A/N: Welcome back, faithful readers of A Lesson in Domesticity—sorry, you haven't read that yet? Ok, go read that first. It's only, like, seventy thousand words, plus a forty thousand word companion and a twenty thousand word collection of drabbles, and a fifty thousand word prequel. It shouldn't take you that long. Five minutes, tops. To the rest of you, welcome back! I hope you enjoy When Winter Comes. As a quick note, our story starts four months after the end of LID, or October 2035. While Peter is certainly much loved, this story will have a much more even focus on Peter, Steve and Tony, and Clint and Natasha.

Stop a bank robbery on the way to school? Yeah, sure, no problem. Just another day in the life of Peter Stark (Peter Stark-Rogers? Peter Rogers-Stark? Come to think of it, he'd never really resolved that issue. OH WELL), AKA Spider-Man. Peter leapt out of the way of gunfire.

"Who robs a bank in broad daylight?" he asked aloud. "Criminal Pro-Tip: Use the cover of Darkness. Think: I am the Night." Then again, the banks were only open until five. Maybe these guys were on to something. Peter flipped over the head of one robber, pulling off his ski mask on the way. He landed on the opposite wall, staring down the ugly bald dude he'd just revealed. "Oh, yeah, I see the need for the mask now. Yeesh." Peter jumped away just as the bald dude shouted in rage and brought up his gun, firing.

Ok, playtime was over. He had physics in about ten minutes. Not to mention those stray bullets might just hit one of the many civilians hiding under the desks. Peter threw out some web, grabbing the gun and yanking it out of the burglar's hands. Peter did the same to another guy on his right. The two panicked and started to run, but Peter had that covered. He swung around and wrapped them both up in web, safely stopping the bank robbery. The citizens in the bank cheered, and Peter bowed to each side dramatically.

"Thank you, thank you. For this win, I'd like to thank SHIELD, a radioactive spider, my paren—aw, shit," Peter swore as he turned. He'd forgotten the last guy, who now held a gun to the head of a squirming dude in a business suit.

"STAY AWAY!" the guy in the ski mask shouted. "JUST STAY AWAY!" Peter held up his hands.

"Yeah, you got it bro. Just stay cool, man, we can work this out. Nobody's got to get hurt," Peter said, but even as he spoke, he shot web out towards the gun and grabbed it out of the man's hands before he could react. "Now really, how did you not see that one coming?" The robber, predictably, started to run. Peter sighed. He was so going to be late to class. He ran out the doors after him, looking for a good spot to put his web and take to the sky as he went. He reached up, and was about to swing off when he heard someone call out,

"Spider-Man!" he looked around, only to have a flash go off in his face.

"Agh—jeez, are you serious right now?" Peter asked, blinking rapidly. Once he'd blinked away the spots in front of his eyes, he could see a girl standing there, maybe his age or so. She had long red hair and bright green eyes, and a camera with the type of giant flash that Peter could have sworn they stopped making in the 1920s. "Don't people usually use their cell phones these days? And—crap, where'd he go…" Peter looked around.

"Spider-Man, I've been trying to get a hold of you, I'd like to talk—I have a business proposition, of sorts, to make, and—" the girl was saying, but Peter wasn't listening.

"Uh, kind of busy right now! Call me or something," Peter shouted as he swung off.

"Call you how?" the girl shouted after him, sounding aggravated, but Peter really didn't have time to worry about that. From a higher point, he could see more, and if he was lucky he could find that thief…ah, yes. About a block away he found his man. Peter kept swinging until he was on top of the guy, and from there, all he had to do was fall. The guy fell to the ground with a satisfying,

"ARGH!" and Peter had a nice, soft landing. He tied the guy's hands behind his back with web before getting up and forcing the thief to his feet. He looked over at the people standing at the nearby hot dog stand, who had comically frozen, mid-action, to stare at the scene.

"Bank robber," Peter explained. "Wouldn't stay put. I know, right? Thieves today. Anyway, it's just down the road that way, police should be there in a minute. Mind taking him for a walk for me? Watch out for his bite though, I think he's got rabies. Thanks!" Peter handed off the man to the owner of the hot dog stand, who still stood gaping, and swung away.

"JARVIS, what time is it?" Peter asked his suit. Sure, it might only be fabric, but it was special fabric. It was (mostly) bullet-proof fabric. It was fabric containing flexible electronic circuitry. It was super advanced stuff, and Peter was very proud of it. He was even more in love with his suit ever since he'd installed JARVIS.

"The time is 09:04, Master Peter," JARVIS replied.

"Shit."

"Indeed, sir."

Five minutes later, Peter had changed back into his normal clothes and was running into his physics lecture, doing his best to duck into the back without being noticed. Unfortunately, the day was looking less and less bright for Peter Stark (Peter Stark-Rogers? Peter Rogers-Stark? Screw it—Peter Parker).

"—now, if we use another variable in this equation, we can see clearly that being the son of an industrialist 'super hero' does not excuse tardiness, Mr. Stark," the lecturer, Doctor Octavius, scolded. Man, he really hated it when teachers moved up with you through the grades. Especially when teachers moved up with you to a new school entirely. Unfair.

"It won't happen again, Professor," Peter said, making the guilt evident in his voice.

"See that it doesn't," Doc Ock, as Peter and his classmates had affectionately nicknamed him in high school, said sternly before continuing on with his lecture. Peter was glad that a little snide Snape-esque comment was all that he got for being late. Peter did his best to be on time for Doc Ock's lectures—he'd liked him in high school, after all—but for any of his other classes? Well, Peter didn't think he'd been on time once. Most of the lecturers didn't notice—the lectures were usually pretty big—or they just didn't care. Peter was grateful for that. He could keep his grades up, sure, but showing up on time was another issue entirely.

When General Physics let out (and, really, Peter hadn't learned much of anything—200 levels were so basic), Peter was just relieved. He still had a homework assignment to finish for Calc III that he hadn't gotten around to the night before because, oh yeah, some Hydra agents had stuck a bomb under the city and the Avengers made Peter go trudging through the tunnels to find it. He had, of course, and he'd disarmed it, but it had been late when he finished. Peter looked out onto the campus. It was too cold to sit under a tree and do his work—he'd have to go to the café or the library or back to his and Harry's apartment if he didn't want to get frostbite.

"Late again, huh, bug boy?" Gwen asked, teasing him. Peter turned around. He'd almost completely forgotten Gwen was also in that lecture. He smiled as she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him hello.

"Gwen, you are a scientist. You know as well as I do that spiders aren't bugs. They're arachnids," Peter said, exasperated. Gwen grinned.

"Oh I know, but you always get so annoyed when I call you bug boy. Has anybody ever told you how cute you are when you're annoyed, bug boy?" she asked. Peter kissed her, longer this time. He could never get enough of Gwen, could never get enough of her strawberry scented shampoo, or the soft curves of her hips, or those tender lips. He loved her smile, her wit—he loved everything about her.

"No," Peter said when they broke apart. "But I will note that for future reference." Gwen smiled, and she gave him one last kiss before removing her arms from around his neck. Peter looked at his watch. "Ok, I really hate to do this, but I have Calc III in an hour and I haven't finished the homework yet, so I really need to sit down somewhere and do that now. Can we do dinner tonight?"

"Sure," Gwen replied, backing away. "I have to get to Organic Chem, anyway. Seven, at your place?"

"Seven would be perfect," Peter said. Gwen left, and Peter was not ashamed to admit that he watched her go. He loved Gwen. He hated Tuesdays.

Peter made his way over to the library, which was crowded as usual. He just had to pick a university where students actually studied. He found a desk in the corner of the third floor that miraculously was free, and he settled in with that calculus assignment. It wasn't so bad. The calculus was easy enough, and it was actually enjoyable now that he had the time to—

That was when a crazy guy dressed in some beetle-looking costume crashed through the window, and Falcon flew in after him. The beetle fired off two rockets, which of course missed Falcon, but hit other areas of the library, blasting whole shelves over and sending students screaming and running for cover.

Yeah, it was definitely a Tuesday.

Peter didn't finish his assignment, and in fact missed Calculus all together. He'd had to duck behind some bookshelves to pull off his plain clothes and reveal the Spider-Man suit underneath. Falcon pretty much had the situation under control, but as ever, Peter's webs were useful in the whole tying-up thing at the end of the fight. The library, unfortunately, was largely collateral damage. The third floor was definitely going to be closed for repairs for a while.

Peter felt exhausted. He managed to go to his photography class, for which he actually had completed the assignment. He practically slept through class. He didn't hear a word the teacher said until the end, when the professor mentioned something about a 'showcase' and 'next week', which woke him up a little. Was that in the syllabus? Showcase? Presumably, he had to have photographs ready for that—did he? No, probably not. Not enough, anyway. Peter gathered up his bag and shrugged it onto his shoulder, leaving the small lecture room.

What could he take pictures of? New York life? That was probably what literally everyone else in his class was doing. He was going to have to come up with something more creative than that. Did the collection need to be themed? He was going to have to check the syllabus online when he got back.

"Hey! Stark!" shouted a voice. It had taken Peter a while, but he had learned to ignore this sort of interruption. Now that he was 'out' as the son of Iron Man and Captain America, being harassed about it was a daily thing. People wanted a picture or an autograph. Girls he'd never met propositioned him for dates (and plenty more), and so did guys. Everyone wanted to have him at their party, everyone wanted to be his friend. Peter found that he stuck to the old Hawthorn crowd much more than he thought he would, simply because they understood—and also because fifteen of his twenty-five former classmates attended ESU. Peter ignored the voice and kept walking.

"Stark! Hey! Wait up!" it called out persistently. He felt a hand on his bicep and he jerked back instinctively, swiveling around and barely managing to avoid using a fighting stance. The girl who had grabbed him looked just as startled as he felt. "Oh, sorry. Personal boundaries, right." Peter squinted at her. She looked oddly familiar. She had fire engine red hair and bright green eyes, and was carrying a camera—oh. She was the girl from earlier.

"Do I know you?" Peter asked.

"No, but—" the girl said, but Peter was already walking away. "Hey!"

"Look, I'm sure you're great. And you're gorgeous. But I've had a long day, so—" Peter started, but the girl, who had caught up to him, looked at him with indignation and maybe a hint of disgust, based on the crinkling of her nose.

"Oh, Jesus, I'm not hitting on you, Stark," the girl said. "I was hoping I could get a copy of that photograph you took for today." Peter blinked. Oh, right. The professor always went through and shared their photos with the class, commenting on the composition and style and whatever else. It could get embarrassing, if you were sloppy. Peter stopped walking and opened up his backpack, He reached in, grabbed a copy of the photo (he always had more than one, in case of super villain attacks destroying the first), and handed it over. He zipped the bag back up.

"Oh, that was prompt. Thanks," the girl said. She stuck out a hand. "I'm MJ, by the way. Well, Mary-Jane. Mary-Jane Watson, but my friends call me MJ." Peter took the offered hand.

"Peter," he said. "But you obviously know that already." He nodded towards the picture. "Iron Man fan?" He'd taken the picture over the weekend, while out and about with the Avengers. It was a shot from below, in broad daylight. Iron Man was flying, unwittingly, right below a V of birds headed south for the winter.

"Not anymore than anyone else," MJ said. "But I love how you've juxtaposed nature with machine, and the angle is really unique—not something I've seen with most photos of Iron Man. How did you take this, by the way?" Peter grinned.

"I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you," he said. MJ rolled her eyes.

"Fine, keep it to yourself. But what was your inspiration for the theme?" MJ asked. "That, at least, you can tell me." She looked at him expectantly, her pretty green eyes locked on his. Peter just laughed.

"There wasn't one. I mean, it did conveniently turn out to have a man versus nature theme, yeah, but that wasn't why I took it. I was making fun of Dad. He had no idea there were birds like ten feet above him, and I told him he was going to get coated in bird poop if he wasn't careful. He doesn't normally fly that low in the sky," Peter explained. He shrugged his backpack on. If MJ was disappointed by his answer, she didn't let on. In fact, judging by the way her lips curled up in one corner, he'd say she was rather amused.

"Well, intentional or not, it's a great shot," MJ said. "Are you doing more pictures of Iron Man for the showcase?"

"Uh, I haven't thought about it. I've been kind of busy. I forgot we had a showcase. It feels too early in the semester," Peter said.

"I know, I can't believe midterms are coming up already," MJ groaned. "You won't believe the work I have for all my journalism classes, on top of what I do for the paper as an extra-curricular. Oh, but you're a science major or something, aren't you? I bet you have it worse."

"Applied Physics," Peter said. "And electrical engineering. Double major. Yeah, my schedule's a little pinched." He grimaced. He really didn't want to think about midterms. His academic subjects might be easy, but they were only easy if he could keep up with the assignments, which he hadn't entirely been doing lately. His gig as Spider-Man didn't leave him much wiggle room.

"Ouch," MJ said, looking slightly horrified.

"It's go big or go home in my family," Peter joked.

"Yeah I'll bet. Well, I didn't mean to take up your time—I was just going to go grab a coffee. So I'll see you later; unless you wanted to come with?" MJ asked. Peter looked at his watch. It was only four o'clock, and he was done with class for the day.

"I could use some coffee, actually," Peter said. MJ smiled.

"Cool," she said. They started towards the campus coffee shop, which was definitely not a Starbucks. It was run by the student's union instead, standing in defiance of the corporation. The few students who worked there were some of the only people who ever gave Peter dirty looks. He often heard mutterings about 'corporate America' and the disgusting 'military industrial complex' and the like whenever he stepped in the shop. But they made good coffee, so Peter did his best to shrug it off.

"So what are you doing for the showcase?" Peter asked.

"Trying to steal my ideas, Stark?" MJ replied playfully.

"Yes. Absolutely, yes. I'm desperate."

MJ laughed. Peter grinned. Well, maybe he'd made a new friend. Maybe Tuesdays weren't quite so bad after all.

He hadn't gotten used to this just yet, this early morning quiet. It had been years (nineteen of them, to be precise) since he and Steve had been able to get up for the day at their leisure. As it turned out, Steve was not nearly so insistent on having breakfast everyday at seven in the morning when Peter wasn't home. Steve, in fact, wasn't particularly a natural morning person, a fact that Tony had forgotten over the years. It seemed so natural for Steve to get up and make pancakes and coffee in the morning, and so oddly reversed to still be in bed with him at nine. Not that Tony was complaining. Far from it—it was just different. New. They'd only ever really had two years together without Peter, and they hadn't been two stable years by any means. This was new territory to explore, and Tony was enjoying every minute.

Of course, he'd be enjoying every minute a lot more if he wasn't starting to feel all of his sixty-three years, and wow did he not want to think about that number. He thought about it anyway. Sixty-three. He was getting up there. He looked at the face of his still-sleeping husband, his blond-haired Adonis. Steve was forty-seven, heck, Steve was one hundred and seventeen, but he didn't look a day older than twenty-five. Tony had felt like he was robbing the cradle a bit when they'd first gotten together, but now? Now the age difference just looked ridiculous. Some days Tony felt like a weird version of Hugh Hefner, and that was not a nice thought. Steve stirred, and Tony ran a hand through his husband's hair as his eyes fluttered open.

"Morning," Tony said softly. Steve gave him a sleepy smile. He yawned.

"G'morning Tony," he said, stretching a bit. "You been up long?"

"No, not really," Tony said, continuing to thread his hands through his husband's hair. Steve's hair was so soft. Not like Tony's. Tony's hair was a bit more stiff, prone to sticking up at odd angles. Steve's hair always laid flat, and felt like silk.

"Mm," Steve said. "So, what's on the schedule for today?"

"Well, it's Tuesday, so, nothing, unless Godzilla comes to knock down the city," Tony said. Steve chuckled.

"Don't even joke about that," he said. "The minute you joke about it, it'll happen." Steve turned over onto his stomach, rolling half on top of Tony, one arm on either side of his husband. "I've got some better ideas for today than saving New York from Godzilla attacks." He leaned down and captured Tony's lips. Tony just melted right into it. They had only been back together for four months, having been separated for eight months before that. Tony had—and he knew Steve had too—been celibate for that entire period. Eight months. Celibate. Tony Stark. It didn't even compute. They had a lot of lost time to make up for, and with Peter moved out of the house, it was a lot easier to make up for said time. Except for one little thing. Tony was sixty-three. His husband, physically at least, was no more than twenty-five. Certainly not for the first time in his life, but definitely more frequently now than ever, Tony Stark could not keep up with his husband.

Tony wished he could enjoy this more, or enjoy this properly, but it just wasn't happening. He could feel how much Steve was enjoying their little make-out session. Yet when Steve snaked a hand down Tony's body and past the band of his boxers, he didn't find what he was looking for, exactly. Steve broke off their kiss. Tony refused to blush, refused to be embarrassed.

"Is everything ok?" Steve asked, genuine concern apparent in his voice and his bright blue eyes. Of course he would be concerned. This wasn't exactly the first time this had happened, but it was certainly the first time it had happened without being immediately preceded by, uh, fun times.

"Yeah, just fine, just—give me a minute," Tony said. Tony was not embarrassed.

"Am I hurting you somehow?" Steve asked, entirely unconvinced. Tony sighed, sitting up. Steve moved aside, getting off of him. Tony rubbed his temple.

"No, Steve, we were just making out, you weren't hurting me," he said. Well, at least if someone was witness to the ultimate humiliation of Tony Stark, it was Steve. Steve had a light grip on his arm, and was running his thumb back and forth soothingly over his skin.

"Then what is it?" Steve asked softly. "Is it Peter? Are you worried about Peter? Because I'm not, Tony. He's doing so well at school. I know he loves it there." Tony shook his head. Steve's inability to comprehend the situation for what it was just made this even more embarrassing.

"No, Steve, it's not Peter. It's…this. We just did this last night," Tony said at last. Steve didn't quite catch on. He looked perplexed.

"But it's morning now," he said.

"I know," Tony said, trying his best not to whine. "But I'm not sixteen anymore—not that you knew me when I was sixteen but you get the point. Hell, I'm not even forty-five anymore. I'm sixty-three, Steve. And really feeling it right about now."

"Oh," Steve said, then he laid back down, tugging Tony with him. "That's ok. We can just relax. I'll get up and make us breakfast in a bit." Steve smiled at him, and that smile was so loving, so understanding, that it made Tony's heart leap, but not with love—with panic.

"But you're still—here, I can—" Tony reached down, but Steve caught his wrist and shook his head.

"That's ok, Tony," he said.

"But—"

"It's fine, Tony," Steve said, but Tony still tried to move his hand down. Steve got up off the bed and stretched. "I think I'll go make us breakfast now. Pancakes and bacon sound good to you?" Tony's stomach did a sickened little flop.

"Yeah," he said faintly. "Just don't forget the coffee." Steve chuckled.

"If I ever forget the coffee, please rush me to the hospital for my memory problems," he said. Tony wanted to laugh at the joke as Steve left the room, but he couldn't. His mind was racing with panic.

Tony was getting older. Steve wasn't. This was not new information. Tony wouldn't be able to keep up with Steve physically as he got older. This was not new information. But Steve would need someone to keep up with him. This shouldn't be new information, but it somehow was. Steve was physically twenty-five, and it was looking like he always would be. Was Tony going to ask Steve to stay completely celibate for however long Tony lived past the age of eighty or so? Was Tony really going to ask Steve to take care of him in his old age, like a dedicated son? Was Tony really going to ask Steve to stay with him until he was old and decrepit? And was Tony really going to ask Steve to stick around and watch while he withered away and eventually died? Facing his own mortality, well, that was horrifying enough. But could he make Steve face his mortality? Steve, who had already lived through the loss of his entire world?

Tony couldn't bear the thought. And he knew that once it finally occurred to Steve, he wouldn't be able to bear it, either.

Natasha Romanoff's life had not turned out exactly as she had planned. In fact, the one constant that she could depend on was change. She was always getting the rug pulled out from underneath her just when she got comfortable, and it was never a pleasant feeling. Her partner, Clint, sat next to her in their meeting. They weren't being assigned a mission today, thankfully. Coulson was giving them the run down on some teenagers with powers they were supposed to be training in order that said teenagers did not injure themselves or others while attempting to train by themselves. Natasha wasn't listening. She wondered when she would have to tell Fury. She wondered when she would have to tell Clint. Most of all, she wondered just what exactly she was going to do about all of this.

But in the mean time, Natasha kept silent. Life had thrown her another curveball, but she'd always been an excellent batter.

"I went to Midtown Science," Peter said in answer to MJ's question. They sat at a table in the coffee shop, Peter sipping black coffee and MJ drinking her sugary frappuccino. "I graduated from Hawthorn Academy though—I spent about three quarters of my senior year there." MJ raised an eyebrow.

"Three quarters? Did you get kicked out of Midtown?" she asked. Peter laughed.

"Do I look like the kind of guy who gets kicked out of school?" he asked. "No. My identity got compromised—I mean, someone figured out that I was Tony Stark's kid, and that left me open to kidnappings." MJ's eyes widened in surprise.

"Do you think somebody would actually kidnap you?" she asked.

"Unfortunately, it's happened—twice," Peter said. MJ looked stunned.

"Wow. That's—wow," she said. Peter shrugged. He didn't think it was a big deal. He'd seen the girlfriends of various heroes affiliated with the Avengers kidnapped more times than him. "So, Midtown Science, huh? That's over by Central Park, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but it's a charter school. I'm from Brooklyn. My Pops—well, I'm pretty sure you can only drag him out of Brooklyn kicking and screaming and trying to claw his way back," Peter said wryly, picturing that image in his head, his Pops' nails scraping on the pavement as he and his Dad dragged Pops by the feet over the threshold into Queens.

"Your Pops—that's Captain America, right? I keep forgetting that. That was…quite the announcement a few months back," MJ said. Peter put himself a little on guard.

"Yeah, Pops doesn't go halfway on anything," he said. MJ must have noticed the edge to his voice, because she smiled.

"Well, I think it's great. Made quite a splash in the LGBT community. My dads were pretty surprised about it. Dad more so than Papa, I think. He just kept saying 'I don't believe it' over and over again. He was so pleased that someone in such a respected position had the courage to come out like that, especially after so long," MJ said enthusiastically.

"So, you have two dads too?" Peter asked, genuinely surprised.

"Well it's not that unusual nowadays," MJ said. She sipped on her frappuccino as Peter tried to process this information.

"I've never met anyone else with two dads," he said.

"Well, it's not like we have a support group or anything," MJ said, rolling her eyes. "Not like we need one either."

"I know that," Peter said. "It's still kind of nice, though. My life's always been pretty secretive. I mean, no one could know who my parents were, so pretty much no one knew I had two dads, either. It's such a relief to be able to live openly." MJ looked at him seriously, studying his face.

"That must have been rough," she said. "I hadn't thought of that before. I've always been able to be open about it. My dads were never closeted—at least, not while I was alive or anything. Everybody at school knew. Pretty much nobody cared. As it should be. So, hey, where in Brooklyn were you, anyway?"

"Do you know Taggers Street?" Peter asked.

"In Williamsburg?" MJ asked. Peter grinned.

"Yeah, that's it. Where'd you grow up?"

"Brooklyn Heights. Went to Packer Collegiate. I live on Pineapple Street," MJ said.

"By the Brooklyn War Memorial?" Peter asked. MJ nodded.

"I usually describe it as right next to Brooklyn Bridge, but, yeah, actually," she said, looking contemplative. "Have you been there before?"

"Every Memorial day," Peter said. MJ blinked.

"Oh. Right. Captain America does a speech there every year, doesn't he? Reads out all the names? I went when I was little; Dad took me. He put me up on his shoulders so I could see above the crowd. We put flowers down every year the day before, but I usually avoid Memorial day itself. Dad and Papa usually go, but I think it's too crowded with the Captain there, and, I mean, 7,000 names take a long time to read out," MJ said with a little, apologetic shrug.

"Yeah, I know they do," Peter said. He could remember hating having to attend the long ceremony as a kid, especially on hot days. His dad was always there, sure, and his pops was on stage, but he was in the care of a SHIELD agent for those three or four hours since no one wanted attention drawn to a little kid hanging all over Tony Stark, who, as far as the public was concerned, had no children and probably hated children. This past year was the first that he'd been allowed to sit next to his dad. It was nice. "But Pops insists on reading them all himself. He says he wants to pay proper respects, even to the men he didn't know. He doesn't just want to cut off after five hundred names, or whatever, and let someone else finish it. He doesn't just go there on Memorial day, either. They don't let the public inside the memorial, but, well, they know Pops there. The staff always let him in. His friends are on that wall." MJ nodded.

"That must be tough for him. I can't imagine," she said. The two of them silently drank for a minute. Peter figured he should know better by now than to bring up anything dealing with Pops' past. It was never a pleasant subject. Even the fun stories were tinged with sadness, colored with death. It was no wonder Pops didn't ever really bring it up. "So. Do you still live at Taggers Street?"

"I've moved out for the school year," Peter said. "But yeah."

"Well, if you're ever in Brooklyn Heights, look me up," MJ said. Her frappuccino was finished. "After all, sounds to me like you could use all the help you can get with the showcase." She stood up, and Peter followed the action.

"Ugh, I'll definitely take you up on that offer. I'm all out of creative ideas. I think university has destroyed the creative side of my brain entirely. All I can think about are equations now," Peter said, shaking his head. "It was nice to meet you MJ."

"Oh, I know it was," MJ replied with a saucy wink. "Later!" MJ sashayed away from the table, and Peter looked at his watch. Five o'clock—well, he had plenty of time to get to the apartment and get something started for dinner with Gwen. And here he'd thought all Tuesdays were awful. What had he been thinking?

Steve set down the mug of coffee in front of his husband, who had finally wandered downstairs in casual clothes and taken a seat at the kitchen table. He looked disgruntled. He looked troubled. Steve didn't know how to help. He hated that he didn't know how to help. What had happened that morning, well, it wasn't a big deal to Steve, but he could tell that it was eating at Tony. Out of ideas of how to help, Steve figured he might as well try a different tactic—diversion.

"Did you see the news this morning?" Steve asked. He put the paper down in front of Tony as well. Steve leaned against the counter, his own coffee mug in hand. "Oscorp is officially handing over the reins to a kid not old enough to drink yet next week." Tony frowned as he read the paper.

"Can't say I'm not partially thrilled. It's corporate suicide. The Board has to know that. Have they even met the kid?" Tony asked. He shook his head. "I took over young. It can be done. But Harry Osborn is no Tony Stark." Steve chuckled. Tony shot him a glare. "What?"

"Your statement is entirely true, but it still sounds ridiculously arrogant," Steve said. Tony rolled his eyes.

"It's not arrogance if it's fact. I graduated MIT at fifteen, and I was working on my third doctorate when I took over Stark Industries. Little Osborn barely made it out of Hawthorn. Peter can run circles around that kid, and I still wouldn't want Peter taking over SI if I died tomorrow," Tony said. He took a long drink of coffee.

"Well it helps that Pepper can run the company by herself when she has to," Steve pointed out. "You have trusted board members and an 'assistant' that keeps them all in line. Norman Osborn probably didn't have any of that. Besides, I'll bet he figured he'd live forever when he appointed Harry successor." Tony snorted.

"Probably," he agreed. Then he grimaced. "I wish Peter didn't insist on living with that spoiled brat."

"Would you rather he stayed here?" Steve asked, amused. Spoiled brat—Oh, Tony, ever the hypocrite.

"He could have his own apartment," Tony whined. Steve rolled his eyes. The timer for the bacon went off and Steve pulled it out of the oven.

"So you would rather our nineteen-year-old son with a serious girlfriend had his own apartment?" Steve asked.

"Don't be such a prude, Steve," Tony replied, grabbing a piece of bacon before dropping it back on the tray. "Ow! Hot!" He sucked on his two injured fingers, looking personally offended at the bacon.

"I'm not being a prude I'm being practical. I would rather not be a grandfather just yet, thanks very much," Steve said. He took a seat at the table and put a pancake on his plate.

"Oh, give me a break. Peter's smart, Gwen's smart, they're not going to do anything stupid. They're both consenting adults now. What they do—or don't do—is their own business," Tony said. "I'd much rather him be exposed to sweet, smart, sassy Gwen's influence than Harry Osborn's." Tony shuddered. Steve rolled his eyes.

"If Peter's so smart, what does Harry Osborn's influence matter?" he asked.

"It matters because Harry's opinion matters to Peter," Tony said very seriously. "And that's more dangerous than anything. I'd rather he got Gwen pregnant than got himself hooked on some drug or started binge drinking. Hell, I hope he marries that girl when they get out of school and starts a family anyway—what do I care if it happens a little earlier?"

"You care because Peter can't support himself right now, let alone a family," Steve said firmly.

"Like we'd throw them out in the cold," Tony said, waving a hand. "Like I'd cut off his trust fund and disinherit him for getting his girlfriend pregnant. Please. It's not the 1940s anymore, Steve. You know that."

"Peter has to make his own way in this world," Steve said. "He's done a fantastic job so far. Now would not be a good time for him to get overly dependent on us."

"I didn't say it would," Tony said. He cautiously touched another piece of bacon before picking it up and taking a bite. "I'm just saying, I'll take ten accidental grandkids with Gwen over one drug addiction from Harry."

"We don't know Harry is on drugs," Steve pointed out. Tony gave him a look.

"Maybe you don't know Harry's on drugs, but I can spot a junky from a mile away," Tony said. "I'm telling you, that kid's on something. Probably several somethings."

"Oh, Tony," Steve said with a sigh. "Peter's smarter than that."

"I hope so," Tony replied. "I really do."

"The girl's not bad," Clint commented to Natasha as they walked down the hall in the Triskelion towards the locker rooms.

"She needs work. They all need work. They're headstrong, they're foolhardy, and they're probably going to get themselves killed. And something smells off to me about that Bradley kid," Natasha said irritably. "Did Fury even ask their parents before they started this? Aren't they minors?"

"Barely legal from what Coulson told me, but legal's all he needs," Clint replied. He watched Natasha carefully. "They're just kids, Nat. With the proper training, I think they have potential, especially as a unit."

"We don't have time to be Avengers and train a team of—what, the next avengers?" Natasha asked. She grew more agitated with every step she took. She didn't have time for this. She didn't have time for any of this. She just wanted to go back home, take a hot shower, and curl up on the couch with Ana and Will and watch that Pixar film about the old man and the little boy and the dog.

"How about young avengers. Next makes it sounds like they'll be taking over our positions over our cold corpses," Clint said, one end of his mouth curling up in a smile. Natasha couldn't smile back. What was she going to tell him? When was she going to tell him? She could, of course, keep this a secret for as long as she pleased. Well, to an extent. But she wasn't sure that she wanted to. It was a great irony—they were two super spies, and yet, they'd poured all their secrets into each other.

Well. Most of them.

How long did she want to keep this from him? Did she even want to keep this from him at all?

"Tasha," Clint said. He looked at her with concern and curiosity. She'd been quiet a moment too long.

"We don't have time to train them. And none of them have practical experience. They need someone directing the group who has field experience," Natasha said in a clipped tone. They were outside the locker rooms now. Clint looked thoughtful.

"You're right. You know, I might have a solution that will work out for everyone," he said. Natasha raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?" she asked. "And what is this magic solution?" Clint smiled.

"A slightly different spider, Widow," he said, and then he slipped into the men's locker room. Natasha tilted her head. Hm. It could work.

"You're sure you don't want to stick around?" Peter asked Harry. Harry was putting on his scarf. "There's plenty of pasta." Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Pete, if you want me around for your date, I think you're doing this whole dating thing wrong," he said, but then he grinned. "Or very right—man, Pete, I didn't think Gwen would be into that you kinky bas—ow." Harry rubbed the spot on his arm that Peter had punched, and he chuckled.

"Get out," Peter said rolling his eyes. "And see if I save you any leftovers."

"Whatever, whatever," Harry said as he walked out towards the door. Harry opened it, only to reveal Gwen, her hand in a fist, poised for knocking.

"Oh! Hi, Harry," she said, putting her hand down and slipping in just as Harry slipped out.

"Bye," Harry said abruptly with a short wave. He took off down the hall as Gwen shut the door. She turned and gave Peter an odd look.

"He still doesn't like me," she said.

"I know," Peter said. They both knew the topic of conversation had much less to do with Harry not liking Gwen and much more to do with who Harry did like, but Peter wasn't about to bring that up in conversation. He still didn't like to think about it. Harry was his best friend—he didn't want to hurt him, but he didn't know how to handle the situation, either. Harry didn't appear to remember that extremely uncomfortable night, and Peter was happy to forget it, too. He took Gwen's hand in his. "Come on, I made the famous Stark family meatballs." He led her to the table over by the window. They had a pretty decent view for students; Harry had sprung for some nice housing, and Peter's parents were happy to pay for half the rent, especially considering Peter was attending ESU tuition-free. As the sun set and the sky turned a soft pink and purple, Gwen and Peter had dinner. Gwen told Peter about some asshole TA who'd hit on her, and Peter told Gwen about meeting MJ, the spunky journalism student who had also stopped Spider-Man during a robbery.

"Well that takes guts," Gwen said, amused.

"Yeah. Never did find out what she wanted, though," Peter said. He couldn't ask MJ as Peter, obviously. Gwen shrugged.

"Probably just wanted a picture," Gwen said. "A good picture of Spider-Man could make some decent money, sold to the papers."

"Ugh, the papers," Peter said, putting his fork down. "Don't even get me thinking about the papers. The Bugle's been—"

Peter never quite knew how to describe his spidey sense. It didn't tell him from where danger was coming. It didn't tell him in what form, or how. He rarely knew where to move to, only that nine times out of ten, it was a very good idea to move as fast as possible. So when that feeling lit up his every nerve, Peter didn't even think. He leapt over the table, tackling MJ and her chair to the ground as less than half a second later something whistled through the air.

"Move away from the window!" Peter yelled as they ran, crouched over, into the kitchen. Once Gwen was safely behind some counters, Peter got up just a tad. "Stay there, ok?" Peter's spidey sense wasn't going off, so he stood. There was a small hole in the window, and a bullet stuck in the wall on the opposite side. It would have gone clean through Peter's head. He ripped off his shirt and jeans.

"Where are you going?" Gwen asked, her voice a bit shrill.

"I'm going to go see who's shooting at us," Peter said, pulling on his mask. "Stay put, ok?" he ran to the window, opened it up and jumped out. He threw a strand of web to a nearby building and swung, looking around carefully. He wasn't much of a sharpshooter, but there were only so many places a sniper could have shot from. He took a quick look at the tops of some of the nearby buildings, but there was no one. There was no equipment left, no bullet casings, nothing to indicate anyone had been around. Frustrated, Peter swung back into the apartment and went back into the kitchen. Gwen had stood up but she was still there.

"No luck?" she asked.

"None," he said. "Are you ok? I should have asked that before I left, I'm sorry." She reached out and removed his mask, then hugged him fiercely. Peter put his arms around her. He was surprised to find his own heart racing, surprised to find his hands shaking slightly.

Someone knew where he lived. Someone might know who he was. Someone was trying to kill him, and that someone wasn't going to do it on an open battlefield.

Fucking Tuesdays.