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"How is it we've done this a couple of times a year for almost twenty years and I still am so incredibly hopeless?" Tony asks, and Steve grins, peeking over at his husband's easel. It's covered in a mess of color with no apparent rhyme or reason.
"Are you not working in the abstract?" he asks, the same way he has a dozen times before.
Tony shoots him a look and Steve bites his lip to stop himself from grinning.
There are a dozen other couples around them, each with an easel and paints, at the tables lined up perpendicular to a small platform at the front of the room. Everyone's chatting and laughing, drinks and paintbrushes in hand. It's nice, somewhere they can be social if they want, but can just as easily stay wrapped up in one another, too.
"I hate you," Tony says. "you take me on these dates just so I know what it's like to be a miserable failure, don't you? Don't lie, Steve Rogers, I know you're no apple-pie innocent."
A surge of affection rolls through him and Steve leans over and kisses Tony, hand tracing the curve of his spine.
Tony's expression is soft when Steve releases him.
"You incredible sap," he mutters, hand curving around Steve's neck.
The phone in Steve's pocket goes off as he's leaning in again and he pauses to pull it out.
“Uh oh,” Tony says, but his voice is light and his fingers are tracing curly-cues on the nape of Steve's neck so he must not mind.
Steve answers quickly when he sees the name on the caller ID.
“ Captain Rogers, hi, I'm sorry to bother you, but I didn't know who else to call.”
“Hi, Lex, it's fine. I'm guessing this isn't a social call?”
Lex huffs in his ear. “ No, Captain .”
“What's going on?”
‘Lex,’ Tony mouths, nose wrinkled, ‘Lex? Do I know Lex?’
He does. Lex is an ER doctor Steve knows who occasionally calls to let him know when one of the kids from the group home he's adopted winds up in zir care. It's a Big Brother kind of thing—Steve visits a lot and takes the kids places, stuff like that. The house is in a bad neighborhood and more than a few of them seem to have Steve's habit of getting in over their heads with bullies, so the calls aren’t an unusual occurrence. This doesn't sound like that though.
“ It's Spider-Man,” Lex says.
Steve startles. "We're not affiliated with Spider-Man."
"Spider-Man?" Tony echoes with a little frown.
“ I'm aware. But he's lying in one of my beds and I don't know what the hell to do with him. He does not, it seems, carry emergency contact information in his spandex suit ."
"How am I supposed to help? We don't even know him," Steve protests.
"Look, someone needs to make a tough choice for this kid. I'm not saying it has to be you, but I don't want to call the police, they're just going to try and get under that mask. Will you come? Think it over? "
Steve scrubs a hand through his hair. It doesn't seem right, but the idea of Spider-Man in a hospital, alone and badly injured, turns Steve's stomach.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, we'll come."
"What was that about?" Tony asks when he hangs up.
"Spider-Man is in the ER in Chelsea.” Steve rubs his forehead, trying to get his head around what he's been asked to do. “He's been injured pretty badly, but he doesn't have any emergency contacts and the staff doesn't want to involve the police because of his secret identity."
"So they figured you'd do?"
"I know, I know—"
"I mean they're not wrong." Tony catches his eye, expression serious and supportive, and Steve pauses for a moment to take his hand and squeeze it. Tony having his back means the world to him.
"Come on, it sounds like he's in a bad way."
~
It doesn't take them long to get across town to Beth Israel.
The ER is bustling, babies crying and a man in the comer moaning in pain while a woman at the counter snaps at one of the nurses. Steve and Tony cross to the desk, most of Tony's attention focused on the proximity of the people around them. He's always leery in hospitals—understandable, since he's especially prone to infections.
"Excuse me," Steve says, "We're here about Spider-Man?"
"Oh, fantastic," the nurse says. "Come on."
He leads them through to the individual curtained-off rooms, where it's a little bit quieter. "We didn't know who else to call," he says. "We don't want to expose his identity if we can help it—he goes to such pains to avoid it."
"I'll bet he appreciates that," Tony says.
"Technically this is against protocol since we don't have Power of Attorney, but there wasn't anyone else to call and the police sure as hell weren't going to respect his identity."
"They're just trying to do their jobs," Steve says.
The nurse smiles wanly. "Maybe he doesn't get paid, but so is he."
He directs Steve and Tony into one of the larger rooms and Lex is there, leaning over the bed.
Spider-Man has a blanket draped over his center body mass and it looks like they've stripped off most of his suit, though his cowl's still in place. He's limp and silent, one arm laid out beside him on the bed—it's a deep, dark purplish color, with an unnatural bend just above his elbow.
Tony winces.
“Captain, thanks for coming,” Lex says and reaches to clasp his hand. Steve shakes it, still distracted by that awful arm.
"We checked for head trauma the best we could—there wasn't any apparent physical damage.” Tony reaches forward, fingers brushing a slit through one of the eyes in the mask before Lex brushes his hand away, giving him a look. “We cut those so we could check his pupils and they look normal. There was some kind of gas on the scene that was making bystanders woozy, so presumably that's what knocked him out. We're running tests. There's a break in his arm above the elbow, which we think occurred almost an hour ago. It's been cutting off the circulation to his arm. We can wait for him to wake, but the sooner we get started on that arm the better the chance of recovery. I'm recommending amputation because of how long circulation has been compromised."
Both Steve and Tony start. "Amputation," Tony says. "The kid's gotta be barely eighteen if a day. Look how gawky he is. Kid's all elbows. You want us to decide if it's worth risking his life for his arm?"
"The surgeon is prepping now. She just needs to know if she should attempt to rescue the limb or it she should go ahead with the amputation. If we wait until he wakes up it may already be too late for the limb to recover. We don't know what kind of abilities he has and I know it's not your responsibility, but if anyone has the chance to understand what he can withstand it's you." Ze pauses and then says, "I'll give you a few minutes to talk."
"Thank you," Steve says, and when ze's gone, he looks at Tony, running a hand over his head. "Jeez."
Tony's eyes are on the skinny form on the bed. "Heavy stuff," he says and his voice is light, but his eyes are grim.
“Yeah,” Steve says and pushes back his jacket so he can put his hands on his hips. He looks at Tony. “Can we really do this? Make this decision for him?”
Tony looks up. “Legally? Hell no.”
“That's not what I meant.”
Tony's look softens with affection. “I know what you meant.” He looks back at Spider-Man, thoughtful. “What would you want?”
“To try and save it,” Steve admits. “But gambling with somebody else's life...”
“All evidence points toward advanced healing capabilities,” Tony replies. “Didn't he get shot that one time? And he was out two nights later?” He moves a little closer, looking more intensely at the boy on the bed. "I mean, look, he's a kid. They're adaptable. Hell, I got a prosthetic embedded in my chest when I was thirty-five. He could handle an arm. Especially a bionic one.” His hands move abortively toward Spider-Man's injured arm, like he's already planning it out—Steve has no doubt that's exactly what he's doing. Then Tony murmurs, “Looks a lot like Pete, don't you think? Gangly baby giraffe? Can you imagine if..." His eyes drift over the boy's body again and then he goes very still, one hand just touching the edge of the bed.
Steve feels himself still in response. "Tony?"
He makes a terrible throaty sound that jerks at Steve's gut and croaks, "Oh my god. Steve."
Steve moves forward, scanning Tony's body. “What is it, what's wrong?”
Tony gingerly lifts Spider-Man's uninjured arm, his fingers carefully framing—Steve's knees waver, heart sticking in his throat.
Tony's thumb curves around a slightly raised white scar in the shape of a comma on Spider-Man's forearm.
A scar Steve knows too well.
A scar Peter got when he was seven years old messing around in the workshop with Tony.
He looks up at Tony and finds him staring white-faced back at him.
"It can't be," Steve says through numb lips, but his eyes are traveling over the rest of Spider-Man's body, seeing the familiar shape of his bony shoulders, the smattering of freckles across his wiry biceps, the thin white scar from another incident in the lab down the length of his neck.
"Pete," Tony mumbles, "Pete, Peter, how could you—why would you—" and his shaking fingers draw back the cowl.
Peter's face is slack and pale and a noise unlike anything Steve's ever heard comes out of his own throat, his eyes moving to the broken am. He chokes on horror and a wave of visceral fear that cuts straight to his bones. "Oh god, Peter."
"Baby boy," Tony says, fingers tracing the contours of Peter's face, "no, come on, wake up. Wake up, Peter. God, Jesus, Steve," he says, turning his anguished gaze on him.
How did this happen , how had they not noticed Peter sneaking out, spending all this time as Spider-Man? It's been months since he first appeared in the news. How many times has Peter told them he'd be at Gwen's or staying late at school to work on the yearbook and been out fighting crime?
Steve leans on the bed, wiping a hand over the lower half of his face. "We... we gotta make a decision Tony. Now. So they can go to surgery."
The fingers of Tony's left hand are tapping frantically against the arc reactor, the other settled over Peter's heart. "I should make some calls get our surgeon."
"We don't have that kind of time, Tony—"
"'He's our son, Steve. We make time!" Tony's cheeks are trembling, his eyes over-bright.
Steve steps forward and curls his hands around Tony's neck, pressing their foreheads together. "Come on, Tony," he says, voice low and rough. "We don't have that kind of luxury and you know it. These doctors will do everything they can."
Tony stays tense in his grip for a long moment before he swallows thickly and nods. "Yeah, okay, you're right. Fuck," he breathes and Steve huffs.
"That pretty much sums it up."
On the bed, Peter moans softly.
Steve's fingers clench and Tony blurts, "Ouch, action grip off, Cap."
They both lean over Peter.
Peter's eyes falter open. His pupils have eclipsed his irises.
"Hey," Tony murmurs, "hey, buddy."
Peter squints and rasps, "Dads?"
"Yeah, Peter," Steve says, running his fingers through Peter's hair. God, he's so young; he's so small, even for sixteen.
"Where'm I?"
"The ER," Tony says. Behind them the curtain slides open. Tony startles and then quickly pulls the mask back over Peter's face. Steve's heart tenses in his chest as it disappears.
“Da—” Peter starts and Tony covers his mouth with one hand. Steve turns to block them from view, wondering if he looks as shaken as he feels.
“It's gonna be okay, Spider-Man. You're gonna be fine,” Tony says loudly.
“Oh crap,” Peter breathes.
"Oh," the nurse says, "you're awake!" She pushes between them, reaching for Peter's wrist.
“Am I?” Peter mumbles and Tony lets out a strangled laugh. Reluctantly, he edges away from the bed along with Steve.
“The surgeon is ready,” the nurse says. “Have you made a decision?”
Steve stares at her, his beating heart blocking the words.
“You heal?” Tony asks, turning an intense look on Peter, the finest tremor going over his mouth.
“I...heal?” Peter replies. “Yes?”
“How well?”
“Really?”
Tony turns back to the nurse. “Save it.”
When the nurse looks at him, Steve nods, trusting Tony. “Save his arm, please.”
“Okay,” the nurse says, and more people start to stream into the room. “There will be paperwork for you to fill out at the front desk. Spider-Man, we're taking you to surgery. Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital?” Peter says, voice high and nervous. “Surgery? What am I getting surgery for? What did he mean save my arm?”
“I'll explain on the way, we need to get you to the O.R. as quickly as we can. You're going to be okay, we'll take good care of you.” The male nurse from before moves behind the bed to push.
"NO!" Peter yells and shoves another nurse back—hopefully harder than he intended because she hits a cupboard along the wall and yelps in pain.
"P—" Tony starts to snap, but catches himself. "Spider-Man. They are just doing their jobs. You're gonna be okay, but you need to go with them and not attack them, can you do that?”
Steve watches Peter's throat work, and it's the worst torture he's ever endured, seeing Peter hurting and not being able to comfort him. He nods finally, chest rising and falling unsteadily.
"Good,” Tony says, voice going gentle. “Now apologize. We do not hurt people trying to help us."
Peter swallows, and his tone is sincere when he says, "I'm sorry, ma'am."
"It's fine," she says, a little dazedly and Steve can't tell if it's from maybe hitting her head or hearing Iron Man lecture Spider-Man on manners like his father.
Which of course he is, but none of them know that. He just hopes this isn't going to somehow come back to bite them in the ass, but that's a worry for later.
"What's the hold up?" Lex demands, sweeping into the room. "Time isn't on our side here. Let's move!" Then ze takes in the room and startles a bit when ze realizes that Pete's awake. "Oh." Ze looks to Steve, who nods.
"There was a minor misunderstanding. He's ready to go now." He looks to Peter who's shrunk down into the bed. God, he looks so young.
"I'm ready," he agrees, the fingers of his good hand wrapped around his shoulder, flexing, like they want to slide down, but don't dare. Probably for the best.
"Okay," Lex says, voice smoothing into the assured tones of a doctor who can absolutely be trusted to keep their promises and make it better. "Then let's get you into surgery so we can get that arm fixed."
They're shuffled out of the room as the medical team goes to work and it kills Steve, the way he can feel Peter's eyes on them, his body tense with anxiety, but there's nothing he can do if they don't want to risk outing him.
It's busy, nurses and orderlies bustling around Steve in the hall and part of him is aware he's in the way, but all he can see is Peter getting farther and farther away. Someone crosses between them and then Peter is gone, swallowed up by the swinging doors.
Steve clenches his fists until the bones ache, vaguely aware that Tony's already on his phone, voice going a mile a minute.
“Please be okay,” he whispers to himself.
~
He and Tony end up in a waiting room somewhere. The walls are taupe and there's one other person, an older woman with lines dug deep in her face. She looks like she might be asleep. Steve doesn't really pay attention because it's starting to sink in that Peter is injured, not the unknown Spider-Man, but their sixteen-year-old son, who was supposed to be at his girlfriend's house having dinner with her parents tonight.
Steve doesn't know how to feel about that.
Tony folds into one of the scratchy-looking olive chairs and leans back, looking up at Steve with wet eyes. He looks as lost as Steve feels.
Steve reaches for his hand and Tony takes it, tugging to pull Steve close enough to rest his forehead on Steve's hip. “He's going to be okay,” Steve says, but his voice comes out hoarse and rasping. “He's—strong.”
Tony pushes him back, looking up at him incredulously. “Strong? He shouldn't have to be strong, Steve, he shouldn't be here.” His face contorts with anger. “What the hell was he thinking? If anyone knows how dangerous—of all the stupid things—”
“Getting angry isn't going to help, Tony.”
Steve gets a nasty glare for his trouble. “Yeah, well neither will not being angry so I'm gonna go with what feels good for now, is that okay with you?” Then his eyes narrow. “How are you not angry?”
Steve has to unclench his jaw to reply. “Who says I'm not?”
“So you're not gonna argue with me about grounding him?”
“You're going to stop with grounding?” Steve replies, raising an eyebrow. “I was thinking about asking them to put a tracking chip in him while he's under.”
Tony looks both surprised and delighted. “Oooh, I like it.”
Steve's mouth pulls into a crooked, humorless smile. “Then again he won't be doing much web-slinging if—” He bites off the end of that thought before he can finish it, a wave of guilt washing through him when he sees Tony swallow, his hand coming up to smooth his shirt.
“God, Steve,” he breathes. “What if they can't save his arm?”
It takes a few hard gulps to dislodge the lump in Steve's throat. “Then you'll build him a new one and we'll love him as much as we ever have. It's not—it won't stop him.”
Tony huffs and leans into Steve's hip again. “Hell no. He's a menace. I just—how the hell did we miss this?”
Curling his fingers in Tony's hair, Steve shakes his head. “I don't know.”
He doesn't. Honestly, he doesn't. They spend so much time with Peter, talk to him about everything. The idea that he's been hiding something this huge and that they never noticed, is... God, they're terrible parents.
“ I mean, it's been months, right? Months since Spider-Man started cropping up. And the media's always a little slow on the uptake, so that means another month or two. All this time and we never suspected anything.”
“Gwen has to know,” Steve murmurs. “They started spending time together about a year ago, wasn't it? That's where he spends so much of his time—or at least where he says he does.”
“I'm going to skin him alive,” Tony says. “Oh my god. If the others had something to do with this—”
Steve freezes. “No. You don't think they'd—they wouldn't, Tony.”
“They sure as hell better not have,” he growls.
The next few hours go like that; they cycle between worry and anger, turning it over again and again between them. Tony makes calls, interrogates the others, demanding to know if they'd had any idea this was what Peter was doing, but they're all as shocked as they are.
Apparently Peter learned more than they ever anticipated.
~
They find out after the surgery that not only do sedatives and painkillers not work on Peter, but he also heals even faster than Steve. The doctors had been forced to break the bone in his arm again to reset it properly—while he was awake. The surgeon still looks shaken when she's making the report.
The color has drained out of Tony's face by the time they've gotten the full run down, his face stricken and lined. It's the worst thing Steve can imagine, even knowing that Peter's arm is going to be just fine, and had been showing signs of recovering when they began the surgery.
They collect Peter who looks small and thin wrapped up in a hospital blanket, tucked into a wheelchair too big for his frame. Steve feels a visceral sense of fear when he sees the mask, desperate to get a look at his son, but he clamps down on it and thanks the staff for their help.
Peter is silent as they wheel out to the waiting car, except when they hit a bump, jolting the chair. Then he lets out the smallest, thinnest noises of pain. The only thing Steve can think of that even comes close in it's power to wreck him is the memory of Tony's short, gasping breaths as the arc reactor failed.
He shakes as Steve lifts him into the car, and Steve presses kisses to his head, murmurs reassurance. As soon as the doors close behind them, he peels back the mask and drops it to the floor. Peter's eyes are wet and red and it wrenches at Steve's heart.
“Dad—” Peter croaks and Tony stops him, hooking a hand around his neck and pressing a rough kiss to the side of his head.
“Don't,” he says, low and rough. “Just...don't.”
“Later,” Steve tells him.
Peter nods and sags between them.
~
Fifteen hours after they bring him home, Peter creeps out of his bedroom.
Steve looks up from his tablet and hears whatever Tony's been tinkering with at the kitchen table go quiet.
Peter can't look either of them in the eye.
Steve pushes to his feet, tapping the counter with his knuckles. “You must be starving. Something to eat?”
“Um. Yes, please,” Peter says quietly. He edges into the kitchen and sinks into one of the chairs at the kitchen table across from Tony like he's sitting on hot coals. He's still holding his left arm a little stiffly, but otherwise there's no indication he was injured at all. It's a relief to see him up and around, even if he does look like he's waiting for the guillotine to drop.
“Eggs okay?” Steve asks.
“Yeah. Thank you.”
Steve starts the eggs and Tony puts aside his tools, one at a time, carefully lining them up.
The kitchen is silent for almost a full minute before Peter caves and bursts, “Can you just do it? Yell at me and get it over with. Please,” he begs and hunches forward over the table, burying his hands in his hair.
Steve glances at Tony and nods, giving him the silent go-ahead to get things rolling.
“Okay,” he says, folding his hands in front of him on the table. “What do you think we're mad about?”
That's good. Steve likes that. Making him state the problem in his own words—that will stick so much better.
Peter manages to glance at Tony for half a second and then his eyes are on the table again. “I lied,” he mumbles. “I lied and I went behind your backs and-and— I broke the law.”
Tony pauses. “Please tell me you're talking about the vigilantism.”
Peter looks up at him. “Yes? I mean, I think technically I broke several laws—” He starts listing them on his fingers. “Battery, assault, destruction of official and private property, kidnapping probably because of that one time, loitering, trespassing...but they all kind of fall under the vigilantism umbrella?” He gestures to indicate the shape of an umbrella and Steve and Tony both stare at him. “I was fighting bad guys, of course I broke some laws!” Peter says, shoulders climbing up to his ears.
After a long beat, Tony shakes his head and swipes a hand over his face. “Okay. That's—sure. Great. So you know why we're upset.”
Peter sighs and seems to deflate. “Yeah.”
Tony's quiet for another beat and then says, “I don't— How the hell could you do this? What did we do that made you think you shouldn't come to us? Because I don't believe for a second that you just— spontaneously developed powers. Something happened to you, and you kept it to yourself and the natural leap was to become a goddamn vigilante superhero? Like we wouldn't understand? Jesus, Peter, why didn't you tell us?” He's getting worked up again, the way he has been since they got home, his anger waxing and waning in turns.
“Tony,” Steve says, a gentle reminder that he's headed somewhere he doesn't want to go. Tony sits back, taking an unsteady breath.
In a small voice, Peter says, "I wanted to. God, I did. And I don't know. It sort of… It happened and I was going to but then there was never a good time and dad had the acquisition of West-Tech and then you got hurt in Johannesburg and then it just… the fact that I hadn't told you was almost worse than telling you, like it became this excuse in itself and I don't even know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I never meant…"
He looks away and his eyes are glossy with tears and Steve sees the anger drain back out of Tony in an instant. He pushes back from the table and circles around to sit next to Peter, pulling him roughly against his side.
“ There is nothing you can't tell us, you understand? Nothing and no one is more important to us than you are. I don't care if you go out and become a supervillain—”
“Please don't become a supervillain,” Steve puts in.
Peter laughs a little wetly, fingers tightening around Tony's shirt. “I'm sorry,” he says miserably. “I didn't mean to, honestly. I wanted to tell you, I just—it was easier not to,” he mumbles, shame thick in his voice.
Steve moves to join them, setting the plate of eggs on the table and sitting on Peter's other side. Peter's face is buried in Tony's neck, so he can't get as close as he'd like, but he puts his hand on Peter's knee and squeezes it. “The right thing is always hard. It's the scariest, hardest thing you can do.”
Peter's face crumples a little and Tony brushes his hair back off of his forehead, kisses it. “Doesn't mean we love you any less, buddy.”
“You made a mistake,” Steve agrees. “You're only human. Or well, you were. I'm really looking forward to hearing about that.”
Peter's laugh is strangled.
“We're very proud of you Peter, for what you were trying to do, even if you went about it the wrong way,” he goes on.
“And in case it wasn't clear: you're totally grounded,” Tony says.
Peter sighs. “I figured. How long?”
Steve and Tony exchange a look. “Months,” Steve says.
“Possibly forever,” Tony says.
“Maybe,” Steve agrees.
Peter sighs again. “Fair enough.”
“Where did you even learn costume design?” Tony asks, voice purposefully light. “I can only assume you're the one responsible for the spandex, Gwen has way too much taste for that. We must have let Phil babysit too often.”
Peter groans.
“ If you'd come to me in the first place you could have had a micron-thin armor, but no, you thought, ' Hey, spandex, that's a great idea. '”
“ Dad. ”
Steve runs his fingers through Peter's unruly hair and thanks his lucky stars that Peter wasn't more badly injured, that they were blessed with such a good kid, even in his bad moments.
~
Steve is giving a rundown of the previous evening's run-in with a sixty foot sentient vine-creature for Fury when his phone rings. Fury's expression darkens disapprovingly until Steve says, “Excuse me, that's Peter.”
Tony perks up and leans forward. “It's two PM, he's in sixth period, he shouldn't be calling. Put him on speaker.”
So Steve does.
“Hi, pal. You're on speaker.”
“Hey, Dad, sorry to interrupt the debriefing, sorry Director Fury, very sorry—”
Fury rolls his eyes, but Steve's pretty sure he sees his mouth twitch upward before he covers it with one hand.
“—but I was in math and there was this explosion—”
“What?” Steve demands and there are several other voices in chorus with his.
“—not in my classroom,” Peter says, exasperation leaking into his voice. “Somewhere down the street. I'm like, 95% sure it's Doc Ock. I was gonna pretend to be sick so I can go deal with him, but to do that I need you to call and tell them to let me go and sign off, so is that— Can I...?”
It's been almost six months since they found out about the whole Spider-Man thing. When they'd calmed down and had a chance to talk it through, Steve and Tony had come to the conclusion that grounding wasn't the appropriate way to deal with the issue. Instead, they'd done what Steve had jokingly suggested—they'd put a tracker on Peter.
He'd balked at that at first. “Why can't you just ground me like everybody else's parents?”
“Because the bigger issue here isn't that you were out getting into trouble,” Tony had explained, working hard to keep his cool. “You broke our trust. To earn it back, you're going to tell us where, when, and what you're doing in excruciating detail and we're going to use the tracker to verify that you can keep your word. You kept Spider-Man a secret for ten months, so if you can stay honest for ten months, you're off the hook.”
They'd also made training a stipulation of his reparations. So far, it's worked beautifully.
“I'll make the call,” Tony says, phone already out and dialing.
“Your dad's calling it in,” Steve tells Peter. “Be careful. If you need us—”
“I'll call. Thanks, Dads.”
Tony covers the mouthpiece of his phone to yell, “Kick his ass, Bambi. Love you.”
“Dad,” Peter groans and then mutters, “Yeah, I love you guys, too, jeez.”
Steve grins. Maybe they aren't perfect parents, but they do all right.