Thanks for the wait, everyone! I hope it's worth it.

Plastered to the side of the building, Peter waits.

He's no stranger to waiting. In fact, he's been waiting most his life, he reckons: for approval, for purpose, for someone to tell him he's needed, before Tony Stark had come along and yanked him off the ground, from zero to twenty thousand miles an hour. Granted, it doesn't mean he's particularly good at said activity—he gets nervous and antsy and way too many thoughts go through his brain, even on a good day, and he has a hard time keeping them all out—but Peter is no stranger to waiting.

Right now, however, it appears his patience is being sorely tested. He feels like he's fifteen again (which was exactly one birthday ago but that's not the point), feet tapping faster than riverdance dancers, urging the clock to tick just a bit faster so class could end and he could don his mask and go webslinging. He wants so many things, all at once: there's so much to do, to hear, to see.

And to say. God, there's so much to say. More than Peter knows how, more than he even comprehends. He wishes there's still a Baby Monitor Protocol on his suit so he can show every bit of footage he has instead of talking, but of course that won't be enough and he'll have to fill in the gaps, and he just knows he'll end up babbling about Morgan and Pepper and Happy and Rhodey and May, and his vacation and Ned and MJ and Nick Fury and all the crazy things that's happened, and his kiss and how Mysterio showed up and—

Peter gulps, forcing air through his body like one of those too-bright balloons they hand out when you go to Coney Island, until he's grounded in the texture of the granite under his fingertips, weathered smooth. He's so jittery that he finds himself barely holding on to the surface like a Post-It note re-used once too often, and has to kind of remind his body to stay sticky from time to time—something he hasn't had to do in years. Briefly he considers crawling over to a small ledge to perch, but Mr. Stark told him to wait here, and if he moves the man may never find him again, and he'll end up losing his only chance, and when the time's up he—

Peter shakes his head and snorts. Mr. Stark's not going anywhere, he tells himself. The billionaire is here at this event, seems to know him (or whoever he is in this universe) quite well, and displayed what Peter thinks is a genuine desire to talk more. There's no way the man would leave! But maybe he shouldn't move from this spot, just to be safe. The party can't be long, a few hours at most. He's waited for months; surely he can wait that much longer.

God. He doesn't remember being this anxious in… well, in weeks, because he's a naturally anxious idiot and anxiety is kind of part of the daily routine by this point, but still… he is here! Peter's found him, against all conceivable odds, and they're going to talk and hug again, which is somehow more nerve-wracking than fighting some extra-dimensional beings in Piazza San Marco, if a different flavor of nerve-wracking, and for the first time in however many months, Peter feels awake. Alive.

No, that's not quite right… he'd felt plenty awake during his battles with the Elementals, and plenty alive when MJ pressed her lips on his, back in London. This, now, this is a more nuanced quality, sort of like brushing away a faint film of fog that has hung over everything, or like optimizing a CPU to run at its ideal clock speed.

Present, Peter decides finally. He feels present.

Because before today, even during fights or kisses or conversations, a part of himself would remain occupied, like a small, broken roomba roaming the recesses of his mind: mostly ignored but always underfoot, sometimes a nuisance, and other times dredging out bits and pieces of his memories and dumping them at his feet—afternoons spent in the lab, way too many trips to Ben & Jerry's, mock debates about the merits of Caltech just to rile up a certain MIT alum… like shattered paintings, or old video files with just the right amount of vivid and some cheap AfterEffects filter added over them, A Film by Peter Parker.

Those are happy memories; used to be happy memories, back when they didn't crumble down to a bland, uniform gray, coalescing into a sea that spread as wide as yearning and plunged as deep as grief. From time to time it would surge into a frothing riptide, inundating him and everything around him, tinting his world red and gold and all wrong, and Peter would remember, Oh, he's gone, and every ounce of joy would shrivel into guilt, and he can only wade through the receding tide, trying to stay sane.

But not this time.

Peter shakes his head and presses his cheek to the cool stone, drawing in raspy breaths. The sudden tightness behind his eyes takes him by surprise, and briefly he wonders what emotion might be driving them. He hasn't cried in Thor-knows how long, yet suddenly, in the span of ten minutes, he's crying for a second time today. The first time was just sheer relief, he thinks, but this time—

He laughs, a wet gurgle that bridges a sob and a chuckle, because who the hell cares? It's so good, so devastatingly good—hell, borderline intoxicating, even—to just… be here, again. Be present. After all, here he is, sticking to granite over a thousand feet above NYC, and for once the churning grey sea that always accompanied him is nowhere to be felt.

I found you, he thinks again, for probably the hundredth time already but feeling just as dizzy as the first. He doesn't put his mask back on, because he figures he can use the sensory overload—the pulsating lights, the din of chatter, the aroma of hors d'oeuvres—to distract him from the fact that he, that Tony, is right there and hugged him and talked to him and he's less than a hundred feet away, on the deck, forming words which Peter can actually listen to—not for content, but for voice, and tone, and that wonderful timbre.

And for what seems like a minute or an hour, he finds himself cupping that surreal, fragile joy, like it's some intricate Lego model that might drop and shatter at any moment, but as he listens and waits and listens, thinking about everything and nothing, he knows it's here to stay.

ooo

Mr. Stark comes for him much sooner than he expects. Not two minutes after the speech ends, Peter senses his footsteps, hurried but in small bursts, like a cat trying to avoid being seen. A moment later, he hears a whisper from above.

"Psst. Hey, kid. It's me." A pause, almost hesitant. "Are you still here?"

Peter nods, then remembers the man can't see him.

"Yeah," he answers, before he scrambles up the wall and hops back over the railings, landing about two feet in front of Mr. Stark—who jumps.

"Jesus Christ! I forgot you can do that!"

The boy smiles sheepishly. God, it's so good to see this face again, warm and vibrant with life. On a physical level, he knows the man in front of him isn't Mr. Stark (isn't even called Tony, apparently?), and obviously didn't defeat Thanos in the way Mr. Stark did (thank goodness)… but on a conceptual level, it's really difficult to wrap his head around all that. The glee from earlier hasn't faded, though, making him want to blurt out something, anything. Everything he ever wanted to say to the man barges into his mind before abruptly leaving, like overexcitable puppies with zero attention span, and he finds himself completely blank, cause he doesn't want to blabber but he knows if he opens his mouth he will start doing exactly that.

It's comical, really: he's been so fixated on finding the man, he hasn't quite thought about what to do after, let alone rehearsed their eventual conversation. He knows there's A Lot™ he has to get off his chest, but his thoughts are about as organized as earphones left in a pocket for too long, which he has no time nor capacity to sort through. In retrospect, it should've been common sense to plan this whole off-kilter reunion thing out—This isn't a reunion, he has to remind himself sternly—but perhaps a part of him was always too skeptical, too afraid of being hurt… too scared to hope. It was easier to lose himself in the business of universe-hopping, because the moment he starts working out the details of a reunion (This isn't a reunion!), it might've never happened.

Except it happened. Is happening, right now. And he's staring at Tony Stark with his mind zeroed out, gaping like an ocean sunfish caught in a NatGeo documentary.

That's when Peter realizes the billionaire is also staring back at him, gaping like an ocean sunfish with a beard. For a moment, the man even looks like a schoolkid with his hand raised, a million and one questions that he's dying to unload, a weird mix of curious and awkward—a touch bashful, even.

Peter scoffs and dismisses the notion, because it's utterly ridiculous. The man's Tony Stark, for crying out loud—he's got more charms than the entire Harry Potter universe! Bashful shouldn't be a word in his dictionary. He's probably just gearing for some witty opener, before he asks all the standard questions like—

"Can I see your hands?"

Peter blinks.

The man looks like he was also taken by surprise. "God, I'm sorry!" he chuckles, shaking his head. "That came out of nowhere! What I meant to say, was—"

"My… hands?" asks Peter.

"—was that—uhm." The man sighs. "Yes, your hands," he confirms, evidently deciding to just roll with it. He gestures at the red and black fabric. "Like, without the gloves, though."

"Oh," says Peter. "Uh… the gloves are kinda attached to the suit, so I can't really take them off."

"Right. Okay. That's fine, I just wanted to check, if possible. So let me clarify: this isn't some kind of advanced costume? You haven't got, like, superglue on your fingertips, right?" Peter's confused expression must have told him the answer. "Right. Okay. God you look so much like Tom I'm having a hard time—alright, ehhem. So no hands. What about, uh, your—" he makes the webshooting gesture.

"… my webshooters?" Peter ventures.

"Your webshooters! Can you do the—the thing—"

The boy frowns. "What thing?" He thwips a strand at the granite wall behind the man. "Like that?"

"Yes!" Mr. Stark exclaims, giving Peter a start. Then the man reaches out, uncharacteristically timid at first but soon with a sudden confidence, and grabs the material, which squelches under his grip. He laughs and pokes at the webbing, then with both hands he tugs at it, flicks it and watches it vibrate. "My God that is cool. Wow. Okay so you're real, let me—just give me a sec to sort of—" he laughs again, putting his weight on the webbing like leaning against a rail. "I've got so many questions! How are you even here? No no, don't answer that—this isn't a good place to talk. Wanna head inside? Oh no you can't, the paps will swarm you… do you have other clothes?"

The barrage of questions leaves Peter feeling faint, his mind abuzz like an overburdened graphics card trying to render something beyond its specs. None of this was in the script (not that he has one). If he didn't know better, he would almost think Tony Stark is… geeking out. But surely that's impossible. People geek out to Mr. Stark, not the other way around.

"I—" he begins, stammering, "O-other clothes…?"

"Yeah. Doesn't have to be a suit, just anything that wouldn't scream 'I'm Spider-Man', you know. I guess people might take you for a really, really good cosplayer, but you'd still stand out like a sore thumb. And trust me, with this many people here tonight? You don't wanna get cornered by reporters."

"Oh," Peter says, small. "I… I don't have any other clothes."

The sentence sounds vaguely familiar, like deja vu, and he thinks he must have said it before. Before he can put his finger on it, however, Mr. Stark smiles at him, warm.

"Okay, we'll sort that out."

Those few words are all it takes. The next second, and Peter's on top of the Vent Tower on Governors Island, watching tugboats tow in the Staten Island Ferry he'd failed to save. Back then, a ferry with a hundred people seemed like a mission of colossal stakes, and his suit being confiscated seemed like a catastrophe from which he'd never recover. Back then, the expression on Mr. Stark's face seemed unbearable: the eyes that contained at once fear and anger, the lips that were pursed into a thin line, quivering with disappointment. Back then, Peter thought it was the end of the world.

How fucking naive.

He sighs. What he wouldn't give to go back to a time when the universe wasn't at stake: when all that mattered was how to schedule patrols around his extracurriculars, when he didn't wake up at 3 AM from dreaming about his disintegration, when he didn't have to worry about becoming 'the next Iron Man'.

When Tony Stark was still alive.

"Hey, kid," Mr. Stark says. "Uh… kid? You okay?"

Peter blinks, puzzled. Then he senses the droplet sliding down his cheek. Oh, great.

He tries to answer, he really does, because it's so fucking rude to just, burst into tears in front of someone who he technically doesn't know, but when he takes in a breath and attempts to say he's fine, all that comes out is a whimper.

In front of him, the man's face is full of concern, almost the exact same face Mr. Stark would make, and for a nanosecond Peter could pretend…

Except there's not an arc reactor glowing on the man's chest and his name isn't Tony but something that starts with an R, and Peter was just trying to trick himself into believing, believing, believing, as if calling him Mr. Stark would make him Mr. Stark, and suddenly the unfathomable gulf of that ceaseless grey sea returns to suffocate him, punishing him for daring to escape, and he gasps as it pummels him to the depths.

He manages (barely) to retain enough wits and attempt an apology. He's been a mess tonight, and nobody should have to deal with that from a total stranger—although the man obviously knows something about Spider-Man and might not be a total stranger (which is somehow even worse). But he chokes a bit on his spittle, and the apology tumbles out in jumbled syllables, and he ends up staring at the brown eyes and iconic beard, trying to think of anything to say other than 'I really, really, really fucking missed you', because that's not Mr. Stark and—

An arm wraps around his shoulders. Before Peter can register anything, it yanks him in and holds him snug.

"Wear my jacket," Robert says, his voice low, creating a soothing rumble where Peter is pressed against his chest. "My driver will be up here in five minutes. He's going to escort us to my car, alright?"

Peter doesn't understand. He tries to ask, but all he manages is a confused gurgle.

"We need to get you out of here," the man says softly. "Do you have anywhere to stay?"

Peter shakes his head. He usually doesn't linger long when he's in another universe, and frankly he hasn't given it much thought.

"That settles it," Robert announces. "You're coming back with me. We'll grab something to eat along the way, and you can get a shower and a good night's sleep. Then we can figure this whole thing out. Sound good?"

Peter is starting to think the arms feel weirdly familiar, almost like the man instinctively knows how to hold him, even though he's not Mr. Stark and has never hugged Peter before today.

He reckons it doesn't matter.

He nods.

ooo

Peter is silent.

It had been quite tricky to navigate around the reporters and the celebs, especially when one was on the 86th floor of a 90-year-old building, waiting on an elevator with a dozen other people. And then there were the fans waiting at the bottom floor, having somehow gotten wind of this event (in typical fandom fashion). And then there were more reporters, who probably couldn't get an invitation and so were waiting outside, though thankfully they'd been caught off-guard by the early departure.

Robert thinks he did an okay job at getting the boy and himself out of pandemonium. Not great—a few people still asked questions about the short figure huddling behind him, wrapped in mufflers and a pair of too-large sunglasses bought five minutes ago at the Empire State Gift Shop, and there were even others who thought the kid looked familiar—but overall Robert thinks he did okay. They were able to evade the largest crowds, being gone before most of them knew, and he'd managed to deflect the more prying questions with jokes and smiles. Peter was his intern, he'd explained, and wasn't feeling well. Severe migraine attack, you see, so it would be nice if everyone could refrain from flash photography or loud questions… after all, the kid already threw up once, and there's no telling when he'll do so again. What? Robert doesn't need to leave as well? Nonsense, he cares about his people, it's his duty to make sure the kid's okay, and if everyone will excuse them, they have a ride to catch.

Peter has remained silent through it all, hands clenched together at his chest, face pale and gaunt. Robert thinks there may have been a small gasp when he first introduced the boy as his intern, the sole exception to this unfailing muteness, but he isn't sure. The boy could well be a shadow, what with his nonexistent footsteps, his tendency to fold his shoulders in on himself, and his dogged insistence to stay out of sight.

And now, even when they're both safely inside the relative calm of the car, Peter is silent.

Robert wants to ask questions. He has about a dozen (give or take) just off the top of his head, which his 8-year-old self clamors for him to blurt out. A part of him is still that little boy, hiding under the covers with a flashlight propped up next to him, his fingers smudged grey by the black-and-yellow pages of the Webslinger's first adventures; that kid who would have given anything to meet a superhero in real life, the kid who wants to brag to everyone about it. Briefly he even contemplates about telling Tom, but it's too weird, and there are too many unknowns at this point for him to even begin that conversation.

Then there's the other part of him, the boring realist part, who keeps insisting that he must be asleep, and everything is just an elaborate dream. 'There has to be a plausible explanation!' it rages, like a disgruntled office worker when faced with some inconvenient truth. For a few gut-wrenching moments, it even suggests the possibility that his drinks had been laced—that the evening's events were nothing more than hallucinations, and that he's spiraling into an imminent relapse after so many years of hard-earned sobriety—which leaves him reeling with panic and terror, his fingers digging into the handrest of his seat, nauseated and horrified and wanting to heave just from thinking about what he would tell Susan and the kids.

That's when he feels something on his arm, firm.

"Mr. Star—er, Mr. Robert?" Peter asks quietly. "You okay?"

Robert blinks, and the leather seatback refocuses in front of him. He draws in a shaky breath, then exhales as he reorients himself. The tangibility of it all: the cushion beneath him, the clothes around him, the grip on his arm… they finally help tether him, and he reminds himself that this is all real. Not a hallucination.

He turns to the kid and smiles, grateful. "Yeah. I'm okay."

The kid nods. The whispers of a reciprocal grin twitches at the edge of his lips, but then he turns to look out the window.

Manhattan is never devoid of traffic, especially at this hour of the day, and it's slow going down on 36th street, vehicles almost bumper-to-bumper. Robert studies the boy's silhouette, from time to time splashed yellow-and-white by headlights and street lamps before going dark again, flickering bright and dim in a strangely melancholic pulse. Somehow, with his features half-obscured, Robert finds it easier to tell him apart from Tom. Something to do with the posture, perhaps; a sort of small, heartbreaking vulnerability.

God, he is so young. Much younger than Indio, and younger than Tom, even. Barely older than a child.

With a start, Robert realizes the questions that were burning in him just a moment ago have all vanished. Because as novel and outlandish as their predicament is, as much as he'd love to find out everything behind this incredible encounter… this isn't about Spider-Man, his childhood hero come to life. This is about a human, a person. A kid. Fictional or not, this kid is seated next to Robert with dried tear streaks on his cheeks, having just comforted the man even when he himself so clearly needed comforting.

And you don't pry a traumatized kid who's obviously still grieving. You take him in, care for him, and let him talk on his own terms.

Robert thumbs the little bit of web left stuck between his fingers, like playing with half-dried glue. He knows a thing or two about trauma, he reckons, and right now all the kid needs is a roof over his head and people to look out for him. He can provide that. Save the theory-crafting for later.

He takes a quick glance at his watch. Susan's probably just finished dinner with the children, and they'll usually be gathered around the large TV in the sunken family room by this time. He swipes open his phone and begins to text.

[I am Bobert]: Heads up honey, coming home early

[I am Bobert]: Be there in two-ish hours

[I am Bobert]: I also

[I am Bobert]: I also have a guest

Here he stops, unsure what else he should say. Being a celebrity and a more or less central figure to such a sprawling film franchise means they often entertained guests, but this one is massively different. How should you tell your wife that you are bringing home a literal superhero (that isn't Iron Man)? And not just that, but one specific iteration of a very popular superhero, who's actually just this… kid, he found, sticking to the Empire State?

He takes a moment to wonder what the boy might know—which period in the ever-expanding MCU timeline he might've been plucked from, so to speak. He figures it's useless getting into the how or the why, so he's just going to stay in the present and accept that the boy is here, and that he must have originally been from somewhere. Judging from the kid's reactions and the tidbits that were let slip, Robert thinks it's safe to assume he's experienced Endgame, at the very least.

Just then Peter sits up straight in his seat. When he turns away from the window, there's a twinkle in his eyes.

"We're going to Queens?"

Robert frowns. "Huh?"

The boy gestures at the windshield. "We're headed there right now. I live there." For an instant, he beams. "Do you live there too, Mr. Robert?"

It takes him a few seconds (an embarrassingly long time for a native New Yorker) to remember where they are—en route east toward the Midtown-Queens tunnel.

"No," Robert says, sheepish. "No, I live in the Hamptons. We're just passing through."

"Oh," the boy nods. The fleeting grin fades, then he turns back, and its clear the conversation is over.

When they finally get to the tunnel, traffic has died down somewhat, allowing them to cruise along the road at a decent speed. The boy hunches his shoulders as they enter. Robert watches the light on his profile, bright-dim, bright-dim, a faster rhythm than earlier, seemingly going on forever. As they drive up the exit ramp and into Queens, he sees Peter clench his teeth.

It's then that his phone vibrates, no doubt a response from Susan, and he looks down with mixed relief and apprehension.

[Mrs. Downey]: Great! I just told the kids and they're thrilled!

[Mrs. Downey]: There's some leftover lasagna if you or whoever's visiting are still hungry

[Mrs. Downey]: Or I can ask rosa to cook something else?

[Mrs. Downey]: Who are you bringing anyway? Gwyneth? Who else was at the thing?

Robert sighs. It's not like he can or even plans to avoid telling her, but he doesn't think it should be now, over text. He sneaks a glance over at Peter, who's still in the same position and watching the buildings fly by. He shakes his head and begins to type.

[I am Bobert]: No not her

[I am Bobert]: Not anyone we know

[I am Bobert]: Actually thats not true, we do know him

[I am Bobert]: But its complicated

[I am Bobert]: I promise I'll tell you once I get home

Her reaction is near immediate.

[Mrs. Downey]: ?

[Mrs. Downey]: Who are you bringing?

[I am Bobert]: He's

[I am Bobert]: He's Tom's family

[Mrs. Downey]: Tom?

[Mrs. Downey]: Tom who? You know a ton of Toms

[I am Bobert]: Holland

[Mrs. Downey]: Oh! One of his brothers?

Robert snorts. That's as close to the truth as he can get, for now.

[I am Bobert]: Yeah

[Mrs. Downey]: Well they're very welcome

[Mrs. Downey]: The kids love Tom, I'm sure they'll love his family!

[Mrs. Downey]: What's his name?

Robert hesitates. They're well into Queens by now, and would be home in about an hour and forty minutes. She'll know soon enough, anyway. His fingertips tingle as they hit the letters.

[I am Bobert]: Peter

[I am Bobert]: His name is Peter