AN: I firmly believe that the events of every other movie following Ultron would have turned out drastically different if Peter had been in their lives from the start, for good or ill. It's set shortly after my other work "Free Fall," but you can enjoy this one without reading that first. Series title taken from "O Blessed Child" by the Brothers Bright.

Soundtrack for this story is "Six" by Sleeping at Last.

Alright, enough of my jabbering. Bon apetit, lovely people.

'My mind was heavy
Running ragged with worst case scenarios
Emergency exits and the distance below
I woke up so worried that the angels let go.'

"Six" ~ Sleeping At Last

In the end, getting kidnapped turns out to be the most anticlimactic thing imaginable.

It's not like that time a tactical team took him and Bruce in a hover car. It isn't dramatic or filled with sirens or villain backtalk.

There's just Peter, walking to his first day of school and listening to an audio book on Abraham Lincoln.

Then a short man walks up beside him. He flashes a winning, white teeth smile and pats Peter's shoulder to get his attention.

Peter pops an earbud out, eyebrows up. "Can I help you?"

The man goes red and adjusts his glasses. "Yes. So sorry to bother you. You look like a local. I, uh…"

Peter hears the thick German accent, sees the map in his hands, and puts it together.

"You're a t…tourist!" Peter smiles. He sees something circled on the map. "Trying to find Grand Central?"

"Ja! Think you can help me? All these alleys look the same."

"It can be confusing," Peter agrees. "Here. This dot is the entrance to Central Park. If you keep walking this way, y-you can take the subway to Times Square. It'll be easier to catch from there."

The man's eyes light up, darting across the map. "I see it now! Danke, my good man!"

Peter shakes the man's extended hand. "Not a problem…"

Maybe his powers are wonky from almost a year dormant. Maybe he's too busy thinking about seeing Ned at school.

Whatever it is, Peter doesn't notice the sharp prick in his palm until it's already taken effect.

"Why, thank you!" the man says louder. "I'd love it if you accompany me! Such a polite youth."

And he slings an arm around Peter's shoulders like they are old friends.

It's easy-as-you-please. The man walks him towards the curb.

And Peter…Peter loses feeling in his limbs. The paralytic takes effect in three blinks. He feels like he's gained two hundred pounds.

Scream! Kick! Do something!

His body is offline, registering no commands.

Before his legs can buckle, the man gently lowers him into a waiting taxi Peter didn't even see. He slides in beside Peter and taps the driver's shoulder.

"I'm terribly sorry about all this inconvenience," the man says, resting Peter's head on his shoulder. "Just lean on me. Why don't you close your eyes? That's it. Good boy. We have a long journey ahead."

Peter's out before the car pulls away.

Forty-eight hours earlier…

It is only when eating breakfast alone that a real newspaper is snuck in from across the road. The crinkle of pages mixes with the sizzle of toast in the pan.

Steve sips orange juice at the island. There's an article on the Yankees' new pitcher but he's feeling lazy this morning, barely reading it. His arms are still faintly tanned from their August vacation to Greece, something each of them had fervently needed.

I could get used to this.

He will get used to this, having at least two more years to do so.

Glancing over at the stove, Steve sees that one of his bread pieces has vanished. He grins. Not quite alone, then.

"'Morning, love."

The crunching sounds above Steve's head pause long enough for a garbled, "Hey, Steve."

Then teenage appetite kicks in and the toast is devoured. Steve keeps his eyes on the paper but hears the soft th-shwick when Peter unsticks from the ceiling.

The boy lands quietly beside Steve. Even with him sitting on a stool and Peter standing, his son is barely the same height.

Steve keeps his voice to a murmur. "How's the best swimmer in the world this fine morning?"

Peter rolls his eyes. It doesn't hide a blush along the shell of his ears. "I knew I wouldn't live that down."

"We would never have picked a boat out in the Mediterranean for vacation had we known you couldn't swim."

"Yeah, well." Peter stands a little straighter. "I can now. A little."'

Steve ruffles his hair. "That you can. Clint is a good teacher, huh?"

Peter leans into Steve, still sleepy eyed. "Yeah…"

Steve tugs him closer, brows puckered a little against his smile. It's an expression he wears more and more lately. Curious.

Peter makes him see everything in the world differently. Everyday things like toast and breakfast are suddenly new, interesting. He's enraptured watching little things—the way Peter's fingers play with his sleeve, that dog he just had to stop and pet in Central Park, the dimple he has on one side of his lips but not the other, the cherub curls that stick to his lashes.

"You're not front page news anymore."

Steve shakes himself and glances to where Peter points. Third page news. Some progress, at least.

It was half the reason for their vacation in the first place, to escape constant reporters and government officials.

"Thank heavens for that." Steve pokes Peter's ribs and mirrors the boy's smile. "Who cares about retired superheroes anyway? Old news."

"Old you say? Kind of like someone else who lives here?"

"Oh no." Steve groans, wrapping one arm around Peter's middle and standing. "It's much too early for old jokes."

"No, Steve!" Peter giggles, feet dangling off the floor. "Put me down!"

"What's that? I can't hear you. Deafness is common among the elderly."

This sends Peter off into an entirely new batch of giggles. Steve puts his dishes in the sink to the feeling of Peter breathing under his hand.

He could definitely get used to this.

Only when Peter holds his breath does Steve put him down. All in a rush, alarmed. "Sorry, Pete. You should've told me you couldn't breathe."

Peter doesn't respond, eyes on the doorway, and Steve listens too. He hears the distant sound of Tony yelling. A one sided yelling match, so probably on the phone.

"Is the angry general still calling him?" Peter asks in a small voice.

Steve places a hand on the top of his head. He smooths hairs with his thumb. "Nothing for you to worry about, Pete."

Peter frowns like he doesn't agree with that but doesn't push it. "Want me to t…take some breakfast to Bruce?"

Steve glances down at Peter. "You don't have to do that."

"I know Tony doesn't want me seeing him like this but…" Peter bites his lip. "I miss him."

In an instant, Steve softens. "I miss him too. Friday, what is Dr. Banner doing at the moment?"

"He has just woken up," the AI answers. "And is getting dressed."

"How does he…seem?" Steve asks carefully. He doesn't want to use words like 'suicidal' or 'clinically depressed' around Peter, though he probably knows already. "Are we talking a one or a nine?"

"Two at most, Captain."

Steve breathes a sigh of relief. He scoops more eggs and toast onto a plate, handing it to Peter. The boy perks up at the prospect of seeing Bruce. He goes to grab the plate but Steve holds his side tightly.

Peter looks up in surprise.

"If you get overwhelmed," Steve says, slowly, so Peter can take it in. "You call Friday to get me or you come right back here. Understand?"

Peter nods. "Of course."

Steve smiles, relinquishing the plate, and turns back to the stove. "You're the best."

There's a funny moment of silence following that. Steve glances over his shoulder to see Peter still in the doorway, bashful when he's caught watching.

"What's up?"

Peter bites his sleeve cuff and then pulls it out of his mouth once he apparently feels secure enough to talk. "I just…still can't believe you guys retired from fighting. All six of you. For me."

"I don't regret it," Steve says, hearing the unspoken question. "Not for a second. In fact, I wish we'd done this ages ago."

Peter gets red all over again and flashes Steve one of those rare, sweet smiles that makes him look years younger.

Steve melts on the spot. Then Peter is gone.

The warm grin on Steve's face, however, doesn't leave all morning.

AC pumps full blast in the subterranean space. Peter is extra glad for his long sleeves today when he finishes climbing down all those stairs.

It's the first time he's been in this particular wing.

The farthest door is actually a double door. It's all glass but there's a haze to it that tells Peter it's either bullet proof or not really glass. Probably both.

Through it, he can see gentle lighting, a spongy, heated linoleum floor, and large bedroom, a smidgen smaller than his school gymnasium.

It's too big for the tiny man sitting on the floor. His back is against the bed, reading glasses on to make notes on what looks like a university article.

Bruce's pen scratches through a whole paragraph of text. "That's wrong," he mutters. "Collision theory doesn't cover this…"

Bruce wears sweat pants and little else. Above the waist band Peter can see the dark line of his "stretchy shorts."

Peter swallows. He's only met the Hulk once because Bruce always comes here when he's rearing to get out.

There's a complicated keypad on the double door latch so Peter settles for knocking on the not-glass.

Bruce's head darts up. He looks relieved to see it's just Peter. "Good morning. Is that breakfast? Tony usually brings it down."

Peter nods.

"Friday, let him in."

The doors slide open and Peter tries out a grin. "Guess I'm Tony today."

"How are you, Peter? Excited for school tomorrow?"

Peter nods again. Bruce's voice is calm and collected. He maintains eye contact with Peter while speaking. If it weren't for the clammy tinge to Bruce's face or the way his hands twitch around the paper, Peter would never have known something was amiss.

"Good." Bruce smirks. "Because you need to grow up to write better articles than these dunderheads."

Peter huffs a laugh. "I'm a high school science student. Not a PhD candidate."

Bruce squints at him around a mouthful of eggs. "You're already smarter than this candidate, trust me."

They share the toast, Peter sitting close to Bruce's knee. Between their munching, Peter points out more inaccuracies in the paper. Whoever this man is does not know his positrons.

At last, Peter can no longer keep it to himself. "Bruce, why are you down here? No one will tell me. You don't seem angry or upset."

They make a brief moment of intense eye contact and Peter gets his answer anyway. Bruce isn't furious.

He's scared.

The sheer amount of terror behind those chocolate eyes is staggering.

"That's why you let me into the room," Peter realizes aloud. "I was surprised when you did. You know Hulk's not a real threat right now."

Bruce looks away, scratching the back of his neck. "Peter…it's a long story. But you're correct in that I'm hiding away right now. I needed to feel…"

Peter's nodding before the man can finish. "Safe. You needed to feel safe."

Bruce is silent for a long time. Then he nods, very slowly. His eyes have that shiny quality, mind far away from Hulk out rooms and scrawny sixteen years olds.

Every instinct knows better, but Peter asks the question anyway. "Are you afraid of Ross?"

Like he's been backhanded, Bruce jerks. "How do you know that name? You're not supposed to know. Tony's been—"

"Very careful, yes." The heated floor pulses under Peter's feet where they are pulled close to his chest, in time with his heartbeat. "He can't exactly micromanage my school life, though."

Bruce blinks at him.

"My political science unit," Peter elaborates. "We're studying proposed bills at the moment. The Accords."

He grabs Bruce's hand before the man can zone out again. It seems to release some of the tight wheezing coming from his lungs. Bruce rubs his free hand over his face. The easy going smile drops faster than Peter's stomach.

Bruce's fingers are cold. Peter squeezes them and this time Bruce's smile is weaker than diluted milk.

But it's real.

"How do you do that?" asks Bruce.

Peter tilts his head. "Do what?"

"Make me feel better in my lowest points?"

There a whole ton of answers Peter could give to that. He settles for honesty. "Bruce…I've heard about your low points. I don't think this counts."

The smile doesn't leave Bruce's face but his eyes sharpen, dark and roiling.

"You might be surprised, Peter."

Not for the first time, Peter's lost at the connection between Bruce and this Ross. Who is he? Why do they hate each other so much?

He thinks about black, Kevlar clad men and decides maybe he doesn't want to know after all.

"And I…I'm not exactly excited for tomorrow. Nervous. Don't wanna face everyone."

Bruce appraises Peter for a beat, eyes wandering over the boy's face. There's a greying curl looped around the arm of Bruce's glasses. It is such a Peter-ish look that his insides twist, caramel warm.

He'll have people to watch him grow up, to get married and have a life.

"Peter, did I ever tell you about what happened after Ultron?"

Peter shakes his head.

Bruce snorts. "Now there's a story. Hulk tried to bail because of some…trust issues."

It's blatantly obvious that Bruce is censoring this story but Peter doesn't call him out on it.

"The quinjet registered it was flying too high and overrode the other guy's commands, setting a course for the compound. Normal protocol. Who knows where I would've ended up."

Peter squeezes their hands again.

Bruce leans down to tap Peter's forehead with his nose. "Point of all this is that I had to face the others, even though I didn't want to. Tony talked Hulk back down into my body and then all six of us had a serious conversation about our future.

"Tony messed up. Nat messed up. I messed up. And to put it in perspective—this 'conversation' consisted of two days where none of us slept, just sat on those couches and talked."

"Can't run away from my problems," says Peter, guessing the moral here.

Bruce shakes his head, breath ruffling Peter's own curls. "No, Peter. Well, I suppose that's one takeaway. But do you know what was born of all that deliberation and clearing the air?"

Peter gazes up at the doctor, spellbound. "What?"

"You."

A clap of shock rings over Peter. He's always assumed Tony just found his video on YouTube one day and brought him in as an afterthought, in case one of the original six couldn't make it to a mission. A substitute.

"The point," says Bruce, "Is that if we hadn't moved forward, if we had chosen to disband that day, we would never have met, never gotten to know you."

There's a strange catch in Bruce's voice. He takes off his glasses. His eyes are shiny again but completely in the present. "You can't reap the rewards if you don't take the leap and trust people."

Peter grins. "Can I put that on a T-shirt?"

This startles a laugh out of Bruce. "Only if the back has a graffiti-ed photo of Tony with a marker goatee and glasses."

"Done."

Bruce resumes his red pen murder of the article. "You'll do great at school tomorrow, Peter. If they're really your friends, they'll move forward with you, not away. That's the point."

Peter hums his agreement. He glances at a thermal scanner in the corner, the hidden depressions in the wall. They're just large enough for an equally hidden gun to fire a bullet.

They're certainly not for the Hulk.

"Tony's pretty protective of you, huh? This Ross guy must be bad news."

Bruce's eyes continue scrolling down the page but he reddens. "That Fourth of July incident really scared him. I feel like a goldfish."

"A well protected goldfish."

"Sure. That's the nice way of saying I have an overbearing best friend who goes so far as to cut up my steak so I don't choke."

Peter buries his face against Bruce's shoulder. "Welcome to my world."