instinctual sense of passage. The sun tells him it has been hours, the distance they have walked tells him time has passed, and yet his body feels no different. Without extenuating circumstances, he would have no way to tell that time had passed at all. He can not feel it. Time, the one constant of the universe, the one concrete concept that remained, always weathering yet never changing, slipping out of his grasp.
It is unsettling, to say the least.
The passing— or not passing— of time was not the only unsettling thing that Tony felt. The air was still glassy, still a tinge too fresh and a tinge too sweet. He attempts to rationalize the difference with the lack of air pollution soothed his mind marginally, but somehow deep in his bones he knows that there was something different between a lack of smog and the air that he now breathed. There is something distinctly off, something notably wrong in the space surrounding him… but he does not want to think about that, about the clear fact that there is something different in the very air that he breathes. Instead he reminds himself of the facts, of the pollution levels of his home, of the gray smoke that always hangs over the edges of the skyline. He applies this same thought to the pure vibrance of the leaves, justifying that of course they would look vibrant after the dank grayness of a city during December, it is natural that his eyes have not quite adjusted yet. He applies it to the strange simmering feeling beneath his skin as well, blaming it on what must be jet lag or something similar, after effects of whatever it was that brought him here in the first place.
There is an explanation for everything. There must be. Everything can be explained through science and logical thought, even when it cannot. Tony hangs onto that, justifies each strange sensation and refutes it with the critical eye that his father drilled into his mind from an early age. Everything in the world works together like clockwork, every imperfection fitted with a perfect explanation once one forgets fantasies and focuses on the solid facts. That line of thinking can still be applied here, in this unfamiliar pocket of the globe, no matter how strange it seems at first glance.
Except… Peter. Peter Parker.
That is something that Tony Stark does not have an explanation for.
He watches the boy when he is not watching the landscape pass him by, when he does not need to focus on his feet to keep his expensive— now less-than-polished— shoes from slipping into pockets of mud or stubbing up against rocks. His eyes flick up from the ground whenever it levels out, his gaze burning into the back of the young boy.
He is… indescribable. That is the only word that comes to Tony’s mind. He walks with certainty, yet distractedness. His feet stay solidly on the non-existant path that they are wearing through the forest, yet every once and a while he will hold a hand up to brush some hanging flowers as they pass underneath, or skip unnecessarily over a stump. He has a spring to his step, a gait that can only be described as distinctly boyish, young and gleeful and accompanied by occasionally swinging arms. And yet in those arms there is a tension that surprises Tony, that he only began to notice after some hours must have— whether he could feel them or not they must have— passed. There is something tight that rests between his shoulder blades, in his fingers that clench and unclench quickly with each jovial swing of his arms. His wavy brown hair bounces against his forehead, and while Tony is staring at his back for the majority of the journey once and a while the boy will glance back and he will once again be struck by the sheer depth to his eyes.
He is young. Undoubtedly young. The youth practically radiates from his figure, both in stature and in mannerisms. And yet he carries that depth in his eyes, that tension in his limbs, and Tony cannot help but wonder if he could not possibly be older.
The boy is a puzzle. An enigma. An oddity that Tony Stark cannot understand from simple observation alone.
When they set out walking, Tony had been determined to keep up an air of indifference. Peter’s few, light attempts to start up a conversation had gone generally ignored, openly shunned, and soon the words had faded out into occasional humming. He had planned to keep up that indifference for the rest of his time, had planned to bitterly ignore the child that had dragged him to this place with as much success as possible.
But after an indeterminable amount of time walking, after studying the landscape as much as he could stand, Tony finds his gaze continually drawn back to the boy in front of him. The strange, intriguing boy who still, for some inexplicable reason, has Tony’s jacket tied around his waist.
Tony Stark is a man of curiosity. It is not a nature easily shaken, especially when faced with something that he cannot puzzle out.
The sun has not yet begun its descent when Tony indulges his curiosity. “What song is that?”
Peter startles noticeably, his head twisting to glance back at Tony and the hum on his breath stuttering. He blinks, hopping over a protruding root without even glancing at it while Tony waits expectantly. “Me? The song, um, that I was… that I’m humming?”
Tony snorts, rolling his eyes as he does. “No, I was talking to that rock.” He vaguely motions to a stone that they pass as he carefully steps over the tangled roots in their path, snorting again as Peter’s eyes flicker over to the rock. “I’m talking to you. Hear anyone else singing?”
Peter hums, a simple acknowledgement rather than the peppy tune he had been uttering moments before. One hand reaches out to his left, absentmindedly stroking a sprig of long grass that sticks up to the side of the path they are making. “It’s, uh… I don’t really know. What it’s called, I mean.”
“Oh?” Tony arches an eyebrow. “Where’d you learn it?”
“My brothers,” Peter replies, his eyes still focused on the grasses as they bend beneath his palm.
“Right. Brothers.” The boy had mentioned brothers before, hadn’t he? In the alleyway, perhaps, before Tony had any semblance of what their insignificant interaction would turn into. Not that he exactly understands what it has become even now. But understanding things has always been Tony’s driving force of inspiration… and so, he continues the conversation that has begun. “How many brothers do you have?”
“Two,” Peter replies, his words confident and the little smile on his face growing into something deeper. “I think they made up the song. That’s why it’s never had a real name.”
“Are there words?”
“Nope, just the tune. And we each did it a little differently.” Peter’s nose scrunches slightly, his expression open and clear as his train of thought runs through his mind. His lips pucker and he whistles, a set of long, flowing noises slipping from his mouth. They feel sculpted, well-crafted, oddly dramatic in a way that practically echoes in the quiet air, a way that fills the space and pulls attention. The notes linger in the air, and they seem to take more time to fade than sound should. The smile on Peter’s lips has deepened. “That’s how my oldest brother does it.”
“...It’s nice,” Tony says. It’s a simple compliment, nothing special, but it still takes a moment for Tony to think of. Compliments, especially ones as menial as a “that’s nice”, are something that so often slips beneath him. Usually this would not be something that he would bother throwing out a compliment for. He did not truly mean for it to slip out… it just did, in the natural way that some words do.
It sends something into his chest, a feeling that is somehow warm and light as he sees Peter perk up at the meager compliment, eyes glittering and teeth flashing in a grin.
“Yeah, yeah it is! I don’t do his version quite right though, he… he always does it better.” Peter’s words get quiet, and the smile that he was wearing slips into something of a frown. One hand twists into the red fabric of his shirt, his eyes flickering to focus more on the ground. His next steps lack a bit of that childish skip, and he steps over the next stone in his path rather than jumping over it. “It’s… it’s been a while since I’ve heard him do it.”
The switch of emotions is so blatant, so open, so visible on Peter’s features. One moment he is perked up like a wildflower, the next he is slumped like a grass cutting, his fingers worrying at his shirt and his feet dragging ever so slightly.
Interesting, Tony thinks instinctively.
“What are your brother’s names?” He asks casually, his curiosity sparking more and more with every word exchanged.
“Peter.”
Tony blinks. “Peter?”
Peter hums a noise of affirmation, ducking under a low hanging branch that Tony just pushes to the side as he tries to process that statement.
“Both of them?”
“Yep.”
“But Peter is your name.”
“So?” Peter raises an eyebrow, and Tony is surprised to see just how confused the boy looks. It is as if Tony’s questioning is stranger than the idea of three brothers sharing a name. “It’s all of ours.”
“But how do you tell each other apart?” Tony asks with a shake of his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Easy. There’s Peter Two and Peter Three.” Peter’s chest puffs out just slightly, and his smile makes a faint reappearance. “I’m Peter One.”
“And why is that?”
“I… huh. I don’t really know.” Peter frowns a bit at the question, just a contemplative frown. “We never really talked about it. Maybe because I’m the youngest?”
“So Peter Three is the oldest?”
“No, he’s the middle. Peter Two is the oldest.”
Tony huffs, his hand waving in an almost frustrated motion through the warm air. “Please tell me you have different last names or something.”
“Nope.” Peter pops the p in the word, his head cocking to the side. “We’re all Peter Parker. What’s wrong with that?”
What is wrong with it? Nothing in particular, Tony supposes. There is no rule that says parents cannot name their children all the same, is there? While there is nothing inherently wrong with it, the thought alone seems like a cruel joke. “Your parents must have been creative then.”
“We, uh…” Peter’s eyes drop down to the hem of his shirt once again. It is a frayed hem, a red thread twisting around his finger as he pulls at it. “We don’t have parents. I don’t think?”
Tony blinks, the words sinking into his skin in that smooth, prickless way that everything in this place seems to. “None of you?”
“I don’t think?” Peter does not meet his gaze, his eyes focused on the string he is playing with. “I-I don’t remember Peter Two ever saying anything about… parents. Or Peter Three.”
“You had to have had parents,” Tony points out because of course, it is a fact. Every person comes from somewhere, every person comes from another person.
The memory of the alleyway from mere hours before once again slips to the forefront of his mind. Peter’s soft words, his confused expression as he cocked his head: “What are parents?”, he had said, eyes wide and innocent and sparkling with a distinct lack of understanding. True confusion at a word that he did not know, that he had not experienced.
“We didn’t,” is the simple answer that he gives now.
“So you haven’t had anyone… taking care of you?” The words taste strange on Tony’s tongue, for reasons he cannot put his finger on. “No one watching out for you?”
“We watch out for each other,” Peter points out. His gaze lifts now, the red thread still tight around his finger and a determination in his eyes. “It’s just always been us three.”
Tony lets out a breath, the feeling in his gut still twisting strangely within him. He lets his eyes slide away, focus on the landscape around them, the vibrant plants and the too-blue sky. The air is warm now, the cool of the night long gone with the heat of the sun. “Where are they now?”
The moment the words are out, the air between them changes. The shift is instantaneous,
“They’re…” Peter inhales, the sound weaker than it should be in such a young boy’s chest. “They’re uh… they’re not here. Right now, at least.”
“They’re not here?” Tony repeats. Peter does not respond. His bare feet drag against the dirt beneath them. “Where are they?”
“I don’t… I don’t know.” A foot kicks out at a pebble, the small rock skittering away with the force. Peter refuses to meet Tony’s eyes, the red thread trembling where it is curled tight— too tight— around his finger. “It’s, uh… it’s been a while since I’ve… since I’ve seen them.”
Tony watches the boy closely. “How long?”
His finger twitches, the tip red where the circulation has cut off from the thread wrapped around it. Peter pays it no heed. “I don’t know.”
Silence stretches between them, heavy and weighty in the glassy air. A soft breeze blows, but it hardly affects Tony or Peter. It certainly does nothing to clear the air. Instead the words simmer between them, hot and cold and existing in the pure, undeniable way that words do. Quiet. Existing. Waiting for the people who uttered them to decide what to do with them.
Somewhere in the distance, a lone bird cries out.
“They’ll be back.” It is a whisper at first, something quiet and under the breath of the kid as he walks. Then Peter lets out a breath and straightens up, his spine level and his eyes raised from the ground. He says it again and this time it is with finality, his head bobbing up and down with a firm nod, no room for argument. “They’ll be back.”
For once in his life, Tony Stark bites his tongue and does not say a word.
They continue like that, once again silent under the sun. It continues to move across the sky, and the two of them continue to move across the land.
At some point, a point not long after the short-lived conversation, Peter finds the base of his rock and changes their direction. Tony follows without a word, and the two of them step carefully along the bank of the river that the mound of stone towered over. The bank is a slippery slope, one that requires careful footing and calculated moves from Tony that he executes with gritted teeth and feet nearly slipping out of line. Peter, on the other hand, practically dances ahead, his bare feet navigating the new terrain with ease, small pebbles and shifting sand holding him up without effort and each step light, lighter than appears possible.
The boy is agile, exceedingly so. The concept brings more questions to Tony’s tongue, but he bites them back, focusing instead on his own feet as he takes another step on a little ledge of rock just above the river’s waters. He has entertained his curiosity enough today. Now, he stays silent.
Peter does not resume his humming.
Feet skid across smooth, wet stones as Tony follows Peter across the river in a fashion that, quite frankly, does not suit the billionaire. It is effective though, he must admit once he steps onto the far bank, dry but for where some of the waves splashing against the stepping stones managed to catch him off-guard. Peter is already scampering ahead, his footsteps significantly quicker now that they are, in his own words, “getting closer, really getting closer.”
It is the idea that they are nearing a destination that gets Tony speaking again. “So this fairy—”
“Pixie.”
“—Pixie. It’s your friend?”
Peter sputters awkwardly. “Well, uh, I mean… yeah? Or no, well, maybe, I’m not sure if he’d put it that way but, but we’re definitely friendly. It’s just been a while… a-a long while. But we were… I would say, maybe —probably— we’re friends…”
“Yes,” Tony says, his voice as dry as sandpaper. “This is filling me with confidence.”
Peter does not seem to get the hint. “It’s a little complicated. I’m not exactly sure what I would call us right now. It’s just… it’s been too long?”
“You’re sure he’s the guy that we should be going to then?” Tony steps carefully, avoiding a spot of slick-looking moss on the stones ahead. Peter skips over the patch without hardly a glance. “This is fantasy-land, isn’t it? Magic is probably all over.”
Peter either does not understand Tony’s sarcastic tone, or chooses to ignore it. “No, it’s mostly just the pixies. They are the ones who understand it the best, the ones who can really channel it. Something about the wings, I hear.”
“What about unicorns and dwarves? I bet they would be great at it.” Tony pushes aside a thick branch that hangs in his path, hissing as the bark scrapes his hand. “Or mermaids? I’m sure you have mermaids here—”
“Mermaids?” Tony nearly runs into the boy when he whips around suddenly, his eyes wide and his mouth open in a wide gape as he stares at the man. “You really want to go ask merfolk for help?”
“What?” Tony says, even though he was simply throwing out whatever fantasy creatures he could think of without any consideration that Peter may think him serious. But the boy’s wide-eyed look could only be described as one of fear, and it made Tony’s eyebrow quirk up. “What’s the deal with mermaids?”
Peter shudders, the movement running through his entire body with a violent twitch. “They are terrifying, that’s their deal. You do not want to deal with them.”
Tony snorts, but Peter’s expression does not change. All Tony can picture is the images of cartoon fish-women smiling out from the pages of children’s books, or the more mature drawings printed on sailor’s arms and in bars along the coast. Those images elicit nothing of the startled fear that is plastered onto the young face in front of him. Somehow, the thought of something so childish scaring Peter fills him with amusement and something distinctly warm.
“Sure. No mermaids then.” His dirt-streaked shoes stick in a patch of mud, and his nose wrinkles at the foul squelch required to pull them free. These shoes are beyond ruined, as is every other item of clothing he is wearing. “But is there no one else?”
“That would help us?” Peter makes a face, but it's there and gone before Tony can truly make it out. “I don’t know.”
“Come on,” Tony rolls his eyes. “You’re Peter…” he wants to say Pan, but catches himself in time. “...Parker. You’ve got to know more than just this one guy.”
“I know people,” Peter admits hesitantly. There is a beat of hesitance before he continues. “Just not… well, I haven’t talked to… that is, it’s just been a while. Since I’ve talked to most of them.”
“Oh?”
“I… I know a lot of people, in passing. That doesn’t mean I know a lot of people who would… help.”
Tony Stark… he has to pause for a moment, to stop and take a breath before continuing because he does know. He knows for too well what Peter Parker is saying.
The thought scares him.
Peter either ignores the pause in Tony’s steps, or does not catch them. He is not even sure himself. He is focused on the landscape around them, bouncing on his heels slightly as he take a few more steps forward.
“This is it,” he says quickly, grinning at Mister Stark as he does. It feels good to change the subject, and he can feel the relief in his bones as they both duck around one last tree. He recognizes this part of the beachy wood. “He should be around here.”
“Really?” Tony asks, one eyebrow raised. He glances around the clearing as he speaks, as if he is examining the trees with a critical eye. “Well then. Where is this thing?”
“Pixie,” Peter corrects, almost absent-mindedly as he steps forward. He looks up into the trees above him. “That’s what they’re called. And—”
“—And I know what you’re called.”
That wasn’t Tony Stark’s voice. Peter realizes this quickly, his heart rate jumping as he looks up to the trees above him. Something whips through the air, tiny and thin and deadly sharp, and Peter barley jumps back in time to avoid getting impaled. His back hits the tree behind him as his feet skid against the grit of the ground, and he wonders once again if he made a mistake in assuming that they are still friends.
“You’re trespassers.”