Steve's hands were in his pockets as he rode the elevator to the 8th floor ICU. Clothes felt so much better now than they had when he was a kid. Some time over the course of these last few years, he had gotten into the habit of stuffing his hands down into the ultra-soft lining of his sweatpants. Sometimes it was to stop tremors. Sometimes it was just to keep them somewhere.

He remembered his mom used to slap his wrists when he did that as a kid, told him he looked like he was pocketing treasures. Five year-old Steve had felt too bitter to say that anything he might find would likely be snatched from him on the way to school, anyway.

For some reason, thinking about his mom now sent a fresh pain into his chest that he hadn't experienced in a long time. Maybe, it was the hospital...they never changed, really. Sure, the nurses looked a lot more comfortable, and the doctors smiled more. But it had the same feeling. That same feeling he felt now as the doors opened to the ICU, and he stepped out into a hallway busy with moving bodies, a voice speaking urgently over the loudspeaker. And yet things felt strangely still. Families sat on chairs against walls. A clump of seats in the center of the waiting room was occupied by some of the palest faces a person could find.

In the first row facing the reception desk was his target. A circle of brown hair, a blue t-shirt in the sea of white and gray. Steve took a long breath, stepping out of the elevator. The nurse who had been riding up with him continued to stare until the doors closed.

Steve walked forward. He went around the isle of uncomfortable-looking chairs until the kid's face came into view. Peter's eyes were red, the kind of sore, bloody red that could only happen when someone had been crying for hours. For days.

But he wasn't crying now. Steve got that.

The natural thing was to kneel down. That put Steve at his eye-level. It also put him in the direct line of the kid's pain. He could feel it ebbing off of him, like the way a hot road gives off heat. It hit Steve like a familiar punch to the gut. He knew that Peter hadn't taken a proper breath in hours.

He had felt the same thing when his mom died.

"Hey, Pete," said Steve.

Those bruised eyes stared determinedly at the ground. Steve sighed.

"Peter, I'm so sorry."

No response. Peter's mouth twitched, as though he were repulsed. The kid was pale. He definitely had not eaten in the past 24 hours, that was a given. He had also not moved from this spot.

"This shouldn't have happened. It was our responsibility to make sure your family was kept safe. I'm sorry."

His aunt had been moved down to the morgue a few hours ago. After they made the call. But Peter was still here.

If anything, his eyes seemed to retreat further into darkness.

Steve gave up, and took a seat next to the kid. He looked down at Peter's lap. His hands were clenched together on his knees, whiter than his face. When people thought of prayer, they thought of those paintings of Mary, hands pressed together flat, ritual and calm. These were real prayer hands, the desperate kind you pressed your face against, biting knuckles as the person you loved disappeared from your life a few doors down.

Steve folded his hands the same and leaned forward. He could wait.

...

"I hear snooty doctors in the background, so I guess that means you found the place."

"It's the Lower Manhattan Hospital, Tony, I could have found it if I stood on the roof of my building."

"I don't trust a man who got around before cabs had GPS...or engines, for that matter."

"Funny."

"Tell that to my judgers."

Steve winced, despite himself. He could hear Tony tapping his foot.

"How is he?" The real questions.

"Not good," Steve replied honestly, "The nurses think he's dehydrated. Brought him some tea awhile ago."

"Let me guess…"

"The homeless man next to him seemed to enjoy it."

Tony sighed. A concerning noise from him.

"I'm not the right one for this," said Steve, allowing himself to sound tired, to sound the way he felt, "It's been two hours, he hasn't said a word to me. He doesn't trust me."

"Why is that?"

"Maybe, because you told him he shouldn't," Steve groused.

"And how many times must I apologize for that, King Guilt?"

Steve released a dry chuckle. Tony's voice was light, but Steve could picture him standing outside the conference room, one hand trying to crush the door handle.

"When will they let you go?" he asked, hopeful.

"Probably when I admit this whole thing was my fault. I thought I did that already, but apparently the whole thing in Brazil was my fault, too. They probably have a few more, yet. I could be here awhile…"

Steve sighed. It was a more common noise with him.

"Understood."

He moved to hang up.

"Steve…" Steve paused.

"Yeah?"

"Take care of him."

Tony sounded different now than he had a few hours ago. No doubt, he had been given time to compose himself. When he had first called Steve, he was in a panic. He had practically begged Steve to go be with Peter. He would do it himself, but Shield was escorting him in all but handcuffs back to base to be questioned. He still hadn't told Steve exactly what happened. Apparently, Tony and Peter had been on some kind of mission.

Then, things had gone horribly wrong. Aunt May had been caught in the crossfire.

Steve reassured Tony, then pocketed his phone. He turned back around, and froze.

Peter was gone.

…

A line of web shot through the torrential rain, disappearing in the black. Peter felt it snag a target, and he yanked hard, propelling himself forward.

The air was a piercing, Manhattan winter cold, but Peter felt like he was burning. His face was screwed into a grimace behind his mask. Fury breathed heat into his body. He didn't feel like himself. He didn't feel like someone who left robbers dangling harmlessly from light poles. He felt like he wanted to kill.

Good.

Tony and he had last seen the perpetrator a mile from his and Aunt May's apartment. The guy was a special kind of sick. He hovered over the city, far away from the destruction he caused. Peter had only seen him from a distance. He looked like some kind of human arsenal, missiles and guns and plenty of unidentifiable weapons stuck to his body like a suit.

Peter's hand had been yards away from him when a torpedo fired from his right shoulder.

Even Iron Man wasn't fast enough. Peter begged Tony to drop him, so he could fly faster. But he wouldn't. They were flying over a January ocean that would shock a person's body into death within a minute. Tony wouldn't let go.

Aunt May was in the apartment when it exploded.

While Peter's world turned grey and he screamed, Iron Man flew back. The man in the sky had disappeared.

The next few hours went by without Peter. He vaguely recalled the feeling of metal arms holding him, while Peter desperately tried to push Tony away. There was an ambulance and sirens, the scent of wet grass and burning people.

Aunt May was pulled from the rubble. Peter buried his face in the ground, choking. Pain ate his insides. The metal gloves fell away, replaced by shaking hands.

"We have to get out of here, kid. These place can't learn who you-"

Peter turned around and punched Tony in the face. The billionaire recovered quickly, rubbed his jaw, grabbed Peter and dragged him away.

"I'll deal with this. Get into your regular clothes." Tony had him by the shoulders. Peter stared into his face, hatred filling his guts. Tony opened his mouth, his eyes pulsing with emotion.

Then, someone shouted,

"It's Iron Man!" And he was gone.

Peter couldn't remember dressing himself. But he must have, because when a nurse found him behind the burning building, she piled him into an ambulance, and no one said anything about Spider-Man.

Nothing else had gotten through to Peter from that moment on. He was checked over for injuries. Someone with a comforting voice (maybe the nurse from earlier) asked him a bunch of questions, and only ended up getting his name. They figured out his connection with Aunt May, and seated him in the waiting room. He was uninjured. Miraculous, they said, with him being so close to the explosion.

There was a TV in the waiting room. Newscasters cried terrorism. The Avengers were mentioned over and over. Nothing about Spider-Man. No one even knew he was a part of this, apparently.

That same nurse showed up. Not too much later.

"Your Aunt didn't make it, Peter."

The words drilled a hole inside of Peter. It swallowed up any part of him that had still felt alive up to that point. Grief didn't begin to cover what this feeling was.

When the nurse, again, got no words out of him, she sat beside him for a few minutes. She tried placing a hand on his shoulder. Said something about being sorry for his loss, asking if there was anyone to call.

"She was it…" said Peter.

The nurse left soon after that. Peter couldn't be sure if he was grateful, or if he missed her. Luckily, it didn't matter.

Nothing mattered.

Time passed. There was somewhere Peter was supposed to go, according to a doctor that actually bothered to show up and kneel down in front of him. Peter didn't really hear the words being said, just stared into the middle-aged man's face, and wondered if he had been the one to call it.

Eventually, he gave up too.

Then, a familiar figure stepped into view. Peter would recognize that iconic physique anywhere. He used to have an action figure when he was a little kid.

Captain America was here to save the day.

Too fucking bad.

"Peter, I'm so sorry."

That was the first time the Captain had ever called him by anything other than "kid", "sport" or "chief".

A day or two ago, Peter would have been elated. In fact it was such a dream come true, Peter wondered if the man was even really there. He could be hallucinating. That felt appropriate.

The Captain said something else about how this shouldn't have happened. As if it were a logistical error. Someone at Wendy's had said the same thing last week when they forgot Peter's fries.

Peter hadn't realized how empty he was feeling, up until the moment rage spilled over his eyes with a sudden force.

Not much happened other than this for the next span in time. The anger grew inside of him, covering his thoughts with a comforting blanket of hatred. Nothing drew his attention into reality until some words floated through the fog from the television,

"...that people are calling the Arsenal, has been sighted over Brooklyn Bridge. Authorities are evacuating the bridge, and advising citizens to take cover in their home basements, or in the underground stations."

Peter was already halfway to the elevator.

…

Steve threw open the door to the morgue. It slammed against the corridor wall, startling a nurse who nearly dropped her clipboard. Steve broke into a jog, phone pressed against his ear.

"He's definitely not in the hospital, Clint, I need you to track his radio."

"It's a comm, Steve, and I'm already working on it." Steve could hear the clatter of something falling off a desk while Clint navigated through Tony's lab, "On a scale of one to ten, how dumb is the kid's next move going to be?"

"This-Guy-Killed-My-Aunt' kind of dumb."

"He's going after him."

"Oh, yeah."

Steve practically ran into the elevator and pounded the lobby button.

"Can you get ahold of Tony?"

"Move the Hell over, Bird Man, you're not doing it right."

"Stark!" Steve exclaimed, "Is that you?"

"Evening, Cap. Twitter let me know our fox sashayed out of its den. I told the chairmen I needed a bathroom break."

"An hour ago?" Clint's voice tittered in the background.

"Switching to comms, Cap," said Tony.

Steve pocketed his phone, and pressed the device in his ear.

"Pete's going after him," he said into the communicator.

"Of course, he is. The kid's out of his mind. If the suits had let me out a couple hours ago, I could have redirected his punches at me."

Tony's voice was decidedly bitter. The speed of his typing clacked over the comms. The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. Steve ran out through the lobby. Several people cried out and jumped out of his way.

"Pardon me, excuse me…" Steve apologized distractedly, bursting out into the New York streets.

"Bright little shit...he's blocking me. I can't track him." Steve heard Tony slam down on something. There was a crash.

"Jesus!" cried Clint.

"Okay," Tony panted, "New plan. I'm heading to the bridge."

"I'm coming in from the west," Steve shouted over the bustling traffic, sprinting down the sidewalk.

"If this kid gets too close to the Arsenal, we might have another loose missile on our hands." Natasha's voice sounded suddenly in Steve's ear.

"Widow, what's your twenty?"

"I had some business in the State Building. Coming in from the east."

"We can't let this guy see any of us coming," Steve veered into the street. Cars screeched to a halt, horns blaring. "Tony, find Spider-Man. He's volatile, keep him out of combat."

"You know, Cap, sometimes you just say the most obvious things."

…

"You know, Cap, sometimes you just say the most obvious things," Tony heard his own voice straining as he made a tight turn around Avengers Tower, and diverted power to his boots. A concussive blast upped his speed past the recommended acceleration rate.

"Sir," said Friday in his helmet, "Your heart rate is elevated, and your nervous system is flooding with activity."

"Sorry, didn't have time for my pre-battle yoga routine," Tony offensively shut off the AI's vitals monitor, and told her to push more power into his hand-propellers. He didn't need an unempathetic voice telling him how guilty he felt, how wrong this all was. He had spent the last few hours in that God-forsaken meeting room staring at the table, and seeing the burning wreckage of a building. He had listened to the voices of aggrieved politicians, and heard Peter's chilling screams as he battled Tony's hold on him, desperate to run into the fire, saying his Aunt's name over and over.

The bruise Peter had given him pushed against the side of his helmet, shooting pain through his neck and jaw, and up over his skull. Tony had to fight not to lean into the pain, let despair and guilt cover him and drag him down to a place where he could figure out how to reverse this. He needed weeks to decide how he could possibly speak to Peter again, face him and look at him.

Instead, he had minutes.

Peter was smart. He was crazy right now, but he was smart. He wouldn't take any main streets to the bridge. He would know that they were coming for him. And Tony had to find him quick, or the kid would get himself killed. He would raise hellfire first, but there was no way he could face this guy alone.

Tony had to find him. Somehow.

"Friday, give me Spider-Man's last known coordinates before he cut out."

Friday listed off a series of longitudes and latitudes, then put them in layman's terms.

"Just a mile Northeast of the hospital, sir."

"Alright...show me the last newsfeed of Arsenal."

Friday played a news report in the upper left corner of Tony's vision. It showed a distant figure floating in the rain overlooking Brooklyn Bridge. The shot was blurry, from a drone that the station dare not send any closer in case of damages.

But it was clear that the figure was facing South across the bridge.

Pete's going to try to flank him, Tony thought.

"Friday, find me the fastest back-alley route to the west pier."

"Yes sir, this may take a couple of minut-"

"Never mind," said Tony, having suddenly spotted exactly what he was looking for. A dark silhouette darted through the city's undergrowth. Faint, black strings shot out, moving it swiftly through the downpour. Tony adjusted his course and streaked downward.

Spider-Man landed on a rooftop, not a hundred yards from the shore. When Tony looked ahead, he could see the Arsenal, a hulking shadow in the sky, turned away from them. Spider-Man sprinted in his direction.

Tony upped his speed, and landed hard on the rooftop. The sound of running footsteps stopped, replaced only by the pounding of hard rain.

Tony stood up straight, and turned his back on the crashing shore.

Peter faced him head-on. He was in full Spider-Man garb, the black lenses of his mask shining ominously in the rain. He hunched slightly, breathing heavily. His hands were loose at his sides, ready at any moment to launch a rope of web. Tony had no doubt he himself might be the target.

His cheek throbbed.

Tony let his iron mask dismantle, revealing his face, and lifted one hand forward slightly.

"Hey, Pete."

The kid gave no reply. His hands twitched.

Tony had never been on the receiving end of the young hero's hostility. The kid was almost sunshine-y a good majority of the time, and Tony tended to think of him as one of the more agile, strategic players on their team.

But, he had also tested the kid's strength on a high-tensile cable in his lab. Peter might not even know it, but he could lift the thick end of a barge over his head if he wanted to. And now, facing Spider-Man head on, looking at a frame that was spare but lined with strength, that quivered with wrath, an inkling of fear broke through Tony's calm exterior.

"Listen, Spider-Man," said Tony, "I know I'm probably the last person you want to see right now. But, the state of mind you're in...trust me. Going into battle like this, you're going to get yourself, or someone else hurt."

Peter seemed not to hear him. He crouched down, legs spreading out. Tony swallowed,

"Kid, I know you don't want that!" he shouted, almost desperate.

The boy held his hand in front of him, pointed at Tony's chest. Words floated through the dark toward Tony, spoken gruffly with black anger. But they seemed to scream in his ears.

"I never wanted to go to Germany."

A ball of web shot through the rain towards Tony. He dodged out of the way, just barely, helmet climbing back into place. When he looked back up, Spider-Man was leaping towards him. A punch landed squarely across Tony's head plate. There was an actual crack in the metal, and static buzzed in Tony's ears. Friday said something, her speakers warbled.

Tony stood up, raising his palm towards Peter, shooting out a barrage of blasts. The kid sprinted left. But one managed to catch him on the shoulder. Peter cried out, rolling across the rooftop. Tony's boots lit up and he flew forward. If he could just pin him down…

But Peter was already standing. Before Tony could react, a large web was covering his face. He reached up to his mask, feet losing control. He crashed onto the cement. A weight landed on top of him, and a blow landed again on his helmet. Tony's head spun. He reached out blindly, locking around a wrist. The plates on his back flared open, and fire spilled out. Tony was propelled sideways, putting him on top. Spider-Man screamed with rage, struggling underneath the weight of Tony's suit.

"Friday, burn the web." Heat emanated from Tony's helmet, melting the web away. With clear vision, he could see Peter beneath him, writhing against the hold Tony had on his wrists.

"Let me go!" he screamed. Tony's chest constricted.

"You have to listen to me..." he started to say. But his voice faded out as a pressure built against his abdomen. Peter grunted with effort, his feet sinking deeper into the metal across Tony's chest. Alarms blared in his helmet, and steam burst out from the seams in his chestplate. Suddenly, Tony found himself turned upside down. He landed on his back, gasping for air.

There was the pounding of footsteps. Tony rolled onto his stomach and reached out.

"Peter, no!" But Spider-Man was already leaping off the roof onto the next.

"Shit," Tony swore viciously, then turned on his comms, "Kid's on the way, guys. Are we clear?"

"Hardly," Steve grunted, and when Tony looked up into the sky, he saw the captain's shield bounce off of Arsenal, followed by a stream of arrows, which exploded in the man's face.

"If we get too close, his weapons go off automatically!"

Tony stood up, and shot forward. Peter was leaping onto the last rooftop from the shore, his hand already out, ready to fire a web into the air. Tony had nearly reached him, but his suit shorted out, chest plate fizzling. The power in his boots winded down, and Tony stumbled onto the roof, rolling haphazardly. He came to a violent stop, his skull rattling. He managed to get onto one knee, and reached forward.

"PETER!"

The kid looked back, but did not slow. He put on a new burst of speed, a few feet from the edge of the building. He lifted his arm up, started to turn back around, looking for Arsenal.

Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.

Three bullets landed in Spider-Man's chest. Time slowed down as Tony watched in horror. The boy's left shoulder was thrown back. His right shoulder. His spine curled over his stomach.

But before he went limp, his feet carried him over the side of the building. Tony saw Spider-Man fall out of sight.

In the sky, Arsenal was facing them impassively, a rifle smoking on his enormous shoulder.

A scream rose up inside of Tony, bursting forth with impossible wrath. He stood, aiming his palm toward the villain in the sky, just as Arsenal rotated the barrel of his weapon toward Tony's head.

A static charge pulled at Tony's hair, a flash of brilliant white crackled across the sky. There was a surge of energy, and a crack that rent the air so completely, Tony felt it nearly snap his teeth apart.

A bolt of lightning came down from the sky, striking Arsenal. The man's body arced, a scream of agony reaching Tony's ears. He could barely see the writhing figure through the brightness of the storm and the rain. But he could see ripples of electricity crossing Arsenal's body.

And just like that, it was over. The light went out, the crash of lightning seemed to be sucked into a vacuum. And all was still, except for the pattering of rain that was slowing.

For a breathless moment, Arsenal hung in the air, blackened. Then, his body folded over, and he fell toward the freezing water.

Tony stared at an empty sky for only a moment. Then, he sucked in air, stood and ran to the edge of the rooftop.

His eyes widened. There was a shed below him, dark inside where he could see through a large, shattered window on the roof.

"Shit...no."

Tony leapt down three stories, landing hard against the concrete. He grabbed the handle to the shed door, and ripped the door free. Tony took a shaky breath.

Peter lay in a bed of shattered glass, one hand across his stomach, taking gasping breaths. The front of his suit was soaked with blood. Tony's heart dropped like a dead weight inside him. He fell to his knees by Peter's side, and told Friday to dismantle his gloves. They fell from his now bare hands.

"I've got you...you're gonna be okay, I've got you," Tony said, pressing his palms into the wound gushing blood in Peter's stomach. Rivulets ran from his shoulders, as well. Alarms and curses went off in Tony's head, but he kept them from spilling out. He couldn't let Peter know what he was seeing.

Tony spoke into his comms.

"I need Bruce. Now!"

Only static. The lightning. It must have killed their equipment.

"Mr. Stark…" Peter's voice drifted up, weak. Tony looked over, then cursed himself and lifted the mask off of the boy's face. He looked into the familiar blue eyes, now bleary and wet. Peter looked at him in innocent confusion, as if he couldn't comprehend what had happened to him. Tony tried to smile, but could feel his own lips quivering,

"Hey."

"Arsenal," Peter gasped, eyelids wavering.

"He's gone. Dead. No thanks to you. You got yourself shot, instead," said Tony, trying to ignore the feeling of warm blood on his hands. It was too familiar. Christ, not Peter. Not Peter.

Peter sobbed.

"It hurts."

Tony's throat swelled. God, he couldn't handle this. He shook his head.

"Shit, I know. I know, kid, I'm sorry."

"Am I gonna...gonna die…"

"No," Tony said firmly, "No, definitely not. Not gonna happen."

Peter shook his head. He shut his eyes, and tears ran down into his hair. Tony noticed that there was blood there, too.

"I'm sorry," Peter whispered, letting out another moan of pain.

"Don't be. Don't. This whole thing is my fault. Like everything is. Just blame it on me."

Peter bit his lip, eyes red in the glow from Tony's chest plate.

"I-I did," he said shakily, "I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

Tony's own eyes burned. He spoke through a lump in his throat.

"No…"

"Stark?"

Tony whipped around. There stood Thor in the light mist of rain bouncing off his metal shoulder plates. His brow was furrowed with concern, staring down at Peter.

"Bruce," said Tony frantically, "I need Banner, where is he?"

"At the tower," Thor replied haltingly, then seemed to gather himself. He took a look at Tony's battered suit, and must have understood that it couldn't fly, "I will take the Spiderling."

Tony sniffed, falling back as Thor knelt by Peter, mumbling soothingly as he picked him up as if he weighed nothing. Peter's eyes fluttered faintly, though he gagged with pain. Thor gave Tony one last look of grave reassurance, then flew into the night sky.

Tony sat there, among the garbage and bottles of cleaning fluid, his back resting against a wall of old brooms.

He was chilled. Friday removed the suit without him asking, leaving it in a pile of pieces around him. Tony buried his face in his hands.

...

Natasha slowed down near the shed, and ran off before the motorcycle had fully stopped. She stopped in the doorway, saw the pile of shattered glass. Sitting directly to her left was Tony. Nat's heart swelled with relief. She pursed her lips and knelt in front of him.

"Are you injured? The comms aren't working."

"No, and I know," Tony replied. He didn't look well. His hair was rumpled from running his hands through it. His face was pale, eyes red, dark rings underneath. Most concerning, there was blood all over him, on his knees and arms.

But his palms. They lay upturned on his lap, coated in it.

"Someone was," She breathed, almost hesitantly. Tony's jaw was a hard line, veins standing out.

"It's Pete. Arsenal got him."

Natasha cursed in Russian. Her head bowed, and she fell right next to Tony against the same wall.

"I'm sorry, Tony."

"He's not dead."

"I know. But, he's...sixteen."

"...I know." Tony's voice cracked. Natasha glanced at him. His face was turning red with the effort not to let anything in too deep. His throat bobbed. Natasha sighed. She knew that feeling, that feeling that your emotions were a group of enemies surrounding you. If you let down your guard, there was no way out.

She threw an arm over his shoulder. The man stiffened, and probably a minute passed before he collapsed against her, as Captain America had in a chapel not two years before. And just like then, Natasha pretended not to feel the tears on her shoulder as she hummed a song she used to dance to when she was a little girl, and didn't have knives in her shoes.

"H-H-Hello?" A voice broke through through the static on her comm.

"Steve?" Nat called in surprise.

"Yeah. Looks like we're up and running again. Status, everyone?"

"Green," said Natasha.

"Green," said Clint, "Though, I'm out of arrows."

"Good," Steve approved, "Bruce?"

"Red, definitely red!" Bruce's voice boomed loudly in their ears, then aside, "I need this bleed packed!"

Tony had sat up, his eyes wide. Natasha gave him a helpful shove.

"Come on, we're going."

…

Peter's world was all bright, flashing lights and hands all over him. Something warm and airy was pressed over his nose, and a voice spoke kindly into his ear even as bone-snapping tremors ran from his head to his toes. Someone yelled something about "shock", and there was a stinging feeling in his arm.

Then alarms blared. That same voice screamed "crashing", and Peter felt darkness fold over him like a blanket.

"Come on, Peter, stay with us…"

He was gone.

…

Five hours. Five hours the Avengers team sat outside the medical bay in their tower, waiting for news. Clint polished his bow obsessively, refusing to look more than two inches in front of his face. Thor had gone out to speak to police and reporters, to try to control the fallout. He had a nice accent, and people liked to trust a well-spoken god. Natasha lay on her back on a sofa with her eyes closed. Whether she slept or not was nobody else's business.

Steve was with the surgical team. They had needed someone to keep a superpowered teen on their table when he had burned through the anesthetics and woken up in a blind panic.

Tony was the worst of all. He paced endlessly, not in a line, but in chaos, from one corner of the room to the next, to a window, to a chair. He would sit down for five seconds, bouncing his legs, thumbs twisting, then stand back up and repeat the madness. He did not speak to anyone. He did not ask for updates. He did not accept offers of water or food or rest. He just kept moving, too far gone in his own fear. The others weren't dumb enough to ask what was going on in his head.

Five hours, and then Bruce came stumbling out of the operating theater, peeling blue gloves from his hands, and a clear cap from his hair.

Tony made a beeline for him, unnervingly intent. Natasha sat up like a cat. Clint laid his bow on his lap. Steve followed Bruce out of the room, and slumped against the wall.

Bruce held up a hand to stop the barrage of questions he knew were coming, then took a deep breath.

"He's going to be fine."

There was a chorus of sighs and jubilation. Clint whooped and threw his fists in the air. Natasha smiled peacefully to herself, though her hands were shaking. Steve looked inordinately happy. Bruce grinned.

Tony collapsed, grabbing the sofa for support. Clint's arms fell slightly,

"Oh, shit."

Bruce sobered quickly and started to head for the man, but Steve put a hand on his shoulder.

"Just...give us the room. For a minute."

The company glanced at each other, but obediently exited into an antechamber with a kitchen.

Steve waited until they were gone, then knelt by Tony's side. He put a hand on his back, and felt him trembling. Tony squeezed his eyes with one hand.

"I almost killed a whole family tonight," he said, in almost a whisper. His voice was broken. Steve had never heard him so fragile. He swallowed, then smiled.

"That's not how I see it. That's not how Peter will see it, either. Just give it some time."

"No, no, it doesn't matter, because I'll know," Tony's voice gained strength in hatred for himself. Steve sighed. He knew he could not convince Tony that this wasn't his fault. That had hardly anything to do with it.

He considered Peter his responsibility. He had invited him into the Avengers. Peter's losses were Tony's losses. They were his burden. That's how he would see it.

Not to mention that he loved the kid. Obviously, loved him. It was a dangerous game to play to care for the children you fight with. Steve had struggled with the same dilemma seventy years ago, when he had taught boys how to march.

"He's alive, Tony. He's alive, probably because of you. Focus on that tonight. Peter will need you to be strong yet."

It took a minute, but Tony nodded. He managed to extricate his eyes free of his hand, and stood shakily. No doubt, he needed rest. Just like the rest of them. They had almost lost one of their own tonight.

"I'll catch up with you," said Tony, looking towards the operating room. Steve nodded, squeezed Tony's shoulder, and headed for the rest of his team.

...

Peter woke to a warmth all around him. He felt comforted. A blanket was tight around his legs. But, there was something up his nose. He reached up, tugging at it with annoyance.

"Nuh-uh, I wouldn't do that," Someone gently pushed his arm down, and readjusted the oxygen tubes. Peter opened his eyes.

He was in a hospital room. Or, something like it. The ceiling was glass, but through it he could see...a chandelier? Peter rolled his neck slowly, and saw who was sitting next to him. His stomach tightened with guilt.

Then, remembrance. Quite suddenly, maybe it was because he was tired, maybe it was the painkillers, maybe it was the look in Tony's eyes, but tears flooded Peter's cheeks, and he wept. He didn't feel capable of stopping, the sobs ripping through his gut uncontrollably. It didn't take long for Tony to move from his stool onto Peter's bed, nor long to lift Peter up and wrap him in a hug. Peter dug his hands into Tony's back, thinking foggily that this might be mortifying on any other day.

He didn't care. Aunt May's smile flashed through his head again and again, and each time, renewed vigor fueled his grief. He buried his face away in the Stark Industries t-shirt Tony wore, and didn't plan to come back out again.

Nothing was okay. Except for this. They were okay. This was okay.

At least, there was that.