It's just after noon when Peter's phone chirrups in his backpack and his heart starts thumping hard in his chest. Nobody else in the group of students headed toward OsCorp's doors hears it, thanks to his dad's specially-designed volume controls. Peter does—thank you, mildly enhanced hearing inherited from other dad.

His dads are the Iron Man and Captain America.

It's a gene pool that comes with a lot of perks.

Perks aren't the only things it comes with though; most fifteen-year-olds' biggest problems involve passing trig or if so-and-so will ask them to Sadie's. Peter worries about all that stuff, and he gets the privilege of wondering if this will be the time Fury calls to say he's lost his dads, or one of his uncles, or his aunt. There have been some close calls in the past and whenever they're called to assemble. Peter gets twitchy and a little over-sensitive to his phone's alerts. He's gotten in trouble for it because technically students aren't allowed to have cellphones, but his dads get it: thus, special volume controls.

"Peter, what are you doing?" Gwen hisses when he stops walking to swing his bag around so he can dig for the phone. "Ms. Marsh is going to throw a fit if you get separated!"

Gwen's...well, Peter's pretty sure Gwen is his girlfriend. He hasn't actually asked her yet because he gets tongue-tied just thinking about it and since he's too pathetic to ask her, he hasn't kissed her either, but he thinks he's getting there. If he's reading her right, which he probably is.

Maybe.

Like...79% probability?

Anyway, Gwen's also brilliant, so she puts together the answer to her question before he can.

"Your dads?"

"Probably," Peter mutters, distracted. Where the heck is his phone? His stomach is crawling around in fits because he'd woken up this morning and gone into the kitchen to find just one dad. And not the one who normally makes him breakfast.

"Morning, Bambi," Tony'd said and handed him a plate with two Pop-Tarts and a pile of scrambled eggs. "Dad got a call around five this morning. Off to Cleveland!" he said, mouth twisted into a completely unconvincing grin.

"Without you?" Peter said, sinking down at the table. He hated it when his dads went off to fight without each other, even when they were with his aunt or uncles. Steve was made pretty tough, but he wasn't invincible. He tended to put himself in riskier situations when they weren't together. Too selfless for his own good. "And he says I'm the one engaging in high-risk behavior," Tony was always complaining. "Ha! My personal motto isn't 'lay down on the fucking wire'."

Peter liked it better when they were together.

Dad shrugged and took a swig of his coffee, the fingers of his free hand grazing over the buttons on his suit jacket, right over the arc reactor. "Yep. Day job, shorty. Don't worry, Dad's a big boy and he's got Clint and Bruce along for the ride."

Peter knew his dad well enough to know he wasn't taking being left behind as well as he was pretending, but he also knew fake-it-till-you-make-it was pretty much Dad's modus operandi for coping. "Enjoy that nickname while you can, Dad," he'd said. "Pretty soon I'll be calling you shorty."

Dad had thrown a dish towel at him, but some of the brooding darkness in his eyes had faded, so Peter counted it as a win.

One of Peter's classmates bumps into him and he grunts, breaking out of his thoughts. "Do you mind?" Peter says and is summarily ignored—as usual. He glares at the girl's retreating head, until his fingers find the phone at last.

"Come on," Gwen says, pulling him forward. "We have to keep up. And keep that thing down so Ms. Marsh doesn't see it."

"That's what I have you for," Peter says, smirking at her as he pulls the phone out and she shoots him a humorless smile, but keeps guiding him forward by the elbow, craning her neck to keep an eye out for the chaperones over the heads of their classmates.

Peter's phone lights up under his touch. It's a specially-made Stark device—fingerprint protected. His heart immediately starts pumping faster when he sees he's got four text messages. He reminds himself that if it were serious, they would have called, not texted, and taps open the first message.

Uncle Clint 12:06

February 6, 2031

hey pete – went fine but no sparring tonight sorry.

think i messed up my bow arm. nothin to worry

about tho.

Uncle Clint 12:06

February 6, 2031

sorry forgot to say – your dad is OK. got hit but hes

alright

Aunt Nat 12:06

February 6, 2031

Everyone made it back. Your dad was wounded, but

he's going to be fine. Tony knows. Bruce will text

with details. Your uncle the moron bruised his arm,

but he's just being a baby.

"Peter?" Gwen says and he swallows, his heart making it difficult since it's throbbing at the base of his throat. He realizes he's stopped walking and Gwen's staring anxiously up into his face.

"Uh," he says and glances down at the phone, at his white-knuckled fingers. "I," he says and his voice catches. "My dad— He— I mean he's not— He's just—"

Gwen's grip on his arm turns painful and she grabs the phone, her eyes darting back and forth as she reads the message—he'd added her prints just a few days ago. Tony had complained for an hour, but Gwen gets it, what the waiting and not knowing is like and she's— "Oh my god, Peter!" she cries when she's finished and releases his arm just to punch it. "You scared the hell out of me!"

"Ow," Peter says.

"Jeez," she continues, following up with a dirty look, "I know if it's Steve that's hurt that's a big deal, but I thought—god."

"I really wish you wouldn't call him Steve," Peter says, wrinkling his nose.

"That's his name, Peter," Gwen says, like he doesn't know that, like it makes it less weird that she's on a first name basis with his dad, and she pulls the phone closer to her face. "This one's from Bruce."

Peter edges closer to her, reading over her shoulder.

Uncle Bruce 12:07

February 6, 2031

First of all, your dad is fine, Peter. He was injured,

but he should be fully recovered by the end of next

week. The wound looks worse than it is. He's getting

stitches right now. There's nothing to worry about.

"Oh, stitches," Gwen says, "that's not so bad."

Peter agrees, but he'll still feel better when he can see for himself. Then he remembers he has one more text.

dad 12:07

February 6, 2031

dad's back. he's banged up. send you a pic when I

get there.

That makes Peter smile; that's exactly what he wants and his dad knows it.

"Okay, come on," Gwen says, tugging on his arm, "we need to get moving. We are lagging so bad. You know how crazy Marsh gets when you don't stay with the group."

After today, he won't have to worry about Marsh going apoplectic or being left behind and having to wait for news. After today, everything's going to be different.

The two of them run to catch up with the rest of the class, hand in hand.

Tony has exactly one hour—a gift from Pepper—before he has to be back at work for the remainder of his day of incredibly boring meetings. Pepper, who had told him in no uncertain terms: "I gave Happy orders to carry you back to the car if necessary. Natasha texted me, so you're not getting out of this with your oh-but-my-poor-husband-I'm-so-distraught-he's-so-badly-injured shtick."

"He could be emotionally compromised," Tony pointed out.

Pepper had just given him a Look and said, "One. Hour."

So here he is in S.H.I.E.L.D. gloomy-as-hell HQ trying to get eyes on his husband. It's not like he doesn't trust Bruce and Clint's assessments of Steve's injuries; they're the best of all of them at all of that field-medic crap, but after nineteen years of this he knows the quickest way to get rid of the knotted ball of anxiety behind the arc reactor is to see for himself.

He blows right past the guard standing at the door to the MedBay and a few strands of the knot immediately start to unspool when his gaze finds Bruce's broad purple-shirt-wearing shoulders. He's standing with his back to the door, but he turns at the sound of Tony's entrance. His mouth puckers in an amused little smile. "About time. Pepper said you only have until one."

Tony huffs, part faux-exasperated and part real-exasperated. "Oh my god, she texted you, too? I am capable of following instructions."

"That's news to me," comes Clint's voice and Tony gives Bruce a quick once-over before looking to the beds. His eyes slide over Clint, who has his entire right arm swaddled in bags of ice, Natasha, who's sitting at the foot of his bed poking at his leg, and over to the bed at the right where Steve's lying on his back, head obscured by the bowed back of the doctor leaning over him. His red-booted feet are sticking off the end.

"Because you always do what you're told, Barton," Tony mutters, and starts a little when a hand touches his arm.

"He's fine," Bruce says, voice gentle, and Tony wrinkles his nose.

"Well, obviously."

"It's just a flesh wound," Bruce goes on. Tony doesn't like the sound of that, because that's Bruce-speak for don't freak out, even though it looks bad.

He sidles around the bed, opposite the doctor, and, "Jesus, Steve, what the hell happened?" slips out of his mouth before he can stop it. He reaches blindly for Steve's hand, fingers clamping tight around it as his heart gives several stuttering, clenchy beats. It looks like someone doused Steve with blood, except for the area right around the still-bleeding gash that crosses his entire forehead, holy hell. The doctor's carefully dabbing away fresh blood as it wells up, sewing the skin back together with tiny, neat stitches.

Steve doesn't open his eyes, but he squeezes Tony's fingers and says with, frankly, way too much cheek, "Went on what's called a 'mission'. Tried to stop some bad guys who didn't want to be stopped."

The doctor almost manages to disguise his laugh as a cough.

Tony points a narrow-eyed glare at the side of his head. "I told Pete I'd send him a picture," he says instead of acknowledging his asshole husband's snark and pulls out his phone, starts trying to find a good angle.

Steve's eyes pop open and the doctor makes a chiding noise when his head makes an abortive turn toward Tony. "Tony, no, are you nuts?" he says. "It'll ruin his whole day if he sees me like this."

Tony flicks his eyes up, mouth flat. "I thought you were fine."

"Okay, am I going to need to ask you to leave?" the doctor asks when Steve turns his head again and gives Tony a hard look.

"I am fine, but I'm covered in blood. That's not going to reassure him, which is what I assume you're trying to do."

The most recent stitch slips loose a little and the gash widens, giving Tony a glimpse of pale bone he really could have done without. He swallows with some difficulty and tugs his hand free of Steve's, pushing him back into place. "Stop moving, I can see your skull."

"You should have seen him earlier," Clint says and Steve's next glare goes in his direction. Probably because he knows Tony's imagining that now, with technicolor, slo-mo, the works. It's making him a smidge nauseous.

"Clint," Steve says sharply, the way he does when he's telling them off in the field.

"What," Clint says and shrugs, winces. "I'm saying it looks better. I thought he'd taken off your fa—ow, shit, Nat, what the hell." Natasha doesn't even bother looking up at him, her face serene and unreadable.

Steve sighs and lets the doctor take his jaw and manipulate him back into place. "At least wait until the stitches are finished, Tony."

"Yeah, fine, fine, whatever," Tony mutters and worries his thumb over the hem at Steve's wrist. He glances up at Bruce, grasping for something to distract him. "Big Guy see any action?"

Bruce smiles ruefully. "Not this time."

"Been awhile," Tony says and rubs at his nose. "Do we need to go find a quarry or something where he can work off some excess energy? We can give Thor a call."

"He's not a hyperactive five-year-old, Tony," Bruce says, wry. "You don't need to set up regular playdates for him."

Tony's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "Yeah, that's why he and Clint sit and color while we wait for you to change back."

Bruce huffs. "Hulk has never colored with anything other than people's blood, Tony."

"Holy shit, do you think they make markers big enough?" Clint asks eagerly. "They make those giant pencils—we could get some poster-sized prints— He loves tic-tac-toe as long as I don't win too much."

"Oh my god," Bruce says, covering his face with one hand. "Now look what you've done."

"Might be a good idea," Steve says thoughtfully. "Drawing always helps me feel calm."

"Fingerpaints!" Clint just about yells.

Bruce groans and Tony grins at him.

"All right," the doctor announces, sounding relieved. He sits back and starts tugging off his gloves. "You're all set, Captain."

"Sit up slowly," Tony orders when Steve starts shifting to his elbows. "You may be durable, but your blood fills the same amount of space as the rest of us. And since you're wearing half of it—so 2002, by the way—"

"Here," Bruce says, cutting Tony off with a look. "Let me give you a hand." He eases Steve upright, clasping one of his hands to his chest, the other on Steve's shoulder. "Okay?" Bruce asks, trying to peer at Steve's face, despite the way Steve's bent forward. It makes Tony's heart do weird things, like it's samba-ing in his chest.

"Lightheaded," Steve says to his knees. "Can't feel my forehead at all, but the rest smarts."

"What did I tell you," Tony complains. Bruce shoots him a quelling look.

"I'm not surprised," Clint says. "Don't know how you got off without a concussion."

Steve smiles, nodding at Bruce cautiously as he brings his head up. "A small blessing."

A very small, squishy part of Tony that he hasn't managed to stamp out goes a little softer at that. Tony may not believe in God, but he admires Steve's quiet faith, appreciates like hell the comfort his husband gets from it. "You hang out with a Norse god on a regular basis," Tony's said in the past. "You've been to his palace in another dimension. Met his relatives. How can you still think there's one God?"

Steve had just looked back at him with steady eyes and a firm jaw and said, "It's different. And it's called faith for a reason."

Anyone else and Tony would dismiss them as a self-deluded idiot, willfully ignorant. But there's something about Steve, maybe his inherent wholesomeness, maybe the fact that he's not afraid to talk about his God, but never asks anyone to come to Jesus, or maybe it's just that Tony's head over heels for the guy, has been for years.

Either way, he's not about to try and take it away from him.

"Pepper's going to kill you," Natasha says then, inspecting her fingernails.

Tony blinks. "What? Why?"

Natasha looks up, a smile cutting across her lips. "It's one."

"What?" Tony says, looking down at his watch even though he's sure she's right. "Oh, hell." He glances toward the door because when Pepper said she'd send Happy after him she was almost, probably, definitely not bluffing. "Steve—"

"At least let me clean up a little, Tony," he says, chiding Tony for patience with his tone and his expression and somehow managing to look the picture of it himself.

"Well, get to it!" Tony says, snapping his fingers. "Pep's going to have my head!"

Bruce hands over an antiseptic wipe, trying to smother a smile and doing a piss-poor job of it.

The only thing Steve's really managed to do by the time the MedBay door opens is smear the blood around a little. Happy pokes his head in and Tony immediately flings both hands up, index fingers out. "I swear to god, if you try to pick me up I will punch you in the throat, so help me."

Happy looks completely unimpressed, the son of a bitch. "I gave you an extra fifteen minutes, sir. You were supposed to be back at one sharp. Come on."

"Just let me get this photo for my kid!" Tony whines and Happy sighs, but waves his hand in a well, go on then motion.

"Say cheese, Frankie," Tony says and Steve drops his hands, giving up on the clean up, tries a smile. He looks ridiculously young and exhausted and Tony can tell there's something weighing him down, but it's going to have to wait for later.

"All right," Happy says as soon as the phone makes the simulated shutter noise, and takes Tony by the elbow. "Let's go, Mr. Stark, before Miss Potts has both our asses."

Tony lets Happy drag him toward the door, yelling as they go through, "You owe me a kiss, asshole!"