A/N: This is the first part of a series and I don't yet have a clue how to make that clear on and it's probabyl not really important for the following parts? Idk, honestly. Anyway, so this is more of a background story to something (maybe, possibly multi-chaptered?) I'm going to write at some point. Hope you enjoy!

Fun fact, the title is actually inspired by Believer by Imagine Dragons but just because my preliminary title for this was "first things first" because I had to write this first and it kind of stuck so I tried to stick to the song ?

Have fun with this!

The gunshot echoes through the unusually quiet night, eliciting a string of curse words in response from the hooded figure dressed in all black strolling through the streets of Queens. On instinct, before he even makes out where the sound is coming from, his left hand reaches for his right wrist where his watch gauntlet is strapped firmly into place.

Now, Tony Stark doesn't usually make it a habit to walk through the narrow alleys of New York at night on a whim.

Growing up in the spotlight he never did have the privilege to go out whenever he pleases and he has enough bad memories of the vultures who call themselves the media that the appealing feeling of freedom rarely trumps the deeply ingrained instinct to hide.

Insomnia's a bitch, though, and there are a few nights in which neither the burning of his favorite whiskey in his throat, nor the drive to create is enough to keep him focused. Those nights occasionally find him outside, just walking through the city that never sleeps, clad in a black hoodie and sweatpants, baseball cap pulled deep into his face so not even his rather distinctive goatee can give him away.

Maybe it's an inherit urge to fit in with the masses for once; to walk along a dimly lit street like everyone else. Maybe it's the desire to be away from all the posh and the glamour and the burden both bring, to take off the load from his shoulders that's weighing him down every day. Maybe it's both, maybe neither.

He's not sure but he figures it doesn't really matter because he regrets it the second he hears the gun go off and the blood curdling scream that follows.

There's only a split moment of hesitation, a reluctance born of bloody memories in cold caves, before the new instinct, the one that wants to right his wrongs, takes over and his steps lead him closer to the sound not away from it.

The luxury of not stepping in doesn't exist anymore, not after everything that's happened. It's a duty now, a new cross to bear but one he has found he bears gladly. Someone must take a stand against evil. Why should it not be him?

"Hello," he calls out as he rounds the corner, hand hovering over his watch in case he needs firepower. He ignores the way it's shaking in favor of zeroing in on the scene of the crime.

In the dark alley, a few feet away from the only source of light, lies a grown person on the ground, a smaller person is bend over them and it's only when he gets closer that he identifies them to be a child, not older than three or four years if he had to guess. The image sparks something in his chest, a need to protect that has nothing to do with his responsibility as Ironman.

He brushes it off with a shake of his head, ignoring the way it runs down his back like ice water.

The kid is shaking what he supposes is his father's body, screaming through tears, small body trembling from cold and fear. It's a boy, he sees then, but he doesn't look up when Tony approaches cautiously and kneels beside the man who is staring straight ahead, eyes blank and cold, body unmoving with blood leaking from the wound in his chest.

Well. Shit.

He quietly orders Jarvis to call an ambulance, knowing that a hearse would probably have been the better call, and focusses on the kid in front of him who is still clinging to his father and hasn't acknowledged him yet. His screams intermingle with memories of his own. The child's pleas mirroring the ones he cried out at 21.

Tony blinks and shoves the memories away. He doesn't have time for them, he needs to focus.

"Hey," he starts, voice shaky with nerves and a fear he's trying not to acknowledge. He's miles out of his comfort zone and he knows it. He knows that he knows jack shit about dealing with kids and he knows he's going to mess up but right now he's the only one here. He's the only option.

"Who're you, kid?"

There's no reply other than loud cries for Uncle Ben but he hasn't really expected much more, either.

He reaches out slowly, telegraphing every movement to not startle the frightened boy more. "I'm Tony," he whispers because it seems like the right thing to do, "can you come over here, buddy?"

The boy hasn't stopped crying, eyes red and wet behind thick glasses and cheeks a bright red, but he seems to be listening because he's shaking his head and only clings more tightly to the dead man, ear pressed to the man's bloody chest as if listening for a heartbeat Tony checks isn't there.

"Uncle Ben," he snivels, "Uncle Ben, Uncle Ben, Uncle Ben. Wake up!" The last part is a scream and a tiny fist hits his uncle's chest. To no avail. He doesn't move and the kid is getting more distraught with every passing second.

"Ssh, buddy, it's okay."

It's decidedly not okay, he thinks bitterly.

"You're going to make yourself sick. I already called for help, they're on their way."

Not that they will be able to do much, he doesn't add.

"He- he ne- needs an- an ambu- ambulance," the boy cries, dark, sad eyes meeting Tony's with an intelligence that he doesn't expect. His eyes look old and broken as if used to loss and Tony decides it's the most gruesome thing he's ever seen. The need to chase those ghosts away comes sudden and unexpected and with a force that knocks the air out of his lungs.

Focus.

"I know," he replies softly, "They're coming. They should be here any second but they need space to help him." He's kneeling on the other side of the body now, peeling the kid's skinny body from the bloody jacket with gentle hands. "And until they get here, I need to put pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding. Can you let me do that? Can you let me help your uncle?"

"But you can't. They can't."

The vehemence and grief and anger in the small boy's voice startles him. He knows.

"He's gone. He's gone. Everyone goes away. I want," he hiccups, "I want Aunt May. I wanna go home, I wanna go home, home, home. Uncle Ben."

The name is not much more than a whimper and Tony can relate. Even at twenty-something losing his parent's had messed him up so badly he remembers throwing up from the sheer force of grief and there was nothing he wanted more in that moment than to go home. Wherever that was.

"I can take you home, buddy," he tells him, voice raw with an emotion he's not yet sure how to define. "Just –" He wants to extend his arm in offering but his hands are coated in blood, trying to stem a wound he knows is fatal. It's not even really bleeding anymore but he can't stop, can't give up this last strand of hope he knows the boy is clinging to.

He watches the kid, unsure of how to finish that sentence and dropping it altogether when he realizes the shivering is getting worse, realizes that the boy is bound to go into shock at some point and starts getting out of his hooded jacket while keeping pressure on the wound.

"Put that on, buddy," he coaxes, "I promise I will bring you home."

The boy looks at him, nose scrunched up and eyes puffy in the murky light of the street lamp, his hand holding the jacket loosely. He looks like there's a war raging behind his doe eyes. Part of him wanting to stay with his uncle who's turning colder by the second and the other part craving the warm comfort Tony's offering.

"I'm not supposed to go with strangers," he blubbers out after a while and rubs the snot from his nose with a sleeve, smearing blood across his cheek in the process. While he says it he slips an arm into the oversized cloth. If at all possible it makes him look even smaller.

Tony's heart breaks for the child.

"I know, buddy, and that's very smart but you're getting cold and I want to help you." He can hear the sirens in the distance and thanks the heavens when they start getting closer. "Or we can wait for the ambulance and they can take you to the hospital until your aunt gets there, if you want."

"No!" he screams suddenly and lurches to his feet, hands clenched to small fists at his side, "No, no, no, no. I don't wanna go to the hospital. I wanna go home. I wanna go home," he whines and he looks so lost and so small and so broken in that moment with the jacket reaching well past his knees and with tears, dust and blood smeared across his innocent features.

"Shh, kiddie, that's okay. If you trust me, I can bring you home." He wants to, too, he realizes with a start. He'd feel infinitely better not to give up the kid to the paramedics. He needs to see him home safe and sound, needs to know he's going to be okay whatever that is going to mean from now on.

"You're Ironman." The boy is biting his trembling lower lip, looking at him as if seeing him for the first time. "You're not a stranger."

Tony knows what he's doing. That he's trying to justify going against the rules his parents must have implemented and he tries to nod in agreement, hoping to help the thought process along when he continues to look torn.

The first step away from his uncle seems to cost him all the strength he has left because he crumbles on the second and would've fallen into the puddle of blood at his feet hadn't Tony caught him.

Without hesitation the billionaire leaps forward; away from the man he can't save to pick up the boy he might.

The second the kid is hit with the billionaire's warm body he loses all inhibitions and buries into the comfort he is providing. He makes himself incredibly small, curling into his chest as if to hide from the rest of the world, and his shoulders are trembling with barely suppressed sobs.

If a part of Tony thought holding him would get him to calm down he has been mistaken, though, because rather than simmering down the kid is only getting more and more worked up now that he has someone to cling to, now that he doesn't need his energy to stand upright anymore.

With a quick surge of terror he realizes just how far in over his head he actually is.

Talking to happy, smiling, excited kids to give them autographs? That's something he can wing. But this? A tiny bundle of raw emotion and tears? He's so far out of his wheelhouse it's not even on same continent anymore. Still, he's always risen to challenges before and he refuses to falter now. Not when this kid, he hasn't even gotten the name of yet, is depending on him.

"Hey buddy," he coos and gently rocks back and forth with the boy firmly attached to his hip, hoping it looks less ridiculous than it feels. "You got a name for me?"

"Pe- Peter," comes the miserable snivel mumbled into his neck. He feels the snot and tears slowly soak his front and where he usually would've recoiled at the sight he can't bring himself to turn away. "I'm Pe- Peter Pa-Parker, sir."

"Call me Tony, Peter," he tells him gently, still doing the rocking motion that he's not sure is working but seems like the right thing to do. Holding the boy – Peter – and soothing him feels natural, like a favorite hoodie he hasn't worn in years that still fits in all the right ways even though it probably shouldn't. "Do you live around here?"

There's a timid nod and the unruly curls tickle his nose. Without thinking he reaches out to smother them down gently, surprised when the kid leans into his touch. Before he can investigate any further, though, the ambulance shoots around the corner and comes to a halt right in front of them.

All of the sudden there's a flurry of activity in which Tony tries to shield Peter from having to look at and listen to the paramedics too much. It doesn't take long for them to conclude what both Peter and Tony already know. There's nothing to be done for Ben Parker and they're only taking him to the hospital to clean up and declare his death.

It hits Tony then how forlorn everything is. How the boy in his arms just had to watch his uncle die and is going to carry that memory with him until the day he dies. The world is unjust and he's angry, so angry, but the little hand hidden in his own jacket that is gripping his t-shirt tightly keeps him tethered to the moment.

"Thank you, Mister Stark," one of the parameds says, turning back to him as the other two are prepping the body for transport. He reaches out and even before he says the words, there's an alarm bell going in Tony's head because he's reaching for the kid who's still sniveling into his shoulder and he doesn't want to let go. He can't.

"He doesn't want to go to the hospital," he cuts him off, tightening his grip in Peter's hair and shushing the hysterical child. "I'm bringing him to his aunt, she lives around here." He says it like he knows anything about this family, like this tragedy isn't what brought them together.

He can see the guy wants to argue in the way that he turns to his colleagues and back to them a few times, looking daunted to be caught in an argument with Tony Stark over some kid from Queens. Just as he starts, Peter looks up and Tony can only imagine how horribly snotty the kid must look because he's facing the other man even as he's gripping his shirt tightly.

"Please, sir," he hiccups pitifully, "I wanna go home."

And, to Tony's surprise, he lets them go only making them promise to warn the aunt of what happened so she wouldn't be too surprised when she got the phone call from the hospital before sending them on their way.

Peter is quiet as he navigates Tony through the streets towards an old multi-story building that has seen better days. Most of the bricks are chipped and tasteless graffiti is adorning the front door but the closer they get, the more he relaxes, obviously glad to be getting home.

His death grip on the older man's shirt never falters, though, and even when they make their silent ascend up the stairs, his face is still firmly pressed into his neck, his breaths coming out in warm puffs against his collarbone. As unsettling as the whole thing is, these huffs sooth Tony's racing thoughts. At least he's breathing and not currently in danger of going into shock.

Sooner than expected the door opens and a young woman opens, eyes wide with worry only growing bigger when she sees her nephew. The tiny spark of hope as she drops her phone and hugs her kid dies when Tony starts talking and Peter continues sobbing. Both of them covered in dried blood. He can watch something in her hazel eyes break because she never drops his gaze even as she continues to sooth Peter.

Her light brown hair has been put up in a messy bun more out of convenience than fashion sense, at least that's the vibe he's getting from the rumpled dressing gown Peter is clinging to. Beneath it she looks put together, though, as if she was planning on going out or just got back. This is a woman who cares for her appearance, who has someone to look nice for, but who won't hesitate for even the fraction of a second to let a kid cry all over her.

Without knowing her, he feels his chest fill with awe for the strength the woman in front of him possesses and his heart breaks when he realizes that she looks all too familiar with it.

There's a moment – that Tony will only later realize is significant – when the words wash out, when there's nothing more to say and he can see in her eyes that she's torn. Without a word he opens his arms to take Peter from her and gives a tiny nod to her wordless question.

I'll stay. He's saying. However long you need, I'll stay with him. I'll protect him.

And he does.

It's almost three hours later when she comes back and Peter has fallen asleep on his chest after he spent an hour humming lullabies to sooth his sobs.

He meets her eyes again.

Thank you, they are saying. They look older than before, and impossibly tired but her strength isn't broken.

Three days later find Tony on that same doorstep in Queens with seven sandwiches from Delmar's, a shop he found on his way here.

He's not sure what he's doing here, doesn't think he has the right to intrude on the grief of two practical strangers but there has been a nagging voice in his head ever since he left that wouldn't let him forget the kid's miserable crying and the aunt's eyes, lost and scared and alone.

Ironman only sweeps in, saves the day and then goes home but Tony Stark has come to realize that he can't. Not this time.

This time there's a kid that trusted him enough to bring him home. This time he got the kid's name and soothed him until he fell into a fitful sleep to one of his mum's favorite lullabies. This is personal and he knows it shouldn't be.

He can't give them their family back, can't make their loss more bearable with sandwiches of all things and he is the least equipped to help anyone handling emotions. The only thing he can offer is money and he hopes that it might make things easier for them. That, even if he can't, his wealth might be able to do something good for this family.

He releases the breath he's held in pacing up and down the narrow staircase, the hand not holding the brown paper back falling into a fist at his side before he raises it and, without giving himself time to think, knocks.

Just because he knows that if he doesn't do it now he never will and he already has that big box with a bunch of different sandwiches clutched to his chest like a different kind of armor.

It's already way past 6pm so it surprises him when the door flies open not a second later and May Parker, dressed in baby blue scrubs, looks at him as if he's personally responsible for world peace. Her hopeful features morph into ones of confusion when she blinks and takes in his appearance.

For the first time in years he has to suppress the urge to squirm underneath a woman's gaze and an absurd part of him worries if his hair looks okay, if his shirt is clean and if there's still motor oil stains on his jeans. Suddenly he wishes anyone other than Pepper will look at him and not find him lacking. He almost laughs at his thoughts but he's too busy nervously biting his bottom lip.

"Mister Stark?" May asks slowly and from what he can see when he peeks behind her small form, she's in a hurry and his knocking bamboozled her enough to just stop dead in her tracks. When she blinks again, the stress is back like a switch flipped. "What are you doing here? Did you forget something?"

It's not impolite but she sounds tired and her movements are uncoordinated like his are after going without sleep for too long when she turns around to search for her shoes, leaving the door open for him to step into the messy apartment. Not that he's one to judge.

The sink is filled with dirty plates and cups with dried coffee but next to it there's a bowl of fruit and the leftovers of a home-made meal. Peter's nowhere to be seen but he can see a light seep into the cramped hallway from a room to his left and the cluttering of what he assumes are pencils and their scratching tips on paper.

"No," he says, turning slowly in the hallway, unsure of what to do, "I just wanted to, uh, check up on you, I guess?" Instead of stuttering anymore to explain what he can't really explain he holds up the paper bag, hoping the red logo on the front would be enough of an explanation. "I brought sandwiches."

That stops May again and she squints up at him from where she's tying her shoes. "That's nice of you, Mister Stark but –"

"Tony," he interrupts and cringes at how imperious it sounds. "I mean, you can call me Tony if you want. Sorry. I, uh–"

This is going terrible and he has half a mind to just turn around and leave again but then May Parker's eyes soften and she lets out something that might've been a laugh in an easier life but that's more of a loud exhale now. So he keeps breathing and stays.

"Okay, Tony," she replies with the hint of a smile as she gets up and starts fidgeting again, gaze moving from the clock, to the door and to Tony again. "That's really thoughtful and I appreciate it a lot but I'm kind of in a hurry to get to work and Susan, our neighbor, was supposed to stay with Peter and her husband just told me she got the flu and I'm waiting for Mrs. Henry from downstairs to get back to me if she can babysit and –"

"I can stay with him," he interrupts her again when he feels like she might be getting short of breath. Her agitation bleeds into every word and he can see in her eyes how she's trying to handle the grief and taking care of her nephew and going to work and how it's slowly pulling all strings loose that are holding her together. And he finds that he just wants to help ease the tightness around her eyes.

"No, I couldn't –" she starts but breaks off mid-sentence when she looks back at the clock over his head. The wheels in her head are visibly turning, calculating the possibilities of Mrs. Henry coming through in time and he can see the war raging behind her eyes – politeness and desperation fighting like ice and fire.

He smiles shyly, looking as awkward as he feels, and puts the sandwiches down on the counter, trying to make agreeing to this as easy as possible for her. "My schedule is clear for the evening. I can stay with him if you trust me to."

"I'm leaving for a nightshift," she tells him as if it that changes anything. "And Peter – he hasn't been able to sleep through the night." Oh. "And I wish I didn't have to leave but I need this job and I couldn't ask you to stay all night."

A part of him wants to offer her enough money to stay home with Peter for as long as she likes but the smarter part of him knows, from the two interactions they've had and from how hard it is for her to accept his time, that she would never agree to take his money and that he would only jeopardize whatever sort of fragile understanding they have. So he does the next best thing he can think of.

"You wouldn't be asking me. I'm offering." He corrects gently. "You just have to accept."

There goes date night, he thinks distantly but doesn't break eye contact and when a wave of relief sweeps over May's face and her body relaxes as she nods, he decides that if something is worth getting yelled at by Pepper for, it's this.

"Thank you," she all but whispers with a shaky voice and he catches her arm when he feels like she's swaying.

He's worried but she's strong, he still sees that above all, so he tries not to hover too much and hopes his smile gives her strength where words usually fail him.

Straightening she shoulders her bag and, without breaking eye contact, raises her voice, "I'm leaving for work now, baby."

As soon as the words leave her mouth, they can hear the cluttering of pencils falling to the ground and the scraping of a chair on a hard surface as it gets pushed back in a hurry. Footsteps and sniveling follow as the small boy that has kept Tony's mind preoccupied for three days comes racing out of his room and all but barrels into his aunt's side, not catching the billionaire's presence just yet.

"I'll be good," he squeaks in his little boy voice and from where he's standing Tony can see the tear tracks he's trying to wipe away with his sleeve, "I won't make a mess, I promise. I'll be nice to Miss Susan and –" he stops his rambling when he looks past his aunt's hip and finds him, mouth hanging open and eyebrows furrowing together.

"Hi?" he asks, suddenly timid and holding on more tightly to his aunt's scrubs. "Whataya doing here? Where's Miss Susan?"

"Hey Peter," he greets the boy and briefly considers squatting down to be on eye level with him but quickly scraps the idea when he realizes that Peter would probably be taller than him squatting. Oh god. He's already messing this up.

"I was in the area and I brought sandwiches," he offers as an explanation like he had with his aunt and his stomach flutters in relief when his eyes seem to brighten at the sight of the paper bag he's pointing to. "And I'm going to stay with you tonight, if that's alright with you."

Confused eyes wander from his to May and Peter squints up at her. "But isn't Ironman busy? And what about Miss Susan?"

With a gentle smile May reaches out to flatten the unruly mop of curls on Peter's head. The tightness around her eyes softens and she's doing an admirable job at hiding the pain when she's looking at him so only her love shines through.

"Susan is really sick and can't come over tonight but Mister Sta- Tony," she rectifies with a nod to him, "offered to watch you tonight. Is that okay for you?"

Watching their exchange, the familiarity of it, he feels like he's intruding but he's here now and he has offered to stay, so he just nods along and hopes he looks trustworthy enough in the kid's big brown eyes.

"But," Peter's eyes flicker to him before he looks down quickly, "I'm a big boy. I'll be okay alone, too. You don't hafta stay here, Mister Tony."

He's floundering and he hates how clueless he is and so he falls back to the only thing he does know and he deflects his insecurity and out-of-his-comfort-zone feeling with humor. "If you're trying to keep all of these delicious sandwiches to yourself, squirt, then you have another thing coming," he says lightly and pokes the boy in the ribs until he looks up, "I've been wanting to try these forever."

And, yes, it's a straight- up lie.

Up until an hour ago he didn't even know of the shop's existence but Peter's eyes seem to brighten and his guard lowers when he starts talking about how good the sandwiches are. Seriously, he meets his eyes and Tony watches with a light heart how his hands unclench from May's pants. "Okay. But you'll have to try all of them and tell me your favorite, okay?"

"Great," May grins now, a weight lifted from her chest and leans down to press a kiss to Peter's head, "Then you boys be good and enjoy your sandwiches. His bedtime his eight thirty, make sure he brushes his teeth and uses the restroom before and if you need anything, my number is right next to the microwave." She meets Tony's eyes, gratitude overflowing the dark orbs before she shakes her head and looks back at Peter.

"I love you, honey. Be good."

"Love you, too," Peter mumbles and lets himself be kissed on both cheeks and the forehead, only scrunching his nose when she ruffles his hair one last time but he doesn't complain either.

Then the door falls close and they're alone which is all kinds of awkward if Tony is being completely honest but it's like the kid didn't get the memo because he's already reaching for the paper bag promising food, looking at Tony as he grabs it and turns towards the kitchen table.

"How many did ya get?" he asks and plops down on one of the chairs, waiting for the older man to do the same.

"Seven," he tells him and watches in fascination how he unfolds the paper meticulously and reaches into the bag, a small frown resting between his eyebrows as he pulls out the box.

"That's a weird number for sandwiches."

Tony shrugs, "It's supposed to be lucky number, isn't it?" he retorts, crumpling the paper bag and pushing it to the side while Peter keeps unpacking the food he brought with a happy smile. There's seven different ones and he seems to know them all because he doesn't ask about it when he grabs one and takes a bite, urging him to do the same.

"Is it your lucky number?" he asks with a full mouth and Tony can't help but grin when half the sandwich resurfaces. It's kinda gross but he would've done the same thing if asked to decide between eating and talking.

Still, he reprimands him. "Didn't your parents ever teach you to eat up before you start talking?"

The second the words leave his mouth he wants to take them back because a shadow falls over Peter's features and he lowers the sandwich from his mouth without taking a bite, eyes traveling down to stare at his hands.

He shakes his head and looks back up before Tony can curse himself for his carelessness and in his eyes shining with unshed tears he sees the same strength he has seen in his aunt's. "My parents had to go when I was really little and they couldn't teach me much but I know they're gonna look after my uncle Ben now because he always looked after me."

"I'm sure they take good care of him," Tony feels compelled to agree in hopes that he won't start crying, then chides himself for being selfish. "Okay, so I'm going to teach you that you don't talk with your mouth full."

Insensitive asshole, he thinks and takes a bite from his sandwich in fear or saying anything else to dig his grave deeper. But somehow, miraculously, Peter giggles into his sandwich – a little wet and accompanied by a sniffle but unmistakably entertained.

"But I already know that," he complains with a whine, wiping his nose with his sleeve before taking another bite.

Tony softens as he, chews deliberately carefully and only starts speaking when there's nothing left in his mouth. Huh, speaking of role model, he thinks and isn't sure who's learning from who.

"So you wanna learn something you don't know?" When Peter nods, he realizes he has to actually think of something cool now and briefly panics before looking back at the sandwiches. "Seven is a prime number and a prime number is –"

"A number that can only be divided by itself and one."

"That is –" he stops and frowns at the preening kid in amusement. "That is correct and those are very smart words but do you know what they mean?"

Like cutting a puppet's strings, Peter falls in on himself when he shakes his head but that's not something Tony can let stand. He's a genius, dammit, he'll be damn well able to explain the concept of prime numbers to a kid to cheer him up even a little bit.

"Cool, then I'll teach you," he tells him flippantly and congratulates himself inwardly when the big intelligent eyes meet his again.

"Okay, so normally a number like, uh," he places his sandwich on the table and gets out the other five from the box, lining them up, and pointing to them. "A number like six for instance is made up out of three twos, right?" He pushes them around a little until he has arranged three pairs. "That means you can divide it by three and have three even piles of two sandwiches."

Peter's watching him, quietly nibbling on his own sandwich, and Tony is about to throw in the towel again when speaks up. "And, uh, can I divide by two, too? And have two piles of three sandwiches?"

There's a spark in his eyes then – excitement, curiosity, and a pinch of guarded pride.

He can't help but indulge him. "That's right, half- pint," he praises, feeling the corner of his lips tug upwards when expressive eyes shine up at him and the kid is preening and he wants to keep that look on his face. "Okay, now tell me why seven is a prime number."

In the blink of an eye he turns serious again, considering the sandwiches in front of him and putting what's left of his beside them.

Amused Tony notices that he's only eaten the crust so far, leaving the soft part filled with all the good stuff for last. That's how he has been eating his sandwiches ever since he can remember and the unbidden thought doesn't surprise him as much as the accompanying feeling – the delightful swelling in his chest can only be called pride over Peter's achievement but it's more somehow. It's weird.

"Ah," the kid grins then, picking up his sandwich and taking a full bite before talking – with a full mouth of course, "I can't make the pairs even. I can only have seven single sandwiches or one big pile of seven. So that means I can only divide by one and seven?"

"That's right, kid. Good job!" And wow. A part of him appreciates bitterly how easy it is to tell a child they had done good and how his father still never did but the, by far bigger, other part of him feels accomplished at making Peter smile and teaching him something in the progress.

If all kids were this smart, he'd love being a dad. Another offhand comment his mind makes that leaves him flailing, so he covers it up.

"Next thing we know we're teaching you about Mersenne primes and lucky primes and happy primes. The 7 is a pretty cool number."

"Coolest," Peter agrees with a yawn. "What's a happy prime?"

"Not today, kiddie. Come on, squirt, let's get you to bed before you fall asleep eating."

"Can we watch a movie before bed?" Big eyes look up at him, a pout resting on his lips and Tony knows, he knows he can't say no to those eyes – so he doesn't.

They watch some Pixar movie until Peter falls asleep and he finds himself carrying the lightweight to bed, tugging him in as if he's never done anything else, before plopping himself down on the couch and pulling out his phone to text Pepper and reply to some e-mails he has been ignoring.

When Peter wakes up in the middle of the night, half deliriously sniffling into his pillow for his uncle, Tony is there to soothe him back to sleep and then proceeds to prepare breakfast for May and Peter, leaving his number and a quick note next to hers next to the microwave so when she gets back, he's only slipping out the door with a quiet "He's fine. Good night."

When May calls a week later, Tony is having breakfast with Pepper, yawning into his first cup of coffee but immediately awake when he realizes who is calling.

"What a great way to start the day, Mrs. Parker. What can I do for you?"

He laughs quietly, "Oh, you know, just the friendly faces and voices going around today."

"When?" For a moment he forgets that his coffee is still hot and burns his palate with the next sip, trying to swallow down the curses sitting on the tip of his tongue.

"Sh– Sure. I'll pick him up, don't worry. Do you need anything else?"

"You're welcome. Seriously, May, I'm happy to help. I'll see you tonight."

After the brief conversation he puts his phone down and, trying to hide the wide grin demanding to take over his features, casually blows at his coffee before taking another sip.

"Peter's staying over tonight," he tells Pepper nonchalantly. "May has to work night and she thought he'd like staying over more than to be stuck in crazy cat lady Susan's apartment all night. I'll drop him off at school tomorrow."

"Oh really." His girlfriend doesn't even try to hide her knowing smirk and he's soaring at the light reflecting in her eyes who look proud of him and the way her dimples pop out. "Good thing you've already, conveniently got a room for a six year old set up, isn't it?"

"Oh shut up." He rolls his eyes but doesn't disagree because, frankly, she does have a point.

A good thing, he thinks with an excited flutter in his stomach, a good thing, indeed.