5.

The world was falling. Or at least Peter's was.

And what did it really matter if the ground below his feet was still here, when what had kept him grounded to it was gone. All gone.

All dead.

All Peter's fault.

Higher.

There was a voice in Peter's head – it had to be his though. Who else could get in there? Who else was left, too?

Higher. It murmured. Higher. It will hurt less. Higher.

But god Peter's legs hurt. Every square inch of him ached, but he kept climbing, one stair at a time. That was all he had left in him. One foot in front of the other. He couldn't stop. Not ever. Stopping meant thinking. Thinking meant feeling.

And he couldn't feel this. He just couldn't. It would kill him.

Higher.

He clutched at the handrail, using it to haul himself up every time he stumbled, but he kept climbing. The concrete steps were cold on his bare feet. He'd lost his shoes somewhere along the long walk home.

The white walls began to blur together. And Peter blurred with them.

Oh god. He was alone. Alone.

Higher.

Peter's hands slammed into the metal-door at the top of the staircase. It took him a full minute to realise that he couldn't go up any further, and when he did the thoughts that were threatening to kill him started to poor right back in. No. No, he couldn't. He couldn't think about this. Couldn't –

Keep going.

The door grinded against its metal frame loudly as Peter swung it open. The lock had been broken for as long as Peter had lived in the building, and because of that the roof had become a bit of a hideout for him when he was younger. He used to go up with a blanket, and a pair of binoculars, and watch the New York skyline. Uncle Ben or May would bring him hot chocolate and sit with him – Ben would talk about the planets, and May would talk to Peter about school. And when they ran out of things to talk about they'd sing Beatles songs for hours. Or try to. They always botched the lyrics, and ended up making their own.

May.

Oh god. May.

No. No. He couldn't think about that. Not that.

The roof was deserted. It was only ten o'clock, the city's nightlife barely kicking off below, but there was already chill in the air that swept through Peter and threatened to bring him to his knees.

He stumbled out of the staircase and onto the roof, his bare feet carrying him numbly towards the ledge. This wasn't real. Was it? This couldn't be real. The skyline was all wrong. It was...empty. There was no more wonder in it. No more thrill. Peter had stared out across that skyline for majority of his life, and never once had he not been able to find something glorious about it. Possibilities hidden it.

He used to sit alone and watch the sky for hours just to catch a hint of red and gold soaring above Manhattan.

But the red and gold was gone.

He'd fallen, and he wasn't getting back up.

And neither was Peter.

Climb onto the ledge.

What. What? Wait –

Climb onto the ledge.

His feet were moving before he really knew what was happening. They were dragging him closer to the ledge. Stepping up onto the cool brick – and freezing there.

Peter had never known New York to be silent. Not once. He'd hated that in the beginning. How the sirens never seemed to stop, and the crowds never ended, but he'd grown used to it. Now he couldn't imagine his life without that noise – without the constant reminder of life around him.

It was gone now. The noise and the life.

Oh god. What was he –

Move closer to the edge.

Peter's feet inched forward.

What was he doing? Why he up here? No. This was wrong. This was all wrong –

They're gone. They're all gone.

Because of you.

Oh god. They were gone. What had he done?

A choking sound ripped its way out of Peter's throat. The sheer force of the sob that heaved through his chest nearly sent him plummeting from the ledge.

The skyline blurred as tears burned at his eyes. Stained his cheeks. He couldn't breathe. Sobs were tearing through him now, taking every breath before he could choke it down.

God. He was dying.

He couldn't breath. He was dying –

A whirring sound erupted above Peter, but he could barely hear it above his own gasps for breath. It didn't matter anyway. Nothing mattered now. Everything that had mattered was gone.

Step forward.

The voice in his head was soft. Reasonable. That sounded reasonable. Didn't it? But. No. Wait –

Step forward.

God his chest hurt. He couldn't breathe. It hurt so much –

Something hard, and metallic landed on the roof behind him – and with a whoosh Peter wasn't alone on the roof anymore.

"Kid?"

No. No. Not his voice. Not now.

"Kid?"

"No." Peter chocked out. He still couldn't breathe. "You're not here. You're real. You're gone."

Something inside Peter broke. He felt it. Somewhere deep in his chest something shattered, and the hole it left ached. Everything he was started to cave inside. His life. His future. It crumbled into that gaping hole.

Step forward –

"-I'm not gone. I'm not! I'm right here. Just turn around. I'm right here."

Don't, the voice in his head whispered. Just step forward –

"-Peter, turn around! Look at me!"

Don't. It's all a lie. Step forward –

The voice in his head sounded so sure. So calm. So unlike Peter. He wanted to do what it said. Everything would be fine so long as he listened. Everything would be fine –

But Peter had never been able to deny Tony.

Slowly – more slowly than Peter had ever moved in his life – Peter glanced behind him.

Tony stood a few feet behind Peter, dressed in nothing but an oil stained tank and a pair of sweats – with his arms held out. His eyes were wide as they took Peter in.

Terrified.

One of Tony's arms reached out a little further, and he took a small step forward.

"Hey. Hey, it's just me." Tony breathed, inching forward. His hands were shaking. Peter couldn't look away. Tony's hands never shook. Never. He was an engineer. Steady hands were what he was known for – but they were definitely shaking now. "Just me. Just Tony and Peter."

"No." Peter shook his head. "No you're gone."

Everything was gone now. The hole in his chest had swallowed everything Peter was. All he was left with a strange feeling of weightlessness.

Step forward. Peter slid a foot towards the edge.

"NO!" Tony lunged forward, but quickly ground to a halt when Peter turned back to him, drawing away, closer to the edge. "No, I'm here. I'm really here, I promise! J-just come down, and we can talk."

Peter stared down at Tony blankly. He was vaguely aware that he was breathing again. His sobs had been swallowed by the hole in his chest as well. He was just numb now. Whatever had been suffocating him, though, must have been contagious because now Tony seemed to be having trouble breathing. The older man's chest was heaving, breaths coming in strained pants, as his incredibly wide eyes stared up at Peter. One hand still outstretched, and only a foot or so behind Peter.

"I know you're confused right now," Tony went on, hand never lowering. "But this isn't you. Okay? You don't want this." He said, words tripping over one another in his rush to get them out. "You remember? There was a man, a man who was infecting kids with something, and then they-they...died. Remember? You caught one. You caught a boy falling from one of the buildings on twenty-third – saved his life. You must have started looking for the man – even when I told you not to!" Tony broke off, heaving in a large breath that he looked like he desperately needed. If Peter weren't so sure that the man before him was a hallucination he would have been a little worried. He was so pale that Peter could see veins in his temples throbbing wildly – even in the dull, rooftop lighting. "Peter, you don't want to do this. You need to remember. You need to remember the man – okay? I think he's gotten to you. Please. Y-You need to try and remember-"

Peter shook his head, hard. Trying to cast the image of Tony away. He wasn't real. He was just there to taunt him.

"You're gone." Peter muttered, his head still shaking. His vision was starting to blur. "You're gone."

"I'm not gone. I swear, I'm right here, Peter." Tony argued, eyes wide and honest - as open as Peter had ever seen them. "I'm loosing about ten years off my life for every minute you stay up there, but other than that, just fine. J-just come down-"

No. The other voice was back. No. Step forward. You'll feel better. This is what you deserve.

"No. I can't. I can't-" Peter wasn't sure if he was talking to the voice or Tony. Or both. He couldn't bring himself to follow either. To step forward or back. He just stayed where he was, balanced on the edge of the rooftop.

"You can! You can. Just one step – just take one step, and come down. Okay?" Tony insisted, inching forwards again, with his hand still outstretched. "Here, I'll help you. I-"

"No." Peter said, growing more agitated. His whole body was beginning to shake. "You're dead. Dead. You. May. Ned." Peter rambled. The words echoed from his lips, but were still cloudy in his mind. They were just so foreign to him that he couldn't make sense of them. "My fault. My fault."
"No. No, we're not. I'm right here, and May's just downstairs – I swear." Tony cut in, one hand still outstretched. "And Ned, Ned's wherever Ned is, but I promise he's fine. We're all fine. You're the one that's been hurt. This man, he's done something to you – but it's okay, we can fix it. We're going to fix it, you and me, I promise. All you have to do is take my hand."

Peter glanced down at that hand. It was just inches from him now. He could reach out and hold on without even stretching – and god he wanted to. Wasn't that what he'd been doing since the day he met Tony? Reaching out. Before then even.

The man had offered him so much. A mentor. A purpose.

A friend.

And Peter had reached out and taken all of it. It was all he'd ever wanted. To mean something. To do something. And Tony had given him the chance to have, and do, both.

"Step down." Tony said again, his voice starting to break. He stared up at Peter. Terror in his eyes, as if Peter were the ghost among them, not Tony. "Please, Peter. Take my hand, and step down."

Tony had given him so much. So much.

And Peter had disappointed him again, and again.

And now – for the last time.

Step forward.

"I'm sorry." Peter whispered. "I'm so sorry Mr. Stark."

"NO!"

Peter slid one foot forward. And fell.

Or, at least, he started to. He started to feel the air beneath him, and the familiar sense of weightlessness that came with falling through the streets he knew so well.

And then something strong, and desperate, seized a hold of one of his arms and clung to him.

Tony was above him – halfway over the ledge himself in an attempt to keep Peter from falling the 30 odd floors to the pavement – gripping Peter's arm with one, strong hand.

"Hold onto me!"

Tony's voice screamed above Peter – but Peter couldn't really hear him. Or maybe he could – but words were fuzzy. Everything was becoming fuzzy.

He'd done what he'd been told to do. He jumped – just like the man said. But he didn't feel better. The man said he would feel better. That it would put everything right – but it wasn't right. It couldn't be.

Tony was still screaming.

"Hold onto me!" The older man yelled from above him – his breathing skyrocketing to hyperventilation as he clung to Peter with wild eyes. He was so pale now. He really must be dead. B-but. He was here. He was clinging to Peter. God. Peter's head was starting to ache.

The man had said. T-The man had said –

"-don't let go!"

But Peter had already.

And now the world was letting go of him.

Somewhere – in the distant reaches of his numb fingertips – Peter felt himself slipping. And then he was falling again.

Something hard and cold smacked into Peter's back – knocking the air out of him. But then, whatever it was wasn't just on his back. It was circling his arms. His legs. Clasping around his chest and face. Encapsulating him. And then he was no longer falling.

Or, he didn't think so.

No. Now he was flying.

Maybe he'd fallen already – hit the ground at a hundred miles an hour – and this was what came after. The man had promised it would make everything better. Was this it? Was this better?

Peter's metal bound feet smacked into the ground, and then, without warning, his prison opened and Peter crumpled. Every inch of him was numb now. Nothing moved. Nothing had to – he'd fulfilled his purpose. He'd jumped.

The man hadn't told him what to do after.

Before Peter could hit the ground something else grabbed a hold of him. This something was warm though. Its grip on Peter was strong, and unyielding, but it was warm. So different from the cold air, the cool concrete and his metal prison.

"-Peter!? Christ, please, PETER!?"

Peter felt himself being lowered to the ground. It was cool concrete – but not pavement. It was too smooth to be pavement. Was he back on the roof?

With Tony?

"Peter!? Come on, Peter, look at me!"

That same warmth wrapped around Peter. Fingertips slid along his scalp, while a warm hand against his chest. Those same fingertips pulled away from his head and pressed against his neck. They were shaking.

Tony?

Peter was shaking too. But...gently. He was swaying. The warm, solid, mass that he was pressed against was rocking, back and forth. And Peter was rocking with it.

Slowly – so slowly – Tony's voice started to filter through the sieve that was Peter's brain.

"-No, no. Please. Christ no! Pleas-"

The fingertips that were pressing into Peter's neck moved, fluttering up and down his neck before pressing down again, painfully hard.

Peter could faintly feel his pulse beating against the fingers.

And, apparently, so could whoever was holding him.

"Oh god!" The words came out as barely a breath, but Peter could feel them above him. Warm arms closed more firmly around him, and a forehead dropped down to rest on his own. "Oh Christ, thank-you. Thank-you." '

For a few minutes there was nothing. Peter just...existed. And so did the man above him. The man heaved in several breaths – Peter rising and falling with each one as he was still clenched against his chest – and continued to rock.

It sounded like Tony. Hell – it even felt like Tony.

Peter knew those hands. They were scarred and rough. Calloused to the core. They swept over Peter's hands when they were in the lab, working on the detailed sections of his web shooters. They clapped him on the shoulder more times then he could count. And damn were they strong. He thought it every time he did something stupid, or dangerous, and those hands clasped onto him like chains. Engineer's hands. Strong and steady.

But the man had said he was gone.

The man had said –

"-Peter. Peter! You need to look at me. Look at me! Come on, give me something, kid, please-"

Those fingertips were on his face again. Ghosting over his forehead, and eyes. Hovering over his lips as he breathed.

At the feeling of Peter's breath against his finger the man clutching Peter let out another heaving breath, and the hand on Peter's face disappeared for a moment.

Peter faded with it.

"-Bruce! Bruce." Tony's voice broke back through the haze.

"Yeah, I have him. H-he didn't fall. Or he did – he just didn't. He d-didn't – I have him. I have him, but he's not okay. His eyes are open, but he's not responding."

Huh. Peter's eyes were open? That was odd. He couldn't see anything. He couldn't...well...anything. He was so numb that he wasn't entirely sure he had a body at all anymore.

"-he has a pulse – but he's barely breathing. I need you to head down to the workshop, okay?" Tony's rushed words swayed in and out. Peter only caught a few hear and there. He had more important things to worry about. Like whether he still had a body. He wasn't sure if it was a concern or not, but it was worth pondering.

"There's a new med-suit that I've been working on, but it's still plugged into the configurator. You'll know the one when you see it. I need you to unplug everything and then set it to online – I can take-over from here – no. No. I need that suit. He's barely breathing as it is, okay, if he stops in the normal suit on the way – no, okay, just no. The one in the workshop has a respirator, so if – if anything happens mid-flight it can keep him alive until he gets there-"

Peter must still have a body. He was definitely tied down to something – and god was it heavy. And Tony was saying...something. Something about breathing. You needed a body to do that right? And if you had a body, you needed to do it. Huh. Peter wasn't so sure that he was though. He couldn't feel –

He couldn't feel – anything.

He didn't feel cold, or sore, or anything else that he probably should have been feeling. He could barely feel the flat hand that was rubbing roughly along his sternum – trying to spur some response from his heavy lungs.

"-come on, kid. I know you have good lungs." Tony's strained voice weaved into focus, breaking through Peter's thoughts. "I've heard you talk for hours without taking a breath. You need to use them. Come on, take a deep breath."

This was nothing like the man said it would be.

He had said Peter would be safe once he fell. Everyone would be safe – but he didn't feel safe. And Tony didn't sound safe. He sounded scared.

This wasn't what the man had promised. This wasn't...right.

Peter was not right.

"-my anxiety levels are already well off the charts tonight." Tony's voice cut through Peter's addled mind, "We are not adding in a few rounds of hysterical CPR, so, just, keep breathing. Okay? Keep breathing."

Keep breathing. Keep breathing.

Peter could do that. Couldn't he?

All of a sudden he wasn't so sure. God. He was really beginning to not like this. T-This nothingness. It was everywhere. It was in his hands, and his feet, which he still couldn't feel. It was in his bones and his chest. In his lungs – which, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make move any more.

"-come on, kid – Peter – please, please, just keep breathing-"

Keep breathing. Keep breathing.

Keep breathin-

This wasn't what the man had promised.

Peter woke slowly – sunlight streaming into his eyes from every direction. God. Had he forgotten to close the blinds again? And, damn, that was some bright sunlight. Had he slept in? May was going to kill him if he was late for school. He had a calculus quiz, and decathlon practise, and godMJ was going to kill him if –

Something pulled him back when he tried to sit up.

Reaching up he moved to rip whatever it was away, only to meet a long piece of plastic tubbing that wound around his face and under his noise.

A nasal cannula.

Peter's eyes shot open, and everything swum into focus.

He was in the Avengers Compound. The med-bay. Bare chested, and wrapped in a bundle of the softest blankets he'd ever had the pleasure of meeting. His chest, though, which remained uncovered, was littered with monitoring wires and other, various, medical equipment.

A heart-monitor was beeping steadily beside him.

Oh shit.

May was definitely going to kill him.

An echo of voices just down the hall from the med-bay broke him from his building panic. The door of the med-bay had been left slightly ajar – and Peter strained to make out the voices.

"-No. No. I don't care-"

"-Tony-"

"-I'm going."

It was Tony and Steve – and they weren't being very quiet.

Peter made an effort to calm his breathing, and keep his heart rate steady. The last thing he needed was for the machines around him to start going off, and for both men to come running in before Peter could work out what happened.

He knew from experience that Tony tended to downplay things when he got hurt. He never lied – Peter could tell at least that much – but it was always clear that Tony only gave him very abridged versions. Whether for Peter's sake or Tony's, Peter wasn't sure.

And considering Peter remembered absolutely nothing he was pretty sure something bad had happened.

"-going where"?" Steve's voice echoed down the hall. "You don't even know where this man is."

"I'll find him." Tony's voice insisted, harshly. "I have all the other victims locations – and Peters – he must circle somewhere around there. He'll pop up eventually-"

"-and then what? You'll kill him? Right in the middle of New York – with hundreds of witnesses-"

"Yes!" Tony's voiced thundered. "You're fucking right I will. He's killing kids Steve."

Peter's breath caught in his throat.

"Even the ones that don't throw themselves from skyscrapers, or bridges, half of them don't make it to medical help! Respiratory, and full cardiac, failure sets in pretty much straight away-"

"I know. I know, Tony-"

"NO! You don't know!" Tony roared – loud enough to make even Peter flinch. "You don't know!"

Tony's voice broke on the last word. The hallway fell silent.

"Tony." Steve's voice was soft now – its previous edge having faded away. "Tony, he's going to be fine."

"No. No, I didn't-you weren't-"

"He's fine." Steve's voiced stressed. "Between you and Bruce he's been checked over about a hundred times in the last few hours – and he's fine. He's breathing, he's moving. He's responding – just like the others who got to medical help in time. They were fine – and he's going to be too." Steve's voice paused, but then went on at a murmur. "And when he is, what kind of example are you going to be setting."

Tony's silence was cutting.

"This kid worships the ground you walk on." Steve implored, "If you go out there and kill this man, and get yourself thrown in prison, what does that say to him?"

"It says that kids are going to stop walking off buildings-" Tony argued, "He touched my kid, I'm not going to-"

"-I'm not suggesting that we let this stand. Not even slightly." Steve cut in, harshness returning. "I'm not arguing because I care about what happens to whoever this asshole is – I want to kill him too, believe me – but what I do care about is what happens this team. I'm not going to let you throw your life away, and go to prison, when we can do this right. Together."

"And you'd be okay with that?" Tony's voice challenged, "Killing him?"

"The man is killing children." Steve deadpanned. "I'd be very okay with that."

The two fell silent again.

"Hmm." Tony hummed, softly. "Maybe you do have a dark side."

He didn't sound all that displeased at the thought.

Peter leaned over the side of the bed a little further – straining to hear more – but one of the wires attached to his chest pulled tight and the machine on Peter's left tilted dangerously.

"Oh shit!"

The machine crashed to the ground, cracking in several places and ripping the connecting wire from Peter's chest.

Tony and Steve scrambled inside the room.

"I'm sorry! God, so sorry Mr. Stark." Peter gushed, sitting up and leaning further over the bed for the machine. "I-I just – it fell – I got it. I swear I'll-"

Strong arms latched onto Peter's shoulders and heaved him upright on the bed.

"Don't worry about the damn machine," Tony said, not even sparing a glance at the clearly broken – probably very expensive – piece of medical equipment. "Lay down. How do you feel?" Tony pushed Peter back down into his mound of pillows and took a seat on the edge of the bed – watching Peter warily. "Do you know where you are? What happened? Does anything hurt? Your chest – does your chest hurt? Does it hurt to breath-"

"-Tony."

Steve had wound his way around the bed and was now leaning down on Peter's other side – taking him in with worried eyes. He let out a soft chuckle when Tony's eyes flicked up to him.

"He might actually answer if you give him a second."

Tony didn't acknowledge the Captain, but when he turned his attention right back to Peter he stayed silent – heaving in several deep breaths.

"I'm fine." Peter said at once. "I feel fine. I just – what? What happened? I don't remember."

Steve and Tony shared a look.

"What do you remember?" Tony asked, slowly. "The last thing?"

"I-I was at the Deli on twenty-first." Peter said, struggling to put the hazy pieces together. "With Ned, I think. Ned was riling up Murph – Mr. Delmar's cat – and – I don't know. I don't – what happened?" Panic started to set in. "You said kids were dying? Ned? Is Ned okay? What-"

"Ned's fine," Tony cut in, inching forward and placing a warm hand on Peter's shoulder. "He's fine. So is May. Everyone's fine." He said. "You need to take a breath, okay, several preferably. Just relax."

"But what happened?"

"You were," Tony shot another look at Steve. "Well, for lack of a better word, whammied."

"Whammied?"

"Yeah." Tony sighed. "There's a man who's been targeting kids around the city – and somehow he gets in their heads, and makes them-"

Peter's stomach dropped.

"Makes them what?" Peter asked – but he had a feeling he already knew the answer.

Tony opened his mouth to answer, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. He stared at Peter. Eyes wide and...lost.

"He makes them walk off buildings, or bridges, anything tall enough to-" Steve answered instead, his voice fading. Peter didn't need him to finish.

Peter nodded slowly. "How many?"

"That doesn't-"

"Please, Steve, how many?"

"Eight."

"Eight!" Peter yelped, shooting upright despite Tony's attempts to keep him horizontal. "In one night?! How?"
Steve's eyebrows shot together, confusion in every line of his face.

"Peter," Tony spoke finally, watching Peter warily again. "What day did you go to the Deli with Ned?"

"Yesterday," Peter said at once. "Tuesday."

Tony and Steve shared one last look.

"Peter," Tony began. "Today is Sunday."

"What?" Peter asked, shaking his head. "No. No, I – but. Oh god. May. I have to call May – she'll be freaking out, I-"

"Hey, hey, calm down," Tony insisted, shoving Peter back into the pillows again. "I called her, she knows where you are. And you've only been here since last night, okay? Whatever he did to you, it must have messed with your head a little. Made you loose a few days."

"What did he do?" Peter asked, hesitantly. Not entirely sure he wanted an answer. "Or, what did I do?"

For a few seconds no one answered. Both men just stared down at Peter.

Finally Steve opened his mouth to speak – but Tony cut him off.

"You didn't do anything. He whammied you, you went for a bit of a wander, and then I found you. Got you back to the Compound and fixed up. That's it."

Peter didn't know whether to be offended at the clear lie, or grateful. He got the impression that he really didn't want to know – but at the same time he really did.

"That's it?" Peter pressed, but his heart wasn't in it. If the other kids had...then what had he done?

Tony stared at him for a moment.

"Something nearly happened," The older man murmured, his voice low, and eyes fixed unwaveringly on Peter. "Very nearly – but it didn't. And now you're fine. That's it." Tony's voice hardened at the end.

Peter nodded.

"So what do we do now?" Peter asked, more than ready to change the subject while he processed all of that. "How do we find him?"

Tony's typical Tony-ness returned with a vigour.

"Oh no, there is no 'we'. There will be no 'we' in this. You're out." Tony said, leaning back and levelling a glare in Peter's direction. "You are confined to this room for at least the next two days, and-"

"What?" Peter argued, pushing against the arm that Tony held out to keep him from sitting up again. "No! I can help. Mr. Stark, please, I can-"

"Nope. You're benched."

"But-"

"No."

"Steve!" Peter appealed to the man across from him. "Come on, please!"

Steve smiled softly, but shook his head. "Sorry Pete, Tony's right. You need to rest up. Let us handle this."

"What! No-"

"-You heard the man," Tony cut him off, giving his shoulder one last squeeze before rising back to his feet. "America has spoken. Can't argue with that. So you rest up, and Cap and I are going to head out and deal with this-"

"-that is no longer necessary."

All three of their heads snapped up to the doorway where Clint Barton was leaning against the frame lazily. He shot a smile at Peter, as he looked him over.

"You look better kid. Feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I feel fine-" Peter said, but Tony cut him off.

"-what do you mean, 'no longer necessary'?"

Barton stepped into the room, pulling a file out from where he had it pressed up against the doorway. He held it out to Tony.

"Meet Adrian Turner." Barton said, as Tony snatched the file from his hands and began scanning over it. "He met an untimely end early this morning when he threw himself off a ninety-three story building on Broadway."

"You're sure this is him." Steve said, leaning over the bed to read the file over Tony's shoulder. Peter rose a little, trying to do the same, but Steve pushed him back down with a gentle hand without taking his eyes off the file. Rude.

"We have him on camera with one of the kids, doing something." Barton nodded. "You can't really see, but something happened, and then an hour later the kid jumped off his family's apartment building in Chelsea."

"So he's dead. Turner." Tony said. It wasn't a question – but Barton answered anyway. Clearly sensing Tony's need for validation.

"Yeah, he's dead."

"Good." Tony shoved the file back into Barton's arms and pulled away from the bed. He spent the next several minutes fluttering about the room – cleaning up the broken medical equipment on the ground, checking over the other machines around Peter that were reading his vitals, and then dragging over a plush armchair that had been resting in the corner of the room.

Steve and Clint exchanged a knowing glance, but before Peter could question it Barton was taking Tony's now vacated place on the bed.

"You can't pull this kind of shit with us, kid." He said, smirking. "We're all old men, we can't take it." He jerked a thumb towards Steve. "Especially him. He's like a hundred now – he can't take the stress."

Peter huffed out a laugh, but couldn't keep himself from watching Tony out of the corner of his eye. He'd abandoned the armchair by Peter's bed and had turned his attention back to one of the fancy machines in the corner of the room that was monitoring Peter. Steve wandered over and murmured quietly to him.

"He's okay."

Peter eyes flicked back to Clint, whose voice had lowered to barely a murmur. But Peter could hear it.

"He's okay," Clint murmured again, his eyes never leaving Peter's. "You really freaked him out on this one." Peter's eyes fell, shame wafting over him. Barton leaned forward, though, brushing a calloused hand over Peter's bare shoulder. "He'll be okay. You, just, lie low, heal up, and stick to grand-theft bicycles for a week or so, and he'll be right as rain."

"I'm sorry." Peter whispered.

"Don't be." Barton's voice, despite remaining low and out of range of both Tony and Steve, was hard. "This guy was a monster."

"But I let him-"

"You didn't let him do anything. What he did was wrong – and nothing that stemmed from it was your fault." Barton argued, his voice leaving no room for argument. He was still murmuring – but there was a fire in his eyes. "Trust me. I've got some experience with mind-controlling assholes."

Peter's brow crinkled in confusion.

"I'll tell you the story one day," Barton said, nudging Peter's shoulder playfully. "But for now, rest. And if you need anyone to talk to anyone about what happened, I'm here. And for a smart-ass, I'm a decent listener." He shrugged.

Peter couldn't help but laugh.

"Hey," Tony cut in. He was back at the end of the bed, with Steve leaning against the doorframe at the end of the room. "What are you two talking about? Are you scheming? You two are not allowed to scheme. Okay? This building was not built to withstand your combined scheming forces."

Peter opened his mouth to argue – but Barton beat him too it.

"Do your worst!" Barton mock cried, swirling around to Tony and glaring at him in challenge. The edges of his mouth betrayed him though, twitching as he fought of a grin. "You'll never get us to talk!"

"Oh, Christ, get out." Tony sighed, swatting the archer with a pillow from the opposite bed, before collapsing into the armchair he'd moved to the edge of Peter's bed. "My migraine can't handle this right now."

"Sure, sure." Barton agreed, good-naturedly, heaving himself off Peter's bed and moving towards Steve at the door. He threw a wink at Peter. "Old man needs his beauty sleep."
Peter barely held in a snicker and Tony launched the spare pillow across the room towards the archer.

Barton ducked easily, cackling as he skipped out of the room.

Steve followed him out, throwing a small smile towards Peter, and a nod at Tony, before ducking out the door.

Peter sunk back into his sheets, pulling the mound of blankets over his bare torso and settling in – waiting for Tony to follow the others out.

Only, he didn't.

Instead he, too, relaxed. He slouched down in the armchair, resting his feet at the edge of Peter's bed, and threw his head back to rest against the plush cushioning. Closing his eyes.

Peter stared.

And then stared some more.

"Yeah," Tony muttered, not even opening his eyes. "Starting to get creepy, kid."

"You don't have to stay." Peter insisted.

God, he'd taken up enough of the man's time. Peter honestly had no idea how long he'd been in the Compound – but it must have been at least over-night from the way Tony described it. Peter must have taken him away from New York – and his huge work schedule. He shouldn't be wasting anymore time with –

"I'm staying." Tony muttered, slinking down in the armchair a little more to get comfortable, but not opening his eyes.

"You really don't have to, really. I-I-" Peter began, the sheets crinkling loudly as he shifted up on his elbows.

"I'm staying, kid." Tony said again, still not opening his eyes. He reached out a hand and pushed Peter gently back down onto the bed. "So, stop talking, and get some sleep."

Peter relented, sinking back down to the mattress and pulling the blankets back up. He shot a glance at the man beside him, sprawled across the armchair, and then closed his own eyes.

He was asleep within seconds.

"How long do you think it'll take him to notice?"

Clint was leaning against the observation window that looked into the med-room, staring over at Tony and Peter as they slept.

"Notice what?"

Steve stood behind him – his face buried in the file Clint had brought with him – but every so often he threw a glance over at the sleeping pair as well.
Clint nodded towards Tony's prone figure in the armchair.

"That he's practically adopted a child." Clint said. He stared down at the two for a moment longer. "It suits him."

Steve didn't even bother hiding his next, quick, glance at the sleeping pair.

"Yeah, it does."

Steve's eyes fell back to the file a moment later.

"So, that's it then?" Steve asked, flicking through the last few pages. Soaking it all in. "It's all done. He just jumped off a building and did our job for us."

Clint shrugged.

Steve's questioning silence spoke volumes.

"Natasha might have helped him." Clint admitted. Steve let out a put upon sigh, running an exhausted hand over his face. "He admitted to it. Everything. Every single kid – including Peter." Clint explained, and Steve looked up. Fire in his eyes. "Peter caught him hassling a kid from his school – probably didn't even put two and two together before he got hit."

Steve threw another glance towards the boy sleeping just on the other side of the glass.

"Why?"

Clint didn't need him to clarify the question. He knew exactly what he was asking. Clint had been asking himself the same thing since he heard about the first kid.
"He said he was addicted to the feeling – told Natasha he was helping them find peace."

Clint spat the last word, his features twisting.

Steve went back to the file. Flipping through it a little more aggressively.

"Is there anything to trace back to her?" Steve asked. Clint threw him a disbelieving look – eyebrows in real danger of disappearing into his hairline. Steve nodded. "Well then, I guess we can just put it all to bed."

"Yeah." Clint sighed, pulling away from the glass and shooting one last look at Tony and Peter. "Right, well, I'm going to head home, and hug my kids." He chuckled, but the sound was strained. Steve's face twisted in understanding. "You're welcome to join? I was thinking of having a fry-up?" Clint went on.

Steve shook his head softly.

"I might stick around here. Keep an eye on things."

Clint didn't need to follow his eye-line to know that he was still watching Tony and Peter.

"They're going to be fine – both of them." Clint assured him, though he understood the trepidation. He'd carry the memory of Tony, well over the edge of hysteria, tearing the unresponsive boy out of a med-suit on the Compound's front lawn for the rest of his life.

"I know that." Steve said with a small shrug. "Still, I can help out for a few days while they get back on their feet."

A short bark of laugher burst through Clint's lips.

"The entire building is practically an AI. What exactly does it need help with?"

"I can make a better breakfast spread than Dum-E." Steve argued, with a small smirk.

"That is true."

Steve nodded, and then paused, considering.

"What do mutated, spider teenagers eat for breakfast?" He asked, brow furrowing.
"Well, if my thirteen year old boy is any indication – everything." Clint chuckled, moving towards the elevator just across from them both.

"I can handle that."

"And sleep deprived geniuses – when they can finally drag themselves away from their adorable, adopted children – eat coffee. No boiling required. He'll just eat the beans." Clint went on, stepping inside the metal elevator and moving to the side as Steve joined him.

"I'm pretty sure I could put that in a pancake."