AN: Series title taken from "O Blessed Child" by The Brothers Bright.

As always, my child therapist friend was heavily consulted for this and many of Peter's struggles/behaviours are based on real life cases.

Two words.

Two whole words.

Peter stares at the orange sheet of paper like it's going to eat him. He doesn't even bother reading the rest, stuck on those two words in an endless loop. The other students filter out but Peter doesn't glance away.

His eyes go from glazed to darting just as the bell shrills. His breathing hitches.

Mr. Hangford shuffles the last of student assignment in a flurry of debris on his desk, brows frowning over top of his glasses. As history teachers go, Peter actually likes him, finding him fair and empathetic with students, if homework heavy.

It is this that lends Peter enough boldness to pad up to Mr. Hangford's seated profile and, lips tight and pulsing in spasms, hold the cursed orange paper out.

Mr. Hangford's head jolts up from its bowed position. He takes one look at Peter's defensive posture and softens.

Gently, the man pushes the paper back. "Sorry, Peter. No exceptions, not with this one. You have to do it…just the same as the other students. It wouldn't be fair otherwise."

Peter trips a step back as if slapped.

Mr. Hangford grimaces. "If it's any consolation, I know you can do this."

Then you and I both don't know very much, Peter thinks.

The paper is vibrating in his fingers. He glances down at those two hated words…it's the first time Peter has ever dealt with this. He's blindsided.

"You have two weeks, Peter," Hangford says, quiet. "Now go on."

Maybe I can move to Singapore.

Peter can't see any other logical way out of this.

He wanders out the door and through the lunch crowds in a daze, eyes a little glassy. Flash eyes him with suspicion but says nothing. It's oddly…mature of him and Peter is grateful for it. Even Flash finds no pleasure in taunting a traumatized, underweight kid. Most of the school simply gives him a wide berth.

A nudge to his visible ribs wakes him.

Ned looks even more distressed than Peter, wringing his hands. "Sorry about Hangford. MJ told me about it. Did he say you could do, you know, er…something else for the assignment instead?"

Peter shakes his head, eyes on his shoes. They amble along in a depressed shuffle.

"Oh." Ned blinks very fast, for just a beat, and Peter sags. "That's really not fair, Peter. All the other teachers are nice about it."

Peter shrugs.

I'm not normal, he wants to say but the words won't push past his lips.

Ned's arm suddenly lifts in an excited wave.

Tony, leaning against the front doors, grins until the corners of his eyes crinkle and waves back. His legs are crossed at the ankles, other hand in his pocket, head tilted slightly in a fond expression. An MMA hoodie peeks out the expensive blazer.

He looks…utterly relaxed. Staff and students are so used to seeing him now that they don't pay the billionaire a second glance.

Tony's eyes land on Peter and he grins wider. This wave is smaller, fingers to palm. Like a secret just between them.

Blushing, sweater cuff gummed between a smile, Peter waves back.

It's an arrangement worked out between Principal Morita and Tony—Peter attends the morning of summer school, first three periods, and one of the team picks him up at lunch for "shop on steroids" with Tony and Biology/Chemistry taught by Bruce, respectively.

It works beautifully for all parties, especially to make up lost class time from early months when Peter struggled to reintegrate.

Half home schooled might be unorthodox, but Peter's marks have never been better.

"Hey, squirt." Tony ruffles Peter's hair in the usual greeting while both wave goodbye to Ned. "How was school?"

Peter follows Tony outside, to the Audi parked on the curb. He thinks about the orange paper still fisted in his right hand. Does Tony really need to know about this? Things have been so calm lately. No need to worry anyone.

Can't mess this up.

So Peter stuffs the sheet in his back pocket and nods with two thumbs up.

Tony lights up. "Good stuff! Let's ride."

After a night of battling phantoms in his mind, the sound of sizzling and smell of something melting uncurls Steve's shoulders away from his ears. He smiles before he even rounds the corner, recognizing the high mumble and deep voice instantly.

The sight of them, when he finally stumbles into the kitchen, isn't what Steve expected. It still makes him melt. He settles on a chair beside the island with a quick salute.

Thor mimics it, using the metal spatula in his left hand. He rolls sausages in a frying pan and occasionally flips the pancakes in a nearby pan.

His right arm cradles Peter.

The two are chest to chest, Peter's dangling legs barely making it past Thor's waist. He's so tiny like this. Dressed in starry pajama bottoms and a grey sweatshirt that drowns him, clearly belonging to Thor.

Peter's right ear is to Thor's shoulder, facing Steve.

At this angle, it's easy to spot dried tear tracks. It explains why the pair is up before the sun. Though Friday alerts one of the team on shift if Peter has a nightmare, Thor and Tony's rooms are closest and they often hear the screams first.

"I l-like sausage." Peter goes for his sleeve and, with his eyes closed, ends up gumming Thor's white T-shirt instead. As usual, it takes him a few tries to gargle-stutter the word he wants. "Y'mmy."

Thor's eyes accordion fold at the tips. He hitches Peter higher to allow him better access to the shirt. "They're almost ready, little one."

The Asgardian shifts his weight from one foot to the other in a nuanced rock. Every few minutes he rests his cheek on Peter's thick head of hair. Peter lets out a contended sigh and Steve wanders the kitchen in search of a camera.

"Your pediatrician will finally have a favourite food to write on your chart," says Steve. He grabs a tablet sitting on top of the fridge and steals a quick photo.

Peter's eyes snap open at the new voice. He blinks at Steve. The lips turn up in a smile, forcing him to release the shirt. One hand, hidden by the sleeves, detaches from Thor to wave.

Steve still adores the fact that this is Peter's way of greeting people.

He waves back, voice quiet to match the atmosphere Thor is trying to create. "Morning, Frodo."

Peter giggles at the nickname.

A new set of shoes wander into the kitchen. "Someone's in a good mood this morning."

Peter is already going back to sleep but he too knows that voice like the back of his hand. "Hmm…"

Bruce grins one of those tiny, delighted grins, and makes a beeline for the tea kettle. He shakes off his glasses to rub at his eyes.

"We're all up early this morning." Steve pats Bruce's arm on the way by. "Hoping for a head start?"

"Never went to bed," says Bruce. "I'm working on a new water filtration system."

"Again?" Thor asks.

"The last one wasn't affordable for developing countries."

Steve tugs on the physicist's hoodie. "Sit down before you fall over."

Bruce, to his credit, obeys without comment, slumping into a chair beside Steve. Their knees touch and this seems to be the last push for Bruce. He relaxes fully, blowing on his mug of oolong.

For a good ten minutes there is utter peace, the homey sounds of cooking food, Bruce's sips, Steve reading the newspaper on the tablet, and Thor's gentle swaying.

Steve knows the team was never like this, not even before Ultron.

It's the teeny tiny kid in Thor's arms that bonded them. None of them have said it but they all know.

The sun rises on them that way, bright rays through the window at Thor's left side that silhouette them in buttery light.

Then Peter shifts, mushing his face against Thor's shoulder and those gigantic sleeves. His face is half hidden by all the fabric and Thor's muscles. He mumbles something.

"What was that, little one?" Thor inclines his head. "I didn't catch…"

"L'k the s-s-sound of y'r hr'db't."

Steve can't quite decipher that but apparently Thor can because he chuckles. "You like my heartbeat? What does it sound like?"

"Like…l-like an o-ocean w've."

Bruce laughs at that one too. A curl tumbles in front of Peter's eyes and his sleepy exhale pushes it airborne for a second. Steve could eat this kid he's so precious.

"Like the s'd of y-your h'rtbeat, Th-Thor."

"Yes, little one," says Thor softly, lips in Peter's hair. "I heard you; fear not. I'm here."

"It's s-so nice," Peter insists, like a closing statement. "N-nothin' like Derrick's."

Thor drops the spatula with a clatter. His eyes go huge, body cement stiff. Bruce stands up so fast it topples his chair and when Steve looks up, his eyes are pure green. His shirt suddenly looks too tight, too confining.

Steve's pulse ramps up a few notches. He glances wildly between them all.

What's going on?

Thor visibly wrangles his fury under control.

Hand taut, Thor reaches around and with a finger under Peter's chin, swivels his head so his left ear is to Thor's chest. Steve can't see Peter's face now but he must open his eyes because Thor lets go.

Even then, it takes Thor several false starts before his voice comes out even. "Peter, when were you close enough to villain Derrick to hear his heartbeat?"

Oh. Vomit rises in Steve's throat. OH.

Peter's fingers bunch in the back of Thor's shirt to steady himself. He's still half asleep. "S-sounded mean. Thud heartbeat."

"Yes, little one, but when? Did he ever...?"

Thor can't finish this question and Steve, selfishly, is glad. He doesn't know if he can handle the answer.

Peter's hand wads into a white knuckled grip and this time it's from fear. From memories. Thor flips the burner off and uses both hands to hold Peter, his free hand now cupping the back of Peter's head.

He rubs a thumb along the boy's cheek, just gazing at each other.

"Peter?" Thor whispers.

"Grabbed m-me when I t-t-tried to r'n. Pinned m-me." There's a quick flash of light. A tear, Steve realizes. It's not Peter's. "When Derrick b-bartered with his…friends."

Another tear swishes into Thor's beard. "Bartered?"

Peter's voice drops to a whisper too. "F-for me."

A roiling tidal wave blasts them in the face. Thor sucks in a harsh breath. Steve wants to kill someone with his bare hands for the satisfaction of feeling a neck snap.

He wakes from the blood lust to realize they might have a bigger problem.

Steve shoots to his feet to plant a hand on Bruce's shoulder. His iron grip would crush an ordinary man's bones but Bruce is not an ordinary man and at the moment he isn't even fully himself.

Steve is glad Peter's eyes are on Thor.

"Bruce. He's here." Steve's voice is hot and low. "Derrick didn't end up selling him. We got him back."

Bruce's eyes are stark and unreadable. It's his jaw that twitches and ticks. He nods once, like a military salute, eyes fading to brown, and straightens his sweater. It finally fits him properly.

Then he walks silently to Peter, who turns his head at the approach. Bruce stands before Peter, gathering some sort of courage. His fingers grip Peter's curls and he bends.

He plants a kiss, long and tender, to the skin above Peter's eyebrow.

Thor and Steve stand shell shocked. Bruce is affectionate, sure, but never in front of them like this. Never with that vulnerable look on his face. Thor is holding his breath in an effort not to break this rare jewel of a moment.

Peter reaches out both hands, Thor bracing him, and cups Bruce's face in his hands.

"I like y'r heartbeat too."

"Do you?" Bruce laughs, an utterly wet and wretched sound.

"Mmm," Peter hums in his throat. He smiles. It's tired and grief stricken—but genuine. "Sss'nds like home. Home."

Peter is in Tony's lab the first time it happens.

"Just one more try, bud. Then we'll call it a day and you can get to Bruce's class. Sound good?"

Tony says it like Peter has a choice but he knows he doesn't. He bites his lip. His eyes dart from a row of fifteen CPU chips to the miniature robot. The robot is shaped like a leaf with bottom wheels attached, gutted and sparking.

Tony and Peter are both on the floor, on their knees, tools scattered in a five foot halo. Discarded sandwiches sit abandoned on the table above their heads.

Using rubber, forceps-style pincers, Peter gingerly picks up one of the CPUs. He holds it in front of Tony, brows rising.

"Hook it up and find out," Tony answers.

Biting back a huff—Tony's been exorbitantly patient—Peter inserts the chip. Smaller pincers allow him to attach the wires. A soldering iron appears beside Peter's cheek.

He thanks Tony with a nod and bends further to see inside his leaf design. He's careful not to touch the lithium battery nestled beside the chip. He snaps the lid back on.

Eighth try is the charm…I hope.

"Here we go." Tony folds his legs underneath himself, pretzel twisted. "You wanna do the honours?"

Peter uncurls, back popping, to see Tony holding out the tablet with app controls. Even after an hour of this, Tony's eyes are sparking with excitement.

Peter grabs the tablet but holds on. He wants to savour this moment, the feeling of working on something side by side—

"Come on, small fry! You've been building this agriculture robot for two weeks. Let's start 'er up!"

Since Tony is bouncing like a toddler, Peter indulges him. He'd rather run tests but Tony isn't that kind of teacher.

"Pedal to the metal," had been his exact words the first day.

It takes a second of finger hovering for Peter to work up his nerve. He turns the touch screen dial with his eyes closed. This powers up the robot and sets it to 'seeding' mode. With a swipe to the top of the screen, the robot should, in theory…

"It's moving!" Tony's elated screech whisks Peter's eyes open of their own accord. "Look—moving! You did it!"

Sure enough, the little leaf zooms around the lab, bumping into tools and dropping sunflower seeds everywhere. Tony throws his head back and laughs. Truly laughs. The free, childish sound he guards so well.

Until now.

It's contagious. Peter puts a hand over his mouth but it's no use. Giggles bubble up his larynx and out his beaming mouth in a stream. His cheeks flush from the humour of it all.

Almost drunkenly, Tony hoists an arm around Peter's shoulders. "I'm so proud of you, Pete. You're like the child I never thought I'd get to have, you know that?"

Peter doesn't but he nods anyway.

Something inside his chest is setting off fireworks. Warm, golden, and so real. Peter hasn't felt this happy since…he can't quite remember.

If joy were a drink it would be squirting out his nose. Peter laughs some more and that sets Tony off again.

There is no warning. No build up. No prickle behind his eyes.

In the midst of Peter's mirth, two massive, fat tears materialize in his eyes and down his cheeks. They're heated and salty. Peter is so surprised that his breathing misses a beat.

His eyes widen and more overweight tears fall.

"Peter? These are happy tears, right?"

Noisy sobs replace Peter's laughter. He weeps like it's going out of style.

Tony's smile vanishes and he has Peter in his lap in a blink. Peter fits perfectly in the hollow of his crossed legs. Peter feels as shocked as the man looks.

Tony tucks Peter's back to his chest, inhaling in a cartoonish, exaggerated breath. Peter tries to mimic it, failing. Tony puts a hand on Peter's sternum.

"Hey, hey, hey. Small fry."

Peter tries to speak but the sobs are in control of his body. They've never been this loud before.

"You're okay. You're in my lab. It's a Tuesday. If I scared you, Pete, I'm sorry."

Peter shakes his head. "Di'nt."

"Good. Good…" Tony rests his chin on Peter's head. There is a long pause while Peter drips with snot and devastation and breaths that sound like a dying possum. "You feel safe with us, Peter…right?"

I do. That's the problem.