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Peter Parker stays at the Avengers Compound because May Parker works nights.
That’s the official reason.
It’s the one Tony Stark gives when anyone asks, anyway.
“Hospital schedules are a mess,” Tony says, pacing the kitchen while Pepper reads emails. “Leaving a sixteen-year-old alone in Queens until midnight when I have a secure facility, medical staff, and approximately too many surveillance cameras is just bad planning.”
Pepper doesn’t look up. “You mean you don’t like him being alone.”
“I mean infrastructure.”
“Uh-huh.”
Peter doesn’t hear this conversation. He’s in the lab, trying very hard not to touch something FRIDAY explicitly told him not to touch. He just knows that when May texts late, Tony already knows. And when Happy shows up instead of May, nobody acts like it’s strange.
So Peter starts coming by after school.
At first, it feels temporary. Everything does.
He brings his whole backpack every time. Homework, charger, extra hoodie, snacks he forgets about until they melt. He asks before sitting. Asks before eating. Asks before staying past eight.
Tony answers every question with a distracted nod.
By the second week, Peter stops asking.
The thing about the compound is that it runs on routines.
Tony notices patterns whether he wants to or not. Peter arrives around four-thirty most days. He drops his bag in the same place. He gravitates toward the same corner of the lab. He does homework when Tony is busy and waits when he’s not.
Tony files this under predictability. Predictability is good. Predictability means fewer surprises, fewer emergencies, fewer texts that start with I’m fine but—
Pepper notices something else.
She notices that Peter’s badge access gets used more often than some staff members’. She notices that his locker has extra clothes now. She notices that Tony has stopped referring to Peter’s presence as “temporary” and started calling it “practical.”
She does not comment.
Food is where it starts to blur.
Peter forgets to eat. Tony forgets to eat. Pepper refuses to let this continue unchecked.
“Did either of you eat?” she asks one evening, already knowing the answer.
Peter hesitates. “I had a granola bar?”
“That’s not food,” Pepper says.
Tony gestures toward the kitchen. “There’s pasta.”
Peter blinks. “You made pasta?”
“I supervised pasta.”
Pepper mutters, “He boiled water.”
“With intention,” Tony snaps.
Peter eats. Tony eats. No one announces that this is dinner.
The next night, when Peter looks up from his homework and finds a plate next to him, he eats again.
By the third night, he stops being surprised.
A few weeks in, the kitchen looks the same as it always does around early evening.
Tony’s half-working, half-complaining about something expensive. Pepper’s scrolling through emails. Peter’s doing homework at the island, tapping his pencil against the counter like it might help.
Pepper glances at the clock. “Do you want to order or cook?”
Peter answers without looking up.
“We usually eat around seven.”
The words land.
Tony stops moving.
Pepper pauses mid-scroll.
Peter keeps talking. “If we order now, it’ll probably get here by—”
Tony clears his throat. Loudly. “Time is fake.”
Pepper looks at him. “You set an alarm.”
“That’s a reminder.”
“It goes off every night.”
Peter looks up. “It does?”
Tony drinks his coffee like it’s betrayed him.
Nobody says anything about the we.
But nobody corrects it either.
Later, in the lab, FRIDAY finishes a scan.
“Access confirmed,” she says.
Peter nods. “Cool. Then we’re good.”
Tony’s hands still for half a second.
“Define ‘we,’” Tony says casually, not looking up.
Peter blinks. “Us? Like—me and the project?”
Tony waves a hand. “Fine. Project we.”
Pepper, from the couch, adds without looking up, “You’re terrible at pretending not to notice things.”
“I notice selectively,” Tony says.
Peter goes back to work, unsure why his chest feels tight.
Peter doesn’t think of it as a big deal.
He’s here most days. He eats here. He studies here. When May’s shifts run late, he texts her from the compound. When something breaks, he fixes it here.
Saying we is easier than constantly reminding himself that this isn’t technically his place.
Nobody told him not to.
Rhodey stops by on a Thursday.
He’s mid-conversation with Tony when Peter walks in, grabbing water.
“You still running tests late?” Rhodey asks.
Peter answers automatically. “We try not to on school nights.”
Rhodey pauses.
Looks at Peter.
Looks at Tony.
Tony immediately says, “He has a bedtime.”
“I do not,” Peter says.
“You absolutely do,” Tony replies.
Rhodey smirks. “Good to know.”
Pepper files that away.
Later that night, Peter starts to say it again.
“We could— I mean, I could—”
He stops.
Tony hears the pause.
“You don’t have to correct yourself,” Tony says too fast.
Peter frowns. “I wasn’t—”
“You’re here a lot,” Tony says, defensive. “It’s practical.”
Peter nods. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t argue.
He doesn’t stop smiling either.
Tony pretends not to notice.
May knows exactly how many hours she’s working this week.
She knows because she counted them twice and still didn’t like the number.
The hospital is short-staffed again. Someone called in sick. Someone else didn’t make it back from vacation on time. It’s always something, and she’s learned that being reliable sometimes means being tired.
She checks her phone between patients.
PETER:
still at the compound. doing homework. don't worry.
She exhales.
Not because she was worried — she always is — but because she recognizes the difference between I’m fine and I’m fine and I actually am.
She calls him during a break.
“How’s it going, kiddo?”
“Good,” Peter says, too fast. Then corrects himself. “I mean— good. Tony’s working, Pepper’s here, and FRIDAY yelled at me for touching something I wasn’t supposed to.”
“That sounds about right.”
In the background, May hears Tony’s voice — indistinct, irritated, very present.
“Tell her I said hi,” Tony says, not bothering to come closer.
Peter grins. “He says hi.”
May smiles despite herself.
“Are you staying late?” she asks.
Peter doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. We’ll head out in a bit.”
The word settles before she can think too hard about it.
We.
She doesn’t correct him.
She doesn’t ask him to explain.
Because she can hear it in his voice — the ease, the lack of strain, the way he isn’t bracing himself to be alone later.
“That’s okay,” she says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Peter says. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
She hangs up and slips her phone back into her pocket.
Later that night, when she finally gets home, there’s another message waiting.
TONY STARK:
He ate. He’s doing homework. I’ll get him home tomorrow morning.
May stares at the screen for a moment.
Then she types back.
MAY:
Thank you.
She doesn’t add anything else.
She doesn’t need to.
The echo happens when Tony isn’t paying attention.
Pepper asks about scheduling.
Tony answers automatically. “We’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
He stops.
Pepper looks up.
Tony does not explain.
He does not take it back.
Happy’s been driving for Tony Stark long enough to know when something changes.
Not the big stuff. Tony’s always changing plans, tech, opinions. That’s noise.
Happy notices the quiet things.
Like how the pickup schedule shifts without anyone announcing it. How he starts getting texts that just say “Got him” instead of “On my way.” How Peter Parker stops asking where they’re going and just buckles in.
Tonight, he’s leaning against the car, waiting.
Peter’s inside finishing homework. Tony’s arguing with FRIDAY about something that sounds important but probably isn’t. Normal night.
Peter comes out first.
“Hey,” he says. “We’re good to go.”
Happy nods automatically. “Yeah?”
Tony appears behind him, distracted, coat half-on.
“Give us five,” Tony says. “We forgot something.”
Happy pauses.
Not because of the delay. Delays are normal.
Because of the we.
He glances at Peter. Peter doesn’t look surprised. Just waits, hands in his pockets like this is exactly how it’s supposed to go.
Tony disappears back inside without explaining.
Happy exhales slowly through his nose.
Huh.
He’s seen this before. Not with Tony — never with Tony — but with people who didn’t mean to get attached and did it anyway. It always looks like this at first. Logistics. Convenience. Somebody staying because it’s easier than leaving.
Tony comes back out a minute later, tossing Peter a hoodie.
“You’ll forget this,” he says.
“I won’t,” Peter says automatically, already putting it on.
“You always do.”
Happy opens the door. “You guys done?”
Tony waves a hand. “Yeah. We’re coming.”
Happy doesn’t comment.
He drives.
In the rearview mirror, he catches Peter talking animatedly, Tony half-listening, half-correcting, exactly like he does with everyone he cares about and refuses to admit it.
Happy keeps his eyes on the road.
Some things don’t need to be pointed out.
They’re already happening.
Later, Pepper finds Peter in the kitchen, grabbing a drink.
“He hears you,” she says casually.
Peter blinks. “The we thing?”
Pepper smiles. “Every time.”
Peter nods.
That explains… a lot.
Nothing changes overnight.
May still works nights.
Tony still calls it logistics.
Peter still apologizes too much.
But the word stays.
Because it already fits.