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Steve helps carry May Parker’s casket up the steps of a small church in Queens on a mizzling Sunday in late August. It’s a private gathering—he, Tony, and Happy, a few of Peter’s friends and teachers from school, and May’s co-workers. Steve isn’t sure how religious May was, if she ever actually stepped inside of the church that, according to Peter, with its baroque arches and lush flowerbeds always caught her eye but the pastor’s words are kind and compassionate. Peter trembles at the podium, cheeks wet with tears when he speaks despite his attempts to keep stony-faced and between the two of them the service is short but it’s nice all the same.
Steve hadn’t known her well but he hopes that May would’ve liked it.
*
It’s been a few weeks since the funeral when Tony finds him in the kitchen over the sink. His arms fit around Steve, mashing to him from behind, solid and radiating heat.
Tony’s nose presses to the skin behind his ear. His smile stamps over Steve’s pulse and his fingers curl in the cotton of his shirt and the waist of his jeans, splaying over his belly. It feels good. With a small laugh that ships a shiver down Steve’s spine, Tony says, “You know that we’ve got a state-of-the-art dishwasher? If you’ll observe, it’s about five steps to your left. It even has laser technology.”
“I’m fine to do it. It’s relaxing. You just want me to be lazy on the couch with you,” Steve says. He lets the moment sit, underscored with the washing and rinsing of dishes from that evening’s dinner before asking, “How’s Peter doing?”
“Trying to fall asleep. Failing miserably.” Tony sighs. His forehead scrubs the back of Steve’s shirt with an audible noise of frustration. “Fuck, that kid’s got shadows in his eyes that I don’t think will ever leave, Steve. Thanks for letting him stay here.”
“Of course.” Joking, to relax the tension in Tony a fraction at least, Steve adds lightly, “It is your tower.”
“Our penthouse, though.” Tony’s response is thinned out by uncertainty.
Steve dries his hands in a towel and turns to him, taking in the weary lines on Tony's face and the underneath of his eyes, smudged with his own case of sleeplessness. Filled with a tender ache, Steve strokes his thumb over the cut of Tony’s jaw and traces the dipping, somber curve of his mouth. “It never occured to me not to. You know that. He’s a good kid and I know how much he means to you.”
It’s clear as day how much Tony loves Peter.
Tony grabs Steve by the hips and presses a hard kiss to his lips, once and again. And then it slows, shifting into something more intimate and involved, like they can’t kiss each other enough. It leaves them both breathless by the end, tucked into each other. Tony clutches Steve’s sides and sighs deep again, like he’s trying to shake something loose.
“What’s going on in your head?” Steve asks quietly, fingers in the tiny hairs at Tony’s nape.
“I don’t—I wanted to come to you with something halfway eloquent. I’ve been thinking about taking him in, Steve.”
“Taking him in?” Understanding knots in Steve’s stomach, twisting and twisting. “You’re talking about adoption.”
“It’s soon,” Tony quickly says, sounding as though he’s repeated it to himself ad nauseum. Steve doesn’t doubt that he has. “But, Christ, he’s barely sixteen. He’s younger than I was. He’s a kid and there’s no one else. He’s the only Parker left. And maybe it’s impulsive. Scratch that. It is without question impulsive. I’ve got the market cornered but it feels—something feels knocked out of place, like I won’t be put right if I don’t do this.”
Steve reckons that there’s no need to wonder aloud really. He’s pretty good at clocking Tony’s expressions and he can already see that Tony’s made up his mind, how desperately he wants this. But still, with his tone remarkably more even than he actually feels, Steve ventures. “You’re not asking?”
Tony holds him tight and close. “No. No, I don’t think so. This is how it is.”
*
The idea of being a father has never been real to Steve. In fact, he’s always considered it to be more of a fantasy than science fiction and figured that he’d sooner see flying cars. No girl had ever looked at his thin-limbed body and wanted for a partner in any meaning of the word. He could barely carry himself most days, sickly and weak, much less a child who would depend on him. Then the war came and Peggy with it. Naive and young, Steve had thought about it. He’d allowed himself to dream of post-war, matching gold bands and a white picket fence penning in a rambunctious pair of children.
However, there’s no such thing as post-war.
There’s always a fight and being a soldier is what Steve’s good at. It’s what he does and there’s nothing that he’s better at.
Even in this new life with its new laws, a day that Steve never thought he’d see—that he’s so thankful to witness—it still feels like fantasy. Something that he's not meant to be a part of.
*
“We’re not even married,” Steve points out when they’re having lunch downtown days later and he's somewhat absorbed Tony's revelation.
“Talk about your prehistoric.” Tony nabs dim sum off Steve’s plate and pops it in his mouth. “Not that we have to get married but it is easily doable. C’mon, you’re looking at a well-connected man. What do you want, Sparklers? Dealer’s choice. We could jet off to a private villa, jump in line at the courthouse downtown, or get vodka-soaked in Vegas.”
Steve blinks at him. “...Are you serious?”
Tony shrugs, cool as can be. “Sure. I mean, if Elvis is your thing. I’m hardly one to judge, baby. Although I could’ve sworn you’d go for a backyard wedding at our second house.”
“We don’t have a second house. We don’t even have a first house.” Steve uses his chopsticks to move the rest of his dim sum to Tony’s plate because resistance is futile. Plus Tony’s always liked it more anyway and Steve is passed stuffed on sashimi and noodles. “The thing is, I didn’t know that was in the cards. That you’d considered it. Getting married.”
“In case you missed it, I am very into you.” Tony’s gaze is sincere and warm. He’s got such great eyes and with Steve, they give anything away. “Look up smitten and I'm there. Also sexy, smart."
"Sarcastic, snarky," Steve supplies.
"Ignoring you," Tony sing-songs. "Point is, I’m a futurist. Five years, ten years, I’m always looking ahead and you’re always there.”
Ten years. It’s flooring. They’ve only been dating for six months—and before that they’d been on entirely different continents, worlds apart in every way—but the way Tony’s talking, it sounds like he’d do it in a heartbeat. Steve is stunned into monosyllables. “Oh. Um. Wow.”
“Damn but you blush pretty. You’re all moony-eyed,” Tony teases, entirely too smug and handsome.
So, despite being bordered on all sides by affection, Steve balls up the wrapper from his straw and flicks it right at him.
*
Steve’s Ma passed away in 1936 but the feelings and images from that day aren’t difficult to conjure. He remembers how hollowed out he’d felt and yet packed to the seams with the devastation of being orphaned.
He can’t imagine going through that twice.
He can’t imagine putting someone through that for a third time.
*
Drawing back from a damp kiss, Steve tells Tony, “We’re two men.”
“Uh yeah,” Tony replies, syrup-slow and clasped around Steve. “I’m aware. Do you need an instruction manual or can we get this show on the road?”
Propped on his elbows above Tony, Steve hesitates before continuing. He finds his words by running the tips of fingers over Tony’s bare skin that’s mottled in shades of pink. “Peter’s parents. May and Ben. I’ve been thinking. Peter’s used to being under the guardianship of heterosexual couples. I’m sure he’s accustomed to—”
“If you say ‘a certain lifestyle’, I swear to god, Steve. It’s Peter,” he says, intoning that that’s the beginning and ending of it.
Steve bends to kiss him, thoroughly, knowing, and in agreement. Idling inches away only for the necessity to speak, he says, “I’m not worried about Peter. Not directly. I just want. I don’t want anyone giving him a hard time. He doesn’t deserve that. On top of everything else. After everything he’s been through.”
“Steve,” Tony exhales. He travels his hand up Steve’s arm, skims his neck, and touches his face. “That’s sweet of you. I love you for it. You're a good man. However, it’ll be fine. I promise you. He once referred to our relationship as goals.” Steve’s confusion must knit on his face because while moving his foot up the back of Steve’s calf, Tony helpfully tacks on, “It’s basically the biggest seal of approval that you can get from today’s youth.”
“Honestly?”
“Yep. We’re the cat’s pajamas, Cap.”
“I’m somehow doubting that was his exact phrasing.”
“Well, yeah, no. Definitely not. Have you seen him try to come up with the titles to movies that came out before 2007? Bands from before he was born? It's really, really sad.”
Steve’s laugh is cut off by Tony’s smiling mouth, insisting kiss me, kiss me and an impatient tug that brings him down flat.
*
Two nights in a row, Steve dreams of being thirteen again and plunged deep into a bout of pneumonia. His heart jack-knifes in his chest because at his bedside, he hears the fervent prayers of Father Doyle and Ma’s terrible hitching sobs, variations of a goodbye.
He wakes up exhausted and heartsick. Still feeling his Ma’s strong phantom grip on his fingers—so afraid to let him go—Steve laces them through Tony’s sleep-slackened hand.
*
Tony and Peter in the workshop is fast becoming a familiar scene but even so, the familiarity doesn’t blunt the effect the two of them together has on Steve, the sharp and nearly overwhelming fondness. Through the plate glass, he watches them tinker around for a self-indulgent string of minutes. They’re animatedly making gestures at a projected interface when Steve makes his presence known, rapping against the glass.
“Fabulous timing, babe.” Tony waves him in and there’s a glint to his grin that has nothing good in store for Steve. “Please come over here and agree with me.”
“Hey! Hey!” Peter protests, pointing an accusatory finger but he’s got a mirth in his eyes that mirrors Tony’s. They’re so alike, it leaves Steve awestruck, hits him square in the chest. “That is shameful cheating, man. You can’t just demand that he agree with you. Frankly, I’m both appalled and disappointed.”
“Has someone been telling you that I have morals?” Tony snorts, crossing his arms. “All lies. He’s my boyfriend; I’m pulling rank.”
“Wait, what? Like a proxy?”
“Mhmm. Just like.”
Peter groans and looks to Steve for the rescue, pleading. “Will you please tell him not to put repulsors in my suit? Please. I caught him making schematics and they’re horrifying.”
Feigning indignation, Tony palms his sternum. “Ouch.”
“Tony, you didn’t,” Steve says disbelievingly. “He gets by perfectly fine with his webbing.”
“Exactly what I said!” Peter’s voice scales. “And I can walk up walls, by the way!” Wrinkling his nose, he says, “Spiders don’t have jet boots. It's weird, dude.”
“Tony and I have been through the repulsor addition discussion a little more than once,” Steve shares with a laughing smile. “He’s learning but it is a slow-moving process. You get used to it.”
“And that’s why you still can’t fly.” Tony raises his hands in a show of surrender. “But okay, fine. I give, you win. If retro and stretchy everywhere is how you wanna rock it, keep on, keepin’ on, young buck.”
“I will. And on that note, I gotta skip out.” Peter starts circuiting the workbench, picking up notebooks opened to scientific equations that he probably cooked up with Tony and a couple textbooks to push into his backpack. He swings it over his shoulder before saying, “There’s a really big lit test coming up that MJ and I have to study for and we’re gonna grab some burgers for dinner. I’ll be back before late.”
"Don't forget your hat. It's supposed to snow later," Tony replies and Steve can see him judging the angles of what to say next and feeling his way forward. “Pete. Hey, you can invite her over anytime. If you ever want to do dinner here. Not saying that you have to but that’s alright with Steve and I. Whenever you want. This is your ho—,” Tony shifts gears, clearing his throat, “She or any of your friends are always welcome here, alright? Same as you are.”
Peter plucks at the hem of his shirt, smiling faintly. “Okay. Um, thanks, Mr. Stark. Tony. I really—thanks. I’ll see you guys later.”
“He’s probably already had the sex talk, yeah? I don’t have to put the two of us through that? That’s been covered?” Tony asks, dramatically put-upon, once Peter has shuffled out.
“Chances are probably good but I’m willing to take that bullet if need be,” Steve says with a soft laugh. He takes steps in Tony’s direction, curling an arm around him and pulling the projection of Peter’s suit closer. He narrows his eyes at it and zooms-in on the lower half. “Huh. Horrifying may have been an understatement, Shellhead.”
“Are you kidding me? Listen, I have feelings. This is grounds for your sleeping on the couch.”
“I know. However, I also now know that you had no intention of actually modifying his suit with repulsors.”
“What makes you say that?”
“These schematics aren’t your best work and practically everything you create is your best work.”
“Sour patch kid much?” Tony sighs. He trashes the projection, eliciting an arcade-chime, before leaning further into Steve. “Ugh, you’re not wrong. I threw this together in like three minutes if that.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m slightly obnoxious. I don’t know. The general idea was to make him laugh again. To take him out of his head a little, give him something to fuss over. He loves to fuss over the suit.”
“And bicker with you. I think he loves that, too."
*
“Sorry, Cap, I didn’t know that anyone would be here,” Peter says, his soft tread stopping at the threshold and his figure darkening the library’s doorway.
“No reason to apologize, it’s fine.” Steve offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile, setting down his drawing tablet. “This is the only place in the penthouse that Tony won’t set foot in. He can be very distracting. Even when he’s trying not to be. So it's the library. I wouldn't get anything done otherwise.”
“Yeah, it’s really quiet in here.” Awkwardly, Peter walks in and grazes the selection of books with absent-minded fingers. He pulls the spine of a first edition Steinbeck novel. “Completely different. I like it.”
“I understand that,” Steve says. He silently wonders how many times Peter has sought solace here, in the faint scent of paper and ink and the rich sprawl of the bookshelves. “You want to be alone? I can go.”
For a long moment, Peter is quiet. He's still quiet when he asks, “Can you stay?”
"Of course. Sure." Steve studies him. Peter looks tired, dressed in sweats and hair dampened with what Steve guesses in sweat. Alongside Tony's workshop, the gym has also been a favorite of Peter's since moving in. “Are you alright?”
Peter drops into the chair across from Steve, rubbing the corners of the book with his thumbs. He stutters, his response wobbling unevenly, “Today’s just—usually, I’m okay. It’s not as bad as it was. It’s been okay but today, um.” Glassy-eyed and face crumpling into a map of anguish, he takes a rattling deep breath that turns Steve’s heart to pulp. “I don’t know why. It’s so stupid.”
“My mother died when I was about your age,” Steve tells him, leaning forward. “At first, it felt impossible, trying to move on. Whatever part of me that the grief didn’t eat up, the guilt did. Everyone told me that it would get easier and I didn’t believe them. But then it did.”
“It doesn’t feel like it will,” Peter says, shaking his head. His dark curls hang in front of his eyes, making him look young and utterly despondent. “I miss her every day.”
“Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop," Steve says because he's never going to lie to him. "But it’ll stop breaking your heart each time you think of her.”
“I’m not sure who I am without her," Peter confesses tearfully. "I feel like I won’t ever be me again." The heel of his hand rubs at his face in, groans in something like embarrassment. "Gosh, that doesn't—I know that doesn't make any sense.”
“It makes perfect sense. But you’re still you, Peter. You’re not separated from who you are. It’s like,” Steve pauses, frowning. He's so desperate not to bungle this. “Being fragmented. There are pieces of you that’s everyone who you ever loved and who loved you. They’re scattered right now but they come back together because nothing can take them away from you. They stick with you. They're permanent. May will always be a part of you. Nothing will ever change that. I promise you.”
Peter nods and they sit in a comfortable silence that stretches long enough for Steve to finish his sketch and for Peter to start the Steinbeck novel, dislike it and replace it with a printing of The Hobbit, a second edition.
When Peter speaks up again, it’s hesitant. There’s a fit in his fingers. Steve's never seen him so nervous and he has an intuition for what's ahead. “I, um, overheard Tony talking to his lawyer the other day. About adoption stuff and letting me live here. You know about it already, don’t you? I mean, you’d have to.”
“He's discussed it with me. He didn't want you to know about it quite yet but Tony's never done well with hiding what he wants.”
Peter laughs. “Yeah, that's an understatement. I just don't get why. Does he feel sorry for me or?”
“That’s not it at all," Steve says. "You mean so much to Tony. More than you know. He hates what brought you here but he's happy having you around.”
“It's really what he wants? Adopting me?”
“Only if it matches what you want. That's what matters most of all, Peter. What's best for you. He won’t do this if it makes you uncomfortable. He’ll do whatever you want. What do you want?”
Whisper-low, Peter says, “I just don’t want to end up alone.”
"Okay.” Steve nods, chest squeezing. “Okay."
"Cap?"
“Yeah, Peter?”
"What do you want?"
*
They’re back at the kitchen sink when the conversation finally comes to a head, draining coffee on a December morning.
“It’s okay,” Tony starts, gesturing vaguely. “If you don’t want to do this. I’m not gonna hold it against you. It’s not a deal-breaker for me. I don’t know if it is for you but—”
“No, of course not,” Steve says fiercely.
Tony nods, releasing a gust of air. “Okay. Peachy keen. That’s great. I’m trying to be patient but I’m also trying not to wait you out. If you want to say no, I don’t want to wait for it to become a yes because that doesn’t help anybody. It’s been a hard balancing act, let me tell you. It’s just—Steve, you can say no. You don’t have to keep dropping hints for a way out. You can just say it. We don’t have to get married, Peter doesn’t technically need two legal guardians. You don’t have to be his—his anything.”
“It’s not a matter of wanting it, Tony. That part’s simple.” Steve turns his coffee mug between his hands and finds resolve in its dregs before holding Tony’s gaze. “What kind of life would we be giving him? We put ourselves at risk constantly. Anything could happen to us and he’d have to go through hell all over again. It wouldn’t be fair. It’d be so goddamn unfair to him. He’s already buried his parents as many times as we have. He should have folks who work normal jobs and don’t get shot at on a regular basis.”
“May passed away in a car accident, Steve. Normal won’t protect him from being hurt. It hasn’t.”
“And what guarantees that we can?”
“Nothing,” Tony admits softly. “We can’t guarantee that he’ll never hurt again. We can’t even guarantee his safety, especially with his propensity for flinging himself off high rises.”
“He fits right in.”
“He does. And we’ll be there every chance that we can and we’ll take care of him. Always. We’ll love him.”
“It’s not that easy.” Loving Peter is, unquestionably. A bright, singular thread that wove through Steve before he even realized, transforming his makeup the same way that loving Tony has. They’re tangled up together, virtually indistinguishable, and impossible to yank apart. But if something were to threaten that combined thread, to cut through it—
“I’m brand new at this," Tony cuts in, derailing Steve's train of thought, "but I’ve heard that it’s not meant to be easy. It’ll be the toughest thing we’ve ever done but we're going in with our eyes open and I believe in us. You and me. I believe in the three of us. We can do this.”
“The whole world will want a piece of him. The media could discover that he’s Spider-Man, put demands on him that he’s not ready for. When he became your intern, articles ran for nearly a week.”
“If it comes to that, we’ll handle it. I didn't come up with this myself but I admire the man who uttered the words: the safest hands are our own.”
“We’ll be his to lose.”
“Yes.”
“He’ll be ours to lose,” Steve says, wounded. It scrapes out of him, like the words are pulling his heart out and hanging it on a line. And finally Tony’s steady sureness wavers; he sounds no better when he answers back, “Yes.”
Steve is terrified that's it too much and more than fate meant to deal out to him but he wants this, with Tony and with Peter. He’d fight the world for them. He’s a soldier who’s prepared to fight the world for them.
*
The sun is sinking in a gorgeous purple-pink persuasion and the lights that garland through the big backyard are just flickering on when the strings start up again.
Under the warm glow that’s cast, Tony rolls his eyes when Steve finds him in lively conversation with several of their guests but that doesn’t keep him from letting Steve coax him back to the center of the patio. Tony has never minded his two left feet and they sway into another slow dance, melting into each other's edges.
“How exactly did you go from not having a clue on how to dance to wanting to do it every fucking two minutes?” Tony looks down and laughs. The delight on his face is better than anything and Steve steals a couple of buttercream-tinted kisses from his mouth. Drawing back, Tony tsks, “Uh, uh, uh. What the hell happened to your Ferragamos? Are you drunk, husband?”
With Tony’s hand in his—Tony’s ring on his finger—Steve shrugs, unconcerned. The spring evening is unseasonably hot; even Tony’s shed off his jacket. He looks lovely in his slate-colored suspenders. “I took them off in the grass. Left ‘em.”
“That’s disrespectful. Also surprisingly bohemian of you.”
“In my defense, Peter did it first.”
“Oh, are we using the kid as an excuse for this display of rebellion? That’s mature.”
“The kid’s not really a kid anymore.” Steve nods to where Peter is strategically stationed by the uncut cake with a plate of finger foods in hand. His on and off again with MJ is currently complicated and Steve will be there for him when he's ready to talk about it and seek comfort beyond bacon-wrapped shrimp. With chipmunk-cheeks, Peter gives them a thumbs up and Steve smiles back.
“Yeah," Tony murmurs, rueful and fond. "Imagine if we’d waited a few months to get hitched, he could be the drunk one instead of you." He smirks, gently knocking Steve on the shoulder.
“I’m not drunk. Just happy. I love you. I love you so much,” Steve says and he places his lips on Tony’s forehead, inhaling. Almost to himself, he remarks, “It’s gone by fast, hasn’t it?”
“You mean since you tried to propose to me over raw fish?”
“That wasn’t a proposal.” Although it hadn’t been too long after that lunch date that a ring box did start to burn a hole in Steve’s pocket. For years. Curious, he asks, “Would you have said yes? Had there been a question?”
“Yeah, I think so. I mean, I still don’t think you need a piece of paper to keep tied and true,” Tony says. “We’ve been doing pretty alright for ourselves. But a little more never hurts, right?”
Steve wholeheartedly agrees. He crooks a grin and smooths his hand down Tony’s back. “Like a second house?”
Tony cracks up, eyes crinkling. “An hour of marriage and you’re already bleeding me dry. Okay fine. I’ll buy you a new house.”
“Don’t need it,” Steve says, perfectly content. “Living this life with you and Peter, right here, it’s good enough for me.”
fin