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Chapter 3

Tony had no warning before the world disappeared.

One moment, he was somewhere else. The next, he was suspended in the familiar darkness, unable to move or see anything.

“Your objection to preparation is becoming repetitive,” Grandpa said.

“Your devotion to delay is becoming tedious,” Asshole replied.

“Preparation is not delay.”

“It is when the enemy hasn’t arrived.”

“And how, precisely, do you propose he confront an enemy who hasn’t arrived?” Debbie asked.

Tony wanted to demand an explanation, but the void released him before he had the chance.

The transition wasn’t a sudden jolt. It was a smooth, heavy drop, like an elevator settling onto its cables.

Tony blinked against the warm, indirect LED lighting of his private workshop at the Upstate Compound. The familiar smells of machine oil, solder, and Pepper’s Earl Grey tea greeted him.

He looked down at his hands.

Calluses from three decades of wielding a blowtorch. Subtle silver scars across his knuckles. A heavy titanium wristwatch resting against his left forearm.

He walked over to the glass wall of the lab and studied his reflection.

Graying temples. Neat goatee. The familiar lines around his eyes. He was back in his adult body.

“JARVIS?” Tony called out instinctively.

“I am afraid JARVIS remains offline, sir,” Friday’s gentle Irish cadence echoed from the ceiling speakers. “Current time is 2:14 PM, Saturday, February 17, 2018.”

Tony closed his eyes for a second, letting out a long, shaky breath. 2018. Just over two months before Thanos arrived. Before Titan. Before Peter turned to dust in his arms.

“Mr. Stark?”

Tony turned around so fast his hip caught the corner of the workbench.

Standing near the workshop glass doors was Peter Parker.

He was sixteen years old. He wore a faded Midtown Science hoodie that was two sizes too big, worn-out sneakers, and held a greasy paper bag from a Queens bakery in one hand.

Tony’s breath caught.

For an instant, the workshop vanished. He saw the rust-red dust of Titan. Felt Peter collapsing against his chest, clutching at his suit, trembling.

I don’t feel so good, Mr. Stark… I don’t want to go…

“Mr. Stark?” Peter repeated, taking a hesitant step into the room. His brown eyes were wide with mild concern. “Are you okay? You’re staring at me like I grew a third eye.”

Tony couldn’t speak. His throat locked completely.

His feet moved before his brain could stop them. He crossed the floor in three long strides, reached out, and grabbed Peter by the shoulders. He pulled the kid into a tight, fierce hug, pressing his face into Peter’s messy brown hair.

Peter went completely rigid, the paper bag of pastries crinkling loudly in his hand.

“Uh…” Peter squeaked, his voice cracking. “Mr. Stark? Not that I’m complaining! This is great! Very warm! But… is everything alright? Did May call you? Did I fail a physics test?”

Tony held on for a few more seconds, feeling Peter breathing against him, before forcing himself to let go. He stepped back, keeping his hands on Peter’s shoulders to steady himself.

“You’re fine,” Tony rasped. “You’re whole. You’re right here.”

“Yeah, I’m… I’m right here,” Peter said, blinking in bewilderment. He studied Tony’s face for a moment. “I brought those cinnamon pastries from the place near the train station. You said you liked them.”

“I love them,” Tony said, forcing a crooked smile and clapping Peter on the shoulder. “Best pastries in New York. Put ’em on the desk.”

Peter set the bag down without another word. He pulled a small, scorched circuit board out of his hoodie pocket and set it beside the pastries, turning it over between his fingers.

Tony watched him for a moment. Usually, Peter would have been asking about whatever Tony was working on. Instead, he seemed more interested in the old circuit board than anything in the workshop.

“What’s that?” Tony asked softly, pulling up a stool beside the bench.

Peter looked at the circuit board. It was an old piece of consumer electronics from the mid-2000s, its capacitors fried and its copper traces pitted with corrosion.

“Just… something I found,” Peter muttered. “In an alley behind the electronics shop in Queens. A long time ago.”

Tony leaned in, examining the board. “Power supply controller. Dual-capacitor bridge. Pretty crude, but simple. What are you keeping it for?”

Peter swallowed hard, his thumb tracing the burnt edge of the fiberglass. “I had this in my hand… three years ago today. I was twelve.”

Tony went very still.

February 17.

“Uncle Ben and I went to the bodega on 108th Street,” Peter said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “He was buying milk. I was standing by the potato chips holding this board, telling him how I was going to strip the capacitors for a project. And then…”

Peter stopped. He squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw tightening.

“And then I noticed the guy in the green jacket standing at the counter,” Peter whispered. “I felt this… this weird feeling in my stomach. Like a warning. But I didn’t know what it meant. I didn’t move. I just stood there like an idiot.”

Tony listened without interrupting. He didn’t offer a platitude. He didn’t tell Peter it wasn’t his fault. He just sat beside him, his presence grounded and solid.

“He shot him, Mr. Stark,” Peter whispered, a tear slipping down his cheek. “Right in front of me. For forty dollars and a carton of milk. And I was holding this circuit board.”

Tony reached out and rested his hand against the back of Peter’s neck, squeezing gently. He remembered reading about Ben in Peter’s file. He remembered the few times Peter had mentioned his uncle, always briefly, before changing the subject. He’d never heard the whole story from Peter himself.

“He loved you, kid,” Tony said softly. “I didn’t know Ben, but I know you. And there isn’t a man on earth who wouldn’t be proud to have you carry his name.”

Peter looked up, wiping his cheek with the sleeve of his hoodie, a small, watery smile breaking through his grief. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

The glass door of the lab slid open with a soft whoosh.

Pepper stepped into the room, holding a tablet and a cup of tea. She stopped when she saw the two of them sitting side by side at the workbench, Tony’s hand still resting on Peter’s shoulder.

Tony looked up and met Pepper’s eyes.

The breath trapped in his chest tore free again.

Pepper.

She wore a cream sweater and trousers, her hair pulled back, her blue eyes sharp and warm. She wasn’t carrying the grief of 2023. She didn’t know about Morgan yet. She didn’t know about the quiet cabin by the lake or five years of domestic peace.

Tony couldn’t take his eyes off her. Pepper’s eyebrows drew together.

“Tony?” she asked, looking between him and Peter. “Is everything alright in here?”

“Everything is phenomenal,” Tony said, his voice thick with emotion. He stood up, walked over to Pepper, and before she could react, wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close and pressing a lingering kiss to her cheek.

Pepper blinked, her cheeks coloring slightly as she looked over at Peter, who suddenly found his circuit board extraordinarily interesting.

“Not that I mind the welcome,” Pepper murmured, resting a hand against Tony’s chest, “but you’re behaving very strangely today, Anthony.”

“I’m just appreciating the view,” Tony lied smoothly, his eyes tracing every line of her face, drinking in her presence like a man dying of thirst. “How’s the company?”

“Profitable. Which it remains only because I manage it while you eat pastries in the lab,” Pepper replied with a small smile. She studied his face for another moment. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Never better, Pep,” Tony whispered.

Pepper slipped her hand into his.

A familiar, icy pressure began to gather at the base of his skull.

Tony recognized the sensation immediately. His time here was ending.

He looked at Peter, who was smiling as he ate a pastry, and then at Pepper, who was holding his hand.

“Not yet,” Tony muttered.

He squeezed Pepper’s fingers one last time as the workshop disappeared around him.

Project File: A Matter of Time – IamJenifer