Archive of Our Own

There’s this idea, one Tony’s pretty sure has taken over every corner of his social circle, that Peter Parker is some kind of angel. A golden boy, a symbol of pure virtue, practically glowing with moral superiority. And hey, Tony gets it. On paper, the kid checks all the boxes. Doesn’t curse, doesn’t drink, doesn’t do anything more rebellious than web slinging past curfew occasionally. If Peter Parker ever jaywalked, it would probably end with him apologizing to the crosswalk for not waiting. Hell, he’s so polite he calls adults Mr. and Miss. like it’s a job requirement.

But anyone who thinks Peter is all halo and no horns clearly hasn’t spent enough time with him. The kid’s got a mouth—sharp and quick and ready to cut, if you know what to listen for. Not mean, exactly. Never mean. But he’s a little too fast on the draw, a little too clever for his own good. And the worst part? He’s good at it. Too good for his age. 

It’s maddening because Tony knows that kind of wit, knows it like the back of his hand. It’s in his DNA, for crying out loud, so seeing Peter use it with the kind of ease that only comes with natural ability? Yeah, it gets under his skin. But then, in the same breath, it makes him… proud, almost. Like seeing someone pick up a language you didn’t even realize you’d been teaching them.

Still, Peter’s sarcasm has a way of catching Tony off guard, and it always comes wrapped in something so Peter that Tony can’t even get mad. Like last Tuesday, when Tony stumbled into the lab running on three hours of sleep and too much coffee, and the first thing out of Peter’s mouth was:

“Y’know, Mr. Stark, there’s a little thing called sleep. I hear it’s great for your health. Might even help with the whole walking-zombie look you’ve got going on.”

Tony had half a mind to fire back with something scathing, but then Peter gave him this look—half-smile, half-eye-roll, like he knew exactly how much he could get away with—and Tony let it slide. Because that’s the thing about Peter: he’s an asshole, but he’s Tony’s asshole.

Not that Tony would ever say that out loud. He’s not exactly in the habit of getting all warm and fuzzy about anyone, much less a 15-year-old in a hoodie who eats five-dollar sandwiches like they’re gourmet meals. But if you asked him, Tony might admit there’s something refreshing about Peter’s particular brand of sarcasm. It’s honest, unfiltered in a way most people wouldn’t dare be with him.

And yeah, it pisses him off sometimes. Especially when he’s trying to turn something into one of those teachable moments that Pepper keeps telling him to aim for. He’ll be mid-sentence, thinking he’s about to deliver some earth-shattering wisdom, and Peter will hit him with:

“So, what you’re saying is, you screwed it up first, but now you’re trying to make sure I don’t do the same thing?”

And damn if the kid isn’t right. He hates that. But not enough to stop him from pulling Peter back into the lab the next day, elbow-deep in some crazy 3 a.m. project Tony cooked up. Because despite the sarcasm and the quips, Peter listens. He absorbs. He takes the lesson, even if he delivers it back with a small side of snark.

Tony likes to think that’s why they work. Peter doesn’t idolize him—not anymore and not in the way everyone else seems to. He’s not afraid to push back, to call Tony out, even if it’s just in that subtle, Parker way of his. It’s annoying as hell. But, Tony figures, it’s also what keeps him coming back. It doesn’t really get under his skin the way he likes to pretend to Peter it does.

The thing that really gets under Tony’s skin though—the kind of thing that keeps pawing at him long after he’s sworn he’s done thinking about it—is moments like this. The team is scattered across the common area, half-asleep or half-distracted, remnants of their movie night strewn across the room. Bowls of popcorn gone stale, soda cans sweating on the table. Steve’s flipping through channels, Nat’s scrolling on her phone, and Thor, god of thunder, is snoring as loud as his namesake.

Peter had left a few minutes ago, practically shoved into the elevator by Happy despite protesting that swinging home would be faster. Tony had shut that down with a single look.

“Not happening, kid,” he’d said, brooking no argument. Nearly one in the morning in New York City was no time for a fifteen-year-old to be zipping through the skyline like a stray firework—even if said fifteen-year-old was a super-enhanced vigilante wearing a multi-billion-dollar suit built for survival. Rational or not, Tony had made the call, and Happy had begrudgingly followed orders.

It’s fine. It’s handled. But now, with the elevator doors closed behind them, Sam decides to pipe up.

“Man, I still can’t believe Spider-Kid spends all his time with you,” Sam says, leaning back in his chair like he’s just stating a fact. “Doesn’t exactly scream good influence, you know?”

Tony freezes mid-sip, his glass hovering just below his lips. His eyebrow rises, sharp enough to cut. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, even though he already knows exactly what Sam’s insinuating.

Ever since the Accords, Sam had glued himself to Captain Star-Spangled Banner’s side, his head so far up Steve’s ass Tony’s honestly surprised he could breathe.

Sam grins, like it’s a joke, like it’s all in good fun. Like Tony’s in on it—laughing with him—when, in actuality, he’s not.

“I mean, you’re not exactly a poster child for ‘positive role model,’” Sam continues, his smirk widening. “You do know the kid calls you ‘sir,’ right? Like, with respect and everything? Wild.”

And there it is. That familiar heat rising in Tony’s chest. Because the idea that Sam—or any of them—thinks they have the right to comment on his relationship with Peter makes his blood boil.

“Oh, yeah,” Clint cuts in, waving his beer like it’s a pointer. “It’s a little weird, actually. He’s so polite. Sweet, even. He asked me how my kids were doing, and I only told him about them once! Meanwhile, you’re, uh…” Clint gestures vaguely at Tony, grinning like he’s said something clever. “You.”

Tony lets out a short laugh, sharp and brittle. “Right. Because I’m the problem,” he says, his gaze flicking briefly to Clint’s beer—his fourth of the night, by Tony’s count.

Normally, Tony doesn’t judge people for drinking. God knows he’s one to talk. But over the past year—since Peter came into his life—Tony’s started to put down the bottle. A little here, a little there. Drinking in front of Peter had become a hard line he never crossed.

Clint drink in front of his kids, too? Tony wonders, the thought prickling at the edges of his mind. Or is this just a side effect of Laura not letting him come home until his tower arrest sentence is up?

Before Tony can spiral further, Steve decides to chime in.

“No one’s saying you’re a problem, Tony,” Steve says, his tone calm but gratingly close to Howard Stark’s when delivering a “life lesson.” “We’re just saying… Peter’s a child. A good one, at that. And clearly, he looks up to you. Just… don’t mess it up. This isn’t another one of your projects.”

God fucking damn .

As if Tony needs the reminder that Peter looks up to him. He knows. He feels the weight of it every time the kid calls him “Mr. Stark,” every time Peter follows his lead without question, every time May or Pepper or even Happy notes how much good they bring out in each other.

The last thing he needs is his so-called “teammates” piling on assurances that he’s destined to screw Peter up. He worries about that enough on his own.

And honestly, they barely know Peter. Their interactions with him have been brief, surface-level at best. They don’t see the dynamic , the truth of what Peter and Tony have built together. They don’t have a single goddamn clue what they’re talking about.

“Funny thing,” Tony says, his voice cold and sharp, “I don’t remember asking for anyone’s advice.”

The smirk that follows is effortless, practiced, the kind of thing Tony’s perfected over years of hiding what’s really going on beneath the surface.

Clint raises his hands in mock surrender. Sam chuckles like it’s still all in good fun. Steve just sighs, leaning back in his seat as though the matter is settled.

And the moment slips by without much notice.

But not for Tony.

No one here knows him well enough to notice the smirk doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Not the way Rhodey does, anyway. Rhodey, who’s been silent this whole time, his sharp gaze flicking between the faces around the room like he’s cataloging every word and storing it away for later.

Tony knows Rhodey wants to speak up. Wants to cut through the passive-aggressive jabs and call them out for what they are. It’s written all over his face—the way his jaw tightens, the slight flaring of his nostrils, the way his fingers tap an irregular rhythm against his thigh. But he doesn’t.

And honestly, if it weren’t for Rhodey, Tony doesn’t know how he’d be getting through this whole forced coexistence in his own damn tower. The Avengers might be serving their house arrest here, but that didn’t mean Tony had to like it. If Rhodey wasn’t here to keep him grounded, he’d have moved out by now, left the tower behind to find someplace quieter. Somewhere cleaner.

It’s not like he’s lacking in options. He’s Tony Stark, for crying out loud. He could buy a penthouse in Manhattan tomorrow, or a villa in Italy, or a goddamn island in the Pacific. But this? This is home . His home.

And the fact that he’s even considering leaving it because they couldn’t follow his advice—because they’d gone rogue and done exactly what he’d warned them not to—burns in a way he doesn’t have words for.

It wasn’t fair.

And Tony knows life isn’t fair. He’s had a lifetime of not fair. But the way the Accords played out—how they’d handled him, the fallout, the blame—left him twisted inside. It wasn’t enough that they’d ignored his warnings and turned the world upside down. No, they’d made him the bad guy for it, the scapegoat for their own choices.

The worst part? He’d still bent over backwards for them.

For months, he’d twisted his life into the shape of a soft pretzel, painstakingly working to get their sentences reduced to the bare minimum, drafting and redrafting an Accords agreement they could all live with. And when he finally succeeded—when they all signed on the dotted line—there wasn’t even a flicker of acknowledgment. Just these half-smirks and biting comments, like none of it mattered. Like he didn’t matter.

He could take it because he had Rhodey. Rhodey, who stood up for him in moments past, cutting through the noise with that firm, unshakable loyalty Tony didn’t deserve but held onto anyway.

But even Rhodey’s protests fell on deaf ears. And eventually, Tony had asked him to stop trying. “It’s not worth it,” he’d said. “They don’t bother me.”

It was a lie. They both knew it.

So when Rhodey sighs now, muttering something under his breath about ungrateful teammates, Tony doesn’t stop him. Whatever he said—Tony couldn’t make it out—was probably loud enough for Steve and Bucky to catch with their enhanced hearing. Let them stew on it.

Without another word, Rhodey makes a mostly silent retreat, disappearing into the elevator. Probably heading to the penthouse, away from the simmering tension in the common space. Tony watches him go, and there’s something about the ease of his departure—like he’s done this before, like he knows exactly where this is headed—that feels heavier than the silence Rhodey leaves behind.

Because Rhodey does know. He’s seen this movie before. He knows how it ends.

The others, though? They don’t.

They don’t see the way Sam’s comment lingers, a barb lodged just beneath Tony’s ribs, sharp enough to keep twisting with every breath. They don’t see how Clint’s grin doesn’t feel like a joke but a reminder—of every single thing Tony’s ever been told he’s not.

They don’t see the cracks.

And they never will, because Tony’s spent his whole life perfecting the art of keeping the cracks hidden. Even when their remarks feel like a mirror, reflecting every ugly thing he’s ever been told he is.

Bad. Selfish. Uncaring.

It’s not like he hasn’t heard it all before. Hell, he’s been playing defense against that narrative for decades now. But hearing it aloud—even as a throwaway line, even when it’s dressed up as humor—grates in ways he’ll never admit.

So, he does what he always does: files it away under shit I’ll deal with later, locks it behind a practiced smirk, and moves on. Because that’s what he does. That’s what he’s always done.

Tony doesn’t let people in. Not really. He learned the hard way what happens when you do.

(Exhibit A: Obadiah Stane.)

Keeping people at arm’s length is safer. Cleaner. And if there’s one thing Tony Stark knows, it’s how to keep himself safe. Even from his own team. Especially from them.

But for a guy who lives by the motto keep everyone at arm’s length, Tony’s done a pretty shitty job of sticking to it when it comes to one sarcastic teenager.

Not for lack of trying, though. He tried like hell to keep Peter as far away as possible at first. Delegated everything to Happy, told the kid to stay out of trouble, to leave the big, dangerous stuff to the “grown-ups.” But after the Vulture thing?

Tony knew he couldn’t do that anymore.

Happy couldn’t take it on. Hell, Tony wasn’t sure he could, either, but someone had to step up, and it turned out that someone was him.

The more time he spent with Peter, the harder it became to keep his distance. At first, it was annoying—like every time the kid showed up, he chipped away at the walls Tony had spent years building. But eventually, Tony stopped trying to rebuild them.

Because Peter wasn’t just some naive, overexcited teenager out of his depth. The more Tony saw, the more he realized there was far more to the kid.

The snarky, sarcastic edge. The heart of gold. A moral compass so unshakable the world could use it as its North Star.

And then there was the optimism—the wide-eyed belief that good things were still possible, that people could do better. That Tony could do better.

Peter looked at Tony like he was a hero. Not a walking cautionary tale.

And somehow, without meaning to, Peter weaseled his way into being one of the very few people Tony genuinely likes —someone he actively seeks out, not out of obligation, but because he wants to.

And lately, that’s become a favorite topic of the Avengers.

They love pointing out the contrast. Peter is good where Tony is bad. Peter’s optimism versus Tony’s cynicism. Peter’s innocence versus Tony’s baggage.

And maybe they think it’s just teasing—maybe they think it’s funny—but every time they say it, it piles onto the weight Tony already carries. The weight he feels day and night.

The weight of whether he’s good enough.

For Peter.

For the world.

For Pepper.

For his friends, for his company.

That weight isn’t new. It’s been there as long as Tony can remember, starting with his father.

Howard Stark, who wielded disappointment like a scalpel. Not good enough, Tony. Always chasing something—someone—better.

And just when Howard stopped being a daily presence in his life, the media swooped in to take his place.

Where his father’s criticisms were whispers, theirs were megaphones.

Tony Stark is a fraud. Tony Stark is a playboy. Tony Stark will never measure up.

And later, once he put on the suit:

Iron Man is a danger. Iron Man is the real problem.

It’s relentless. A never-ending barrage, loud enough to drown out everything else. And yeah, maybe some of it’s valid—the destruction during battles, the collateral damage that comes with saving the world. Tony knows he’s not perfect.

But it’s not like anyone’s lining up to thank him for the lives he’s saved, the money he pours into charity, or the technology he’s invented to keep the world a little less chaotic.

(And sure, maybe handing the check over in person every now and then wouldn’t kill him. Whatever. He’s busy.)

And to really put a cherry on top of this shit sundae, Tony knows he could never compete with Captain America.

That’s a lesson he learned early, courtesy of Howard Stark: when Captain America’s in the room, you’re always going to come up short.

Howard made sure that fact was etched into Tony’s psyche, like it was some universal truth. And if his father’s lessons weren’t enough, the whole Accords thing hammered it home.

The fallout from the Avengers dividing wasn’t just messy—it was catastrophic. Most of the team sided with Steve because, of course, Captain Stars and Stripes could do no wrong. 

It didn’t matter that Tony had spent hours poring over the Accords, putting together spreadsheets, drafting proposed revisions, and identifying loopholes they could close together once they sat down at the table. It didn’t matter that he’d asked Friday to run risk assessments, comparing signing versus not signing, and that the incredibly smart AI had always come to the same conclusion: signing was the right choice.

None of it mattered.

Because Steve Rogers was the greatest thing since sliced bread, and if anything so much as hinted at being a threat to his precious James Buchanan Barnes, all bets were off.

Tony told himself over and over again that he was doing the right thing. That the Accords weren’t perfect, but they were necessary, and he was helping to create something that could work for everyone.

But that didn’t stop the gnawing feeling that everyone else walked away thinking Stark screwed up again.

And, honestly? It’s not like that feeling’s gone away. If anything, the way the team views his relationship with Peter is proof that it’s still alive and well.

Because that’s the real kicker, isn’t it?

No matter what Tony does, he’ll always be wrong in their eyes. Too reckless, too arrogant, too much. And yet, somehow, Peter doesn’t see him that way.

Peter’s different. Special, even. 

The kid idolizes the Avengers—Tony’s seen it firsthand. But he doesn’t seem blinded by Steve Rogers and his straight-laced, moral-high-ground persona. Peter doesn’t look at Tony like he’s the villain of the story. He doesn’t carry that air of judgment or superiority that seems to follow Steve around like a cape. And maybe that’s why Tony keeps him around. Why he’s let Peter worm his way into his life, even when every rational part of him is screaming that he’s in way over his head. Because for once, someone’s looking at Tony Stark and seeing something worth sticking around for.

The truth is, there are days when Tony thinks everyone’s right.

When the snide remarks and subtle jabs sink deeper than he’d like to admit. When the little voice in the back of his head—the one that sounds uncomfortably like Howard Stark—whispers that Peter would be better off with Steve.

A proper role model. A real hero.

Not the guy with a litany of mistakes, a self-destructive streak a mile wide, and a laundry list of ways he’s managed to let people down.

But then there are moments—fleeting but real—when Tony looks at Peter and thinks, Maybe I’m not screwing this up completely.

It’s that thought, fragile as it is, that keeps him coming back to the workbench. That keeps him tinkering on some new upgrade for the suit, brainstorming ways to make the kid’s life just a little easier.

Because Peter doesn’t need Tony to be perfect.

He just needs Tony to show up.

So show up he does, doubts and all.

And the more time Peter spends around him, the more Tony finds himself liking the kid. Not just tolerating him, not just feeling responsible for him—but genuinely liking him.

He notices things now. Little things.

Like how sharp Peter’s edges really are. Not that they weren’t always there—Tony saw glimpses of them from day one. That quick wit, that perfectly balanced sarcasm that can be affectionate one second and cutting the next. It’s always been part of Peter’s DNA.

But now, after months of hovering in Tony’s orbit, Peter’s honing it. Sharpening it to a degree that feels alarmingly familiar.

There’s something so Tony about it.

Clearly, math and science aren’t the only things sticking. Tony can practically see his influence creeping into Peter’s personality, like an invisible watermark stamped across the kid’s DNA.

And while he doesn’t want Peter to turn out just like him—because God knows the world doesn’t need another Tony Stark—it’s oddly satisfying to see the impact he’s had.

And besides, if May Parker had a problem with it, Tony would’ve heard about it by now.

That woman is no-nonsense incarnate. If she didn’t like the way Tony was behaving or the influence he had on Peter, their time together would’ve been cut short months ago. Not given more room to flourish and grow the way it has.

So, clearly, he’s doing okay.

Tony has to remind himself of that sometimes. That he’s not failing this kid. Not entirely, at least.

Because here’s the thing: over the past few months, Tony’s seen Peter grow. The awkward, nervous wreck who used to trip over his own words, the kid who used to hover at the threshold of the lab like he was waiting for an engraved invitation, is starting to fade.

That kid—the one who wouldn’t admit he was hungry until he was practically faint, who skimmed the menu for the cheapest thing he could find because he didn’t want to “impose”—has started to take up space.

Now, Peter walks into the lab like he belongs there, grabs a snack without asking, and flops into a chair without hesitation. He knows he’s earned his place.

And Tony? Tony’s more than content just seeing it.

If that confidence comes with a little extra snark now? Well, Tony can live with that. Hell, he’s probably to blame for it anyway.

There were moments—fleeting, but there—that made Tony wonder if maybe he was just imagining all this growth. But then the Avengers moved in.

Under the newly reworked Accords, they’d all been sentenced to 180 days of house arrest, and of course, Tony’s tower was ground zero for their confinement. It’s been a month now, and their presence has become an inescapable fixture.

With them around, keeping Peter away wasn’t a battle Tony could win—not logically, anyway. Not that he hadn’t tried like hell at first.

But Peter wanted to meet them. Idolized them. And as much as Tony wanted to shield him, to keep the Avengers and their mess as far away from Peter as possible, he realized quickly that it wasn’t an option.

So now, Tony watches.

He watches the way Peter’s sharp edges dull whenever the Avengers are in the room. The way his words stumble, his jokes come out too soft, his confidence falters.

Tony knows why.

The Avengers treat Peter like a kid.

Which, yeah—he is. Tony’s not delusional. Peter’s fifteen, for crying out loud. But Peter’s not the kind of kid you baby, and he’s definitely not the kind of kid you talk down to.

Peter is smarter than most of them combined, and if Tony’s being honest, probably a better hero than all of them, too.

Spangles included.

But they don’t see it. Maybe they can’t.

Maybe it’s because Peter’s been glued to Tony’s side for months now, and they’ve decided the kid’s just another Stark project. Another gadget or experiment. Something Tony’s built, instead of someone Tony cares about.

Whatever the reason, it grates on Tony in a way he can’t quite explain.

But also… there’s a sick, twisted kind of satisfaction buried somewhere deep—something Tony would never, ever own up to.

He likes that despite Peter’s hero worship, he hasn’t fallen for their charm or pretty words. That there’s a version of Peter reserved for the people he cares about—Tony included—and that the Avengers haven’t earned it.

At least, not yet.

And if Tony’s being honest with himself, he fears the day they do.

He hopes it won’t happen. Hopes Peter will never wake up one day and realize that Steve Rogers and his merry band of moral high-grounders might’ve been the better choice to guide him into heroism and all that.

If that day comes, Tony knows he’ll be devastated.

But he’ll understand. Because everyone shows their true colors eventually.And when that day comes—if it comes—Tony knows his won’t be good enough. 

= 

It’s the first game night since everything fell apart. Movie nights had been easy—silent, low stakes, the kind of gathering where no one had to actually talk. Just sit in the dark, pretend to be interested in the screen, and avoid eye contact. But Steve had been pushing for more “team bonding,” and apparently, game nights were the next logical step.

Tony can see the appeal. They’d been a favorite once, back before the Civil War turned their team into a cracked foundation barely holding together. There’s a competitive edge to everyone in the room, a side effect of their job descriptions, and game night lets them lean into that in a way that doesn’t involve explosions or collateral damage.

Which is exactly why Tony’s not looking forward to it.

Trash talk is inevitable at these things—it always has been. But now? With the fragile, duct-taped-together state of their relationships? Tony doesn’t trust anyone in the room (including himself) to keep things from getting too real, too personal. The kind of trash talk that digs deep and leaves lasting scars.

So, he’d invited Peter.

A teenager, strategically deployed to act as a buffer between Tony and his teammates. It’s pathetic, sure. He knows that. But Peter had been excited when Tony suggested it, and Tony figured it couldn’t hurt. The kid’s presence would keep everyone on their best behavior. Or, at the very least, better behavior. And if things went sideways, Tony could use Peter as an excuse to bow out early. It was a win-win.

The team is gathered now, sprawled across the large U-shaped sectional in the common space. A few of them have dragged dining chairs over to close the circle, forming a loose, uneven perimeter around the coffee table. In the center of the table is a precariously stacked pile of games, the source of the current debate.

Steve is lobbying hard for Monopoly.

Sam, predictably, is vehemently against it. “Nobody has time for a six-hour board game, Cap,” he says, shaking his head. He wants Cards Against Humanity instead.

Thor, completely oblivious to the cultural context of either game, chimes in with a booming, “Scrabble! I like the way it sounds. It feels… noble.”

And Clint, for some reason, is championing Uno.

The rest of the group seems indifferent, which is more than Tony can say for himself. Personally, he doesn’t care what game they pick—or if they pick one at all. If it were up to him, they’d scrap the whole thing and go their separate ways.

It’s Peter, of course, who breaks the stalemate.

“What about Pictionary?” he asks, voice quiet but steady, the way it always is when he’s testing the waters. It’s not much—a suggestion thrown into the middle of the fray—but it’s enough to pull everyone out of their squabbling.

Tony doesn’t hesitate. He claps his hands once, loud and final, like a judge delivering a verdict. “That settles it. The kid picked Pictionary, and that’s what we’re starting with.”

No one objects. Probably because it was Peter’s suggestion, and no one wants to hurt the kid’s feelings.

Win-win, Tony thinks. No more arguing, and Peter gets to pick the game.

He shoots Peter a quick look, one eyebrow raised in silent approval, and the kid beams back at him, brighter than the damn arc reactor. Yeah. Definitely a win-win.

“All right, three teams of four,” Steve announces, his Captain Voice in full effect. “Peter, since you suggested the game, you’ll be a captain. Nat, you’re a captain. And… how about Wanda?”

Tony instantly feels like he’s been hurled back to high school gym class. He’s twelve again, years younger than his classmates, standing awkwardly on the sidelines while everyone else gets picked, his brain too big and his coordination too small to be taken seriously. Athletics had never been his thing. Eventually, he’d forged a doctor’s note with Jarvis’ help just to get out of it all. Unfortunately, no amount of forged paperwork was going to get him out of this.

“I want Mr. Stark first,” Peter announces without hesitation, snapping Tony out of the spiral before it can swallow him whole.

Tony should’ve seen it coming, should’ve known Peter would pick him first. But still, it hits him sideways, this rush of warmth that overtakes the silly, bitter feeling of being unwanted by the rest of his so-called team. Not that he cared, of course. He didn’t even want to be here at this stupid game night.

“You had the first pick of everyone, and that’s who you chose, Spider-Kid?” Sam’s laugh is loud, and his head shakes in exaggerated disbelief.

The slight rolls off Tony’s back—barely a ripple. He’s heard worse, probably will hear worse before the night’s over. Sam’s just jealous Tony got picked first instead of him. That’s what Tony tells himself, anyway.

Peter, oblivious as ever, nods with a wide grin. “I want to win, so of course I picked Mr. Stark.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it’s written into the laws of physics that picking Tony means picking the winning team. And if anyone says anything after that, Tony doesn’t hear it. His heart feels too warm, his chest too full, and before he can stop himself, he slings an arm around Peter’s shoulder, grinning like an idiot.

Natasha’s up next. For a super-spy, her pick is comically predictable: Clint. The archer slides his chair over to sit next to her, grinning like he’s just won the lottery. “We’re the real winning team,” Clint declares, and Tony rolls his eyes so hard he practically sees his own brain.

Wanda’s turn is next, but she doesn’t say anything—just smiles at Vision, who’s already seated beside her. Tony feels a flicker of something complicated watching them. Vision, something he’d built, code he’d written, sitting there looking more human than most of the people in the room. It’s still weird sometimes, seeing the two of them together. But Wanda’s resentment toward him has waned over time, thanks to Vision, and Tony figures he owes the android for that.

Peter picks Rhodey next, and yeah, their team is stacked now. Clint’s the first to complain, throwing up his hands. “How’s that fair? Peter’s team is full of people who’ve known each other forever.”

Peter, to Tony’s surprise—and everyone else’s, by the looks on their faces—fires back, “Well, Mr. Barton, your team is triple my age. With all that experience combined, you shouldn’t have any problem beating us.”

The room goes silent for a beat, then breaks into laughter. Peter’s little quip seems to energize everyone, bringing a buzz of excitement to the room. Even Tony’s impressed, glancing down at the kid with something that feels suspiciously like pride.

Natasha grins and picks Steve next, shooting Peter a playful look. “And now we’ve got a dinosaur on our team,” she teases. “You’re going down.”

Wanda’s next pick is Thor, which Tony thinks is objectively ridiculous. The guy barely understands Earth games, let alone strategy. But that’s not Tony’s problem.

On Peter’s last turn, he picks Bruce. The moment the choice is locked in, Peter declares their team name with unrestrained enthusiasm: “The Science Bros!” Rhodey groans at the name, but the kid looks so proud Tony doesn’t bother arguing.

The last picks fall into place. Bucky lands on Natasha’s team, predictably sticking close to Steve, which makes Tony snort quietly because of course the two of them have to be glued together. (Not that Tony’s in any position to judge, with both Rhodey and Peter stuck to his side now.)

That leaves Sam as the final pick, landing him on Wanda’s team. Tony’s grin edges toward smug. It’s not technically his fault Sam was picked last, but he’ll enjoy it anyway.

Keeping with the night’s unofficial theme, Peter goes first. Naturally. Tony assumes it’s some unspoken rule that the kid gets to lead off because, well, he’s the kid. Just another instance of the team treating Peter like a child instead of an equal.

Tony doesn’t dwell on it, though. He doesn’t need to unpack that particular irritation right now. Instead, he focuses on the game, leaning forward as Peter picks a card from the deck, grinning like he’s already won.

“This is too easy!” Peter proclaims, bounding up to the drawing screen with way too much enthusiasm. He starts dragging his finger across the touchscreen, lines forming a box of some kind. He barely gets four strokes in before Tony and Rhodey shout at the same time:

“Computer!”

Peter beams, spinning around and nodding like they’ve just cracked the Da Vinci Code.

Thor claps loudest, his booming applause making the entire team jump. Sam groans, leaning over to remind the god of thunder, “You know we’re playing against them, right? You’re not supposed to cheer for the other team.”

Thor tilts his head in confusion. “But I am proud of the boy of spiders.”

Tony smirks, shaking his head. It’s impossible to argue with Thor’s sincerity.

Next up is Natasha’s team, and she defers to Clint, who all but leaps at the chance to go first. Tony barely pays attention, too busy high-fiving Peter and basking in their early victory. He only looks up in time to catch Natasha guessing “jellyfish” correctly, one glance at the screen confirming her win. Tony shrugs. Decent drawing, he guesses. Not bad for Clint.

Wanda’s team is next, and Thor can’t sit still long enough to wait for his turn. He pulls a card from the deck and promptly booms, “How does one draw a motorcycle?”

The room erupts into laughter, Sam groaning loudest while Peter grins like this is all part of the fun.

“Uh, Mr. Thor, sir,” Peter pipes up, polite as ever, “you can’t tell us what your card is. We’re supposed to guess. So, um… you’ll need to pull a new one.”

Thor nods solemnly, as though Peter has just imparted great wisdom. “Ah, I see now,” he says, his voice thoughtful. He draws a new card, glances at it, and clamps his mouth shut before heading to the screen.

The result is… abstract. His drawing looks like a telephone pole with rollerblades somehow attached to it. No one—not even Wanda, whose powers should theoretically give her some kind of edge here—can figure out what on Earth (or Asgard) he’s trying to depict.

Tony squints at the screen, trying to piece it together himself. Nope. Nothing. Not even a guess.

When the timer chimes overhead, signaling the end of Thor’s turn, Sam groans again, louder this time, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. “You’re a literal god! How does a seven-year-old have better drawing skills than you?” His pointed look lands on Peter.

Peter mumbles under his breath, barely audible, “I’m not seven…”

Tony nudges him, slinging an arm around his shoulders and squeezing lightly. “It’s okay, kid,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Sam only says seven because he can’t count any higher than that.”

The room erupts again, this time in laughter that Tony takes full credit for. Peter smiles up at him, his confidence restored, and Tony smiles in return. 

The next two rounds pass without much drama. Bruce and Rhodey each bring in a point for Team Science Bros, bumping them up to a solid three points by the end of round three. Steve predictably scores for his team—no surprise there. Tony’s known for years that the super-soldier has a knack for art.

Bucky, on the other hand, flounders. When it’s his turn, he attempts to draw a piece of candy, but it ends up looking like a sad balloon. His team keeps shouting “balloon!” while Bucky furiously shakes his head and scribbles more details that only make things worse.

Tony crosses his arms, tilting his head in mild disbelief. “It’s a lollipop,” he mutters to Rhodey, rolling his eyes. “So much for the ‘unbreakable bond’ between best friends.”

Rhodey bites back a laugh, and Tony feels a flicker of satisfaction.

Vision is up next for Wanda’s team, and as expected, his drawing is precise and pristine, guessed almost instantly. He earns them their first point, prompting Sam to leap up and cheer. “I knew you had it in you, Vis!”

Tony leans back, quirking a brow. He wonders—not for the first time—if Sam remembers that Vision’s precision, his very existence, is a product of Tony’s ingenuity. Probably not. Another debate for another time.

The last turn for Wanda’s team belongs to Sam himself. He grabs his card, grinning wide, and strides to the board like he’s just won the lottery. “Oh, you guys are gonna love this,” he says, chuckling to himself as he starts drawing.

The first thing he sketches looks like an upside-down fish.

“Fish?” someone guesses.

Sam shakes his head, laughing harder, and starts adding to the picture. A boxy shape emerges—uneven but unmistakable. Tony leans forward, squinting.

Is that…?

No.

But yes. Sam’s drawn the unmistakable silhouette of the Stark Tower, complete with little squiggly lines that could only be flies.

“Garbage?” Vision asks calmly, and Sam cheers, pumping his fists in victory as the timer buzzes.

“Garbage! That’s right! Nailed it!”

The room erupts into groans and laughter, but Natasha isn’t letting it go. She narrows her eyes at the board, her tone dry. “What’s the tower for?”

“Oh, come on!” Sam says, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s the Stark Tower. Get it? Trash Tower!” He spreads his arms like he’s just delivered the joke of the century, waiting for applause.

Tony feels the familiar sting of the jab, but before he can retort, Peter’s voice cuts through the noise.

“But Mr. Wilson, sir,” Peter says, his tone polite but laced with steel, “I thought you were drawing trash?”

Sam laughs, pointing at Peter. “Exactly, kid! That’s the joke. Don’t feel bad—it just went over your head.”

Tony’s already opening his mouth to fire back, but Peter beats him to it.

“It didn’t go over my head, Mr. Wilson,” Peter says evenly, his expression calm but his voice sharp enough to cut through the room. “I just didn’t think it was funny.”

The laughter dies instantly.

The room goes quiet as Sam falters, his grin slipping into something less certain. He glances around, looking for backup, but finds none.

Tony leans back in his seat, smirking as he watches Peter sit there, completely unfazed. The kid doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t need to. He just shoots Tony a small, satisfied smile before turning his attention back to the game.

And Tony? Tony’s heart feels a little too full.

By the time Uno is chosen as the next game, Tony’s feeling… lighter. It’s a safe bet, Uno. No teams, no complicated rules, no strategy that requires an Ivy League education. Sometimes you just get a shitty hand, and that’s that.

Tony’s reaching for the deck, ready to shuffle, when Steve clears his throat.

“I’ll handle that,” Steve says, holding his hand out for the cards. “Just to make sure it’s all fair.”

Tony pauses, blinking at him. Fair? Did Steve really think he’d cheat at Uno? Could he even cheat at Uno? It’s Uno.

Still, Tony hands over the deck without a word, his jaw tightening slightly. It’s not worth it—not tonight. The last thing he wants is for Peter to walk away from this thinking Tony’s the one creating problems. He doesn’t want to give the kid any reason to think he’s not a good option for a mentor, not when he already doubts himself more than he’d ever admit.

He watches as Steve shuffles the cards with a precision that’s borderline ridiculous. It’s not poker. It’s not even Monopoly. It’s Uno. But apparently, the All-American Hero feels the need to flex his integrity over something this trivial.

Tony leans back, feigning indifference, though his fingers drum a quiet rhythm against his knee. “All yours, Gramps,” he says, unable to resist. His smirk practically appears on reflex. “Just try not to break a finger shuffling too hard.”

Steve’s eye roll is immediate, the tension breaking ever so slightly.

Peter, seated snugly between Natasha and Sam, lets out a soft giggle. The sound pulls Tony’s attention like a magnet, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

And for a moment, just a moment, the weight on his chest lightens.

Because if Peter can survive this circus, maybe Tony can, too.

They settle into the game, the circle a strange, mismatched mix of personalities that somehow coexist without imploding. At least, not yet.

The sectional wraps around most of them—Bruce, Rhodey, Natasha, Peter, Sam, Bucky, and Steve—while the dining chairs dragged in from the other room complete the perimeter: Tony, Vision, Wanda, and Thor. It’s an odd setup, one that Tony knows is a ticking time bomb. The minute someone throws down a Reverse or a Draw Four, chaos is inevitable.

For now, though, they stick to the order.

The first round passes with minimal drama. Bruce draws first blood, dropping a Draw Two on Natasha, who narrows her eyes at him but says nothing. Peter wins the round with a well-timed Wild card, his grin wide as he declares, “Red,” and sets down his last card.

“Beginner’s luck,” Sam teases, shaking his head as he gathers the deck to reshuffle. “Don’t let it go to your head, kid.”

Peter shrugs, his grin unfazed. “I’ll try not to, Mr. Wilson, sir.”

Tony catches the glint of pride in Peter’s eyes—the subtle spark that comes from holding his own. It’s quickly drowned out by Sam’s exaggerated groan as he starts dealing the next hand, but Tony sees it, and it makes the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

The second round is where the jabs really start flying.

Steve skips Tony’s turn with a smirk that’s just this side of condescending. “Just saving you the trouble, Stark. Thought you’d appreciate a break.”

Tony tilts his head, his smile thin and practiced. “Oh, sure. Thanks, Cap. I’ll just sit here and admire your sloppy gameplay instead”

Peter snickers beside Natasha, who smirks into her cards, but Tony barely has time to savor his minor victory before Sam jumps in.

“You’re pretty quiet tonight, Trash Tower,” Sam says, slapping down a Reverse card and tossing the turn back to Peter. “What’s the matter? Lose your spark?”

Tony can see Peter stiffen beside them, his grip tightening around his cards. Tony’s chest tightens in response, the familiar itch to intervene rising, but before he can say anything, Peter beats him to it.

“I think he’s saving his energy,” Peter says evenly, his voice calm but cutting. He doesn’t look at Sam, his gaze fixed instead on his cards. “You know, for when it counts. Like when he beats you.”

The words land like a dart, sharp and precise.

Sam blinks, momentarily thrown off as the rest of the room bursts into laughter.

Tony raises an eyebrow, a flicker of pride warming his chest as he leans back in his chair. His gaze flicks briefly to Peter, who’s still staring at his cards, his expression neutral but his lips curving with the hint of a grin.

By the third round, the teasing broadens.

Natasha targets Peter with a Draw Four, smirking as she drops the card like it’s a calculated strike. “Don’t take it personally, Spider-Kid. Just keeping you humble.”

Peter groans, pulling the cards reluctantly but without complaint, the good sport he always is. Sam leans over to pat him on the shoulder, his grin wide. “It’s okay, kid. It’s all part of growing up. First you get humiliated at Uno, next thing you know, you’re paying taxes. It’s a slippery slope.”

And maybe it’s stupid—how annoyed Tony gets seeing Sam try to be all mentorly with Peter—but he can’t help it. Something about it sets his teeth on edge. He bites the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to stay silent.

But he sees the way Peter bristles. It’s subtle—just a flicker in his expression, the faint tightening of his jaw—but Tony catches it.

“You’re not wrong, Mr. Wilson, sir,” Peter says finally, his voice calm but firm, as he carefully arranges his cards. “Except I don’t think losing at Uno counts as humiliation. Maybe for you, but not for me.”

The table erupts into laughter, startled and genuine. Clearly, they hadn’t expected this side of Peter.

Even Tony is momentarily surprised, though the corner of his mouth quirks upward into a grin. He doesn’t hate it. In fact, he finds he quite enjoys it.

The kid’s sharp, and he’s holding his own better than Tony ever expected.

The game continues, and Clint, finally finding his footing after a quiet start, lays down a Skip on Tony.

“Look at that,” Clint says, gesturing to the card like it’s a trophy. “Finally found a way to make Stark sit out for once. If only we could get him to shut up, too.”

Laughter ripples around the table, everyone joining in—bar Rhodey, Peter, Bruce, and Vision. Even Thor chuckles, though Tony doesn’t take it personally. He half-thinks Thor laughs just because everyone else is, not because he actually understands the joke.

Tony raises an eyebrow, leaning back in his seat with a practiced smirk. “Wow, Barton. Really pulling out all the stops, huh? I’m impressed. Must’ve taken you all three rounds to come up with that one.”

The room chuckles again, the banter bouncing around like a volleyball.

For Tony, it’s a shield—a substitute for the armor he isn’t wearing. A practiced layer of deflection to keep the jabs from cutting too deep.

But underneath it, his gut churns.

The digs aimed at Peter are lighthearted enough, playful even. Tony doesn’t mind them—hell, even Peter doesn’t seem to mind them.

But the ones aimed at him?

They always carry an edge. A weight.

There’s another level of meaning behind them, a layer of truth that scratches too close to the surface. It’s a constant reminder of how little they think of him, how easily they brush him off as arrogant, selfish, not good enough.

It’s not new. It’s not even surprising. It’s just how it’s always been.

By the time they shuffle into their third and final game of the night—much to almost everyone’s chagrin—Tony’s patience is running dangerously thin. Personally, he’d thought they could have called it quits after Uno. But, of course, why would anyone listen to him? It’s not like he’s incredibly intelligent, easily the smartest person in the room or anything. Noooo, that would be absurd. (Sarcasm, in case anyone missed it.)

Steve Rogers, naturally, had gotten his way. Monopoly.

Because of course.

Tony’s not even going to pretend to be shocked. Steve always gets his way. It’s practically a superpower at this point, though Tony wouldn’t go so far as to call it a useful one. The guy’s determination to push through with Monopoly isn’t just unnecessary—it’s misguided. When this game inevitably blows up in their faces (and it will), Tony’s not going to feel bad. Not in the slightest.

The only silver lining is that someone—probably Natasha—had the foresight to enforce a time limit. One hour. Whoever has the most money and assets at the end of that hour gets crowned Monopoly Champion, and then they can all go their separate ways.

Tony tries to focus on that: the countdown. Sixty minutes.

And yet, despite everything—despite wanting to be anywhere else, despite the tension thrumming just beneath the surface—there’s a small part of him that’s… excited. Monopoly’s one of his favorite games. Sure, it’s long and occasionally rage-inducing, but it’s also a game of strategy. Of power. And if anyone in this room knows how to build an empire, it’s Tony Stark.

Hell, he plays Monopoly in real life. He owns actual properties in New York, has expanded Stark Industries across the globe, and regularly outmaneuvers people who think they’re smarter than him. If Steve Rogers wants to play this game, then fine. Tony’s going to make him regret it.

Except… that’s not how the rest of them see it.

Before the first roll of the dice, it’s painfully clear: they’ve all decided their primary goal is to make Tony lose. They’re not even subtle about it.

Steve and Bucky huddle together, whispering strategy like they’re planning a military op. Natasha and Clint are already negotiating trades before the game even starts. Sam loudly proclaims that everyone needs to “unite against Stark,” and Thor—bless his oblivious heart—nods along as if this is some great, noble cause.

It’s laughable. Infuriating. Predictable.

Tony doesn’t even need to hear the specifics to know what they’re up to. They want him to fail. It’s not about winning—it’s about making sure he doesn’t.

Under normal circumstances, Tony wouldn’t care. He’d lean into it, make it his mission to crush them all just to prove a point. And he’s still planning to win, of course. But tonight, the familiar sting of being outnumbered cuts a little deeper.

It feels too much like the Accords. Too much like how they’d turned on him back then, how quickly they’d made him the villain.

The difference is, back then, he’d tried to explain himself. He’d tried to reason with them, to justify his choices, to take accountability where he could. He hadn’t realized until it was too late that it wouldn’t matter. They’d already made up their minds about him.

And now, watching them gang up on him over a stupid board game, Tony feels that old ache creeping back in.

But then there’s Peter.

Sitting next to him, bright-eyed and eager, Peter hasn’t joined in on the scheming. Neither have Rhodey, Bruce, Vision, or Thor, though Thor’s likely because he doesn’t fully understand what’s happening. But Peter… Peter is different. He’s not just sitting this out—he’s actively on Tony’s side.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says quietly, holding up his little thimble game piece. “What do you think? Should I start by buying the orange properties, or should I save up for the railroads?”

Tony raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching upward. “Kid, rule number one of Monopoly: never waste your money on railroads. Trust me.”

Peter nods solemnly, taking Tony’s advice as gospel, and the knot in Tony’s chest loosens just a bit.

“Alright,” Steve says, holding the dice like it’s a sacred artifact. “Let’s play fair and square.”

Tony snorts. “Fair and square? Sure, Cap. Because nothing says fair like six people openly plotting against one guy.”

Peter frowns, glancing around the room. “Wait… are they really all going after you, Mr. Stark?”

“Oh, yeah, kid,” Tony replies, his tone light but his smile tight. “That’s the plan. Crush Stark Industries before I even get a chance to build it. It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

Peter doesn’t look convinced. His brows furrow, and Tony can see the wheels turning in his head.

Across the table, Sam smirks, his little dog piece landing on Boardwalk. “Hey, Stark, don’t worry. We’ll let you buy Boardwalk. You know, just so we can bankrupt you faster.”

Peter’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing. “That doesn’t even make sense, Mr. Wilson,” he says, his voice calm but cutting. “If you bankrupt him, then what’s the point? The game’s over, and you can’t win either.”

Sam falters for a moment under Peter’s sharp reply, but before the tension can settle, Steve steps in like clockwork.

“It’s just some light teasing, son. How we play the game,” Steve says, his tone calm but laced with that subtle air of superiority that always makes Tony’s skin crawl.

Tony bites the inside of his cheek to keep from rolling his eyes. Light teasing. Sure. And maybe it would be, if the jabs didn’t always seem to find their way back to him. The only reason Tony doesn’t fire off a comeback is Peter, who’s clearly still stewing beside him.

Peter might be naïve at times, but he’s not stupid. If anything, he’s too perceptive. It’s one of the reasons Tony keeps him around. But it’s also why Tony has to tread carefully now.

Peter might want to assume the best of everyone—his moral compass is practically factory-installed—but once he realizes someone’s being unfair, he doesn’t let it slide. And if Tony lets this get under his skin, if he escalates even slightly, Peter will be right there with him. Loyal to a fault.

And as comforting as that loyalty is, Tony’s already dragged Peter far enough into the Avengers’ messes. They just need to get through an hour of this game. One hour, and they can leave.

So Tony clears his throat and gives Peter a tight smile. “It’s all good, kid. Let’s just play the game, alright?”

Peter doesn’t look convinced. He’s probably already seeing straight through Tony’s mask—because, somehow, this fifteen-year-old kid can read him better than teammates Tony’s worked with through some of the most strenuous situations imaginable.

But Peter stays quiet, and the game begins.

The plotting against Tony starts almost immediately.

“Bucky,” Steve says, his tone serious as he lands on a space with a house. “I’ll trade you Connecticut Avenue for Tennessee Avenue. You don’t need the blue properties anyway, and this’ll set you up for the greens.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Wow. Tactical negotiations already? Didn’t know Monopoly was a team sport.”

“It’s not,” Steve replies smoothly, without so much as glancing Tony’s way. “We’re just using strategy. You should try it sometime.”

Tony smiles tightly, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, don’t worry about me, Cap. I’ve been strategizing since you were still thawing out.”

Across the table, Peter’s jaw twitches, but he stays silent for now, his gaze darting between Tony and Steve.

Sam, meanwhile, smirks as he picks up the dice. “Speaking of strategy,” he says, moving his dog token onto a space Tony’s clearly been eyeing. “Guess who’s buying Marvin Gardens?”

“Not bad,” Clint chimes in, grinning as Sam tosses a stack of fake cash onto the table. “Stark’s probably crying on the inside right now.”

Tony shrugs, feigning indifference. “Please. Marvin Gardens? Hardly prime real estate. You’re doing me a favor, Wilson.”

Peter cuts a sharp glance at Sam, his lips pressed into a thin line. Tony catches the look and nudges the kid under the table, silently telling him to let it go. But Peter’s face doesn’t relax.

The turns continue, and Natasha skips past every opportunity to block Clint, who now owns nearly the entire light blue section of the board.

“Smart move, Romanoff,” Tony mutters as she passes him the dice. “Let Barton run the board. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Maybe I just like a good underdog story,” Natasha replies smoothly, smirking at Clint as he starts stacking houses on Vermont Avenue.

“Underdog? Him?” Tony gestures at Clint, who’s preening in his seat. “Sure. And I’m Santa Claus.”

The room chuckles, but the jabs don’t stop.

When Sam lands on Tony’s hotel-laden Pacific Avenue, Tony leans forward, unable to resist. “That’ll be $1,400, Wilson,” he says, holding out his hand. “Or you could mortgage a few properties, but I doubt they’re worth much.”

Sam narrows his eyes, handing over the cash without a word. But when it’s his turn again, he immediately trades with Steve to give him the final orange property, ensuring Tony can’t monopolize that section.

“That’s teamwork,” Sam says smugly, leaning back.

“It’s a pity we’re not playing charades,” Tony replies smoothly. “You’d probably win Best Supporting Actor.”

Rhodey chokes on a laugh, and Peter’s mouth twitches like he’s holding back a grin.

Tony knows the kid’s holding onto his temper by a thread. Every time someone piles on Tony—whether it’s Sam’s smug remarks, Steve’s superior tone, or even Bucky’s murmured little snide remarks—Peter’s frown deepens, his fingers drumming against the table.

But it’s Clint who finally pushes him over the edge.

“Man, Stark,” Clint says after Tony lands on his fully developed red property and hands over a hefty stack of cash. “Didn’t think you’d last this long. Thought you’d crash and burn by now.”

Tony shrugs, sliding the money across the table. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

“Must be,” Clint replies, his tone sharper now that the game’s heating up. “I mean, usually it’s your tech that screws things up for everyone, not you personally.”

Peter slams his cards on the table.

“Mr. Barton, sir,” Peter says, his voice cutting through the room sharper than Tony’s ever heard it. “Are you seriously blaming Mr. Stark for your own mistakes? Because if I remember right, most of those ‘screw-ups’ happened when people decided not to listen to him.”

The room falls silent, every set of eyes snapping to Peter.

Tony opens his mouth to say something—to defuse the tension—but the words don’t come. He’s too stunned. Peter had been growing snappier throughout the night, more vocal and confident, but this? Clint’s comment had been the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Peter is upset. It’s clear as day.

You don’t have to know him well to see it. The way his hands hover over his cards, the fire in his gaze as he looks at Clint expectantly—it’s all there.

Tony shifts in his seat, about to step in, but Rhodey’s hand clamps down on his leg, stopping him. Rhodey shoots him a look that says let this play out.

And Tony really, really doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t want a kid— his kid—to fight his battles for him or defend his honor. But Tony also knows Peter. Knows that unless he suits up and forcibly removes the boy from the situation, Peter won’t back down. And Tony’s not about to manipulate him into stopping. That’s a hard line he refuses to cross.

So, he stays quiet, letting the awkwardness settle over the group as Peter waits for an answer.

“Kid, I don’t think you quite understand the whole thing here,” Clint says finally, his tone condescending as he shrugs. “This is adult stuff.”

Tony snorts before he can stop himself. The sound is loud and unexpected, drawing the attention of the entire room.

Clint looks at him, confused, but Tony just shakes his head, an amused smile curling his lips. “Mr. Barton,” Tony says, leaning back in his chair, “did you even read the Accords?”

Clint hesitates, his mouth opening as if to lie, but there are too many people here who know the truth. “No,” he admits reluctantly.

Peter’s gaze shifts, sharp as ever, as he looks at Steve, then Sam, then Natasha. “Did any of you?”

Natasha nods, a quiet “I did.”

Sam and Steve exchange glances before both muttering a sheepish, “No.”

Peter actually laughs. It’s not bitter or mean, but it’s disbelieving, incredulous. Tony just sits there, watching it unfold, his chest tightening with a mix of pride and unease.

“Yeah, well, I did,” Peter says, his voice steady as he looks each of them in the eye, holding their gazes with the kind of confidence Tony usually reserves for board meetings.

Sam scoffs, leaning back in his chair. “There’s no way you even understood any of that.”

Peter raises his eyebrows, the gesture perfectly synchronized with Tony’s.

“You’re saying I don’t have basic reading comprehension?” Peter asks, his tone even but pointed.

“Actually, I did understand it,” Peter continues before Sam can reply. “And even if I hadn’t, Mr. Stark and I sat down together one day and went through the whole document. He explained every part to me, and we talked about it before I signed.”

The room goes completely still.

“I signed,” Peter says firmly, “because it was the right thing to do. And because Mr. Stark promised that the Accords would protect my identity and my age, and that they wouldn’t force me into action—or inaction—if I didn’t want to take it. And guess what? He delivered on that promise.”

Peter’s voice rises slightly, carrying the kind of weight Tony rarely hears from him. “And when it was all said and done, I said thank you. Can any of you say the same? Or have you spent the last month treating him horribly, even though you could all be in jail right now?”

Peter’s gaze sweeps the room, his voice unwavering. “He didn’t have to get your sentences reduced. Didn’t have to let the tower be where you served your time. But he did. And you treat him like crap for it. It’s not fair.”

The silence is deafening.

Tony watches, stunned into stillness, as Peter sits back in his chair, his chest heaving slightly. The kid looks around the table one last time before turning back to his cards like nothing happened.

And Tony? Tony doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or pull Peter into a bone-crushing hug.

“Look, son, we didn’t mean to—” Steve starts, his voice calm but firm, cutting through the silence.

This time, Tony doesn’t bother fighting the eye roll that follows. It’s so automatic it practically feels reflexive.

“I’m not your son, Mr. Captain America, sir, ” Peter interjects, his tone polite but laced with a sharpness that makes Tony’s chest swell just a little.

And it’s funny, really—because even as Peter stands there, berating a room full of grown superheroes, he’s still polite. It only reinforces Tony’s belief that Peter is better than all of them combined.

“Peter,” Steve corrects, his tone softening slightly, like he’s trying to reason with a child. “There’s just… a lot that happened that you don’t quite understand. And we didn’t mean to make you upset tonight.”

Peter shakes his head, a small, sad gesture that carries more weight than any words could.

“That’s the thing,” Peter says, his voice quiet but steady. “You’re worried about making me upset when you don’t even care about how you’re making Mr. Stark feel.”

The words hit the room like a hammer.

Peter looks around the table, his gaze sharper than Tony’s seen it all night. “He’s the one you should be apologizing to. He’s the reason you’re all here right now. And I don’t have to know everything to see that you’re being bullies.”

The word lands with a weight none of them expect.

It’s simple, straightforward, and sobering in a way that cuts right through the tension.

Because it’s true.

It doesn’t matter that “bully” is a word they’d normally associate with schoolyard scuffles—it fits. It fits in a way none of them can deny.

And Tony sees it.

Even with the Accords aside, they’ve been horrible to him.

It’s like they all forgot that they were friends before any of this. Forgot that Tony was a member of the team—an integral one, at that. And the moment Tony made a choice they didn’t agree with, they’d written him off completely.

Forgotten who he was.

But despite writing him off, they’d still expected everything to go back to normal when the dust settled. Tony was supposed to keep footing the bill for all things Avengers-related, ensuring their materials, weapons, and gear were top-of-the-line. He was supposed to take their jabs, their remarks, their cold shoulders—because he deserved it, right? That’s just how it was supposed to work.

And no one called them on it.

Until now.

Until a fifteen-year-old—still technically a kid, no less—pointed out what none of them had the decency to admit.

Tony glances at Peter, who’s sitting back in his chair now, calm but resolute, and for the first time in a long time, Tony doesn’t feel alone in the room.

The silence that follows is heavy, stretching out long enough to make even Steve shift uncomfortably in his seat.

“Peter…” Natasha’s voice is quiet, carefully measured. “We—”

But she doesn’t finish.

Because there’s nothing left to say.

Tony lets the silence sit for just a moment longer before clearing his throat, leaning forward with a slow smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Well,” Tony says, his voice light but firm. “That was... enlightening. Shall we finish the game?”

“I’m calling it a night,” Peter says, setting his cards down on the table. He stands, pushing his chair back, and glances around the room. “Night, everyone. See you next time.”

His voice is even, calm, as though the last fifteen minutes hadn’t just upended the entire room.

Peter pauses as he reaches Tony’s side, tilting his head slightly, clearly waiting for him to join. Tony grins, pushing his own chair back with a dramatic flair.

“That’s my cue,” he says, tossing his cards onto the table with a smirk. “See ya later, losers.”

The words are a deflection, as they so often are, but they roll off his tongue with ease. Because, honestly, what else is there to say? The night’s already taken a turn Tony doesn’t particularly care to stick around for.

He follows Peter to the elevator, Rhodey muttering his goodbyes and scurrying after them.

Tony doesn’t know how game night plays out after that. Doesn’t particularly care, either. He figures Peter’s little tirade probably killed the mood—and good riddance.

Because Tony already knows how he wants to spend the rest of his night.

He wants to be on the penthouse sofa, watching some terrible movie Peter picks out even though the kid has awful taste. He wants to order takeout that’s far from Michelin-star quality and argue over whose fries are better. He wants to end up in the lab when they should definitely be sleeping, tinkering on a project neither of them will finish but both will enjoy.

It’ll probably result in a lecture from Pepper the next morning, but Peter can bat those ridiculously big, innocent eyes at her, and all will be forgiven. Especially when she hears about what happened tonight—no doubt from Rhodey—and cuts Tony some slack.

The elevator doors close behind them, sealing off the awkward tension of the common room.

“Kid, thank you,” Rhodey says, his voice softer than usual.

Peter glances up, frowning slightly. “For what?”

“For getting through to them in a way I haven’t been able to,” Rhodey says, the weight of those words heavy in the space between them.

Peter smiles, small but genuine. “I just couldn’t take it anymore,” he admits, shifting slightly to look at Tony.

“I couldn’t let them talk to you like that. And you shouldn’t, either,” Peter says, his voice steady but filled with the kind of conviction that makes Tony feel like he’s been hit with a sledgehammer. “Remember what you told me about Flash?”

Tony blinks, caught off guard for a moment.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat, his voice quiet. “I told you not to let anyone make you feel like you don’t belong. Like you don’t deserve the space you’re in.”

Peter nods, his expression firm. “Exactly. So why do you let them make you feel like that?”

The elevator comes to a stop, the soft chime breaking the silence, but neither of them moves.

Tony looks at Peter, the kid’s eyes wide and sincere, and feels something shift.

Because Peter’s right.

He’s right.

Tony reaches out, resting a hand lightly on Peter’s shoulder, his grip steady and warm. “You’re something else, kid. You know that?”

Peter grins, his usual brightness creeping back into his expression. “You’ve mentioned it once or twice.”

The doors slide open, and Tony gives Peter a gentle nudge forward.

“Alright,” Tony says, his voice lighter now. “Let’s go pick out that crappy movie you love so much. But fair warning—I’m vetoing anything with aliens this time.”

“Good luck with that,” Peter teases, already bounding ahead.

Tony watches him go, shaking his head but smiling all the same.

Rhodey steps out beside him, clapping a hand on Tony’s back. “You’ve got a good one there, Tones.”

Tony nods, his gaze lingering on Peter as the kid starts rattling off movie suggestions.

“Yeah,” Tony says quietly, his voice almost lost in the hum of the penthouse. “I do.”