The muffled argument bled through the lounge wall, distracting Peter from his homework. Steve’s voice, loud with frustration, reached him first. “He’s still a kid, Tony!”
“A kid who’s a genius!” Tony’s voice boomed back, almost a shout. “Smarter than *I* am, maybe! He lifted himself – and rubble – from a collapsed warehouse! A warehouse, Steve!”
“He’s *still* a kid!” Steve retorted.
Peter’s head throbbed. The overhead lights felt like spotlights, burning into his eyes. A high-pitched whine began to resonate in his ears, escalating with each shouted word. He dropped his pen, curling into himself, knees drawn tight against his chest. Hands clamped over his ears, he began to rock back and forth, a desperate attempt to block out the noise and the light.
Natasha walked in mid-rock, her eyes immediately finding Peter. She knelt beside him, her expression softening with concern.
“What’s wrong, Pete?” she asked, her voice gentle. Peter let out a choked sob, burying his face into his palms.
“Mr. Parker is experiencing a sensory overload,” FRIDAY’s calm voice informed Natasha. “Cortisol levels are elevated, and pupil dilation is consistent with acute distress.”
Natasha frowned. “FRIDAY, dim the lights by sixty percent and activate sound dampening protocols in the lounge. Priority: Parker’s comfort.” She then pulled Peter into a tight embrace, a rare Natasha hug, and began to rub soothing circles on his shoulders.
The rocking slowed, the sobs becoming quieter, though Peter still trembled. Eventually, he slumped against Natasha, tears streaming down his face.
“I…it’s my fault,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Mr. Stark and Mr. Rodgers are arguing because of me. I’m so sorry.” Natasha’s heart clenched at his distress. She would deal with Tony and Steve later; right now, Peter needed her.
“It’s not your fault, Pete,” she soothed, holding him tighter. “They’re both strong-willed, and they disagree. It doesn’t mean they blame you.”
…
The next morning, Clint found Natasha and Peter asleep on the sofa, curled together. He quietly snapped a photo with his phone, a small, private moment of comfort captured.
Later that day, Tony found himself on the receiving end of a broken nose – courtesy of Natasha’s swift, decisive counter to his own aggressive outburst. Natasha, in turn, nursed a sore throat and a bruised ego. The argument, fueled by frustration and protective instincts, had escalated beyond reason. It was a messy, volatile exchange, but the underlying message was clear: Peter’s well-being was paramount, and they would defend him – even from each other.