AN: Series title taken from "O Blessed Child" by the Brothers Bright. Go have a listen!

I've played with Peter's age a bit so he's slightly younger than in canon, mainly so I can fit the whole series in before he finishes school.

Thor calls him "Little One."

Peter doesn't think much of this, considering everyone is little by Thor's standards. And Peter is, well, on the scrawny side. The doctors even call him borderline malnourished.

It comes easy off the demi-god's tongue:

"May I have some of your delicious salsa, Little One?"

Or, "Your school project is in superb form today, Little One."

Or the weirdest (warmest-fuzziest) one to date, "I have been requested at your parent teacher meeting. Something about giving you harder curriculum because you've exceeded your classes. I'm so proud of you, Little One."

The name's not just a name either. Not something Thor says but something proven in the way he can cup Peter by the ribcage in both of his huge hands and set him up on the counter.

In the way he never calls Mjolnir or lightning in Peter's presence.

In the way one of Thor's nightshirts is knee-length on Peter.

In the way he'll pick Peter up and cradle him on his hip, restraining but somehow gentler than a hug, when the teen tries to run away from them, tries to hide…

In the way he sometimes hums over Peter when he notices the boy's hands shaking at breakfast after a night of avoiding sleep.

On those days the routine is the same—he'll feed Peter muffins and then take him to the kitchen sink, put a towel around the boy's shoulders, and wash his hair. Because he knows Peter's hands aren't steady enough for a shower or to be trusted with a shaving razor.

Thor's callouses are surprisingly tender. Comforting, anyway.

Peter will it deny to his grave, but when it's just Thor and him alone like this, Thor humming away to some ancient tune and scrubbing shampoo through his hair…

Peter feels like he's allowed to be small, to be his age, even if it's just for the five minutes Thor washes his hair.

Peter feels normal.

And that is a luxury few can afford in their line of work.

Tony calls him "Small Fry."

"Small Fry, we need to work on your fashion game because holes in the jeans are one thing but holes in your undershirt? That's just sad. Like, Oliver Twist sad. Here, I bought you half of Target." Tony throws bags of clothes in his face. "Try 'em on."

"These are fantastic cookies, Small Fry. I'm impressed."

"No, Small Fry. No touching my Camaro until the paint's dry."

"Love you, Small Fry."

This is perhaps the most insulting of all nicknames—it rubs at Peter like a pebble in his shoe—until Tony blurts something one afternoon in the lab.

"Hey. Big Guy." Tony flaps his fingers, not looking away from some gutted engine on the floor. "Pass me that socket wrench."

Peter points to himself before remembering Tony can't see it. Is this a new nickname?

Tony is still flexing his fingers in that impatient, demanding gesture and Peter looks around wildly for the wrench. There are so many that it's hard to tell which one is a socket wrench.

Then quiet footsteps—quieter even than Peter's voice—come up behind Peter and retrieve a wrench among the dozens on the floor.

Bruce, with that wry and droopy smile, tucks the wrench in Tony's outstretched fingers. He winks at Peter.

Peter waves back and is pleased to see Bruce's eyes light up. The physicist taps Tony on the shoulder.

"What? What, Big Guy?" Nonetheless, Tony turns around because he respects that tiny scientist with every bone in his body. Tony's eyes go huge. "Oh! He's—you're waving, Small Fry! Waving! Friday, did you record this momentous occasion?"

Which is a stupid question because the AI records everything. Friday doesn't even respond. But it's the enthusiasm of the question that's important.

"Do it again, Small Fry!"

Peter's cheeks flush but he obliges. After rocking his wrist back and forth he wags his fingers against his palm, like toddlers do.

And if Tony's eyes are bright, he blames it later on the fluorescent lights.

"What did I tell you, Big Guy?" asks Tony, leaning an elbow on Bruce's shoulder. "The kid's a marvel."

Bruce rolls his eyes. "Never a doubt, you loon."

And Peter finally understands that Tony doesn't call Bruce "Big Guy" to mock him (it's still ironic to everyone involved that Bruce is the smallest of them all, even smaller than Tony) or to remind him of the Hulk…

But because his intellect is just that big, to remind him to boast about it once in a while.

Then Peter realizes and his eyes tear up.

Tony pales, mistaking the tears for hurt or fear. "No! No! We're just so happy for you, Small Fry. You're bouncing back. Aww, come on. No crying in my lab."

Belying his words are the grease-stained arms that slowly, oh so slowly, wind around Peter in a side hug. Tony can wrestle a robot and tear its head off one-handed but he squeezes Peter like he's going to break him.

Tony never explains emotional gestures like nicknames.

His hold does, though. It says everything.

"No one's mad at you or upset," Tony soothes, almost frantically. Bruce alternates between patting his friend's shoulder and Peter's.

"Easy, Peter," says the physicist. "Easy."

The nickname is extended in the security protocols on Peter's bedroom door, the armed guard who sometimes follows him to school, the one Tony still thinks he hasn't noticed. In the low growl Tony does in his throat when Child Protective Services workers harass Peter in the park.

He's Tony's fragile cargo.

"Small Fry."

Better known as:

"I'll protect you, Peter."

He expects some Motherland term of endearment from the only Russian in the compound. Something cliché like how she used to call him "Solnyshko" when watching movies with him.

Then Peter's life went to crap and she didn't dare call him a moniker he doesn't even fit the bill of anymore. They live in closer quarters now that he's moved in but verbally the distance grows.

No, Natasha doesn't call him much of anything that first month after the adoption. Or the second month. Or the third.

Just the usual fare that they all call him of "Kid," "Pete," or, rarer still, "Itsy Bitsy."

Heck, most days she just points at him and goes, "You. Help me roll dough" or "Go to bed, you."

The only thing predictable about their relationship is that he becomes her shadow on bad days. If the V lines around her eyes soften when she sees his haunted gaze, then none of the others call Peter or Natasha out on it.

She's a woman.

She hurts to look at and yet when she brushes Peter's hair out of his eyes he thinks he's been stabbed in the lungs with something acidic and euphoric all in the same breath. Maybe this is what drug addicts feel like.

This is better than cocaine. It hurts more too.

It should be Pepper. Peter feels guilty that it isn't. Pepper is the most hands on of the two women, the one who packs Peter's lunches and kisses his cheek.

(Pepper calls him "Sweetie.")

Even Peter doesn't understand why, then, Natasha is the one who makes his brain time travel. The one who makes him feel like the world inside his heart is still and as it should be.

Peter and Natasha don't talk much at all, in fact.

But if seeing Ned with his mom guts Peter, eyes glazed and panic so close under the surface, Natasha nods at him— "You"—and he follows her. They usually go to the dance studio. Nat stands in front of Peter at the barre, doing plies while Peter copies her.

They don't turn on lights. No music. This is a sound proof room so none of Tony's collateral noise.

There is just Natasha's curls catching moonlight and turning it into fire, Peter's breathing, and the shuffle of socks on spongy flooring.

Natasha's arms weave up and out and in dryadic shapes but Peter's hands remain on the barre or at his sides. Close to his chest.

Every week they do this. A ritual. In Peter's case, a high.

At the five-month mark, Natasha, now in a leotard and fluffy leg warmers, looks back at Peter. "You're getting better at this."

It's four am. Even Tony has gone to bed. Peter likes the compound better than the tower if for no other reason than the lack of traffic noise. Like it's just the two of them on planet Earth.

He tilts his head. Nat smiles.

Then Peter grips Natasha's right hand in both of his, wading it up until only the index finger remains free. He feels Natasha go limp and is floored by her trust. No one is allowed full control of her limbs like this. He treats the loan carefully.

She only looks calm as Peter pokes his own chest with her finger.

There is a question in his eyes.

Natasha examines it for a long moment. Like a sentence, she rereads Peter's querying eyes.

To his surprise, she pulls away to drag over a metal chair. She pushes on Peter's shoulder to sit him down. Then she crouches over her heels, at his eye level. Her hands are folded and elbows resting on her knees.

Natasha's eyes are smaller now because of some intense fondness. "Do you know my history, Pete?"

Peter nods…then gives his head a little shake.

Natasha seems impressed, either way. "You're correct. I'm sure you know some of it but few know its entirety. Long story short, the Red Room made me into something I didn't ask. Even if I do have an aptitude for…"

Her brows do a dive before smoothing. "Doesn't mean I had any choice in the matter. They gave me the name assassin and I was expected to live up to it."

Peter's chest pangs for her. He reaches out and pats her shoulder, like Bruce always does for him.

Faster than lightning, Natasha gently snatches Peter's fingers and presses her ruby lips to his palm. Peter is so shocked that he jumps. His breath catches.

Natasha lowers her hand but Peter holds on. Their arms swing in the space between them.

"I don't call you nicknames like the others," Nat murmurs, "because you should be free to become who you want. There's nothing wrong with nicknames, but my absence of them is symbolic. No one gets to define you. I've lived in a cage for too long and by God, that's not happening to you on my watch. Got it?"

It takes Peter almost a full minute for his ears to stop ringing so he can nod. Natasha squeezes his hand.

Her jaw flexes once and stills. "Your future is a blank canvas, Peter Parker. Only you get to paint on it."

Natasha isn't Aunt May.

The assassin doesn't call him "Tough Guy" or make bad casseroles.

She doesn't call him much of anything at all.

Instead she helps him with his homework and teaches him self-defence. Her keen hearing finds him in the vents every time he squirrels himself away from the team, as if his new guardians will hurt him.

Sometimes he forgets that just because they're big, doesn't mean they aren't loving. That they won't rip him limb from limb and be cruel just because they can and make him watch and Peter's hyperventilating before this thought…this memory…finishes.

Natasha's the one who crawls up the ladder, legs supported by Clint, and whisper-coaxes Peter down into Steve's waiting arms. Steve sits the boy back against his chest and rocks them until the world isn't exploding before Peter's eyes.

Natasha teaches Peter to dance, to speak the basics in four languages. To fend off bullies.

Sometimes, when it's quiet, she bakes shortbread and sings to him in languages that sound like ocean spray.

Natasha is Peter's easel. She props him up and displays the whole world like it's his.

Maybe, just a little, Peter is starting to believe her.