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Chapter Text

Chapter One: Bleed for Her

The soldering iron hissed against the circuit board, releasing a sharp tang of ozone and hot metal into the cramped back room. Peter Parker squinted through the magnifying lamp, his brow furrowed in concentration. Beneath the lens, the intricate pathways of the StarkPad’s motherboard glowed like a miniature city. He nudged a capacitor back into alignment with the tip of the iron. Almost done. Just this stubborn connection near the power regulator. The tiny space behind Josie’s Bar was stacked high with gutted drones, cracked smartphones, and consoles awaiting resurrection. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of afternoon light cutting through the grimy window high on the wall.

"Kid! You breathing back there?" Karen Page's voice, sharp but not unkind, cut through the door separating his workspace from the bar proper. "Mrs. Delaney’s asking about her vintage radio again. Says it’s sentimental."

Peter didn’t look up. "Tell her… tell her I found the exact replacement vacuum tube she needed. Should have it singing Sinatra by Friday." His voice sounded rough, unused. He cleared his throat. "Promise."

A soft thump against the door signaled Karen’s acknowledgment. Silence settled back, thick with the hum of the ancient mini-fridge cooling his dinner– a single, slightly squashed sandwich. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist, leaving a faint smear of grime. The GED certificate, tucked under a stack of schematics on his makeshift desk, felt like a distant memory. This was the rhythm now: fix, eat, Spider-Man, (occasionally sleep) repeat.

He was reaching for a micro-screwdriver when a sudden, violent buzz ripped through the quiet. Not his phone. Not the bar’s ancient landline. It came from the sleek, custom-built monitor tucked discreetly beneath the workbench – a screen displaying only a single, pulsing red glyph: a stylized 'S'. Peter froze. His breath hitched. That glyph was his lifeline, his ghost wire. Buried deep within FRIDAY’s code, a silent alarm only he could hear. It hadn't activated in two years. His fingers flew over the keyboard hidden below the bench’s edge, pulling the monitor up. Lines of frantic code scrolled past too fast to read, resolving into a stark, flashing message: MORGAN & PEPPER POTTS. LOCATION: BURGER PALACE, QUEENS. STATUS: UNDER ATTACK.

The screwdriver clattered onto the concrete floor. Every instinct screamed move. He shoved the StarkPad aside, scattering tiny screws. Peter didn't hesitate. He lunged for the battered janitor's closet tucked into the corner. Years of ingrained urgency took over. His fingers flew across the hidden panel disguised as a fuse box. It hissed open. Inside, folded neatly, lay the suit – not Stark tech, but his own design. Durable nanoweave, midnight blue with crimson accents across the chest and forearms.

He yanked off his grease-stained t-shirt and jeans, stepping into the suit in one fluid motion. The material activated instantly, conforming to his frame with a low hum, the lenses snapping over his eyes, painting the dusty room in sharp, augmented reality overlays. Karen shouted something muffled from the bar door, but the words dissolved into the rush of adrenaline flooding his veins.

He leapt out the window with practiced ease. Queens sprawled before him – brick, fire escapes, the distant drone of traffic. The Burger Palace was six blocks west. Too far to run. He launched himself upwards, web-shooters snapping onto his wrists. A thick strand of synthetic silk shot out, anchoring high on a water tower. Peter pulled hard, his body arcing through the heavy rain like a bullet towards danger.

xXx

The limo’s leather seats still smelled faintly of Morgan’s floral hairspray from the gala as Happy pulled into the neon glow of the Burger Palace drive-thru. "Double cheeseburger, extra pickles, and a chocolate shake?" Happy confirmed, glancing at Morgan’s eager nod in the rearview.

Pepper smiled, loosening the clasp of her diamond necklace. "Make it two shakes, Happy. We’ve earned it after three hours of small talk about carbon-neutral yachts." Outside, rain slicked the asphalt, reflecting the garish sign’s light in fractured streaks.

A sudden, deafening crunch of metal tore through the night. The limo lurched violently sideways, glass shattering as something massive slammed into its side. Pepper’s head snapped against the window, stars bursting behind her eyes. Through the cracked windshield, she saw the hulking silhouette of Rhino, steam hissing from his armored suit.

Instinct screamed louder than pain. Pepper's fingers slammed against arc reactor hidden in her bracelet just as Rhino's armored fist tore through the roof like tin foil. Emerald silk ripped as nanotech bloomed from her wrist, a liquid silver wave surging over her skin, hardening into sleek plates even as shards of safety glass rained down like deadly confetti. The Rescue helmet snapped into place with a sharp hiss, its HUD flickering to life, painting Rhino's snarling face in targeting reticles. A blinding pulse of repulsor energy slammed into Rhino's chest plate, staggering the brute back a step with a metallic screech. It bought seconds. Precious seconds.

Pepper twisted in the mangled wreckage, her gauntleted hand already humming with building energy. Rain hissed against her armor’s superheated surfaces as she locked onto the auditory vents lining Rhino’s helmet. Morgan whimpered, curled low in the footwell.

"Stay down, sweetheart!" Pepper’s voice, amplified and sharp inside the helmet, cut through the chaos.

Rhino roared again, a guttural sound vibrating through the twisted metal. He gripped the limo’s roof seam, muscles bulging beneath the armor plating. Rivets popped as he began to peel the vehicle open like a tin can. He didn’t see Pepper’s left gauntlet, hidden by the crumpled door frame, pulsing with focused sonic energy.

The sonic blast hit with a concussive *thrum* that bypassed armor entirely. Rhino screamed, a raw, agonized sound, clutching his helmet as internal speakers overloaded. He stumbled blindly, crashing against a lamppost that bent like a wet reed under his weight. Steam billowed violently from his suit’s vents as systems short-circuited.

Pepper saw it instantly – the vents weren’t just venting steam anymore. They pulsed an ominous, deep orange, like overheated furnace grates. The sonic pulse hadn't just disoriented him; it had cooked the delicate coolant lines snaking through his hydraulics. Rhino wasn't just angry; he was a walking bomb, his own armor trapping the escalating heat. His movements grew jerky, frantic, as internal alarms screamed unheard warnings within his helmet.

Inside the mangled limo, Morgan whimpered again, the sound sharpening Pepper’s focus. She couldn't risk another repulsor blast near the volatile suit. Instead, Rescue surged forward with surprising speed, not towards Rhino, but past him. Her gauntleted hand slammed down onto the rain-slick asphalt, deploying a wide-dispersal electromagnetic pulse emitter Tony had nicknamed "The Party Pooper." A silent wave of energy washed over the street, instantly killing the Burger Palace sign, the limo's dying electronics, and crucially, Rhino’s suit’s primary power coupling.

The orange glow in Rhino’s vents flickered violently, then began to dim, replaced by thick, acrid black smoke pouring out. The massive figure swayed, his roar choked off into a guttural cough. He took one heavy, unsteady step towards the limo wreckage, then another, driven by pure, blind rage even as his systems failed. Rescue planted herself firmly between him and the twisted metal where Morgan hid, repulsors humming at maximum charge, ready to incinerate him if he took one more step. But aathick strand of webbing snapped through the downpour, striking Rhino squarely in the faceplate pulling the man’s focus.

"Hey, Horns! Where are your manners? That's no way to treat a lady," Spider-Man’s voice, laced with adrenaline and that strong Queens cadence, echoed from the rooftop of the Burger Palace. He yanked hard. Off-balance and blinded by smoke and webbing, Rhino stumbled sideways, crashing into a parked delivery van with a crunch of buckling metal.

"See, this is why you don’t skip leg day," Spider-Man quipped, already swinging low, kicking off Rhino’s backplate to launch himself high again. "All that upper body bulk, zero stability!" Rhino bellowed incoherently, tearing at the webbing obscuring his vision, swinging wildly at the agile red-and-blue blur darting around him like an angry wasp.

xXx

Pepper didn’t hesitate. The moment Spider-Man drew Rhino’s fury away, she dropped to her knees beside the mangled limo door. Her helmet retracted with a soft hiss, revealing her face streaked with rain and soot. "Morgan? Happy?" Her voice was raw, urgent.

 Inside the cramped, wrecked footwell, Morgan peeked out, eyes wide but dry. "Mommy?"

Happy groaned from the driver's seat, pinned awkwardly by the crumpled steering column but conscious. "Still ticking, Pep," he rasped, wincing. "Just... taking a breather." Pepper’s gauntleted hand gently brushed Morgan’s cheek, her other hand already scanning Happy’s vitals with a flickering holographic display projected from her wrist. Relief warred with fury in her eyes.

She never heard Scorpion approach. The rain masked the scrape of his armored boots on wet asphalt. The chaos of Rhino’s roars and Spider-Man’s quipping covered the low hum of his tail’s hydraulic actuators. He emerged from the oily shadows beneath the gutted Burger Palace sign, a predatory silhouette closing fast. Pepper’s Rescue suit sensors screamed a proximity alert a milliseconds too late. She spun, repulsors flaring, but Scorpion was already inside her guard.

His bio-mechanical tail, dripping venom, snapped forward like a steel whip. It didn’t aim for a killing blow. It targeted the seam beneath her left pauldron, where the nanotech plating thinned near the shoulder joint. The needle-sharp stinger punched through with a sickening crack-hiss of rending metal. A paralyzing neurotoxin, cold as liquid nitrogen, flooded into her bloodstream. Pepper gasped, a strangled sound escaping her lips as her entire left side went numb. Her repulsor glow died instantly. The Rescue suit flickered, plates loosening, turning sluggish and unresponsive as her neural link severed. She staggered, her vision tunneling, the amplified sounds of the fight suddenly muffled and distant.

Scorpion leaned close, his rasping voice dripping with malice inside his helmet. "Stark tech’s got nothing on mine, huh?"

He wrenched his tail free. Pepper collapsed to one knee, armor plates scraping harshly against wet pavement. Her right gauntlet sparked uselessly. She couldn’t move her arm, couldn’t command the suit. Through the haze of paralysis, she saw only Morgan’s terrified face peering from the wreckage, directly in Scorpion’s path. The villain raised his tail again, poised to strike the child. Pepper tried to scream a warning, but her lungs wouldn’t obey. Only a choked whisper escaped.

A thick web-line snapped through the rain, wrapping Scorpion’s raised tail-arm mid-strike. It wasn’t aimed at the stinger, but at the complex hydraulic actuators near its base. Spider-Man landed hard on Scorpion’s backplate, using his momentum to pull the line taut.

"Wrong kid, wrong neighborhood, pal!" he grunted, planting his feet. Scorpion snarled, twisting violently to dislodge him, but the sudden resistance jammed the tail’s internal pistons. Hydraulic fluid screamed under pressure, lines bulging dangerously within the segmented armor. Spider-Man held fast, his webs straining.

With a sickening metallic POP, the overloaded actuator cylinder near the venom reservoir ruptured. High-pressure hydraulic fluid sprayed like shrapnel, followed instantly by a geyser of Scorpion’s own paralyzing neurotoxin. The viscous, ice-blue liquid erupted outward, drenching Scorpion’s helmet, chestplate, and the exposed joints of his armor. He froze mid-roar, a gargled choke escaping his modulator. His limbs locked rigidly, tail spasming uncontrollably before dropping limp. The venom seeped into every seam, short-circuiting his suit’s neural interface. He toppled forward like a cut down tree, crashing face-first onto the asphalt inches from Morgan’s hiding spot, paralyzed and helpless inside his own weaponized armor.

Spider-Man dropped lightly beside Pepper, quickly scanning her immobilized form and the toxin injector wound. "Easy, Mrs. Potts. Don’t try to move." His voice lost its usual lightness, replaced by urgent professionalism. He ripped a cartridge from his web-shooter, pressing it against the leaking puncture in her armor. "Counter-agent nanites – Mr. Stark's design. Should neutralize the venom." As the microscopic swarm flooded her system, Pepper gasped, feeling pins and needles flood back into her numb limbs. Her suit plates flickered, regaining cohesion.

Morgan scrambled from the wrecked limo, oblivious to the danger. "Mommy!" she cried, sprinting across the rain-slicked street towards Pepper. Spider-Man’s head snapped up. Across the carnage, Rhino roared, finally tearing the last sticky webbing from his faceplate. His eyes, bloodshot and enraged, locked onto the small figure darting towards her mother.

Rhino charged. Not at Spider-Man, but directly at Morgan. The ground shook under his pounding steps, cracked asphalt spraying like shrapnel. Spider-Man didn’t hesitate. He launched himself *into* the path of the armored juggernaut, planting his feet wide and bracing his arms against the massive chest plate.

The impact was brutal. Peter’s bones screamed under the strain, his suit’s reinforcement systems whining at maximum load. He slid backward, boots carving deep trenches in the asphalt, shielding Morgan completely behind him. Rhino’s furious bellow washed over him, hot and rancid.

"Get back!" Spider-Man gritted out, the strain evident in his voice and every line of his body. He couldn't hold Rhino for long. The brute leaned forward, immense weight crushing down, forcing Peter to one knee. Through the visor, Pepper saw Morgan frozen in terror just feet away, caught between the titanic struggle and the paralyzed Scorpion. Rescue’s systems flared back online fully, repulsors glowing blindingly bright as Pepper surged to her feet, her fury colder and sharper than the rain. She fired twin beams not at Rhino’s center mass, but at the already compromised, superheated vents on his back plating. The impact slammed Rhino forward onto Spider-Man, driving him deeper into Peter, but peeling him off balance. Spider-Man seized the microsecond opening, twisting sideways and kicking off Rhino’s hip with both feet. The brute stumbled past him, momentum carrying him crashing into the paralyzed Scorpion in a deafening clang of metal.

Morgan scrambled the last few feet, slamming into Pepper’s armored legs. "Mommy!" she sobbed, burying her face against the scorched nanotech. Pepper kept one repulsor trained on the tangled villains, her other arm wrapping protectively around her daughter. Her eyes scanned Spider-Man as he landed lightly beside them, posture tense, ready to spring.

"Status?" she asked tersely, Rescue’s HUD already overlaying vitals on Happy, still pinned but stable. Spider-Man gave a quick thumbs-up, his lenses fixed on Rhino struggling to disentangle himself. "All good, Mrs. Potts. Just peachy." His voice was tight, lacking its usual humor. The fight wasn't over.

Rhino roared, shoving Scorpion’s limp form aside like scrap metal. He surged upright, steam and smoke belching from his damaged suit, his focus solely on the trio. Spider-Man stepped forward, placing himself squarely between the armored giant and Pepper shielding Morgan. "Alright, big guy," he called, webshooters raised. "Let's dance."

He fired twin web-lines, not at Rhino himself, but at the mangled lamppost the brute had crashed into earlier. With a sharp yank, Spider-Man pulled the bent metal pole down. It crashed onto Rhino’s back, staggering him. Enraged, Rhino grabbed the pole and swung it wildly. Spider-Man dodged the first blow, the wind whistling past his mask. The second swing clipped his side – a glancing impact that nonetheless sent a sickening crack echoing through Peter’s ribs. Pain exploded, stealing his breath.

Gritting his teeth against the agony, Spider-Man saw his chance. He webbed Rhino’s ankles together mid-charge, tripping him. The brute stumbled forward, momentum carrying him straight toward a sparking electrical transformer box ripped open during the earlier chaos. Spider-Man fired a final, desperate web-line, anchoring it to a fire hydrant and pulling Rhino’s trajectory just enough. The armored titan slammed chest-first into the exposed transformer. Blue-white electricity erupted, arcing across his suit with a deafening ZAP. Rhino convulsed violently, a choked gurgle escaping his helmet before he collapsed, unconscious and smoking, onto the wet asphalt.

Silence fell, broken only by the hiss of rain and the transformer’s dying sparks. Peter clutched his side, each breath a knife. He forced himself upright, limping towards Pepper and Morgan. "Ms. Potts? Morgan?" His voice was strained, breathless. "You okay?" Pepper nodded, holding Morgan close. "We're safe. Thanks to you." Peter managed a weak nod. "I'll go get Happy..." He gestured towards the crumpled limo driver's seat.

Ignoring the blinding pain and the warm, spreading wetness inside his suit, Peter staggered to the wreckage. Using his remaining strength, he gripped the twisted steering column pinning Happy’s leg. Metal groaned as Peter pulled, muscles screaming, ribs grinding. With a final heave, the column bent just enough. Happy gasped, pulling his leg free. "Spider-Man... thanks..." Happy rasped.

Relief washed over Peter for a split second. Then the world tilted violently. Darkness surged at the edges of his vision. He took one staggering step backward, tried to say something, and collapsed onto the rain-soaked street, motionless.

xXx

Pepper’s gasp caught in her throat. She shoved Morgan gently toward Happy. "Stay with Uncle Happy!" Her Rescue suit surged back over her skin, but the nanites flickered wildly—a chaotic dance of silver and static sparked across her gauntlets. The counter-agent was fighting the neurotoxin residue and Scorpion’s venom inside her damaged systems. She lunged toward Peter, her left arm jerking spasmodically, the repulsor flaring erratically and scorching the asphalt beside his head. She forced the limb down, gritting her teeth against the malfunction. Kneeling, her HUD sputtered, diagnostics glitching. Multiple fractures. Internal bleeding. Shock. The cold, clinical words flashed amidst the chaos.Her right gauntlet, steadier, deployed a medical scanner. Its beam wavered, painting fractured light over Peter’s prone form.

"Hold on," she whispered, her voice tight.

She tried to activate the suit’s integrated stabilizers—a field generator meant to immobilize injuries. Instead, the nanites on her forearm sparked violently, shorting out. A small, localized EMP pulse crackled from her wrist, momentarily killing the scanner and dimming the streetlights overhead. She cursed under her breath, ripping off the sparking gauntlet with her bare hand. Beneath the mask, Peter’s face was pale, his breathing shallow and rapid.

Pepper pressed her bare hands firmly against the worst point of impact on Peter’s side, applying direct pressure. Blood seeped through the fabric of his suit, warm against her palms. Her remaining armor plates hummed unevenly, struggling to maintain integrity. Across the street, Rhino lay unconscious beside Scorpion’s paralyzed form, steam still rising from their damaged suits. Happy shielded Morgan’s eyes, his own gaze fixed on Pepper’s desperate, flickering suit and the unmoving hero at her feet. The rain fell harder, washing the battlefield in cold, indifferent grey.

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. Pepper’s mind raced faster than her glitching systems—hospital protocols, Stark security contingencies, the press storm that would follow. None mattered more than the ragged breaths beneath her hands. She leaned closer, her voice cutting through the downpour.

"Stay with me." Her HUD flickered back online, projecting a fractured scan onto the wet asphalt: Pulmonary contusion. Hemothorax developing. The words pulsed red.

Spider-Man stirred weakly beneath her hands, a groan escaping the mask. His lenses flickered dimly, focusing on her face. "M’gan...?" he slurred, confusion lacing the pain. Pepper’s throat tightened.

"Morgan’s safe," she assured him, her voice steadying. "Focus on breathing. Slow." She activated her suit’s comms, overriding the damaged systems with sheer force of will. "FRIDAY, priority override: Spider-Man. Immediate evac coordinates. Full medical lockdown." Static crackled in response, then a clear, calm tone. Override accepted. ETA 90 seconds. Relief warred with dread. Ninety seconds felt like an eternity.

The first police cruiser screeched around the corner, lights painting the carnage in frantic flashes. Pepper didn’t look up. She kept pressure on Peter’s side, her eyes locked on his mask. "Look at me," she commanded, Rescue’s fractured visor reflecting his dimming lenses. "Help’s coming. You hear me?"

Peter’s head lolled weakly. He tried to focus, his voice a thin rasp muffled by fabric and pain. "S’okay, Ms. Potts... Don’t... worry." A shuddering breath escaped him. "Nobody’ll... miss a ghost."

The words, meant as bleak reassurance, landed like ice water in Pepper’s veins. Nobody will miss a ghost. Unbidden, the image of Tony flickered in her mind. "Don’t say that," she snapped, sharper than intended. Her gauntlet sparked again, betraying her own frayed control.

He managed a faint, choked sound that might have been a laugh. "M'sorry." His lenses flickered closed. Pepper’s clenched. The sirens drowned by the rain.

"I’m not letting go," she vowed, pressing harder. The red lights washed over his still form, making the blood on her hands look black. FRIDAY’s voice cut through the static in her helmet. Evac inbound. Stand clear.

The sleek Stark Medical VTOL descended like a silent predator, displacing sheets of rain. Its powerful downdraft whipped Pepper’s hair free from her damaged helmet as its bay doors hissed open. Two armored medics leaped out, their movements swift and practiced. One knelt beside Peter, gently replacing Pepper’s trembling hands with stabilizing foam pads that expanded around his torso. The other scanned him rapidly.

"Critical but stable," he barked into his comm. Pepper finally stepped back, her suit flickering wildly as the damaged nanites struggled. She watched, numb, as they loaded Peter onto a stretcher. Morgan’s small hand slipped into hers, cold and trembling. Happy limped closer, his face grim. The VTOL lifted off, vanishing into the storm-dark sky, leaving Pepper standing in the wreckage, Spider-man's chilling words echoing louder than the sirens.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: Stay For Her

Up in the penthouse’s sterile calm, the scent of antiseptic replaced rain and ozone. Pepper knelt, peeling off her sparking gauntlet completely. Her bare hands smoothed Morgan’s damp hair. "You were so brave," she whispered, her voice thick.

Morgan clung to her, burying her face in Pepper’s neck. "Is Spider-Man gonna be okay?"

Happy, nursing a bruised shoulder, held out a grease-stained Burger Palace bag. "He’s tough, kiddo. Here, eat." Morgan took the cheeseburger numbly. Pepper pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Stay with Uncle Happy," she murmured, her eyes already fixed on the hallway leading to the private medbay. "Mommy has to go check on something."

xXx

The medbay’s viewing port offered a stark, clinical tableau. Inside, Helen Cho moved with precise urgency. Pepper’s breath hitched. Spider-Man lay prone, mask removed, revealing a shockingly young face – pale, bruised, lips parted in unconscious agony. Helen’s gloved hands manipulated instruments inside a glowing holographic incision field hovering above Peter’s exposed ribs.

"FRIDAY," Pepper commanded, her voice low and strained. "Full status report on the patient. Vital signs, prognosis, estimated recovery timeline. The works." She braced herself for the AI’s detached medical analysis.

The response wasn't detached. It was intimate. "Peter Parker is stable, Mrs. Potts," FRIDAY announced, her synthesized voice softer than usual, almost... gentle. "Severe blunt force trauma to the thoracic cavity. Pulmonary contusion resolving. Hemothorax evacuated. Neural scans show no lasting damage from Scorpion's neurotoxin. Full recovery projected within 72 hours with accelerated healing protocols active." The name echoed in the sterile silence. Peter Parker. FRIDAY knew him. Not just as Spider-Man, but as Peter.

Pepper froze. The name landed like a physical blow. It wasn't just recognition; it was affection. FRIDAY’s tone held a familiarity reserved for family – the same cadence used for Tony, for Morgan. The AI cared for him. Deeply. Questions exploded in Pepper’s mind: How long had FRIDAY known? What connection existed between him and Tony's legacy? The implications were dizzying, terrifying. Her gaze locked onto the unconscious young man behind the glass, seeing not just a hero, but a ghost Tony’s own AI cherished. The sterile air suddenly felt thick with secrets.

Helen Cho stepped back from the surgical field, the holographic incision dissolving. She peeled off her gloves, her expression weary but satisfied. She met Pepper’s eyes through the viewing port, giving a small, reassuring nod. Peter’s chest rose and fell steadily beneath the sterile drapes, the frantic beeping of monitors replaced by a rhythmic, reassuring hum. Relief warred violently with the shock of FRIDAY’s revelation. He was alive. Stable. But the name hung between them, a silent question demanding answers Pepper didn't possess.

xXx

The tower was silent except for Morgan’s soft breathing and the rain lashing the windows. Pepper sat rigid on the medbay couch, her daughter curled against her side. On her StarkPad, FRIDAY played recovered footage: Peter Parker laughing beside Tony in a decimated lab, Tony ruffling the boy’s hair after a botched experiment. Another clip showed Peter, eyes wide with awe, handing Morgan a LEGO Iron Man figure at what looked like Morgan’s sixth birthday party—a party Pepper vividly remembered, yet Peter was nowhere in her recollection.

He was always just out of frame in her mind, erased yet present. Pepper stared, a hollow ache forming in her chest. The evidence was irrefutable. This boy hadn't just existed; he’d been woven into the fabric of their lives. He’d been *important* to Tony. This young man loved her daughter. And now… he was a ghost only the AI remembered. The question hammered against her skull: What happened?

FRIDAY’s voice broke the silence, softer than before. "Protocol 'Underoos' activated."

The screen shifted. Tony Stark appeared, exhausted but resolute, sitting alone in the dimmed Avengers Compound lab. Pepper recognized the date stamp: the night before the Time Heist. He leaned close to the camera, rubbing his eyes. "Hey Pep. Morgan. If you're seeing this," he paused, clearing his throat. "If you're seeing this, it means something went wrong. With me. And… Peter." His voice cracked on the name. "Kid got dusted on my watch. Couldn't save him." Tony looked away, jaw tightening. "Invented time travel for him, Pep. For him. Because he was ours." Pepper froze. Ours. The word landed like a physical blow. Tony’s eyes met the lens, raw and pleading. "If he makes it back… look after him. He’s family." The recording ended abruptly, leaving Pepper trembling. Tony hadn’t just sacrificed for the universe; he’d rewritten reality for a boy he loved like a son. A boy she’d forgotten.

Fresh tears sprang into Pepper’s eyes. She climbed from the couch, moving silently to stand at Peter’s bedside. Rain streaked the medbay window, casting watery shadows over his pale face. He looked impossibly young under the sterile lights, younger than she remembered from the recovered footage despite being in his twenties now. Her hand hovered, trembling, before gently brushing a stray curl from his damp forehead. His skin felt cool beneath her touch.

"Tony," she whispered, the name thick with grief and sudden, overwhelming understanding. "Risked everything to bring you home… and we forgot you." The ache in her chest deepened, sharpened by guilt. She’d failed Tony’s last, desperate plea. She’d failed Peter.

Peter stirred. His eyelids fluttered weakly against the lingering sedation. Blurry brown eyes struggled to focus, locking onto Pepper’s face hovering above him. Confusion clouded his gaze for a moment, then sharpened into unmistakable concern. His brow furrowed deeply, lines etching into his pale skin.

"Mrs… Potts?" His voice was a dry rasp, barely audible over the hum of monitors. His gaze darted past her shoulder, searching the room with frantic energy. "Morgan…?" The raw fear in that single word sliced through Pepper. "Is she… okay?"

Pepper's hand instinctively tightened around his, her voice thick but firm. "She's safe, Peter. Sleeping soundly right over on the couch." Relief washed over his face, instantly smoothing the lines of panic. His eyelids drooped heavily, but he fought them, his gaze searching hers again, lingering on the tear tracks she hadn't wiped away.

"You?" he rasped, the word barely a breath. "Are... you okay?"

The simple question, asked while he lay broken in a hospital bed, struck Pepper like a physical blow. She managed a nod, squeezing his hand. "Yes, Peter. I'm fine."

A ghost of his usual lopsided smile touched his lips, fleeting and exhausted. "Then... no reason... to be sad," he murmured, his voice fading as the sedation pulled him back under. His hand went slack in hers, his breathing deepening into the rhythm of drugged sleep. The monitors continued their steady, reassuring hum.

Pepper remained rooted beside the bed, her hand still resting lightly over his. The sterile quiet pressed in, amplifying the echo of his words: No reason to be sad. Yet sadness wasn't the half of it. Guilt, sharp and cold, coiled in her chest. This young man, Tony's son in all but blood, had bled on the street protecting her family while she hadn't even known his name. She watched the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath the thin hospital sheet, the stark reality settling deeper than the rain outside.

xXx

Hours slipped by, marked only by the soft chime of monitors. Peter surfaced again, this time more gradually. Pain radiated from his ribs, a dull, insistent throb beneath layers of medication. He blinked slowly, adjusting to the dimmed medbay lights. Something warm and solid pressed against his uninjured side. He turned his head stiffly. Nestled beside him, curled like a small cat under a spare blanket Pepper must have draped over her, was Morgan Stark. Her cheek rested against his arm, her breathing deep and peaceful. One hand clutched the LEGO Iron Man figure he'd given her years ago – the one FRIDAY's recovered footage showed him handing her at a birthday party Pepper now remembered only as a blur where Peter had been deliberately erased from her mind. The sight stole his breath more effectively than any broken rib.

Peter held perfectly still, afraid even breathing might disturb her. The LEGO figure was worn, edges softened from countless hours of tiny hands clutching it – his gift, remembered. A lump formed in his throat, thick and painful. Morgan shifted slightly in her sleep, nestling closer against his arm. Her warmth seeped through the blanket, a tangible anchor against the bewildering ache of being forgotten yet somehow still here, still trusted enough for this.

He carefully lifted his free hand, trembling slightly, and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead. She sighed softly, burrowing deeper into his side. The simple, trusting gesture shattered something brittle inside him. Tears pricked at his eyes, blurring the sterile medbay lights. He blinked them back fiercely, focusing on the weight of her head against his arm, the rhythmic puff of her breath against his skin. This was real. This mattered more than the gaping hole in everyone's memory.

He knew this stolen peace was fragile, a bubble destined to burst. Parker Luck wasn't just a joke; it was a curse etched into his bones. Everyone who truly loved him – His parents, Ben, May, Tony – paid the ultimate price. Staying, letting Morgan get attached... it was inviting disaster. He couldn't condemn her to that. The warmth radiating from her small body felt like both a balm and a brand. He memorized the feel of it, the softness of her hair under his tentative touch, the faint scent of citrus clinging to her. This moment, pure and unguarded, was a gift he hadn't dared dream of since the spell. He soaked it in, knowing it was borrowed time, knowing the price of keeping it would be far too high.

After a few precious moments he moved agonizingly slow to avoid jostling her. Peter slid his arm out from beneath Morgan's sleeping form. Every shift sent fresh spikes of pain through his ribs, forcing him to bite back a groan. He held his breath as her head settled onto the hospital bed, her fingers tightening reflexively around the LEGO Iron Man. Pepper was curled up on the couch, a StarkPad tucked under her arm. Peter paused, eyes flashing between the two as they slept – Pepper's brow furrowed even in rest, Morgan utterly serene. The sight tightened his chest worse than any fracture. This was the family Tony built, the family he'd fought to protect. And he was the ghost haunting it, threatening its peace.

He couldn’t stay. Every moment he lingered was another invitation for disaster to find them again. Moving carefully, ignoring the sharp protest in his ribs, Peter slid off the bed. His torn suit was gone, replaced by soft joggers and a STARK Industries tee. He found his mask folded neatly on a nearby tray. He slipped it on. The familiar fabric settled over his features, hiding the face F.R.I.D.A.Y. remembered but the world had forgotten. He owed them safety. He owed them distance. Silently, he moved out of the room towards the elevator doors.

"F.R.I.D.A.Y.," he whispered, voice raspy but urgent. "Open elevator access. Medbay to ground level." He braced a hand against the cool metal wall, waiting for the familiar chime, the glide of doors. Silence stretched. Then the AI’s voice filled the alcove, soft but firm. "I cannot comply, Peter." The denial hit him like a physical blow. "Mrs. Boss has initiated Protocol 'Guardian.' The Tower is under full lockdown. External exits are sealed." Peter clenched his fists, frustration warring with the pain. "Override it! Please, F.R.I.D.A.Y. You know why I have to go."

"I don't."

The voice came from behind him, low and controlled, cutting through the sterile air. Peter froze. Slowly, painfully, he turned. Pepper Potts stood framed in the doorway to his room, her arms crossed. It was odd to see her out of what he labled her She-E-O attire with her hair loose, and even more odd to see it paired with a gaze that was pure Rescue – sharp, assessing, utterly unyielding. The dim light caught the lingering remnants of tear tracks on her cheeks, but her expression was granite. She took a single step forward, her eyes locked onto his masked face.

"Care to explain?" The question hung between them, charged with the weight of forgotten moments, Tony’s desperate plea, and the blood still staining her hands from the street. "Explain to me why you think vanishing into the rain is the answer, Peter Parker."

Peter’s lenses flickered rapidly, cycling through magnification levels as if searching for an escape route that didn't exist. His breath hitched, audible even through the mask's filter. FRIDAY chose that moment to silently project a live feed onto the elevator's polished metal surface: Morgan, still curled on the medbay bed, clutching the LEGO Iron Man, her face peaceful in sleep. Peter flinched as if struck, his shoulders tensing beneath the thin Stark Industries tee. The image wasn't just a picture; it was a silent accusation, a reminder of what he was trying to flee – and why he had to flee. His knuckles whitened where he gripped the wall for support.

Peter’s lenses snapped wide, locking onto Morgan’s sleeping image projected onto the elevator door. His breath hitched audibly beneath the mask, a sharp, pained sound. Every line of his body radiated tension—not the coiled readiness of a hero facing a threat, but the raw, desperate fear of someone cornered by their own protective instinct. Pepper saw it instantly: the tremor in his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip on the wall. This wasn’t about his pain, his injuries, or even his own terrifying anonymity. It was pure, unadulterated terror for Morgan. The realization struck Pepper with chilling clarity. He wasn’t running from them; he was running for them.

Pepper took another deliberate step forward, her voice low, slicing through the sterile silence. "Look at me, Peter." He flinched but obeyed, his masked gaze reluctantly meeting hers. She held it, unflinching. "Last night," she stated, each word precise and heavy, "those thugs didn’t come for you." She paused, letting the implication sink in. Peter froze, his lenses narrowing slightly in confusion. Pepper pressed on, her tone softening only marginally. "You may have faced them before but last night they weren't after you. They were after her. After Morgan." She gestured toward the projection. "And you were there. You stood between them and her." Her gaze hardened again, pinning him in place. "Running now? That’s not protecting her. That’s leaving her defenseless against whatever comes next."

Peter’s breath caught. The truth landed like a physical blow. He’d been so focused on the curse clinging to him—the trail of loss—that he’d missed the brutal, immediate reality. Scorpion’s paralyzing tail hadn’t been aimed at Spider-Man; it had been aimed at Morgan Stark. His intervention hadn’t been luck or coincidence; it had been necessity. The weight of that responsibility settled onto his battered shoulders, heavier than any building he’d ever held up.

Pepper didn’t wait for his reply. She raised her StarkPad. "FRIDAY," she commanded, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "Play ‘Underoos Protocol, Segment Gamma." The screen illuminated, casting a ghostly light onto Peter’s mask. Footage bloomed: Tony Stark, gaunt and exhausted in the Compound labs, rubbing his eyes as he addressed the camera. "Kid got dusted on my watch," Tony’s voice cracked, raw and thick with grief. "Invented time travel for him, Pep. For him. Because he was ours." Peter froze. Ours. The word echoed in the sterile hallway, a phantom touch on a wound Peter thought had scarred over. Tony leaned closer, his eyes pleading through the screen. "If he makes it back… look after him. He’s family."

The recording ended. Silence crashed down, thick and suffocating. Peter stared at the image, his lenses wide, unblinking. The paradox tore through him: Tony’s desperate love etched into FRIDAY’s memory, a love so fierce it bent reality… while Peter himself remained a ghost in the minds of those Tony left behind. He was cherished enough to rewrite the universe for, yet forgotten enough to vanish from it. The contradiction was a knife twisting in the space where his identity used to be. His hand, still braced against the wall, trembled violently.

Pepper lowered the StarkPad, her gaze never leaving his masked face. "Tony sacrificed everything to bring you back," she said, her voice low, fierce. "Not just for the universe. For you. Because you were his." She took a final step forward, closing the distance. Her hand reached out, not towards the mask, but towards his shoulder—a grounding, human touch. "I don't know what happened to make us forget you but--"

"It was me." The words ripped out of Peter, raw and ragged, cutting her off. His shoulders slumped beneath her hand, the fight draining out of him. "It was all me." He lifted trembling hands, slowly peeling the mask off. His face was pale, etched with pain and crushing guilt. "After Tony died... I messed up. Badly." His eyes, wide and haunted, met hers. "I trusted Beck. Quentin Beck. Gave him Tony's tech... and he used it. He used me. People got hurt because of me." He swallowed hard, the confession tumbling out in a desperate rush. "I tried to fix it myself. Doctor Strange... he cast a spell to make everyone forget Peter Parker existed. To erase me. But I kept messing it up, interrupting him, changing the parameters... because I couldn't bear losing MJ and Ned." A shudder ran through him. "The spell broke. Everything... everyone... started bleeding through. The whole universe was tearing itself apart because I couldn't just... let go."

He looked away, unable to hold her gaze any longer. "Strange gave me a choice. Let the multiverse collapse... or let him cast the spell properly. Erase Peter Parker from everyone's memory." His voice dropped to a broken whisper. "I chose it. I made him do it. So... that's why." He gestured weakly towards Morgan's sleeping form visible through the doorway. "That's why you forgot. Why everyone forgot. Because I broke the world trying to clean up my own mess, and the only way to fix it... was to erase myself." The silence that followed was absolute, heavy with the weight of his confession—the terrible, self-inflicted cost of his failures.

Pepper stood utterly still, her hand still resting on his shoulder. The pieces slammed together with brutal clarity: Tony’s frantic invention of time travel, FRIDAY’s intimate knowledge, the ghostly presence in recovered footage, the gaping hole in her own memory where a boy Tony loved like a son should have been. All of it traced back to this broken young man confessing his greatest failure while bleeding under her roof. Her mind reeled – not from disbelief, but from the sheer, devastating scale of his sacrifice at such a young age. He hadn't just lost his mentor; he'd willingly obliterated his entire existence to save a universe he'd inadvertently endangered. The guilt radiating from him was palpable, suffocating.

Her fingers tightened slightly on his shoulder, not in accusation, but in a desperate anchor. "Peter," she breathed, her own voice thick. The name felt different now – weighted with tragedy, not just forgotten history. She saw the raw terror in his eyes, the expectation of rejection, of blame. "You carried that... alone?" The question wasn't about the spell's mechanics; it was about the crushing isolation, the years of navigating a world where no one knew his name, his pain, his monumental loss. Protecting Queens as a ghost... all while bearing the knowledge that he'd erased himself from the hearts of everyone who ever mattered. The sheer, unbearable loneliness of it stole her breath.

Pepper stepped closer, forcing him to meet her eyes again. The Rescue intensity hadn't vanished, but it was layered now with something deeper, fiercer. "Listen to me," she said, her voice low and unwavering. "You don't run from this. You don't run from us." Her gaze flickered towards Morgan, then back to him, holding his shattered expression. "Tony brought you home for a reason. And forgetting you?" She shook her head, a single tear escaping despite her iron control. "That wasn't your failure, Peter. That was ours. And we are done forgetting." The declaration hung in the air, a promise etched in grief and newfound resolve. The lockdown wasn't a cage; it was a shield. If Peter wouldn't protect himself, she would.

Peter stared at her, the raw conviction in her voice cutting through the fog of guilt and pain. He saw Tony's stubbornness in her stance, Morgan's fierce trust in her eyes. The instinct to bolt screamed, warring violently with the desperate longing for connection, for belonging – a feeling he'd buried since the spell. His gaze drifted past Pepper to the room Morgan slept in. Running meant leaving her vulnerable. Staying meant risking her. But Pepper was right: the threat was real, and it was aimed at Tony's daughter. He owed Tony that much. "Okay," he rasped, the word scraping his throat raw. He sagged against the wall, the fight draining out of him, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion. "Okay. Until... until we're sure Morgan's safe."

Relief washed over Pepper's face, subtle but profound. She didn't release his shoulder, grounding him. "Good," she murmured, her voice softening fractionally. She glanced at his Stark Industries tee, stained faintly with dried blood near his ribs. "First, you're getting back into that bed. Helen will want another scan." She guided him gently but firmly away from the elevator doors, her touch both protective and commanding. Peter didn't resist, leaning heavily on her strength. The path back to the room felt shorter, the sterile lights less harsh. The weight of isolation hadn't vanished, but the crushing pressure to flee alone had lifted, replaced by the unfamiliar, terrifying anchor of being seen.

As they reached the doorway, Pepper paused, her gaze lingering on Morgan still asleep in the rumpled hospital bed. "We'll figure this out, Peter," she said quietly, her voice thick with determination. "The threat. All of it." She met his eyes again, the ghost of Tony's fierce protectiveness blazing within her own. "Together."

Peter nodded silently, the word echoing in the quiet room – a fragile, terrifying promise. He eased back onto the bed, the soft sigh Morgan made in her sleep as she curled into his side anchoring him more effectively than any lock. He closed his eyes, the phantom ache in his ribs momentarily overshadowed by the unfamiliar, terrifying warmth of not being alone.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three: Rebuild for her

Pepper woke slowly, the sterile scent of the medbay replaced by something softer – sunlight warming the air. The first sound wasn't the hum of monitors, but Morgan's bright, unrestrained laughter. Blinking against the morning light filtering through the blinds, Pepper turned her head. Morgan was sprawled sideways on the hospital bed, propped up on her elbows, utterly engrossed in Frozen playing on the StarkPad balanced precariously on Peter's lap. Peter himself was leaning back against the raised bed, bare-chested save for the thick white bandages Helen Cho had applied yesterday. The stark lines of tape securing the dressing stood out against his skin, but Pepper's breath caught. The horrific bruising that had painted his torso in deep purples and blacks just hours ago were nonexistent.

Driven by a mix of professional curiosity and disbelief, Pepper pushed herself off the couch and approached the bed. "Morgan, sweetheart, give Peter some breathing room," she murmured gently, placing a hand on her daughter's shoulder. Her gaze, however, remained fixed on Peter's side. Hesitantly, almost reverently, she ran her fingertips lightly over the edge of the bandage, tracing the unblemished skin just visible beneath the tape. The heat radiating from him was intense, almost feverish, yet the skin felt smooth, resilient.

"Helen scanned you last night," she murmured, her voice thick with wonder. "The internal bruising... the fractures... they were severe." She met Peter's slightly startled eyes. "If we could bottle whatever cocktail your metabolism's brewing, Pete, we'd outsell aspirin and ibuprofen overnight." A flicker of genuine, weary amusement touched her lips. "Honestly, I'd pay top dollar right now. These old bones took more of a beating than I realized yesterday."

Peter's eyes widened instantly, the momentary ease vanishing. "You're hurt?" His voice was sharp, laced with alarm. He shifted abruptly, ignoring the twinge in his ribs, his gaze scanning Pepper with sudden intensity. "Where? Did Scorpion's toxin linger? Did Rhino—?" He started to push himself up, concern overriding any lingering discomfort. The StarkPad slid sideways, nearly tumbling off the bed before Morgan grabbed it with a squeak.

Pepper quickly placed a reassuring hand on his uninjured shoulder, gently pressing him back against the pillows. "Easy," she soothed, her own amusement softening into something warmer. "Nothing serious. Just... stiff. Sore. The ibuprofen comment wasn't a metaphor." She gave his shoulder a light squeeze. "I wore Rescue armor designed by Tony Stark and piloted it into a charging Rhino. My body is simply registering its protest." She offered him a small, genuine smile. "Unlike yours, apparently, which seem to have forgotten it was ever bruised."

The momentary panic in Peter's eyes faded, replaced by a sheepish relief that warmed Pepper more than the sunlight. Morgan, oblivious to the tension, giggled as Olaf sneezes and Sven catches his nose eating it.

Peter relaxed slightly against the pillows, though his gaze remained watchful. "Okay. Good. Just... stiff." He echoed her words, a flicker of Tony's familiar worry passing over his features before settling into something softer. He glanced down at Morgan, who eyes still lit up like she was watching the movie for the first time despite it probably being closer to her hundredth. The sight seemed to anchor him further. "Helen said I could probably ditch the bandages later today," he offered quietly, tracing the edge of the tape with his thumb. "Metabolism's... yeah." He shrugged awkwardly, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "It has its moments."

 FRIDAY’s calm voice filled the room. "Mrs. Boss, Director Fury is requesting immediate secure comms. Priority Alpha." The lightness vanished instantly. Pepper’s spine straightened, her expression shifting into cool professionalism. "Patch him through to my private channel, FRIDAY. Audio only." She met Peter’s suddenly alert gaze, her own sharp and resolute. "Looks like our quiet morning is over." She moved towards the door, pausing only to glance back at Morgan still happily snuggled in his side. "Keep an eye on her?"

The request was simple, but the weight behind it – the trust – was immense. Peter nodded, his Spider-sense humming faintly beneath the surface. "Always."

Pepper stepped into the hallway, the door sealing behind her with a soft hiss. Fury’s gravelly voice crackled through the comm implant in her ear. "Potts. We’ve got chatter. High-level. Sinister Six aren’t licking their wounds. They’re regrouping." His tone was clipped, urgent. "Intel suggests a new player bankrolling them. Someone with deep pockets and a serious grudge against Stark."

Pepper leaned against the cool wall, her mind racing. "A new benefactor? Who?" Fury’s pause was heavy.

"Unknown. But they’re accelerating their timeline. Targets remain consistent: Morgan Stark… and Spider-Man." The confirmation landed like ice in her veins. Peter’s fear hadn’t been paranoia; it was prophecy.

xXx

Inside the room, Peter kept his expression relaxed for Morgan, though his senses were dialed to eleven. He could hear the low rumble of Fury’s voice through the door, the tension in Pepper’s clipped responses. The words echoed in his mind. Peter gently adjusted the StarkPad on his lap, his fingers brushing the screen. Silently, almost instinctively, he tapped a complex sequence – a diagnostic override FRIDAY had shown him years ago. Instantly, a discreet, encrypted feed bloomed in the corner of the display: real-time security sweeps of Stark Tower’s perimeter, external sensor logs, and flagged anomalies. His eyes scanned the data stream, searching for patterns, for threats. Protecting her meant knowing the battlefield.

xXx

Pepper finally relented to Peter’s quiet, persistent urging—and Helen Cho’s firm medical opinion—that she couldn’t spend another night on the medbay’s unforgiving couch. She retreated to the penthouse, the familiar luxury of her own bed feeling strangely alien after the tension-filled hours downstairs. But sleep remained elusive. Every creak of the settling tower, every distant hum of the city below, felt amplified, charged with unseen threat. Images flickered behind her eyelids: Scorpion’s tail striking, Peter collapsing, Morgan’s terrified face. After two hours of tossing, she gave up. Pulling on a robe, she slipped silently back towards the medbay, drawn by an unspoken need to see them, to confirm their safety.

As she neared the softly lit doorway, a low murmur stopped her. Peter’s voice, strained and urgent, drifted into the hall. He was hunched over Morgan’s StarkPad, its glow illuminating the tight lines of worry on his face. Pepper’s breath hitched. Was her trust, so newly forged, already misplaced? She pressed herself against the cool wall, heart pounding, straining to hear. A woman’s voice, tinny but clear through the speaker, replied:

"Scorpion’s toxin? Rhino charging Rescue? And Pepper Potts knows? Oh god, Peter...Shit." Karen Page’s whisper trembled with disbelief.

Peter shifted, wincing as he leaned closer to the screen. "Yeah. Shit's right."

Karen cut him off, her tone sharpening. "Listen. Matt caught whispers downtown. Someone’s hired Kraven the Hunter. Big money. Target’s Spider-Man." She paused, the silence thick with dread. "When you vanished… I thought he’d already found you."

Peter froze, his knuckles whitening around the StarkPad’s edge. Kraven. A predator who didn’t just fight; he studied, hunted, ended prey. The Sinister Six were chaos. Kraven was precision.

"Kare," Peter interrupted, his voice suddenly softer, cutting through her rising panic. He leaned closer to the screen, the harsh glow softening the lines of exhaustion on his face. "Hey. Look at me." He waited until her worried eyes met his through the video feed. "I'm okay. Bruised ribs, mostly healed already. Promise." He offered a small, tired smile, genuine despite the dread coiling in his gut. "Stark Medical patched me up good. Even Claire would approve." The weak joke landed, drawing a shaky breath and a flicker of relief from Karen. His expression sobered instantly. "But listen, you need to be careful. Kraven... he doesn't play by rules. If he's sniffing around Spider-Man, he'll dig into everyone connected. Foggie, Matt... you. Stay sharp. Stay safe. Please."

Karen nodded, her face pale but resolute in the dim light of her own apartment. "Understood. We'll keep ears to the ground. You... you stay alive, Parker."

The call ended, leaving Peter staring at the darkened screen, the name Kraven echoing like a death knell. He glanced at Morgan, still peacefully asleep beside him, her small hand resting trustingly on his arm. The fragile sanctuary of the medbay felt thinner than ever.

Pepper stepped silently into the room, her robe pulled tight against the chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. She’d heard enough. The confirmation of Kraven, the raw fear in Peter’s voice when he spoke to Karen, the fierce protectiveness overriding his own terror – it solidified her resolve. She moved to the foot of Peter’s bed, her gaze sweeping from Morgan’s serene face to Peter’s tense shoulders.

Peter’s head snapped up, startled. He saw her expression – not anger, but a profound understanding layered with grim acceptance. "Ms. Potts," he stammered, guilt flashing across his face as he glanced at the StarkPad he’d used to bypass lockdown protocols. "How much...?"

"Enough," Pepper interrupted softly, her voice steady despite the icy dread pooling in her stomach. She met his anxious gaze squarely. "Enough to know we’ve got our hands fuller than I thought." Her brow furrowed slightly, a practical question cutting through the looming threat. "Who is Karen? And," she added, a flicker of curiosity momentarily displacing the tension, "did she have anything to do with the name you chose for your AI? Tony always wondered why you chose Karen of all names."

Peter flushed crimson, the tips of his ears burning. He looked down at his hands, twisting the StarkPad’s edge. "Uh... no," he mumbled, a sheepish grin flickering across his face despite the gravity of their situation. "Karen the AI... she was named after Karen Plankton. From Spongebob." He risked a glance up, expecting judgment, but saw only Pepper’s faintly bewildered amusement. "It was... dumb. Kinda ironic, I guess. Plankton’s wife was always nagging him about world domination schemes, and my Karen was... well, helpful." He shrugged, the absurdity momentarily grounding him. "I was a kid."

His expression softened, the embarrassment fading into profound gratitude. "The Karen I was just talking to, Karen Page... I met her when I was... at my lowest." He decided to keep it vauge intentionally never one to dwell on the worst of it- the food scarcity, the debilitating lonliness, the desperation. "She'd seen me around, knew I was good with tech and broke so she offered to buy me dinner if I could help with a fix that even a boomer could do." He met Pepper’s eyes, sincerity shining through. "She didn't know me. Didn't want anything. She just... saw someone having a bad day and threw me a lifeline. Gave me the gig fixing tech out of Josie's back room." His voice thickened slightly. "She was just kind. When everyone else forgot I existed, she remembered to be decent."

Pepper absorbed his words, the image stark against the backdrop of Kraven and the Sinister Six. This boy Tony loved had been saved by the quiet, unassuming kindness of a woman who saw a stranger in need. It resonated deeply – a fragile counterpoint to the encroaching darkness. Her gaze shifted from Peter’s earnest face to Morgan’s peaceful slumber. The weight of Fury’s warning pressed down, but alongside it bloomed a fierce, protective clarity. Kindness existed. It had sheltered Peter. Now, she would wield Stark resources and Iron resolve to shelter them both.

"I'm glad," Pepper said, her voice low and sincere, breaking the heavy silence. She leaned against the footboard, her posture softening slightly. "I'm glad you had Karen Page looking out for you back then... and that you still have your AI Karen now." She offered a small, weary smile. "It sounds like you needed both."

Peter’s expression flickered, the brief warmth fading into something haunted. He stared down at his hands, twisting the StarkPad’s edge again. "My AI... Karen," he murmured, the name sounding hollow. "She... she stopped responding to me." He swallowed hard, the memory raw. "After Strange’s spell... when everyone forgot Peter Parker... Karen forgot me. The suit... my suit Tony made... it locked me out." His voice dropped to a pained whisper. "FRIDAY told me yesterday she’d found encrypted backups... fragments... but back then? Standing there in my own suit, bleeding, and hearing 'Access Denied. User Peter Parker Not Recognized'..." He trailed off, the phantom sting of that rejection sharper than any wound. "It uh, well, it sucked."

Pepper watched him, the depth of his isolation hitting her anew. He hadn’t just lost his place in the world; he’d lost the technological lifeline Tony had woven into his suit – his AI companion, his guide. The suit itself, a symbol of Tony’s trust and belief, had rejected him. It was cruelty layered upon sacrifice. Her jaw tightened but before she could decide what to say, Morgan stirred beside Peter, blinking sleepily against the StarkPad’s glow.

She rubbed her eyes, then peered up at Peter’s tense face, her brow furrowing with childish concern. "Petey?" she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. "Why’re you sad? I don’t want you to be sad."

Peter flinched, instantly plastering on a smile that didn’t reach his haunted eyes. He gently brushed a stray curl from her forehead. "Hey, Morgs. Not sad, promise. Just… grown-up stuff. Boring stuff." His voice was deliberately light, but Pepper saw the strain beneath the surface, the effort it cost him to shield her.

Pepper stepped forward, her voice cutting through the fragile moment with quiet authority. "Morgan’s right," she stated, her gaze locking onto Peter’s. "No sadness." Her tone shifted, becoming decisive, practical. "Peter, FRIDAY has mapped the entire Stark Industries R&D archive onto the main server node. Whatever protocols Tony embedded in your suit, whatever encryption Karen ran on… consider it unlocked." She gestured towards the hallway leading deeper into Stark Tower. "The lab is yours. Full access. Every tool, every piece of code Tony ever wrote, every prototype Helen’s ever scanned. If it can help you reclaim Karen, reclaim your suit… it’s there."

Peter stared at her, the weight of her offer settling over him like a physical thing. Full access to Tony’s legacy? Not just permission, but an invitation to dive into the heart of Stark innovation? It was overwhelming. His fingers twitched, itching for a keyboard, a soldering iron, anything to start untangling the mess Strange’s spell had made of his tech. Hope, sharp and terrifying, warred with the dread of failure. What if he couldn’t fix it? What if Karen was truly gone?

Morgan tugged insistently on Peter’s sleeve, her earlier concern momentarily forgotten. "Petey?" she whispered, her eyes wide and hopeful. "Can I help?" Peter looked down at her earnest face, then back at Pepper’s unwavering resolve. The impossible pressure eased, just a fraction. He managed a small, genuine smile this time. "Maybe tomorrow, Mo," he murmured, ruffling her hair gently. "Right now, I’ve got some… grown-up tech stuff to figure out."

He carefully slid out from beside her, the promise of the lab pulling him like a magnet. Pepper nodded, her hand resting on Morgan’s shoulder as Peter moved towards the door, his steps quickening with purpose.

xXx

The lab hummed with latent energy as Peter entered. Holographic interfaces flickered to life around him, bathing the sleek surfaces in cool blue light. FRIDAY’s voice, calm and efficient, filled the space. "Welcome, Peter. Primary objective: Restoration of AI Companion Designation 'Karen'. Initiating decryption protocols on encrypted suit backups. Accessing Stark Industries proprietary neural network archives." Peter’s eyes scanned the streams of code cascading across the main display – fragments of Karen’s personality matrix, corrupted logs, the stubborn 'User Not Recognized' firewall. He cracked his knuckles, a fierce determination settling over him. Tony’s tech had rejected him once. He wouldn’t let it happen again. Not with Pepper trusting him. Not with Morgan needing him. He pulled up a keyboard, fingers flying. "Alright, Karen," he whispered to the glowing screens. "Let’s bring you home."

xXx

The midnight oil managed to burn through not only the night but the better part of the following day determination to crack the code consuming him. Peter hunched over a holotable in Tony’s old lab, the scent of ozone and old coffee thick in the air. Lines of code scrolled endlessly, F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice a calm counterpoint to his mounting frustration. The nanites stubbornly refused to acknowledge Peter Parker as anything but an unauthorized user. He rubbed his eyes, the ghost of Tony’s muttered curses echoing in the quiet. A soft chime announced the lab door opening. Pepper stood silhouetted against the brighter hallway light, holding a tray: a steaming bowl of soup, thick-cut turkey sandwiches, and a glass of milk. The simple, comforting aroma cut through the sterile tech smell.

Deja vu hit Peter like a physical wave. He froze, fingers hovering over the holographic interface. Suddenly, he wasn’t just smelling soup; he smelled burnt circuits and Tony’s expensive cologne. He saw Pepper, younger, exasperated, setting down an identical tray on a cluttered workbench. "Tony, for heaven's sake, the kid needs to eat! Look at him, he’s practically skin and bones!" Tony’s indignant retort echoed faintly in Peter’s mind: "He’s fine, Pep! We’re on the verge of a breakthrough with the web-fluid tensile strength modulator! Priorities!" Peter remembered his own teenage self, caught between awe and hunger, stammering, "I-I can eat later, Mr. Stark, really..."

Pepper set the tray down beside him with a soft clink. "Priorities," she said softly, her voice pulling him back to the present. Her gaze lingered on the hologram displaying the nanite recognition protocols – the same stubborn tech Tony had obsessed over. A flicker of shared memory, tinged with both fondness and profound loss, passed between them. She didn’t need to say Tony’s name; his ghost filled the space between the soup and the stubborn code. "Eat, Peter," she instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument, echoing a familiar refrain from a life erased. "The breakthrough can wait for fuel."

Peter picked up a spoon, the warmth seeping into his chilled fingers. He hesitated, then looked up at her, a spark of unexpected boldness cutting through his exhaustion. "Since I got here," he began, his voice quieter now, "you've looked at me... like I'm a ghost." He met her eyes squarely. "Just now, though? When you walked in? That felt different. What were you thinking?"

The question hung, raw and honest, in the humming quiet of Tony's lab. Pepper didn't look away. A soft, almost imperceptible sigh escaped her. Her gaze drifted past him, touching the familiar chaos of tools and holographic schematics Tony had left imprinted on the space.

"For a moment," she admitted, her voice low and thick with memory, "it wasn't you hunched over that table. It was him. The stubborn set of your shoulders, the way you rub your eyes when you're frustrated... the sheer, pig-headed refusal to stop." A ghost of a smile touched her lips, fleeting and bittersweet. "You reminded me of Tony."

The admission landed softly between them, acknowledging the ghost without letting it haunt the present. Peter nodded slowly, a lump forming in his throat. He took a tentative sip of the soup – rich, savory, comforting. It tasted like belonging, a sensation so foreign it was almost painful. He didn't speak, letting the shared memory settle, a fragile bridge built over the chasm of forgotten years.

He set the spoon down carefully, the clink echoing in the quiet lab. "I'm not him, you know," Peter said, his voice low but steady, meeting Pepper’s gaze. "Tony. Or... or even that kid you’ve been watching in F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s holograms." He gestured vaguely towards the ceiling, where the archived footage resided. "That kid thought he could handle EDITH. Thought he could be Tony Stark – global reach, instant solutions." A bitter twist touched his lips. "Look where that got him. Got May." He stared at his hands, calloused from webs and wrenches, not billionaire tech. "That boy died in the spell’s backlash, Miss. Potts. What crawled out... it’s just Peter. The guy who fixes busted phones in the back room of a dive bar. Who looks out for the little guy because that’s all he can do now. All he should do."

Pepper watched him, her expression unreadable for a moment. The raw honesty, the utter rejection of the mantle Tony had tried to place on him, resonated deeply. She saw the profound weariness, the hard-won humility etched into his features. It wasn't defeat; it was clarity forged in fire.

"Peter Parker," she repeated softly, the name carrying a new weight. "Who looks out for the little guy." She paused, her gaze sharpening. "Morgan Stark is a very little girl. And she needs Spider-Man." Her tone wasn't demanding, merely stating an undeniable fact. "Not Tony's ghost. Not EDITH's wielder. Just Peter Parker. Doing what he does best."

Peter pushed the tray slightly towards her, nudging the untouched half of his turkey sandwich. "Here," he offered quietly. "You brought it. You should have some too."

 He didn't look up, his focus seemingly on the stubborn lines of code flickering before him. Pepper hesitated for only a second, then picked up the sandwich. She took a small bite, the simple act grounding them both amidst the humming tech and looming threats.

She chewed slowly, her gaze distant, tracing the familiar contours of Tony’s old lab – the chaotic workbenches, the dormant Iron Man suits in their alcoves. "You know," she began, her voice softer than usual, almost confessional, "when I first walked into Stark Industries? It wasn't to run it." A faint, self-deprecating smile touched her lips. "I did some modeling in college and majored in Art History. Dreamed of curating Renaissance exhibits at the Met. Took the PR job purely to pad my resume." She glanced at Peter, seeing genuine surprise flicker across his face. "Then Tony happened. Offered me the PA job. Insane hours, impossible demands... and somehow, I kept saying yes." She paused, the memory vivid. "Sometimes, even now, walking into the boardroom... I still feel like that art student playing dress-up. Like any minute, someone’s going to point and yell 'Imposter!'"

Peter watched her, the raw honesty cutting through his own anxieties. The most powerful woman in tech, confessing to feeling like a fraud? It was startlingly human. He saw the echo of his own doubts – the kid from Queens who’d gotten people killed trying to play Avenger. "But... you are running it," he murmured, gesturing vaguely at the sprawling, humming tower around them. "You're a badass. I mean you even charged Rhino." His voice held a quiet awe. "You're keeping Morgan safe... God, you're incredible."

Pepper met his gaze, her eyes reflecting the hologram's blue glow. "So are you, Pete," she stated firmly. "Not Tony. Not Spider-Man. Just you." She placed the half-eaten sandwich back on the tray. "Finish your soup. Then," she nodded towards the stubborn nanite protocols shimmering in the air, "let's bring Karen home. Together." She pulled up a secondary holoscreen, her fingers already tapping commands. "FRIDAY, isolate the neural pathway encryption module. Cross-reference it with Tony's early Jarvis beta logs." The AI acknowledged instantly, new streams of data blooming beside Peter's work. Peter stared for a moment in awe, then picked up his spoon. He took a determined bite, the warmth spreading through him as Pepper Potts, the art student turned CEO, leaned in beside him, ready to rebuild what was lost.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four: Stillness Before the Hunt

Peter traced the holographic mortar lines between floors eighty-nine and ninety, fingers hovering where Tony's lab met Pepper's rebuilt sky. The schematics felt less like blueprints and more like mortise-and-tenon joints holding a ghost together. FRIDAY's voice cut through the sterile hum: "Structural integrity optimal. Pressure seals nominal." He didn't hear her. He heard Tony's laugh echoing off glass—sharp, irreverent—as if mocking the cathedral Pepper had erected.

"Run the environmental failsafe again," Peter murmured, tapping the ventilation shaft overlay. Dust motes swirled where his finger broke the light beam—real dust, not holograms. Tony hated dust. Would've had DUM-E vacuuming mid-sentence. Peter's throat tightened. "If Kraven floods the air vents with neurotoxins—"

The word died in Peter’s throat. A sudden tremor ran through his fingers hovering over the ventilation schematic. Not from Kraven’s hypothetical neurotoxins. From the sheer presence pressing down. He hadn’t just walked into Tony’s lab; he’d walked into the man’s skin. Every surface screamed Tony’s absence-loudness. The dented coffee mug Pepper must have replaced daily. The faint grease smudge Peter knew Tony never cleaned off the corner of the central console. It wasn't dust he brushed away; it was the residue of a ghost. The holographic schematics bloomed—Pepper’s gleaming, hopeful tower—but Peter’s reflection fractured against the glass, superimposed over Tony’s phantom image leaning beside him, eyebrow cocked. "FRIDAY," Peter rasped, voice thick, "Ground up. Protocols."

FRIDAY’s calm narration flowed: public gardens, ethics labs, memorial archives. Each floor Pepper rebuilt felt like another brick laid on Peter’s chest. He’d helped calibrate the Hall of Heroes' holograms—those suspended Iron Man suits bathed in artificial sunlight Tony called "sentimental." Pepper’s entire tower was a monument to that sentiment, a cathedral Peter felt utterly unworthy to stand within. His gaze snagged on Tony’s sandbox workstation—the chaotic tangle of wires, the coffee mug, the transparent sheet pinned nearby. Don’t let the kid overthink the power curve. Tony’s handwriting danced mockingly. Peter’s breath caught. Way too late for that.

He traced the holographic outline of the memorial gardens—water channels shimmering beneath projected willows. "Reroute sensor focus here," Peter interrupted, voice tight. "Kraven exploits reflections."

FRIDAY acknowledged, then paused—a digital hesitation. "Peter, you’ve reviewed these protocols four times."

He didn’t flinch. "Doesn’t mean it’s enough." The silence stretched, thick with unspoken names: Ben, May, Tony.

"You’re trying to protect them," FRIDAY observed softly.

"Couldn’t protect him," Peter whispered, the admission raw. "Or May. Won’t fail Pepper and Morgan."

FRIDAY’s holographic interface shifted abruptly. Instead of schematics, it displayed a grainy, flickering recording: Tony Stark hunched over a reactor prototype, grease smeared across his cheek. His eyes were bloodshot, fingers trembling slightly as he soldered a micron-thin connection. "Sir," FRIDAY’s archived voice echoed gently in the playback, "Morgan has been asking for ‘Daddy’s bedtime story’ for seventeen minutes." Tony startled, dropping the soldering iron. "Damn it, FRI! Warn a guy!" He rubbed his eyes, frustration melting into weary affection. "Tell her… tell her Daddy’s wrestling a very stubborn robot dragon. Be there in five." He didn’t move back to the bench. Instead, he stared at a small hologram of Morgan beaming beside him. The recording faded. Peter stared at the empty space where Tony’s exhaustion had mirrored his own.

FRIDAY's holographic interface shimmered, replacing Tony's ghostly image with a simple text prompt that hung in the air beside Peter: Query: Parallel Behavior Analysis - Stark, T./Parker, P. - Obsessive Protocol Revision Cycles.

Peter blinked. "What?"

The holographic text dissolved, replaced by FRIDAY’s calm voice. "Analysis complete, Peter. Pattern recognition indicates a 92.3% behavioral congruence between your current protocol revision cycle and Tony Stark’s documented obsessive-compulsive security iterations during periods of perceived external threat, particularly after Morgan’s birth." Peter stiffened, the sterile air suddenly thick. FRIDAY continued, her tone softening imperceptibly. "He frequently required prompting to disengage. Reminders to prioritize familial connection over perceived systemic vulnerability." A pause. "He often neglected scheduled interactions with Morgan during such phases."

Peter’s hand clenched, knuckles white against the cool holotable surface. He stared at the ghostly outline of Tony’s sandbox workstation, the scrawled note mocking him. Don’t let the kid overthink. The memory surged, unstoppable: Morgan’s hopeful face earlier that morning, clutching her favorite LEGO Quinjet. "Petey, can we build the landing gear after breakfast?" He’d mumbled something vague about security protocols, his mind already tunneling back into Kraven’s hypothetical attack vectors. Her small shoulders had slumped, just slightly, before she’d turned away. The pang of guilt was sharper than any neurotoxin.

"Thanks, FRIDAY," he breathed, the words thick with sudden understanding. He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the grit of exhaustion and the phantom grease Tony always wore. "Where’s Morgan now?"

"In the kitchen," FRIDAY replied instantly. "Attempting to construct a 'laser-proof' fort from dining chairs and blankets. Estimated structural collapse probability: 57%." A flicker of Tony’s exasperated affection warmed Peter’s chest. He shoved away from the holotable, the schematics dissolving into harmless light.

The elevator rose silently, its gentle vibration the only sound. Peter leaned against the wall, eyes closed, still seeing Kraven’s hypothetical toxin vectors dancing behind his eyelids—red lines intersecting Morgan’s playroom. He didn’t realize how tightly he’d been clenching his fists until the doors slid open onto the family quarters.

Gone was the sterile hum of the lower floors — here, the air smelled faintly of cedar and citrus, sunlight spilling over pale oak floors and brushed metal trim. Pepper’s touch was everywhere, softening the industrial bones Tony left behind. Peter’s sneakers barely made a sound as he stepped into the living quarters. The furniture was the kind of luxury that whispered rather than bragged: curved sand-colored couches, titanium accents, light dancing through glass globes suspended above like frozen starlight. And right in the middle of all that elegance — chaos.

Morgan Stark was standing on a dining chair, one hand clutching a cashmere blanket, the other adjusting a stack of silk throw pillows. Around her, the kitchen table had become a fortress — a sprawling dome of luxury fabrics and borrowed household treasures. A wine rack had been repurposed as a tower. A Stark tablet glowed from inside, projecting rainbow light across the blanket walls. Her Iron Man plush sat proudly at the center, helmet slightly askew, like a king presiding over his court.

Peter froze at the sight, lips twitching. “Wow,” he said. “Either you built a fort or you declared war on interior design.”

Morgan grinned, scrambling down. “FRIDAY said you were fortifying the tower downstairs.” She tugged his sleeve. “I wanted to help fortify up here.” Her small hand felt impossibly warm.

Peter hesitated only a second—eyes flicking to Pepper’s sleek quartz countertops buried beneath pillows—then knelt beside her. He silently reinforced the chair legs with spare textbooks “Advanced Nanotech? Solid choice, Mo", anchored the cashmere canopy with Pepper’s dumbbells, and redirected the tablet’s projector to blindspot-check the “gate.” Morgan hauled armfuls of fleece blankets and embroidered cushions from her room, stuffing the interior until it resembled a plush cave. When he crawled in after her, knees bumping hers in the cozy dimness, he suddenly registered the quiet. No FRIDAY alerts. No Pepper. Just Morgan’s steady breathing.

Peter shifted, careful not to dislodge a precariously balanced decorative vase repurposed as a laser cannon. “Where’s your mom?”

Morgan nestled deeper into a mountain of velvet pillows, Iron Man plush tucked under her chin. “Working,” she mumbled around a yawn. “She thinks I’m napping.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “And FRIDAY?”

Morgan giggled, a low, conspiratorial sound. “FRIDAY thinks Morgan Stark is asleep upstairs.” She pointed triumphantly towards her bedroom door. “My Morgan—my American Girl doll—she’s the one sleeping! I put her in my bed with my PJs on! Mommy told FRIDAY to watch MORGAN nap. FRIDAY’s watching that MORGAN nap. Not me.” Her grin was pure, unrepentant mischief.

Peter stared at her, utterly floored. The sheer, elegant simplicity of it—exploiting FRIDAY’s literal interpretation of Pepper’s command—was breathtakingly clever. It wasn’t just rule-breaking; it was hacking Stark Tower’s security protocols with semantics and a doll. A laugh burst out of him, sharp and surprised. “Morgan H. Stark,” he breathed, shaking his head, unable to hide his admiration despite knowing he absolutely shouldn’t encourage this. “That… that is genius-level loopholing. Seriously impressive.” He ruffled her hair. “But now? Now we really gotta nap. Your mom’s gonna murder me if she finds out I aided and abetted a fort-building insurrection instead of enforcing nap time.” He nudged her gently. “And I’m wiped. Fortifying and forting is exhausting work.”

Morgan grinned, triumphant, but nodded, already curling deeper into the plush cushions. She wriggled closer, burrowing her head against his shoulder. “Thanks for helping me fortify, Petey,” she murmured, her voice thick with impending sleep. Her small hand patted his arm once, a gesture of pure contentment. The warmth of her trust seeped through his shirt, chasing away the lingering chill of Kraven’s shadow and FRIDAY’s unsettling behavioral analysis.

Peter draped an arm loosely around her shoulders. He settled back against the surprisingly comfortable mound of Pepper’s fleece throws. “Always, Mo,” he whispered into the quiet gloom of the fort. The words weren’t just a reassurance; they were a quiet vow, echoing Pepper’s earlier insistence. This tiny architect of chaos, hacking Stark Tower’s defenses with a doll and semantics, was his to protect. Not as Tony’s ghost, not as Spider-Man burdened by past failures, but simply as Peter. The simplicity of it, nestled here amidst the absurd luxury of Pepper’s pillows, felt unexpectedly grounding allowing him to drift off to sleep.

xXx

Pepper rubbed her temples, the holographic projections of Stark Industries' quarterly earnings flickering before her like ghosts she couldn't banish. The numbers blurred. Morgan should've been awake twenty minutes ago—her internal clock was Swiss-precision, especially after naps. A flicker of unease cut through the financial fog. "FRIDAY," she called out, her voice sharper than intended. "Is Morgan still asleep?"

"Affirmative, Mrs. Boss," FRIDAY's calm voice replied instantly. "Morgan Stark remains asleep in her designated bedroom location."

Pepper frowned, pushing away the quarterly earnings projection with an impatient gesture. Something felt off—Morgan's naps rarely ran this long. "And Peter? Where's he?" she asked, already rising from her ergonomic chair. "Still in the lab?"

"Negative," FRIDAY responded smoothly. "Peter Parker is currently asleep in the kitchen. Location: beneath the kitchen table fortification constructed by Mini Boss."

Pepper blinked. "The what?"

FRIDAY clarified helpfully, "The structure utilizes dining chairs, cashmere blankets, silk pillows, and a wine rack. Peter Parker assisted its assembly before entering a state of repose alongside Mini Boss."

Pepper strode toward the kitchen, heels clicking against polished timbers until she reached the plush rug. The scene stopped her cold: her titanium dining chairs lay sideways beneath a lopsided mountain of her finest Italian throws and velvet cushions, anchored by her workout weights. And inside the fort’s shadowed mouth, visible through a gap in a draped Hermès scarf, lay Peter curled on his side, one arm flung protectively over Morgan, who slept buried in pillows with her Iron Man plushie.

"FRIDAY," Pepper whispered, voice tight with suspicion. "Show me Morgan asleep in her room. Visual confirmation. Now." A holographic window bloomed beside the fort: Morgan’s bedroom. Her American Girl doll lay tucked under the covers, wearing Morgan’s pajamas, head resting neatly on the pillow. The doll’s painted eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. Pepper’s breath caught. "That clever little punk."

Pepper crouched silently beside the fort’s draped entrance. Inside, Morgan slept curled against Peter, her small hand clutching his worn t-shirt sleeve. Peter’s face was slack with exhaustion, one arm draped protectively over her. The utter peace radiating from them contrasted sharply with Pepper’s racing thoughts. She reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of the cashmere blanket shielding them.

She hesitated. Waking them felt like shattering something fragile, a stolen moment of quiet defiance against the looming threats. Kraven, the Sinister Six, Fury’s warnings—they could wait another hour. Instead, Pepper leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss onto Morgan’s sleep-warmed temple. The scent of strawberry shampoo filled her senses. She carefully smoothed a stray chocolate lock from Morgan’s forehead.

Pepper straightened, her voice low but clear. "FRIDAY, initiate Protocol Comfort: Pepperoni. Extra Cheese. Order two large pizzas for delivery." She paused, a faint smile touching her lips as she glanced at Peter’s sleeping form. "And whatever you think Peter would prefer."

Peter stirred, eyelids fluttering open without fully focusing. "Pineapple and Ham... extra crispy," he mumbled into Morgan's hair, his voice thick with sleep. "Or whatever just no olives... 's'gross." He nestled deeper into the pillow fortress.

Pepper froze mid-step, her polished heel hovering above the rug. Peter’s sleep-mumbled pizza specifications hung in the quiet kitchen air. A startled laugh escaped her, sharp and bright against the fortress’s muffled silence. It wasn’t just the absurdity of the toppings; it was the sheer, unconscious normalcy of it, the way his enhanced metabolisms priorities punched through layers of nanite corruption and Kraven’s shadow. "FRIDAY," she murmured, amusement softening her tone, "you heard the man FRIDAY. One large pineapple and ham, extra crispy.”

xXx

An hour later, inside the fort’s shadowed warmth, Morgan balanced a slice piled high with pepperoni on her lap, grinning as Peter demonstrated how to fold the crust "Queens-style." Pepper watched them, perched awkwardly on a velvet cushion, her silk blouse incongruous against the blanket chaos. For a moment, the scent of oregano and melted cheese drowned out the sterile tang of Stark Tower’s filtered air. Morgan giggled, cheese stretching impossibly long between her slice and Peter’s. "It’s like webs!" she declared. Peter grinned back. "Way tastier." Pepper nibbled her own slice, the simplicity of it settling her nerves more than any security protocol ever could.

Pepper brushed crumbs from her trousers, her gaze lingering on Morgan’s sauce-smudged chin. "So tomorrow I’ve got back-to-back meetings downstairs," she said softly, the words slicing through the cozy quiet. "Supply chain disruptions in the Singapore plant, then ethics committee review for the new prosthetics line."

Peter instantly straightened, pizza crust forgotten. "I should be there," he insisted, eyes darting toward the elevator bank as if Kraven might materialize between floors. "Those lower levels—they’re vulnerable access points. I can blend in, keep watch—"

"Peter," Pepper interrupted, her voice firm but gentle. She placed a hand on his forearm, grounding him. "Your watch is right here." She nodded toward Morgan, who was meticulously arranging pepperoni slices into a smiley face on her pizza. "Morgan needs Spider-Man tomorrow. Her Spider-Man. The one who builds forts and knows Queens-style folding." She squeezed his arm lightly. "The boardroom has FRIDAY and redundant security protocols. Morgan has you."

Peter's jaw tightened, gaze flickering between Pepper's calm certainty and Morgan's oblivious contentment. He glanced at the discarded pizza box, grease staining the cardboard like inkblots. "Then... let Matt do it." The words tumbled out, impulsive but solid. "Matt Murdock. He's on retainer for SI, right? Let him shadow those meetings downstairs. He sees things others miss."

Pepper blinked, wiping sauce from Morgan's chin with a napkin. "Matt? The blind lawyer from Hell's Kitchen?" Her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "Peter, he's brilliant with contracts, but protecting me from industrial espionage? Or worse?" She gave a soft, dismissive shake of her head. "What could he possibly do against armed intruders? Sense their footsteps?"

Peter stared at her, the half-eaten slice of pizza suddenly heavy in his hand. The air inside the fort felt thick. "You... you didn't know?" The realization slammed into him, cold and sharp. Pepper had hired Matt Murdock as Stark Industries' counsel during the chaotic fallout after Mysterio framed Spider-Man. She’d navigated lawsuits, PR nightmares, and government hearings with Matt’s help—all without knowing the man navigating the legal labyrinth was also navigating rooftops in devil-red armor. "Pepper," Peter said slowly, his voice low and urgent, "Matt Murdock is Daredevil."

Pepper froze mid-motion, the napkin hovering near Morgan’s chin. Her eyes widened fractionally, the practiced calm of Stark Industries' CEO momentarily cracking. "Daredevil?" she echoed, disbelief warring with dawning comprehension. The pieces clicked audibly: Matt's uncanny insights into witness micro-expressions he couldn't possibly see, his unnerving awareness of physical spaces, the quiet intensity Pepper had chalked up to legal brilliance. "He... he represented us before the Senate subcommittee on enhanced individuals," she breathed, recalling Matt navigating the hearing room blindfolded by his own senses. "And he never disclosed..."

"He couldn’t," Peter interjected softly, mindful of Morgan humming beside him as she sculpted pepperoni mountains. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Matt’s my friend—family, really. He helped me when... when everything fell apart." Peter’s gaze flickered toward Morgan, then back to Pepper’s stunned expression. "He wouldn’t mind helping. He knows what’s at stake."

He saw Pepper’s lips part, ready to protest the necessity of such protection, the implication that her own security wasn’t enough. Before she could speak, Peter’s hand shot out, fingers wrapping gently but firmly around her forearm. His touch was urgent, grounding. He squeezed once, conveying the raw, unspoken fear he refused to let Morgan glimpse—the image of Kraven slipping past sensors, of Pepper alone in an elevator shaft. Silently, his eyes locked on Pepper’s, he mouthed a single, desperate word: Please.

Pepper stared back, the warmth of Peter’s grip seeping through her silk sleeve. She saw the haunted shadow in his eyes—the ghost of Titan, of the Statue of Liberty, of May Parker’s apartment hallway. He wasn’t just asking for Matt Murdock; he was pleading for a shield she hadn’t realized he needed her to hold. Slowly, deliberately, she nodded.

"Okay," she breathed, the word barely audible. "Okay, Peter. I’ll call Matt." Relief washed over his face, stark and immediate. She held up a finger, her expression shifting to something stern, commanding. "On one condition." Her gaze swept pointedly from the half-assembled LEGO Quinjet Morgan had abandoned earlier, to the holographic security schematics still faintly glowing on Peter’s discarded StarkPad near the fort entrance. "You don’t go back to fortifying the tower tonight. You don’t rerun ventilation protocols or neurotoxin dispersal simulations. You actually try getting some sleep." She paused, letting the weight of the demand settle. "In a bed.”

The thought—whose bed?—flashed unbidden across Peter’s mind, sharp and electric. For a fractured second, the absurd luxury of Pepper’s guest suite dissolved into something dangerously intimate: tangled silk sheets, the cedar-citrus scent of her hair close against his pillow, the impossible warmth of her skin beneath his palm. He recoiled internally, shoving the image away like a live grenade. No. Absolutely not. This was Pepper—Tony’s wife, Morgan’s mother, his anchor in this storm. The sheer wrongness of it flooded him with scalding shame.

"Deal," he blurted out, voice rough. He pulled his hand back from her forearm abruptly, realizing only then how long it had lingered there, his thumb unconsciously tracing the fine weave of her blouse. He thrust the hand out awkwardly, palm open. "Sleep. In a bed. Got it."

Pepper’s gaze flickered from his outstretched hand to his flushed face, a flicker of something unreadable—surprise? Assessment?—crossing her features before vanishing behind her usual calm mask. She clasped his hand firmly. Her grip was cool, professional, the CEO sealing an agreement. Yet her hold didn't release immediately; it held for a fraction longer than necessary, her thumb pressing lightly against his knuckles. The brief pause stretched, thick with unspoken tension—his panic, her observation, the ghost of that forbidden image neither acknowledged. Then, smoothly, she released him. "Good," she said, her voice regaining its brisk efficiency. "Morgan needs you rested." She turned towards the fort’s entrance. "Come on, little miss. Bedtime."

Morgan groaned dramatically, abandoning her pepperoni sculpture. "But the fort!" she protested, scrambling out. "It’s our command center!"

Pepper scooped her up effortlessly, ignoring the grease stains transferring onto her silk blouse. "Command centers relocate," Pepper countered, carrying her towards the hallway. "Your bed has superior structural integrity." Morgan giggled, looping her arms around Pepper’s neck.

Over Pepper’s shoulder, Morgan’s sleepy eyes found Peter still nestled in the fort’s shadows. "Night Petey!" she called, her voice echoing slightly in the large kitchen.

Peter offered a tired wave, forcing a reassuring smile. "Night, Morgan. Sweet dreams." The two disappeared down the hall, leaving Peter alone amidst the fortress chaos. Silence descended, thick and watchful.

He shifted deeper into the cushion pile, pulling a cashmere throw firmly around his shoulders. Technically, Pepper had specified sleeping in a bed. She hadn't explicitly forbidden resting elsewhere. And guarding Morgan’s fort—her command center—felt vital. Morgan wasn't the only one who could rock a technicality.

xXx

The next morning, Pepper found them tangled in Morgan's narrow bed at dawn's first gray light. Peter lay rigidly on his back, one arm flung protectively over Morgan's sleeping form—her cheek pressed firmly against his ribs, drool darkening his faded NASA t-shirt. Pepper paused in the doorway, her breath catching. Morgan hadn't crawled into Peter's borrowed guest room; Peter had migrated here, guarding her fortress princess in her own domain. As Pepper stepped silently closer, Peter's left eye cracked open—a single, bleary brown iris tracking her movement without turning his head.

"You," Pepper whispered, her voice husky with sleep and something sharper—exasperation edged with reluctant understanding. She gestured at the cramped bed, Morgan snuggled into him. "This wasn't the deal."

Peter didn't move, except for that single, watchful eye. "Technically," he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion but laced with a hint of that Parker stubbornness, "you specified a bed. You didn't specify which bed." He shifted slightly, careful not to disturb Morgan. "Morgan had a nightmare. Kraven chasing her through the vents. She needed...proximity."

Pepper crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. The dawn light painted stripes across the rumpled sheets and Morgan's tangled hair. "Proximity," she echoed flatly. "And proximity required sharing her bed?" Her gaze swept over him—the rigid posture, the dark circles under his visible eye, the protective curve of his arm. "You look like you wrestled a bear all night."

"More like a miniature octopus," Peter mumbled, the ghost of a smile touching his lips as Morgan shifted, digging an elbow into his side. "She's surprisingly strong." He finally turned his head fully, meeting Pepper's gaze. The exhaustion was etched deep, but beneath it was a fierce clarity. "She screamed, Pepper. Real terror. Not just a bad dream—she knew Kraven’s name." His jaw tightened. "FRIDAY confirmed elevated cortisol and adrenaline spikes at 3:17 AM. It wasn't just a nightmare. It felt... targeted."

Pepper’s breath caught, the CEO’s calm momentarily fracturing. "Targeted?" she echoed, stepping fully into the room. The implications were chilling—Kraven influencing dreams? Some psychic component? Her hand instinctively reached out, brushing Morgan’s sleep-tousled hair. "How?"

Peter carefully extracted himself from Morgan's octopus grip, sliding off the bed without waking her. He stood facing Pepper in the dim room, tension radiating off him like heat shimmer. "I don't know," he admitted, voice low and urgent. "But Kraven hunts prey. He studies them. Finds weaknesses. Uses fear. If he knows Morgan’s my... she’s important to me..." He trailed off, the unspoken horror hanging heavy between them – Kraven weaponizing a child’s nightmares. "FRIDAY," Peter continued, his gaze locked on Pepper’s, "run a deep spectral analysis on Morgan’s REM cycle brainwaves from last night. Check for any anomalous frequencies or embedded subliminal patterns. Compare it against known psychic signatures or neuro-disruptive tech." He paused, a flicker of grim determination hardening his features. "And isolate the Tower’s entire network. Physically sever external comms. Right now."

Pepper watched FRIDAY’s interface lights flicker rapidly across the room’s panels as the AI processed Peter’s intense commands. Silence stretched, thick and expectant, broken only by Morgan’s soft breathing. After a tense minute, FRIDAY’s calm voice broke the quiet. "Analysis complete, Peter. Morgan Stark’s neurological readings during the REM event designated ‘Nightmare 0317’ show no anomalous frequencies, psychic signatures, or traces of external neuro-disruptive technology. All readings fall within established healthy parameters for her age group. The elevated cortisol and adrenaline correlate precisely with documented physiological responses to intense fear stimuli during vivid dreaming." The AI paused. "External communications remain intact per standard security protocols."

Peter deflated, his shoulders slumping as FRIDAY’s clinical verdict echoed in Morgan’s quiet bedroom. He scrubbed a hand over his face, the rasp of stubble loud against the stillness. "But the spike... she knew Kraven’s name..."

FRIDAY's calm voice filled the room, clinical and final. "No anomalous frequencies detected, Peter. Morgan's neurological readings fall entirely within healthy parameters. Elevated cortisol and adrenaline correlate solely with intense dreaming stimuli. External communications remain secure." The silence after felt heavier than before.

Pepper stepped forward, her hand landing gently on Peter’s shoulder. Her touch was firm, anchoring. "Peter," she murmured, her voice low but steady. "Sometimes a bad dream is just a bad dream. Morgan hears us talk, she absorbs things... even things we don’t realize she’s absorbing." Her thumb brushed the worn cotton of his NASA t-shirt. "FRIDAY found nothing. No tech, no psychic interference. Just...fear."

Peter stared at the floor, his knuckles pressed hard against Morgan's quilt. FRIDAY's sterile analysis echoed in his skull—no anomalies, no interference, just fear. But Kraven didn't need tech to weaponize dread; he cultivated it like poison ivy. "It felt real," he insisted, the words scraping raw. "Targeted. Best not to take any chances. Kraven studies patterns, weaknesses..." He straightened abruptly, eyes snapping toward the hallway. "I need to rerun the ventilation filtration protocols. If he found a way to aerosolize something subtle, something FRIDAY wouldn't flag—"

Pepper’s grip tightened on Peter’s shoulder, halting his frantic pivot toward the door. "Peter Parker," she stated, her voice slicing through his rising panic with CEO precision. "You so much as lift a tablet to go over security protocols and I'm calling Mr. Murdock to let him know we no longer require his services."

Peter froze, confusion warring with disbelief. "You wouldn't," he breathed, glancing back at Morgan’s peaceful form.

Pepper’s grip didn’t loosen. Her eyes, sharp and unwavering, locked onto his. "Try me," she stated, the words crisp as breaking glass. "One security simulation, Peter. One rerun. And Matt Murdock gets a very apologetic severance package before breakfast. Your choice."

Peter stared at her, momentarily stunned by the sheer, terrifying effectiveness of the maneuver. The intensity in her gaze was almost palpable—a force field made of pure CEO resolve. A shaky, incredulous laugh escaped him. "Wow," he breathed, rubbing the back of his neck. "That glare... Seriously, Pepper, if Tony had patented that instead of the repulsor tech? Forget Iron Man suits. You could bring the scariest of villains to their knees with one look. Just... BOOM. Kneeling." He held her gaze for another heartbeat, the ghost of a grin flickering despite the lingering tension. Then, his shoulders finally slumped in surrender. "Alright, alright! Point taken. No protocols."

He glanced at Morgan, still peacefully asleep, then back at Pepper. The frantic energy coiled inside him needed an outlet—something useful, something *normal*. "Right," he said, the word decisive. He slipped past Pepper into the hallway, his movements suddenly purposeful. "I should go get started on part of Matt's perk package anyways." He flashed a quick, genuine smile over his shoulder. "My signature breakfast burritos. They're kind of legendary. Gotta prep the fillings—scrambled eggs, crispy potatoes, chorizo... Maybe some roasted peppers? Oh and my secret sauce." He was already heading towards the kitchen, the rhythm of familiar tasks pulling him back from the edge. "Matt likes them extra spicy. Like, 'regret it later' spicy."

Pepper followed him down the hallway, leaning against the kitchen island as Peter efficiently pulled ingredients from the fridge and pantry. He cracked eggs into a bowl with practiced ease, whisking furiously. "Want me to make you one?" he offered, nodding towards the growing pile of ingredients. "They're pretty good. Not Matt-level napalm, obviously." He grinned, a flicker of the old Queens kid surfacing. "More... sophisticated."

"How could I possibly turn them down with hype like that?" Pepper teased, her eyes sparkling with amusement. She watched him dice potatoes with startling speed. "And I like a little spice too," she added casually, reaching for a coffee pod. "Life's bland without some heat." She slid the pod into the machine, entirely unaware of how her words—spoken with pure culinary innocence—could land.

Peter froze mid-chop, the knife hovering over the potatoes. A flush crept up his neck. Life's bland without some heat? His traitorous brain instantly replayed that forbidden image from the fort—silken sheets, the cedar-citrus scent close, the warmth. He shook his head violently, focusing hard on the potato skins. "Right! Heat. Spice. Got it," he stammered, his voice cracking slightly. He attacked the potatoes with renewed, slightly frantic energy. "Extra jalapeños coming right up! For you. Definitely just for the burritos."

Pepper, blissfully oblivious, poured her coffee. She leaned against the counter, watching his flurry of activity with amused curiosity. "You know," she mused, taking a slow sip, "Tony used to get that same intense focus when he was avoiding something. Usually paperwork." Her gaze drifted to the pile of perfectly diced potatoes, then back to Peter’s rigid shoulders. "Anything you want to talk about, Peter? Besides Kraven protocols?"

Her bringing up Tony was like stepping into a cold shower, dousing all traitorous thoughts and feelings. The phantom warmth vanished instantly, replaced by a sharp pang of guilt and the familiar ache of loss. Peter’s frantic chopping slowed, his knuckles whitening on the knife handle. "Nope," he managed, forcing lightness into his tone. He focused intently on a stubborn potato chunk. "Just... breakfast. Important fuel." He risked a glance at her. The casual mention of Tony, the effortless comparison, anchored him firmly back in reality—Morgan’s protector, Pepper’s responsibility, Tony’s legacy. Anything else was impossible noise.

xXx

Later that morning, Pepper Potts strode through Floor 22 – Global Operations & Corporate Strategy – a whirlwind of focused energy in impeccably tailored navy silk. Her voice, crisp and commanding, sliced through the low hum of pre-meeting chatter. "Jefferson, finalize the Singapore logistics reroute projections by 11 AM. Chen, coordinate the emergency supplier briefing in Jakarta – ensure they understand the non-negotiable quality specs. Patel, get Legal on standby for potential breach clauses." Her team scattered like well-trained particles, absorbing instructions with sharp nods. The air crackled less with panic, more with the efficient hum of a complex machine responding to a skilled operator.

She paused outside the sleek glass doors of the main conference suite, her gaze landing on the figure leaning casually against the wall. Matt Murdock stood impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, his dark glasses reflecting the sterile hallway lights. He held a StarkPad loosely in one hand, fingers tracing invisible patterns on the screen – FRIDAY feeding him accessible data streams. Pepper approached, a flicker of genuine apology softening her CEO facade. "Mr. Murdock," she began, her voice lowering slightly. "I owe you an apology. Peter... well, he means well. He's protective to a fault. Dragging you into babysitting duties wasn't exactly in the job description."

Matt tilted his head slightly, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips. "Protective instincts are understandable, Ms. Potts," he replied smoothly. His voice held no reproach, only calm assessment. "Especially given the circumstances. And Peter’s breakfast burritos were a compelling argument. Though 'napalm' might have undersold the heat." He shifted his stance, a subtle indication of readiness. "Consider me adequately briefed on Singapore's polymer extrusion bottlenecks and prepped for any... unexpected deviations from the agenda."

Pepper offered a small, appreciative smile. "Deviations hopefully confined to supply chain inefficiencies," she said dryly, her hand resting on the conference room door handle. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, the weight of Peter’s revelation about Daredevil still settling. "Thank you, Matt. Truly." Then, the CEO mask slid firmly back into place. She pushed the door open, stepping into the room where holographic displays of shipping lanes and factory schematics already shimmered in the air. "Alright, people. Let's untangle Singapore." Her voice, sharp and decisive, filled the space, leaving the quiet hallway and the blind lawyer guarding the threshold behind.

xXx

Polished glass, green walls, and the hum of unseen power rose around Dr. Elias Wirtham—the name sat lightly on his tongue, tasting of civility and borrowed authority. Every mirrored panel in the Stark Tower reflected the same calm, middle-aged man with patient eyes and academic stillness. Beneath the surface shimmer of the photostatic veil, Kraven felt his own pulse keeping time with the tower’s mechanical heartbeat.

He passed the last layer of scrutiny with the grace of a man used to being obeyed. The guards offered polite nods; FRIDAY’s soft voice confirmed credentials. Each motion, each exchange, was theater, and he knew his part down to the breath. The elevator doors closed behind him, sealing out the city’s noise. In the mirrored walls, his false reflection smiled—mild, professional, forgettable. Perfect camouflage.

As the car rose toward the nineteenth floor, the mask cooled against his skin, a second face whispering against the hunter beneath. He flexed his hands once, feeling strength coiled and patient. When the doors parted and the faint hum of the prosthetics lab drifted in, Kraven let the calm, courteous expression settle fully into place.

He inhaled deeply as he stepped onto the polished floor—not the sterile tang of disinfectant or ozone, but something else threading the air currents: a sharp, distinct pheromonal signature beneath the ambient smells. It registered instantly—adrenaline residue, synthetic polymer fibers, and the unmistakable metallic tang of synthetic spider-silk particulates. Peter Parker. The boy was here. Close. Not just lingering but actively moving inside the building. Kraven’s pulse quickened, a predator’s thrill humming beneath his borrowed skin. "Dr. Wirtham?" a lab assistant inquired, stepping forward with a tablet. Kraven smiled mildly, already calculating ventilation shafts and structural weak points. "Ah, yes. Lead the way," he murmured, his senses mapping the spider’s invisible trail through the tower’s steel bones.

Soon he'd have his prey.

To Be Continued….

Chapter Text

Chapter Five: Predator in the Tower

The 89th floor still sounded the same. The low hum of Tony’s lab equipment, the faint ozone tang in the air, the quiet click of cooling metal — nothing had changed. The workstations gleamed under soft white light, surfaces still cluttered with prototypes and tools no one quite had the heart to move.

Peter sat beside Morgan at one of the long glass desks where Tony had once sketched armor schematics and new reactor models. The holographic interface bathed them both in a cool blue glow. A StarkPad hovered between them, lines of code drifting across its surface like tiny constellations.

“Okay, Mo,” Peter said, tapping a line of text, “see this part? That tells FRIDAY which painting we want. Like… magic words for pictures.”

Morgan tilted her head, her brow creased in fierce concentration. “Like ‘Van Go-go Flowers’?” she asked, completely serious.

Peter’s mouth twitched into a grin. “Exactly like that.”

He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Ready? Three… two… one…”

“Go!” Morgan shouted, slapping the run icon with both hands.

The nearest projector stirred to life — a quiet mechanical sigh that rose into light. Across the workstation, color bloomed into existence: yellows, blues, and earthy greens spiraling outward until Van Gogh’s Sunflowers stood luminous before them. The holographic paint shimmered with movement, petals trembling as though a real breeze whispered through the lab.

Morgan gasped. “Petey! It’s real!”

Peter laughed, a bright sound that filled the space. “FRIDAY, enhance textural resolution on the petals. Let’s make ’em a little fuzzy.”

“On it, Peter,” FRIDAY replied.

The projected flowers deepened, brushstrokes thickening into near-tangible ridges. Morgan reached forward, fingers passing through gold and cobalt light. “It tickles!” she giggled.

Peter smiled, watching her eyes widen with awe — the same kind of wonder Tony used to chase in every invention. For once, the room didn’t feel heavy or haunted. The hum of the machines, the lingering smell of metal and oil — they weren’t ghosts tonight. They were alive, like the lab was breathing again through her laughter.

The holographic sunflowers swayed gently in their invisible breeze, casting ripples of gold across steel and glass. And for the first time, Tony Stark’s lab didn’t feel like a shrine — it felt like home.

Peter leaned closer to Morgan, his reflection shimmering in the polished surface of the workstation. "Okay, Mo," he whispered conspiratorially, pointing at the floating masterpiece. "Phase Two. We gotta shrink it." Morgan scrunched her nose, confused. Peter grinned. "Right now, it's big and floaty, like magic filling the whole room. But your mom’s office? She needs something... smaller. Tidier." He tapped the StarkPad, bringing up a schematic of a sleek, silver picture frame Pepper kept on her desk — the one holding a photo of her and Morgan building sandcastles. "We gotta make the paintings live *inside* a frame that matches this one. Like whatever she asks for gets painted right on the glass."

Morgan bounced on her stool. "So it's like... a magic frame? For Mommy?"

"Exactly!" Peter grinned, tapping the StarkPad. "FRIDAY, replicate Pepper's desktop frame with same look and dimensions exactly—but integrate our holo-projectors and micro-sensors. Full environmental scanning for seamless integration." Lines of code cascaded across the screen as a fabrication unit whirred to life in the corner. "We'll make it look identical," he explained to Morgan, "but inside? Pure Stark-level magic."

xXx

Dr. Elias Wirtham offered a polite, apologetic smile as the lab assistant pointed toward the prototype neural interface glove. "Fascinating," he murmured, his borrowed voice mild and deferential. "But if you'll excuse me for just a moment? A pressing biological necessity." He gestured vaguely down the hallway. The assistant nodded sympathetically. Kraven moved with unhurried academic grace, his footsteps echoing softly on the polished floor until he turned the corner toward the restrooms.

Inside the sterile, utilitarian restroom, silence pressed down. Kraven locked the door. Here, FRIDAY's pervasive sensors were deliberately muted—a Stark Industries privacy protocol. Beneath the utilitarian gray janitor's cart parked against the wall, Kraven peeled back a corner of advanced cloaking fabric. The material shimmered faintly, absorbing ambient light signatures.

Hidden beneath it lay his tools: a compact, collapsible spear with vibranium-tipped points, ceramic throwing knives coated in a neurotoxin distillate, and a wrist-mounted sonic emitter disguised as a chronometer. FRIDAY’s scans, calibrated for weapons signatures in high-traffic zones, wouldn’t register them here. Not until they were in his hands, activated, and already in motion.

xXx

The nineteenth floor conference suite gleamed like a surgical theater—frosted glass, brushed steel, and holo-displays cycling through dense supply chain schematics. Pepper paused just inside the doorframe, Matt Murdock’s presence a calm anchor beside her.

"This," she stated, her voice low but carrying across the hushed space, "is where Tony learned the weight of his own ambition." She gestured toward the central table where shimmering projections of Stark Industries factories overlapped with shipping routes across the Pacific. "Every decision in this room echoes. Components sourced here," she tapped a glowing point in Malaysia, "affect assembly lines here," her finger moved to Detroit, "and eventually, products in someone’s home halfway around the world."

She met Matt’s impassive profile. "He hated these meetings. Called them ‘corporate root canals.’ But he sat through every one. Because he insisted on knowing *exactly* what his company put into the world." Her gaze sharpened. "He had a rule: ‘If you can’t sleep with what you built, don’t build it.’ Ethics weren’t abstract here. They were logistics. Materials. Labor conditions." She scanned the room, her expression unreadable. "This is where we ensure the things we make don’t become nightmares for someone else."

Matt tilted his head slightly, absorbing the hum of servers beneath the floor, the faint electrical signatures of the displays. "A tangible philosophy," he observed quietly. "Pressure-testing ideals against supply chains and profit margins." He paused. "Easier to sleep when the consequences are mapped, not ignored."

Pepper gave a tight nod. "Exactly. Ignorance was Tony’s original sin. This room was his penance." She moved toward the head of the table, her posture shifting seamlessly into CEO command. "Alright," she announced, her voice crisp, slicing through the ambient tension. "Let’s audit Singapore’s polymer extrusion. Patel, walk us through the revised environmental impact assessment first. Deviations flagged in red."

xXx

Dr. Elias Wirtham lingered near the restroom’s ventilation grate, his borrowed face a mask of academic detachment. His fingers traced the cold metal edge. Below the janitorial cart’s cloaking field, his hunter’s senses mapped the airflow patterns—a subtle, persistent draft whispering upward into the tower’s arterial ductwork. Perfect. Kraven retrieved a palm-sized dispersal unit from beneath the fabric, its ceramic shell indistinguishable from benign lab equipment. He primed it silently, loading a vial of odorless, aerosolized sedative derived from Amazonian tree frog secretions.

Designed to induce rapid, deep unconsciousness without physiological distress. Untraceable. Effective. He secured the unit inside the duct, angled precisely to diffuse downward through the nineteenth floor’s conference suite ventilation. FRIDAY’s environmental monitors would register only a minor, transient particulate fluctuation—well within acceptable parameters. By the time Pepper Potts and her team registered the faint, citrus-like tang, it would be too late.

xXx

In the conference suite, Patel gestured toward a holographic projection of Singapore’s polymer extrusion plant. "Revised emissions show a seventeen percent reduction in volatile organics," he stated.

 Pepper nodded, her focus absolute. Matt Murdock stood near the door, head tilted. His fingers brushed the edge of his cufflink—a subtle sensor node relaying atmospheric data to FRIDAY. "Mr. Murdock," FRIDAY’s voice murmured through his earpiece alone, "detecting anomalous airborne compound. Origin: ventilation subsystem B7. Composition: bio-sedative. Concentration rising."

Matt’s posture shifted imperceptibly. "Evacuate," he stated, low and urgent.

Pepper’s gaze snapped to him, confusion warring with instinct. "What—"

The lights flickered. A low thrum vibrated through the floor plates. From the ceiling vents, a fine, shimmering mist began to descend—odorless except for the sharp, clean scent of yuzu peel. Patel coughed, swaying. Two analysts slumped forward onto the table. Pepper’s eyes widened as dizziness washed over her. She gripped the steel table edge. "FRIDAY! Seal—" Her command slurred.

Matt moved faster than sight, shattering the nearest window with a single, brutal kick from his reinforced cane. Cold city air roared into the room, scattering holograms like frightened birds. He grabbed Pepper’s arm, hauling her toward the jagged opening as the mist thickened. "Don’t breathe!" he barked.

Outside the shattered window, the wind tore at Pepper’s silk blouse. She gasped, clinging to Matt’s arm, her vision swimming. Below, Manhattan sprawled like a circuit board. "Kraven," she whispered, the name a curse.

Matt angled his face into the gale, listening past the wind’s roar. "Looks like it," he agreed grimly. From the ventilation shaft above the conference room, a figure dropped—silent, predatory, landing in a crouch amidst the swirling mist. Dr. Elias Wirtham straightened, peeling off the photostatic veil with deliberate slowness. Kraven’s true face emerged, fierce and triumphant. He ignored the unconscious forms scattered around him, his hunter’s gaze fixed solely on Matt and Pepper framed against the broken glass.

"You hide it well but the truth carried on the air." His eyes locked onto Pepper, predatory intensity sharpening. "I smell him on you, Ms. Potts. The Spider’s scent clings—synthetic polymers, adrenaline residue, the faint musk of his unnatural strength." Kraven’s smile widened, devoid of warmth. "Call for him. Scream his name to your AI. Bring him running to save you. It will be cleaner. Kinder." He took a deliberate step forward over the slumped bodies. "Otherwise, I peel the blind man apart slowly to draw him out. Your choice."

Pepper swayed slightly against Matt’s arm, the sedative’s tendrils curling through her veins. She blinked slowly, deliberately, letting her gaze unfocus as she slumped heavier against Daredevil’s shoulder. "Spider?" she mumbled, her voice thick and slurred, like syrup poured over gravel. She blinked again, slow and heavy-lidded. "I don't like spiders."

Kraven’s predatory smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of irritation. "Do not waste my time with theatrics, woman," he growled, taking another step closer. "The Spider boy. Peter Parker. He hides within these walls like a frightened insect." He gestured sharply toward the ceiling vents. "His scent is everywhere."

Pepper tilted her head, feigning bleary confusion. "Peter?" she echoed, her voice trailing off into a weak cough. "Morgan’s... science tutor?" She offered Kraven a vague, unfocused smile. "Nice boy. Always so polite." She let her eyes flutter shut momentarily, leaning more of her weight onto Matt, who remained rigidly alert, his senses locked onto Kraven’s every micro-shift in posture and scent.

Behind the facade of drug-induced stupor, Pepper’s mind raced. FRIDAY’s silent alert pulsed in her StarkWatch: Sedative neutralization protocol activated. Counteragent dispersing. The faint citrus scent was already fading. She just needed seconds. Kraven snarled, abandoning subtlety. "Enough!" He lunged, not at Matt, but directly for Pepper’s throat – a calculated move to provoke the Spider’s intervention.

Matt moved instantly, pivoting Pepper behind him with one arm while his cane snapped upward like a steel whip, intercepting Kraven’s wrist with a crack that echoed in the fractured room. Kraven recoiled, snarling in genuine surprise at the blind man’s impossible speed and precision. "You?" he hissed, reassessing his prey. Pepper used the momentary distraction, stumbling backward toward the shattered window ledge, her hand subtly activating the emergency beacon on her watch – not for Peter, but for FRIDAY’s lockdown protocol. The tower’s hidden defenses began to hum awake.

xXx

FRIDAY's voice sliced through the sunflower hologram's golden glow. "Peter, Priority Alpha breach detected. Kraven compromised nineteenth-floor ventilation. Hostile engagement in progress. Ms. Potts and Mr. Murdock are under direct threat."

The playful grin vanished from Peter’s face, replaced by instant, laser-focused intensity. He snatched his web-shooters from the workstation, snapping them onto his wrists with practiced speed. "Morgan, stay here. FRIDAY, lock down this lab—maximum isolation protocols." He was already striding toward the exit, the air crackling with sudden urgency.

Happy Hogan burst through the lab doors, his face pale. "Kid! Stop! Pepper’s orders—you don’t leave this room! She was adamant!" He moved to block Peter’s path, arms outstretched.

Peter didn’t slow. "Can’t, Happy. Kraven’s there." His voice held no room for argument. In one fluid motion, Peter sidestepped Happy’s grasp, his fingers flying across the keypad beside the heavy blast doors. "Protocol Kappa-Nine, FRIDAY. Seal it. Now." Hydraulic locks slammed down with a resonant thunk, sealing Happy and Morgan safely inside the fortified lab. Peter’s gaze met Happy’s stunned expression through the thick glass viewport for a split second—apology and fierce determination mingling—before he turned and sprinted down the corridor, web-shooters primed, heading straight for the nearest service shaft leading to the nineteenth floor.

xXx

Matt Murdock absorbed Kraven’s taunt—the scent of the hunter’s aggression sharpening—as Pepper stumbled back toward the shattered window. Kraven lunged again, a blur of predatory fury aimed at Matt’s throat. Matt’s cane met the attack mid-air, the reinforced steel clashing against Kraven’s vibranium-tipped knuckle-duster with a shower of sparks. The impact reverberated up Matt’s arm, a brutal confirmation of Kraven’s enhanced strength. "You fight well for a blind man," Kraven snarled, twisting his wrist to lock Matt’s cane. "But your senses cannot save you from this."

His free hand flicked toward his belt, releasing a cloud of powdered irritant—ground ghost pepper and synthetic capsaicin designed to overwhelm even enhanced olfactory nerves. Matt recoiled, coughing violently as his world dissolved into searing, blinding agony. Kraven seized the opening, driving a knee into Matt’s ribs. The crack of breaking bone echoed sharply. Matt crumpled, gasping, his cane clattering away across the polished floor. Kraven planted a boot on his chest, pinning him down. "Stay down, lawyer," he growled. "The Spider comes for her."

Pepper watched, frozen for a heartbeat as Matt went still beneath Kraven’s boot. Her fingers tightened around the shard of reinforced window glass she’d palmed when stumbling backward—cold, jagged, and lethally sharp. Kraven turned toward her, his hunter’s grin widening. "Now, Ms. Potts," he purred, stepping on and over Matt’s prone form. "Shall we—"

Pepper didn’t let him finish. She lunged, not away, but toward him, driving the glass shard upward with all her strength. It wasn’t aimed at his heart or throat—but at the exposed junction where his tactical vest met his neck. The shard bit deep into muscle and tendon above Kraven’s collarbone then threw an elbow into his nose. He roared, more in surprise than pain, backhanding her with terrifying force. Pepper flew backward, crashing into a holographic projector unit. Sparks erupted around her as she slid to the floor, dazed but defiant, blood welling from her split lip. Kraven wrenched the glass from his shoulder, tossing it aside with a snarl. "A commendable effort," he spat, advancing again. "But futile."

Peter didn’t swing through the hole—he cannonballed through it. No suit, just faded jeans, a science pun t-shirt, and web-shooters gleaming on his wrists. The wind whipped his hair flat as he sailed past Pepper’s crumpled form and Matt’s unconscious body. Kraven pivoted, his hunter’s instincts snapping toward the sudden movement. Peter fired mid-air. Twin strands of webbing shot out—not aimed at Kraven’s face or chest, but at the heavy steel legs of the central conference table Kraven stood beside.

The impact jerked the table sideways like a colossal shield, slamming into Kraven’s flank. The hunter staggered, momentarily pinned against the wall by the unexpected weight. Peter landed in a crouch beside Matt, eyes scanning the room—Pepper bleeding, Matt unmoving, Kraven trapped but furious. "Pepper!" Peter’s voice cracked. "Talk to me!"

Pepper shoved herself upright, ignoring the sting in her lip. "Are you out of your mind!?" she hissed, scrambling toward him. Her voice was raw, furious, not fearful. "What part of ‘stay in the lab’ sounded negotiable? Kraven wanted you down here!" She gestured wildly at the shattered room. "He baited you!"

Peter ripped a strip of webbing from his shooter, slapping it over Matt’s bleeding ribs to stabilize him. "Yeah, well, bait worked!" He spared her a frantic glance, his eyes wide. "He was gonna peel Matt apart to get me! What was I supposed to do, watch FRIDAY’s feed?"

Pepper shoved a fallen chair aside, grabbing a heavy-duty tablet from the debris. "Yes!" she snapped, her voice sharp despite the tremor in her hands. She activated FRIDAY’s emergency protocols. "Exactly that! You handed him exactly what he wanted—you!" Overhead lights flickered crimson as security shields slammed down over the shattered window. Kraven roared, shoving the pinned conference table sideways with terrifying strength. Polyfoams spilled from its cracked core like synthetic guts.

Peter dodged Kraven’s sweeping vibranium spear tip, the weapon humming as it sliced air where his head had been. "Got me?" Peter shot back, firing webs at Kraven’s ankles to trip him. The hunter merely kicked, snapping the strands like cheap string. "Buddy, you wished for Spider-Man!" Peter flipped backwards onto the ceiling, clinging upside-down. "Careful what you wish for!" He dropped like a stone, aiming a devastating kick at Kraven’s wounded shoulder. Kraven caught Peter’s ankle mid-air—a grip like hydraulic steel—and slammed him into the floor. Tiles cratered beneath the impact.

Pepper knelt beside Matt, fingers pressing urgently against his pulse point. "Matt? Wake up!" she commanded, ignoring the chaos erupting behind her. His eyelids fluttered weakly. Kraven, pinning Peter with one boot, snatched a barbed dart from his belt. He saw Pepper—distracted, vulnerable—and hurled it. The dart hissed through the air, tip glinting with paralytic venom. Matt’s eyes snapped open. Pure instinct drove his arm upward, the reinforced cuff of his jacket intercepting the dart inches from Pepper’s neck. It clattered harmlessly to the floor. Matt rolled sideways with a pained groan, clutching his ribs. "Still here," he rasped, pushing himself upright. "Takes more than... cheap spices to finish me."

Kraven’s boot crushed Peter’s chest, driving the air from his lungs. The hunter leaned down, his breath hot against Peter’s face. "You see?" Kraven sneered, gesturing toward Pepper frantically trying to drag Matt away. "Your weakness writhes on the floor." His boot pressed harder, grinding Peter into the fractured tile. "Your protector bleeds. Your queen scrambles. And you?" Kraven’s grin was savage. "You lie broken beneath my heel. All three of you already dead and you don’t know it."

Something primal snapped inside Peter. Not anger—something colder, sharper. The weight pinning him vanished. Kraven staggered back, clutching his shattered ankle, a roar of disbelief tearing from his throat. Peter was already moving, a blur of raw power. His next punch—aimed not to incapacitate, but to destroy—crashed toward Kraven’s throat. Kraven twisted desperately, deflecting the blow onto his collarbone instead. The crack echoed like gunfire. Kraven crumpled, gasping, his left arm hanging useless.

Peter stood frozen, fist still clenched, breathing ragged. He looked down at his own hand, then at Kraven's crumpled form, the echo of that bone-shattering impact vibrating up his arm. A wave of nausea washed over him – not from the violence, but from the terrifying realization of what his unleashed fury could truly do. Matt lowered his cane slowly, his senses confirming the severity of the injury. Pepper stared at Peter, her expression a complex mix of relief, profound gratitude, and deep, unsettling concern. The hunter was down, but the cost hung heavy in the air.

Matt moved with unnerving quietness. He didn't speak to Kraven or Pepper. His focus was entirely on Peter. He stepped close, invading Peter's personal space, his unseeing eyes seeming to bore into the younger hero's soul. "That sound," Matt stated, his voice low, cold, and devoid of judgment, yet cutting deeper than any blade. "The bone breaking. You didn't just stop him, Parker. You wanted to break him." Peter flinched violently, opening his mouth to protest, but Matt cut him off sharply. "Don't lie. Not to me. I heard it. The rage. The release. It felt good, didn't it? For a split second, making him pay felt right." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "That's the precipice. That feeling? That's where the darkness starts. One step over that line, and you become far worse than Kraven ever was."

Peter staggered back a step, Matt's brutal honesty hitting him like a physical blow. The raw truth stripped away his denial. He had felt that surge of savage satisfaction when his fist connected, the desperate need to make Kraven hurt for threatening Pepper. He looked at his trembling hand again, then at Kraven's agonized face. The nausea returned, stronger this time, mixed with a profound shame. Matt didn't relent.

"Kraven hunts. He kills. He's a predator. But you? You have the power to be a goddamn force of nature. And right now?" Matt gestured sharply towards the immobilized hunter. "You're letting him dictate what kind of force you become. Anger is fuel, Parker. But let it drive the car, and you'll crash and burn everyone around you." His words hung, stark and terrifying, forcing Peter to confront the terrifying potential coiled within his own grief and rage.

Pepper stepped forward, placing a firm, grounding hand on Peter's shoulder. Her touch was steady, anchoring him against the storm Matt had unleashed. "He's right, Peter," she said softly, her gaze flicking between him and Matt, acknowledging the harsh lesson. "But you stopped. You didn't cross that line." She squeezed his shoulder. "Remember that."

Kraven groaned, drawing their attention back. His eyes, glazed with pain, held a flicker of unexpected understanding. He'd seen the beast within the spider unleashed, and witnessed the fierce, immediate struggle to cage it again. The hunt had changed irrevocably.

Pain radiated from his shattered collarbone and ankle, but his eyes, sharp and unnervingly lucid, tracked Pepper as she stood protectively near Peter. A low, guttural chuckle escaped his lips, thick with agony and dark amusement. "You cage me, Potts," he rasped, each word labored. "But the shadows closing in? They belong to ghosts you buried long ago."

Pepper froze, her spine rigid. "Who hired you?" Her voice was ice, cutting through the stale stairwell air. "Who wants my daughter?"

Kraven's gaze locked onto hers, a predator savoring the kill even in defeat. "Not a who, a what. A trinity of terror," he hissed, a cruel smile twisting his features. "The fool who danced in Stark's shadow, craving scraps, now fortified with Obadiah's ruthlessness and the fire of Killian." He coughed, a wet, painful sound. "They don't want your tower, Potts. They want to salt the earth where Stark's legacy grew."

Pepper recoiled as if struck. Hammer's pathetic scheming, Stane's lingering poison, Killian's Extremis-fueled madness – names Kraven deliberately withheld, yet each descriptor landed like a hammer blow. Faces she'd consigned to nightmares flooded back: Justin's desperate envy, the cold fury in Obadiah's eyes, Aldrich's fanatical obsession. Her hand flew to her chest, fingers curling into the fabric of her blouse as the horrifying implication sank in. This wasn't just an attack; it was a resurrection of every venomous grudge Stark Industries had ever spawned.

Peter watched Pepper's usually unshakeable composure fracture. The color drained from her face, her eyes wide with a raw terror he'd never seen before. His own fear for Morgan spiked violently, but seeing her rattled ignited a different instinct. He stepped forward, deliberately inserting himself between Pepper and Kraven's leering gaze. "Okay, wow," Peter quipped, his voice deliberately light, a shield against the chilling revelation. "Trinity of Terror? Sounds like a really bad metal band name. Did they come up with that themselves, or did you help workshop it?"

Kraven choked on a bitter laugh, pain twisting his features. "Mockery suits you, Spider," he spat. "Enjoy it while you can." He slumped back against the wall, his breathing ragged. Matt Murdock, leaning heavily on his recovered cane, shifted his weight. The subtle scrape of metal on tile drew Peter's attention. Matt's head tilted fractionally toward Peter, then toward Pepper, a silent communication Peter understood instantly. Kraven was contained, physically broken and no longer an immediate threat. The real danger was the war going on in Pepper’s head.

Peter kept his eyes locked on Kraven’s crumpled form, the hunter’s ragged breaths filling the silence. "Matt," he said, his voice stripped of panic, unnervingly calm. "Can you handle containment from here?"

Matt Murdock nodded sharply, his cane tapping Kraven's immobilized thigh. "Go," he rasped, his senses already mapping the hunter's shallow breaths and the tower's shifting security signatures. "This carcass won't crawl far."

Peter didn't hesitate. He turned to Pepper, his expression shifting from battle-focus to a startlingly cool determination. "Pepper," he said, his voice devoid of its usual frantic energy. He extended his hand, palm up, not a request but a command forged in the aftermath of violence. "Let’s go check on Morgan." The single statement held the weight of everything Kraven had threatened.

Pepper stared at his outstretched hand for a fraction of a second, the lingering terror over Kraven’s revelation momentarily eclipsed by the raw practicality in Peter’s eyes. She placed her hand firmly in his. His grip was strong, grounding, pulling her away from the wreckage and the hunter’s poisonous words.

Peter didn't ask. He pivoted sharply, pulling her toward the elevator bank with urgent, purposeful strides. Pepper stumbled slightly, her focus narrowing to the taut lines of muscle shifting beneath the thin fabric of his shirt as he moved ahead of her. His shoulders were set, his back rigid with a fierce, protective determination she hadn’t seen since Tony faced Thanos. It wasn't frantic; it was cold, efficient, a direct current cutting through the chaos. He moved like a force channeled solely toward one objective: Morgan.

They reached the elevator doors. Peter slapped the call button, his gaze fixed straight ahead, unblinking. The doors slid open instantly. He guided her inside, his grip firm but careful, avoiding her bruised ribs. The sterile chrome interior felt suddenly claustrophobic. Pepper leaned against the cool wall, closing her eyes against the phantom scent of Kraven’s paralytic and the echo of Matt’s cane scraping tile. Peter opened his mouth, clearly about to command FRIDAY to take them directly to the lab level where Morgan was secured.

"Peter," Pepper interrupted, her voice strained but deliberate. She didn't open her eyes. "Stop." She took a deliberate breath, pushing away the horrifying image of Morgan threatened by Hammer's greed, Stane's malice, and Killian's fire. "Give me a minute." Her hand pressed against her sternum, willing her racing heart to slow. "Just… a minute."

Peter released her hand instantly. He didn't speak. Instead, he turned fully toward her, his gaze dropping methodically.

His eyes traced the thin line of dried blood cracking at the corner of her lip where Kraven’s backhand had landed. They flicked down to the darkening, plum-colored bruise blooming across her jawline, stark against her pale skin. Finally, his focus settled on her left palm, held loosely at her side. He saw the shallow, angry cuts crisscrossing her skin – the price paid for grabbing that shard of glass to defend herself. "Medbay?" he asked, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. It wasn't concern; it was a tactical assessment.

Pepper shook her head sharply, a gesture that made her wince as her bruised jaw protested. "No," she breathed, forcing the word out. "I just need a minute."

Peter watched her. Not the CEO who'd faced down corporate sharks and alien invasions. Not Morgan's fiercely protective mother. He saw the tremor in her fingers as she pressed them against her temples, the way her shoulders slumped under the weight of Kraven's venomous words. He saw the raw scrape on her palm, the bruise darkening like storm clouds on her jaw, the exhaustion etching lines around her eyes that makeup usually hid. This was Pepper Potts, rattled, hurting, and desperately trying to hold herself together after being attacked and facing a resurrected nightmare.

The elevator hummed, a sterile counterpoint to the ragged hitch in Pepper’s breathing. It started subtly – a tremor in her shoulders, a sharp, shallow gasp that didn’t seem to fill her lungs. Her eyes squeezed shut, knuckles white where her hand still pressed against her sternum. Then, the dam broke. Her breath hitched violently, turning into desperate, ragged gulps for air that weren't working. Her legs buckled, not collapsing, but folding beneath her as she slid down the chrome wall, a choked sob escaping her clenched teeth. "Hammer... Stane... Killian...Pete, I barely survived them the first time and now" she gasped between breaths, the names like shards of glass tearing at her throat. "Morgan... they want Morgan...".

Peter didn't hesitate. He dropped to a crouch before her, his movements precise and devoid of panic. "So what," he said, his voice low and steady, cutting through her gasps. "People in hell want ice water. Doesn't mean they get it." His hand closed firmly over hers where it pressed against her sternum, pulling it gently away. He placed her palm flat against the center of his own chest. "Feel that? Follow it." His breathing was deliberately slow and deep, the rhythm strong and unwavering beneath her trembling fingers. "In. Hold. Out. Like this."

Pepper’s ragged gasps faltered, her eyes locked on his face. The sheer, unexpected bluntness of his words – the ordinariness of the cliché delivered with such concrete certainty – acted like a bucket of cold water. Her focus narrowed to the solid thump of his heartbeat against her palm, a steady counterpoint to her own frantic hammering. She sucked in a shaky breath, trying to mimic his deliberate inhale, holding it for the count he silently projected through the pressure of his chest expanding. The exhale shuddered out, carrying some of the panic with it. "They want..." she started, her voice thick.

Peter’s gaze didn’t waver. "Fuck what they want," he stated, flat and absolute, cutting her off. His voice wasn't loud, but it filled the chrome space with a finality that brooked no argument. He didn't soften it. "Seriously, Pepper. Fuck 'em. Hammer? A joke with bad suits. Stane? Dead and buried. Killian? Burnt out." He leaned in slightly, his eyes boring into hers, stripping away the corporate titles and the trauma. "You beat them. You buried them. You survived them. You think this new shiny combo pack scares you? Fine. Be scared. Then get pissed." His thumb pressed slightly harder against the back of her hand, still anchored to his heartbeat. "Because you're not just Pepper Potts, CEO. You're Morgan Stark's mom. And I've seen you fight. You tore into Kraven with a broken piece of glass like he was tissue paper. You're a badass.”

Pepper stared at him, the panic momentarily frozen. His words weren't comforting reassurances; they were stark declarations, stripping away the ghosts Kraven had conjured. Hammer's whining face, Stane's cold betrayal, Killian's burning fury – Peter dismissed them like yesterday's trash. He wasn't offering platitudes about teamwork or Stark resources; he was pointing directly at her, at the core of ferocity she’d shown minutes ago against Kraven. The tremor in her fingers lessened. Her breathing hitched again, but this time, it wasn't fear. It was the sharp intake before a roar.

She pulled her hand away from his chest, the echo of his steady heartbeat lingering on her palm. Slowly, deliberately, she pushed herself up the chrome wall, ignoring the protest of her bruised ribs and jaw. She stood fully, squaring her shoulders, the CEO mantle settling back into place alongside the mother's fury. Her gaze, clear and sharp now, locked onto Peter. "You," she stated, her voice regaining its familiar steel, though slightly raspy. "You were supposed to stay upstairs. With Morgan." A flicker of the old exasperation surfaced, cutting through the lingering adrenaline haze.

Peter watched her rise, a slow, genuine grin spreading across his face, crinkling the corners of his tired eyes. It wasn't a smirk, but a relieved, open expression. "Welcome back, Ms. Potts," he chuckled, the sound warm and grounding in the sterile elevator. He leaned back against the opposite wall, crossing his arms loosely. "Y'know," he started, his tone deliberately light, almost teasing, "I believe the words you're looking for are... 'Thank you, Spider-Man, for swinging in and saving the day.' Again." He tilted his head, the ghost of his usual quippiness returning. "Seriously, Pep, I'm racking up quite the Stark-family-rescue tab."

Pepper’s hand shot out instantly, a swift, instinctive backhand aimed at his shoulder. It wasn't hard, but it landed with a sharp thwack. "Stop it," she snapped, though a flicker of exasperated amusement softened the command. Her eyes narrowed. "I'm serious, Peter."

The grin faded slightly, replaced by something quieter, more earnest. He met her gaze squarely. "I know you are," he said, his voice low and steady. He uncrossed his arms, letting them hang loosely at his sides. "And I appreciate it, Pep. Really. Wanting to keep me safe... it means a lot." He paused, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "But I'm not a kid anymore."

Pepper studied him, really studied him, standing there in the sterile elevator light. The lean muscle defined under the thin cotton shirt, the fading bruises from Kraven's assault, the set of his shoulders that wasn't youthful defiance but weary, earned resolve. Her eyes traced the faint worry lines around his eyes, deeper than they should be for his age. "No," she conceded softly, a reluctant realization dawning in her own weary gaze. "You're not." Her hand lifted slightly, a reflexive gesture towards his bruised cheekbone, then stopped. "But that doesn't mean I want you swinging headlong into danger either."

A flicker of his old mischief sparked in Peter's eyes. He leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "Technically," he whispered, a grin tugging at his lips, "this time? I swung in feet first. Right into Kraven's ugly mug." He mimed a clumsy kick in the air.

Pepper leveled him with a stare so dry it could wither concrete. Her expression screamed 'seriously?' louder than any words. She didn't dignify the boast with a response, simply raising one perfectly sculpted eyebrow until his grin faltered slightly.

He shrugged, the momentary lightness evaporating. "Alright, alright," he conceded, pushing off the wall. "Point taken. More importantly... you good?" His voice shifted, earnest and direct. "Because your mini-me is upstairs, safe, and probably already mentally drafting exactly how to tear me a new one for leaving her locked in that lab."

Pepper huffed a short, sharp breath that was almost a laugh, the tension in her shoulders easing infinitesimally. "She absolutely is," Pepper confirmed, her own voice regaining its familiar firmness. "And she'll be thorough." The thought of Morgan's fierce, worried indignation was oddly grounding. It pushed the lingering specters of Hammer, Stane, and Killian further back into the shadows. Morgan was safe. That mattered more than resurrected ghosts.

"FRIDAY," Pepper instructed, her tone crisp and commanding once more, "Take us to the Lav." Her gaze remained fixed on Peter, assessing his bruises, the exhaustion beneath the momentary levity. As the elevator began its ascent, Peter’s eyes drifted back to her face, lingering on the thin trail of blood welling anew at the corner of her split lip. Without conscious thought, his thumb lifted, brushing gently across the spot to wipe it away.

The touch was fleeting, instinctive, a tender gesture starkly out of place amidst the adrenaline crash and chrome walls. His fingers lingered a fraction too long against the softness of her lower lip, his gaze locking intensely with hers. Pepper didn't pull back. For a suspended second, the air crackled with something raw and unspoken – exhaustion mingling with a sudden, visceral awareness that had nothing to do with Kraven or danger. The proximity, the shared trauma, the sheer relief of being alive… it coalesced into a charged silence thicker than the paralytic mist.

Then the elevator slowed with a soft chime. Peter’s hand snapped back as if burned. Pepper cleared her throat sharply, turning her head toward the doors, her cheeks flushed beneath the bruising. Neither acknowledged the moment. It hung there, unresolved, as the doors slid open onto the lab corridor. They stepped out simultaneously, putting deliberate distance between them, their expressions carefully neutral masks. Happy Hogan’s frantic shouts echoed down the hall, shattering the fragile tension. "Morgan! Kid, stop fiddling with that! Peter said stay*put!" Peter exchanged a quick, knowing glance with Pepper – exasperation overriding everything else.

Morgan stood defiantly beside the sealed lab door, her small frame dwarfed by the reinforced steel. She wasn’t trying to open it; she was meticulously attaching a complex array of wires and blinking LEDs scavenged from a nearby repair bot onto the door’s security panel. Her tongue poked out in fierce concentration. "Almost got it, Happy!" she declared, oblivious to the chaos below. "FRIDAY’s being super slow. I’m making a manual override!" Happy hovered behind her, hands fluttering nervously, looking utterly helpless against Stark-grade determination.

The panel beside Morgan suddenly flashed green. The heavy bolts securing the door slid back with a smooth thunk. Morgan gasped, triumphant. "HA! See? I told you I could—" Her victory cry died mid-sentence. The door slid open, revealing not an escape route, but her mother. Pepper stood framed in the doorway, hands planted firmly on her hips, her posture radiating CEO-level disapproval. "Uh-oh."

Peter couldn't help it. A sharp, genuine bark of laughter escaped him, echoing off the sterile lab corridor walls. It wasn't just Morgan's guilty deer-in-headlights expression; it was the sheer, chaotic Tony-ness of her bypassing FRIDAY with scavenged parts. Pepper's head snapped towards him instantly, her eyes narrowing into laser-focused slits. The disapproval radiating from her bruised face could have melted vibranium.

Peter met her glare, shoulders lifting in a helpless shrug. "What?" he defended, a grin still tugging at his lips despite the danger. "She's literally the perfect hybrid. Your terrifying efficiency meets Tony's terrifying 'hold my juice box' engineering." He gestured at the jury-rigged override panel Morgan proudly clutched. "Look at that! Pure, unadulterated Stark."

Morgan beamed at the compliment, momentarily forgetting her predicament. "See? Petey gets it!" she chirped, puffing out her chest. "I was gonna rescue you!"

Peter's grin softened into something more serious as he crouched down to her level. "Hey, genius move, Morgs, seriously impressive," he began, his voice warm but firm. He tapped the messy tangle of wires she'd pulled from the repair bot. "But messing with wiring like this? Without someone who knows what they're doing right here? That's dangerous." He held her gaze, letting the weight of the word settle. "Electricity isn't a toy. One wrong connection, and..." He didn't finish the sentence, letting the implication hang. "When I or Happy or your mom tell you to stay put in a safe room, it’s not to be mean. It’s because we need you safe. Because keeping you safe is the whole point."

Morgan's triumphant beam vanished instantly. Her shoulders slumped, and her lower lip pushed out in a pronounced pout, her eyes dropping to her scuffed sneakers. "I know," she mumbled, her voice thick with sudden remorse. She scuffed her toe against the polished floor. "I'm sorry." She didn't offer excuses about wanting to help or being bored; the apology was small, sincere, and carried the full weight of understanding the risk she'd taken. "I just... I heard the fighting. FRIDAY wouldn't tell me anything." Her voice cracked slightly. "I got scared.".

Pepper’s stern posture softened instantly. She knelt swiftly, ignoring the protest of her bruised ribs, and gathered Morgan into her arms. "Oh, sweetheart," she breathed, pressing a kiss into her daughter's hair. "It's okay to be afraid, baby," she murmured, her voice thick with shared understanding. She pulled back slightly to meet Morgan's watery gaze, her thumb brushing away a stray tear. "I was afraid too. So afraid." She didn't shy away from the admission; she let Morgan see the echo of that fear in her own bruised face. "But fear tries to trick us, sweetheart. It whispers that we should run towards the danger or grab the sparking wires because anything feels better than just waiting and being scared. That's when we have to be smartest. That's when we listen to us and stay safe. Okay?"

Morgan nodded against Pepper’s collarbone, her voice muffled but earnest. "Okay, Mommy." Pepper squeezed her tighter for a heartbeat longer, breathing in the familiar scent of Morgan’s shampoo—something bright and citrusy, utterly incongruous with the lingering phantom smell of Kraven’s paralytic mist. Then Pepper pulled back, her hands settling firmly on Morgan’s shoulders, her gaze sweeping over her daughter’s face as if checking for invisible wounds. "All this excitement," Pepper declared, her voice deliberately bright, cutting through the lingering tension like a knife, "has absolutely worked up an appetite. How about you, baby? Are you starving?"

Morgan’s eyes lit up instantly, the worry evaporating. "Starving!" she announced, nodding vigorously. "Like, tummy-growling-at-a-dragon starving!"

Peter, still crouched beside them, moved with practiced smoothness. He scooped Morgan up in one fluid motion, settling her securely against his hip. As he straightened, he angled his body subtly, positioning Morgan so her view was entirely blocked from Pepper. In that shielded moment, Peter’s free hand shot out, grasping Pepper’s elbow firmly.

He hauled her upwards with a controlled burst of strength, taking the brunt of her weight. Pepper’s breath hissed sharply between her teeth, her face tightening into a silent grimace as bruised ribs protested violently. The pain flashed across her features—a stark, private wince Peter absorbed without comment. By the time Morgan twisted her head back, Pepper was standing tall beside Peter, her expression smoothed into weary but determined calm, only the faintest sheen of sweat at her temples betraying the effort.

"Alright, team lunch," Peter announced, his voice deliberately light as he shifted Morgan’s weight slightly. He turned towards Happy, who hovered near the wrecked repair bot, looking pale beneath his beard. "Happy? You coming?"

Happy blinked, his gaze flicking from Peter holding Morgan to Pepper’s bruised jawline, then back to Peter. An unreadable expression settled over his face—a complex mix of exhaustion, relief, and something deeper, almost unsettled. "Nah," he rasped, scrubbing a hand over his face. "You three... go ahead. I'll head down to the conference suite. See how cleanup's progressing. Elias—" he corrected himself sharply, his jaw tightening, "Kraven left quite the mess." He paused, his eyes lingering on the trio—Peter effortlessly carrying Morgan, Pepper leaning subtly against Peter’s shoulder for support—a tableau of fractured family clinging together. "Someone needs to coordinate with Damage Control. After I clean up here a bit."

Pepper nodded, her gaze softening as she looked at Happy. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper than usual. "Thank you, Happy," she said quietly, her voice regaining its familiar warmth beneath the steel. "I’ll bring you and Matt something in a bit." She shifted her weight slightly, her breath catching as her ribs protested again. Peter adjusted Morgan instinctively, his arm tightening around her waist to provide a steadier anchor.

 Peter bounced Morgan gently on his hip as they walked toward the elevator, his voice dropping into a theatrical stage whisper. "So, Morgs," he began, eyes wide with conspiratorial glee, "did FRIDAY tell you what your mom did to Kraven down there?"

Morgan instantly perked up, twisting in his arms to stare at Pepper. "No! What?"

Pepper shot Peter a warning look, her cheeks flushing faintly beneath the bruising. He ignored it, leaning closer to Morgan. "She stabbed him! Right in the shoulder!"

Morgan gasped, eyes saucer-wide. "With what?"

Peter grinned. "With a giant piece of broken window! Like a superhero!" He mimed a fierce stabbing motion. "And she didn't even flinch! Just bam!"

Pepper rolled her eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at her split lip. "Peter, it was hardly—"

"And then," Peter barreled on, his voice rising with enthusiasm, "when Kraven tried to grab her? She slammed her elbow right into his nose!" He tapped Morgan’s elbow playfully. "Cracked it like an egg! Bet it sounded like stepping on bubble wrap!"

Morgan squealed with delighted horror, clutching Peter’s shirt. "Did it bleed?"

"Oh, it gushed," Peter confirmed solemnly, nodding. "Like that time you spilled grape juice on the white couch."

Pepper sighed, shaking her head, but her shoulders relaxed slightly. "Peter Benjamin Parker, you are embellishing wildly."

He shot her a cheeky grin. "Am not! FRIDAY, back me up—did Ms. Potts elbow Kraven in the face?"

FRIDAY’s calm voice echoed in the corridor. "Affirmative. Impact registered at approximately 95 psi. Nasal fracture confirmed."

Peter threw his free hand up triumphantly. "See? Certified badassery! Your mom basically did a Daredevil move without the suit!"

Morgan beamed at Pepper with pure, unadulterated awe. "Wow, Mommy! You're tougher than any villain.”

Pepper finally laughed, a short, sharp sound that eased the lingering tension in her jaw. "Alright, alright," she conceded, reaching out to ruffle Morgan’s hair. "Enough storytelling. Let’s go see what we can come up with for lunch."

 As they stepped into the elevator, Morgan leaned her head against Peter’s shoulder, her small fingers tracing the fading bruise on Pepper’s jawline with newfound reverence. "Mommy," she whispered, her voice filled with fierce pride, "you’re the bravest."

Pepper’s eyes met Peter’s over Morgan’s head. In that shared glance, heavy with exhaustion and unspoken gratitude, Peter saw the flicker of something deeper—the quiet acknowledgment that his ridiculous theatrics had done exactly what he’d intended: replaced Morgan’s fear with fierce, unwavering admiration. He gave Pepper the smallest nod, a silent understanding passing between them. The elevator doors slid shut, sealing them in a momentary bubble of fragile calm.

Chapter Text

The med bay’s sterile quiet pressed in after the chaotic warmth of lunch. Helen Cho’s brow furrowed as she studied Pepper’s vitals on the overhead monitor, the rhythmic beep... beep... beep suddenly punctuated by a sharp, irregular blip. "Pepper," Helen’s voice cut through the calm, clinical and urgent as she pointed to a scrolling cascade of microscopic data on a secondary screen. "Your bloodwork. There’s anomalous particulate activity. It’s... replicating." She zoomed in, revealing shimmering, geometric structures – dormant nanites, now awake and multiplying exponentially within Pepper’s bloodstream. "They’re keying specifically onto the residual Extremis markers in your cellular matrix. Kraven’s toxin wasn’t just a sedative; it was a delivery system."

Pepper’s hand flew to her sternum, a phantom ache blooming beneath her bruised ribs. The citrus scent of Morgan’s shampoo, still faintly clinging to her sweater, clashed violently with the sharp tang of antiseptic. "Targeting Extremis?" Her voice was tight, controlled CEO veneer cracking slightly. "Why? It’s dormant. Stable." Helen’s fingers danced across the holographic interface, isolating one nanite cluster.

"They’re not destabilizing it, Pepper. They’re... rewriting it." The image magnified, showing the nanites attaching to Extremis-aligned cells, injecting strands of unfamiliar code. "It’s a forced reactivation protocol. But corrupted. Aggressive." Helen met Pepper’s gaze, her own eyes wide with dawning horror. "This isn’t sabotage. It’s transformation. They’re trying to weaponize you.”

Pepper stared at the holographic display, the shimmering nanites replicating like malignant snowflakes in her veins. Hammer’s industrial-scale nanotech – cold, precise, scalable. Stane’s insatiable hunger for Stark weaponry, repurposed for conquest. Killian’s deranged ambition to reshape humanity through Extremis, twisted into a forced metamorphosis. The pieces slammed together with brutal clarity. This was Kraven’s Trinity of Terror: a grotesque amalgamation of their darkest obsessions, Frankensteined into a single, devastating payload aimed squarely at her. Not just sabotage. Not just theft. They intended to remake her into the weapon they’d always coveted Tony’s legacy to create. A chill deeper than the medbay’s sterile air seeped into her bones.

"What does this mean, Helen?" Pepper’s voice was unnervingly calm, a CEO assessing a hostile takeover bid. Her fingers tightened on the medbay gurney’s edge, knuckles white against the stainless steel. "Specifically. What happens to me?" She needed facts, not horror stories. Helen zoomed the display further, isolating a corrupted nanite injecting its payload into an Extremis-aligned cell. The cell pulsed erratically, its structure visibly warping.

"The Extremis itself appears stable enough at its core," Helen explained, her tone clipped and professional, focusing on the biological mechanics. "The nanites aren't destabilizing it outright. They're forcibly reactivating pathways Tony deliberately suppressed." She pointed to cascading energy signatures flaring across the screen. "Your cellular regeneration, thermal regulation, neurochemical balance – all the baseline Extremis functions Kraven’s nanites are pushing into overdrive. Think of it like forcing a dormant reactor to run at maximum output without safeties." Helen met Pepper’s gaze squarely. "When dormant, Extremis was inert. Now, it’s primed. The danger isn't constant instability, Pepper. It’s the flares. Stress, intense emotion, physical trauma – any significant trigger could cause localized or systemic surges. Uncontrolled thermal bloom. Accelerated healing that consumes resources catastrophically. Neural feedback loops inducing psychosis. The potential vectors are... vast."

Pepper absorbed the clinical breakdown, her mind instantly shifting from patient to strategist. The phantom ache beneath her ribs sharpened, a visceral reminder of the ticking clock inside her. "Can we stop it?" she demanded, her voice low and urgent. "Neutralize these nanites? Or..." She paused, a flicker of Tony’s relentless pragmatism surfacing. "...control the reactivation? Redirect it?" Her eyes locked onto Helen’s. "If Extremis is active again, can I harness it? Safely?"

Helen’s fingers flew across the holographic interface, pulling up complex molecular models. "Stopping them entirely... it's like trying to extinguish a fire while someone keeps spraying gasoline," she admitted grimly. "They're replicating exponentially using your own cellular energy. A targeted EMP pulse might fry them, but it would also scramble every neural implant and bio-monitor you have, potentially triggering a catastrophic cascade." She zoomed in on a nanite interacting with Extremis code. "Control... that's the needle we need to thread. Your Extremis was uniquely stable because you integrated with it willingly. Kraven’s nanites bypassed that consent, forcing activation paths Tony never intended." She highlighted a corrupted pathway. "If we could isolate these commands—the forced aggression protocols—and suppress only them, leaving the core Extremis functions accessible... then you could potentially learn to modulate it yourself. Like regaining control of a runaway engine."

Pepper absorbed this, the sterile air suddenly feeling thick. "How long?" The question cut through the technical jargon, sharp and direct. "How long before these things... activate it fully? Before extremis is active again?" Her gaze was locked on Helen’s, demanding precision.

 Helen hesitated, her expression tightening. "The replication rate is accelerating unpredictably. Based on current diffusion and the nanites' interaction with Extremis-aligned cells... anywhere from two to four months." She gestured helplessly at the fluctuating data streams. "Factors like stress may shorten that window dramatically."

Pepper let out a short, humorless laugh that scraped her bruised ribs. "Stress?" She pushed herself upright on the gurney, wincing but ignoring it. "Helen, I run Stark Industries. Stress isn't a factor; it's my baseline. Yesterday, I navigated a hostile takeover bid disguised as a merger. This morning before breakfast, I fielded calls about a critical semiconductor shortage threatening our satellite constellation rollout. Then Kraven invaded my home, threatened my child, and injected me with Frankensteined nanotech designed to turn me into a weapon." Her voice remained level, almost conversational, but the intensity in her eyes was volcanic. "And my daughter, bless her terrifyingly brilliant soul, nearly electrocuted herself trying to override FRIDAY with spare parts. Assume we have weeks. Not months."

Helen didn't flinch. She nodded sharply, her own expression hardening into resolve. "Understood. Days it is." Her fingers moved with renewed urgency over the holographic interface, collapsing complex molecular models and isolating corrupted pathways. "I'll send this data to Bruce immediately. He's neck-deep in gamma anomalies in Wakanda right now, but he'll prioritize this." She glanced at Pepper, a flicker of pragmatic sympathy in her gaze. "In the meantime? You need fuel. And rest. Actual rest. Your cellular energy is actively fueling the nanite replication. Deplete yourself, and you accelerate their spread." She paused, then tapped a command into her tablet. A soft chime echoed. "There. Prescription sent to your private dispensary. One bottle of the '17 Bordeaux Tony hoarded for 'emergencies'. Consider this an emergency. Drink it. And then sleep. Minimum six hours."

Pepper stared at the bottle icon blinking on her StarkPad screen. Tony’s prized Bordeaux. Saved for theoretical alien invasions or world-ending plagues. Not... this. The sheer absurdity of it—nanites rewriting her biology while Helen prescribed wine—hit her with sudden, unexpected force. A laugh escaped her, sharp and genuine, surprising even herself. It echoed brightly against the medbay’s sterile tiles.

 "Helen Cho," she said, shaking her head, a reluctant grin breaking through the grimness. "Prescribing Bordeaux and bed rest as a countermeasure to weaponized nanotechnology. Only in this tower." She reached out, squeezing Helen’s forearm firmly. The gesture held warmth, profound gratitude, and shared exasperation. "Thank you. Truly. For the diagnosis, the honesty... and the unconventional therapy."

Helen’s lips twitched, a rare flicker of dry humor in her eyes. "The Bordeaux is medically sound," she countered smoothly, her tone utterly professional. "Moderate ethanol consumption lowers cortisol levels. Stress reduction slows nanite replication. It’s biochemistry, Pepper, not hedonism." She paused, tapping her stylus thoughtfully against her tablet. Then, her gaze sharpened, locking onto Pepper’s with unnerving directness. "My treatment plan was perfectly within appropriate parameters. Unconventional,” she added, her voice dropping slightly, "would be to tell you to go share that bottle with the young man you're cohabitating with. Shared relaxation might double the cortisol-lowering effect. Statistically significant." She delivered it like a clinical observation, utterly deadpan, before turning back to her screens as if discussing nutrient absorption rates.

Pepper froze, the ghost of her grin vanishing. Helen’s words landed with the precision of a scalpel, slicing through the fragile calm. Cohabitating? Shared relaxation? The implication, wrapped in clinical detachment, was devastatingly clear. Images flashed – Peter’s arm tightening around her waist in the corridor, Morgan nestled between them, the charged silence in the elevator after he wiped her lip. Helen saw it. Helen named it. A flush, hot and undeniable, crept up Pepper’s neck, clashing violently with the sterile chill of the medbay.

"Doctor Cho," Pepper managed, her voice miraculously steady despite the internal earthquake. She pushed herself fully off the gurney, ignoring the sharp protest from her ribs. A brittle smile touched her lips. "Prescribing Bordeaux is unconventional enough. Adding unsolicited romantic counseling?" She arched an eyebrow, the CEO mask sliding firmly back into place, though her knuckles were still white against the gurney rail. "It sounds suspiciously like someone might have already made a detour to Tony’s private cellar before coming on shift." She didn’t wait for a reply, turning crisply towards the exit. "Let me know," she added over her shoulder, her tone clipped and efficient, "the instant Bruce has actionable intel. Weeks, Helen. Not months."

 xXx

The elevator doors slid open onto the penthouse living space. Pepper clutched the bottle of Tony’s Bordeaux like a lifeline, her mind still echoing Helen’s clinical dissection of her impending transformation and her utterly jarring observation about Peter. Then, the scent hit her: lemon and rosemary searing crisp salmon skin, caramelized root vegetables, the bright tang of honey citrus glaze. Underneath it all, the unmistakable thrum of Taylor Swift’s "Shake It Off" vibrated through the floorboards. She blinked, momentarily disoriented by the abrupt shift from sterile dread to… this.

Pepper stepped silently onto the polished concrete floor. Across the open kitchen, Peter stood at the stove, expertly flipping salmon fillets in a pan shimmering with olive oil. He wore a faded Star Wars tee under a soft, rolled-sleeve blue button-down, and jeans. Beside him, Morgan, resplendent in a sparkly princess dress topped with a miniature apron smeared with honey mustard, vigorously stirred a bowl of glaze with a wooden spoon twice her size, singing along off-key. Peter shimmied his hips dramatically, tossing asparagus spears into another pan with a flourish, earning a delighted squeal from Morgan. Pepper pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a sudden, unexpected chuckle at the sight of Spider-Man’s surprisingly competent booty-shake.

The rich aroma of lemon zest, seared garlic, and roasting vegetables wrapped around her, momentarily displacing the sterile medbay scent clinging to her clothes. Peter glanced over his shoulder, his grin wide and genuine. "Hungry, Ms. Potts? Morgan insisted we make your favorite." He gestured with the spatula towards the counter where zucchini and red bell peppers caramelized beautifully. "She also insisted on the playlist. Said you needed..." He paused, adopting Morgan’s serious tone, "...a proper victory jam after kicking Kraven’s butt." Morgan nodded emphatically, her ponytail bouncing.

Pepper moved towards the island counter, the Bordeaux bottle still cool in her hand. Her ribs protested sharply with each step, a visceral counterpoint to the warmth flooding the kitchen. Peter’s easy competence, Morgan’s focused humming – it was a bubble of startling normalcy. "It smells incredible," Pepper managed, her voice softer than intended. She leaned against the cool quartz countertop, watching Peter expertly plate the salmon onto warmed dishes. "Helen prescribed… rest." She tapped the bottle lightly. "And this."

Peter paused mid-shimmy, spatula hovering over the asparagus pan. He turned fully, a mock-scandalized expression spreading across his face. "Wine? Actual wine? With bedrest?" He gestured dramatically towards himself with the spatula, nearly flicking glaze onto Morgan’s apron. "Pepper, I get stabbed, shot, thrown off buildings – my 'prescription' is usually Helen handing me a lukewarm protein shake and telling me to stop bleeding on her floors! She confiscated my gummy worms last concussion! Where's my fancy Bordeaux for trauma recovery?" His voice took on a distinctly petulant whine, exaggerated for Morgan’s benefit but laced with genuine, playful indignation.

Pepper arched an eyebrow, the CEO facade firmly back in place despite the warmth of the kitchen. She held the bottle aloft, the deep ruby liquid catching the recessed lighting. "Doctor Cho’s orders," she stated crisply, tapping the label. "Medically prescribed stress reduction. Essential biochemistry. And frankly, Peter," her gaze sharpened, locking onto his, “Are you even legally allowed to drink this? Last I checked, twenty-one was still the magic number." A subtle challenge flickered in her eyes, cutting through the domestic haze.

Peter snorted, flipping the asparagus with a practiced flick. He shot her a grin that was pure Parker mischief. "Perk of getting your identity erased by Doctor Strange? My driver’s license says I’m twenty-five," he countered smoothly, gesturing vaguely towards his discarded wallet on the counter. "Which, given my actual birthdate? I technically am all blipping aside." He shrugged, plating Morgan’s salmon with extra glaze. "So, pass that Bordeaux. My cortisol levels demand it as well."

Helen’s clinical words sliced back into Pepper’s mind, sharp and unwelcome: Shared relaxation might double the cortisol-lowering effect. The bottle suddenly felt heavier, its cool glass pressing uncomfortably against her palm. Sharing wine with Peter? The idea was ludicrous, dangerous even. Yet... the warmth of the kitchen, Peter’s easy banter, Morgan’s humming – it was a potent antidote to the sterile dread Helen had injected. Wasn't combating the nanites the priority? And Helen had stressed cortisol reduction. Pepper’s fingers tightened momentarily on the neck of the bottle before she deliberately placed it on the quartz countertop with a soft clink. "Fine," she conceded, her voice carefully neutral. "But you pour. And only one glass."

Peter’s grin widened into a triumphant flash. "Yes, ma'am," he declared, snapping off a crisp, perfectly executed mock salute that would have made a drill sergeant proud. He spun towards the cabinet, grabbing two oversized wine glasses with practiced ease. The salute was pure Parker – irreverent, playful, yet oddly respectful beneath the theatrics. Morgan giggled, abandoning her glaze spoon to mimic Peter’s salute, her tiny hand wobbling enthusiastically. "Yes, ma'am!" she chirped, her grin echoing Peter's.

He popped the cork with a single, smooth twist and pull – no hesitation, no awkward fumbling. The rich, earthy aroma of aged grapes bloomed instantly, mingling with the savory scents of dinner. He poured a deep, generous measure into Pepper’s glass first, the ruby liquid swirling hypnotically. "Here you go," he said, sliding it towards her across the cool quartz. As he poured his own glass with the same effortless grace, Pepper watched him, a knowing smirk playing on her lips despite the lingering ache in her ribs. "Something tells me," she remarked, her voice dry but laced with amusement, "this isn't your first pour."

Peter chuckled, setting the bottle down with a soft thud. He leaned casually against the counter, swirling the wine in his glass. "First bottle this expensive, definitely," he admitted freely, a hint of nostalgia softening his features. "But nah, I used to bartend at Josie's. Three nights a week while I got my GED." He took a sip, savoring it thoughtfully. "Made killer tips and it was going really good until Karen realized I wasn't twenty-one. That put an end to my bartending career real fast. "

Pepper raised her own glass, the Bordeaux’s deep aroma mingling with the savory dinner scents. "Josie’s?" She took a slow sip, the complex flavors unfolding – dark berries, oak, a hint of earth. "That dive bar in Hell's Kitchen? I went there once with Tony. The martini tasted like turpintine." A genuine smile touched her lips, the warmth of the wine spreading through her chest, momentarily easing the tightness beneath her ribs. "I can’t picture you slinging cheap whiskey and breaking up bar fights."

Peter shrugged, swirling his wine before taking another appreciative sip. "What can I say? I’m full of surprises," he said as he flashed her that disarming grin, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

Pepper watched him lean back against the counter, his posture relaxed yet inherently alert – a coiled readiness beneath the casual facade. The faded Star Wars tee stretched slightly across his shoulders as he gestured towards Morgan, who was meticulously arranging asparagus spears on her plate. Pepper’s gaze lingered on the line of his jaw, the easy confidence in his movements, the way the soft kitchen light caught the faintest hint of stubble. A sudden, unexpected warmth bloomed low in her belly, startling in its intensity. It wasn't just gratitude or camaraderie; it was a sharp, visceral pull, a recognition of vitality and strength that felt alarmingly like attraction. It caught her completely off guard, stealing her breath for a fraction of a second. Her fingers tightened reflexively around her wine glass. "You certainly are," she murmured, the words escaping before she could catch them, low and husky, carrying a weight she hadn't intended.

Peter’s head snapped up instantly, his easy smile vanishing as his eyes locked onto hers. The playful banter about Josie’s evaporated, replaced by a sudden stillness. His brow furrowed slightly, confusion warring with surprise. He blinked, processing the tone, the implication hanging thick in the air between them – especially after earlier's innocent spicy comment. He instantly dismissed it as mishearing, a trick of the acoustics over Morgan’s enthusiastic humming and the sizzle of the pan. "Oh yeah, I bet you didn't know I could solve a rubik's cube with one hand while hanging upside down."

Morgan chose that precise, excruciatingly awkward moment to pipe up, her voice bright and oblivious. "That's silly, Peter!" she declared, waving her asparagus spear like a conductor's baton. "I can solve a rubik's cube! Daddy taught me!" She beamed proudly at Pepper. "But I've never tried upside down. That sounds really hard." Her innocent observation sliced through the charged silence like a scalpel, instantly refocusing the room. Peter seized the lifeline, his posture visibly relaxing as he grinned down at Morgan. "See? Even Morgan knows hanging upside down adds a whole new caliber of challenge. Gravity's tricky like that." He deftly flipped a piece of salmon in the pan, the sharp hiss punctuating his deliberate pivot back to safer territory.

Pepper felt the heat recede from her cheeks, replaced by a surge of protective annoyance – aimed squarely at herself and Peter's deflection. She took a deliberate sip of the Bordeaux, its rich warmth grounding her. "Actually," she countered, her voice regaining its usual crisp precision, though laced with a subtle challenge, "I'd argue your Spider-Man abilities render that particular feat less 'impressive skill' and more... 'built-in advantage.'" She gestured vaguely upwards with her glass. "The whole sticking-to-ceilings thing? It kinda negates the fundamental difficulty Morgan and I mere mortals face." She arched an eyebrow. "Try solving one upside down without your powers sometime. Then we'll talk."

Peter chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated pleasantly in the kitchen air. "Fair enough," he conceded smoothly, wiping his hands on a dish towel. "Point taken. Gravity is a harsh mistress for the non-enhanced." He moved with practiced efficiency, plating the perfectly seared salmon alongside roasted vegetables onto three plates. "Dinner's served. Morgan, careful, plate's hot." He slid Pepper's plate towards her, the aroma of lemon-dill glaze mingling enticingly with the Bordeaux's dark fruit notes. "And for the record," he added, his tone light but eyes holding hers for a beat longer than necessary, "I accept the challenge. Standard Rubik's cube, upside down, no powers. Just me, gravity, and probable failure."

Pepper watched him settle Morgan at the table, ensuring her napkin was tucked securely. The domestic ease of it, the quiet competence, contrasted sharply with the coiled tension she’d sensed moments earlier and the lingering dread of Kraven’s nanites. She traced the rim of her glass. "While I admire your newfound commitment to gravity-assisted puzzles," she began, her voice regaining its familiar, teasing cadence, "perhaps postpone any attempts until after you're back to a hundred percent."

Peter paused, the serving spoon hovering over Morgan’s vegetables. "Speaking of one hundred percent," he said, genuine concern replacing the playful glint as he glanced at Pepper’s bruised jaw and split lip, "what did Helen say about your injuries?" His brow furrowed slightly. "You took a nasty hit back there." He was completely unaware of the true nature of Kraven’s attack – the reactivated Extremis ticking like a bomb beneath her skin.

Pepper’s smile felt brittle, a practiced shield. She waved a dismissive hand, the gesture smooth and effortless. "Honestly? Nothing’s broken," she lied, her voice deliberately light. "Just bruised ribs and a fat lip. I’ll be sore for a couple of days, that’s all." She shrugged, taking another sip of wine to mask the tremor threatening her composure. "Not exactly the end of the world." The weight of Helen’s diagnosis pressed down on her – the corrupted nanites, the imminent flares, the terrifying fusion of Hammer, Stane, and Killian’s worst ambitions coursing through her veins.

She couldn’t burden Peter. Not now. The shadows under his eyes were already deep enough, etched by sleepless nights filled with worry. He carried Morgan’s safety like a physical weight, his anxiety a near-constant hum beneath his surface calm. Telling him would fracture that focus, redirecting his fierce protectiveness onto her instead of Morgan. She needed him sharp, vigilant, guarding the child Tony had entrusted to them both. That’s what she told herself firmly, anchoring the decision in necessity.

But beneath the practicality, a raw, selfish truth pulsed. This dinner, Peter’s adorkable dancing, Morgan’s off-key singing, the easy warmth of shared Bordeaux – it felt achingly normal. For the first time since Kraven invaded, since Rhino and Scorpion attacked if she was being honest, Pepper didn’t feel like a walking catastrophe. Peter’s gaze held warmth, exasperation, teasing camaraderie… not the clinical dread or pity she’d glimpsed in Helen’s eyes. She craved this bubble of playful normalcy, this fragile illusion where she was just Pepper Potts sharing wine with Peter Parker, not a vessel for the Trinity of Terror. Just one night without the ticking clock echoing in every silence.

"So," Pepper smoothly shifted gears, leaning forward slightly, her smile genuine as she turned her full attention to Morgan. The Bordeaux warmed her throat, lending her voice a relaxed ease she didn't entirely feel. "While I was dealing with boring grown-up stuff downstairs, what did my two favorite people get up to this afternoon?" She gestured towards the immaculate kitchen counter. "Besides this amazing dinner, obviously."

Morgan bounced in her chair, nearly knocking over her water glass. Peter's hand shot out, steadying it before a drop spilled. "We finished your surprise!" Morgan announced, her eyes wide with excitement. "The super secret one! It was hard 'cause Peter kept saying the wires were 'finicky' and 'needed calibration,' but I helped totally supervised!" She puffed out her chest proudly.

Peter chuckled, passing Pepper the roasted vegetables. "Finicky is an understatement," he admitted, shaking his head slightly. "Morgan insisted on soldering the microconnectors herself. Nearly fused my tweezers to the circuit board." He shot Morgan a mock-stern look that dissolved instantly into a grin. "But she's a natural. Strange. It's almost like it's in her DNA."

The word landed like a dropped scalpel in the sterile silence of Helen's medbay replaying in Pepper's mind: Extremis markers... genetic corruption... Trinity of Terror. Her smile froze, muscles locking around the practiced curve of her lips. She felt the phantom heat beneath her skin flicker, a brief, terrifying surge quickly suppressed. Her knuckles whitened around the fork handle. "Tony always said she had his knack," Pepper managed, her voice tight, brittle as spun glass. She forced her gaze away from Peter, focusing intently on cutting Morgan's salmon into impossibly small pieces.

Morgan, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing beneath Pepper's calm surface, kicked her feet impatiently under the table. "Can I go get it now? Pleeeease?" she begged, her eyes darting between Peter and Pepper, bright with anticipation. "It's all charged up and ready!"

Peter scooped another spoonful of vegetables onto Morgan's plate. "Only if you finish all your vegetables," he countered gently but firmly, tapping her plate with his fork. "And only if mom gives the official go-ahead." He glanced at Pepper, his expression carefully neutral, subtly deferring the decision and offering her an escape route from the earlier tension. His eyes held a quiet question: Are you okay?

Pepper forced her shoulders to relax, the brittle facade softening into something resembling genuine warmth. "Well," she said, her voice deliberately light, the tremor buried deep, "if it involves Morgan soldering microconnectors under Peter's supervision, it must be spectacular." She met Peter's gaze squarely, ignoring the phantom heat prickling beneath her skin. "And yes, Morgan, after dinner, you can absolutely show me." The ease returned, buoyed by Morgan's infectious excitement and Peter's steady presence. Dinner conversation flowed naturally then – Morgan recounted Peter's near-disaster with the blender “It made a boom noise!” Peter teased Pepper about her Bordeaux-sipping posture “Very CEO, very intimidating", and Pepper countered with stories of Tony's disastrous attempts at omelettes. The Bordeaux deepened the warmth, smoothing the jagged edges of fear into manageable background static.

Morgan attacked her vegetables with newfound zeal, her fork clattering against the plate in her haste. The moment the last aspargus spear vanished, she shoved her chair back. "Finished!" she announced, bouncing on her toes. "Can I go? Can I go now? Her eyes were wide and pleading, darting between Peter and Pepper.

Peter chuckled, wiping Morgan's chin with a napkin. "Alright, speed racer. Go grab it. But walk to the elevator, okay? No running." Morgan nodded vigorously, already scrambling towards the penthouse hallway.

Morgan didn't walk. She bolted. Her footsteps echoed like frantic drumbeats on the polished floor as she raced towards the private elevator, the princess dress flapping behind her. Pepper watched her go, the Bordeaux glass halfway to her lips. She lowered it slowly, pressing her fingers against her temple. "Peter," she murmured, her voice thick with exhaustion, "I swear, if that surprise involves glitter, a miniature particle accelerator, or another rogue AI named 'Fluffy', I might just..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "I don't think I can handle any more surprises today." The phantom heat beneath her skin pulsed faintly, a reminder of the biggest, most terrifying surprise already ticking inside her.

Peter pushed his chair back smoothly. Instead of heading towards Morgan, he moved towards Pepper. He circled the table, his footsteps silent on the timbers, and leaned his hip against the counter beside her stool. Close. Not touching, but the warmth radiating from him was palpable. He eyed her appraisingly, his gaze sharp but kind, lingering on the bruise darkening her jawline before meeting her eyes. "Not all surprises have to suck, Pep," he said softly, his voice low and steady. He nudged her untouched Bordeaux glass gently with his knuckle. "Sometimes," he offered a small, hopeful smile, "they’re just Morgan wanting to show you how much she loves you. Or," he gestured vaguely towards the kitchen, still smelling of lemon and herbs, "a decent meal cooked by someone who isn't on staff or delivered. The good kind. This one's good. Promise."

Pepper met his gaze, the exhaustion momentarily pushed aside by the sincerity in his eyes. The phantom heat beneath her skin flickered again, a brief, internal flare she ruthlessly suppressed. His proximity, his quiet confidence, was both a comfort and a strange, unsettling counterpoint to the chaos brewing within her. She managed a small, tired smile of her own. "Alright," she conceded, her voice rough-edged but warmer. "You've earned the benefit of the doubt. For now." She picked up her glass, the Bordeaux swirling deep burgundy. "But if it does involve glitter..." she warned, letting the threat hang.

Peter chuckled, pushing off the counter. He put his hands up defensively, palms facing her. "No glitter," he promised, his grin widening.

Morgan burst back into the kitchen, clutching a sleek, metallic frame seemingly identical to the ones she already had on her desk. She scrambled onto Pepper's lap, her small fingers tracing the frame's edge. "See, Mommy?" she began, her voice bubbling with excitement. "Petey showed me how the magic works! You press this button," she pointed to a tiny sensor, "and FRIDAY talks to the frame! You tell her exactly what picture you want, and whoosh!” Morgan flung her hands out dramatically. "It appears inside, super real! Any piece of art you can think of!" Pepper leaned forward, captivated by her daughter's enthusiasm, a soft smile finally reaching her eyes as she watched Morgan demonstrate the activation sequence.

Peter watched Pepper's face as Morgan animatedly explained the holographic interface. The weariness seemed to melt away, replaced by pure maternal delight. The soft kitchen light caught the curve of Pepper's cheek, the warmth in her eyes as she listened to Morgan, the gentle smile playing on her lips. A startling, unbidden thought flashed through Peter's mind, sharp and clear: She's more beautiful than anything that frame could ever show.  He blinked, momentarily flustered, the thought feeling alien and intrusive amidst the chaos of the day. He quickly looked down at Morgan, focusing intensely on her tiny hands manipulating the frame controls, trying to push the unexpected observation away.

"Okay, FRIDAY," Peter instructed, his voice deliberately casual, pushing aside his own disquiet. "Let's show Pepper how it works. Display Monet's Water Lilies." The air shimmered within the frame, coalescing into the soft blues, greens, and pinks of Monet's masterpiece, the brushstrokes rendered with startling texture and depth. Pepper's breath caught softly. Her gaze snapped from the luminous lilies to Peter's face, recognition dawning. The MET. Their conversation about art history, her unexpected confession about her studies. He hadn't just listened; he'd remembered. He'd woven her past into this moment, merging her abandoned passion with Tony's technological legacy in a way that felt profoundly personal. A lump formed in her throat, emotion tightening her chest. This wasn't just a clever gadget; it was a bridge built across her own fractured history.

Morgan bounced excitedly. "Now you try, Mommy! Tell FRIDAY what you want!" Pepper hesitated, her fingers hovering near the frame's sensor. The ghosts Kraven invoked – Hammer, Stane, Killian – still lurked at the edges of her mind. She glanced at Peter, saw the quiet encouragement in his eyes, the echo of his own struggle against darkness visible beneath the surface calm. Taking a steadying breath, she leaned close to the frame. "FRIDAY," she said, her voice thick with unspoken gratitude, "Show me... Van Gogh's Starry Night." The water lilies dissolved, replaced instantly by swirling cobalt skies and blazing yellow stars, the thick impasto strokes rendered with breathtaking holographic fidelity. It filled the room with its turbulent beauty, a defiant splash of color against the encroaching shadows.

Morgan clapped her hands, utterly delighted. "See? Magic!"

Peter grinned, catching her infectious excitement. "Magic, huh?" He tapped the frame lightly. "This is just tech, Mo. But real magic?" He leaned closer, lowering his voice dramatically. "That's wizards flying on broomsticks, chocolate frogs that jump away, and castles hidden from Muggles."

Morgan's eyes went wide as saucers. "Wizards?" she breathed, utterly captivated.

Peter nodded solemnly. "Yep. There's this whole secret world. Ever heard of Harry Potter?"

Morgan shook her head vigorously, bouncing on Pepper's lap. "No! Tell me!"

Pepper watched, a soft smile playing on her lips as Peter launched into a simplified, animated description of Hogwarts, talking portraits, and a boy with a lightning scar. His storytelling was effortless, weaving wonder into every word, transforming the lingering tension in the penthouse into pure childhood enchantment. Morgan hung on every syllable, her earlier fright forgotten. Pepper caught Peter's eye over Morgan's head; his expression held a silent plea for this distraction, this small island of normalcy amidst the storm. She gave a subtle nod of approval.

"So," Peter concluded, leaning back slightly, his voice dropping to a warm baritone, "what do you say, Mo? Want to take a ride on the Hogwarts Express? Watch Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone?" Morgan gasped, scrambling off Pepper's lap and jumping up and down excitedly.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" she shrieked, clapping her hands. "Can we, Mommy? Can we watch the wizard movie? Please? " Her eyes were wide pools of pleading excitement.

"Absolutely," Pepper agreed, the warmth in her voice genuine despite the fatigue pulling at her shoulders. She gently brushed a strand of hair from Morgan's forehead. "Go put on your coziest jammies – the fluffy unicorn ones. FRIDAY, cue up Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone in the theater room. We'll be right there." Morgan squealed, planting a wet kiss on Pepper's cheek before darting off towards her bedroom, her footsteps echoing like excited drumbeats.

Peter watched her vanish, then turned back to Pepper, his expression shifting into playful incredulity. "Hold on," he said, leaning against the countertop, arms crossed. "Theater room? As in, dedicated, popcorn-machine-having, ridiculously comfy seating theater room? How have I been here a whole week and nobody thought to tell me? Was there a secret handshake? A password I missed?" He gestured vaguely around the expansive penthouse kitchen. "I thought I'd gone over every inch of this place."

Pepper slid off her stool, the Bordeaux glass still in hand. A spark of genuine mischief ignited in her eyes, momentarily eclipsing the bone-deep weariness. "Consider this your formal invitation, Parker," she announced, her voice crisp with a sudden, unexpected energy. She strode towards the hallway Morgan had disappeared down, pausing only to glance back over her shoulder, a faint smirk playing on her lips. "Follow me. I'm about to blow your mind." She tossed the words casually, but the underlying challenge was unmistakable.

Peter froze mid-step. The phrase 'blow your mind' collided violently with the lingering image of Pepper bathed in soft kitchen light, her smile genuine as she listened to Morgan. An utterly inappropriate cascade of possibilities flooded his thoughts – a flash of her lips, the curve of her neck, the warmth radiating from her moments ago. Heat surged up his neck. He clenched his jaw, forcing his expression into careful neutrality, mastering the sudden flush with sheer willpower. "Potts," he countered smoothly, falling into step beside her, his tone deliberately light, almost flippant. "After living through Doc Ock's tentacle tantrums, Mysterio's fishbowl hallucinations, and that interdimensional glitch that made everyone forget my existence?" He shot her a sideways glance, a ghost of his usual grin touching his lips. "Trust me, my mind comes pre-installed with blast-proof titanium shutters. Rated for cosmic-level weirdness."

Pepper paused at a discreet panel beside an unassuming door, tapping a sequence. The door slid open silently. "Then consider this," she murmured, stepping inside, "a calibration test." The lights bloomed softly, revealing the space. Peter’s breath hitched. It wasn't just a theater room; it was a sensory sanctuary. Deep charcoal walls swallowed ambient light, focusing everything on the vast, silent screen dominating the far wall. Its obsidian surface reflected the subtle amber glow from recessed lighting illuminating built-in shelves – not cluttered, but curated screen-used props: TRON: Legacy Identity Disc, Jurassic Park mosquito-in-amber prop, Back to the Future “OUTATIME” license plate, Luke Skywalker’s Lightsaber Hilt, Han Solo’s DL-44 Blaster, and Ghostbuster Ecto-Goggles worn by Bill Murray.

Instead of tiered seating, wide, slate-gray loungers sprawled across the plush, sound-dampening carpet, each deep enough to swallow the three of them whole. They were accented with red and gold pillows that seemed to glow warmly under the soft light. The air hummed faintly, not with machinery, but with the subtle resonance of hidden speakers and the clean, warm scent of premium leather upholstery mingling with the faint, crisp tang of ozone from the cutting-edge projection tech humming silently behind the screen. It was a fortress against the city's chaos – a cocoon designed for pure immersion.

Peter’s gaze swept the room, landing on the gleaming popcorn maker. Its chrome curves reflected the ambient light like a beacon. "Okay," he breathed, genuine awe replacing his earlier teasing bravado. "This… this might actually qualify." He moved towards the machine, drawn by the promise of ritual. "Permission to initiate Operation Movie Fuel?" He glanced back at Pepper, already reaching for the glass jars overflowing with rainbow-colored gummies and m&ms.

Pepper leaned against the doorframe, fatigue momentarily forgotten. "Permission granted," she said, her voice carrying a rare lightness. "But before you dive into the candy stash," she added, nodding towards the illuminated shelves, "you might want to go up and look at the props. Tony curated those personally." Her eyes held a flicker of amusement. "And I think a couple of them might interest you."

Peter hesitated, torn between the popcorn machine and Pepper's suggestion. Curiosity won. He drifted towards the shelves, his gaze skimming over the Jurassic Park amber, the TRON disc... then froze. His hand hovered, trembling slightly, inches from Luke Skywalker's lightsaber hilt displayed beside Han Solo's iconic DL-44 blaster. Nestled beside them were two framed notes. The first, penned in looping script on Star Wars production stationery, read: “To Tony Stark – Thanks for keeping the galaxy safe. Next Death Star’s on me. – George Lucas." The second, on sleek Ford Foundation letterhead, was simpler: “Harrison Ford. For the man that has everything. Thank you for your charitable donation." Peter’s jaw went slack. He traced the edge of Lucas's note with a fingertip, utterly speechless for the first time in recent memory.

He spun around, eyes wide with pure geek euphoria. "Pepper! These are... Lucas himself. And Harrison Ford? Tony had Lucas sign... this?” He gestured wildly at the lightsaber prop. "Why didn't he ever tell me? He knew I'd lose my mind! We talked Star Wars all the time!" The sheer injustice of it momentarily eclipsed the day's horrors – Tony Stark, holding out on him about meeting George Lucas? Unthinkable. "He showed me the Mona Lisa once, but this? This is... legendary!"

Pepper watched his genuine, almost childlike excitement, a small smile touching her lips despite the exhaustion. "Tony acquired those seven years ago," she said softly, leaning against the doorframe. Her gaze drifted past Peter to the lightsaber hilt. "Right after the Blip. Weeks after we returned." She paused, her brow furrowing slightly as if trying to recall a faded dream. "He became... intensely focused. He had me reach out personally to Harrison Ford's office, arrange the donation – a quarter million to his foundation – just to secure that blaster prop." She shook her head slowly. "At the time, I couldn't fathom it. Why Star Wars? Why then? He was usually in so specific about his acquisitions." Her eyes lifted, meeting Peter's stunned gaze directly. "Now... now I think it was simpler. He missed you, Peter. Desperately. Maybe collecting these things – things he knew you'd lose your mind over – was his way of... holding onto the kid he thought was gone forever."

Peter’s hand dropped from the shelf as if burned. He stared at Pepper, the geek euphoria evaporating into something raw and aching. "Before... before Thanos," he began, his voice rough, quieter than usual, "I never really got how much he cared. Not fully." He shifted his weight, looking down at his worn socks against the plush carpet. "Part of me figured I was just... convenient. A useful kid he could mentor when it suited him. Someone smart enough to fix his coffee machine, maybe." He swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet Pepper’s eyes again. "It was unfathomable, y'know? That Tony Stark – the Tony Stark – could genuinely give a damn about some random kid from Queens. He kept things so close. The jokes, the sarcasm... it was armor. For both of us, I guess." A bitter chuckle escaped him. "Then he was gone. And you... you told me he invented time travel. Not for the universe. Not even for Morgan, not at first. You said..." Peter’s voice cracked slightly. "You said he invented it to bring me back."

He paced a few steps, running a hand through his hair, the enormity of it hitting him anew amidst Tony's curated treasures. "How does someone even process that? How do you make that okay? He stopped abruptly, turning back to Pepper, his expression stripped bare. "He tore apart reality itself. Risked everything. For me. And then... he died saving me. Saving everyone." The phantom weight of Tony’s gauntlet-clad hand pressing against his chest felt suddenly crushing. "Every damn day I try to live up to that. To be worthy of that sacrifice. To protect Morgan, to help you... but how do you ever balance that ledger? How do you make any of it okay?" The question hung heavy in the hushed theater room, echoing louder than Morgan’s excited footsteps ever could.

Pepper pushed off the doorframe, the plush carpet muffling her steps as she crossed the theater room. She stopped directly in front of Peter, forcing him to look up from his worn socks. Her gaze was steady, devoid of pity but filled with an understanding that cut deeper than any platitude. "You don't," she said, her voice quiet but firm, slicing through the hushed air. "You don't make it okay, Peter. That ledger? It doesn't balance. Not ever." She saw the protest forming on his lips and pressed on. "Tony didn't invent time travel to saddle you with eternal debt. He did it because he couldn't lose you. Not again. That was his choice. His burden. Trying to 'make it okay' cheapens the terrifying, selfish love that drove him."

Peter flinched, the raw honesty hitting him like a physical blow. "But Morgan—"

Pepper cut him off sharply. "Morgan has me,” she stated, her voice gaining steel. "She has Happy, Rhodey, this entire legacy designed to protect her. What Tony gave you wasn't a burden to repay, Peter. It was a gift." She gestured towards the Lucas-signed lightsaber. "He collected these because imagining you seeing them someday was the only thing that made the silence bearable. His love wasn't conditional on you balancing some cosmic scale. It just was. Trying to 'make it okay' implies it wasn't okay already, that his sacrifice was a mistake needing correction." She held his gaze, unwavering. "It wasn't. He'd do it again. Without hesitation."

Peter stared at her, the frantic calculations behind his eyes momentarily stilling. Pepper's words weren't platitudes; they were structural isomers of truth rearranging his internal chaos. He didn't need to ponder her statement. He knew. He'd have ripped reality apart for Tony. He'd do it right now for Morgan. And for Pepper... the fierce protectiveness flared hotter than Extremis he didn't know was active inside her. He'd dive into any abyss for her, shield her from Hammer, Stane, Killian, whatever came. The realization wasn't thunderous; it settled like bedrock.

Pepper watched the shift in his posture, the defensive slump replaced by weary resolve. Her own exhaustion felt like lead weights strapped to her bones, but a deeper current pulled her forward. "Is that why you're here, Peter?" Her voice was low, stripped bare of Pepper Potts CEO steel, leaving only raw curiosity. "Protecting us? Because you think you have some obligation to Tony?" She tilted her head, her gaze sharp despite the fatigue.

He recoiled instantly, a flicker of panic widening his eyes. "What? No!" The denial erupted too fast, too loud in the theater's hushed acoustics. He gestured wildly towards Morgan’s bedroom door. "Morgan needs protection! Kraven proved that today! And you—" His voice cracked. "You were attacked! Of course I want to be here! Where else would I be?" He paced away, running agitated hands through his hair. "It’s not about obligation, Pepper. It’s about—" He choked on the word family, terrified it sounded presumptuous, terrified she’d see the messy, desperate affection tangled up with his guilt.

Pepper didn't flinch. She closed the distance he'd created, her movement deliberate. Her hand shot out, surprisingly strong, catching his wrist before he could retreat further. Her touch wasn't gentle; it was grounding, anchoring him in the moment. "Then what is it about, Peter?" Her gaze locked onto his, stripping away his frantic deflection. The question hung heavy, demanding an honesty he couldn't dodge. Beneath her scrutiny, the carefully constructed shield of duty and protection began to fracture.

He stopped pulling away. His shoulders slumped, not in defeat, but in weary surrender to the truth. "Yeah," he admitted, his voice rough, scraping against the quiet hum of the theater’s air conditioning. "Without Tony... I wouldn't be standing here. Wouldn't know Morgan." He glanced towards the shelf holding Lucas’s note, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Wouldn't have seen that. But that's... background noise now." He met her eyes again, the frantic energy replaced by a profound stillness. "After Strange's spell... I cobbled a life together. Bartending gigs, cheap apartments, patrolling, even managed to find some great friends I really care about. I existed. Functioned. But sitting still? Just... being Peter Parker?" He shook his head slowly. "Every quiet moment felt like waiting for the next disaster. Spider-Man was either saving someone or wanting to be out there saving someone. Peter Parker was just... the guy who existed in between."

Pepper’s grip on his wrist loosened slightly, her thumb brushing unconsciously over his pulse point, grounding him further. She didn't speak, her gaze urging him onward.

"Here," Peter continued, his voice gaining clarity as he gestured vaguely towards the kitchen beyond the theater door. "With you and Morgan... it’s different. I didn’t even think about my web shooters until I needed them to fight Kraven. Out there, I’m Peter Parker to protect my identity as Spider-Man. Here," his eyes swept the room, lingering on the Lucas-signed lightsaber, then settling firmly back on Pepper, "I’m Peter Parker until I need to be Spider-Man. And honestly, I thought I'd never feel that way again."

Pepper’s thumb stilled against his wrist. The quiet intensity in his words resonated deeper than any grand declaration. She knew the weight of that distinction – the exhausting vigilance of always wearing armor, literal or metaphorical. Her own Extremis simmered beneath her skin, a constant reminder. "So," she murmured, her voice thick with unspoken understanding, "this is… home?" The word felt fragile, tentative, like testing thin ice.

Peter didn’t hesitate. "Yeah." The simplicity of it held undeniable conviction. He glanced towards the hallway where Morgan had vanished, then back at Pepper, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. "Is that… okay?" He asked it softly, the question hanging between them. "Me being here? Like this?" The implication was clear: not just as Morgan’s protector, not just as Tony’s legacy-keeper, but as Peter. Existing. Cooking salmon. Geeking out over Star Wars props. Finding a semblance of peace within these walls that eluded him everywhere else.

Pepper didn't release his wrist. Her thumb pressed against his pulse point again, solid and real. "Okay?" Her laugh was short, devoid of humor, raspy with exhaustion and something else. "Peter, you spent all day on a project you could've done in an hour because you wanted to let my daughter help. You spent last night crammed in a twin bed because she had a nightmare. You sat through four viewings of Frozen last week without complaining." Her gaze locked onto his, stripping away any pretense. "You're not just 'okay' here. You're essential.” The word hung between them, stark and undeniable. "Morgan adores you. And I..." She paused, the admission catching in her throat like static. "I haven't felt this... anchored... since before Tony died." The raw honesty surprised even her.

He didn't pull away. Instead, his fingers shifted tentatively against hers, intertwining with Pepper's cool, smooth ones. The contact was electric, a silent answer to her unspoken vulnerability. His thumb traced the delicate bones of her knuckles. "Anchored," he echoed softly, the word resonating deep within him. "Yeah. That's it."

Peter licked his lips, unconsciously moistening them as his gaze held Pepper’s. The air crackled with a sudden, undeniable shift – the shared exhaustion and grief momentarily eclipsed by a potent, unexpected intimacy. Pepper’s eyes, drawn by the unconscious gesture, dropped to his mouth. Her breath seemed to catch in her throat. The theater room faded away, leaving only the charged space between them, thick with unspoken longing. The lightsaber, the popcorn machine, the impending movie – none of it mattered in that suspended heartbeat. He leaned in fractionally, drawn by the magnetic pull in her eyes, the silent invitation. Her fingers tightened around his.

The moment hung, crystalline and fragile, poised on the precipice of something irrevocable. Peter’s thumb brushed the pulse point at her wrist again, a question. Pepper’s lips parted slightly, her own breath shallow, the defenses of CEO and widow dissolving under the sheer, terrifying weight of possibility. Years of loss, isolation, and duty seemed to unravel at the edges. She tilted her head upwards, closing the infinitesimal distance—

Peter ripped his hand away as if scalded, stumbling back a step. His eyes, wide and startled, darted past her shoulder towards the theater room entrance. A flush crept up his neck, stark against his sudden pallor. Pepper froze, the abrupt withdrawal hitting like a physical slap. Rejection. Sharp, humiliating, complete. Her own breath choked off, the fragile hope shattering into jagged shards of embarrassment. She wrapped her arms around herself, the plush carpet suddenly feeling cold beneath her bare feet. She couldn’t meet his eyes. It's official I've lost my damn mind.

"READY!" Morgan's voice, impossibly loud and bright, shattered the suffocating silence a fraction of a second before she burst through the doorway. She was a whirlwind in fuzzy purple unicorn pajamas, her stuffed dragon clutched triumphantly under one arm. Trailing behind her, tangled around her feet, was a familiar red and blue Spiderman fleece blanket. Peter stared at the blanket, his expression shifting from startled guilt to stunned recognition. That blanket. Tony had tossed it at him after he got stabbed patroling, a crooked grin on his face. “Congrats, kid. You officially made it. You've officially gone from vigilante to superhero now that you've got your own merch. Try not to bleed on it." The memory hit Peter with visceral clarity – the smell of the Medbay, the ache in his ribs, the absurd warmth of Tony’s gruff approval wrapped in cheap fleece.

Pepper’s arms remained locked around herself, humiliation still hot on her skin, but her gaze snapped from Peter’s stricken face to Morgan’s oblivious entrance. Then she saw it: Peter wasn't looking at her with rejection. His eyes were locked on Morgan, wide with the realization that he’d heard her coming before Pepper could have registered the sound. Spider-sense. Of course. Relief, sharp and dizzying, washed through her, instantly cooling the burn of rejection. It wasn't her. It was his hyper-awareness kicking in, saving them both from a moment Morgan shouldn't witness.

Morgan skidded to a halt, her dragon bouncing. "Look! I found Draggy and my super-spidey blanket!" She proudly held up the worn fleece, its red and blue fabric slightly faded but unmistakable. Peter stared at it, the flush fading from his neck, replaced by a profound stillness. The cheap fleece, the ache of that stab wound, Tony’s gruff voice echoing – “Congrats, kid. You officially made it.“ The blanket wasn't just merch; it was a relic, tangible proof of Tony’s acceptance, carelessly dragged across the floor by the daughter he’d died to protect. Peter’s throat tightened.

Pepper only needed to glance at Peter’s face. His expression wasn't startled guilt anymore; it was a raw, aching tenderness aimed solely at Morgan and the blanket. Instantly, Pepper understood. She didn’t remember giving Morgan that blanket. She hadn't bought it. It hadn't come from Morgan’s own belongings. Its sudden appearance, dragged in now, clicked into place. It was Peter’s. Somehow, tucked away in Morgan’s room, it had become hers. And Peter’s reaction – that deep, silent recognition – told Pepper everything. This fleece was a piece of his past, a piece of Tony with Peter, now woven into Morgan’s world. The connection was immediate, visceral, and utterly heartbreaking.

Peter knelt smoothly, his momentary shock replaced by a soft, genuine smile as Morgan shoved the blanket towards him. "Found Draggy and my super-spidey blanket!" Morgan declared again, bouncing on her toes.

 Peter took the fleece gently, his fingers tracing the faded stitching. "You sure did, Mo," he murmured, his voice thick with warmth. He didn't look at Pepper, but she felt the shift in him – the raw vulnerability tucked away, replaced by a protective focus. He draped the blanket loosely over Morgan’s shoulders like a cape. "Alright, Captain Morgan! Mission accomplished." He stood, ruffling her hair. "All you need now is some snackage, and then we'll be ready to rock."

"I'll get it," Pepper said quickly, her voice miraculously steady despite the internal tremors. She needed the moment away, the few seconds to regain her composure and let the flush recede from her skin. The phantom heat of Peter’s hand in hers lingered. She moved towards the popcorn maker and snacks at the back of the room, the plush carpet swallowing her footsteps.

Morgan wasted no time. She seized Peter’s hand with sticky fingers, tugging him insistently towards the largest, deepest lounger facing the giant screen. "Sit!" she commanded, dropping onto the center of it like a tiny, determined monarch. Peter obeyed, sinking into the plush fabric with a soft exhale. Morgan immediately burrowed against his side, clutching Draggy and arranging the Spidey blanket over both their legs. "You gotta be here,” she informed him, patting the cushion firmly. "For the best view."

Pepper returned, balancing a bowl piled high with popcorn and three small bottles of sparkling apple cider. The tremor in her hands had subsided, replaced by practiced calm. She moved towards the adjacent lounger, intending to give Peter- and herself- space after the charged moment they’d narrowly avoided.

"No!" Morgan’s voice cut through the low hum of the projector warming up. She scrambled upright on the oversized lounger, the Spidey blanket pooling around her knees. Her small hand shot out, pointing emphatically at the cushion pressed tight against Peter’s side. "Mommy sits here!” Her tone brooked no argument, the command of an eight-year-old accustomed to having her universe ordered just so. "Next to me!"

Pepper hesitated, the bowl of popcorn a sudden, awkward weight in her hands. She’d aimed for the neighboring lounger, a deliberate buffer zone after the charged near-kiss and the raw intimacy of Peter’s confession. Sitting pressed hip-to-hip with Peter, separated only by Morgan’s slight frame, felt dangerously close to acknowledging the electric current still buzzing between them. Morgan’s expectant stare, however, was an immovable force. Pepper glanced at Peter; he was studiously adjusting the blanket over Morgan’s lap, avoiding her eyes, but the faint flush creeping up his neck betrayed his awareness. With a soft sigh that was half-resignation, half-suppressed anticipation, Pepper surrendered. She sank onto the plush cushion Morgan had claimed, her foot brushing his calf as she settled.

Friday dimmed the lights as the familiar, soaring notes of Hedwig’s Theme filled the theater. Morgan instantly burrowed deeper, wedging herself firmly between them, Draggy clutched tight. Her small frame radiated warmth against Pepper’s side. As Hagrid lumbered onto the screen, Peter leaned down slightly, his voice a low rumble against Morgan’s temple, explaining "Muggle" meant someone without magic, like Aunt May had done to him as a kid. Pepper watched Morgan’s eyes widen during Diagon Alley’s reveal, Peter narrating quietly about Ollivanders and wands, his explanations simple and captivating. By the time Harry faced the troll, Morgan’s excited chatter had faded. Her eyelids drooped, then closed completely, her head lolling heavily against Peter’s shoulder, her breathing shifting into the deep, even rhythm of sleep.

Pepper felt her own exhaustion crash over her like a physical wave, the adrenaline from Kraven’s attack and the emotional turmoil finally demanding payment. The dim screen light flickered across Morgan’s peaceful face. Pepper shifted slightly, intending to lift Morgan onto her lap, but her limbs felt impossibly heavy, as if filled with wet sand. Every bruise Kraven had left seemed to pulse anew. She sagged back against the plush cushions, the effort too great. The comforting weight of Morgan pressed against her side anchored her in the drowsy haze.

Peter remained perfectly still beside her, acutely aware of Morgan’s deep sleep. He kept his voice low, narrating Hagrid’s gentle introduction of Hogwarts to Harry, his tone soft and rhythmic. The familiar story was a lullaby Pepper hadn’t realized she needed. Her eyelids fluttered shut, the vibrant colors of Diagon Alley dissolving into darkness behind them. The warmth radiating from Peter’s arm draped casually over the back of the lounger seeped into her shoulder, a solid, reassuring presence cutting through the cool theater air. It wasn't an embrace, yet it felt like shelter.

It felt like home.

Chapter Text

The screen faded to black as John Williams’ triumphant finale swelled through the speakers. Pepper stirred, consciousness drifting back like a slow tide. She registered warmth first—the soft fleece of Morgan’s Spidey blanket tucked around her shoulders and the solid heat of Peter’s arm beneath her head. Her cheek rested against the worn fabric of his button-down, her own arm draped protectively over Morgan’s sleeping form sprawled across Peter like the night before. One leg had slipped over Peter’s thigh during the movie, anchoring her in place.

For a disorienting moment, she floated in the sheer, uncomplicated comfort of it—the steady rhythm of Peter’s breathing beneath her ear, Morgan’s soft snores muffled against his chest, the lingering scent of popcorn and apple cider. It was a tangle of limbs and trust, utterly unplanned and profoundly right. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she snuggled deeper, pressing her forehead lightly against Peter’s shoulder. The theater was silent except for the hum of the projector cooling down and Morgan’s sleepy sighs.

Peter hadn’t moved. His arm remained curled loosely around Morgan’s back, his other hand resting lightly on Pepper’s shoulder where she leaned against him. He felt utterly still, utterly present, like an anchor point in the quiet dark. "Friday," he murmured, barely audible, "credits off, lights to ten percent." The screen went dark, replaced by a soft, ambient glow that chased away the deepest shadows without disturbing the sleepy peace. He shifted minutely beneath Morgan, careful not to jostle her. "You okay?" The question was a low rumble against Pepper’s temple, intimate in the shared stillness.

Pepper murmured something unintelligible against the soft cotton of Peter’s shirt, the vibration traveling through his chest. Her forehead pressed more firmly into his shoulder, seeking the solid warmth beneath the fabric. Morgan remained a dead weight sprawled across Peter, her cheek squished against his other arm, one small hand clutching a fold of the Spidey blanket draped over Pepper’s shoulders. Peter’s own arm, draped loosely over Pepper’s back, felt heavy and immobile, pinned beneath Morgan’s torso and Pepper’s comforting weight. He didn’t dare shift. The stillness was sacred, fragile – a tableau of tangled limbs and shared breath in the dimly lit sanctuary. “Are you?”

"Yeah," he breathed back, his voice barely audible above the projector’s cooling fan. "Just... didn’t want to wake anyone." His thumb brushed lightly over the fleece covering Pepper’s shoulder blade. The simple touch felt monumental in the quiet dark. The low ambient light caught the faint sheen of moisture Pepper hadn’t realized had gathered at the corners of her eyes. Exhaustion, relief, the sheer overwhelming rightness of the moment pressed down on her, a pleasant, drowsy weight. She kept her eyes closed, focusing on the steady thrum of Peter’s heartbeat beneath her ear, a counterpoint to Morgan’s softer breaths.

"Morgan’s out cold," she whispered, her voice thick with sleep and something softer. "And... I think I might be too." She didn’t mention the tears, the bone-deep ache from Kraven’s assault, or the insidious heat simmering beneath her skin – the Extremis threat Helen had warned about. Here, cocooned between Peter’s strength and Morgan’s innocence, wrapped in the absurdly comforting fleece relic of Tony’s gruff affection, those burdens felt distant, manageable. For now.

Peter shifted minutely beneath Morgan, careful not to disturb her. His thumb resumed its slow, unconscious stroke over the fleece covering Pepper’s shoulder blade. "Movie marathon coma," he murmured back, his voice a low vibration against her forehead. "Mission accomplished." He paused, the silence stretching comfortably. "Should I... carry her to bed?" The question hung softly, acknowledging the inevitable end of this fragile sanctuary without forcing it.

Pepper didn't lift her head. The thought of untangling herself, of Morgan waking, of leaving this warm cocoon for the cool emptiness of her own room felt impossibly daunting. "Not yet," she breathed against his shirt, the words muffled but clear. The dread of returning to the reality of her condition – the simmering Extremis, Helen’s ticking clock – coiled coldly in her stomach. Here, pressed against Peter’s steady heartbeat and Morgan’s soft breaths, it felt muted, manageable. "Just... a few more minutes." It was a plea disguised as a statement.

Peter’s thumb stilled its gentle circle on her shoulder. He understood the unspoken weight behind her hesitation. "Okay," he murmured back, the single word a promise suspended in the soft light. He shifted his pinned arm infinitesimally, adjusting Morgan’s weight without disturbing her sleep, his fingers finding Pepper’s hand where it rested near Morgan’s hip. He didn’t lace their fingers, just covered hers lightly, anchoring her as she drifted back to sleep.

xXx

Pepper drifted into a dream saturated with the sharp scent of motor oil and Tony’s familiar cologne—wild bergamot and burnt circuits. They stood in the Malibu garage, moonlight slicing through tall windows as he spun her away from a half-assembled repulsor array. His laughter was low, intimate, vibrating through her palms pressed against his chest. His thumb traced her jawline, calloused from tinkering, and he murmured, "Missed this, Potts." Then his mouth was on hers, hungry and possessive, tasting of espresso and desperation, his hands sliding beneath her blouse to rediscover the curve of her spine. Time dissolved; there was only the heat of his skin, the hum of unfinished tech around them, and the ache of two long years since she felt the warmth of his touch. Suddenly, the garage door rattled violently. Tony pulled back, his eyes sharpening into defensive steel. "Stay behind me," he ordered, pushing her toward the workbench.

But Pepper didn’t move. Instead, she gripped his wrist—solid, real—and whispered fiercely, "Don’t you dare leave me again." The rattling intensified, shaking the entire structure. Tony’s gaze softened as he cupped her face, his thumb brushing away a tear she hadn’t felt fall.

"Never," he promised against her lips, his breath warm.

Then came the explosion. Not fire or shrapnel, but light—a blinding, molten gold that tore through the reinforced steel like wet paper. The figure that stepped through wasn’t Kraven or Killian. It was Extremis itself, distilled into a towering silhouette of shifting amber coils and liquid heat. Its limbs rippled like mercury, its core a pulsing star furnace. Tony’s repulsors flared instinctively, bathing the garage in harsh blue light. The entity didn’t speak. It merely tilted its head—a grotesque imitation of curiosity—and the air thickened with the scent of scorched metal and ozone. Pepper’s skin prickled, her veins humming in terrifying resonance.

Tony shoved her violently backward. "RUN, PEPPER!" His voice cracked, raw with fear she’d never heard before. But her legs were lead. The entity surged forward, a tidal wave of incandescent fury. Its molten hand stretched out, fingers elongating into white-hot talons aimed at Tony’s chest. Pepper screamed, lunging for him, but her dream-body moved through syrup. She saw Tony brace, saw the defiant flare of his arc reactor—

Pepper’s fingers tightened reflexively around Tony’s wrist, pulling him harder toward the gaping garage exit. Moonlight streamed in, an icy promise of escape. Then Tony’s skin shifted beneath her grip—callouses shifting into something familiar, but different. The scent of bergamot vanished, replaced by ozone and sandalwood. The face she clung to blurred, then sharpened into Peter’s earnest gaze, wild with adrenaline. Before Pepper could gasp, Peter’s arm snapped around her waist, hauling her flush against his chest.

"Hold on!" His voice cut through the dream-fog, sharp as shrapnel. A thick web-line hissed from his wrist, anchoring to a phantom beam overhead. The garage dissolved into rushing wind and fractured light as he swung them upward, away from the molten talons. "It’s okay," he breathed into her hair, the words vibrating against her temple. "I got you."

They arced through a void where Malibu’s moonlit cliffs bled into Stark Tower’s skeletal scaffolding. Pepper buried her face in Peter’s shoulder, the fabric of his suit rough against her cheek. Below, the Extremis entity roared—a sound like tearing metal and snapping bones—but Peter’s grip never faltered. He pivoted mid-swing, firing another web-line with fluid precision, propelling them higher into the dark. His muscles coiled tight beneath her, every movement telegraphing raw, desperate focus.

Peter landed with a soft thump onto solid steel beams high above the dream-chaos, boots absorbing the impact. He didn’t release her—not even an inch. His arms remained locked around her waist, anchoring her against his chest while her legs trembled. Below, the molten silhouette writhed, lashing at phantom shadows.

Pepper instinctively twisted to look down—to face the nightmare born from her own veins. Peter’s hand shot up instantly, cupping her jaw with startling firmness, pressing her face firmly into the hollow of his shoulder. "Don’t," he hissed against her temple, his voice taut as wire. His thumb brushed her cheekbone, a deliberate counterpoint to the steel in his grip. "Don’t give it that." Their fronts pressed flush together—

The sudden warmth radiating from Peter’s chest cut through the dream’s lingering chill like sunlight through fog. It wasn’t that wild blaze of Extremis-heat; this was deeper, steadier. Pepper shuddered, not from fear, but from the visceral shock of recognition. This warmth wasn’t borrowed or remembered. It was Peter’s own fierce life-force bleeding through the thin fabric of his suit, seeping into her skin where Tony’s phantom touch still burned. Her breath hitched, trapped somewhere between a gasp and a sob.

She hadn’t realized she’d been trembling until Peter’s hand slid from her jaw to cup the back of her neck, anchoring her skull against the solid ridge of his collarbone. His thumb pressed gently into the tense muscle beneath her ear, a silent command: Stay here. Stay with me. The scent of ozone and sandalwood filled her nostrils, overwhelming the phantom bergamot.

She tilted her head back, her gaze locking onto his. The fierce determination in his eyes hadn’t faded; it had softened, fractured by something raw and unguarded – a reflection of the wreckage in her own soul. The dream-chaos beneath them dissolved entirely. There was only Peter’s steady breath mingling with hers, the frantic flutter of her pulse beneath his fingertips, and the unbearable, electric charge bridging the scant space between their lips. His exhale ghosted across her mouth, warm and real. A plea escaped her, no louder than a sigh: "Peter." It wasn’t a name. It was surrender. His gaze dropped to her parted lips, darkening with an intensity that stole her breath anew. He leaned in the final fraction—

Peter’s lips met hers not with hesitant exploration, but with the desperate certainty of a drowning man finding air. It wasn’t gentle; it was a collision—hot, urgent, and bruisingly real. Pepper gasped into his mouth, her fingers clawing into the rough fabric of his suit, anchoring herself against the dizzying surge of sensation. His hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head back, deepening the kiss with a raw, possessive hunger that obliterated thought. The faint sweetness of cider lingering on his breath, and the overwhelming, grounding warmth of him. This wasn’t Tony’s ghost kissing her; it was Peter Parker, fiercely alive and claiming her in the wreckage of her nightmares.

Then it ignited. A searing, liquid heat erupted from the core of her being, racing through her veins like wildfire—Extremis. It wasn’t pain; it was pure, terrifying energy, a runaway reactor threatening to consume her from within. The warmth radiating from Peter’s skin suddenly scalded where their bodies pressed flush together—chest to chest, hip to hip, her leg hooked desperately around his waist for balance. It felt like pressing against molten steel. Peter flinched violently, a sharp hiss escaping him against her lips, but his grip only tightened, refusing to let go. His hand slid from her neck to the small of her back, pressing her impossibly closer, as if trying to absorb the inferno blazing beneath her skin. "Pepper—" he gasped against her mouth, the word ragged with alarm, his eyes wide and terrified as they searched hers.

The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of agony and sensation: the acrid bite of ozone scorching her nostrils, the deafening roar of her own pulse drowning out Peter’s choked breaths, the dizzying spin of the steel beam beneath her feet blurring into the phantom Malibu garage. She clawed at Peter’s suit, fingers fumbling for purchase, her vision swimming with crimson light.

Through the haze, she saw Peter’s jaw clench, raw determination hardening his features even as his skin flushed unnaturally red where hers touched it. He shifted his stance, bracing them both against the beam’s edge, his free hand snapping upward to fire a frantic web-line—not to swing, but to anchor them against the tremor shaking her body. "Hold on!" he commanded, his voice cracking under strain. "Just hold onto me!"

Pepper jerked awake with a strangled gasp, the phantom smell of Peter's charred flesh still clinging to her nostrils. She practically lay atop him, straddling his waist, her fingers bunched tight in the fabric of his worn tee. Her face remained buried in the crook of his neck, breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts against his skin. Morgan was no longer tucked against Peter’s side but curled peacefully at the far end of the plush lounger, oblivious—her small frame a quiet island beneath Peter’s Spider-Man blanket.

The position felt dangerously intimate, a tangled knot of limbs and shared warmth despite the thin barrier of clothes—Pepper’s thigh pressed firm along the hard line of Peter’s hip, her knee hooked behind his back, anchoring herself to the solid reality of him. Her skin still hummed with the terrifying aftershock of Extremis’s eruption in her dream. The soothing warmth radiating from Peter’s body wasn’t a comfort now; it felt alarmingly like a warning siren.

Where her cheek pressed against his neck, the heat was intense, almost feverish—unnatural. It mirrored the phantom scorch of Extremis’s molten touch in her nightmare. A tremor ran through her, involuntary, as she recalled Peter’s sharp hiss against her lips, the flush of pain staining his skin where she’d touched him. Was the dream a premonition? Was she burning him now? Panic clawed its way up her throat. This embrace wasn’t sanctuary; it felt like laying dynamite against a spark.

Pepper peeled herself away from Peter's warmth with aching slowness, every movement deliberate and silent. Her fingers trembled as she gently lifted her leg from his hip, the fabric of her contour dress pants catching momentarily on the rough denim of his jeans. She paused, holding her breath as Peter stirred slightly—a soft sigh escaping his lips, his brow furrowed even in sleep—before settling again. The terror of her dream clung to her like sweat, but the sight of his peaceful, exhausted face anchored her resolve. Don't wake him, she pleaded silently with her own trembling limbs. Not after everything.

She slid backward an inch at a time, her gaze fixed on Peter’s sleeping form. The heat radiating from his neck where her cheek had rested moments before felt accusatory now, a phantom brand. As she finally freed her hand from where it clutched his shirt, she saw the faintest red flush bloom beneath the collar of his tee—right where her fingertips had dug in. Her breath hitched. Was it friction? A pressure mark? Or the searing imprint of her instability? The instinct to smooth it away, to cool his skin with her palm, warred violently with the need to flee before her nightmare bled into reality.

Pepper rose from the lounger in a fluid, silent motion, her bare feet sinking into the plush rug. She paused, swaying slightly as the remnants of Extremis’ phantom fire danced beneath her ribs. Peter shifted, his brow furrowing as if chasing the warmth she’d stolen. One hand twitched toward the space she’d vacated, fingers curling loosely against the cushion. The sight—raw, unconscious longing—lodged a knot in her throat. She forced her eyes away, focusing instead on Morgan’s serene face half-buried in his Spider-Man blanket. Her daughter’s trust was a tangible thing, woven into the threads of that fabric. Pepper’s trembling fingers brushed Morgan’s cheek—light as a moth’s wing—then retreated as if burned.

She retreated toward the private theater’s sleek kitchenette, her steps unnaturally silent. The cool marble countertop beneath her palms offered no real solace, only a stark contrast to the phantom heat still crawling beneath her skin. She braced herself against it, knuckles whitening, while her gaze remained fixed on Peter’s sleeping form—the faint flush still visible at his collar, Morgan’s small hand resting trustingly on his arm. Every ragged breath Pepper took felt like stealing oxygen from a room suddenly starved of it.

 She couldn’t risk waking him. Not when exhaustion carved such deep lines into his face, not when Morgan slept so peacefully tangled in his shadow. Her own distress tightened like a vice around her ribs, sharp and metallic. She pressed a trembling hand hard against her sternum, as if she could physically contain the chaotic energy simmering there.

Without a backward glance, Pepper fled the theater—a swift pivot of bare feet on plush carpet, the heavy door sighing shut behind her. The hallway’s dimmed emergency lights stretched her shadow long and thin against the wall, a silent witness to her retreat. She leaned against the cold glass overlooking the city lights, forehead pressed to the pane. The chill seeped into her skin, but it couldn’t quell the frantic pulse hammering in her throat. She’d left them. Left Morgan curled against Peter’s warmth. Left Peter vulnerable to whatever fire she carried inside. The phantom scent of scorched fabric clung stubbornly to her senses. Was it real? Had she hurt him? The uncertainty coiled in her gut, cold and venomous.

xXx

Inside the theater, Peter’s eyes snapped open the instant the door sealed shut. His gaze was instantly alert, devoid of sleep’s lingering fog, fixed on the spot Pepper had vacated beside him. The warmth of her sudden departure—the frantic slide of her leg from his hip, the snatched-away weight against his side—still echoed sharply on his skin. A familiar dread pooled cold in his stomach. He’d felt her stiffen, sensed the panicked heartbeat fluttering against his neck moments before she pulled away. She woke up tangled with me, Peter concluded, his jaw tightening. And it terrified her.

The memory of his violent recoil when Morgan interrupted their near-kiss flashed through his mind—Pepper’s humiliated expression, her misinterpretation. He’d been clumsy then, caught guarding a secret. Now? He’d simply… held on. Let her sleep. And she’d bolted. The faint flush on his neck where her fingers had clutched his shirt felt like a brand of his own stupidity. He’d misread her exhaustion for acceptance, her need for comfort as permission.

Peter shifted his gaze to Morgan, still peacefully asleep with her cheek pillowed against his Spider-Man blanket. He carefully eased his arm out from beneath her, replacing it with a cushion, his movements silent, practiced—the instincts of Spider-Man overriding Peter Parker’s clumsy grief. Rising from the lounger, he scanned the dim room: the abandoned cider cups, Pepper’s discarded cardigan draped over the armrest. His senses prickled, not with danger, but with the lingering scent of her perfume—lilies and something sharp, like ozone—mixed with the faint, frantic energy she’d left behind. She was scared, he realized, the cold dread solidifying into guilt. Scared of waking up like that. With me. He’d crossed a line he hadn’t even seen, offering anchor when she’d needed distance. The phantom heat where her body pressed against his felt suddenly invasive.

He moved soundlessly toward the door, pausing only to gently tuck the blanket more securely around Morgan’s shoulders. The theater felt cavernous in Pepper’s absence, the hum of the climate control too loud. His fingers brushed the cool metal handle—hesitant. Following her now felt like trespassing. But the memory of her panicked heartbeat vibrating against his skin, the way she’d flinched away… it clawed at him. He couldn’t leave her alone with whatever phantom that was. Not after she’d just admitted he anchored her. The irony tasted bitter. He’d become the storm she fled.

Peter found her standing rigidly before the living area’s panoramic window, the city’s glittering sprawl painting fractured light across her silhouette. She was achingly still, arms wrapped tightly around herself as if holding her very bones together. "Pepper?" His voice, soft as the distant traffic, sliced through the silence.

She flinched violently—a full-body recoil—hand flying to her chest like a shield, her breath catching in a ragged gasp. Her eyes, wide and startled, snapped to his reflection in the glass before she slowly turned, her expression smoothing into an unnerving blankness. "Pepper," he repeated, stepping closer, palms raised slightly in placation. "Are you okay?"

Her reply was clipped, brittle, devoid of the warmth that had lingered only hours ago: "Fine. I’m perfectly fine, Peter." The rigidity in her posture, the clipped syllables—it was armor slammed into place, starkly rejecting the vulnerability of her head resting trustingly on his shoulder, her murmured exhaustion.

He didn’t buy it. Not for a second. The tremor in her fingers, the faint tremor beneath her collarbone where she clutched her arms—his senses mapped every micro-shake, every frantic pulse point screaming distress. He stopped an arm’s length away, careful not to crowd her retreat. "You weren’t fine," he murmured, his gaze unwavering, gentle but unyielding. "You were shaking. Like… like something scared you." He paused, searching her averted eyes. "Did I… did I do something?"

The question hung between them, heavy with the unspoken specter of the nightmare, the intimacy of her leg hooked around his hip, her fingers clawing his shirt. His voice softened further, laced with a hesitant humility that scraped raw against her guilt: "If I made you uncomfortable… if I crossed some line holding you like that…if I misread all of this, I'm sorry." The apology was genuine, earnest—a humility that felt like salt rubbed into the open wound of her own perceived betrayal. He hadn't pulled away; she had fled. And now he was blaming himself. "I’ll… I’ll be more respectful of boundaries from now on." The promise sounded painfully small against the enormity of her secret.

Pepper’s breath hitched, a sharp intake that felt like glass shards in her lungs. The stark sincerity in his eyes—that raw, misplaced guilt—was a knife twisting deeper. He thought he had trespassed. He thought her panic was about him. Not the wildfire inside her, not the phantom scorch marks she might have left on his skin. Her gaze flickered, unbidden, to the faint flush just visible at the collar of his tee, where her frantic grip had been. Was it darker? Angrier? Her throat tightened. How could she tell him the truth? That her own body was a ticking bomb? That her touch might be poison? That the anchor he offered felt like shackles dragging him toward an explosion?

"No," she whispered, the word escaping like a choked gasp. She forced herself to meet his eyes, her own wide with a desperate, unspoken plea for understanding she couldn’t voice. "It wasn’t you, Peter. It wasn’t—" She broke off, shaking her head violently, strawberry blonde hair falling across her cheek like a shield. "Please… please don’t apologize."

Peter blinked, stunned by the fierce denial in her voice, the raw anguish etched onto her face. His instinctive apology died on his lips. He’d braced for cold dismissal, for clipped reassurances wrapped in armor. Not this… this raw vulnerability that mirrored his own confusion. A nervous laugh, brittle and entirely involuntary, escaped him. "S-Sorry," he stammered, immediately wincing at the reflexive apology, his hand flying up to rub the tense muscles at the back of his neck. His cheeks flushed warm beneath her startled gaze. The sheer awkward absurdity of it broke through the suffocating tension for a fleeting second. He dropped his hand, forcing himself to stand straighter, meeting her wide, startled eyes with a sheepish, almost boyish grimace. "I’m… I’m kinda bad at this."

Pepper watched the flush creep up his neck, saw the genuine, clumsy panic flicker in his eyes, and something tight inside her abruptly loosened. It wasn’t pity; it was recognition—the mirroring of her own chaotic terror transformed into something disarmingly human. A choked sound escaped her, halfway between a sob and a hiccup of unexpected laughter. Her own hand flew to her mouth, fingers trembling against her lips. The sheer absurdity of Spider-Man—her anchor, her protector, the man who’d swung them through collapsing dreams—looking utterly flustered and apologizing for apologizing… it punctured the balloon of her panic. Tears welled, hot and sudden, blurring his bewildered expression. She shook her head, unable to speak past the lump in her throat, the tremors in her shoulders shifting from terror to something else entirely.

Peter froze, utterly thrown. He’d braced for anger, for brittle dismissal, for the steel fortress of CEO Pepper Potts slamming down. Not… this. Not Pepper trembling before him, tears spilling silently down her cheeks, her shoulders shaking with a soundless, desperate mirth. The utter incongruity of it—her elegance fractured, raw vulnerability laid bare—stripped away his own awkwardness. He took a hesitant step forward, his hand lifting instinctively, hovering uncertainly near her elbow.

The cool glass pressed against Pepper’s spine as she leaned back, seeking its solid chill against the phantom heat still prickling beneath her skin. She swiped at her cheeks with trembling fingers, a watery laugh escaping her. “God, Peter,” she whispered, her voice thick. "This is a mess." His hand hovered near her elbow, tentative but persistent, a silent question hanging in the charged space between them. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she met his bewildered gaze, the raw honesty in his eyes mirroring her own fractured composure. "You didn't cross a line," she breathed, the words raw scraped free. "It wasn't you. It was... me. This." Her free hand drifted unconsciously to her sternum, pressing hard against the thin silk blouse. "It feels like... lightning trapped in a jar."

Peter’s brow furrowed, confusion deepening. He saw her distress, the frantic flutter of her pulse at her throat, the tremor in her fingers – unmistakable signs of fear. But her cryptic confession, coupled with the lingering intimacy of waking tangled together, painted a picture he couldn't help but misinterpret. ‘It was me,’ she’d said, pressing her hand over her heart. ‘This.’ His mind raced, replaying the near-kiss in the theater, her drowsy murmurs against his shoulder, the way she’d flinched away upon waking. Was she wrestling with guilt? Regret? Did the tangled comfort frighten her because it felt… right?

He swallowed hard, the sting of misplaced shame sharpening his tone slightly. "Pepper, I know it's... complicated. After Tony. And Morgan. And well a million other things." He faltered, gesturing vaguely at the space between them, his own hand unconsciously mimicking her posture, pressing against his chest where her head had rested. "But whatever 'this' is… it doesn't have to be a storm. You don't have to run." He misinterpreted her lightning metaphor as emotional turbulence, not the literal firestorm brewing beneath her ribs.

Pepper watched the understanding dawn in his eyes – completely wrong, yet achingly sincere. He saw conflicted feelings, messy emotions tangled up with Tony’s ghost and Morgan’s needs. The sheer innocence of his misinterpretation was agonizing. How could she tell him the storm wasn't metaphorical? That the lightning in her veins threatened to erupt, burning him, burning everything?

She choked back the truth, tasting bile. "Peter," she whispered, her voice cracking, "you don't understand." Her gaze darted again to his neckline, searching for any sign of damage – a phantom scorch mark only she could see. The internal conflict raged: tell him, unleash the terrifying reality, or let him shoulder this misplaced guilt? Her silence stretched, thick with unspoken terror, inadvertently confirming his narrative of emotional turmoil. He saw her hesitation as proof he’d struck a nerve.

Peter misinterpreted her stricken silence as validation. Her panic wasn't about him crossing a line, but about her struggling with feelings she couldn't reconcile. The burden visibly lifted slightly from his shoulders, replaced by a fierce, protective gentleness. "Hey," he murmured, stepping closer, his voice a low, steady anchor against her perceived emotional storm. He didn’t touch her, respecting the invisible boundary she seemed to be guarding, but his presence was solid, unwavering. "It's okay. Really." His gaze held hers, earnest and clear. "I'm not going anywhere. Whatever 'this' is," he gestured softly between them, encompassing the tangled weave of their present and feelings, "we figure it out together. At your pace. You lead."

He paused, letting the quiet assurance settle. Then, with a deliberate shift, his posture straightened subtly, the protector surfacing. "So yeah," he continued, his tone shifting into practical, reassuring action, and an attempt to cut through the tension. "I'm going to go get ready," he added, nodding toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms. "Then I'll run some fortifying countermeasures FRIDAY flagged earlier—reinforcements on the penthouse perimeter sensors, encrypted comms checks." His gaze briefly flickered toward the media room. "We won't have another Kraven situation. Promise." The words were firm, grounding—a shield offered.

He turned fully toward the corridor, his shoulders a determined line against the city-lit backdrop. Pepper watched him go, the phantom heat beneath her skin flaring in tandem with the sudden panic tightening her throat. No, screamed a desperate voice inside her. Tell him. Tell him about the Extremis crawling through her veins like molten glass, tell him about the nightmare entity clawing at her—in her sleep, tell him she wasn't just scared, she was dangerous.

Her lips parted, breath catching, the confession poised to spill out—Peter, I'm burning from the inside—but the silent beat of his retreating steps echoed his earlier words: We won't have another Kraven situation. He already carried the weight of that perceived failure; piling her terrifying secret onto his shoulders felt like cruelty. She swallowed the scalding truth, forcing her voice into something calm, something grateful. "Peter?" He stopped instantly, half-turning back, expression expectant, hopeful. "Thank you," she managed, the words thick but steady.

His posture softened instantly, the fierce protector melting into something infinitely warmer. A soft, genuine smile touched his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes—a brief glimpse of the earnest boy beneath the vigilante armor. "Anything for you, Pep," he murmured, the nickname slipping out with effortless intimacy. His gaze held hers for a lingering heartbeat, a silent promise radiating warmth that momentarily eclipsed the chill fear coiled inside her. Then, with a final nod that felt like an anchor settling, he turned fully and walked down the softly lit hallway, his footsteps fading into the quiet hum of the penthouse.

Chapter Text

The rhythmic thwap-thwap-thwap of Peter's forearms against the wooden dummy echoed through the dimly lit gym, each strike faster than humanly possible, his movements a blur even under the industrial fluorescents. Pepper froze mid-step at the edge of the mat, her breath catching—not at the display of enhanced reflexes, but at the raw, unfiltered precision of his form. No playful quips, no self-deprecating adjustments. Just Peter Parker dismantling an imaginary opponent with the kind of controlled ferocity that made her Extremis-heated skin prickle with recognition. His bare torso gleamed with sweat under the harsh lights, scars from battles she hadn't witnessed crisscrossing his ribs like a map of absences.

He pivoted into a spinning kick that warped the air, muscles corded beneath flushed skin, and Pepper's fingers dug into the doorframe. The Extremis glow beneath her own skin flared hot as molten wire, veins briefly illuminating like faulty circuitry—not from distress, but from the visceral punch of want low in her stomach. She swallowed hard, tasting copper, willing the reaction away. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Not when every accelerated heartbeat risked destabilizing the nanites Helen Cho had jury-rigged into temporary submission.

Peter's next strike split the dummy's wooden arm clean off, the splintering crack snapping her back to reality. His chest heaved, sweat-darkened hair clinging to his forehead as he finally stilled, eyes darting to the ruined training equipment like he'd forgotten where he was. "Damn," he muttered, running a hand through his hair—unknowingly flexing the definition of his abdomen in a way that made Pepper's throat go dry. The movement dislodged a bead of sweat that traced the hollow of his collarbone, and her nails left crescent moons in her palms.

Then his head jerked up. Those unfairly warm eyes locked onto hers, wide with the guilty panic of a kid caught drawing on the walls. "Pepper! I—uh—" His hands fluttered uselessly, smearing sweat across his ribs as he scrambled for words. She watched, fascinated, as his throat worked—Adam's apple bobbing—before he blurted, "I'll fix it! Or, y'know, find a way to work off the costs of new one." The words tumbled out in that rapid-fire nervous Peter Parker way. "Maybe Tony had spare parts in—"

"Peter." Pepper stepped onto the mat, deliberately slow, letting the soles of her Nike Pegasus Premiums squeak against the rubber to announce her approach. A flicker of amusement cut through the heat pooling in her gut when he froze mid-ramble. "Relax. There's literally a line item in SI's budget labeled 'Enhanced Individuals Training Reimbursement' that hasn't been touched since Steve." She gestured to the splintered remains with a deliberately casual flick of her wrist. "This? Standard Tuesday for Rogers. He once punched through three bags in a row because Nat mentioned jokingly that he'd gone soft."

"Right, yeah, Cap—" His voice hitched as his brain caught up with the anomaly: Pepper Potts didn't hit the gym in the dead of night. She was a Pelton at dawn with Pilates or Yoga session squeaked in wherever her insane schedule would allow kind of woman. A frown creased his brow as he glanced the digital clock embedded in the wall—2:37 AM.  His spider-sense didn't tingle with danger, but something was off. "You, uh... couldn't sleep?" he ventured, swiping a towel off the bench and making a show of mopping his face to hide how his eyes tracked the faint, erratic pulse at her throat.

Pepper exhaled sharply through her nose, the sound suspiciously close to laughter. "Something like that." She shifted her weight, and the motion sent the scent of her shampoo—lilies and something citrusy—wafting towards him.

Peter tossed the towel aside, deliberately casual as he leaned back against the cracked dummy. "Well, if you want something to hit you’ve got options," he said, gesturing grandly at the ruined equipment. "Punching bag? Wooden dummy? Down to one arm, so it’s basically asking for it. Or if you want something that could punch back, I'd be down to spar." His grin was playful, but his fingers flexed at his sides like he was already calculating how to pull his strikes—how to make it safe for her.

Pepper's pulse hammered against her ribs, Extremis humming beneath her skin at the idea of testing herself against him—his reflexes matching hers in a way no one else ever could. The thought of his hands guiding her stance, calluses catching against her heated skin, sent a spike of heat curling low in her stomach. But the memory of his unconscious body beneath hers last night—of what could happen if she lost control—doused the flicker of want like ice water. "Tempting," she murmured, forcing a smirk. "But I was actually heading to the yoga studio. I need…" she hesitated, searching for the right words, "some stretching and decompressing."

Peter's throat went dry at the word stretching, his traitorous brain conjuring images of Pepper arching beneath him, her thighs trembling as he worked her open with deliberate, practiced thrusts until every thought but him burned away. He cleared his throat, adjusting the waistband of his basketball shorts under the guise of stretching his obliques. "Right, uh well I'll leave you to it."

Pepper tilted her head, watching his fingers flex against his ribs—the way his breath hitched when she stepped closer, invading his personal space like she belonged there. The scent of his sweat mixed with something distinctly Peter—ozone and soldering—made her Extremis flare hotter. "Raincheck?"

Peter nodded before the word fully registered, his voice dropping to that rough register that sent shivers down her spine. "Absolutely."

She turned—slow, deliberate—letting him watch the shift of muscle beneath skin-tight fabric, the way her ponytail swung like a pendulum counting down the seconds until his self-control snapped. The yoga pants hugged every curve with obscene precision, the sculpted lines of her ass defying time in a way that made his mouth go dry. Peter's fingers twitched against his thighs, phantom memories of that same body pressed flush against him in the darkness, her heat branding him through thin layers of fabric.

His cock throbbed against the seam of his shorts, pulse heavy and insistent, calling him every kind of hypocrite. Just a few weeks ago, he'd been the noble idiot promising to follow her lead, and now here he was mentally mapping the exact pressure points needed to make her come apart on his tongue. The sharp tang of regret coated his tongue—not for the thoughts themselves, but for the brutal contrast between what he'd pledged and what his body demanded.

The fluorescent hum of the gym lights buzzed louder in his ears as he pivoted toward the locker room, muscles locking down tight like hydraulic pistons. Every step away from her felt wrong—unnatural—as if his DNA had rewritten itself to orbit her gravitational pull. Even the air grew thicker with each stride, resisting his retreat. The phantom scent of lilies clung to the back of his throat, mocking him the whole way to his cold shower.

xXx

The lab smelled like overheated circuitry and something sickly sweet—like caramel burning on a skillet. Peter flexed his gloved fingers over the cracked vial of EMBER-13, watching the viscous liquid inside glow faintly orange, as if it contained dying embers. His HUD flickered with readouts: thermal spikes erratic, molecular bonds unstable. "Friday, cross-reference these compounds with the original Extremis schematics," he muttered, swiping a holographic strand of corrupted data. The discrepancies were subtle—deliberate. Someone had stitched Stark Industries' proprietary markers into the chemical architecture like a forger replicating a signature.

He'd pulled three bodies from the docks last night. Charred. Twisted. One kid couldn't have been older than sixteen, his veins still faintly luminescent under the skin. The syringe clutched in his fist had a Stark Industries batch number that didn't exist—not in any official database, anyway. Peter's jaw tightened. Hammer's handiwork was all over this: the sloppy arrogance of the formula, the way it aped Tony's elegance but missed the precision. And now it was out there, dressed up in stolen legacy, burning through the city's veins.

Peter's fingers twitched over the holographic molecular model, watching as the EMBER-13 strands curled and pulsed like living things. The way the drug attached itself to neural pathways wasn't just invasive—it was predatory, rewriting cellular directives in jagged, violent strokes. "It's not just mimicking Extremis," he muttered to the empty lab. "It's devouring it." His own spider-sense had been ringing nonstop since he'd isolated the compound, a dull, persistent scream at the base of his skull. What the hell had Hammer done? This wasn't bioengineering—it was arson dressed up as chemistry.

Pepper hovered in the doorway, unnoticed, her breath catching in her throat. The lab lights rendered Peter's profile in stark relief—the furrow between his brows, the tight clench of his jaw as he manipulated the holographic compounds with precise, frustrated flicks of his wrist. He rolled his shoulders unconsciously, the dark fabric of his Henley stretching across his back as he leaned into the worktable. She'd seen Tony lose himself in equations a thousand times, but this was different. Peter moved through the science like a man dismantling a bomb, all coiled tension and lethal focus. It shouldn't have been this intoxicating to watch him dissect disaster.

Her Extremis flared in response, synapses firing hotter as she took in the sweat dampening his hairline, the way his throat worked when he muttered under his breath. The scent of him—ozone and salt and that maddening hint of cedar and bergamont—coiled in her lungs like smoke. It was ridiculous, the way her pulse stuttered when he dragged a gloved hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled. She pressed her thighs together, suddenly hyperaware of the way the silk of her blouse whispered against her oversensitized skin. God, what was wrong with her? He was unraveling a chemical timebomb, and all she could think about was how his fingers would feel tracing the same meticulous paths along her ribs.

Peter didn't turn—didn't need to. His entire body registered her presence like a sudden atmospheric shift, his spine straightening fractionally as the scent of her perfume wrapped around him. Lilies. Honey. Citrus. Something darker beneath it, like smoldering embers. His fingers twitched on the holographic interface, nearly corrupting the molecular model. Then her palm pressed between his shoulder blades, a slow, deliberate contact that seared through the cotton of his Henley. Static exploded under his skin, spider-senses igniting in frenzied loops—not danger, but something infinitely more destabilizing. He wondered, distantly hysterical, if he could've accidently exposed himself to the compound. That would explain the feverish heat clawing up his neck.

Pepper's thumbs pressed into the knotted muscle between Peter's scapulae, her touch unconsciously kneading the tension coiled beneath his skin. "Talk to me," she murmured, her breath warm against the nape of his neck as she peered over his shoulder at the holographic strands of corrupted data. The motion was instinctive—something she'd done for Tony a hundred times during all-night coding sessions—but the hitch in Peter's breathing when her nails grazed a particularly tight tendon was entirely new. He swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady. "What do you know about Extremis?"

The question hung between them like a detonator's countdown. Pepper's hands stilled for a fraction of a second before resuming their ministrations with deliberate lightness. Peter didn't miss the hesitation—nor the way her pulse jumped against his back where her wrist brushed his spine. He watched her reflection in the lab's darkened observation window: the rapid flutter of her lashes, the telltale tightening at the corners of her mouth before she smoothed her expression into something neutral. "Enough to recognize when someone's bastardized it," she said, her voice carefully devoid of inflection. Her fingers trailed down to the small of his back, tracing the dip of his lumbar through fabric that suddenly felt tissue thin.

Peter rotated the hologram with a flick of his wrist, exposing the jagged molecular lattice where EMBER-13 forcibly bonded with Extremis markers. "It's worse than bastardized," he muttered.

Pepper's exhale tickled his ear as she leaned closer, her fingers now splayed possessively across his lower back. The heat of her palm bled through his shirt like a brand. "Define worse," she challenged, voice husky—too husky for clinical analysis. Peter caught the slight tremble in her breath, the way her pulse fluttered against his shoulder blade. She knew. Every fiber of his spider-sense screamed it. His fingers tightened around the holographic projection, stretching the corrupted data strands until they snapped back with a simulated crackle.

He deliberately slowed his next words, watching her reflection in the glass. "Worse as in this isn't just Hammer slapping a Stark logo on knockoff serum." He tilted the molecular model, highlighting where Extremis proteins had been forcibly unraveled and rewoven into EMBER-13's architecture. "Someone's using the original as feedstock. Like pouring jet fuel into a meth lab." Pepper's nails dug into his waistband—just for a heartbeat—before relaxing.

Peter swiped up a grainy security still from the docks, zooming in on the victim's forearm where veins glowed through charred skin. "See these dendritic patterns?" His knuckles brushed the inside of Pepper's wrist as he pointed. "That's not EMBER-13's work. That's Extremis trying—and failing—to regenerate tissue." Her pulse hammered against his fingertips.

The lab's temperature control kicked on with a hiss, yet Pepper's palm against his back burned hotter. Peter rotated the stool to face her fully, knees slotting between hers in the cramped workspace. "FRIDAY found archived schematics from the Mandarin cleanu—" He caught himself. "From when Killian hijacked the tech. Tony had diagnostics running for months after." Her eyelashes fluttered—a tell.

He didn't reach for her hands, though his fingers twitched against his thighs. "Pepper." Just her name, weighted with all the things he wouldn't say aloud: the way Extremis rewired pain receptors into pleasure nodes, how survivors described the burn like being fucked by a live wire. The files he'd pulled from Tony's private server—not research, not diagnostics, but frantic, red-flagged simulations of synaptic overload thresholds. Always with the same timestamp: 3:17 AM. Always with the same subject marker: P.P. "Tony didn't stop studying Extremis after Killian was defeated. He couldn't. Could he?"

Pepper's breath hitched—not at the question, but at the realization Peter had seen the footage. The security reels of Killian forcing the syringe into her neck, the way her skin had lit up like a furnace grate while Tony screamed. Her fingers rose unconsciously to her throat, where the scars no one else could see still ached in humid weather. "He modified it," she whispered. The admission tasted like ash. "Slowed the metabolic cascade. But it was always... dormant. Not gone."

Peter caught the past tense—was—like a spider snagging a tremor in its web. His hands found hers, clumsy and earnest, fingers slotting between hers like they'd been practicing the shape of her without her noticing. "I'm sorry you had to go through that," he murmured, thumbs tracing the delicate bones of her wrists. His voice cracked in that way it did when he was trying too hard to sound like a man instead of the boy she'd caught glimpses of grow up and doesn't remember—like he'd practiced the words in front of a mirror and still couldn't get them right. It made her chest ache. "I can't imagine how hard it is, knowing Hammer dug this up and turned it into... this." He jerked his chin toward the holographic carnage still spinning between them, EMBER-13's molecular chains thrashing like dying snakes.

Pepper watched his throat work, the tendons standing stark as he swallowed whatever else he'd been about to say. His fingers tightened fractionally—not trapping, just grounding—and she realized with a pang that he was waiting. Waiting for her to pull away, waiting for the polite distance she'd been carving between them since the night she woke up straddling him a month ago. Except she didn't move. Couldn't. Not when the warmth of his palms seeped through her skin like sunlight through stained glass, scattering colors she'd thought were long burned out of her.

Peter exhaled roughly through his nose. "I hate that they keep coming for you," he admitted, the words scraped raw as if torn from somewhere deeper than his lungs. His thumbs pressed into the delicate hollows beneath her knuckles; not bruising, but firm enough that she could feel each ridge of his fingerprints. "Not just Hammer, or the Six—everyone. The universe, fate, whatever the hell keeps dragging you both back into the crossfire." His voice dropped into something guttural, primal—a sound that vibrated through her ribs like a bassline.

Pepper watched the muscle twitch in his jaw, fascinated by the way his pulse visibly jumped beneath his skin when she slid her knee forward—just an inch—until the inside of her thigh brushed his. "If we're tallying cosmic debts," she whispered, sardonic as she tapped her fingernail against his wrist, "then technically Rhino and Scorpion attacking the limo that night means I should be thanking them." His pupils dilated violently at the implication. "Because otherwise," she continued, dragging her thumb along the ridge of his knuckles in slow, deliberate strokes, "you wouldn't have come swinging back into our lives."

Peter exhaled sharply through his nose—half laugh, half groan—as his spider sense lit up beneath his skin like Christmas lights, tingling everywhere she touched. "I like to think I'd've found my way back eventually," he admitted, voice rough. His fingers flexed unconsciously around hers, grounding himself against the electric pull of her proximity.

"Honestly?" He ducked his head, watching their joined hands through his lashes—his thumb tracing the delicate blue veins beneath her wrist. "I uh, actually had this plan." Pepper arched a brow, lips quirking as she waited. Peter's ears burned. "It was for the Justice for all Gala in a few weeks," he muttered. "Was gonna—" His voice cracked. "Was gonna make some comment about how it was nice to see you when the world wasn't ending, not so subtly hint that I was Spiderman. Y'know. Casually."

Pepper's laugh was soft, incredulous—her fingers tightening reflexively around his. "Casually," she echoed, imagining him in a too-stiff tuxedo, sweating through his collar while trying to 'casually' reveal a superhero identity. The image was so quintessentially Peter that her ribs ached. "Let me guess," she teased, tracing the scar on his palm from when he and Ned wanted to be blood brothers as kids. "You rehearsed in front of your bathroom mirror?"

Peter groaned, his thumb pressing into her pulse point—whether to silence her or steady himself, even he wasn't sure. "I had Karen coach me. She said I should 'lead with the eyes'—whatever the hell that means." His voice dipped into a terrible impersonation of the journalist's crisp enunciation, complete with an exaggerated eyebrow waggle that made Pepper snort into his shoulder. The vibration traveled straight down his spine.

She traced the callus on his index finger—the one from his web-shooter—and Peter realized with dawning horror that she was mapping the exact grooves that had ghosted over her ribs in the elevator last month. "Did you practice your opener?" Pepper murmured, lips grazing the shell of his ear as she leaned closer. His grip on her wrists tightened involuntarily.

"Depended on the scenario," Peter admitted hoarsely, thumb brushing the tendon that jumped in her forearm. "If you were with Morgan? 'That Calder mobile's actually forged—watch how the counterweights catch the light.'" His voice dropped into something conspiratorial, lips quirking as he mimed examining invisible artwork. "Alone by the Rodin? 'Fun fact—the museum xylotects its marble with purified Hudson estuary water. You can smell the tannins if you stand close enough.'" His shoulder lifted in a self-deprecating shrug. "Stalked the Met's conservation logs for two months. Memorized every brushstroke in the Temple of Dendur wing. Left myself with options."

Pepper's breath hitched—not at the absurdity, but at the realization that every contingency had been planned around her movements. The way his fingers trembled against her pulse betrayed how much deeper the preparation went. "And if I'd been with Happy?" she challenged, watching his eyelashes flutter at the mention of the bodyguard. Peter's grin turned wolfish.

"I'd of just had to implement some evasive maneuvers. Get him talking about his boxing days—he always gets distracted by fight stories." Peter's thumb brushed the underside of Pepper's wrist where her pulse throbbed erratically. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Funny thing about Happy: he never checks above eye level. I could've been clinging to the ceiling right behind him the whole time." The mental image of Peter pressed flat against marble archways while Happy waxed poetic about Muhammad Ali sent Pepper's shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter—until Peter's fingers tightened suddenly around hers. His pupils swallowed the brown of his irises whole. "But none of those plans accounted for this."

Pepper went very still. "This?"

Peter's throat worked, his pulse hammering where her fingers still rested against his wrist. "Never planned for—" He swallowed hard, eyes flicking down to where her knee pressed between his thighs. "For wanting this. For you to look at me and see..." His voice cracked on the unspoken end of that sentence—something messy and hungry and decidedly not her dead husband's protege. The lab's fluorescent lights caught the sweat beading along his hairline as he forced the words out: "And I didn't think I'd ever not see you as Tony's wife first."

Pepper's breath stuttered—not at the confession, but at the raw honesty in his gaze, the way his fingers trembled against hers like he was bracing for rejection. The air between them thickened with the scent of ozone and burnt coffee, her Extremis flaring hot beneath her skin in response to his proximity. She should pull away. Should laugh it off. Should do anything except what she did—which was to lean closer until her lips brushed the shell of his ear, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And what do you see now?"

Peter's nostrils flared as her scent engulfed him—lilies and something sharper, like lightning about to strike. His hands slid up her arms on instinct, fingers skimming the delicate lace of her bra straps beneath the thin fabric of her blouse. "I see someone who deserves peace," he admitted hoarsely, thumbs tracing the hollow of her collarbones. "Who shouldn't have to keep fighting the same wars over and over." His breath hitched as Pepper's teeth grazed his earlobe—not quite a bite, but close enough to make his spine arch. "And I really fucking hate that wanting you feels like another battle."

Pepper's breath hitched—not from the words, but from the molten heat coiling low in her abdomen as Extremis flared in response to his grip. Her veins lit up beneath her skin in fractal patterns, casting amber shadows across Peter's throat. She jerked back like she'd been branded, knocking over a beaker of synthesized Extremis inhibitors. The glass shattered at their feet, liquid seeping into the lab tiles with a hiss. "I should—" Her voice cracked as she stumbled away, palms pressed to her sternum where the extremis burned brightest. "You have research. I have—" She gestured wildly toward the elevator, her pulse visibly throbbing at her temples. "Morgan's ballet recital emails. Forms. Things."

Peter watched her jab the elevator button with trembling fingers, the doors sliding shut on her fractured composure. His spider-sense screamed—not danger, but loss. As the elevator rose, he let out a groan muttering to himself, “real smooth, Parker.”

xXx

The aroma of brewing coffee filled the penthouse kitchen, sharp and grounding against the lingering scent of Pepper’s floral perfume. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting warm stripes across the counter where Pepper stood, her knuckles white as she gripped her mug. Across the island, Happy Hogan stirred cream into his own cup, his familiar bulk solid and reassuring. “Extra cream, no sugar. Just how you like it,” he rumbled, sliding the mug toward her with a small, knowing smile.

Pepper met his eyes, a flicker of warmth breaking through her tension. “Always remember the important things, Hap,” she murmured, her voice pitched low beneath the cheerful chatter of cartoons drifting from the living room where Morgan crunched cereal, engrossed in animated antics. Pepper leaned in slightly, her gaze darting toward her daughter’s silhouette. “I need a favor,” she breathed, the words barely audible.

Happy’s smile faded instantly, replaced by sharp focus. He mirrored her posture, his broad shoulders creating a shield against the cheerful noise. “Name it.”

Pepper’s finger traced the rim of her mug. “Morgan… she can’t know,” she whispered, the strain tight in her throat. "Not until we know more."

Happy leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “About Peter?” His brow furrowed, eyes darting toward the hallway where Peter had vanished moments before. He shifted his weight, his suit jacket creaking softly. “Look, Pep… he’s a good kid. Spider-Man, sure. But…” Happy’s jaw clenched, conflict tightening his face. He didn’t remember Peter from before the spell—only the blurry, public persona and Tony’s occasional cryptic rants about the kid. “He’s… young.” The words hung heavy, thick with unspoken loyalty to Tony’s ghost and the nagging discomfort of that age gap—Peter seeming barely older than legal, Pepper etched with the grace of a woman who’d weathered storms. Happy rubbed his chin. “...And he's not Tony but as long as your happy--"

Pepper’s breath hitched sharply. Her mug slammed onto the countertop, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. It wasn’t the sudden sound that froze Happy mid-sentence; it was her expression—raw shock morphing swiftly into horrified comprehension. He thinks… Oh god, he thinks I’m telling him Peter and I are together. The sheer misdirection of it—the innocent, clumsy assumption—struck her like a physical blow. Her knuckles whitened against the cool granite. "No," she cut in, her voice suddenly brittle, urgent, slicing through his awkward reassurance. "Happy, hang on. Listen." Her gaze locked onto his, fierce and desperate. "This isn't... this isn't about Peter." She inhaled sharply, the air scraping her raw throat "The Extremis," she whispered, the word tasting like ash. "It's... active again." The confession tore free, jagged and small. Her trembling hand pressed flat against her sternum again, the gesture now unmistakably literal. "And more aggressive. Tony's cure is ineffective against it."

Happy’s face drained of color. The creamer he held clattered into his mug, forgotten. His eyes—wide, stunned—darted from Pepper’s haunted expression to Morgan’s oblivious silhouette bathed in cartoon light, then back. The implications crashed over him: Tony’s frantic desperation years ago, the near-meltdowns, the agonizing fear etched into every late-night lab session. His jaw tightened, the muscles standing out like steel cables. "Active?" he echoed, his voice low and gravelly, stripped of all casual warmth. His gaze narrowed, scanning her face, her posture—the subtle tremor in her shoulders, the unnatural flush high on her cheekbones he’d mistaken for stress. "How bad is it?" The question was a blade poised.

Pepper swallowed hard, the phantom heat beneath her skin flaring in response to his sharp focus. She slid a slim manila folder across the cool granite island toward him. Her fingers trembled against the smooth surface before she pulled them back, curling them into tight fists at her sides. "Bad enough," she whispered, the words scraping raw, "that I need you to sign these." Inside lay meticulously drafted custody papers, naming Harold Hogan as Morgan Stark’s legal guardian in the event of Pepper’s death or incapacitation. Each clause was stark, clinical, a brutal counterpoint to Morgan’s muffled laughter drifting in from the living room. The ink felt like a brand on the pristine paper.

Happy stared at the folder as if it radiated poison. His large hand hovered above it, not touching, knuckles whitening. The cheerful cartoon noises suddenly grated, a cruel soundtrack to the gravity unfolding before him. His gaze lifted slowly, locking onto Pepper’s. The usual easygoing gruffness was gone, replaced by a chilling intensity. "Active," he repeated, the word hanging thick in the air, heavy with the ghost of Tony’s frantic struggles years ago. He didn’t ask how or why the cure failed; Pepper’s pallor, the fine tremor she couldn’t hide, the sheer terror banked in her eyes told him everything. "How long?" The question was low, urgent, demanding the timeline of this ticking bomb.

Pepper watched the horror crystallize in his eyes, the realization sinking in that her panic wasn't misplaced emotion, but mortal danger. Her own hand trembled visibly now. She wasn’t sure—not of the timeline, not of the outcome, not if she could contain the storm raging inside her. Yet, seeing the raw distress twist Happy's features, seeing the protector in him recoil at his own helplessness, ignited a fierce surge of resolve within her. She moved instinctively, stepping closer. Her hand, cool despite the inner fire, reached out and gently covered his clenched fist resting beside the damning folder. Her touch was deliberate, grounding—a silent insistence that he needed anchoring now. "Helen’s recalibrating the suppression protocols," Pepper assured him, her voice low and surprisingly steady, though her eyes remained haunted. "Bruce is synthesizing a new stabilizer based on Kraven’s nanite data. They’re working around the clock." She squeezed his knuckles lightly. "This," she nodded toward the papers, "isn’t surrender, Happy. It’s insurance. For Morgan. Just… in case." The unspoken plea hung between them: Be her anchor if I can't.

Happy’s gaze remained locked on her hand covering his, her slender fingers pale against his weathered knuckles. The cheerful cartoon music felt obscenely loud. He inhaled sharply, the scent of coffee suddenly cloying. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his hand beneath hers, palm up, and clasped her trembling fingers. His grip was firm, warm, anchoring—a silent vow received and returned. Without another word, without breaking her gaze, he reached for the sleek pen Pepper kept clipped inside the folder with his free hand. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, each action weighted with solemn acceptance. The pen clicked softly, a stark punctuation in the tense silence.

He flipped the folder open to the designated line, his jaw set, eyes scanning the cold, formal language one final time: "...shall assume full legal guardianship..." A muscle ticked in his cheek. Then, with a signature etched in familiar, bold strokes—Harold Joseph Hogan—he committed himself. The pen clattered softly onto the granite as he released it, his grip tightening on Pepper’s hand. "Insurance," he echoed, his voice thick. "Got it. Now tell me what else you need." His gaze was fierce, unwavering—the protector shifting fully into gear.

Pepper squeezed his hand back, a tremor running through her, but her voice held steady. "Keep Morgan occupied—something immersive, safe." Her eyes flicked toward the living room. "The VR rig in Tony’s workshop. Educational modules only, FRIDAY-locked." Happy nodded sharply, already calculating logistics: distract Morgan, shield her from the tension thickening the air like ozone before a storm. Pepper continued, quieter now. "And Peter..." She hesitated, the phantom heat flaring beneath her ribs. "He needs a mission. Something tangible, urgent. Away from here but close enough in case he's needed here." Her gaze met Happy’s, pleading silently: Keep him safe from me.

Happy grunted, releasing her hand and scooping the signed folder off the counter. He tucked it swiftly inside his jacket, the crisp paper a cold weight against his chest. His eyes narrowed, scanning Pepper’s strained posture—the unnatural flush, the slight tremor in her shoulders. "Mission," he echoed gruffly. A plan clicked into place, born of years navigating Stark chaos. He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble beneath the tinny cartoon laughter. "Electro. Kid’s been chasing static signatures near the old Con Edison substation off Hudson." Happy paused, letting the implication hang: a volatile target, far from the penthouse, yet within Spider-Man’s rapid response range. "I flagged it earlier—weak grid feedback patterns FRIDAY tagged as anomalous." He met Pepper’s exhausted gaze squarely. "I’ll nudge him toward it. Say I picked up chatter—low-level, unconfirmed. Enough to hook him."

Pepper stiffened, her knuckles whitening around her mug handle. Electro wasn’t Kraven, but the thought of Peter facing any Sinister Six remnant alone—especially Max Dillon’s unpredictable, power-hungry volatility—sent a fresh wave of dread crashing through her already frayed nerves. Her Extremis flared hot beneath her skin, a visceral counterpoint to her fear. "Alone?" The word scraped raw. She shook her head sharply, coffee sloshing precariously. "Happy, no. Not Dillon solo. He’s unstable, feeds off power surges—Peter could get trapped in a grid meltdown."

Happy leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur beneath Morgan’s distant giggles. "Easy, Pep. It’s just a wild goose chase." His gaze was steady, anchoring her panic. "I already had Rhodey fly a stealth drone sweep over that rust-bucket substation yesterday. Zero thermal spikes, no EM distortions—not even a stray cat chewing wires. Place is quieter than Stark Industries on a Sunday." He tapped his temple knowingly. "FRIDAY confirmed cold logs. But Peter doesn’t need to know that. Kid’s got ants in his suit—needs to burn off steam swinging at shadows right now, not pacing these halls worrying about…" His eyes flicked pointedly to her flushed cheekbones, then away. "…whatever this tension is."

Pepper’s breath hitched, relief warring with guilt as she absorbed the deception. The phantom heat in her chest pulsed slower, cooled by the practicality of Happy’s ruse. She nodded curtly, her knuckles relaxing slightly on the mug. "Fine," she conceded, the word tight but trusting. "Just… make sure Rhodey’s on standby. And tell Peter it’s low-priority recon only—no engagement unless absolutely necessary." She couldn’t suppress the tremor in her voice as she added, "FRIDAY’s to monitor his vitals constantly."

Happy grunted affirmation, already pulling out his phone to text Rhodey. His thumbs moved with swift, practiced efficiency. "Already done," he muttered. "Rhodey’s got the stealth suit warmed up downtown—five minutes out in case the very unlikely event that things go sideways." He slid the phone back into his pocket, meeting Pepper’s anxious gaze squarely. "And I’ll drill it into Parker myself: eyes and ears, no fists. Kid’s smart. He’ll listen." The unspoken He trusts me hung between them—a lifeline Pepper desperately clung to.

Pepper watched him type, her knuckles whitening around her mug handle again. Every muscle screamed to seize control, to micromanage the mission parameters, to build walls around Peter and Morgan with her bare hands. It was the only way to mute the dread clawing at her insides—the helpless terror that Extremis might erupt before Helen or Bruce found a solution, burning everyone she loved to ash. Happy understood without words; he saw the frantic focus in her eyes, the desperate need to shield them from the storm only she could feel brewing inside her skin. "He’ll be fine, Pep," he added softly, placing a heavy, reassuring hand briefly on her shoulder."

As Happy turned to leave, Pepper blurted out, "He doesn’t know." The words tasted like acid. "Peter. About Extremis." She couldn’t meet Happy’s gaze, staring instead at the cold, half-drunk coffee swirling in her mug. "I didn't tell him." Admitting it aloud felt like ripping open a wound, exposing the ugly truth: she’d lied by omission to the one person who’d willingly stepped into the fire beside her.

Happy paused, hand hovering over the doorframe. His shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly—not in judgment, but in weary understanding. "Probably for the best, Pep," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that cut through the cheerful cartoon cacophony from the living room. He glanced back, his eyes softening as they traced the exhaustion etched around her eyes. "Kid would drown himself trying to keep you afloat if he knew the water was this deep." His words landed heavy, acknowledging Peter’s fierce, reckless loyalty—a strength that could become a fatal liability against something as insidious and unpredictable as Extremis.

Pepper flinched, her knuckles whitening anew around the cool ceramic mug. The truth of it scraped raw against her nerves: Peter wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t calculate risks, wouldn't weigh the cost to himself if he knew she was a walking time bomb. He’d plunge headfirst into the blaze, trusting his reflexes to pull them both out. But Extremis wasn’t a collapsing building or a runaway train; it was a wildfire trapped inside her bones, and Peter’s speed couldn’t outrun a detonation. Happy’s quiet understanding—his refusal to judge her secrecy—felt like a temporary balm layered over a festering wound. She nodded stiffly, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. Control. She had to focus on what she could control: Morgan’s oblivious laughter drifting from the living room, the protocols humming through the Tower’s systems, the deceptive calm Happy was engineering for Peter’s sake. Anything but the liquid fire simmering beneath her skin.