PART 5: Parallel Realizations
Tony
Tony Stark left the conference room like a man who had just finished a very satisfying workout.
Not angry.
Not triumphant.
Just… limber.
For the people still seated behind the glass, what had happened probably felt like a catastrophe. Careers ended. Futures rewritten. Entire agendas quietly buried under airtight language and classified stamps.
For Tony, it was Tuesday.
He rolled his shoulders as he walked, a lazy stretch that would have made every cabinet minister flinch if they'd still been in the room. His heart rate was steady. His mind clear. The buzz of adrenaline faded into something dangerously close to contentment.
He'd handed a collection of entitled, short-sighted politicians their asses using spreadsheets, contracts, and consequences. He'd locked the crash behind enough red tape to make it functionally mythical. He'd secured five government bids, funnelled over a trillion dollars into Asgardian reconstruction, and neatly ensured Stark Industries would be reimbursed for every single repulsor blast, drone deployment, and med-bay nanite.
Merchant of Death, indeed.
He didn't shout.
He didn't threaten.
He just explained reality to people who had forgotten they lived in it.
And honestly? It felt great.
Outside the conference room, Steve Rogers waited.
Tony clocked him instantly. Straight posture. Concerned expression. The unmistakable aura of a man preparing to say something earnest and deeply unhelpful.
Tony walked right past him.
Didn't slow.
Didn't engage.
Didn't have the patience for patriotism with opinions.
Not today.
Today, Tony had earned his catharsis, and he was not about to ruin it by discussing morality with someone who had never once tried to negotiate refugee reparations with three governments and a god before lunch.
He had kids to collect.
And possibly ground.
The day wasn't over yet.
Peter
Peter Parker's shift ended at four p.m.
Not because the work was done.
But because he wasn't anymore.
His hands rested on the edge of the console, fingers numb, eyes aching from hours of decisions that didn't involve fists or webs or quick saves. Just numbers. Names. Needs. Waiting.
Friday's voice had been gentle when she shut down Mini Boss Protocol.
"You've reached your recommended cognitive limit, Peter. Please rest."
He hadn't argued.
When Tony arrived, Peter barely noticed at first.
Vision stood nearby, composed as ever, carrying a deeply unconscious Ned like it was the most natural thing in the world. Ned's glasses were crooked, his mouth slightly open, the faint hum of exhaustion radiating off him.
Shuri followed behind them, quiet now. Thoughtful. Her usual sharp brilliance dulled by too many hours spent dancing along the edge of impossible ideas.
Tony didn't yell.
That almost made it worse.
He just looked at Peter, eyes scanning him the way they always did after a bad mission. Too thorough. Too careful.
"Ready to go?" Tony asked.
Peter nodded.
As they walked, the adrenaline finally drained out of him, leaving something hollow behind. He felt… sad.
Not devastated.
Not broken.
Just quietly wrecked.
Spider-Man responsibility was loud. Immediate. You saved someone or you didn't.
This had been different.
This had been choosing who waited.
Who got help now.
Who had to trust that help would come later.
Power didn't make you special.
Power didn't make you heroic.
Power made you responsible for people you would never meet and consequences you would never see.
Peter slid into the seat, shoulders curling inward, exhaustion pressing down in a way no building collapse ever had.
He'd done his best.
He wasn't sure it was enough.
Closing
Happy Hogan waited at the gate, engine idling, taking one look at the group and deciding this was not the moment for commentary.
Vision carefully settled Ned into the back seat.
Shuri leaned her head against the window, eyes closed, already replaying theories she hadn't gotten to finish.
Peter sank into his seat, staring at his hands.
Tony got in last.
He closed the door, leaned back, and let himself grin just a little.
Asgard was funded.
Stark Industries was secure.
Several politicians were having very bad evenings.
He'd earned this calm.
The car pulled away from the Compound, carrying exhaustion, victories, and lessons that hadn't fully settled yet.
Father and sons.
Training wheels and guillotines.
Same road.
Different costs.
Home.