Tony Stark's phone read Sunday, 1:07 a.m.
He would remember the time forever.
Not because of the firelight flickering outside the compound.
Not because of the refugee tents glowing like constellations across the fields.
But because at exactly 1:07 a.m., Peter Parker had said I love you… and Tony Stark had learned that his kid and said kid's best friend were unparalleled, physics-breaking, recklessly brilliant disasters.
They were in so much trouble.
Grounded didn't even begin to cover it.
They were grounded until the cows came home.
Tony didn't own cows.
He would buy cows.
He was halfway through constructing what would have been the most legendary lecture in human history when Friday lobbed a verbal grenade directly into his soul.
"Boss," she said gently, which was never a good sign, "Peter Parker and Ned Leeds have commandeered the Wakandan jet."
Tony stared at the screen.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
"…Friday," he said slowly, carefully, the way one speaks to a bomb. "Baby girl. Can you repeat that."
"They have taken control of the Wakandan jet and are currently en route to the Upstate Compound."
Tony felt the blood leave his face, circle the block, and return with friends.
"I just want to clarify," he said faintly, "that you are telling me my children stole a foreign nation's aircraft, abducted a princess, and are flying directly into what is currently a disaster zone that looks like hell with better lighting."
"Yes, Boss."
Tony closed his eyes.
Somewhere behind him, Natasha Romanoff paused mid-step, arms crossed, listening without comment. A few nearby sorcerers had gone very still, clearly pretending not to eavesdrop while absolutely eavesdropping. No one said a word.
They didn't need to.
This was new news.
That was a problem for Future Tony.
Present Tony needed backup.
He activated his comm.
"Merlin," Tony said flatly. "Our kids ran away from home, kidnapped a princess, and are on their way here."
Stephen Strange froze.
The look on his face was everything Tony had hoped for.
Shock. Horror. Recognition.
Finally. Someone who understood.
"I…." Stephen started. Stopped. Then tried again. "I thought you left Vision in charge."
Tony laughed.
It was hollow. Broken. Slightly unhinged.
"Oh, he was," Tony said. "That's the problem."
Stephen's brows knit. "Tony?"
"Vision," Tony continued, pacing now, "gave them a physics-breaking project derived from a classified project, forgot to enforce breaks, meals, or limits on caffeine intake, and now we have two over-caffeinated, sugar-high gremlins who solved a problem I couldn't and decided the appropriate next step was grand theft jet."
Stephen stared at him.
"…They solved it?"
Tony stopped pacing.
His shoulders sagged just a fraction. "Yeah."
That was the worst part.
They weren't reckless idiots.
They were right.
Stephen exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. "I warned you."
"You warned me about magic," Tony shot back. "You didn't warn me about raising teenage demigods with access to vibranium."
Stephen's lips twitched despite himself. "You are secretly proud."
Tony glared. "I am furious."
"And proud."
"…Shut up."
Stephen folded his arms, eyes distant now, calculating. "Then we discipline them. Properly. Calmly."
Tony snorted. "I am not calm."
"I know," Stephen said mildly. "That's why I'm here."
Tony dragged a hand down his face, exhaustion finally catching him. "They could've gotten hurt."
Stephen's voice softened. "They didn't."
"They could've started an international incident."
Stephen nodded. "They did."
Tony groaned.
Somewhere overhead, a sonic boom echoed faintly.
Friday chimed cheerfully, "Boss, the Wakandan jet will arrive in approximately four minutes."
Tony straightened.
"Alright," he said, voice sharpening into something steel-edged and parental. "Game plan. No yelling."
Stephen arched a brow. "You just yelled."
"Minimal yelling," Tony corrected. "We ground them. We confiscate everything. We explain why stealing jets is bad."
"And the classified research?"
Tony sighed. "We're having that conversation."
Stephen nodded once. "I'll handle Vision."
Tony paused. "…Please be gentle."
Stephen smiled thinly. "I will not."
Tony huffed despite himself.
Out there, amid gods and refugees and wars-in-waiting, a new crisis approached at supersonic speed.
Two teenagers.
One synthezoid.
And the horrifying realization that the future had just announced itself loudly, brilliantly, and without asking permission.
Tony Stark squared his shoulders.
"Okay," he muttered. "Let's go meet our problems."
And gods help him
He loved them anyway.