Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There are thousands of interpretations of what power lies above the world. Who or what possesses the power to manipulate every situation, ensuring that the pieces fall exactly as they desire. Peter Parker has never been one to believe in what he couldn’t see right in front of him. A habit he could only have learned from his father. The boys of the Parker family would spend hours breaking down the world around them so they could have the slightest insight. The knowledge that countless cultures and religions were created to understand.

When Mary watched her boys trying to crack the secrets of the world. she had no doubt that a higher being existed. A being gracious enough to not only grant her the ability to feel unconditional love, but to be allowed to use it all on the beautiful minds by her side. One that granted her a reality where she could wake up beside the man who completed her like a perfect puzzle piece. Where she could hug her lovely Peter with the fierceness only a mother could manage. She couldn’t even imagine a life in which those weren't the most miraculous gift to have. 

From an outsider's perspective, the Parker household appeared far from conventional. Some saw two working parents with risky jobs, numerous babysitters, and a life where hugs were as rare as midnight suns. They watched the young Peter and could only assume his intelligence stemmed from hours spent studying out of sheer boredom. Richard was a cold, unforgiving man in their assumptions and Mary too lost in her own mind to be a helpful mother. There was always an unspoken agreement among their friends and acquaintances that the family was one to be pitied. 

But, again, the family wasn't keen on believing what wasn't right in front of them. And before them was every dream they could manage. 

As Peter grew up, he sought his own answers to the world beyond. Although he still couldn't perceive a gigantic man in the sky smiting people with lightning bolts (who suspiciously resembled Santa Claus), he witnessed men in iron suits soaring through the Malibu skyline as if it were an ordinary occurrence. Gods of Thunder and Mischief were undeniably real, but they didn't govern Earth and its inhabitants.

One day in fourth grade, Flash Thompson, the only kid at school who spoke to Peter, proposed an intriguing theory.

“I think it may genuinely be supernatural at this point.” Ten-year-old Flash had snorted, and four other kids crowded around him like they were his disciples. They had the younger Peter pressed into the corner of the elementary library, his cheeks burning. His shirt was still wet from where the water fountain’s nozzle had broken, assaulting him with the liquid. 

“It was an accident,” Peter mumbled, trying to keep the tears from his eyes. They weren’t the sad, frosty tears that he got when he read something with a bad ending. They were the hot, sticky ones that welled when he was angry. The worst kind. Because Flash, no matter which tears they were, would use them. It was the exact type of ammunition he lived for. 

“How many accidents can you have, Penis Parker?” Flash demanded. “You’ve broken two sets of beakers in Ms. Mendez’s class. At last week's cross-country meet you tripped, at the finish line. Now this?”

His fan club cackled as if this were the most clever thing a kid had ever said. A table across the room glanced up, worried. One even looked over at the librarian (though she stayed effectively asleep behind the counter). None of them dared to actually intervene. Going against Flash's will was signing a death warrant in many ways.

“I’m nervous just standing near you,” The smaller girl in Flash's entourage chimed in, her green eyes seeking his approval. When she was met with indifference, she added, “Maybe the Parker Luck is contagious.”

Her words pleased Flash. He crossed his arms, smiling again. “Yeah, I wouldn't want to catch any Parker Luck.”

When Peter arrived home, his mind was consumed by the concept of Parker Luck. Could it truly exist, like some kind of universal law that followed him around? People were still trying to prove Murphy's law. In the hours before his parents returned from work, Peter began to work on this hypothesis. He created an itemized list of every mishap he could remember from recent history. Then, he meticulously categorized them into three levels: Unlucky, Misfortune, and Catastrophic. Despite sifting through numerous events, he couldn't find any correlation.

Skip Westcott was watching Peter that day. He watched Peter a lot. He was Mary's closest and longest friend. Peter liked Skip. He was a lot like his mom, always lost in their own ideas. Skip liked spiders the way Peter liked superheroes. Skip would bring him gifts from his job at Stark Industries, sometimes. He didn't really come in contact with anybody important on the Biology floor. But, he had access to the gift shop. 

“Oh, hey, I got you something, Einstein!” Skip called out suddenly, diverting Peter's attention from his project. Skip was studying toxic waste that day.

Peter looked up from the carpet, his hand freezing over the calculator. He was figuring out the probability of his accidents at points in the day. He watched with anticipation as Skip pulled something out of his messenger bag—a box adorned with Iron Man's face, glinting in the sunlight.

“No way!” Peter tripped over himself as he got up, fighting against his own limbs to get to the kitchen as fast as possible. His hands reached toward the box which, by the looks of it, could only contain the limited-edition Iron Man face mask and matching Repulsors. Before they caught the cardboard, Skip caught Peter’s wrist. 

“Slow down, Pete.” He laughed lightly, sliding his magnifying glasses up his nose. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Peter hadn’t forgotten; he was hoping. It was the same routine whenever Skip got him a present. Which, lately, had been happening more and more. 

“Um, thank you?” Peter smiled up at Skip, hoping that maybe his mom’s friend was the one who had forgotten. 

“Nice try,” Skip let go of Peter’s wrist, stooping down so they were at eye level. “Don’t I earn a hug for something like this?”

Without waiting, Skip pulled Peter into an embrace. It wasn’t a torturous activity by any means. Peter knew this was a simple thing, people did it all the time. Skip said so, too. It wasn’t dramatic, just a hug. But still, Peter always felt like he had eaten too much when Skip hugged him. He squeezed too tight and his hands always messed up Peter’s curly, brown hair. Maybe it was because his dad wasn’t much of a hugger. The only time he really hugged people, aside from Skip, was his mother. Her hugs were gentle, as soft as she was, always carrying the scent of cinnamon. In contrast, Skip's hugs were strong and firm, his towering height and solid arms resembling iron bars. He carried the lingering aroma of formaldehyde from his lab days. Maybe Mom’s hugs are just different, Peter thoughts as he waited for Skip to let him go. 

“Go on, go play.” Skip ruffled Peter’s hair, letting him grab the box.

Birthdays held a special place in the Parker family. It was the only day of the year where, no matter what projects or assignments the family had going on, they all took a break. They would have presents – that weren’t traded for hugs – and treats and fun. 

It was Peter’s birthday, this time. He had long ago given up his quest to figure out what was wrong with him. The first time he would accept something he couldn’t describe. Good things didn’t just happen in his life. He had to go out and grab anything he wanted. Where other kids would have felt bitter, and given up, Peter just kept reaching. If anything, the sour luck made him appreciate his life even more. 

By the time he was turning fourteen, he only had one friend. But Ned was the best guy Peter had ever met. He didn’t have any uncles or grandparents, but he had his parents and Skip. Three people who loved him enough to make up for any distant family. And, yes, the tickets he got on his ninth birthday to StarkExpo’s grand reappearance landed him in the crosshairs of million-dollar war weapons and superheroes. But, Tony freaking Stark helped him blast one of the Hammer Droids away and called him brave. Peter still counted it as his best birthday.

For weeks leading up to the day, Peter brimmed with excitement. Three different paper chains adorned the house, each counting down to the day, while another two hung in his locker at Midtown Middle. The morning of, Mary set up camp in the kitchen. She had been trying to cook eggs and bacon, her mind quickly became consumed trying to find the exact time it took to cook a slice of bacon. By the time Peter woke up, the eggs were far beyond salvageable, but they had nearly three packs of bacon laid out on the counter.

The small family spent the morning feasting on bacon as Peter began an argument about time travel and the Grandfather Paradox. Richard believed in a single timeline, suggesting that if anyone traveled back in time, it had already happened, and they were already living the consequences. Peter argued that there was a multiverse beyond their own reality. So if one were to time travel, they were simply shifting between the timelines. 

Around one o'clock, Skip arrived. He was an hour late, having gotten caught up in one of his experiments. He was “so close this time”, he promised. This time, his project focused on transferring spider DNA into humans. It was his dream to be able to give himself arachnid-based instincts. They had this extraordinary ability to cheat death. He yearned to tap into that power.

The family set up shop in their living room, passing presents around. Skip had two tags with his name on them and shiny Avenger-themed wrapping. The first was a Walkman. Richard snorted, slightly offended when Peter called it ‘vintage’. Mary grinned, taking pictures with her phone. The second present was a mixtape, its tracks listed in delicate notes on the cassette case. The title read "Mary's Mix." Skip explained that it was the same tape Mary had lost back in college, where they first met. He had kept it all these years, planning to embarrass her future friends with her musical taste. They all laughed, examining the unexpected song choices—female screamo, punk-rock, and even electronic tunes.

“Junior year of college was hard!” She argued, not quite able to rub the grin off her face. 

Richard and Mary gave Peter a box wrapped in silver paper. Inside, the box wasn’t decorated or trademarked. It was simple, with ‘E.A.S.T. Prototype’ scrawled onto the top with Sharpie. One of their friends at S.H.E.I.L.D made it for Peter, as a thank-you for an unmentioned favor Richard did for them. E.A.S.T. stood for “Emotionally-Advanced Safety Technology”. A small, white robot designed to both watch over Peter and keep him company. ts display screen sported a lively, almost cartoonish face.

E.A.S.T. did exactly what it was designed to do.

It was Peter’s idea to get ice cream. Summer in New York was muggy, even if you had the money to offset it. The Parker household struggled to cope with the additional body heat, causing their air conditioning to work harder than usual. Peter said that such a nice day deserved ice cream. Mary said that was a lovely idea. Since there weren't enough seats in Richard's car for all four of them, they decided to take two separate cars. Richard drove his car while Skip took the wheel of his own vehicle.

“Peter,” E.A.S.T. had chirped. Peter broke off his babbling, looking up at the small bot that was still on the carpet. “I would advise that you drive with Mr. Westcott rather than your father.”

“Why?” Peter whispered back as if this were some birthday surprise. 

“Mr. Parker has received an influx of notifications on his cellphone throughout the day.” E.A.S.T.’s face lit up with a few statistics. “Studies show that cellular devices are the leading cause of distracted driving.”

Peter glanced at his father. As if to prove the robot’s point, he was typing quickly on his work phone. It wasn’t uncommon for Richard to do the same thing while he was driving. But he did it so often, Peter had just assumed it was a perfectly normal thing to do. 

So, Peter rode with Skip. Skip was happy to have company on the drive. He kept reaching over and ruffling Peter’s hair in excitement.  It was only a five-minute drive, a straight shot into town. Even with a huge head start (Skip forgot his wallet at home, so they turned around about two minutes in), the two got to the ice cream parlor first. 

They went inside and ordered. Peter knew exactly what his dad and mom would choose—the classic banana split for his dad and a strawberry cheesecake sundae for his mom. Still no sign. Skip and Peter got their orders. Richard and Mary weren’t responding to Peter’s texts. Peter began to lick the sides of his cone to catch the slowly melting sorbet. Skip texted Mary again. It took half an hour for the ice creams to melt fully, not once touched by the two. That’s when Skip got the call. 

The ambulance didn’t even take them to the hospital. The car had been smoking and folded crisply around a tree for ten minutes before the police were called. The EMTs told Peter that the force had eliminated their brain waves on impact. He had meant to assure Peter, so he knew that they didn’t suffer. But it didn’t. Peter couldn’t imagine his parent’s brains simply going quiet. They were always running at top volume. The noise couldn’t just disappear. Could it?

Peter wanted to see them. He asked everybody who would look at him to just see them, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. They kept him at the ice cream parlor with one of the EMTs. She had red hair and freckles. They let Skip go to the scene, to identify the bodies. Peter was their only living family, but nobody would let him see. The nice lady behind the counter kept bringing Peter new cones. He didn’t touch any of it. Still, every time the cone melted onto the counter, she would silently wipe the mess away and leave a fresh cone in its place. Once, she even slid the glasses off of Peter’s face and wiped away the tear-induced fog. That’s why everything was so blurry.

Two long hours ticked by before Skip returned. He seemed hollow like somebody scooped the pleasant spirit right out of him. The lady behind the counter looked up at his face, at his red-rimmed eyes as if they held the secrets of the universe. Skip looked up for a second, then shook his head. His face crumpled as if he were to cry, but there were no tears left. 

Instead, he knelt in front of Peter. 

“I want to see them,” Peter whispered again.

“They’re gone, kiddo.”

“But we were supposed to have ice cream.”

Skip pressed his forehead into Peter’s, gripping his hands. “I know.”

“But it’s my birthday.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

They sat like that more a long time. Eventually, the nice lady told Skip that they had to head out. The shop closed half an hour ago. Skip said sorry. He slipped a twenty into the tip jar and said thank you. 

Peter didn’t want to leave. His parents were supposed to come. They were supposed to have ice cream.

“Let’s go home,” Skip said. 

Peter didn’t bother asking why Skip was driving toward the suburbs rather than the city. All he could think about was how this would fall under “Catastrophic” on his Parker Luck scale. 

Chapter Text

The first week was the hardest. Skip and Peter found a temporary home in a shabby motel in Forest Hills while everything got sorted out. Peter didn't have a bloodline to fall back on, custody-wise. No long-lost cousins or uncles. Richard’s parents and brother had long since passed from old age. He was adopted by his parents when they were rearing their sixties, trying to find their spark in life again. Mary was an only child to a single father. 

It took six agonizing days before the Parker Testament was finally discovered. Due to Richard's high rank and Mary's access to classified information, the document had to undergo a thorough review by the Central Intelligence Agency before it could be invoked. Peter heard Skip say it was 'bullshit' to the social worker. Ms. Brayle warned him that he needed to play nice with the system. Yet, every day he would say it again. 

"The documents are being treated as top-level clearance items," Ms. Brayle told Peter that Wednesday. Peter thought she looked tired. Her blonde hair was in a severe bun that looked like it was tugging on her face. Her eyes were downward turning, rimmed in red. When she spoke, it sounded like it was always leading up to a yawn. "Your parents were involved in highly classified work."

“I don’t care if he was actively working with a purple alien, Tonya,” Skip argued, not bothering to hide the conversation from Peter. The boy had been so distant, he didn’t even hear when people were speaking directly in his ear. “Peter is grieving. He doesn’t deserve to lie in wait while they fudge a few details.”

"Just hold on a little longer," Ms. Brayle urged, glancing at her phone. "Right now, your only job is to keep Peter alive while we sort out everything else."

Skip did his best. He tried a more gentle approach with Peter than he did with the social workers and lawyers. He didn’t push Peter. They were grieving together, after all. He would sleep on the couch of the hotel room, so when Peter eventually woke up with asthma attacks or sobbing, he was there. They would cry together or just sit in the dark room. Sometimes, Skip would share stories about Mary. Sometimes Peter would listen. Other times Skip would put on a movie, so they could escape reality. Peter liked it when he put on Star Wars. It was the kind of movie that his father would have picked apart with inaccuracies. The kind that his mother would have peaked at from above her laptop. 

It was during the fifth one that Ms. Brayle finally showed up with the papers. Skip turned the volume up on the T.V., hoping to drown out their conversations. Peter didn’t want to hear it. He tried vehemently to keep his eyes on the screen as it displayed the massive AT-ATs. 

“Their will was updated actually quite recently,” Ms. Brayle said, spreading papers onto the coffee table. “Neither of them considered that they might pass… naturally. Especially when Mary had shifted her career to fieldwork.”

Skip's eyes narrowed, his hands freezing in their place as they had been soothing Peter's shoulders. "Are you suggesting someone targeted them?"

"We don't know. Or perhaps they won't tell us. All we do know is that they assumed if something happened to them, Peter would be next on the list."

In the past six days, Peter had felt like he had a fishbowl on his head. Words passed through a thick layer slowly, his sight completely watered down. He hadn't dared to utter more than a single sentence since. As Ms. Brayle spoke, daintily avoiding the word “die”, he felt the cracks. 

“I’m next?” 

Ms. Brayle and Skip’s eyes popped to Peter’s face as if a ghost had just spoken. Maybe one had. 

"No, no, you're not, Einstein," Skip reassured, lowering himself to the floor to meet Peter's eyes. Behind him, on the screen, the AT-ATs crashed to the ground violently, tripped by a passing plane. The movie suddenly seemed much louder. Peter wondered if it was the sound of glass cracking or if such a scene deserved a heightened sound system. "Nobody hurt your parents, and they sure as shit aren't hurting you."

“Language, Mr. Westcott.” 

“Frankly, Tonya, I feel like I deserve a few bad words right now.”

She shook her head, returning to the papers. “He can go home with you tonight. Central Intelligence has prohibited our return to the Parker household, so you'll need to do some shopping..."

The final crack in Peter’s fishbowl. He felt the water dripping down his face, splashing onto his lap. 

“I just wanted-” He gasped for air, the sobs racking his body. “I just wanted to have a good birthday.”

Skip watched him helplessly. Ms. Brayle shook her head slowly. She had seen too many broken lives to truly be affected. Even if the young teenager was much too small to carry such a big weight.

“I don’t want my birthday anymore. I take it back. I don’t want my birthday.”

The house they pulled up to was large and clean. It reminded Peter of the White House. Sturdy pillars supported the second floor, and the choice of oak for the doors and windows added an air of elegance. Almost an acre of land surrounded the house, which was a rarity in New York City, except for Central Park. The property was enclosed by a metal gate, requiring Skip to input a lengthy code.

Although Peter had known Skip his entire life, it dawned on him that he had never been to Skip's house before. Skip had practically lived in the Parker household. He had taken Peter to expos and Coney Island. But never to his house. 

"You ready for this?" Skip asked, sensing their hesitation on the porch. Stepping into Skip's house felt like a moment of finality. The hotel had served as a temporary shelter for both of them, like a halfway point. But this was Peter's new home. Once they crossed the threshold, it would become official.

"No," Peter whispered, his gaze fixed on the grand door. Nevertheless, he reached out and turned the knob.

The interior mirrored the exterior—immaculate and spacious. It felt almost untouched, with its pristine blue throw pillows and shiny kitchen counters. The only indication that it was Skip's house was a collection of spider-themed wall hangings.

Skip didn't bother with introductions as he guided Peter through the halls. His fingers rhythmically tapped against his thighs, his gaze occasionally darting around self-consciously. They continued until they reached an empty hallway on the second floor, where two adjacent doors stood. 

"Here's your room, Pete," Skip announced, pushing open the double doors. The room before them was as large as two hotel rooms combined. Unlike the living room, which felt somewhat abandoned due to its emptiness, this room appeared truly untouched. A thin layer of dust covered most surfaces. The bed was primly made, the blankets wrinkled from sitting still for so long. On the tan carpet under them, there were vacuum marks. 

“It’s huge.” 

Skip laughed, gently nudging the kid further into the room. “When I was in college, I got a grant for a lot of research projects. Too much money for any broke college kid’s experiments. I didn’t know what to do with it, except buy a house.”

Peter sat on the bed slowly, looking around. 

“You have full freedom to decorate, rearrange, whatever. I know this isn’t your home, but I want you to feel at home.” Skip stays near the entrance, watching Peter carefully. “We can go shopping soon and get you everything you need. In the meantime, come talk to me if you want anything. I’m here for you, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

Peter felt a heavy weight settle in his chest, as if a demon had taken residence, constricting his lungs. He wanted to ask why this had happened. He wanted to express how much he missed his parents. He wanted to tell Skip how grateful he was to have him. He longed to cry and demand that Skip bring his parents back, even though he knew it was impossible. But instead, he simply stared back at Skip, trying to remember how to smile.

“Take your time, Einstein. I’ll be in my lab, in the basement, if you need me.”

As soon as the door closed, the entire week crashed into him. Peter wanted his glass bowl back. He wanted to block out the sound of his own choking and the vision of the new room. He reached out towards the door, desperate for Skip to return. He didn't even make it off the bed before his legs collapsed. As if his body was so exhausted from working, it gave up.

The night went by dangerously slow, in cycles of sobs and asthma attacks. His body would feel empty as if there were simply no more tears left to cry. But there were always more tears, another layer of pain just waiting under the wound.

In the midst of the night, a memory resurfaced—something his mother used to say. Whenever he came home with wet clothes or bruises from his frequent mishaps. Whenever he cried over hurtful words from Flash. She would kiss his forehead and look into his eyes.

“Remember, my love, you are not responsible for this. You didn’t choose it.”

Not my choice, not my responsibility, Peter would repeat the next time he would trip or his backpack would break. When Flash laughed in his face, he would just roll his eyes. He even said it to Ned once, when his friend blew up his chemistry final. It was an accident, adding sodium bicarbonate rather than sodium hydroxide. He couldn’t beat himself up for it. 

The words felt wrong now, though. Maybe it was because it was Peter's choice. So many choices he made, none of them right. Perhaps if he hadn't asked for ice cream, or if he hadn't insisted on a birthday celebration, things would have been different. Maybe if he had been in the car with them, he could have saved his parents. Or died with them, he bitterly amended.

“My choice, my responsibility.” He repeated to himself, like a mantra. Each time he uttered those words, he felt a slight alleviation of the weight in his chest. The pain didn't vanish in the absence of his parents; instead, it transformed into a pulsating reminder of their memory. As long as he felt this pain, he believed he would still have a connection to his parents. The guilt he carried was intertwined with their memory, squeezing the breath out of his lungs.

By late morning, Peter had exhausted his albuterol supply, and his body was too worn out to continue wracking his bones with sobs. The pain remained, but it felt more solid, a constant companion. It took Peter three attempts to stand up without collapsing, and two more to reach the door without stumbling again. As he made his way down to the first floor, he could even feel the tears drying on his face. 

“Good morning,” Skip was at the kitchen counter already, papers splayed all across the shiny marble. He had a mug of coffee to the side, still steaming from the heat. 

“Morning?” Peter said, his voice rising slightly at the end. That was a natural response, right?

Skip swiveled in the bar stool, his eyes sizing the kid in front of him up. From toes all the way to the crown of Peter’s head, collecting all of the information. In the end, he shook his head. 

Skip swiveled in his bar stool, his gaze carefully assessing the young boy in front of him, as if trying to gather all the necessary information. Eventually, he shook his head.

"C'mere, Einstein." Peter joined Skip at the counter, sliding onto the stool next to him. Once seated, Skip placed the mug of coffee right in front of Peter's nose. "Now, I highly doubt that a fourteen-year-old is supposed to have coffee, but you look like you could use it."

The contents of the blue mug were a deep black, with no hint of cream. Peter watched as bubbles swirled within the liquid, stirred by the recent movement. He had never really had proper coffee before, at least not like this. Sometimes, he and Ned would visit Starbucks after school—Ned would always order an iced hot chocolate (which Peter insisted was just chocolate milk) and Peter would get a frappuccino.

Peter glanced at Skip, who was watching closely. His eyes were still tight, slightly red-rimmed. Peter wanted his Skip back. The one who got lost in projects in the living while Peter watched movies. Who ruffled his hair when he did something particularly smart or funny. Peter wanted Skip to be happy. His choices would not ruin any more lives. My choice, my responsibility. 

The coffee burnt his throat on the way down. It was awful, he discovered. The taste was bitter and the feeling afterward felt gross. But Skip smiled when he took the sip, almost sagging in relief that Peter was listening and responding. He ruffled the boy’s hair, turning back to his papers. So Peter kept sipping.

The morning progressed much like it used to when Skip would spend time with Peter. They sat side by side, each focused on their own tasks. At some point, Peter retrieved the duffle bag from Skip's trunk. He hadn't opened it since that first night. He was still wearing his 'Birthday Boy' shirt, a gift from Richard. The shirt had his favorite colors, blue and red, reminiscent of Captain America. There was an orange stain on the collar from melted ice cream.

Inside the bag, Skip had packed a peculiar assortment of items. There was a stack of pajama shirts, enough to make it seem like Skip thought they were regular shirts. The shirts had cringe-worthy science puns on them that Peter found amusing enough to wear at home. Never enough for school, though. He could imagine how that conversation would end up with Flash. There were two pairs of jeans, a flannel, and socks. On top of the clothes were some comic books featuring Batman, his Nintendo Switch (without the port or games), E.A.S.T, and his phone. The small robot was powered off, its square white body tucked among the socks and shirts. Peter felt a surge of anger toward the machine— It was the only reason he wasn't in the car with his parents.

Without thinking, Peter stormed to Skip's sink. The man watched cautiously, as if he was unsure how to deal with the situation. Peter produced the small robot, jamming it into the circular drain. In a quick flip of a switch, E.A.S.T was shredded to a mess of wires. Peter ran the water for a moment before leaving the curse to rot.

He, instead, focused on the cell phone. There were seventy-four messages from Ned. The earlier ones were birthday wishes. Then they slid into more annoyance when Peter missed their scheduled hangout on Sunday. And finally worried when Peter wasn’t at school the entire week. 

He didn’t read them, he just pressed the ‘video call’ button. 

"Peter Parker, you better be dead or dying," Ned's voice came through the phone, abandoning any pleasantries. He squinted at the screen, his expression caught between annoyance and ecstasy at hearing from his friend. Peter noticed that Ned wasn't crying. Of course, he wasn't aware of what had happened. It was strange since everyone else had been crying so much. Ned didn't treat Peter like a fragile vase that needed to be handled delicately. Instead, he joked around, just like an average Tuesday before... before everything. As terrible as Peter felt, he cherished that moment when he was just Peter again, not an orphan.

"I'm not dead."

"Then why the hell did you skip school for a week without telling me!" Ned exclaimed. The background behind Ned kept changing rapidly, as if he were moving. Suddenly, he was in the bathrooms at Midtown High. Right, it was Friday. Was he supposed to be at school? “When I said ‘party hard’, I didn’t mean that hard.”

“Ned, there was a car accident.” Their brain waves were suspended on impact. 

“Oh, my god. Are you good?” 

“I wasn’t in the car.”

“Oh. Well, who was it? Are they okay?”

"It was my parents." Peter sniffled. His body tried to summon more tears, but even the coffee hadn't alleviated his exhaustion enough. "They're gone, Ned."

Ned waited, as if expecting more information. When silence hung between them for too long, he finally spoke. "Gone as in they're at some high-tech hospital out of state, getting patched up, right?"

"Gone in body bags." Peter's voice trembled. He realized he hadn't heard anything about a funeral. Was he supposed to be planning it? Was Skip taking care of it?

Ned began moving again, jogging down the hallway of his school. "Where are you? I'm coming right now."

"You can't leave school," Peter forced himself to say. He yearned for Ned to be with him in the living room, but he couldn't risk it. Even without Parker Luck, Ned would get in trouble for ditching school.

“There are doors, I can leave.” 

“Ned, your mom would be so mad.”

His pace wavered. Ned was scared of his mom just as much as he loved Peter. Ms. Leeds was one of the scariest women alive. Especially when she had her sandal in her hands. You don’t mess with a Filipino woman with a sandal. 

“Peter, I’m so sorry .” Ned said, pressing his hands against the sides of the screen, as if trying to transmit comfort through the phone. "You don't deserve this. I can't even comprehend how shitty it is. Actually, 'shitty' is such an understatement. Is there a worse way to describe-"

"I know," Peter interrupted, not wanting to hear Ned's rambling about the horrors of being an orphan. There were no words, even if they all pierced his skin like bullets.

"Who are you with?" Ned asked. "Dude, are you, like, in an orphanage now?"

"No, no, I'm not," Peter replied. He realized that he could have been in an orphanage right now if it weren't for Skip. Skip had saved him from foster parents, Child Protective Services, and all that bureaucracy. There would never be enough he could do to thank him. Still, he would try anything. "I'm with Skip. He was named in the will and everything. Stable job, similar location.”

“What about school? Will you come back to Midtown?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t thought about it.”

“Shit, of course, you haven’t. Sorry, that’s so not the most important thing right now.”

Ned’s phone suddenly plunged into darkness, followed by voices. 

“Mister Leeds, this is a bathroom, not a social space.” Peter recognized Mr. Harrington’s nasally voice. He was the leader of the Academic Decathlon and geology teachers. He had been hounding Peter all year to join. 

“It’s real important, Mr. H,” Neds promises. “Can I just have two more minutes?”

“No, you can’t. Actually, I’d advise you to hang up now if you don’t want to see Principal Morita.”

The phone comes back up for air, Ned eyeing Mr. Harrington from over the screen. “Peter, I’m so sorry, I have to go. Hang in there, I’ll call you right after school.”

“Don’t get in trouble,” Peter warned as the call ended.

Skip had fled the kitchen at some point in the conversation. Peter sank back onto the stool, his hand clutching the coffee mug. He took long swigs, feeling the bitter liquid settle in his stomach, matching the bitter taste of his current reality.

Chapter Text

Every day, things got easier. 

If Peter squinted really hard, and ignored the constant throbbing of the hole in his chest, he could pretend that this was normal. That Skip was just hanging around while his parents were at work. A long trip, to make peace or collect data. Like they used to. Every time he woke up, he would pretend the white ceiling above him was the same white ceiling above his bed at home. And even when he rolled over to see a bedroom too big for any teenage kid, he would just pretend that he rearranged his room. 

On that Monday, Skip drove him back to school. Throughout the car ride, Skip asked Peter no less than a hundred times if he was absolutely sure he was ready to return. Each time, Peter would force a smile and answer with a resolute "yes." He was getting better at faking, too. He assured Skip that he didn't want to fall behind on his homework.

He showed up to school in one of his pajama shirts (today, it read ‘be greater than average’, except it had the Physics formula for average, rather than the words). Ned was waiting at the front gates, all but ripping Peter from Skip's car when they arrived. The two hugged and Peter allowed the pain to wash over him for a minute. They broke apart when Flash showed up, his shiny black hair pressed back. 

“Aw, look,” He cooed, watching the two. “Our favorite girlfriends reunited at last!”

Ned looked as if he were ready to throw punches. Peter quickly reigned in the pain and led Ned into the building. 

For once in his life, Ned had kept a secret. Peter didn’t ask him to. It was an unexpected and spectacular relief when Peter realized it. As they walked through the bustling halls, nobody gave them a second glance. It was as if they were just another pair of friends, blending into the sea of students. The exception, of course, was Flash, who couldn't resist throwing in jokes about the "prodigal son". Most of his teachers didn’t even seem aware of his disappearance until he showed up again. He was just another kid in the classroom.

Another relief came in the form of the homework assignments piled onto his desk, accompanied by stern warnings that his recent truancy couldn't be repeated. A packet for geometry, ten chapters of reading for British literature, and scattered pages for the rest of his classes. The workload was heavy, but in a strange way, it provided a perfect distraction.

The days started to pass by swiftly, each one filled with something or someone demanding his attention. Ned stuck by Peter's side during every passing period and lunch break, filling his ears with talks of new technology and school gossip. At home, Skip made a conscious effort to spend as much time as possible in the kitchen. Slowly, more and more pieces from his lab were relocated to the grand room. Around ten at night, Skip would head down to his lab to work on the more hands-on portions of his research. Then, Peter would go back to his room and do school work until he was falling asleep standing up. He limited himself to two pieces a night, to stretch it. By the time his days ended, he hadn’t even had the time to think about anything of importance. It was almost jarring when Skip brought up how much time had passed.

“A month of non-stop work and I’ve hit a brick wall,” Skip sighed, flopping onto the couch. Peter was on the floor, working on a project for his Intro to Engineering class. He had to find a way to automate a hammer, which was proving a lot harder than just basic gravity. “The milt just dies in non-arachnid DNA. Now, I just have a bunch of pregnant half-breeds.”

Peter snorted, rolling onto his back to look at Skip. He was looking more tired nowadays. Stubble was beginning to sprout from his chin, his clothes were wrinkled from days of abuse, and his eyes were becoming squinty from too few hours of sleep. This wasn’t new, Peter reminded himself every time he felt the grips of worry scratch at his throat. This wasn’t because of his mistake, this wasn’t part of his responsibility. Skip always got like this when he was fixated on a project. 

“Maybe that’s the problem,” Peter mused. “You’re using arachnid milt.”

“Now, I can’t say I haven’t thought about using a human’s but-”

“No, gross! Don’t inseminate a spider.” Peter sat up, shaking off the thought. “I’m saying that arachnid milt is designed to react to other arachnids. That’s why it won’t transfer to human DNA. But you know what designed to transfer?”

Skip thought for a moment, staring at the space in front of him blankly. Then, he jolted up into a sitting position. "The venom!"

“Bingo.” Peter grinned. “If you could find a way to transfer the DNA using the spider’s venom, it wouldn’t die in the transfer. Hell, Black Widow venom can be potent for forty-eight hours.”

Skip was already on his feet, practically sprinting toward the door at the back of the dining room—the entrance to his basement home lab. He swung the door open and turned back to Peter, his eyes brimming with excitement.

“Don’t think you’re getting away that easy,” Skip’s eyes were almost hysterical in their excitement. “I need that brain of yours, Einstein, if I’m going to do this.”

The lab was a perfect representation of Skip’s state of mind. As the two began to spitball ideas and move around the lab, Peter had to hop around fallen stools and dodge large wires that hung limply from the roof. There were plenty of lights lining the roof, but Skip only kept two on. A brilliant lamp above his workbench and ultraviolet, green lights illuminated numerous spider vivariums. Inside those vivariums, there were countless spiders of different breeds, more than Peter could even begin to count.

The two sat at the bench together, scrawling in four separate notebooks. Peter was working on finding the safest venom that was both powerful and mostly harmless to humans. Skip was studying diagrams of spiders to figure out how to naturally subvert copies of the arachnid’s DNA into their chelicerae.

It was easy to see how Skip got lost in his projects. Without any windows and phones abandoned upstairs, the passage of time was truly relative. Skip's excitement never waned, even as Peter felt his eyelids drooping. The mundaneness had been his armor this last month, to keep him from thinking too hard. But, his brain was beyond relieved to truly have something to do. Something new and hard to work on. 

Through the next few days, Peter didn’t stop thinking about Skip’s project. He found himself playing with the idea of altering a spider’s physical composition to make its venom stronger. This radioactive version of the venom might be able to do more than give Skip death-defying senses. What if it could give the holder proportionate strength? Or even lean into Van Der Waal’s theory of force to give Skip the ability to climb walls like a spider?

Despite returning to their regular lives on Monday, Peter was unable to stay still. He eagerly shared the details of the project with Ned. It was a sweet relief from the lab. While Ned's imagination leaned toward fantastical, with Black Widow and the Avengers, Skip was growing increasingly restless. His mind was all on spiders, as per usual, but he wasn’t leaving the confines of the lab. Going back to work was going to be the perfect relief for him.

Or, it would, if he had left. When Peter got back to the house, he found Skip in the basement. 

“Hello?” Peter called out, watching the man hop around the mess like second nature. 

Skip glanced up, peering at Peter. “Oh, hey Einstein. Did you miss the bus?”

“Uh, no. I just got home. Did you go to work?”

“I guess not.” Skip slid his phone from his back pocket, squinting angrily at the sudden light on his face. “It’s okay, I doubt Lawrence even noticed. They’re working on reverse engineering the Super-Soldier serum right now. And Mr. Rogers is not a happy participant.”

“The Steve Rogers?” 

“Yeah, yeah. Captain America.”

“Holy shi-”

"No time for fan talk," Skip interrupted, sliding a clear box onto his desk. "I have the prototype, Pete."

Peter's eyes widened as he leaned over the desk, stealing a glimpse at the box. Inside, a small brown spider moved anxiously within the plastic, unable to find purchase on the smooth surface. "What exactly is it?"

“Araneus diadematus, a form of garden spider,” Skip said proudly, tilting the box to make the spider squirm. “It’s been known to mutate the embryonic spinal cord of infant farm animals.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” Skip placed the box back on the desk and pushed forcefully against it, causing his stool to spin towards the adjacent workbench. “This spider’s venom is designed to attack the spinal nerves of other species.”

“So it’s already apt to change DNA?”

“Yes!” Skip grins, sliding back to the spider. “Combine that with copies of the spider’s DNA-”

“And it can copy it over to human DNA.”

Skip grinned at the confirmation of Peter’s understanding. He reached across the open space, ruffling Peter’s hair. After a moment, he slid so they were hugging. Against his own chest, Peter could feel Skip’s heartbeat. It was barely pausing between the beats, acting more as a flutter. Fast, too fast. Peter glanced around the lab, quickly spying on things he should have seen earlier. Six discarded coffee mugs, a half-empty bottle of caffeine pills, and even a shot glass that had who-knows-what in it. Were these all from this morning? He hadn’t noticed them last night when he was working in the lab. When was the last time Skip had slept? Or seen the sun?

Skip leaned back, keeping Peter pressed firmly between his hands. His palms felt clammy on each of Peter’s cheeks. Almost feverish, Peter realized. Skip’s eyes watched carefully, his smile still wide. 

“When was the last time you went upstairs?” 

His hands fell free, eyes going back to the spider. “I don’t know, I wasn’t counting. We were upstairs when you were working on that hammer?”

“That was on Friday.” 

“Yeah?”

“It’s Monday.”

“How do you think the venom needs to be administered?” Skip raised the box again, toward the greenish light. 

“Skip, you need to sleep. No, you need a doctor.”

Rolling his eyes, Skip scoffed and flipped open the lid of the box. "Calm down, you're not that grown."

“Put it down,” Peter warned, grabbing the plastic. They both gripped, neither wanting to let go. "You need to rest."

“Peter,” Skip wasn’t smiling anymore. Peter imagined that he saw cracks in Skip’s very own fish bowl, the water underneath rotten and dark. “Let the fucking spider go.”

Peter's hand began to loosen, though he couldn't bring himself to release it completely. He took a shaky breath, his voice trembling. "Please, I can't bear to lose someone else. Especially not because of something like this."

The two locked eyes, neither making a move to claim the box for themselves. The spider, finding its grip, slowly ascended the wall of the container. Just as it reached the edge, Skip nudged the box out of Peter's reach. Silently, he grabbed the lid and placed it back on top.

"I just..." Skip placed the container on the top shelf of the vivariums, avoiding Peter's gaze. "I just need to get some sleep. Go ahead and clean up, then head to bed."

There was no hesitation as he hiked up the stairs, no indication that he felt anything else toward the situation. The energy weighed down on the lab for another hour as Peter tried to understand what the hell had just happened. He hadn’t seen Skip ever act like that. He was so jagged - like his own mind didn’t know which emotion it was feeling. They were hugging and then fighting within the same thirty-second span.

Peter flushed the caffeine pills. He knew it wouldn’t stop the biologist, it was a common over-the-counter drug. But it helped quiet his mind. The poor man was just exhausted and overdosing on caffeine, Peter told himself. After some sleep and a good breakfast, he was going to be okay again. He wouldn’t have to see Skip like this, again.

Chapter Text

Skip slept for two days. 

Peter skipped school. He had barely slept. Ten times during the night he had crept to Skip’s room to make sure he didn’t die. He didn’t. After the first few hours of trying to sneak back to his bedroom and fall asleep, to no avail, he gave up. Instead, he continued to clean up. He returned all of the moved pieces to their home in the lab. He took the garbage from their nights of delivery to the curb, finding that it hadn’t been taken out in a while. All these small warning signs that he hadn’t even noticed. Skip had been slipping off the deep end the entire month. Peter was just so absorbed in trying to block his thoughts, he didn’t notice. 

My choice, my responsibility . 

When the time for the bus came, Peter found himself without even pretending he was trying to catch it. He checked on Skip again, instead. He stirred this time, but not for long. Just enough to murmur something Peter couldn’t understand, pat his arms, and roll back over. 

Peter worked on his hammer some more. Around noon, he cooked Mac ‘N Cheese. It was the only meal he knew how to cook. He brought it up to Skip, who said he would eat it. It sat on his dresser until that evening when Peter brought a second batch of Mac ‘N Cheese he had made. 

The next morning, Peter returned to the room to check. Skip was asleep, but the bowl was empty now. A success by any means. Peter felt Skip’s forehead and almost keeled over in relief when the skin wasn’t burning anymore. Just clammy from sleeping so long. 

The home phone rang later that morning, asking for Skip. It was Lawrence. He had just noticed Skip had been gone for two days. Peter wanted to laugh at how spot-on Skip’s guess had been Monday afternoon. He explained to Lawrence that Skip was coming off a fever. 

“God, I bet he overworked himself in the lab, huh?” Lawrence groaned, the disappointment clear in his voice. “Happens to the best of us. This one time, I got sent to the hospital after accidentally skipping meals for two weeks! Just wish he were here, 'cause we’re uncovering some good stuff on this serum.”

Peter heard Skip rummaging around upstairs, but he didn’t go check. As much as he worried, he could still see the cracks in the glass. He was exhausted, give him a break , his thoughts argued. Still, he let Skip come down when he was ready. 

Wednesday evening, he did. 

He still looked exhausted and slightly hung over, but his face was friendly again. When he spotted Peter on the living room floor, putting the final touches on his hammer project, he frowned. 

“Glad to see you alive,” Peter quipped, testing out a smile. Skip sat down beside him, letting the coffee table hold him up. 

“Pete, I’m so sorry about last night,” Peter didn’t bother correcting his timeline. That wasn’t important right now. “Sometimes I just get so into it , y’know? I was just too excited.” 

“Yeah, I get it.” He didn’t. Peter really didn’t. He knew the feeling of your entire world being surrounded by a project. He even remembered losing sleep and meals over it. But he didn’t lose his grip on reality, did he? “Are you feeling better now?”

“No,” Skip laughed, leaning deeper into his stance. “I feel like I just knocked back eight bottles of vodka.”

“I heard that caffeine can give you withdrawals like alcohol can.” Peter didn’t just hear this. Half of his last two days were spent researching Caffeinism. How toxic it could be and when to call an ambulance. Skip never got to the point where his skin turned grey, which was the deciding factor to let him sleep it off. 

“Maybe. That combined with no sleep, a shot of Spirytus, and such a breakthrough.”

They sat for a moment, silence seeping through the air. Peter fiddled with the lever to his hammer, but he couldn’t remember what part of the contraption he was even focused on. Skip looked like he wanted to be asleep still, but his body was already too awake. 

Finally, Peter spoke. “You scared me.”

“I know I already said it, but I am sorry.” Skip leaned forward, pressing his gaze into Peter’s eyes. “I would never treat you like that, I promise. It was just once and I wasn’t myself at all. Can you forgive me?”

The inner voice argued loudly in Peter’s ears, but it meant nothing. Peter wanted to believe Skip. And he was sure he meant it, it was clear on Skip’s face. He had been burnt out and sick. Nothing more. Not to mention Skip hadn’t been that mean. He just told Peter to let go of the spider. Of his spider. A normal reaction. 

“Of course, Skip,” Peter promised, smiling.

Skip blew out a breath, the concern melting off his face. Peter braced himself as his guardian gripped him into a hug. He ruffled Peter’s hair. The conversation was lighter after that, as Peter showed Skip his finished hammer. They ordered pizza and watched the sixth episode of Star Wars together.

Their routine went back to the new normal after that. Wake up, school, homework, lab, repeat. The prototype of the spider didn’t survive Skip’s meltdown. Two days of no feed, care, or maintenance put a lot of the spiders down there at risk, actually. The venom project was postponed until further notice as they brought everything back to health. Not that they could have done much, anyway. Apparently, frenzied Skip wasn’t great at note-taking or recording his experiments. He couldn’t even remember what he had done to the Araneus. They were put back at square one.

Skip made sure that he was going through the motions. He had alarms set on his Alexa to remind him to do basic tasks. Eating, sleeping, going to work. The house stayed clean, much like Peter had found it when he first moved in. A hiccup was what he decided the last week was. Just a small break from the natural breath of things.

Something Peter Parker needed to get through his head was that, with his luck, things were never just hiccups.

It took another three months for the routine to fall off the tracks again. It was early January at this point. New York was rearing up to become one of the coldest places on the East Coast. Skip and Peter survived their first Christmas without Richard and Mary. There were just as many tears as there was laughter. Skip got Peter a top-of-the-line camera. He was always taking pictures of things with his phone and Skip figured he could use an upgrade. Maybe he could finally start a yearbook club at school like he had been talking about. Peter got Skip a painting of a tarantula for above the couch. Handcrafted by one of his more mysterious classmates, Michelle Jones. She sat with him and Ned at lunch, though on the complete opposite side of the table. She did her best to avoid interaction with Peter, but she did that with the entire school. He got her a special edition copy of Frederick Douglass’ greatest speeches for payment. She might have smiled. 

With school being on break and Stark Towers giving their employees a holiday break, the two allowed their routine to slip a little. It wasn’t too huge a deal to miss a meal here or there. Drink an extra cup of coffee to work on a project. They hadn’t needed alarms in a while, so Alexa didn’t remind them. 

With all the extra time, Skip officially put the venom project back on the burner. Well, he had it on the burner since the beginning. But now, he was in full swing. The three months let him perfect his math and notes, all recorded and accounted for this time. He began experimenting on actual spiders again, radioactively changing their genetics to suit his needs. 

Things felt normal . Peter had begun to accept Skip’s house as his home. The new routine was just his life now. He didn’t even need to pack his days with nonsense. He allowed himself to feel the pain every so often. To feel the throb of his parent’s loss. 

He was so comfortable that he ignored the signs again. Ignored the extra cups of coffee. The later nights in the labs. The caffeine pills and shots of alcohol. How Skip’s eyes sparkled with a dull madness that wasn’t entirely sane. 

Ignored it until he was face-to-face with it again. 

“It worked, Einstein.” Skip giggled as he stared at the cage in front of him. Peter had come down to give him some leftover Chinese when he found Skip leaning over the body of a rat. It clung to the roof of the cage, sparse webbing on it’s fur.

“Did it?” Peter wondered, looking at the poor lab rat. He named it Fred. It had been eating seeds just this morning. Now, it was stiff with death. 

“Yes!” Skip poked the body, and it crumpled to the floor of its cage. “He didn’t survive the transformation for long, but he did transform. I watched as he climbed the wall of his cage.”

Peter sat on the other sliding stool, his stool. “How come it didn’t survive?”

“I assume the immune system attacked the venom much like a virus,” Skip was still smiling, the look empty from actual happiness. “Since it had the DNA and everything. But the venom was too strong, so it took all of Fred’s life force to attack it.”

Peter glanced at the notebooks on the counter. They weren’t open, note taking had been abandoned by the excitement. Painfully, he checked to sink on the back counter. Sure enough, there was a stack of glasses growing next to it. And caffeine pills. 

“Perhaps next time you need to use a proportionate amount of venom to the body.” Peter let the gate to the cage swing shut, locking it behind him. “I can help you tomorrow if you want. Let’s get some rest and come back with clean minds.”

Skip’s hand shot to Peter’s wrist, though his eyes didn’t move from the rat. It was almost as if it was an involuntary reaction. Involuntary, but eerily strong. 

“Yeah, the proportions were probably off.” Skip’s other hand grabbed the syringe he had used to administer the venom. “I drained the venom sac from the specimen. But in true nature, spider venom is administered through a bite.”

“Next time we can try a bite instead.” Peter tugged on his wrist, pressing his panic down. He didn’t want to startle Skip, like a wild animal. If he could convince Skip to go down on his own, there wouldn’t be any resistance. 

“Fred was the last test rat, though.” Skip put down the syringe, instead opting for the clear box that held prototype version twelve. It crawled quickly around the case. With every new prototype, it became stronger. This one had no issue scaling the plastic walls. “And they aren’t close enough to the final subject to count. We need a real test.”

There was no stuffing down his fear. Peter was thrashing against Skip’s grip and the man didn’t even notice. His eyes were peering down at the twelfth prototype with unshakeable focus. There were already blue marks blossoming around Peter’s wrist from the force. Trapped, he felt trapped. And Skip didn’t even notice the damage he was causing. 

“Let go,” Peter begged. “You’re hurting me.”

Skip’s eyes snapped to Peter’s wrist, the manic look in his eye shifting to something more concrete. Powerful. It took ten seconds for something to register on his face. When it did, his fingers popped open, freeing Peter from the grip. His eyes linger on the color that was left there in their absence. 

“The potential is limitless, Pete.” Skip whispers, eyes falling back onto the syringe. “Don’t you want that? To be limitless?”

Peter didn’t respond. Didn’t breathe. He held himself closely. Maybe if he doesn’t move, he’ll melt into the shadows. Maybe Skip will forget whatever it was his feverish thoughts were building and head to bed. 

Skip finally met Peter’s eyes. He’s searching , Peter’s inner voice warned, don’t let him see anything . For once, Peter listened. He squared his shoulders, met the gaze. He wanted to be strong. Skip slouched forward, resting his temple on Peter’s shoulder. His pulse thrummed easily past his skin, shaking the fabric of Peter’s shirt. 

“You’re such a strong kid, Einstein,” Skip observes. “So strong and nice and different.”

For a moment, Peter thought Skip was going to plunge the syringe into his thigh. When his hand moved toward his pants, he thought he was going to let Peter be his test subject. As payback for letting him get this bad. Ignoring the warnings and pills and late nights. For hours after the fact, the inner voice wished Skip had. 

Instead, Skip reached for Peter’s belt. 

My choice, my responsibility .

Chapter Text

Peter used to watch Criminal Minds when he was younger. He liked Spencer Reid because he always knew things. A single sentence would lead him to the correct answer in these real-life puzzles. The show wasn’t entirely realistic, it loved its flair. But Peter liked it. 

In all of the episodes, the victim would get a scene dedicated to them. Their experience with the unsub. The camera played around with their emotions, letting the viewer feel the same disconnectedness. The dissociation that any sane human experiences during traumatic events. 

The evidence was beginning to stack against Peter being sane. Or, at least, normal. 

Through the frosty January night, he was locked in reality. He felt everything. Every breath, every touch. He remembered every time skin met his own. The look of disgust on Skip’s face as he left the basement, leaving Peter with all of the other pieces in his lab. Just a tool to be used.

Peter wasn’t one to reject things. Even as the concrete under him became icy, numbing his cheek. He stayed. Right where Skip left him. He watched Fred on the counter. Peter imagined he understood how it felt to be dead. Cold, stiff. Lifeless. 

Time was relative, as it always was in the lab. The sun didn’t rise, the clocks didn’t tick. Peter counted his chest rise and fall over seven thousand times. Once he hit seven thousand and five hundred, he heard sizzling in the kitchen upstairs. Twenty breaths after that, he smelt bacon and eggs as the door of the basement swung open. 

“Peter, are you still down there?” 

The boy didn’t even have the energy to flinch at the sound. He stayed. Right where Skip left him.

“Pete, come on up.” Something in Skip’s voice was strained. Nervous. “I need to talk to you.”

The inner voice had grown to a shriek. It was so loud, Peter found himself responding out loud through the night. It had opinions on everything. It told Peter that it was his fault this happened. His choice, so he had to bear the responsibility. He knew that Skip was getting bad again, he should have done something. Gotten Skip help the first time he got bad. It also whispered that Peter was special. Even when Skip slapped him for pushing back, it whispered that Peter was special. Skip chose him . In the waning hours of the morning, it pondered how easy it would be for Peter to wrap the wires around his own throat.

Now, as Peter lifted his head to see the silhouette at the top of the stairs, it finally silenced. The man at the top of the stairs looked haunted. His eyes were puffy and his frame was crumpled against the doorframe. Everything about him pleaded for Peter to get off the floor. To come talk. 

Against every warning bell in his body, the ones that demanded Peter stay fused to the floor, he got up. He could feel Skip’s frantic gaze as he slid his pants back on. The denim was somehow colder than the floor. Even though his entire body rolled with nausea with every move, he didn’t stop. He didn’t pause as he hiked the stairs, didn’t let Skip see him stumble. 

At the top of the stairs, Peter pressed himself against the wall to avoid touching Skip. The man’s hand reached out automatically when he passed, whether in a hug or what was unclear to Peter. But it froze midair when the boy flinched. He let Peter pass, shoving his hands safely out of sight. 

The two made it all the way to the table before Peter’s energy gave out. He slumped into a chair, curling his legs in front of him. They pressed into him like a cage, an entirely welcome feeling. As long as Peter was inside his cage, nothing could touch him. 

Skip slid two plates onto the table. Scrambled eggs and bacon. Neither of them seem to be fully cooked – as if their cook wasn’t patient enough to let them finish. A part of him wanted to eat the food. Eating was comforting. Something he did, no matter how shattered his life was. The other part warned him that he couldn’t show that kind of weakness. Accepting Skip’s offer would show weakness.

There was silence, from all three voices – Skip, Peter, and the inner voice. Skip didn’t sit down. He stood beside Peter for a moment, his eyes watching. Always watching. His hand reached out again. This time, he ignored Peter’s flinch. His hands were so weary, Peter almost couldn’t feel the pressure. They rolled the sleeves up slowly, trembling at the sight of the five purple marks. Each a shadow of his slender fingers. 

“Oh, God,” Peter saw the cracks in Skip’s bowl again. This time, there wasn’t a rotten stew underneath. 

There were tears. So many, streaming down the man’s puffy face. Peter hadn’t seen this many tears before, even when his parents died. Skip broke, his sobs rushing to the surface with the kind of force you’d expect from a gunshot wound. His legs collapsed, bringing his entire body down to Peter’s level. His hands shook violently, cradling Peter’s wrist like broken glass. 

“Peter, I’m so sorry,” Skip gasped between his sobs. “That wasn’t me, that… Oh, my sweet Pete. I hurt you. I did exactly what my uncle did, how could I have done that? I fought so hard against myself, against it .”

“It?” 

Skip’s eyes jumped to Peter’s face. He hurried to continue, seeing Peter’s opening. “I’m not okay, Peter. Sometimes, I have these thoughts. And they’re not mine – please, please, believe me, they’re not mine. It tells me to do things that I don’t want to. Ever since I was a kid. Ever since my uncle…”

He buries his face in Peter’s arm, another sob coming to the surface. 

“Why now?” 

“I don’t know,” Skip admits. “I didn’t mean to. I’m always fighting against it. But, I guess I was just so tired and… And you’re so special , Peter. We were proud of the new prototype and I just… Lost the fight.”

You’re so special , the inner voice finally said. You made him lose control, this was your choice. 

Peter tried to swallow. It took three separate attempts to get the bile to lower enough for him to speak.

“You should get help.”

“Peter,” Skip’s grasp twisted, rubbing against the bruises. “Einstien, you can’t tell anyone . Do you know what they would do to me if somebody found out?”

“But-”

“Do you know what they would do to you ?” Skip continued. “You’ve never been in foster care, Peter. You don’t know how horrible it is. What happens when they send you to somebody worse than me? Somebody who puts their cigarettes out on your back and doesn’t feed you.”

Peter pictures Skip as a kid. Mary had told Peter once how Skip had been seized by CPS when he was ten. His father was a drunk. His mother had left them early on. Peter thought about this young version of Skip with cigarette burns and hollow cheeks. His mother always used to say that “hurt people, hurt people”. Skip had been young and broken. He was still young and broken. He didn’t even touch Peter until he was exhausted and overdosing. 

“Please, forgive me. Forgive me for losing the battle. Just, please, don’t ruin both of our lives because of my one mistake.” 

It wasn’t often you see somebody actually beg on their hands and knees for something. Let alone a grown man. Before his parents passed, Peter had never seen a man cry. Not his father or actors or friends. Now, he watched as Skip groveled, begging a teenager to take mercy. He didn’t like the feeling. It wasn’t powerful or gratifying. It was sickening. 

Firmly, Peter pulled his wrist from Skip’s grip. Skip didn’t argue, he tucked his fingers under his lap again, hiding them. Peter thought about his parents. What they would have thought. But what they thought was as clear as their signatures on the will. They wanted him with Skip. 

“Okay,” Peter strained against his voice. “I won’t tell anyone. Just… This can’t happen again, Skip.”

“I know, believe me, I know.” Skip broke into a new sob, this time tainted with relief. “I promise that I’ll never lose control again. Thank you.”

He’s lying , the inner voice warned. 

I know, Peter whispered back.

Flash used to say that Peter’s luck was going to destroy New York. Be the end of them all. While the theatrics of it wasn’t entirely accurate, Peter couldn’t argue anymore. His luck passed through the lives around him, leaving them in shambles. 

His parents were dead because of it. Skip had finally broken because of it. He was tired. That was his new mantra, the thing he whispered to his inner voice every night. Tired of reaching out for “better”. Tired of pretending that anything good would come without something bad to balance it out.

Skip broke his promise after another month. He didn’t even bother to make excuses as he tilted into the bedroom open. That was the night Peter learned that his door didn’t have a lock. 

The next morning, Skip broke down again. Peter promised not to tell. He had gone this long, hadn’t he?

Soon, there was no routine to ruin. The small pair went through the motions, but it was all fake. Skip would go to work, Peter would go to school. Though all of his focus was pressed on it, school was getting harder. Nighttime wasn’t set aside for sleep anymore. Even on the nights he wasn’t holding his breath and wishing he could melt into his own sheets, he would startle awake at every sound inside the empty house. 

Peter started drinking coffee. Skip liked that. He would chug the steaming mug in the morning, earning him two periods of school before he would fall asleep. Homework collected dust in his locker.

At home, Skip was always in his lab. Sometimes, he would drag Peter down with him. 

The venom project was stunted. None of the lab subjects were surviving the transformation. No matter what dose Skip administered or the species of rat he tested on. Peter tried to keep his mouth shut in the lab. His mind found solutions here and there, but he didn’t share. The longer Skip was stunted, the more breaks he took. When Skip got frustrated, Peter just said, “Only a superhero could survive such a change in DNA”. A small part of his mind knew that this was too close to a real solution.

Sometime in March, Peter thought Ned had caught on. He was so sure that Ned was beginning to notice the bruises that hid under his sleeves and high-collared shirts. Positive that his best friend realized that nodding off in class and keeping his cage around his legs wasn’t a normal “post-winter slump”. He was being overly cautious. Peter noticed that Ned was keeping him away from loud, crowded places. They ate lunch in the library and met up during all the passing periods.

His classmates had been paying him more attention, too. Flash loved it because his constant rambles were getting attention. Conversations would pause when Peter walked past. A few people watched him, frowning. When he was leaving, they would kick back up. 

After a week of it, Ned finally pulled Peter aside. He burst into tears, apologizing over and over. Peter noted that Ned didn’t cry like Skip did. The inner voice held its tongue as it waited for Ned to ask him the thing that would set them free.

Instead, Ned told Peter how he accidentally shared the truth. People knew about his parent’s accident. Flash was calling him “Orphan Parker”. Surprisingly, not to his face. Even Flash had some decency. That’s why people had been whispering. Because of his parents. 

Peter laughed to cover the razors in his throat. He didn’t accept the hug Ned offered, but he told him it was okay. A tear slipped past his cage. Ned didn’t see the stolen nights or the bruises behind them. He saw a grieving boy who had been reminded of his parents. 

Peter locked his cage tight and promised the inner voice he wouldn’t hope like that again.

By the end of May, Stark Towers had gotten most of the Super-Soldier genetics down. There were some obvious differences, but they had a vial of the serum. By direct orders of Pepper Potts, the biology floor wasn’t to administer the serum to any person, living or dead. It was purely for research. 

Technically, Skip didn’t break her orders. 

He slid a few drops from the vial one day. By the time Peter got home from school, prototype forty-two was glowing with power.

“She’s beautiful, Peter,” Skip whispered, shaking his partner’s shoulder. “This time, when the venom begins to transform the subject, they’ll have all the power they need to survive it.”

Peter looked at the prototype. He was still so tired . Every day was pushing him past the lowest point. He was sick of going through all of these motions and pretenses. His inner voice didn’t get tired, though. Its shrieks stayed in his mind, always. By the time it saw the reddish spider in the box, it drowned out all other noises. 

Your choice, your responsibility.

But I’m so tired, Peter reminded it. 

How tired will you be when Skip had the strength of a Super Soldier?

“It’s not the real serum,” Peter says out loud. “What if something goes wrong?”

Skip laughed, tapping the lid. “Of course, something will go wrong. Something always goes wrong, Peter. That’s not what matters. This is the biggest success I’ve ever had, the next step in evolution!”

“Or the biggest step toward a personal visit from the Avengers.”

“That ragtag team of scientists means nothing.” Skip tapped harder, making prototype forty-two drop on her back. “Think about what this venom could do. It could have saved your parents-”

“Don’t bring my parents into this,” Peter warns.

“Calm down, Einstein. I’m not spitting on their graves.” The spider was back on the lid, its body pressing into the small gap between the lid and walls. “I’m just saying that this could save people. If the Avengers face me, it’ll be at a gala in my honor.”

These spats had become commonplace in the lab. Peter couldn’t fight back at night. He didn’t have the strength to protect himself. But in the day, he could argue. He could fight Skip verbally as far as the days were long. The inner voice was allowed to speak without intervention. Peter got his anger out this way, Skip used the other. 

Their voices had raised passed safe levels. They were so absorbed that neither noticed the glint of red as it sped across the counter. Didn’t notice the tickle on Peter’s neck until it was right in front of Skip’s eyes. 

“Don’t move.” Skip hissed, his hand popping the lid from the clear box. Peter anxiously glanced down to realize the spider was no longer nestled inside. The creep was suddenly obvious, crawling on Peter’s skin.

“Get it off ,” Peter’s vocal cords vibrated, spooking the small creature. The next few moments stretched, overpowered by instincts. The startled spider did what it knew best, it bit down on the attacker. The pinch shot pain through Peter, sending his own hand flying up to squash the creepy crawly. And Skip shoved the boy as hard as he could in an attempt to save the prototype. Peter tripped over the mess in the lab, the floor quickly jumping toward his face to catch him. Skip froze as he heard a sickening crunch echo through the concrete basement. 

Warm, sticky liquid dripped into Peter’s left ear. It throbbed through his head with an empty ache. Almost immediately, darkness tugged on Peter’s eyes. The boy didn’t bother fighting it. In his last moments awake, he heard a sigh of contentment in his head. It wasn’t the inner voice.

Chapter Text

“I miss you, love.” 

It was Mary’s voice. Peter couldn’t remember how he had come to this place. It was dark. The kind of dark where you couldn’t see anything in front of you. There was nothing in this place except Peter and his parents. They stood far away. Peter could sense there was a great divide that they couldn’t cross. He wondered if he was allowed to cross it. 

“I miss you more.” Though he didn’t know why he missed them, the words were true. They were standing right in front of him, and he couldn’t imagine a time they weren’t in this dark place. But he missed them. “I wish I was with you.”

“No, love,” Mary told him, grabbing her husband’s hand. “There’s nothing for you here. You’re needed there.”

“But I’m tired.” Peter finally spoke the words he had been warring with. His inner voice was absent, he realized. He was just Peter here. “I’m so tired.”

“We know, kiddo,” Richard spoke now. “But you have to keep going. Your work is just beginning.”

Peter frowned. He didn’t know what his father meant. What else did he have to do?

“I keep losing, Dad. I’m tired, I don’t want to fight anymore.”
“Nobody can win all of their battles. But, no man should fall without a struggle.”

Mary reached forward, across the divide. Peter stumbled to meet her touch. Her fingers brushed his neck, sending a deep ache through it. “Great power is coming, love. With that, there must also come great responsibility. And greater patience for yourself.”

Waking back up was the most painful experience Peter had survived thus far. If the renewed grief that he wasn’t in the dark place with his parents wasn’t enough, he also was faced with the dread that he didn’t die . Not yet, at least. The physical pain wasn’t doing a great job of convincing him he wasn’t dying . 

His entire body thrashed against all the sensations on it. His breath was sticky in his mouth but the metal beneath his back was too cold. His clothes were tight against his chest but his bare arms felt naked. There was an agonizing pain above his left ear that spread through his brain.

Too loud, too close, too much! The inner voice shouts, burning alive in the pain. 

There was a hand on his chest, pushing down. Peter realizes he was trying to sit up. The hand was trembling from the force of its push. It didn’t feel like it was pushing, though. It felt more like it was just laying on top of Peter’s chest. Nonetheless, he listened. He laid back down on the cool metal. When his head bumped the surface, he was out again. 

The world blurs, disappears. There are no indications that reality exists outside of the pain Peter feels. He catches glimpses of this fading reality. There are zip-ties on his wrists and ankles, keeping him down. A dozen broken ones scattered the floor beside him. The hands from before come around with a notebook every so often. They scribble on the page. Peter can hear the ink dripping from the ballpoint, pressing into the page. Too loud . 

He feels the hairs on his arms and neck raising. They shout just like the inner voice. They tell Peter when the hands are close by. Jolt Peter from his sleep when the spider's purrs turn to hisses. 

Peter drifts.

Time is usually lost in the lab. There’s only one window, in the far back, behind the vivariums. You couldn’t see it, with all the barriers. Sure as hell couldn’t hear anything from outside. 

But when Peter wakes again, he knows it’s morning. The light inside the lab is brighter than normal but not warm enough to be afternoon. When he thinks about it, he realizes he can hear the birds chirping outside. 

He reaches toward his face, to take off his glasses. Why was he asleep in them to begin with? As he raises his arm, there’s a sharp snap of plastic. He glances down to see a zip-tie meeting the mountain of broken plastic on the floor. When his fingers get to the point they should meet metal and plastic, he pauses. Nothing, he wasn’t wearing his glasses. 

He snaps the rest of the zip-ties, sitting up. He was on the dissection table, he noted. Its contents were hastily discarded onto the floor. At the crown of the table, there was a puddle of dried blood. Peter felt a phantom throb against his skull. He had cracked it last night, he remembered. His fingers sought out the wound, but there wasn’t anything there. Just matted hair. 

He then trailed to his neck, where the prototype had bit him. Nothing. No welt or scars. Not even a bump. 

“Holy shit ,” Peter whispered. He quickly tallied the symptoms in his mind. 

Advanced healing ? His wrists were flush with the rest of his skin for the first time in months. Check .

Strength ? The scattered zip-ties made him think “ Check ”.

Heightened senses ? He listened as a second heartbeat and breathing pattern came into his radius, getting closer. Check . 

He hopped down from the table. Immediately, his foot glanced away from one of the fallen dissection tweezers. His heart thudded unevenly. His instincts weren’t death-defying. They were “minor inconvenience” defying. 

“Holy shit!” 

The breathing pattern upstairs hitches. Peter feels the hairs on his arms and neck stiffen. They whisper danger . Whisper for Peter to escape, run, get out. He doesn’t question it for a moment. The sense is so strong, just like when he avoided the tweezers. His entire body follows it willingly. His fingers cling to the roof, his feet lodging himself in the corner of the basement. The darkness washes over his body.

When Skip makes his way to the bottom of the stairs, he stumbles. He’s holding two mugs of coffee. There’s a kick in his heart rate as he peers at the abandoned dissection table. 

“Peter?”

The room was too quiet, Peter realized. His mind felt like it was moving a mile a minute, watching everything. After a second, he realized that he only heard one breathing pattern in the room. His lungs had completely frozen, ignoring the instinct to fill itself. Peter manually forced himself to gasp. Skip’s eyes shot to the corner of the roof, wide and scared. 

Skip was scared. 

Of Peter.

He went back over the checklist in his head of his new abilities. Almost in awe, he realized that Skip was right. Peter was something to be scared of. It would only take Peter one hit, and Skip would probably be down for the count. 

What the hell am I thinking? Peter was startled, his body shuddering at the thought. He didn’t actually want to hurt Skip, did he? He was never a violent person. Even when Flash had bullied him for years. Not once did he raise a hand toward the other kid. 

Skip was a much different case, granted. But the fear in his eyes held Peter back. If he hurt Skip now, was he any different from Skip? Or would he just be continuing the cycle of abuse? Hurt people, hurt people. 

Slowly, Peter let his fingers loosen from their grip. He slid to the floor of the lab, back to reality. He shuffled toward the dissection table, side-stepping the uneven parts of the floor easily. He was barefoot, but the rough ground didn’t hurt. It was too cold, though. Everything down here was too cold. Peter wanted a jacket. 

He sat back down, waiting for Skip to calm down. The man had watched the entire scene without reacting. Only his eyes followed. From the dark corner all the way to the dissection table. While his face had a solid mask on it, Peter could feel hear the panic in his body. The heart rate and breath were clear. But Peter could also see the way the pores on his forehead began to glisten. He could smell the cortisol in Skip’s veins. 

After a moment, he came to his senses. He rushed forward to the table, clanging the mugs onto his workbench. Pulling a swivel chair up, he sat right in front of Peter. 

He began to speak a few times, his voice shaking. Finally, he landed on, “It worked.”

“I thought I was going to die.” Peter prompted. His body buzzed with energy. It wanted to be up and moving. It was a similar feeling he got when he was younger. When his parents would mention one of his interests and he couldn’t not ramble on about them. Excitement. 

Skip nodded, his eyes still wide. “Yeah, I got a little nervous there for a second. There was so much blood… But look! It healed . Patched you right up overnight.”

“You got a little nervous ?”

“I was-”

“And you, what?” Peter spat, his voice rising. “Zip-tied me to a table and waited for me to die?”

“No!” Skip shrunk into his chair. There it was again, the fear. “Of course not. But you kept getting up, I thought you were going to leave.”

“You’re not making yourself look any better here.”

“What did you want me to do?” Skip shouted. As soon as the words left his lips, he pressed them tightly. His chair scooted away slightly before he continued. “Bring you to the hospital? And get cops involved? Or worse. When they realize you have high levels of radiation and arachnid DNA in you, they call Bruce Banner. Is that what you want, Peter? To become the Avenger’s next play toy?”

Peter forced himself to breathe again. His lungs were becoming increasingly prone to stop if he wasn’t paying attention. “Isn’t that basically what’s going to happen here?”

Skip pinched his eyebrows. He waited for Peter to continue. 

“Aren’t I going to become your play toy?” 

“I wouldn’t think of it like that.”

“What would you think of it like?”

“Like, a paid study.” Skip offered. “I’m going to monitor you. This is the product of my life’s work. You couldn’t deny me that, could you?”

“I could, actually. Easily.”

Skip’s eyes measured Peter. When it was obvious Peter wasn’t being facetious, he changed course. His eyes lowered as he got closer to the boy. He stood, looking down at him. “But you won’t. You have nowhere else to go, Pete. Especially now that you could kill somebody with one hit.”

“No, I wouldn’t-”

Suddenly, Skip’s shirt was raised to his neckline. Right on his chest were two handprints, bruised and swollen. “You pushed me while you were sleeping. You can't lie to me. I've seen what you're capable of.”

“I didn’t mean to…” Peter swallowed razors again as Skip’s shirt fell back down. 

“That’s worse.” Skip assured him. “I’m the only one who understands your power. The only one who can handle it. Who can handle you .”

Your work is just beginning, the inner voice copied his father’s words before adding, Only a monster could handle a monster like you .

A monster. Something to be scared of. That’s exactly what Peter was now. It’s exactly what Peter was before, with his luck. Something that just destroyed people. Now, he just had the ability to back it up. 

“It doesn’t have to be awful, though.” Skip continued, a smile forming on his face. “If you work with me, things could go back to normal. You can still go to school and sleep in your room. We’ll work in the lab like always.”

Peter heard the threat under Skip’s words. That everything he was being promised right now was what Skip was willing to take away if he didn’t cooperate. He had the power to take him out of school. To take away his room. His participation in the lab. Peter had actual superhuman abilities , and Skip still had the power. 

No words were needed. Peter dragged his legs in front of his chest, forming his cage. Skip nodded mutely, a grin still on his lips.

A routine sprouts up in the house, this time without constant reminders from Alexa or outside pressure. The only thing that could keep Skip in check was his projects. And now, Peter was officially his biggest project. One that came with a lot of outside eyes. Skip stayed away from Peter's room. There were no more touches. No warm regards, either. In Skip's eyes, Peter was no more a person than the spiders in their class cages. It wasn't unwelcome by any means. 

On the night of the transformation, Peter’s appearance changed drastically. The bruises that had stained his skin for so many months had completely healed. Actually, a lot of things had healed. The crack on his head, the patch of acne on his cheeks, even the scar he got from the crumbling building at StarkExpo. He saw better than he ever had with his glasses. His lungs felt larger than before, with his asthma cured. 

A small part of Peter’s mind felt extreme gratification at the muscles that sprouted. He had abs . He could probably do a hundred pushups without breaking a sweat. 

The routine began at five every morning. The first step was to ensure that Peter’s biological change wasn’t noticeable at a simple glance. They had to trim his brown curls every morning, as they grew almost an inch nightly. Peter clipped his nails, too. 

Next, was Skip’s turn. He would measure Peter, to see if he was still growing in other means. Test his blood to see if the radiation was waning – it wasn’t, all those tests did was break a dozen needles. Peter’s new skin was hard . They tested his abilities, trying to figure out exactly what they were. He had tingles telling him when danger was near. He dubbed these his “Peter Tingles”. Skip didn’t appreciate it. Peter's hand stuck to everything . Papers, walls, clothes. He had to actively concentrate on his hands to make sure they didn’t stick to things. He had to focus on a lot of things, now. Breathing, not sticking, not breaking things. Luckily, his brain power seems to have magnified to match. 

That was a blessing when it came to school. He wasn’t tired anymore, at least not physically. In class, his mind was alert. You wouldn’t guess how dangerous a high school was until you had Peter Tingles telling you everything. Wet floors, sick teenagers, paper cuts. He could hear their every sniffle and stomach growl. Learned that Abraham in his Engineering class had a problem with crop dusting. There were always pounds of information to pick up on.

Even so, he always remembered what the teachers were saying. Had enough brain power to even raise his hands and answer questions. His geometry teachers said it was “nice to have you back”. 

The only issue with school anymore was Ned. 

Peter hadn’t even noticed that during the last nine months – it had been nine months since the accident, Peter realized. Freshman year was ending and Peter didn’t even remember most of it – Ned had fallen into his own routine. He talked non-stop to Peter, just chattering about all sorts of things. His issues, his interests. More like an audio diary than a conversation. He kept Peter away from big crowds and chose the plush chairs in the library so Peter could wind his legs up in front of him. Searching his memory, Peter couldn’t remember the last time they had a genuine conversation. One where they both spoke back and forth, adding to the moment. It was too long, definitely. 

He listened as Ned spoke, trying to collect all of the pieces he had missed. Since when was Ned growing out the peach fuzz on his lip? Was he supposed to be the supportive friend or the tough love with that? He was sure Michelle had been making jokes about it. And Ned was huge . He had grown taller than Peter, his face rounding out in a mature way. He looked like a teenager, not the middle schooler Peter pictured when he thought of Ned. His mom was still super strict, but Ned was ecstatic that she finally installed a lock on his door. Apparently, she had walked in on him – in his words – “being a teenager” one too many times. 

Peter didn’t even have the chance to show that he was actively listening. He would accept a simple nod, then continue his story without prompts. Had Peter been that bad of a friend lately? That Ned didn’t even get verbal responses?

“Anyway, all to say that we can’t work on the final project during my free period anymore.” Ned sighed, leaning against his locker. “And I would say that we could just turn it in late, but we did that for our midterm back in December. Not to mention it’s due, like, on the last day of school. We don’t really have any other option except working on it at your house.”

“Skip’s house,” Peter automatically corrected before he properly digested the words. 

Ned wanted to come to Skip’s house. The place where all the bad things happen. He blanched at the thought of Ned meeting Skip. Would he hug Ned like he used to hug Peter? What if Skip had taken too many of his pills or had too few hours of sleep? 

Worse, what if Ned saw the lab? The notes and the spiders and Peter . Would he call the police if he learned what happened to Peter? CPS would get involved. What happens when they send you to somebody worse than me? The inner voice copied Skip’s words. He’s the only one who can handle you . 

“Woah, dude?” Ned’s eyes actually focused on Peter for the first time in the conversation. “Are you good, your face is totally white. Like, whiter than a retirement party.”

Breath , Peter reminded his lungs. It obeyed in a sudden gasp of air. 

“No.” Peter wheezes. 

“No, you’re not good?”

“No, you can’t come to Skip’s house.”

“Chill, dude.” Ned’s hand reaches out toward Peter. Like he was going to ruffle his hair. The inner voice screams, too close!

Peter’s leg slid out from under him without the command to do so. The Peter Tingle was yelling alongside the inner voice, warning danger. You’re in danger. Don’t let him touch you!

Before Ned’s hand could reach Peter’s skin, the leg connected with his ankles. The force of it knocked Ned right off his feet, slamming into the lockers. Peter was back in a perfect standing position before Ned had even hit the floor. 

“Oh, my God.” Peter covered his mouth, staring at his only friend crumpled on the ground. 

Ned looked up and there was fear in his eyes for a moment. 

“Damn!” Flash snorted across the hall. “I always told you, Leeds. Being around that Parker Luck all the time was bound to catch up.”

Parker Luck will be the death of us all . 

No. Parker Luck was done dragging the world down with Peter. He was done letting others get hurt by his sorry excuse of existence. This was his power, his responsibility. 

Ned watched Peter, eyes glassy, as Peter turned and escaped down the hall.

Chapter Text

Michelle came to Skip’s house that same week. Peter had never given her the address, let alone spoken to her in months. She just appeared on the porch that Thursday, her backpack slung across her shoulder. 

“Oh, uh…” Peter had greeted, shrugging out of the way as Michelle let herself in. “Hi?”

“‘Sup, Parker.” Michelle’s eyes scanned the foyer as she kicked off her shoes. That was something that Michelle always did. Absorb all the information she could from every situation. 

Peter followed tightly behind her as she walked deeper into the house without being invited. Once she found the living room, she slumped into the loveseat. Peter waited by the entrance, his eyebrows furrowed. 

“Can I help you with something?” 

Michelle looked up at Peter, her face indifferent to the situation. Her curly hair was piled onto her head in a high bun. She was wearing an army jacket and white-washed jeans. Pretty, Peter realized. Michelle was really pretty. 

“Nope, I’m perfectly comfortable.” Michelle smiled, curling into the couch to prove her point. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I don’t think so…?” 

“Then, answer me something, loser.” Her bag slammed onto the ground as she let go. “Why did I have to blackmail your best friend to find your address?”

“I don’t know, why?” Peter laughed nervously, venturing into the living room. “Also I doubt Ned counts me as his best friend anymore.”

“Precisely why I’m here.” She shook her head sadly. “You pushed my hand, Parker. We have a group project due tomorrow for British Lit.”

“We do?”

“Yeah, we do.” She fished a copy of The Canterbury Tales from her backpack. It was well-loved, with dozens of annotation stickers peering out.

“I’d say I have a pretty great memory,” Peter glanced toward the kitchen. Skip wasn’t home from work yet. “And I have no memory of us even speaking since maybe March.”

“Wrong. I speak to you all the time. You just don’t respond.”

How many people had he been accidentally ignoring? “Oh, sorry.”

“I don’t actually care.” Michelle shrugs. “Can’t be disappointed if you only expect disappointment.”

Peter frowned. The words were so haunting, yet spoken so casually. It left Peter wondering what disappointment Michelle had to have faced to grow such a philosophy. Was she hiding an entire world behind her careless shrugs? Like Peter. Did everybody have their own “bad things” tucked away in the darker parts of their mind? 

Peter Parker broke everything he touched. That’s why he was sitting alone in Skip’s empty, clean house that afternoon. No parents, no Ned, no Skip. He barely trusted himself to be in the room with Michelle, in fear that he would break her, too. 

But… what if he didn’t? He couldn’t get away with having something good without something else going wrong. No, he didn’t have enough faith to hope that. But, what if he used his luck proactively? To make up for all of the harm he did. Skip said – before Peter was bit – that this new power could have saved his parents. And during his fever dream, the hallucinated version of Richard had told Peter his work was just beginning. Could this be his work? Going behind the scenes so that people like Michelle didn’t have to expect disappointment?

Michelle was speaking, Peter realized. He had zoned out again.

“And since Ned – the only person left in school who still tolerates you – dropped you as a partner, that left me. So the project-”

“That I had no idea existed until right now-”

“Yes, that’s the one. I think we should do a video project about how Chaucer was definitely using the tales as a piece of Marxist propaganda.”

“Do you want me to ask questions, or just pretend I understood all of those words?”

“Just sit and look pretty, Parker.” Michelle smiles, grabbing a camcorder from her backpack.

Skip was late coming home, thank God. He texted Peter that he would be home at five thirty and Peter needed to have the lab ready when he got there. It only took Michelle and Peter forty minutes to bang out the project. It was the most amount of time Peter had spent with Michelle. She had this sort of twisted view of reality and a wicked sense of humor to go with it. Her personality drew Peter in, and even being cautious as he was to not break her, he couldn’t help but match the energy.

And Michelle knew things. She was always in the background of things. Which wouldn’t be enough, except she listened. She saw, she heard, she observed. 

She knew that Peter was smart. She hadn’t been going to Midtown since preschool like Flash or Ned. She got in this year, so she has only seen Peter “post-accident”. Yet, she knew he was smarter than he let on. She said the teachers were dumb for treating Peter like an imposter. 

She also knew that Peter’s behavior was off. That it wasn’t just grief – though she definitely seemed to empathize with loss. Michelle even knew that Skip was a forbidden topic, and she hadn’t even asked about him.

Peter was careful with his words. He didn’t want to lie to Michelle. She was being surprisingly tolerant of… Well, everything. He wanted to be able to give her the truth she wanted. But he also knew that his life was a tar pit. And she wasn’t going to get stuck in that. Nobody was, he decided with Ned. 

So he kept with half-truths. He told her about his parents and how he knew Skip. She understood that things weren’t perfect at home. When she made a joke about him “not even being human”, he laughed and said, “Who even knows anymore”. 

They spent an extra half an hour after they finished just chatting. It was nice. Basic human interaction. He hated for it to end, but the inner voice reminded him every time another minute went by that it was a minute closer to Skip. Fifteen minutes before he was due home, Peter had to kick her out. 

She snagged the Thor keychain Peter had dangling off his backpack. She held it up, proudly. “I’m holding this hostage. Y’know, to make sure that you follow through on our presentation.”

“You know where I live.” Peter smiled. “And apparently have blackmailing capabilities, Detective Michelle.”

“MJ.” She mumbled stashing the keychain. “That’s what my friends call me.”

Peter’s face warmed. He forgot to breathe again. “I thought you said you didn’t have any friends?”

“I didn’t.” She swung the front door open, waving over her shoulder. “See you, loser!”

That night, Skip wanted to test Peter’s connection to spider phenomena. Since he adopted the instincts and ability to climb, Skip wondered if there were other added effects. He gave Peter seventeen cotton swaps for him to swipe his mouth with.

It had been two weeks since the bite. Two full weeks in which Skip didn’t so much as look Peter in the eye. No touching. It was the kind of miracle that Peter had been dreaming of for nine months. Sure, Skip didn’t necessarily see Peter as a human anymore. He was property, an experiment. Always under Skip’s thumb, but never touching.

So why the hell did Peter feel like he was getting worse? 

Logically, Peter knew exactly what was keeping Skip away. He saw the bruises on his chest the morning after the transformation. It was the same underlying threat that should comfort the boy. Peter had the power to end any confrontation in a matter of seconds. In the matter of one push. Skip wouldn’t be able to creep into his bedroom without limping back out. 

But the fact that Skip still had the ability to try terrified Peter. 

He didn’t need to sleep much anymore. Whether that was a spider thing or a Super-Solider thing was hard to tell. Skip couldn’t quite identify where the serum had ended and the spider started. Prototype forty-two had been so far removed from an organic spider, she didn’t quite count. 

So he didn’t sleep. But Peter didn’t think he could if he wanted to. Every night, he would camp in his bed. He heard every single thing in the house. From the sidewalk and road beyond it. When the foundation shifted, the inner voice wondered if Skip was coming. When a dog barked in the distance, he worried that the sound would wake Skip up. 

There was always the possibility that Skip would try. 

As he anxiously waited to see if Skip had become exhausted or suicidal enough to try, the inner voice played the nights before in his head. Over and over. He remembered the feelings so well that the phantoms played on his skin. His lungs didn’t have the capability of asthma anymore, but Peter would end up gasping and sobbing nonetheless. He would shake and puff his inhaler, even though it was impossible for his asthma to be returning. A part of him wanted to pretend he was still that boy.

Whenever somebody bumped into him in the school halls, when the wind brushed his neck like hot breath, his entire body would surge in panic. The Peter Tingle worked with the inner voice often. They would pinch fear into Peter’s side until he listened. Until he would do a small ritual to show them he was safe. Sometimes they wanted him to brush his fingers completely over his skin to prove there was nothing touching it. Sometimes they demanded he repeats something over and over. Usually “too close”. 

It had been two weeks since the bite. But Peter was no better. 

“How interesting,” Skip murmured as he adjusted the microscope under his eye. He had a spit sample from Peter pressed between the glass piece. “Your spit has become almost acidic. It’s loaded with digestive enzymes that can break down your food before it even reaches the abdomen.”

“That would explain why I’ve been so hungry,” Peter smiled, leaning against the workbench. 

“Partly.” Skip nodded, sliding away from the microscope. “You’ve also adapted an arachnid metabolism. You could probably eat up to five hundred pounds of food a day if given the opportunity. And that’s just a survival diet.”

“No kidding.”

“I doubt you need it, though. The Super-Soldier serum speeds your metabolism up, but the healing also protects your body from becoming malnourished easily.”

“Define ‘easily’.”

“Mr. Rogers eats about eight meals a day to keep up with his metabolism.” Skip tosses the glass slide aside, pulling out the blood sample. “Since you’re not doing as much physical labor, I doubt you need as much. Maybe three solid meals and protein-packed snacks. I’ll have to go shopping.”

“Great.” Almost instinctively, Peter began to unwrap the stick of beef jerky in front of him. “Any other totally creepy facts? I think I might catch some shade at school if I sprout an extra pair of arms.”

Skip shot a withering look at Peter, not seeing the humor at all. “Physically speaking, your ability to regulate your body temperature has thinned. I expect you’ll experience diapause this winter, which is a form of hibernation.”

“Good time to invest in jackets, noted.”

“Would you try to take this seriously?” Skip hissed, crossing his arms. “Stop acting like a child.”

“I am a child, Skip.” Peter shot back, slamming down the rest of his beef jerky.

Skip rolled his eyes. “We both know you’re older than your years, Peter. You can’t cherry-pick when you act your age just to throw it in my face.”

“Sorry,” Peter sighed. “Wouldn’t want to seem immature .”

“Watch the attitude,” Skip rises, stepping closer to Peter. “I can’t stand it when you act like this.”

“Like what?” The inner voice warned Peter to shut up and sit down. Skip was too close . “Like a living person and not a docile spider ?”

Skip's face twisted into a snarl as he lunged toward Peter, his hand outstretched. The swing narrowly dodged Peter’s jaw, where it should have smacked him. Peter was on the roof in an instant, clinging to the surface. His legs swung around in a wide arc, slamming right into Skip’s chest. 

As Skip stumbled into his workbench, he cried out. “Think about what you’re doing, Peter . Think about what you’ll lose if you move a fucking inch.”

To be fair, Peter did think about it. Skip had been holding school and shelter over his head. But, truly, did Peter actually have any of those things? He couldn’t be around Ned because of Skip. There were always too many questions. Too many risks. His room wasn’t safe anymore. He could sit in it for more than ten minutes without hyperventilating. 

Skip had already stolen everything from him. 

What else did he have to lose?

He dropped to the ground, looming over Skip. He focused his entire effort on gripping the man’s shirt instead of slamming it into his gut. 

“No, I’m done thinking about what I will lose.” He whispered in Skip’s face. The man thrashed, panic clear in his eyes. Peter didn’t budge. “Now it’s your turn. I’m done sitting under your thumb. Done being your project.”

“I’ll be better,” Skip promised weakly, his hands pressing together. “We can do better, I promise. I’m sorry, I wasn’t actually going to hurt you-”

“This is where you stop talking, Skip,” Peter warned. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen next. You’re going to sit right here as I go pack. Then, I'm going to 'disappear'. You're not going to look for me.”

“ Please . What will I tell the social workers?”

“Lie. You’re good at that.”

“Pete. Think about your parents. About me. I need you, I’ve spent my life working on you .”

“I don’t care. I’m done bearing this responsibility.” Peter loosened his grip, placing Skip back on the floor. 

He pictured Michelle and thought about her expectation of disappointment. He genuinely had nothing else to lose anymore. “Goodbye, Skip. And don’t forget, you’re almost out of Cafcit.” He bitterly added.

Chapter Text

Peter went home. Not Skip’s house, but home . 

He walked for two hours in the closest that New York got to the dark. Every step away from Forest Hills and toward Long Island City made it easier for him to breathe. By the time he could recognize the storefronts and graffiti, he was falling apart at the seams. Nine months. Nine months he sat in Skip’s reach, terrified to be in the exact situation he was in now. How disappointed would his parents be to see him creeping the streets with his hoodie up like he was now?

The inner voice promised they would be. Peter was nothing. He was worse than nothing. Cataclysmic. MJ would have liked that word. Something so natural, yet so violent. From birth, Peter had been destroying. The Parker Luck. Skip was the only one who can handle you. You made him lose control. Your choice, your responsibility.

The threats to Peter’s sanity sank into the background when he saw it .

Half of Peter, the less logical side, had been expecting it to be gone. For him to turn the corner – the one he learned to ride a bike – and see an empty lot of land. As if the life that had belonged there before simply didn’t exist. Just a mirage in a bitter desert.

Yet, there it sat. Home . The same dusty, red brick. Cracked stairs in the front with a corner missing on the third step. Mary’s potted buddleias sat wilted on the second-floor stoop. Scuff marks on the garage door from where Richard kicked it shut, night after night. 

The seams were quickly fraying. Peter didn’t want to look inside. What would be worse? If everything were gone, a forceful reminder that the life that had lived in those walls was completely erased? Everybody else got to move on, unaffected. Or would it be worse if everything were completely untouched? Frozen in time. Waiting for the return of something that was never going to come.

The feeling reminded Peter of the first night at Skip’s. The entire ocean of emptiness swallowed him. Under the black sky, he pictured space. The suffocating silence, the helplessness. Even a radioactive spider couldn’t save you from the vacuum. No super strength could move you. 

A car rolled past. Some random New Yorker living their own life. It was almost jarring. How so many people lived right on top of each other in this city, but their lives never touched. One was sitting in front of his dead parent’s house, trying to come to terms with reality. One was returning from a local bodega with a jar of pickles for his pregnant wife. The two made eye contact and that would be the only contact their lives would ever have. 

Peter swallowed the razors in his throat, inching toward the house. He hopped up the stairs. The Peter Tingle helped him dodge the uneven parts. Another sign of change. Growing up, Peter never got used to the stairs. There always seemed to be red stains on the shins of his jeans from where he tripped continuously. 

The darkness swallowed his form as slunk onto the porch. There was an official notice on the door. 

“WARNING; This property has been declared confidential under accordance with Title 18 U.S.C. 1382 by the United States Central Intelligence Agency. Classified information has been marked and accounted for inside. Any unauthorized personnel beyond this point is subject to search and seizure.”

The words reminded Peter of what Skip’s lawyer had said all those months ago. How his parents weren’t planning on dying naturally. That the CIA had withheld their will and modified it. What had his parents been working on?

Peter pressed down the bottom right corner, whose tape had rotted from the winter. He leaned over the railing of the porch and peered through the front window.

The inside was a sort of middle ground to the two extremes Peter had imagined. It wasn’t completely empty and desolate nor was it perfectly staged, haunted by memories. The larger pieces of furniture sat still in their rightful places. Most of the available spaces were covered in brown moving boxes. They had the CIA’s bright blue seal printed on all of them. Most of the pieces had been neatly packed away. Some areas still held knickknacks or decor, though. Like the effort of sorting and packing had become unnecessary partially through. 

The front door was locked. Not surprising. And the front window was jammed as it had been since that one particularly hot summer when Peter was eight. He wandered to the alley beside it, testing the side door. That, too, was locked. But…

On the second floor of the alley, there was the bathroom window. Opposite of the living room window, it was perpetually open. Nobody was strong enough to finish the last centimeter of space at the bottom. Not enough for too much of a temperature change. It drew in more creepy crawlies than comfortable, but such is life. 

Peter hadn’t ever climbed walls on purpose. It was an instinct that the Peter Tingle drew out of him. To escape or fight. Actually, he had worked exuberantly hard not to climb things. Every moment was an active decision to stay decidedly unstuck from everything he encountered.

Tentatively, Peter pushed his sleeves over his elbows. He forced himself not to stare at the bare skin for too long. It felt nauseating. The inner voice wanted his body to be covered at all times. It made showering difficult. 

His fingers pressed into the brick. To test it, he pulled back his hand. They were lodged firmly onto the wall. 

“People used to call me a wallflower,” Peter grunted to himself as he began scaling the wall. “If only they could see me now.”

The window slid open with the complaint. Dust scattered from the sides, and a few disgruntled spiders hissed at Peter. Almost comically, he hissed back. 

Peter crawled inside, landing with a soft thud on the tile floor. He looked around the small bathroom, taking in the peeling paint and flickering fluorescent light. The sink was cluttered with bottles and a half-empty toothpaste tube. A towel lay crumpled on the floor next to the toilet. Bathrooms weren’t the CIA’s hottest investigation scene. 

The hallway was empty outside. He flicked a few lights, but the power must have been shut off ages ago. The May air was just warm enough that the inside of the house didn’t feel too bad. 

Without thinking, Peter passed right past his bedroom. Instead, he creaked open the door at the front of the hall. 

Richard and Mary’s bedroom. 

It was clearly one of the first places raided by uninvited guests. Everything was boxed up. The door to their walk-in closet, which Peter had never seen open, was ajar. Inside, there were a desk and file cabinets. There weren’t even any boxes inside the empty area. Probably the only set of boxes that were transported to their new destination. 

The bed still had the fluffy duvet on it, though. Peter hesitantly sat at the foot of the bed. He rested his forehead on the stupid blanket. It smelt like them. Two opposing forces. Mary’s warm, peach perfume and Richard’s smooth, bourbon scent. With Peter there, it smelt like home. 

Peter was home.

It was the best night of sleep Peter had gotten in a long time. Slightly ironic, seeing as he had only fallen asleep in the wee hours of the morning. But, when he finally did fall asleep in his parent’s bed, he didn’t stir. All of his instincts were content to just rest for the moment. 

In the morning, his phone woke him. He hadn’t turned off his morning alarms for school. Today was the last day before summer vacation. 

Peter had fully intended to dismiss the alarm and drift back to sleep. At least half of the school would be skipping the last day of school. The seniors had finished last week and nothing could keep the Juniors from skipping during the second semester. What would one day be?

But there was a notification on the screen that woke him up. 

(Unknown Number ) 6:38 AM: bring yourself and the notecards or Thor gets it

ransompicture.png

this is michelle, btw

jones. 

The previous afternoon was so far out of reach in his mind. But to MJ, it was just yesterday afternoon. Just yesterday afternoon, the two were getting along and making a video project. She may expect disappointment, but Peter wasn’t going to be the cause of it. Not this time, at least.

That’s exactly how he found himself camped out at his locker, trying to convince himself that everything was normal. That the halls weren’t too loud and his classmates weren’t too close . 

He made it through three periods. Most people were content to just ignore him. There was a hysteria in the air. People making summer plans, throwing away binders as they walked out of classrooms, pretending that they wouldn’t be back in the same exact desks by August. Teachers collected final projects and crunched to put all of their last-minute grades in. 

Even Flash was in a good mood. He was bragging about his upcoming summer in Europe and all the “French ladies” he would score. Liz Allen looked like she was on the verge of tears in Geometry. The girls in the corner of the room, out of earshot to everybody except Peter, whispered about how Flash broke up with Liz for this trip. Madison said it served Liz right for dating a guy who was a year younger. 

MJ was waiting outside the Geometry class. There was a small smile on her lips. Her fingers rubbed against the keychain. There was a mark already from how anxiously she was pressing. “You got the stuff?”

“Oh, I got the stuff.” Peter waggled his eyebrows, presenting his note cards. The two began to walk down the hall together. “Ready to educate these kids on socio-economic philosophies?”

“How long did it take you to memorize that phrase?”

“Three hours in front of my mirror,” Peter joked. How odd. Peter was joking . 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, I don’t actually care about your relationships,” The pair paused in front of Ms. Mayeda’s classroom. She was already excitedly talking about summer reading lists. “But you should talk to Ned.”

“It kind of sounds like you care.”

“Not in the slightest. I actually like how miserable Ned had been lately, he’s the perfect muse for my art.”

“Then why should I talk to Ned?”

“He seems like a good resource to have. With all his hacker skills.” MJ had a tell. One that let you know she cared a little more than she put out. You could find it if you wanted to look even slightly further than surface level. Her shrugs. A slight lift to her left shoulder that was supposed to say “not that I care”. In reality, she cared. At least a little. 

“I want to.” Peter whispered, looking at his shoes. “Things are just complicated.”

“Complicated situations are where the best relationships grow.” She snorted. “It’s called trauma bonding.”

“Sounds completely healthy.”

“Of course. I’m basically a psychologist, you can trust me.” 

Peter was beginning to laugh when he spotted them. 

At the mouth of the hall, three people were walking swiftly. In the front, Principal Morita. He was flanked on his left by a police officer and on his right… Skip. His face looked puffy, like that first morning. Haunted and scary. Fake, Peter realized. Skip was faking . 

Principal Morita had spotted Peter, eyes suspicious. He nodded toward the police officer. Skip looked up to meet Peter’s eyes. The hollow face split for a moment, turning into a look of pure anger. 

“I told you.” He whispered. It was so quiet, almost like the wind. Not even the officer standing next to Skip could hear it over the chorus of kids. Peter could hear it. It shot right into his head like a needle. 

MJ caught his panic within seconds. She glanced over her shoulder, right at the parade that was bustling through the crowd. When she turned back around, she was frowning. “Holy shit.”

Quickly, MJ was shuffling. She was taller than Peter, so she angled her body precisely where the rest of the hallway couldn’t see him anymore.

“I promise, I didn’t do anything.” Peter squirmed, feeling the need to explain. He didn’t want MJ to think he was a delinquent. It was stupid. He shouldn’t care. 

“I know.” She hissed, glancing over her shoulder again. “So get out of here. The girl’s bathroom in the foreign language wing has a window big enough for Dwayne Johnson to fit through. Go .”

You didn’t have to tell the Peter Tingle twice. When it wanted to, it had more power over Peter’s body than he did. 

Peter was sprinting down the hall, sliding through spaces that any clumsy teenage boy shouldn’t have been able to. It was so fluid, Principal Morita didn’t even notice for a second. He was still staring right where MJ had covered Peter’s location when the police officer began to shout. 

“Out of the way!” He urged the high schoolers, shoving through. Teenagers don’t have an amazing reaction time, though. That, and they had a habit of being untrusting of the police. The kids in the hallway froze in their tracks, staring down at the officer as if he were shouting in Klingon. Abe, the smart kid from his British Lit, yelled “Run, Forest, run!”. 

It took everything for Peter not to scale the walls to free himself from the crowd. Revealing his enhancements was a one-way ticket to hell. Right now he was just a runaway. Or whatever other story Skip told the officer. If he started to cling to the roof, he was an experiment. 

Peter slid around the corner of the foreign language wing. There weren’t many people here. Most foreign languages were saved for after lunch. Those that were here were stragglers who were riding out the passing period. 

The girl’s bathroom was so clean . Peter knew all the stereotypes about the women’s restroom being nicer than the men’s. He assumed it was really dramatized, like high school or London. But here he was. There was a plush sofa pressed between the walls, perfumes lining the sink, and surprisingly no pee stains on the walls. Right on the back wall was the window MJ told him about. It had sharpie scrawled around the glass in cartoony styles. When it swung open, he was faced with a two-story drop and a hanging rope. Peter momentarily wondered if this were something MJ made or just discovered from her months of watching. 

Behind him, the door slammed open. 

“Stop right there!” The officer threatened. 

“Come on, Einstein.” Skip cooed, his voice dripping with sweetness. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. We just want to bring you home.”

So that was the story Skip decided on. Rebellious teen who hit his foster father and ran away from shame. Well, Peter did tell him to lie. Peter felt no shame. 

There was no getting around the officer. As he inched forward, Peter knew he had to leave now. 

His Peter Tingle agreed happily. It sprung his legs, shooting him straight out the window. He fell for a moment before his fingers stuck to the rope outside. It was probably left there so the ditcher could inch down slowly. Slowly was not an option here.

He swung his legs, building momentum. Peter’s physics teacher would have a field day trying to calculate this. An object of a certain weight, falling from a certain height would generate what level of momentum? Using said momentum, how far could they launch themselves?

Answer: who the hell knows? Because Peter was swinging and he had to let go before the officer thought of grabbing onto the rope. There was a tree a few yards away. His legs swung backward, like a kid on a swing. And let go . 

The branch slammed into his chest. Skip never tested his durability, just his healing. The branch cut up his skin, leaving bloodless marks all over. They were an angry pink before he even glanced down. The force might have broken a rib had he been anybody else. 

As he scrambled to get down from the tree, Skip watched. The police officer looked pissed. Skip was calm. An undeserved confidence that said, “you can’t hide forever”. 

And maybe Peter couldn’t. But he sure as hell would run.

Chapter Text

Peter kept running. It had become almost second nature in the months that followed.

He ran home that day. Got to stay there for two weeks before anybody came looking for him. When they did, he ran again. Ran until he found the alley behind a decent Thai Pan place. When the owner threatened to beat him with a broom three weeks later, he once again ran. Eventually, he ran right into a camp. It was stationed under an overpass that lost funding. Hundreds of tents propped up, with carts and blankets and people. People that you would have never guessed were homeless until you sat at a bonfire with them. Mr. Kingston, in the hot pink tent, had a full-time job. The only clothes he owned were suits. Angelica, who has the old Target cart and wears baby tees “since they’re cheaper”, visits with her son every day. He lives with her ex-husband, who pays for Angelica’s groceries. 

But Peter didn’t just run from place to place. He ran from his instincts, too. Ran from the hunger that knawed at his stomach. Ran from the empty feelings and the grief that raged at him at night. Ran from the thoughts that told him Skip would save him. Luckily, his nights were soon too consumed for him to be swallowed by these. Actually, all of his time was consumed. 

One day, when he still hid in the alley behind the Thai place, he heard something erupt from the street. A woman shrieked as a guy in a hoodie and sunglasses tugged on her purse. The other New Yorkers on the street knew better than to intervene. They avoided eye contact, crossing around the street. This was another ordinary Tuesday in Queens. 

Purse Lady was still yelling hysterically when she locked onto Peter's curious glance. Her eyes watched him, almost daring him to look away and ignore her struggle. No matter what happened, her eyes warned Peter that she would know.

And so Peter ran. Not away from something for once, but toward it. It was a rush. Like flying. Like freedom. 

“I know body language is hard to read,” Peter quipped as he jogged up. The man glared down at him. “But screaming is usually a pretty obvious sign!”

“Get out of here, kid. This doesn’t involve you.” 

“I’m not a kid-” Peter sighed, rolling his eyes. He couldn’t lie, his age was obvious on his face. 

Instead of arguing, he acted. He relied on the move he had learned from the Peter Tingle during his encounters with Ned - a swift kick to the ankle followed by a shove to the shoulder. Too hard of a shove, maybe. The man yelled out in pain as he stumbled away. The force of the movement sent the woman’s purse flying. It landed on the ground, a few candy bars spilling out.

“Sorry! Not littering, I promise,” Peter reassured the woman with a smile, his back turned to the attacker. He expected the man to run away or stay down, but instead, a shiver ran down his spine as he sensed the petty criminal coming for a second round.

Peter sidestepped when the man was close enough, Purse Snatcher's arm extended in a full swing. The fist sailed through the air where Peter's head at been moments earlier. Purse Snatcher’s feet stumbled when his fist did not meet its target where it expected. All Peter had to do was tug on the man's wrists slightly, and he went sprawling to the floor.

"Ow," the guy wheezed, and Peter felt a twinge of guilt. Only because the man's face was now in direct contact with New York's dirty sidewalk. Could you get STDs from that? Peter couldn't help but wonder, considering the unsavory things the pavement had witnessed.

“Those were some nice moves, kid,” Purse Lady grinned, her auburn hair falling into her face. In a fluid movement, she collected her purse from the ground. She returned to Peter, pressing a Twix bar into his hands. “Sometimes, I wonder if New York has lost its humanity.”

“You think so?” Peter tightly gripped the Twix. He had been surviving on stale fried rice and fortune cookies for the past week. Admittedly, it was an improvement from the previous week when he ate whatever people gave him.

“Absolutely." She nodded, glancing over Peter's shoulder. "Humanity comes from the connection we make with each other. But in New York, I've noticed that people just ignore each other. Ignore that connection."

The sound of footsteps echoed behind him, and Peter spun around to see the purse snatcher fleeing towards a taxi.

"No, wait!" he shouted, taking a step towards the escaping criminal. Purse Lady tapped his arm, shaking her head.

"Don't ruin his life over one mistake," she said with a gentle smile. "You're a good kid. If only the heroes were as helpful to ladies on the street as you are. New York could definitely use a little more humanity."

In the days that followed, Peter thought about that. He had the opportunity to make people’s lives easier. Actual Super-Soldier abilities. Could he be the friendly neighborhood… spider? Man? Peter had been avoiding his biology ever since it happened. He tried not to remember the fact that he technically wasn’t human anymore. But what if he could use that to his advantage? 

Without even realizing it, he started keeping an eye out for injustices. Trouble, fights, anything that needed his attention. The next time he dove into danger, that familiar rush of freedom washed over him. He caught someone swiping a bunch of disposable phones from a corner shop. Instead of starting a fight, Peter casually tripped the thief, making the phones spill across the floor. The guy behind the counter thanked him with a free turkey pinwheel. 

The Phone Burglar found him later that night. He tracked Peter to his makeshift tent and made off with his cell phone. It wasn’t too big of a deal (Skip had powered off his number and data a month ago), but it made Peter realize he needed some seperation from his vigilance. The next morning, he found a body suit at a thrift store. It was a really bad Captain America cosplay, with a red vest sewn hastily onto a blue onesie. A quick fix, he just peeled off the vinyl stars and used a marker to draw a spider onto the front. The next few fights go smoother. With the mask, he can be anybody he wants to be. Be as strong as he wants to be. 

His civilian persona still faced a lot of backlash. Nobody wanted to hire him. He wasn't entirely suprised. Peter still looked young, but the lack of legal documents and showers made it clear he didn't have a home to go back to. The bruises that sprouted from his new nighttime hobby weren’t a good sign, either. 

Eventually, in the middle of June, he landed a gig as a janitor at the local community college. They didn't bother asking about his missing social security card or his age; they simply required him to be fluent in Spanish ( gracias a dios por las escuelas secundarias ricas, Peter thought to himself). 

It turned out to be a perfect opportunity. With keys to all the buildings and unrestricted access to labs, closets, and classrooms, Peter would occasionally sneak into the science labs to tinker with his ideas. If he wanted to pursue a career as a vigilante (he really liked the sound of that, straight out of a comic book), he needed better tech. After countless trials and errors, he finally concocted a formula that produced webs proportionate to his body mass. It was gorgeous. 

Paired with a shooting mechanism, he had successfully crafted his very first pair of web shooters.

“This is so not OSHA-certified,” Peter whispered to himself, his voice barely audible against the aggressive wind that buffeted his suit, challenging his balance. No matter how secure his grip was on a wall, it couldn't silence the nagging sense of vertigo.

OSHA guidelines for safe experimentation were ingrained in the minds of every student at Midtown. How to conduct tests without risking casualties. Nearly every aspect of what Peter was about to do violated those guidelines. He lacked a harness as he scaled the tallest building in miles. There was no safety net below to catch him if he fell, and he certainly wasn't wearing gloves or appropriate shoes for this endeavor. At least he had his goggles on; that should count for something.

Carefully, Peter maneuvered himself into a squatting position on the wall, facing straight down toward the ground below. From this height, the people below appeared as tiny ants. Nausea welled up in his throat. Amidst all the stress Peter had endured since running away, his inner voice lacked the energy to constantly scream at him. It only emerged sporadically with words of caution. It didn't threaten. Are you sure you’re ready?

No. Peter wasn’t ready at all. Perhaps that’s why he had to do it. There were too many things he had to run away. He didn’t want to run from this. 

He tapped the small metal button on his palm with his ring and middle fingers. The web fluid shot out, attaching itself firmly to the building across the way. When he gave it a tug, it held tight. It had passed every minor test—supporting a bag of bricks, walking a tightrope, and testing its length. This final test was just insurance.

“Please don’t die,” Peter begged of himself.

Then he let go. 

The air pressure broke his fall for a moment. Like he was flying. He pictured Iron Man. Not the ones from the posters or Twitter videos, but the one he saw at Stark Expo. He floated effortlessly through the air despite the heavy metal. He pictured himself beside Iron Man that day. Partners as they took down the Hammer Droids. The moment was fleeting but precious. 

Reality crashed back in as the web he held onto began to tighten. This web had to work, and it had to work now if Peter didn't want to become a pancake on the road below. Adjusting his shoulders, he prepared to absorb the impact, ensuring his arms wouldn't be yanked out of their sockets. Just like with the rope at Midtown, he swung his legs back and forth like he was on a swing. When the tension in the web reached its maximum, he flew.

Right through the streets of New York, he swung like… Well, he didn’t even know what. Like a spider-man. Spider-man. Yes, that sounded right, familiar. He was Spider-Man. 

"Woo!" Peter couldn't contain his excitement, letting out a jubilant scream that matched the wide grin stretching across his face. People below him shouted in awe and pointed in amazement. Some quickly whipped out their cameras to capture the sight. A little girl giggled, her tiny hands clapping with joy at the sight of Peter's airborne acrobatics.

The little guys, as Purse Lady said. That’s what Peter was here for. 

To be the friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man.

Chapter Text

“ Wakanda King T’Chaka sadly passed last night after the terrorist bombing of the Vienna International Centre…”

The T.V. in the corner of the room buzzed with static, sounding more like a robot than the reporter. It was an older model, one with a curved screen that shocked you with static electricity if you touched it.

The screen wasn’t zapping people, rather it was displaying the recently collapsed center. The reporter stood in front of it, almost two dozen other reporters by her side. All speaking in other languages, saying much of the same. In the distant background, you could spot hoards of men in suits. Peter thought he saw Black Widow standing among them, but that could have been wishful thinking. 

“The Avengers have gone rogue,” Alejandro laughed, tapping his cigarette into the ashtray. The break room, if it could truly be called that, was filled with smoke. The room has two foldable chairs, a cleaning cart, and shelves of chemicals in it. When Alejandro and Peter squeezed in at the same time (they were the only janitor that worked the before-school shift) it felt like the repurposed closet it was. “About time. Damn government needs to be put in check.”

Peter snorted. He tapped the cigarette with his fingers. Alejandro placed it in his hands every morning. Every morning, it burnt down to Peter’s fingers and then was discarded into the ashtray. “You say that about everything. Somebody litters? Teaches the government a lesson. I’m late to work? Serves the government right for overworking their citizens.”

“Have I ever been wrong?”

“Almost every time, actually.”

“Eh, matter of opinion.” 

“What do you think will happen to the Winter Solider?”

“Nothing. I promise you Tony Stark or someone of the type will chase him around for a week, then poof . He’s pardoned because the government remembers that they can weaponize him with enough legal mumbo jumbo.”

The cameraman pans to the destruction. The buildings beside the center have collapsed as well. A woman is cradling a child, looking down at the rubble. Peter wondered how many innocent people were going to be caught in the crossfires here. Ironic, really. This entire conflict is spawning because of the damage the Avengers have done. The Accords were designed to limit their international amnesty. Obviously, there had to be some fine print the media wasn’t broadcasting if most of the Avengers have bucked against it so violently. Still, Peter yearned for it to be over. The woman on the screen glances over her shoulder, toward the hoard of suited people. The small guys were hurting, their simple day to days were uprooted because a single guy with a bomb wanted to make a point to the United Nations. 

“Head home, kid.” Alejandro grunts, standing up. This was his small routine. At the end of every shift, Peter and Alejandro would sit in the break room. Some a cigarette. Then Alejandro would dismiss the kid and tell him: “Get some rest, you look dead on your feet.”

“You always say I look dead on my feet.” Peter laughs, stubbing his cigarette into the ash. “Maybe that’s just my natural state. Dead and on my feet.”

“I resent that. You’re a good kid, bribón, you just need to take yourself seriously.” 

Peter smirked at the older man. “Life is much too long for me to take it seriously.”

Alejandro clucked his tongue, the same sound he made whenever Peter said something that was a little too depressing. Dismissing and reprimanding in one sound. Ned’s mom used to make that sound all the time. It reminded him of an easier time. One where his biggest worry was Ms. Leed’s finding the stash of candy bars he would bring during sleepovers. It seemed like a childhood memory, but Peter realized the last sleepover they had was a week before his birthday. Eleven months ago. 

New York was brewing. It wasn’t the hottest month of the year by any means, the temperature usually bordered around seventy-five with half cloud coverage. But, with Summerstage concerts, baseball, and pride parades twisting through the same city, it tended to get crowded. The extra body heat probably raised the humidity but 20%. 

Peter weaved through the masses of people easily. The Peter Tingle helped him not so much as bump into other people as he pressed between the swarms. He could hear all of the music the stores played, see the dews of water in the air, and even smell the bratwursts that wafted from the metal cart a street over. 

There was a clear difference between those who were desensitized to the city and the tourists. The born and raised New Yorkers kept to themselves as they hurried to their lives. Eyes forward, heads down, suitcases clutched aggressively. The newcomers were always happier. Their eyes were glued to the skyline, overwhelmed by its beauty. When they bumped into somebody they grinned awkwardly and apologized. Their phones were always drawn to capture the magic. Peter knew that he wasn’t supposed to like tourists as a New Yorker. But, they held a fond spot in his heart. They were experiencing life as a gift rather than a burden. 

Alejandro was probably right. Peter needed to sleep. He had gotten maybe an hour the night before and ten in the past two weeks. And of those, none were because he actually laid down and decided to sleep. When he did sleep, it was when he found himself at his tent to replenish his appetite or change clothes. He would be awake one second and waking up the next, crumpled on the crinkled floor. There were thousands of things Peter wanted to do rather than allow himself to intentionally rest. Because when his body was resting, his brain finally woke up. An action that never ended well. 

So, instead of turning off at Hebert Street and heading back to the tent, he ducked into an alley on Frost Street. It sat right between a Panini press and an Orthodontist. The only cameras here were facing outside the alley. Peter slid his backpack to the ground. It held half of his belongings, the more important half. With his tent propped up among a camp of strangers, it wasn’t entirely out of place to find that somebody had ruffled through his belongings when he returned. He barely had anything of importance to be stolen. But, the few that were stayed in his backpack. 

These few included: his Spider-Man suit (honestly, more of a onesie), a wad of cash, and his mother’s necklace. After Skip sent the police to his parent’s house, the rest of the boxes were shipped off or donated. The only thing he managed to find through weeks of combing through thrift stores and pawn shops was that necklace. It held a circle charm with “Parker” engraved into it. Hanging from the circle were three gems. A garnet, diamond, and peridot. One for the birth month of each member of the family. It cost him an entire paycheck. He wanted more than anything to wear it every day. To hold a small part of his family close. But he stopped enough petty theft to realize that it was safer in his bag than it ever would be on his neck. 

In a swift movement, he swapped his civilian clothes for the suit. His shirt read “The Cake is A Lie”. It was the perfect shirt, with black fabric that could hide any stain. It made him look not as homeless . People weren’t really fond of the idea of a homeless guy in their presence. 

This was the first patrol Peter was doing with his new upgrades. The past week, he had been working on a way to keep the Peter Tingle subdued. Obviously, he needed it for what he was doing. He had never taken karate or self-defense as a kid, so most of his fighting tactics were pure instinct. But, it can be quite overwhelming being able to hear a kitten sneeze from four blocks over. Especially when you’re trying to watch out for petty crimes. 

The new additions included built-in earplugs (he found that they lowered his hearing by 26%. When in, he could only hear a few rooms over) and goggles (he programmed them to follow his eye movement so it blocked out his peripheral vision even when squinting). There were so few things Peter got excited over anymore. Spider-Man was definitely one of them.

When he was Peter, he was nothing . When he was Peter, he was just a fourteen-year-old runaway. The kid who hit his foster dad. Who dropped out of high school and works illegally just to afford shitty gas station sandwiches. 

But Spider-Man? Spider-Man was something . He was a superhero. There were no laws of physics that attracted misery to him and the people around him. Quite the opposite, actually. He saved people. Okay, it wasn’t that dramatic. But he made their lives infinitely easier. Stopped shoplifters, drug dealers, trespassers. Just last week he caught a car that was this close to ramming nose-first into a city bus. The driver’s brake fluid had boiled down, rendering them useless. After everything, she promised that Spider-Man would always be an honored guest at her Italian restaurant. 

People loved Spider-Man. And Spider-Man loved his people. 

Things were relatively tame today. He helped a stranded teen change their tire after running over a nail early on. He posed for a few pictures, did a few tricks for some excited kids. Part of Peter wondered if those pictures meant anything. Did the internet know about Spider-Man? Or was it more of a local thing? Like the guy who dressed up like a rat in the northern subway stations. Everybody at Midtown knew him, but most other people didn’t. 

It was Monday, which meant it was shopping day. Around five, he ducked into his favorite bodega. The first Monday he waltzed into the store, he was promptly kicked out. The clerk was an older man who very proudly had a Nokia clipped to his hip. He saw a masked guy with a backpack and decided that he was “not dealing with a hold-up today”. Peter had to explain for ten minutes straight that he was, in fact, not a criminal. The Mondays that followed went smoother. 

Today, he skipped right past the frozen section. There was nothing there that was safe for a plastic tent in mid-June. Instead, he opted for the canned goods aisle. His basket was full of syrupy fruits and beans in a matter of seconds. It was like playing Tetris when he added a few sticks of deodorant and baby wipes. Amazingly, the wipes were “buy one, get one” which gave Peter extra cash to buy a box of Uncrustables. Without a fridge, they wouldn’t last more than a few days, but that was okay. 

“Y’know,” Mr. Delmar says as he taps a barcode against his scanner. “Most kids your age come ‘round here, sell me out of candy bars, terrorize my cat, and leave. Yet here you are every week, buying cans and wipes.”

Peter grinned at the man behind the counter. “You have no clue how old I am.”

“You think that, but I know a teen when I see one. I got a daughter of my own.”

“Fair,” Peter slid his cash across the counter. He didn’t even need to wait for the total, it was always the same. $27.38. “The other kids don’t appreciate a good thing when they see them. Especially Mr. Mittens here.”

“Quit that, you know damn well that his name is Murph.” 

“That’s such a dog name, though.”

“Says Spider -Man.”

“Once again, fair.” Mr. Delmar slides the paper bag across the counter. Peter takes it, cradling it against his chest. “Stay safe, Mr. Delmar. There have been some bad people around lately.”

“Welcome to Queens.” Mr. Delmar laughed, waving him off. “There are always bad guys around.”

The Camp was always excited when Spider-Man came. It was like Santa Clause. A man in a red suit came and brought a bag of gifts. Granted, said bag was of groceries and toiletries, but still. By the time he swang in, they were all waiting toward the center of the Camp. Mr. Martin had kicked up the barrel fire, to keep everybody entertained. Timmy and Taylor, the twins, had started a game of sharks and minnows among the kids. Peter repressed the shudder at the fact that there were enough kids here to play games like that. 

“Spider-Man!” Angelica cheered, skipping over. She had her kid today, attached securely to her hip. He squirmed when he saw Peter. “I’m so glad you came today.”

“Every Monday,” Peter promised, shifting his arms to display the bag. 

“Essence has been dying to meet you.” At his name, her son split into a grin. “He’s, like, your biggest fan.”

“M-My fan?” Peter stammered, glancing back at the kid. He noticed that, on his wrist, he had a drawing of a spider web. 

“He watches you on YouTube over at his Dad’s.”

“Can you do the pchew thing?” Essence interrupts, tapping his middle fingers on his hand, as Peter does for his webs. “Pretty, pretty please with banana pancakes on top?”

Peter stared at the kid for a moment, his mind blank. This kid knew about him. This kid was a fan of his. This kid… Was asking him to web something. “Oh, my god! Uh, yeah, of course.”

He hurried to hand the grocery bag off to Mr. Martin, who got busy distributing the goods. Peter backed up a bit, lifting his arm. Just like the kid, he tapped his web shooter’s trigger, sending a web flying off to the fire barrel. It landed on the side, leaving a mess. 

“ Awesome .” Essence whispered staring at the barrel. “Eric is going to be so jealous at school tomorrow.”

"Glad you like it."

As Peter looked back up, he noticed that some of the older kids had gathered around him, eyeing him curiously. He recognized a few of them from his previous visits, but there were a couple of new faces. One of them, a girl with a fierce expression, stepped forward and crossed her arms.

“Hey, Spider-Man. We’ve been talking, and we have a question for you.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Shoot.”

The girl took a deep breath before asking, “Why do you do this? I mean, coming here and stuff. You’re, like, a superhero. Don’t you have better things to do?”

Peter paused, considering her question. “Well, I guess I see the world like a pyramid. You can’t make any big changes to the top without first fixing the bottom.”

“Yeah, you could definitely call us the bottom.” The girl grumbled. “A bunch of street rats.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Peter replied, his voice gentle. “What I mean is, you guys are the most important part of my work. Can’t protect New York if there aren’t any New Yorkers left.”

There was a moment of silence as the kids took in his words. Then, one of the younger ones piped up, “Can you teach us how to do the web thing?”

Peter grinned. “Yeah, I think I can manage that.”

In the next hour, Peter let the kids wear the web shooters. They all got to shoot empty bottles from the fence, some even got to shoot at the freeway above and hang for a minute. The web shooters had become Peter’s freedom and, for a little while, he was happy to share it with the other kids. It was such a gratifying feeling that he ignored the feeling of eyes on his back. Ignored the slight buzzing that sat in the background through the evening.

Chapter Text

The sun was just setting when Peter returned to his alley. Right in the corner, his backpack was webbed. It may be overkill, but he always did five layers of webs. Any normal person that made their way down this alley wouldn’t be able to get through two layers. 

With the absence of the Camp’s noise, everything seemed loud. The televisions from the apartments above, a slight buzz, the drip of the morning’s rain down gutters. Actually, it was the same buzz that Peter heard from the camp. That’s not normal.

Come to think of it, his Peter Tingle had been whispering something in his ear for a while now. He hadn’t even noticed the hairs on his neck raising nor the pinch of fear in his side. The more instinctive part of his mind wanted to rub his hands across his skin. Prove that nothing was touching, that nobody was here. 

But somebody was here. 

Peter whipped around, looking toward the mouth of the alley. Nothing. He glanced back toward the corner where his bag was. Not even a mouse. But his Peter Tingle was telling him something . 

He allowed himself to pause. He closed his eyes, breathing into the feeling. It felt like the air around his head was wiggling. Getting faster and faster until…

Without even deciding to, the Tingle shot Peter’s arm up. His fingers clenched down on the web shooters, sending a reel of web fluid to its target. 

It’s a flying, red, metal target. 

“Dammit, I just got the suit cleaned.” 

Tony freaking Stark hovered above the alley, iron fingers clawing at the webs on his chest. Tony freaking Stark stared down at the kid, from inside his Iron Man suit. Tony freaking Stark, which lived in Stark Towers. Stark towers which Skip worked at. Skip, which wanted Peter back. Wanted his experiment back. 

But, but, but he wasn’t Peter right now. He was Spider-Man. He was a hero, suddenly in a defensive position as another hero approached. He was Spider-Man and that was Iron Man . Still, Peter kept in his position. Ready to escape at any point.

“That-” Peter cleared his throat, placing a thick New York accent on to conceal the squeak of his voice. “That’ll teach you to sneak up on a guy.”

“Fight enough Gods and aliens, it becomes a force of habit.” He comments, lowering his suit. It was utterly out of place in this tiny alley. With the smell of Paninis and the sound of cars in the background. Perhaps it was just because Peter had envisioned this suit at StarkExpo for so long. In action. 

“Yeah, that would do it,” Peter says, trying not to show how out of his depths he was. With the man standing right in front of him, he forced himself out of his squat. The inner voice assured the Peter Tingle that if Tony Stark wanted to take Peter down, he would. A head start would make no difference. 

“Did you know that you’re impossible to track down?” The Iron Man suit hisses as the front pieces unfold. In a short step, Tony Stark was standing not three feet away from Peter. He was shorter than Peter was expecting, but he still had the same powerful presence. There was a swollen bruise under his right eye, matching the purple undertones of his tailored suit. As he spoke, he fixed the cuffs of his blazer. “It took me twelve hours to find you, a new record.”

“That’s kind of the point of a secret identity .” 

“I was never really fond of those. Too many complications, not enough recognition.”

“I’m sorry, Mister Stark. Or, uh, I mean. Mister Iron Man? Sir?” Peter rattled off. When the man in front of him cocked an eyebrow, he focused. “Is there a reason you were tracking me?”

Mr. Stark rolled his eyes, lacking patience for truly anything at the moment. “Ah-ah. Me first, Webling.”

“Spider-Man.” Mr. Stark glances up at the interruption. “My name? It’s, uh, Spider-Man.”

“That sounds more like a question.”

“I’m Spider-Man.”

“And you’re good with that? I feel morally obligated to tell you that these names stick.”

Peter crossed his arms petulantly. Admittedly, Spider-Man probably wasn’t the most clever name. But neither was Iron Man, so he’d love to see Mr. Stark say anything. Spider-Man was the title that let Peter accept the fact that he wasn’t human. And that was going to have to be okay. 

“Okay then, Spider-Man .” He fished a small piece of glass from his pocket. When his fingers touched it, it came to life with pictures. Peter Parker nearly imploded inside of Spider-Man because that is Tony Stark’s glass phone . Live, in person. When he tilted it sideways, the picture leaped straight off the screen and into a hologram. It was of Spider-Man, catching the Italian woman’s car. “This is you, correct?”

“Well-”

“Nope, sorry. Again, it was a rhetorical question. If ‘ NoobMaster69 ’ had the skills to fake this, he could have gotten better camera quality.” Mr. Stark smirks, flipping the screen so he could watch it back. “Look at you go! Around three thousand pounds, forty miles an hour. I don’t feel like doing the math, but that is some skill set you got there.”

“It was nothing, just something I noticed while on patrol.”

“Patrol? What are you, Wonder Woman?”

“Around the hero genre, yeah.”

Mr. Stark’s eyes swept down Peter’s body, face obviously showing disgust. “Not in that cosplay you aren’t.”

“Excuse me, not everybody can be millionaires.”

“Billionaire, thank you very much. And that’s exactly why I’m here.”

“To be cryptid and rich?”

“Exactly.” Mr. Stark steps past Peter, to the webbed-up backpack. His finger wraps around one of the thick cords of webbing, pulling. It doesn’t so much as bend. “The tensile strength of these is off the charts. Who’s your manufacturer?”

“Me. I designed a web fluid so I could get around faster.”

“And the whole wall scaling thing? What did you use for the gloves?”

“I don’t use gloves.”

Mr. Stark turned at this. For the briefest moment, his face was blank with shock or curiosity or maybe even admiration. Only for a brief moment, though. He was quickly on his feet again, pacing back toward the kid. 

“Another question. This one of the genuine brand.” Mr. Stark was close now. Too close. He was only a foot away from Peter, looking down at him as if he was going to intimidate honesty out. And maybe he was. 

Peter backed up a step.

Mr. Stark took another step forward. 

“Now, forgive my abrasiveness, but my judgment has been under a lot of… judgment lately.”

“So it’s true? The Avengers really are going rogue?”

“Of course not.” Mr. Stark argues too quickly. “There’s just a disagreement. Captain thinks that he’s right and I know he’s wrong. Everything else is just the fallout.”

“Sounds completely unbiased.”

“Careful, smarty-pants. I’m on the brink of an offer that could change your life.”

Another witty comment rises in Peter’s throat, but he forces it back down. Because you can’t sass Tony Stark . Even if it would be slightly gratifying. “Sorry, continue.”

“My question is ‘ why ’.” 

“Why… what?”

“Why do you bother with all of this – what did you call it? – hero genre bullshit?” Peter’s mouth opened, but Mr. Stark raised his hand. “And don’t come at me with that ‘changing the world’ jargon you gave those homeless kids.”

Even with an obvious lack of food in his stomach, Peter felt a wave of nausea. Why was a big question. His why fell on the turns of Peter’s life and grew with every day. It was an infinite question that needed an infinite answer. How could Peter justify his why to Mr. Stark without telling the how?  The inner voice offered a few suggestions.

Because you have an eternal debt to people you’ll never have the chance to repay?

Because nobody should expect disappointment?

…Because you’re not entirely sure you have the will to live without it?

“Because I’ve been me my entire life.” Peter decides out loud. “And I’ve been Spider-Man for maybe three months now.”

“So you do it for the novelty?”

“No, not really. When I was me, things didn’t go well. I have a list of mistakes up to my neck. And those bad things just have to sit there because I was just me . I didn’t have the ability to fight it. But Spider-Man? He has these abilities . Abilities that nobody else does. And when you’re the only one who can do those things and just decide to let the bad things happen anyway? That’s on you.”

The words feel all wrong and awkward. But it’s the best way Peter can answer the infinite question without revealing his identity. Because his identity was another infinite question. Being homeless is usually seen as something that needs to be fixed. Probably by a live-action superhero like Iron Man more than anything. But this problem’s solutions terrified Peter more than anything else. If somebody with the connections Mr. Stark did found out Peter was a kid, CPS would be all over it. Would he get sent to somebody worse, like Skip said? Or would he find himself right back in that damned lab, getting poked and prodded by a man with no qualms?

Neither , Peter promised himself. Mr. Stark is not walking away with my identity today .

“So your focus is on the little guy?” The tone wasn’t condescending or humorous. It was one of the first serious things Mr. Stark had said since he landed in the alley. 

“Yeah. Yeah, exactly. Just looking out for the little guy.”

Silence falls over the alley as Mr. Stark watches Peter. Up and down, measuring. Peter squares his shoulders, attempting to show off exactly what kind of man he is. Instead, Mr. Stark laughs. 

“God, that suit.” He chuckles. He reaches a hand out – something Peter has to violently fight to not shudder at – and pats the boy’s shoulder. “Ever been to Germany?”

“What’s in Germany?”

“Beer, sausages, the Winter Soldier…”

“ The Winter Soldier ?”

“Among other things. You’ll love it.”

“Wait, you want me to go to Germany? And do what?”

“Save the world. Usually, when Iron Man asks people for help, that’s implied.” 

“Holy shit .”

“Points for passion.”

Germany . Like, across the Atlantic Ocean and most of Europe Germany . Midtown has a field trip across Europe for juniors. When he stopped going to school, Peter assumed that any hope of leaving New York was thrown out the window. But, here Tony Stark was, offering to take him to Germany. To fight the Winter Soldier. To do something bigger than New York.

Peter Parker doesn’t do good things. You’ll ruin this for everyone. New York is a small area to screw up, Germany is huge. The inner voice argues, pinching the fear in his side. 

Peter fights back. He isn’t asking for Peter Parker’s help. He’s asking for Spider-Man’s. If he doesn’t get the chance to meet Peter…

“I’ll help, of course, I will. But-”

“Not a fan of ‘but’ .”

“The mask stays on. No matter what.”

Mr. Stark’s posture tightens. “As I said, secret identities are complicated.”

“They’re safe .” Peter’s voice lowered, dropping the phony New York accent. “And I could really use safety at this point in my life.” 

“You really think you’re the empire of safety? Your average Monday evening involves swinging around New York in a bright red leotard.” Mr. Stark scoffs. “Anyway, I’m not above the law. That’s the entire point of the Accords. Wouldn’t it seem odd if I turn around to smuggle a stranger over country lines?”

“I’m not a stranger. I basically just told you my reasons for living!” Peter raised his hand dramatically, waving it across the air. “None of that changes just because you don’t know whether I’m blonde or not.”

“It’s a lot more than that, kid.” Mr. Stark said, a definitive set to his lips.

Peter’s heart sank. He hadn’t even realized he was becoming hopeful. What an idiotic thing for him to do. Hope was toxic for him. Because even with the stupid mask and web shooters, with his actual idol standing here, asking for help, he was Peter Parker. And good things just don’t happen to Peter. 

“It was really an honor to be considered, then,” Peter said, turning back to his bag. He didn’t even have to use his strength to free the back from his webs. The cords snapped apart, leaving a small mess. “I hope everything goes well, man.”

“Wait, are you kidding me?” Mr. Stark watches the boy closely. Something in his tone made it clear that being turned down wasn’t a common experience. “You’re saying ‘no’ if you can’t keep the mask?”

“My identity.” Peter amends. 

Mr. Stark buries his face in his hands. They rubbed against his face and toward his hair, stopping right on the crown of his head. The stance didn’t look right on such a polished man. 

“I just know I’m going to regret the shit out of this.” He murmurs to himself before turning back to Peter. “Fine, we have a deal. Mask stays on.”

Peter grins to himself, feverishly happy that his mask would hide the expression. He was going to Germany. Going to Germany with Tony Stark to fight the Winter Soldier . Spider-Man truly was magic. Good things happen to Spider-Man. 

“Well, a mask stays on. If you’re rolling with the Avengers, you’re not wearing a leotard.”

Rolling with the Avengers . Spider-Man was rolling with the Avengers.

Chapter Text

Peter slept that night. 

More than ever, he wanted to work until he passed out to avoid the stress. Everything could go wrong in the following days. One wrong move and Peter would be back in Skip’s custody. And wrong moves were his specialty. Not to mention that the person he was trying to trick was Tony Stark . The man didn’t even need to force the mask off of Peter’s face if he wanted to know. He probably had the resources to search traffic cams for his voice signature and locate his file. Or something on that dramatic level. 

The only thing keeping Peter safe was the fact that Mr. Stark didn’t seem to have any interest in knowing . Spider-Man was just a tool he needed to borrow for a mission. Like one would rent a tuxedo for a gala or a helicopter for a proposal. He didn’t mean anything to Mr. Stark. That thought was the only thing that relaxed Peter enough to sleep on his mess of blankets. 

In the morning, an alarmed plaid from his new phone. It was a flip phone, a relic of an older time. Peter had been trying to get ahold of one in seventh grade. They never turned up in dumpsters or thrift stores anymore. And he was never interested enough to go out and buy one. It was just a side project, like the CD player he restored or the 3DS Ned gave him. 

Mr. Stark slipped him the phone the night before, so they could keep in touch. When Peter questioned the taste, a dark look passed over the man’s face. There wasn’t a witty reply or sarcastic comment. He just said that it was “an inside joke between us Avengers”. Peter knew that Mr. Stark didn’t mean “us” as in “Peter”, but the world still sparked like fire. Spider-Man was rolling with the Avengers . 

The giddiness overrode Peter’s anxiety. He ate an entire can of beans, rather than the half that was saved for every other morning. Whatever was going down in Germany would require his full energy. Well, not full. But high energy all together. 

Mary’s necklace sat on his neck today, rather than the backpack. He was rolling with the Avengers . Nobody was going to swipe the chain without a fight. 

Mr. Kingston waved at Peter and Peter grinned back. The suited man stared at the kid as if he were an alien. I mean, he was rolling with the Avengers . It was possible. 

The streets of Queens were already bustling, even though the sun had yet to rise. People always had places to be. Peter whistled to himself as he made his way down the street. The tune wasn’t familiar, but it was fun. Seamlessly, the kid began to hum words to the tune. 

“Spider-Man, Spider-Man, does whatever a spider can,” He sang to himself as he turned the corner. There was a McDonald’s on this street. Trying not to draw notice, he ducked inside and went straight to the bathroom. “Does he fly? No-one knows. Buh-duh-dum. Dum-duh-buh.”

This was one of the harder parts of not having a house. You didn’t need a kitchen to eat food, didn’t need a bed to sleep, didn’t even need lights to see. But most of the hygiene routines were pretty bathroom specific. Showering, brushing your teeth, the works. 

The public bathroom was cramped. Peter much preferred truck stops or gas stations when they had full showers he could use. But he didn't have enough time to find one of those and it had been too long since his last hygiene check-up. He couldn't smell like death while rolling with the Avengers.  

He stood in front of the mirror, avoiding actual eye contact with himself as he scrubbed his teeth. His backpack leaned on the counter, the bottom getting slightly soggy from wherever the last person messily shook wet hands. There was hardly enough stuff inside to go to Germany. He had, maybe, one pair of clothes and his suit in the biggest pocket. The smaller held his toiletry kit, now missing a toothbrush and his wad of cash. The side pockets had a water bottle and granola bar. His flip phone seemed to be permanently glued to his hand. 

After his teeth, he moved on to the more embarrassing part. He excused himself to a stall with his fresh pack of baby wipes. Slowly, he scrubbed the grime from his skin. A full treatment. Nail beds, armpits, behind the ears. It had been probably too long since he'd done this. Spider-Man was really busy lately. 

After a good ten minutes and some deodorant, he smelt fresh and looked clean. His hair was to his shoulders again. Skip had been cutting his hair daily before he left. Now, Peter kind of just ignored the growth. Under the mask, his curly locks were pressed into submission no matter how long it was. 

Nonetheless, he grabbed his pocket knife and began to cut away the pieces. Spider-Man was rolling with the Avengers , but Peter created him. A different version, sure. But maybe the younger Peter inside, the one who dreamed daily of comic books and heroism, deserved to be a little present when Spider-Man got to live it. 

The brown hair curled just above his ears now, shining with the fresh splash of water. Peter's eyes naturally began to skid past the image, but it caught his attention. The boy in the mirror didn't look the same as he was expecting. It wasn't the boy that used to dream at all. It wasn't the miserable teenager from Skip's mirror either. The boy that stared back looked strong . 

There was a sharp shadow on his jaw and cheeks, making him look older. Bags sat right under the eyes, holding the sleep that Peter never caught. The expression was guarded and sardonic. Like he was always on the verge of falling off the deep end or cracking an amazing joke.

The boy stared right back at Peter through the mirror. 

"Not a kid anymore, huh, Skip?" Peter whispered. There was an obvious lack of pain in his chest when he said it.

The flip phone buzzed in Peter's right hand.

(Mr. Stark) 7:15 AM: Wheels up in an hour. Pick-up in fifteen.

There’s a soft click as the phone snaps closed. It felt beyond wrong to leave Mr. Stark on read. Well, there aren’t any read receipts through a flip-phone. But the sentiment is still there. You don’t leave Mr. Stark on read, he leaves you on read. Every smear campaign could tell you that. 

But even more pressing, you follow Mr. Stark’s orders. And Mr. Stark told Peter to not write back. Said that he wasn’t trying to have “late-night gossip sessions”.  

The McDonald’s employees didn’t bat an eye when Peter emerged from the bathroom after an hour. They just nursed energy drinks and waited for the morning rush to wipe them out. Outside, the fun had finally risen. People bustled on, ignoring the world around them. It was too early for tourists. 

Peter found the Panini Alley quickly. The “pick-up” was forty minutes away by foot. But, by web .

Spider-Man soared through the humid morning moments later. It was easier to notice the phones and cameras that were raised when he knew to look. How many videos of him were on the internet? He had been meaning to go to the county library for a while. It was his favorite place before his phone was stolen. Free Wi-Fi, air-conditioning, and computers. It reminded him of studying after school. Easier to ignore the reality of his world. 

He didn’t need it anymore, though. Spider-Man was his reality. Better than any fantasy. He swung in the air like a superhero . And he was a hero. Rolling with the Avengers . 

The pickup location was carefully picked by Peter. Mr. Stark told him to choose something “close to home”. Naturally, Peter picked Queen’s city limits. The farthest place from the Camp. Furthest from any traces of Peter. No Midtown, no Skip, no Parker household. 

Instead, he chose Oyster Bay. Public, touristy. Could be coming from New York or Queens. Not to mention it was on the way. Perfectly between Stark Towers and the closest airport. Anything to make things easier for Mr. Stark. 

Or, apparently, Happy Hogan. The car that showed up, slick and perfect, only had one person inside. A larger man with a permanent “I’m pissed” face on despite the hysterical name. As soon as he made sure this was the right Spider-Man – “never know with street performers these days” – he rolled the divider up. No small talk, then. 

To fill in the time, Peter dug his camera from his backpack. It was getting the most useful since its arrival at Christmas. Whenever Queens was quiet, not often, Peter would take out his camera. Snap pictures of the sights, videos of the people. Like the tourists did. Like, maybe, he could appreciate the magic of the city. 

“What is that? What are you doing?” The divider collapsed after a while, giving Peter a front-row seat to the rear-view mirror glare. 

The camera was still raised to capture a shot of the Unisphere in the distance. The interruption was so abrupt, Peter didn’t have anything witty to say. 

“Are you making a scrapbook or what? You know you can’t show anybody those pictures.” Happy added thickly. 

“Y-yeah, I know. I’m not going to, like, rat you out to the press.” Peter could his ears warm. “I’m not recording. I’m just… Pictures? For, uh, fun?”

“Sure, for fun .” Happy rolls his eyes, jabbing the divider’s button back up. Almost spitefully, Peter snapped a picture of the inside of the car.
Mr. Stark was once again absent at the airport. For somebody who has fully acknowledged that hope was toxic, Peter sure did it a lot. He didn’t beat himself up over the small deflation, just this time. He was rolling with the Avengers . It made small hopes seem slightly less harmful. 

Happy bypassed the security checkpoints easily. Surely, illegal by a dozen means. But maybe civilian safety wasn’t too big of a concern when you were boarding a private jet . 

“This isn’t just a plane, kid.” Happy told him while they marched across the empty asphalt. “It’s on the same level as the Air Force One. This is the Avenger’s jet.”

The title was daunting. Peter had never stepped foot into an airplane before, seldom one with swivel seats and chutes of champagne. There weren’t any flight attendants or signs on what to do. The safest bet was to follow Happy precisely. So when he sat down toward the front of the plane, Peter sat right in front of him. The chauffeur - or was Happy a bodyguard? A comical personality? - immediately got up and sat on the opposite side of the plane. 

Not once in the seven-hour flight did Peter get out of his seat. Somewhere along the way, his knees were drawn to his chest. He didn’t even mean to. All of his attention was absorbed by the window in front of his nose. It was like a movie, the scenes outside.

New York got impossibly small under him. His entire world was reduced to a speck on the horizon in moments. As they rose, he saw the Atlantic Ocean clearer than he ever had. It was endless in a way he didn’t know existed. Just a vanilla sky and blue oceans forever. Watching the world pass by, for forever. Clouds appeared before his very eyes, and birds rose to the challenge and regretted it. They chased the sunrise for hours.

Peter liked Happy. He didn’t ask questions. Wasn’t a touchy person or seemed to care in the slightest about anything except getting Peter from Point A to Point B. He was annoyed quite easily, though. Peter had a thousand questions at all times about what was happening. 

Was the jet automated or was there a pilot? Did they sign an NDA? Had Happy met the Avengers? Were they nice? Which ones had gone rogue? Which ones were friends? Where was Peter staying? Did Germany know about Spider-Man?

Happy didn’t answer any of them. Sometimes he would make a snarky remark, but most of the time he just plain ignored the jabbering kid. Peter didn’t stop asking, though. It was more like a monologue, he thought. Like when Sherlock Holmes would get lost in his own thoughts, solving the puzzle. 

At the hotel – Time was becoming circular. Almost a year before, he was at a hotel. That didn’t matter, he was Spider-Man right now – Happy all but shoved him into his bedroom. It was bigger than his room at Skip's. Bigger than one of the Midtown classrooms. There was a maze of hallways that belonged to Peter for the night. A closet, a kitchenette, a bed, a pull-out couch, an entire bathroom . 

Waiting on the bed was a thick, metal suitcase with a neon yellow sticky note on top. 

I promised you a mask to hide your coveted face. -TS

Peter stomped on the hope buzzing in his chest. It was probably laundry detergent. Or a new pair of goggles. Something so he looked the part of Iron Man’s emergency contact. It was just a…

New. Freaking. Suit. 

Inside the case was an entire suit. Red and blue, just like the one on Peter’s back. But better in every single way. 

“There’s no way,” Peter whispered to himself. Happy was quickly retreating behind him. “Happy, is this for me?”

“What do you think?”

“No, you don’t get it, man. You have to say the words. Is this mine ? Happy?” 

Happy didn’t respond. He just slammed the hotel door behind him.

Peter scrambled to the door, swinging it open. “Happy?”

“Just put the damn suit on, kid. We’re officially on call for Iron Man.”

“Holy crap, holy crap ,” Peter whispered to himself, obsessively looking at the mirror. “I’m lowkey freaking out right now.”

The suit was in perfect Tony Stark fashion. Every piece of it was radiating with technology. All of it . 

The fabric had a compression mechanism on a microscopic scale, molding it perfectly to Peter’s body as soon as it slid on. The goggles blocked out the overwhelming sensors in a safer way than Peter’s shaders had. It blurred out everything on the edges of his vision, so he could still see if he focused enough. The ears were padded, muffling sound. When he poked around, he felt two speakers on it. There wasn’t a manual or anything to turn it on, though. 

And the webshooter’s? My god, Peter was beyond in love with them. After he loaded them with the fluid – he felt slightly smug when he realized Mr. Stark hadn’t replicated it – they were smooth. He played with them for a while in the hotel room. Not once did it jam or pause. No web explosions from too much tension. Just pure ease.

“There’s no way this can get better.”

It got better. It got so much better. 

Throughout the afternoon, Peter feels himself constantly questioning reality. Because the call comes. Mr. Stark needed Spider-Man A.S.A.P. Happy raced through the streets of Germany as if he were a co-star in Fast and Furious . They went back to the airport that they arrived at that morning. It was a ghost yard by the time they got there. Mr. Stark finally showed up. He clapped Peter on the shoulder and asked him how he liked the suit. Peter tried not to gush for longer than three minutes about how it was his absolute dream suit. 

Peter was given one job. Mr. Stark said he didn’t care what else happened today, Peter – officially code-named “Underoos” – was to get Captain America’s ( Captain America! ) shield. Get it and keep it away from him as long as he could. Almost as an afterthought, he promised Peter that Captain America wouldn’t hurt him. That wasn’t how he rolled. 

From his hiding spot, Peter watched as the Avengers popped up. Black Widow, Hawkeye, Falcon, Wanda Maximoff, Captain America . He was rolling with the Avengers. They were right there.

The actual fight was a lot easier. It was just like the streets of Queens. Well, okay, maybe the Avenger’s costume’s were flashier. But it was close. Web, swing, banter. His mouth was running faster than his heart was. He asked the questions he wanted to and threw in the quips that came to mind. 

It may have been too fast, at times. When Captain America asked him where he was from, he didn’t hesitate to say, “Queens”. 

Queens isn’t as big as you think it is. He’ll find you. He’ll find you, and he’ll send you back to Skip and…

Captain America doesn’t threaten the kid. Instead, he gives the Captain America smirk and says, “Brooklyn”. 

So he keeps talking. He asks the Winter Soldier about his arm – which he isn’t very fond of, from the force of its punch. When the new guy (there were so many new guys, Peter couldn’t keep them straight) grew to a height that was official “oh, shit” territory, he thought of the first week after his parent’s accident. The Star Wars scene, with the AT-ATs. He had watched it so intently, trying to drown out everything else, that he remembered perfectly. 

“Have you guys ever seen that really old movie, Empire Strikes Back?” He called into his earpiece, dodging Massive-Man’s efforts to squash him like an actual spider. 

“Jesus, Tony,” Colonel Rhodes questions back, completely ignoring the boy, “how old is this guy?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t carbon date him.” Mr. Stark calls back, conveniently avoiding the fact that he didn’t check Spider-Man at all. “He’s, uh, on the younger side?”

Too close , the inner voice whispers. They know too much and they’re too close and Skip…

“You know the part where they’re on…” Peter pauses. Maybe there’s a way he can salvage this. “The snow planet? With the walking thingies?”

Mr. Stark catches on immediately. Without words, he rockets up to Massive-Man’s face, distracting him. Peter rushes to the floor level. He swings in circles until he’s dizzy, watching as his white webs surround the ankles of the man. 

One step is all it took. His foot caught on the webs when he tried to catch up to Iron Man’s retreating figure. Peter raised his hand to the sky, celebrating. 

He doesn’t expect Massive-Man’s hand to reach out, too, like a painful high five. The weight of it slams Peter to the ground. His vision went black. 

Chapter Text

“You better not be dead, kid.” A thick voice grunts, poking the boy’s body with his foot. “I don’t have a ‘next-to-kin’ to notify.”

Peter was curled on the ground, surrounded by shattered crates. There was fresh air on the lower half of his face. As he stirred to life, there were too many sensations. Too close, too loud, too much . There was the smell of coffee and his bedroom door was creaking open and not again . 

With one hand, Peter yanked his half-raised mask down. His breath smothered his face with the blockage, further accenting the claustrophobic atmosphere. His other hand raised, his fingers crushing down with more force than necessary. A web spun out of the shooter, wrapping around the intruder’s wrist. In a fluid motion, he pulled the web forward to land a hit on the man. 

“Jesus quit that. We’re on the same side!” 

Mr. Stark. That was Mr. Stark’s voice. 

Peter’s eyes adjusted, squinting at the silhouette. The longer he focused, the more details showed up against the sun. Red metal, blue compulsors, a goatee. 

“Oh, hey man.” Peter sighed, his heart lowering to a normal rate. “That was crazy.”
Mr. Stark dropped the kid’s wrists, rocking onto his heels. “Yeah, you’re done.”

“What?” He’s disappointed. I didn’t do my job well enough. Parker luck. “I’m good, I’m fine .”

“Stay down, it’s not personal.” Mr. Stark rolled his eyes, glancing back toward the fight. “We’re overstaffed, got it? Go back to the hotel.”

“No, I can still help,” Peter promised Mr. Stark’s retreating form. 

The man didn’t even glance back. “Just let Mom and Dad finish their fight, Underoos. You did well.”

When Peter stood to follow, he was immediately knocked on his back. Man, he was tired. And his healing abilities had been a little stunted lately. Begrudgingly, Peter wondered if a can of beans was underkill for this mission. He was supposed to be rolling with the Avengers, he couldn’t afford a full meal?

Your fault , the inner voice told him smugly. It was always happy when Peter proved it right.

Peter hadn’t meant to stay on the tarmac. But the second his head touched the ground, he was out again.

When he woke up, for the third time that day, Peter was face to face with a very unhappy Happy. 

“For somebody in just a flashy costume, you’re impossible to find.” 

“Y’know, it’s funny…” Peter murmured, trying to wake his body up. The adrenaline had completely drained, leaving a stabbing pain in his chest. “Mr. Stark said the same thing.”

“Hysterical.” Happy’s face clearly didn’t agree with his statement. It had a serious glare going on. “Come on, get up. Do you need a hospital or anything in the emergency personnel genre?”

Peter pressed his weight onto his elbows. God, that hurt. His entire body ached, but the worst was concentrated on his ribs. Were they broken? Was that something Peter could heal?

Not that it really mattered. There was no way Peter was going to a hospital, German or otherwise. Because under the suit, he was fourteen-year-old Peter Parker. Any sentient person would report him in moments. Especially with broken ribs. 

“I’m peachy keen, man.” Peter pressed a grin onto his face, only remembering too late that Happy couldn’t see it under the mask. 

Still, the confidence works on Happy. Or he just doesn’t care enough to argue. Happy rolls his eyes, says something snide under his breath, and offers a hand to Peter. There is nothing Peter wants to do less at this moment than touch the man’s hand. But that would be suspicious. The kid was obviously hurt, at least a little , and Happy was there. A hand made sense. A hand was a nice gesture. 

Peter latched his hand around Happy’s, trying to get on his feet as fast as he could. The speed did not help his dizziness. He could small talk and grin all day long. That didn’t erase the absolute trainwreck of pain he was in. Massive-Man’s hand packed a punch when he was regular size. When he was at the height of the Statue of Liberty, just falling on Peter almost killed him. 

As they trekked back to Happy’s car, Peter couldn’t focus on anything except keeping his balance. He was grateful Happy kept up his stream of profanities through the entire walk. Talking about “Mr. Goody Two-Shoes” – who Peter assumed was Captain America – and the One Direction runaway – this one was trickier to decode. But, Peter thought he was talking about the Winter Soldier. From what Peter could understand, the two had escaped. Stole Mr. Stark’s jet, actually. The panic that followed left an entire mess behind them. 

In the back seat, Peter melted into the floor. He was already a stowaway in a foreign country, he could go without a seatbelt for one car ride. Once Happy climbed into the front seat, and surprisingly kept the divider open, Peter asked, “So Team Iron Man lost?”

“You’re lucky this is a rental, Bug Boy.” Happy shook his head. “If Tony ever heard you say his name and ‘lost’ in the same sentence, he’d hunt you for sport.”

“So what should I call this? A hesitant success ?”

“No, we got our asses beat.” Happy cracks his first smile of the evening. “Just warning you that Tony Stark does not lose.”

“So, when do we head out again? Do we know where Mr. Rogers is heading?”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“What? I got Cap’s shield, I did my part!” Peter argued, pulling himself up into a sitting position. 

“Not that it’s any of your concern, but nobody is heading out tonight. The Avengers are grounded for further notice.”

“Did something happen? Is everybody okay?”

“No. Yes? Doesn’t matter, everything will be okay.” Happy’s brows creased. When he found Peter’s eyes in the rearview mirror, he rolled his own. “You catch on too quickly.”

“Guilty.” Peter smiled, leaning through the divider. “Maybe it’s part of my powers. I know too much while everybody knows too little.”

“Don’t worry. Spend enough time around the Avengers and that’ll change.” Happy meant it as a joke. He had his second smile on his lips as he mumbled, “No privacy around that group.”

But Peter didn’t take it as a joke. It was a threat. It was a reminder for his inner voice. The Avengers know things. If they need, hell if they want , they could have every detail of Peter’s life on a page. They didn’t even have to lift a finger. Their resources were infinite and slightly unethical. Peter Parker was a secret that they could uncover with a yawn. If that happened...

Well, he didn’t know what he’d do. It was the Avengers . He would probably run for it. Make it to Belgium as Spider-Man. Start over. He’d done it before. Maybe he’d live off of German chocolate and white lies. 

It wasn’t a real option. There were thousands of flaws in the plan, the biggest being that it was the Avengers . But it was nice to think. Because the alternative was being sent straight back to Skip. 

At the hotel, Happy led Peter back to his room. It was just as nice as they left it. Peter wondered slightly if it were like a mirage. It looked beautiful because he hadn’t seen anything nice in so long. But, there were still gold frames on the walls. Still smelt like strawberries in the halls and the receptionist still gave the boys a brilliant grin.

Happy brought Peter right to his door. When he opened the door, he pointed inside. “You can’t leave the room tonight. But feel free to live it up. No cameras, no mics. The door locks from the inside, and you have the only key.” He pressed a flat card into Peter’s hand. “So if you want to go maskless, be my guest.”

“You aren’t going to make me take off my mask?” 

“Of course not. Personally, I think it’s completely absurd. Who wouldn’t want the recognition?” Happy scoffed. “But Tony’s the boss and he keeps his word. So you get to have your mask.”

“Thanks,” Peter muttered, waving as Happy retreated from the room. He held his breath until the deadbolt automatically slid into place.

It took Peter only ten minutes to realize that he didn’t know what to do with free time. Back in New York, he had his time split up perfectly. Not a moment unaccounted for. Mornings were for Peter Parker. Shopping, working, cleaning. All of the other time was for Spider-Man. Swinging, fighting, living . 

In the hotel room, with neither of those options, Peter was stumped. 

He tried to sleep, but that was useless. He had slept longer in the past twenty-four hours than he had in the last three weeks. Not to mention his heart rate hadn’t completely returned to normal. Because oh, my god? He was sitting in a hotel room? Because he was Spider-Man and Spider-Man rolled with the Avengers today? 

So he instead opted for the bathroom. It was the most beautiful sight he had seen. There was a shower and a bath at opposite ends of the room. Both were made of glassy marble and sparkled like stars. The water was burning hot, the conditioner smelt like lavender. The lights had different modes, letting him dim them when he sunk into the tub. There were three complimentary books beside the bath. The Bible, Vogue Magazine, and a copy of the first Harry Potter Book. Classy. 

Outside the bathroom, he got dressed. He only packed one pair of civilian clothes, since he arrived in the old Spider-Man suit. A pair of worn-out jeans and a shirt that had the period symbol for “iron” along with the symbol for “man”. It was a small joke for himself. He had this shirt for ages, got it from a street vendor after he saved his cart from being robbed. There wasn’t the slightest idea in his mind when he got it that he would be working with Iron Man.

Don’t kid yourself. You’re not working with him. You’re a tool. Don’t ever try to think otherwise. Mr. Stark has already forgotten you exist. Better yet, he’s left you here. Happy will leave tomorrow and he won’t take you. They brought you to a foreign country and they’re going to leave you without food or money or a German dictionary. I told you not to trust people. I told you and…

“Stop!” Peter yelled at himself, slamming his fist against the closest wall. His heart stuttered when he brought his hand away. There was a small scuff. No dent. Thank God for German architecture. It just left his hand throbbing.

The inner voice, which was growing its own personality these days, was rearing up for a screaming match when there was a knock on the door. Peter froze. What was he supposed to do? There was a knock at the door. 

“Answer it, that’s what you do,” Peter muttered to himself. With his unwounded hand, he snatched the mask from his desk. The old one. Peter wasn’t entirely sure if the new suit was his to play with. It sat, folded neatly on the dresser. 

Behind the door was Mr. Stark. At least, Peter thought it was Mr. Stark. It was his face and height, but Peter had never seen him so… unkempt . Not in any magazine or documentary or real life. The man before him had his brown hair freed from gel, like a hand had run through it too many times. He had the same black eye he had the day before, though it looked like it was getting better. And he was wearing sweatpants . Grey with a matching jacket.

“Am I interrupting something?” Mr. Stark raised an eyebrow, glancing over the mismatched mask and outfit. 

“What?” Before Mr. Stark could answer, the pain in his hand did. “Oh, no! Sorry, I was just… Watching T.V.?”

“Yeah, sure.” The man was in direct eyesight of the powered-off television. “Still hiding your precious face?”

“Hey, I’m doing you a favor,” Peter begins, trying to exude confidence like he did when fighting. “My face is simply so brilliant, you wouldn’t be able to walk straight after looking at it. Let alone fight your enemies.”

The man cracked a grin, shaking his head. “Fair enough. You going to invite me in, cover girl?”

Peter scrambles to get out of Mr. Stark's way, nearly tripping over himself in the process.

Mr. Stark doesn’t so much as bat an eye. He waltzes into the hotel room with perfect ease. Peter felt a pang of jealousy. Mr. Stark’s presence demanded attention. He walked into every room as if he owned it. Maybe he did. Stark Industries was a monopoly by every means. Its logo was branded into everything good in the world. 

“I’m much too old to be dealing with this shit.” Mr. Stark grumbles as he flops face-first into Peter’s bed. “How you holding up, kid?”

“Not a kid,” Peter pouts, leaning against the wall. “It’s in the name, Mr. Stark. Spider- Man .”

“Don’t take it personally,” Mr. Stark is still smiling when he flips onto his back. “Anybody under the age of twenty-five is a kid to me. And, for some reason, I doubt you're packing a beard up there.”

Peter nods mindlessly. It was a small relief. Mr. Stark wasn’t sure of his actual age. He knew he was on the younger side, you didn’t need to see under the stupid mask to know that. But he was leaning toward twenty-five . “Alas, no beard.”

“Suit said you broke a few ribs.” Mr. Stark glanced at the boy’s chest. “But you’re not at the hospital.”

“You put medical scanners in the suit?”

“Hi, hello. I’m Tony Stark, not sure if you heard of me. I put everything in your suit.” He raised a hand, counting on his fingers. “Parachutes, police scanners, Wi-Fi. And, of course, med-scans.”

“And you access it?” Peter’s mind ran through what info the suit could have collected. Face scans, age, height, record…

“Of course.” Mr. Stark sat up, reading the rigidity in Peter’s stance. “But just for emergency alerts. Not to check on the face. Anyway, ribs?”

“They’re fine.” Peter forced himself to breathe through his nose. “Just got a little banged around, I’ve had worse.”

“You’ve had worse than three broken ribs?”

“Occupational hazard.” Peter laughed. The force sent a throb through his chest, but it wasn’t as bad as earlier. Slowly but surely. 

“That’s not comforting at all.” Mr. Stark sighed, standing. In a few steps, he was in front of Peter. “Come on, let’s see it.”

Rather than raising his shirt, his fingers yanked it even lower. “I mean it, man, they’re okay.”

“From one stubborn man to another, ‘fine’ is almost never ‘fine’.” Mr. Stark smirked as if this were just some joke. His hand reached forward, gesturing to the shirt.

Peter pressed himself into the wall. Any inch away from the touch was a chasm. Too close, too close. “You said I get to stay covered.”

“Unless you have a third nipple or something, I doubt your chest is going to reveal your identity.” The older man was getting impatient. He didn’t get closer or gesture again, just looked pointedly at Peter’s fingers. 

He isn’t Skip , Peter hissed to the inner voice, to the Peter Tingle. He just wants to make sure you’re okay . It doesn’t make it feel any better. But, it does rationalize. 

Slowly, Peter drew his shirt until the yellowing bruise was visible. No less, no more.

“Yikes, that’s a good one.” Mr. Stark sucked air through his teeth, leaning closer. He doesn’t touch. “You sure-”

“Again, not the worse I’ve had.” Peter dropped his shirt, trying to keep himself casual. “I heal, anyway. I’ll be ship-shape in a few hours.” 

Or, he would have if he had eaten more than just a can of beans. But Mr. Stark didn’t need to know that. 

“You’ve got one hell of a powers roster. How’d you get them, anyway?”

“Um,” Peter shuffles around the story. “Radioactive spider?”

Mr. Stark freezes, face completely dropping. Then, he snorted and plopped back down on the bed. “Okay, no questions. I get it. You’re funny, Spider-Man . Quick on your feet, too. The AT-AT thing wasn’t bad.”

“You think so?”

“Don’t let it go to your head. Just a good play in a bad situation.”

“Speaking of, Happy said someone might have gotten hurt.”

The humor fades from Mr. Stark’s face. It pulls on a more serious version, something Peter wasn’t expecting. 

“Rhodey took a spill.” He sighs, pinching his nose. “He’s been in surgery all afternoon.”

“Will he be okay?”

“It’s Rhodey, he has to be okay.”

The way Mr. Stark said it made it clear he meant it. Whoever got hurt was going to make it. There were no other options. 

“Are you okay?”

“Nope, too sappy.” Mr. Stark clapped, silencing the conversation. “What I need right now is a cheeseburger and bad TV.”

Peter assumed this was the part where Mr. Stark was going to retire and head to his own room. Instead, he picked up the hotel phone and shot off a string of German words. Without missing a beat, he settled onto Peter's bed and played with the remote.

“Pick your poison,” Mr. Stark said, scrolling through a list of movies and shows.

Hesitantly, Peter dropped into the desk chair, glancing at the screen. “Uh, maybe Now You See Me ?”

“Perfect.”

Peter had become adjusted to bizarre events. He was a teenage superhero, for crying out loud. But, for some reason, he had expected the bizarre to happen… More predictably. Being in Germany? Not predictable. Fighting with the Avengers? Not even close. But sitting in a hotel room with Tony Stark? Watching a movie while room service rolled in an entire cart of cheeseburgers and fries and milkshakes? Peter was convinced he had fallen into a coma on the tarmac. And he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to wake up.

Chapter Text

June

Happy brought Peter home the day after the airport battle. Mr. Stark didn’t show up. Whatever was happening next for the Avengers, it wasn’t in New York. Peter asked if he should stay, in case they needed him again. Happy warned Peter not to push his luck. If Peter was needed, he would get a call. 

Mr. Stark never called.

July

Peter began to call Mr. Stark. It was against the rules. The first time, it went to voicemail. Peter maxed out the message length, rambling about being “ready for the next mission”. An hour later, the number called back. It wasn’t Mr. Stark, but Happy. Peter had been forwarded. Happy was his handler from now in, something the driver was absolutely not pleased about. 

After a week of calling, Happy stopped answering.

August

Spider-Man was always around. Every single day, Spider-Man was there for the people of Queens.

And every single night, he left a voicemail for Happy. Telling him about all the things Spider-Man accomplished. After, he would go back to the street and fight. Fight for something important enough to make Happy answer. 

The days blurred. Spider-Man stopped a ( car accident, robbery, runaway dog- ) he smiled for ( pictures, videos, reporters- ), people rewarded him with ( churros, scarves, cards- ). None of it mattered. None of it was enough for a call.

Alejandro bought him an ice cream cake for Peter’s birthday. They sat in the break room as it melted onto the table. Peter quit the same day. He put on his mask and forgot about Peter Parker. About parents and Skip and birthdays.

September

Almost instantly, he ran out of money. Nobody else wanted to hire an undocumented teenager. Most turned him away as soon as they saw his matted hair and stained shirts. He couldn’t buy groceries for the Camp anymore. They spoke about Spider-Man. Peter heard it on the rare occasion he returned to the tent. Marcy, the teenager who once asked Peter about his motive, told everybody that Spider-Man didn’t care. He got some money from Tony Stark and a new suit so the “street rats'' didn't matter anymore. After a while, the Camp stopped hoping Spider-Man would show up.

He was back to relying on scraps. Once a week, he’d sit on the corner of Time Square. The tourists, the people who hadn’t lost their faith in humanity yet, would slide him a few dollars here and there. Just enough to keep him from starving. It bought him a Gatorade and a protein bar on the better weeks. On the worse ones, he managed with a pack of gum.

The inner voice was his only companion at this point. It was cruel and sick. 

You disappointed Mr. Stark. He never cared. You were a tool. You destroy, Peter Parker. You hurt anything you try to help. You hurt the Camp. You drove Ned away and killed your parents. Skip broke because of you. And now you have the gall to feel hungry? To get tired of the punishment you built for yourself? Mr. Stark’s suit is the only good part of you, and even that isn’t enough to make up for you .

Sometimes the words didn’t make sense. Other times, they cut him to his heart. He listened anyway. It was almost comforting. The inner voice cared enough to still get mad. 

Happy, who had enough energy to be mad at the sun, didn’t even care anymore. When his voicemail box got full, he didn’t angrily text Peter to “stop before I block you”. It would just get emptied and the new messages ignored. 

Winter was coming. The summer heat was slowly dipping into frosty autumn air. People at the Camp were taking down their tent to move somewhere warmer for a while. Somewhere safer. There wasn’t enough money for a decent meal, let alone to rent a motel on the colder nights. Skip once said that spiders didn’t adjust well to the cold. Peter couldn’t argue with that theory when his fingertips always felt like ice. 

Mr. Delmar was behind the counter. Even if there wasn’t enough money to actually buy anything, Spider-Man still walked into the bodega every so often. Peter tried to rationalize it. It had A/C and Mr. Mittens. But he knew that it was just nice to talk to somebody. Someone who didn’t live inside his head.

“You’re skinny, Spider-Man.” He said, throwing a few slices of salami onto his grill. The smell taunted Peter. “I had hoped that you discovered Taco Bell when you stopped stockpiling all those cans.”

“I never really liked Taco Bell,” Peter chuckled, leaning against the counter. His feet were sore from walking around all afternoon. It had been slow, but one of the nicer days. Helped a lost little girl, took a picture with an older man. “It always tastes like weed.”

“And you’re complaining?” Mr. Delmar grinned cheekily, topping the pile of meat with provolone.

“Hey, I’m a law-abiding citizen!”

“Sure, sure. You like mustard?”

“Uh, yeah?” Peter cocked his head at the sudden turn of the conversation.

“I’ve never seen Queens so safe . And I lived here in the sixties! Back when we all preached ‘peace, not war’.” Mr. Delmar plopped a finished sandwich on the counter in front of him, mustard dripping out of the sides. Peter watched the man, who didn’t even acknowledge the act. “You’re doing good work, kid. Treat yourself like it.”

“Oh, Mr. Delmar,” Peter glanced between the sandwich and the owner of the bodega. “I, uh, don’t have my wallet on me.”

“None of that,” Mr. Delmar pushed the wrapper forward impatiently. “It’s a gift. Happy Hanukkah or something.”

 Peter’s heart bumped unevenly. This was the most food he’d seen in weeks. And it was free at that. “Thanks, man. This is so cool of you.”

“Only the best for our ‘ friendly neighborhood Spider-Man’ .” Mr. Delmar put air quotes around Peter’s promise. From what he heard, it had become his catchphrase online. “Just keep doing whatever you’re doing.”

Peter found his favorite roof. It was on top of an apartment building. There was a chair and lights for recreation, but none of the tenants even knew it existed. Just the night before he’d taken a power nap on the chair. The bare minimum to keep him from passing out on the street. 

Carefully, Peter settled onto the ground with his sandwich. The world felt too bright, too loud without his mask. It had been about three days since he took it off. Or was it four? Keeping track was getting harder. 

The sandwich had gotten slightly squashed from all the swinging, but it was still heavenly. He forced himself to take small bites, to savor it. The bread, the meat, the cheese . How Peter had missed cheese. 

Save it. You don’t know when you’ll eat next , the inner voice begged Peter. It did the same thing every time Peter ate. It was completely irrational. He had to eat now so he’d survive to eat later . Not to mention that a sub like this wouldn’t even be good for more than a few hours. Yet…

He takes the heel of the sandwich and sets it back into the wrapper. 

The sun was beginning to sink over the buildings. Automatically, Peter snatched the flip phone from his backpack’s pocket. 

No messages. When were there ever messages, though?

He jabbed the number one on the keypad. Happy’s number was on the speed dial.

The boy didn’t even need to listen as it rang. He just set it, on speaker, on the chair in front of him. It rang once , twice , six times.

Then, “Please leave your message for ‘ Happy Hogan ’ at the tone.”

“Hey, Happy. How are you doing? Hope you’re not dead.” Peter chatted, trying to make his voice as chipper as ever. The inner voice threatened to leak into his tone. “This is, uh, update eighty-six. I stopped a car thief today,” –Well, almost. The poor woman had just been trying to get into her car, which she accidentally locked. Peter learned how to pick a car’s lock– “And helped this kid find her way home. She chased the ice cream truck too far. Uh, what else. Oh! Mr. Delmar, he owns a bodega, said that Queens was safer than ever. Because of me . Wait, I didn’t say who this is. It’s Spider-Man…. From Germany. Or the other eighty-six messages, I guess. Hope to hear back from you. Bye.”

Peter had to force himself to snap the phone shut. The good mood he had been compiling all day drained in an instant. That update wouldn’t get Happy to call back. If anything, it would make him finally press the ‘block’ button. Nothing he did during his patrol had been enough. He was a disappointment. You don’t deserve to even have the phone. Stop calling Happy. Stop patrolling. Just lay down and rot as you deserve. 

“Nice to see you, too.” Peter sighed at the voice, shoving the phone back into his bag.

It had been hours. According to the small display screen on Peter’s phone, it was just past midnight. There hadn’t been anything. No drug deals or muggings. Not even a stray cat, which Peter just might help at this point. A quiet night. His worst nightmare.

Peter clung to the side of Mr. Delmar’s bodega, eyes drooping. Mr. Delmar had closed shop for the night a while ago. Peter could hear the man ruffling through the back room, taking inventory. It felt comforting to be around. Like it would make the feeling of food in his stomach last, the feeling of heat on his skin. 

Right when Peter’s body was threatening to fall asleep, the hair on his neck jumped to attention. Adrenaline pinched in his side and his eyes snapped open. Immediately, he dropped to the street below. There were voices coming from the alley down the street. Low and quick. Peter could barely pick up the keywords. “Get away car” , “bank’s back door" , “grab it and bag it” . 

“Finally, something good.” Peter ducked into the alley beside the bodega, webbing his backpack to the wall. “Something to tell Happy.”

It won’t matter. One win won’t make up for your hundreds of mess-ups . 

Peter elected to ignore that. 

He hurried to the bank across the street, slipping into the door they already broke open. They didn’t notice at all as he hovered in the doorway.

It should be an easy deal. He had stopped gas station robbers before. Most of which were armed. Sure, he had never seen so many people in one cash grab. But, if he leaned into his Peter Tingle, it would work out. 

There weren’t any guns visible. One guy, clearly the leader from how he directed, had something metal in his hands. It was huge and purple and probably high-tech. Totally harmless , Peter thought sarcastically. Why did they have something like that? These were amateurs. They were wearing plastic masks!

But that was definitely a killer weapon. With the click of a button, the Hulk -Mask leader lasered the freaking ATM from the wall. Another click and it yanked it from the wall. It was just like the Gravity Gun from Portal . 

“Forget your pin number?” He asked before Thor -Mask could start shoving the ATM cash into his duffle bag. 

They all jumped, glaring toward the doorway. No response. Okay, Peter could get creative with this. 

“Woah, the Avengers?” He faske gasped. Iron-Man -Mask stepped up, aiming another weapon at Peter. “It’s Spider-Man, remember me from Germany?”

Nope, too close to home. Banter would have to wait. The hair on Peter’s neck rose as Iron-Man -Mask moved to shoot his weapon. Peter’s fingers tapped his web shooters, jamming the chamber. With a tug on his arm, the gun spun across the room, hitting the rest of the robbers in their masks. 

It was going just fine, as Peter guessed it would. The Peter Tingle took over, jumping away from hits and throwing in a few. He would be done in ten minutes, tops . 

Or, he should have. If Captain America -Mask didn’t use his Gravity Gun on Peter . 

“This feels really weird.” He grunted. There wasn’t anything actually there, but the light squeezed Peter. Cap- Mask twists the machine and throws Peter into the walls. Loose hundred-dollar bills twisted around like a high-budget Chuck-E-Cheese token shower. “Woah, what the hell was that?”

“Don’t waste the core’s power!” Hulk -Mask yells, shoving wads of cash into the bag while Spider-Man was distracted. 

Cap -Mask scoffed, turning his head. “It’s Chitauri energy, not an iPhone . The energy basically infinite.”

“Excuse me, sorry to interrupt.” Peter groaned, pushing his weight off the floor. He would feel that one in the morning. “Are you talking about the alien Chitauri?”

Hulk -Mask activates the Chitauri alien weapon – which is ironically the coolest thing? – and slams Peter around some more. He needed the weapon away. These were definitely amateurs. They obviously didn’t know enough about the Gravity Gun, or they wouldn’t be arguing about its power source. This was bad. Well, alien weapons were bad pretty much all the time. But one with an actual energy core in the hands of the plastic Avengers? Really freaking bad. 

Even worse when Hulk- Mask jabs the button, shifting the power back to the lasers. Pointed directly to Peter’s chest. 

“That’s not cool, man!” He shouts, raising his hands. The robber doesn’t listen, he pulls a lever. The four prongs of the weapon power up, a perfect purple light building between them. Right before it can turn Peter into a fried kebab, he ducks and rolls. 

It slices the air above his head. 

Through the front doors. 

Right through Mr. Delmar’s building . 

There is no question or moment of hesitation. Peter abandons the bank, barely registering the plastic Avengers escaping through the back door with their duffel bags of cash. Mr. Delmar’s is on fire.

Using a web, he swings right through the shattered windows. He can’t hear a heartbeat. Where the hell is Mr. Delmar’s heartbeat? There’s sizzling as the fire devours the walls. The inventory blazes. Where is Mr. Delmar ?

Then, there’s coughing. It was the most beautiful sound Peter had ever heard. Coming from the stock room. 

Peter’s nose was burning from the smoke, eyes watering from the fumes. His fist slammed on the door to the stock room, splintering the wood easily. On the other side was Mr. Delmar, gripping Mr. Mittens as if he were a lifeboat. He jumped when Spider-Man broke in, squeezing against the shelves. 

Peter chokes out a sigh of relief. He all but dragged Mr. Delmar from the collapsing building. It wasn’t until they were safely on the sidewalk across the street that he let go. 

“Oh, my god, Mr. Delmar. Are you okay?” Peter asked, pressing his hand into his temples.

“All things considered,” He wheezed, staring at the smoldering building. “I’m okay. Alive.”

“Good. Alive is good.” 

“Don’t worry about me, go get those criminals. I called the police already.” Mr. Delmar assures Peter, holding Mr. Mittens to his face. 

“Right, right . The criminals,” Peter shook his head, glancing toward the bank. His head wasn’t moving fast enough. It felt like he was having a heart attack. Those could be caused by stress, yeah? Could his healing powers even prevent heart attacks?

His feet were moving, he realized. How had he already gotten two blocks away? The criminals were long gone, he knew that. He needed to get away, though. Something pounded on his back. His backpack was suddenly slung across his shoulder. Another blink and he was on a roof. 

Something was wrong. He couldn’t pay attention. He didn’t know where he was going. His heart . Was he dying? He couldn’t die. Was he?

“Happy,” Peter staggers on the roof. His hand reaches for the phone. The fabric of his backpack rips. It doesn’t matter. He pulls out the phone and jams the speed dial. It rings. Voicemail. “Happy, Happy? Oh, my god. Happy there were masks and, uh, the Chitauri? They blew Mr. Delmar’s up. They blew it up . I don’t know what to do. They got away. I should have gone after them. I don’t know. I can’t breathe? Happy I can’t go to the hospital. I-”

The phone crumbled in his grip. All that was left when he looked down were wires and broken plastic. He was squeezing too tight, he realized. It didn’t matter. His feet were moving again. 

There was a fire escape under him. He was right in front of a window. Beyond the window was the sound of snoring, muttering. It took Peter three minutes to understand that it was somebody sleeping. Another twelve to calm down enough to know why he recognized the room beyond the window. It was around the same time he realized the snoring had stopped. 

“ Spider-Man ?”

Chapter Text

This was wrong. And yet, Peter finally felt right .

“Ned?” Peter whispered, looking at his old friend. 

Ned peered into the darkness, his eyes trying to adjust to being awake again. He was wearing Lego Movie pajamas, wrinkled from a deep sleep. “You know me?”

Peter’s heart was steadying. His breathing was slowing, though it was still too loud for comfort.

“Um, no?” Peter lied. 

“ Woah ,” Ned gasped, already jumping to a new topic. “Are you looking for a guy in the chair?”

“What?”

“Y’know, there’s always a guy. With a headset that, like, tells the hero where to go and what to do? I can be that. This one time I totally got into my school’s server and changed my A minus to an A plus. Wait, why did I tell Spider-Man that?”

“No,” Peter wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. Ned was standing right in front of him. “No, I don’t think I need a guy in the chair.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I… don’t know.”

“Maybe your powers were leading you to me!”

Peter did laugh this time. “Yeah maybe, man.” 

“I have so many questions. Like how you found me. But, oh my god . Are you an Avenger? I saw this video of you! From Germany with Captain America and everything.”

Peter flinches. So everybody knew about Germany. And yet here Peter was. Sneaking around Queens like a criminal while half of the Avengers were camping out in New York. An hour away. No, a phone call away. 

There was something in Peter’s eyes. He kept blinking to get it out, almost panicking at the sensation. But then he felt moisture on his cheeks. Tears. It had been months since he cried. 

“Mister Spider, sir?” Ned was speaking again. There was a reason the two had become friends. Neither of them could shut up . “Are you good?”

The inner voice spoke before Peter could. “No, definitely not.”

“Want to… talk about it?” Ned sounded unsure. He had every right to be. Ned was talking to a complete stranger that showed up at his window in the middle of the night. All things considered, Ned was taking it like a champ. 

Peter takes a deep breath and looks down at his hands. He was so tired . Of hiding and being alone. And he blew up a freaking building. Blacked out, which he still needed to figure out. If Ned was so understanding for a stranger…

"Ned, I'm not Spider-Man," Peter admits, his voice shaking slightly. 

“Well, your cosplay budget must be insane, because you just scaled a seven-story building.” Ned smiled hesitantly. 

“No, that’s not-” Peter laughed, shaking his head. “I am Spider-Man, but I have a face. Under the mask.”

Ned’s eyes widened in anticipation. At the thought of under the mask . The anticipation should scare Peter. He knew Ned hated him. Ned should hate him, after everything that happened in May. It was the only thing that had kept him away from this exact situation for months. Peter couldn’t lie to himself. He had imagined coming here thousands of times. 

Parker Luck will be the death of us all. The inner voice reminded him every time he thought about it. He hurt Ned. He was bound to keep hurting Ned, especially if his over-eager friend knew anything that happened. When people cared, they got hurt. 

But , Peter argued now. Nobody cares and things still got messed up . 

Mr. Stark didn’t care, Happy didn’t care. And he still managed to screw everything up. The robbers got away and Mr. Delmar caught on fire and the phone was crushed.

Peter was going down, and he was taking everybody with him. Might as well get one good thing out of it. Couldn’t whatever was above grant him one good thing ?

So Peter takes off the mask. 

Ned went completely frozen, staring at the hero. A roll of nausea washes over Peter. What was he doing? This was wrong. So what if Peter wanted a friend right now? That didn’t just erase their fight from May. What if Ned didn’t want to know who was under the mask?

“Peter?” Ned gasped, the end of his sentence raising as if it were a question. 

“Yeah, it’s me.” Or, close enough to the Peter that Ned used to know. His hair was pooling past his jaw again, the curls spraying in uneven ways. Not to mention that he had somehow shrunk. His civilian clothes didn’t quite fit him anymore. Though, that shouldn’t be obvious through his suit, right? 

Yet, Ned sat staring at Peter. No words, no movement. Perhaps he was plotting how best to punch the superhero. Or maybe he was going over the last time they saw each other, in which Peter shoved Ned into the lockers. 

“I’m so sorry, man. I know I shouldn’t be here, but-”

Peter’s words finally brought Ned back to reality. He shook his head violently, staring into the darkness again. His eyes were glassy. One foot scooted forward. Then the next. And in a rush, Ned charged toward Peter. It would have been easy to dodge the oncoming attack, but Peter stayed still. He would give Ned this.

The pressure Peter felt wasn’t from a punch, though. Instead, it was arms wrapping firmly around his shoulders. Soft sniffling. 

A hug. 

“You’re alive,” Ned whimpered, squeezing Peter tightly. “Not that I thought you were dead. But you’re here . I was scared you were, like, in jail or something. Dude. You’re Spider-Man ?”

Ned pulled back, releasing his friend. The tears in his eyes turned to curiosity. He shoved a hand through his hair, pacing across his room. 

“What happened? Did you know that your phone was shut off? I called you a billion times. Flash said it was because you were in jail. Everyone believed him, though why anyone listens to him stumps me. I even got past the Juvenile Detention Center’s firewall to show them there weren’t any records of you. Everyone saw you run from the cops back in May, though.” Ned paused, turning back to Peter, who was still frozen on the windowsill. “Dude, where did you go ? Are you living at the Avengers Towers? I can not believe you’re Spider-Man. Why didn’t you tell me? I could have been your sidekick. Did I… Did I do something?”

Peter pressed his hands into his face. “God, this is so wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” Ned whispered. 

That was Peter’s tipping point. 

He snorted, trying to force casualness. But it wasn’t right. So he tested out a chuckle. Which quickly turned into hysterical laughter. The kind that was so aggressive, he couldn’t breathe. Could barely see through the tears in his eyes. Somewhere along the way, there wasn’t really a strict start or end, it morphed into a sob. 

“Peter? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up-”

“No, stop apologizing.” Peter managed to gasp, pressing a hand to his chest. “ I’m so sorry, Ned. You didn’t do anything. It wasn’t you. Everything has gone wrong in the past year. But you didn’t cause any of them.”

“Where did you go?”

“I’m still in Queens. Just… not usually as Peter.”

“ Spider-Man ,” Ned said, testing out the name. “I totally get wanting to focus on that. It’s the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me and you’re just sitting on my fire escape. But I could have helped out, man. Did you have to disappear?”

Maybe Peter had finally gone crazy. The entire night was pressing into his lungs as if it meant to suffocate him. Happy’s voicemail box. The bank robbery, the Chitauri death ray, Mr. Delmar’s. The panic-inducing episode from earlier, the one that led him to this window. Maybe Peter Parker was finally coming to the surface, after so long of being Spider-Man. And Peter just wanted to talk to his best friend about everything . 

So he did. He told Ned everything. 

His parents and the melted ice cream. Skip and spiders and experiments. Running away. MJ. Thai Alleyways and how the Camp smells after it rains. How he rolled with the Avengers . Told him about Mr. Stark’s movie night and Happy’s voicemail box. Spider-Man. Ned loved that part. 

As much as he wanted to, to finally get it off his chest, Peter didn’t tell him about the way his door used to open at night. How Skip’s breath smelt like coffee and skin felt like sandpaper. He wanted to. He did try. Tried to tell Ned about the inner voice and how he couldn’t even look in the mirror. Instead, his throat would fuse shut. Closed until he skipped past it. 

When he was finally done with his story, Peter was panting. It was like he had lifted a building off of his shoulders. He didn’t need to carry it like armor anymore. Not sitting here, in front of his best friend. Here, he was just Peter. Something he had been fighting for a year, but right now it felt like a blessing.

“Dude,” Ned paused, mulling his words carefully. “You just lived through your origin story .”

“What?”
Ned stretched his arms, snatching something from his desk. It read, ‘ Harley Quinn: Origin ’. “Every good superhero has an origin story. Like Harley Quinn! She was Harleen Quinzel, a criminal therapist. But she ended up falling in love with the Joker. He poisoned her, so they could escape together, and boom. Harley Quinn was born.”

“Harley Quinn was a villain,” Peter frowned, trying to picture himself on the cover of a comic book. His story wasn’t some fantastic ‘underdog’ tale. It was a series of unfortunate mistakes. 

“Matter of opinion,” Ned shrugged, grinning. “I like to think she’s a misunderstood victim. That’s not the point, though. You just became a hero, Peter.”

“I slammed you into your locker.”

“Yeah, you did. But I get it now.”

“You should hate me.”

“I already got that out of my system.” Ned rolled his eyes. “After you disappeared, I was beyond upset. MJ told me some cryptid crap about how ‘hate only stems from love’. We’ve actually been hanging out a lot lately. Anyway, I think she was right. I was only so upset because I was so worried.”

“Even after everything I told you?”

“Man, superhero puberty is the most valid excuse to freak out. Not that you even did anything super horrible, but I doubt you’re in the place to receive that right now.” He said the last part as if he had memorized it. It sounded like the kind of thing MJ would say. Peter smiled. 

“I missed you, Ned.”

“Me too, man I had to start my sophomore year without you.”

“I’m sorry.” Peter shook his head. “I couldn’t go back to school…”

“No, I get it. Everything makes so much more sense, now.” Ned leaned back. “ Superpowers ! You’re, like, fifty percent Captain America now.”

“Fifty percent super soldier, fifty percent spider. One hundred percent Parker Luck.”

“You have actual powers and yet you’re still worried about what Flash Thompson thinks.” Ned chuckles. “That’s such a Peter thing to do.”

“I don’t know if I should be offended.”

“You should, it’s an insult.” Ned winks. “Now, get off that damn fire escape. I’ll pull out the trundle and score us some food.” 

“What about your mom?”

Ned shrugged. “It’s a Saturday. I’m not usually awake until noon at the earliest.”

Huh, it was Saturday. Peter had completely lost track of the days. As Ned disappeared into the hallway, Peter squeezed through the window. It was so warm in here. Sitting on the hardwood floor, it felt like old times. Camping on Ned’s floor while the two talked about superheroes. Though, it used to be the fictional genre. 

Ned crept back in, trying to be stealthy. Peter heard every movement he made through the small apartment. But, he also heard that Mrs. Leeds stayed firmly asleep the entire time. 

In Ned’s arms, he had the couch pillows, his backpack, and an entire box of S’More Pop-Tarts . Peter thought he would cry again, looking at the magical box. Ned dumped his score on the floor before pulling his dresser drawers open. From it, he produced a pair of Hulk pajamas. 

“Here, you can borrow these.” Ned dropped them in front of Peter. “That suit can’t be comfortable. What am I saying? Tony freaking Stark designed it. It’s probably the most comfortable thing in the world-”

“Thank you,” Peter interrupted, hugging the pajamas to his chest. They smelt like Ned. The closest thing to a home he had felt in a year. “Really, Ned. Thank you for… existing?”

“Of course. It’s what I do best.”

The rest of the night was a mess of scattered conversation and overwhelming exhaustion. Ned watched Peter carefully as if he might disappear again. Maybe he would have if he had the time to listen to his inner voice. Instead, he focused on the present. He was alive. Ned was here. 

Ned forced the entire box of Pop-Tarts into Peter’s hands. He didn’t complain. Instead, Peter opened the silver packaging and ate. When Ned was drifting, he hid the rest of the Pop-Tarts in his backpack. The front pocket was torn from his meltdown. His toiletry kit, brush, and baby wipes were gone. Fallen out at some point between the rooftop and here. But, in his main pocket, he still had the essentials. His only pair of civilian clothes, his wallet. A growing pile of half-eaten granola bars and newly acquired sandwich heel. The inner voice liked that. It was safe. Like Peter was in control of one thing in this world. 

“Peter,” Ned mumbled. Peter didn’t need his enhanced senses to know that Ned was about to fall asleep. 

“Yeah, Ned?”

“Do you lay eggs?”

Ned was truly a gift straight from the Gods.

Chapter Text

It was dark and cold. Peter hated this room. This room was where bad things happened. Where bad people stayed. Yet, this was where he sat. The wall behind him was too loud. The spiders fought against their vivariums, hissing at each other. At Peter. The sink in front of him dripped slowly, one drop after another. 

He was working quickly, mixing chemicals. What he was mixing was a mystery. But it was important. That much was obvious. His shoulders ached from slouching in front of the workbench for so long. Eyes were dry from staring at it. Yet he mixed, mixed, mixed…

Somebody was there with him. They were crying. Why were they crying? Peter’s eyes couldn’t leave the mixture for long enough to figure out why. All he saw were the faces. 

Alejandro, ice cream in his hands and a birthday song on his lips. MJ, a face of pure disappointment. His parents, brain waves stopped. Happy, Ned, Mr. Delmar. Every time he saw a new face, an entire wave of guilt slammed into him. He didn’t mean to hurt them. Had he hurt them? Of course, he had. They got too close to Peter Parker, they had to have been hurt…

The mixture was done. 

His legs felt weak and hollow as he rose. The mixture wasn’t in a beaker anymore. It was a spider. Prototype forty-two. And the person wasn’t crying. They were on the dissection table, zip-ties wrapped tightly around their wrists. Ankles. 

Peter stared down to find his own face, miserable and scared. The younger Peter thrashed against the zip ties, but he wasn’t strong enough. Not yet. He wasn’t worth anything. 

The spider crawled from Peter’s hand, right onto the younger boy’s neck. It bit down. Died. The other Peter screamed.

When Peter looked up, he saw his reflection. The face that stared back wasn’t the older, colder version of the scared boy. No brown eyes or curly hair. Instead, there were bags under his eyes and stubble on his chin. The smell of formaldehyde and tight hugs.

Skip’s face looked through the mirror, twisted in horror.

Peter jolted upright, heart pounding in his ears. Why was he sleeping? There was a reason he avoided sleep. This exact reason. Dreams were never good. It was when the inner voice got to play. Sleep times were allocated to thirty-minute power naps at most. 

Actually, there were a few things wrong with the scene before Peter. 

First was the feeling when he woke up. Sleep brought exhaustion and hunger. But, this morning, neither was present. Peter almost felt energized . His stomach wasn’t grumbling, his eyes weren’t drooping. The cold wasn’t biting into his skin, turning his fingertips icy. Instead, he felt warm. Cozy. 

That brought up the second red flag. The ground beneath him wasn’t hard or rough. It was perfectly comfortable. He was on a mattress . Blankets pooled around his shoulders. At least four of them. And his suit wasn’t to be found. Instead, there were fuzzy, green pants and a Midtown gym shirt. 

And lastly, there was a second set of breathing in the room. Another heartbeat. A familiar one. 

“Hey, you’re still here.” Ned yawned, sitting up as well. Without thinking, he slid off his bed onto the trundle, right beside Peter. “I was worried you were going to bolt when I fell asleep.”

Ned. Ned . Of all the cruddy things that happened the night before, Peter couldn’t bring himself to regret this one. Ned was here. With Peter. As selfish as it was, Peter was grateful. “And deprive you of your superhero dream? Never.”

“Good,” Ned grinned, stretching his arms in front of him. “Because I want to play superhero today.”

“What do you have in mind?” 

“Well, we have to figure out where the Plastic Avengers got their goodies.” Ned mused as if this were the most normal thing. “Plus, I want to poke around your suit. Like, oh my god ? You own a Tony Stark custom.”

“I’m not sure, man. I don’t want to risk you-”

“Nope, nuh-uh.” Ned wagged his finger. “You owe me this one, Parker. For the hours of therapy I had to go through.”

“ Hours ?”

“Okay, technically it was fifteen minutes with the guidance counselor. Not the point.”

“What is?”

“Let me be your guy in the chair. Please! I have the skills to pay the metaphorical bills. You need me to track down the Plastic Avengers.”

Ned wasn’t wrong. Peter had completely dropped the ball on the bank robbery last night. Things spiraled out of control so quickly. He had to admit it would have been nice if somebody had been there to back him up. Keep him grounded and track down the runaway Avengers. Peter had thought that, in the case of something that important, it would have been Iron Man. That dream was beginning to dissolve. 

Could he keep Ned safe? If he stayed the “guy in the chair, dozens of miles away from the action”, could Peter give Ned this? 

“Okay, we can try this out,” Peter said slowly. “ But , you need to listen to me. To keep both of us safe.”

“Yeah, of course. Man, I can’t wait to tell Flash about this, he’s going to be so jealous.”

“Nobody can know about this, Ned. That’s the point of a secret identity.”

“But-”

“Not even Mr. Stark knows about me,” Peter admitted. “And it needs to stay that way if I want to keep being Spider-Man.”

“Ugh, fine.” Ned pouted. “What’s the plan?”

“If we’re going to track, we have to get out of your apartment.”

“Somewhere with Wi-Fi. I can’t work without it.”

Peter searched his memory for a good home base. “What about that internet cafe? On Lincoln Street?”

“The one with the cats or the one with the quesadillas?”

“Quesadillas.” 

“Cool. I’ll tell my mom that MJ and I are meeting up for a project. You can sneak back out my window, right?”

“I’m Spider-Man ,” Peter grinned. “I can manage a fire escape.”

“I am never getting over that.”

It took twenty minutes for Peter to don his suit and sneak through the back window. Ned always had another question, another story to tell. Peter didn’t have the will to rush him. It was Ned, standing right in front of him. Peter would let him talk non-stop for hours if it made him happy. 

Small bubbles were covering the mask’s display. Peter didn’t recognize any of them. He didn’t know his suit had notifications. And he didn’t exactly have a manual to figure out how to dismiss them. He’d have Ned look at that when he was messing around with the suit. 

It would only take Peter fifteen minutes to swing to the internet cafe. It would take Ned another hour at least to make his way there on foot. So, Peter found his favorite roof to regroup. 

Ned knew about Spider-Man. Some parts about Skip. The night before, he had completely blacked out. That was still something he needed to figure out. His phone was shattered. He couldn’t update Happy anymore. Just like Skip. The inner voice purred, bringing up the image of Peter’s reflection, marred by Skip’s features. Peter Parker and Skip Westcott, a perfect resemblance.

“Cool it,” Peter hissed to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You are not Westcott.”

But Peter wasn’t alone anymore. The hairs on Peter’s arms raise and the space around him clouds. His eyes dart to the further side of the roof, staring at nothing. A moment later, right where he was staring, Iron Man rose from the ledge. 

“Who’s Westcott? You got a sidekick, Spider-Man?” 

Peter jolted harshly, throwing his entire body against the wall behind him. It was a concentrated effort for him to keep his fingers off the web shooters on his wrists. Instead, he gaped at the figure in front of him. Iron-Man. Here, talking to Peter. The only thing that Peter had been dreaming of for months. His mind scattered quickly, leaving him only with a, “ What ?”

“Nice to see you, too.” Mr. Stark greeted blandly, the suit hovering just above the roof. “I gotta say, after your last message, I was expecting a dead body. Or at least a few broken bones.”

“ What ?” 

Peter wasn’t trying to be flippant by any means. Actually, he wished more than anything to say something fantastic to convince Mr. Stark to stay – Mr. Stark was here . But, genuinely, his brain couldn’t seem to understand the situation. The only thing that was registering was Skip . That name didn’t belong here. Coming from the Iron Man suit. 

“Your call for help last night?” Mr. Stark continued. “You gave Happy a heart attack with that one. He gets a message from you, talking about blown-up sandwich shops and you needing a hospital, then poof . Phone line disconnected, suit’s trackers powered off-”

“Trackers?” Peter’s heart thrums again. “You said you didn’t access the suit!”

“Uh, no. I think I explicitly said that I do access the suit. In emergencies. ” Mr. Stark’s voice was patient like he was explaining himself to a child. “When FRIDAY told me your heart rate spiked to one-sixty last night, I figured that's what it was. An emergency. But the second I send my suits out, your suit disappears. I couldn’t even check around to local hospitals because you don’t have a name. Not that I didn’t try sending out an APB for a hyperactive kid with trust issues and a million-dollar suit.”

Mr. Stark put out an APB for him. The thought might have been endearing if it wasn’t so terrifying. Was Skip still looking for Peter? ( Of course, he is, you’re his prized possession .) Can civilians access APBs? Could Skip put the pieces together? That the runaway boy was parallel to the spider-themed hero? How many extra eyes were looking out for Spider-Man, now? ( Everybody is watching. It’s just a matter of time until he sees. )

“What the hell, man?” Breathing. Peter needed to breathe. It came too quickly. “I told you not to look into me. I asked you to give me my privacy. You promised. Three months I’ve been calling and you finally break the silence to figure out my identity?”

“Woah, slow down. Excuse me? What happened to the kid who called eighty times telling me to ‘get in contact whenever’ ? I’m not poking around to figure out your precious identity. I was trying to make sure you didn’t die last night. No need to thank me.”

The patient tone had completely melted. The irony of the situation wasn’t wasted on Peter. He saw it. Just as Mr. Stark said, Peter had been begging for any contact from Happy. From Mr. Stark. And here it was. It didn’t matter what Ned said. Flash may be a bully, but this was pure evidence of Parker Luck. He got exactly what he wished for and everybody was worse off because of it.

So this wasn’t Mr. Stark’s fault. Peter felt somewhat guilty for his reaction. This was everything he wanted for so long. Mr. Stark hadn’t done anything to hurt Peter. He was just trying to be a decent human. How was he supposed to know that being nice to Peter was a crime against nature?

“No, no. You’re right. I’m sorry, man.” Peter whispered. His breathing still felt too quick, but it wasn’t as overwhelming as before. “You just caught me off guard. Last night just freaked me out a lot. With the weapons and blacking out…”

“Blacking out?”

“I don’t know. After the bank thing, my heart kicked up and it freaked me out. I was across town before I even realized I was moving. It was just… a bad night. Sorry.”

The suit stayed silent for a moment. Just hovering blankly. Then, Mr. Stark clears his throat. “Those happen to me sometimes. Do you… need to talk to somebody?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Peter waved away, wasting a fake smile behind his mask. “I ended up seeing a friend last night. That’s why I disconnected.”

“Your sidekick, right.” Mr. Stark chuckles.

“Skip is not my sidekick.” Peter had worn down his anger for this interaction. Instead, he was running on just bare annoyance. “But thanks for coming out here. It, uh, means a lot.”

“Oh, I’m not really here .” The face plate of the suit shifts, revealing an empty helmet. “I’m a genius inventor. Plus, Wi-Fi is pretty sweet. Sent a dozen of these suits out throughout the night to catch you. In reality, I’m sitting in front of the bank you tanked last night.”

Peter drags a hand down his face, sighing. “It was absurd, Mr. Stark! They had this gun thing, that messed with gravity but was also a taser? I don’t know how they got it, but it was powered by Chitauri energy. Like a magic gem or something. Space has magic, right? Anyway, they had the gun and it picked me up and blew up Mr. Delmar’s bodega-”

“Yeah, that’s what you said in your voicemail.” The faceplate snapped as it closed again. “There are people that handle this kind of thing, Spidey. Your job is to save old ladies from trees and help kittens cross the street.”

“That’s backward-”

“Not the point. Keep your nose clean. Like, the lost girl? Do more of that. Stay safe and shit. I’m looking into the robbery.”

“Wait, I can help, man. I can handle it.”

“Doesn’t mean you should.” The suit powered up once more, slowly inching away. “I’ve got this, kid. Spend your time thinking about… What’s going on in your life? Wife and kids? College? I’ve got some pull at MIT. Whatever, just call Happy if you need me.”

“Mr. Stark-”

“Walkie-Talkie procedure is no longer active.” A female voice calls through the suit. Instantaneously the suit blasts from the roof, toward whatever pursuits Mr. Stark so wishes to chase. 

“Great, fantastic . You sure convinced him you were a valuable asset tonight, huh Parker.” Peter sighed, shaking his head.

Chapter Text

"The Tech God has descended!" exclaimed Ned, channeling his inner Thor as he dropped his bookbag in front of Peter. Although the arrival was expected, Peter still gasped in amazement to play along with his friend's theatrics. 

"Praise be!" Peter responded with feigned reverence, trying to suppress a chuckle. "I humbly request your divine hacking expertise."

"Your wish is my command," Ned replied with a grin, unpacking his bag. It was reminiscent of Mary Poppins' bottomless bag, full of technological wonders. Ned began to unload his bag, revealing a laptop, a tangle of wires, and even a personal router. Peter breathed a sigh of relief that they had decided to meet at the internet cafe instead of a more public place like Starbucks; he couldn't imagine how conspicuous they would have looked with this elaborate setup. 

"So, where do we begin?" Peter asked, eager to get started.

"Brunch, obviously," Ned declared, producing the final items from his bag: two blue Tupperware containers and a Twix bar. "My mom thinks MJ and I are secretly dating. She keeps sending me with food to ‘woo’ her.”

Peter's brow furrowed. Were they dating? He missed so much in his friend's life recently. A girlfriend would be nice. Peter genuinely wanted Ned to be happy, right? So why did an unexplainable discomfort creep over him?

"Oh, well, that's... cool?" he managed to reply, trying to mask his unease.

Ned, meanwhile, had already seized Peter's bag and was admiring the red mask inside. "Free food is always a win," he quipped, grinning. "And MJ is even cooler than I thought she'd be."

That part didn’t shock Peter as much. The only time Peter had truly hung out with MJ, he was taken aback by how deep she was. She joined their table at school during their freshman year, speaking only to ensure their conversations were politically correct. The rest of the time, her nose was glued to a book. Peter had been much too distracted to truly appreciate her at the time. Their afternoon together, right before everything changed, opened his eyes. She had this bizarre wit. Deep and beautiful and dark. Everything about her was just undeniably cool.

The conversation between the two friends tapered off. Ned delved into his laptop, typing furiously. Peter, on the other hand, became fixated on the container of rice in front of him. It was a grand effort that kept him from stashing the rice. He knew he couldn't keep this food, it would rot. It would alarm Ned. It wasn’t his . Nonetheless, his inner voice plotted a dozen ways to slip it into his backpack without anyone noticing.o

Ned's work seemed to drag on forever, his attention completely consumed by the glowing white text on his screen as he pounded away at the keyboard. Before long, Peter had wolfed down his rice – not saving a single grain, thank you very much – and began to sift through one of the cafe's older computers. A relic of a different time, complete with a curved screen and clunky frame.

He tried searching for " where to find dangerous Chitauri weapons ," but Google was decidedly unhelpful. All that popped up was a fake Reddit story on r/AskReddit and an article about an upcoming LARP in Central Park. The search was a long shot, but Peter wanted to try anyway.

Undeterred, he switched gears and began researching the Chitauri Invasion. Wikipedia proved to be far more useful, gifting him a wealth of information about the Battle of New York, its lead-up, and its aftermath. As he read about the destruction and clean-up efforts, Ned suddenly erupted into a fit of giggles.

"What's so funny?" Peter asked, leaning over Ned's shoulder to try and catch a glimpse of what was on his screen. It didn’t make much sense. He had checked out of Freshman coding before they even started playing with Scratch.

"Nothing, nothing," Ned replied, trying to stifle his laughter. "Are you sure Mr. Stark doesn't know you're a kid?"

Peter bristled at the suggestion. "Of course, he doesn't," he retorted, although a nagging doubt crept into his mind. After all, Mr. Stark had access to his suit at all times. Trackers, med-scans, communications. Was it possible he already knew Peter’s big secret? That he was fourteen – no, Peter was fifteen now. Not the point. How much did Mr. Stark know? "What did you find? What is it?"

Ned's grin grew wider as he pointed at the screen. "It's called the 'Training Wheels Protocol,'" he explained. "It’s basically this wall that has a bunch of sub-systems locked behind it and a trigger sequence called ‘Emergency Contact’.”

Peter's eyes widened as he read through some of the keywords: tracker, baby monitor, and lullaby sequence . "Turn it off," he demanded, fighting the urge to pout like the child Mr. Stark thinks he is.

“Come on, man. It’s not that bad. I think Mr. Stark just wants to keep you safe.”

“No, he wants to keep me dependent.” Like Skip . Holding everything he could take away above his head, everything he could give unless Peter did exactly what he was supposed to . “He thinks I’m a dumb kid.”

“You’re not dumb, but you are a kid,” Ned said softly, glancing at Peter.

“I’m not,” Peter promised. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was promising Ned or himself. “Not anymore. A lot has happened, I know how to take care of myself.”

“That doesn’t mean you should.”

It wasn’t Ned who responded. It was a dark, slow voice. Peter was startled, falling off his chair. He wasn’t prepared for an ambush. He wasn’t in the suit, you’re nothing without the suit. Spider-Man was something, without it you’re just Peter Parker. Nothing .

Thankfully, it wasn’t an attacker behind them. At least, not a physical attack. 

MJ was stooped slightly over, peering over Ned’s shoulder. She wore a black flannel and white shirt, displaying Ruth Bader Ginsburg in a flower crown. Her hair was tossed into a bun, small curls falling out. 

Ned was the first to react. He slammed his laptop closed, sliding it so it was on top of the Spider-Man mask. Had she seen it? “MJ! Woah, you’re here. Right now. Why? Not that you’re not invited-”

“You’re supposed to be dead or in jail, Parker.” She cut Ned off, staring down at Peter. 

He tried to get off the floor in a casual manner, ultimately failing. “Uh, surprise?”

“Not really.” MJ continued, crossing her arms. “A surprise, that is. I knew that the cops wouldn’t nab you.” 

“Thanks for the confidence.” Peter glanced at Ned, who looked just as panicked. Though his panic seemed more directed at Peter’s reaction than MJ’s arrival. 

“How’d you find us?” Ned asked.

“Life360.” MJ said plainly, showing off her phone screen. On it was a small picture of Ned on a map.

“You guys share a Life360?” Were they dating? Something that grew between them to [ush them to share their location all the time?

“ Shit .” Ned groaned to himself, covering his face. “Yeah, we do. After you disappeared, I kind of got anxious. MJ thought I would feel better if we could check in on each other. I’m so sorry, man-”

“No, you’re so fine, Ned.” How could Peter possibly be upset? He was the reason Ned even wanted to share his location with MJ.

“Your Mom texted me, inviting me to dinner after we hung out today .” MJ eyed him suspiciously. “And you don’t exactly lie to your mom, so I thought you got kidnapped. That, or something interesting was going on.”

“My mom texts you?”

“Yes, mothers love me, Ned.” MJ raised an eyebrow, inviting him to challenge her. “I’m a very likable person.”

“That’s true. You’re basically a celebrity.” Ned grinned, exhaling as if the danger was over. 

“MJ, nobody can know about this.” Peter broke in, pleading. “I need to stay ‘missing’. For…”

“Yeah, I know.” MJ waved her hand dismissively. “I didn’t help you run from the cops back in May just to turn you in again.” 

“You helped him?” Ned gasped.

Peter laughed, trying to clear the pressure in his chest. “She told me about the escape window on the second floor.”

“I’m practically a hardcore criminal.” MJ shrugged, a small smile tugging on her lips. 

"Dude, today's been quite the eye-opener," Ned sighed, his voice laced with a mix of surprise and amusement. "Alright, Jones. If you're going to stalk me, I might as well put you to work."

"Stalk you? Nah, I prefer to call it 'carefully observing from a distance'," she replied with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "But whatever. Consider me your prisoner.”

Ned's face lit up with excitement. "Well, since you're so clearly good at tracking things down, you can help with Peter’s side of the project. It's a bit... unconventional."

“Is there anything conventional about Parker?”

Peter wanted to be offended by the remark. But the way she said it made it feel like a compliment. Peter wasn’t conventional. Yay?

MJ didn’t ask questions. And thankfully, Ned didn’t give any questions. They all just melded together, working on their own projects. Ned, now hiding the mask more carefully, worked to remove the tracker and disable the Training Wheels Protocol. Peter continued scouring the internet for something on the weapons. Whenever he got a small hit, he’d send MJ to investigate. She would dig up the smallest details that he’d never think of looking into. Had she not been on their side, it may have been a scary force to reckon with. 

In the end, they found three leads. The United States Department of Damage Control (owned by none other than Mr. Stark, of course), The Avengers (who are, you guessed it, owned by Mr. Stark after their treasonous crimes), and finally a man named Aaron Davis (the only person not connected to Mr. Stark). 

“The incident report says he was arrested for ‘suspicious behavior’.” MJ rolled her eyes, scanning through the paperwork on her screen. “I’ll bet you any money he was just a black guy existing in the public.”

“Yeah, fudge the twelve,” Ned said, grimacing. The other two slowly turned to face him. MJ fought a smile while Peter’s eyes widened. “What? That’s what people say on Tumblr!”

"The internet is always right, without a doubt," MJ nodded, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Ned chuckled, catching onto her dry humor effortlessly. "But on a serious note, he was released just a few hours later. He was working as a civilian aide for this illegal weapons ring bust. Went undercover and everything."

“Undercover bust?” Peter asked, peering at the paperwork. 

“Most of the details are blocked out for confidentiality,” MJ noted. “All I can tell is that he’s working to bust this illegal weapon ring.”

“Working?” Ned butts in, pausing his typing for a moment. “As in, present tense?”

“Most likely, yeah.” MJ leans into her chair, triumphantly. “Most people don’t know how to access public records, so I doubt they’ll pull him from the case. That would be more suspicious than being arrested overnight.”

Ned grinned, glancing over at Peter. Behind MJ’s back, he mouthed: “First mission!”. Peter rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help but smile. His first mission . He had busted isolated crimes over and over in the past six months. But this was the first time he did research. The first time he would go out looking for somebody specifically. 

MJ glanced back at the boys. There was an obvious curiosity burning in her eyes. Peter feared for a moment she would finally ask her questions. Instead, she pressed her lips together and powered down the computer. 

“This is a breakthrough.” She decided, standing up. “We deserve milkshakes for my back-breaking work.”

“Oh, my god, yes !” Ned cheered, slinging his arms around his friend’s shoulders. Across his chest, MJ and Peter glanced at each other. She didn’t fight a smile this time. It just happened, soft and small. Perfect.

Later that afternoon, while MJ ran inside a convenience store to grab some snacks, Ned handed Peter a small piece of metal. 

“The tracker, as you asked.” Ned glanced down at the small octagon of tech. “I still don’t think it's a great idea to ditch Mr. Stark’s safety protocols, though.” 

“I promise, I’m not just going rogue.” Peter flipped the piece as if it were a coin. Ned was obviously not assured. “I mean it. I just don’t want to worry Mr. Stark every time I blow up a bank.”

“Blowing up a bank is a thing to worry about.”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s not the best example.” Peter laughed, tossing the tracker again. The movement was intentional. A pigeon a few yards down was eying it. “But if I’m going to do this mission, I can’t risk Mr. Stark flying in and scaring the bad guys away.”

“You don’t think he’d just… help?”

“Maybe, but I got this.” The pigeon hopped forward. “I took down Captain America, I can handle a mission without a babysitter.”

“I feel like Captain might have gone a little easy on you. It’s off-brand for him to kill young heroes.”

“That’s true.” Peter conceded indignantly. “Nonetheless, I can handle myself.”

Finally, the pigeon took action. It swooped up from the sidewalk, rocketing straight toward the boys. Peter tossed up the tracker one last time as the bird passed. It easily snapped the tracker from the sky, escaping quickly. Peter snorted, watching it flap away. “Have fun tracking that bird, Mr. Stark.”

MJ comes back out with three bags of Takis and one of those disposable phones that all the villains in cheesy action movies use. The latter she pressed into Peter’s hands. 

“Your phone was powered off.” She says as if it were the most reasonable explanation.

“You texted me? After I disappeared?”

“Don’t get a big head.” MJ shrugged. “I was just curious about what happened.”

Her voice was just as nonchalant as she wanted it to be. But it was no use. Peter saw her lift her left shoulder slightly, sway her feet. Her tell, letting him in on the inner workings of her mind. She cared. It was a darling feeling. 

“Ay, ay, captain.” Peter kept up the banter, sending a finger salute her way. 

Ned’s phone buzzed loudly, breaking the peace. His face fell when he read the number. “It’s my mom.”

“Go on, golden child.” MJ urged him, socking him on the arm. “You can’t get grounded if we’re going to be doing this again.”

“Will we?” Ned asked hopefully. His eyes had a small shade of distrust. “You have a phone now. And you obviously know where I live. You’re not going to disappear again, right?”

Peter couldn’t find a reason to disagree. Even the inner voice couldn’t seem to argue right now. Then again, it was slightly appeased by the full stomach, full night of rest, and friends. Either way, there weren’t any reasons that could keep Peter from saying, “I promise. I’ll be here as long as you want me.”

“I’ll always want you,” Ned promised in return. 

“This is a scene straight from Twilight ,” MJ snorted. “Are one of you about to turn into a werewolf or what?”

“I would have never pegged you as a Twilight fan, MJ.” Ned quirked an eyebrow.

“I’m definitely not. Edward is a total creeper.”

“Nope! Can’t take it back now. You referenced the werewolves and they don’t even show up until the second book.” 

“I truly hope you trip over a knife.”

Ned cracked a grin. He gave both of them a hug – almost choking Peter out – before jogging away. Peter turned back to MJ. It felt wrong to end the day, with how perfect it was. But, time still moved for other people. And MJ’s (Mom? Dad? He truly knew nothing about her) were probably waiting. 

“Thanks,” He said, rubbing his elbow. “For helping out and not telling. Now and back in May. It means a lot.”

There was the shrug again. “It’s really nothing. The cops suck, so any bit of rebellion counts.”

“Of course. As Ned said, fudge the twelve .” Peter shook his head at the absurdity of it. “Well, I’ll see you… soon.”

“Forgetting something?”

Peter glanced down. He had his bag. His clothes. And now his chips and phone. What could he be forgetting? “No?”

“Most guys ask for a girl's number after making them an accomplice to unnamed crimes.”

Peter’s face went numb in a way he hadn’t felt in a while. It used to happen when Flash tripped him in front of the lunch room or his parents caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to do. Embarrassment . His ears felt red-hot to the touch. “Right, sorry!”

MJ grabbed the phone from his hands when he shakily offered it. Even though it was an older phone with a keypad, her fingers found the right buttons in record time. Then, she raised the phone at an odd angle to snap a picture of herself. When she handed the phone back, there was complete contact on the phone. 

“Text me or something.” She requested, turning on her heel. Right before she disappeared into the throngs of people, he noticed something jiggling off her purse. A small, shiny Thor keychain. The very one she had held hostage the Spring before. His fingers sent the promised text as he walked the other way. 

Tiger Parker 7:12 PM: i like your keychain

Chapter Text

The next morning, Peter didn’t suit up. The inner voice feared that any amount of people could be watching now. Not just MJ and Ned, but police and civilians. Mr. Stark’s APB hadn’t gone missing from his personal radar. Somebody , somewhere had been searching for Spider-Man at some point . It was such a vague search, but it was still out there. 

So he wandered through the streets in his black hoodie and the Hulk pajama pants he realized he never returned to Ned. It had been too long since he paraded through New York without his costume. He almost forgot how distrusting New Yorkers could be to strangers. Especially ones that looked half-dressed and homeless. 

He made it about four blocks with the disgusted glances and the growing paranoia that people were watching him before he escaped onto a city bus. His own fear cost him five bucks. His entire emergency budget for the next two weeks.

Winter was here. And the reappearance of Ned and MJ meant more time as a civilian. They were sure to notice the hollows on his cheeks sooner or later. Sure to notice his long hair and overall unkemptness . Maybe with a few spare bucks, he could hide it for longer. Hold off their good-intended but inevitable call for help. 

When the stop for the Camp came, he let it pass. Stayed on until it reached the brown pillars of Queens College. Students of all kinds littered the campus, relaxing on the green lawn or jogging up the steep steps. It seemed like a peaceful existence. 

He crossed the familiar paths, heading toward the shack of a building behind the main office. This route used to be so familiar. Though it felt strange, to see it in the afternoon light. 

The door to the break room was tilted open, a steady stream of smoke leaking out of it. Peter could hear the sound of the fuzzy television and insults being thrown around like they were just casual greetings from across the lawn. Even without advanced abilities, a few students glanced toward the door suspiciously. 

The two people inside boomed in laughter as Peter pushed the door open. Lupe wheezed on her cigar, turning to glance at Peter. Alejandro didn’t quite turn around. Thank god he was here. Peter didn’t even think about what he’d do if Alejandro wasn’t here. He was a morning shift person, usually. 

“Ah, little Peter!” Lupe cheered, grinning. She had worked with Peter a few times over the summer. Picking up extra shifts to kill time. Super sweet, kind of vexatious. Overall good company. “Back from school, are you?”

“God, I wish.” Peter smiled, leaning against the doorframe. At the sound of his voice, Alejandro turned around. “Hey there, boss.”

“Nice to see you, bribón. You here for a smoke?” Alejandro’s face didn’t look as disappointed as Peter thought it might. But it also wasn’t as warm as he remembered. 

“No, uh, thank you though.”

Alejandro took a long drag from his own cigarette, gaze fixed on Peter. After a moment of silence, he exhaled slowly, smoke swirling in the air. He nodded sternly, inviting Peter to speak again. 

“I wanted to apologize.” Peter began. “For disappearing like I did. It’s a bad habit I have. Whenever things get too real, I just go . I’m not sure if a two weeks notice would have been better or not, but that's beside the point. What matters is that I made a mistake. I'm sorry for quitting in such an uncool way.”

Alejandro stubbed out his cigarette, tilting in his chair so he was facing Peter. “You could have just told me you didn’t like the cake.”

Peter laughed, shaking his head. “You’re right. It kind of just hit me out of the blue. I don’t have great memories of my birthday, so…” He shrugged. Just because he was open didn’t mean he had to be vulnerable. 

The room fell into a brief silence, broken only by the distant sound of the TV. Alejandro's gaze softened, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. There was a hint of understanding in his eyes as he spoke.

“You’ve always been too bitter for your age.” He shook his head. “So much sadness in such young eyes.”

“Well, I guess life doesn’t discriminate.”

“It’s too bad. You’re one of the good ones.” Lupe interjected, smiling loopily. “Weird, but good.”

“ Ay , be nice,” Alejandro commanded playfully before turning his attention back to Peter. "Things are looking up now, huh? You're making amends?"

Peter nodded, a glimmer of hope in his chest. "Yeah, that's the idea. I want to make things right, and I’d love to come back if you’ll have me."

Alejandro leaned back in his chair, contemplating Peter's words. His expression remained serious as he responded, “No.”

Peter could hear his heartbeat in his ears. Lupe gasped, covering her mouth. “Alejo, don’t be a brat!”

“I’m not,” He watched Peter, his face genuine. “I mean it. I'm not doing this to play games with you.”

“Why, then?” Peter couldn’t help but ask. 

“Because I’ve never seen you genuinely smile before.” Alejandro chuckled. “You’re a good kid, I meant it. You have potential, and I don't want to see it go to waste in this shithole."

“I’m not, I promise, I just-”

“I’ve made up my mind. Go smell the roses and enjoy your youth. Whatever a responsible adult is supposed to say.” Alejandro stood, reaching his hand for Peter to shake it. Peter hesitated for a moment, weariness bearing on his hope. He met Alejandro's outstretched hand. His fingers didn’t touch Alejandro’s skin as he worried it might. Instead, it connected with paper. Confusion washed over Peter until he realized what it was.

A check.

For six hundred dollars . The tiny “notes” line told him this was his last paycheck, saved from months ago. When he tried to abandon everything about his civilian life, he neglected to pick it up after he quit. 

As Peter looked up to thank Alejandro, he noticed that his boss had already returned to his seat, attention focused on the television once again. He was done with the conversation, a smug smile on his lips.

"Remember, Peter, I'm here if you ever need a smoke.”

His tent was long-collapsed when he returned to the Camp. It had been an uncomfortable amount of time since he had checked on the makeshift home. The population underneath the bridge had shrunk again.

“They’re going to the new F.E.A.S.T place,” Angelica said when he asked. She was smaller than before. Even the baby shirts she swore by looked too big. “Shawn, my ex-husband, keeps telling me to go. Says it’d be nicer.” Then she snorted. “As if. The shelters are all the same wastelands. There’ll never be enough resources.”

Peter propped his tent back up, ruffling through the inside. A blanket was gone and an entire stack of coupons. They left his sleeping bag, though. 

He used it, wrapping himself up to fight off the cold. His mind couldn’t quite fall asleep, so he shot a text to Ned. 

Petey (11:08 PM): hows your weeknd going?

Neddie (11:12 PM): ejkhbfvwk prolly boring compared to yours

Petey (11:13 PM): doubt it lol

hang out soon?

Neddie (11:28 PM): YES, shawarma tomorrow w/ mj

wait we have decathlon tomorrow. how about thursday?

Petey (11:29 PM): perfect :) 

He could go three days without Ned. Of course, he could. He had gone three months without Ned. 

So why did it seem like such an impossible task now?

Peter groaned, rolling out his sleeping bag. Sleep was off the table when his mind was so alive. Instead, he slipped into the sleek, red and blue suit. He’d never get over the rush as the suit melted to fit his body perfectly. Like a second skin. A better version of himself. He pulled his hoodie and pants over the suit, stashing his mask in his pocket. 

Peter swiftly navigated the now empty street. With a quick glance around to ensure no one was watching, he veered toward his familiar alley, already shrugging off his backpack. Once webbed in place, he shoved the hoodie and pants into the biggest pocket. 

“Let’s do this,” Peter smiled to himself, at last sliding the mask into place. 

The LCD booted smoothly, presenting the world before him in perfect quality. Only for a moment, though. Because a small window popped up, with lines of code script. They reeled past quickly until–

“Good evening, Spider-Man.” A crisp, female voice whispered into Peter’s ear. 

“ What ?” The Peter Tingle shot Peter nearly twenty feet into the air, eyes searching for the source. But she wasn’t there to be seen. 

“Congratulations on completing the rigorous Training Wheels Protocol.” She cheered, his screen now displaying an array of icons that fell neatly onto the corners of his screen. “Now gaining access to your suit's full capabilities.”

The Training Wheels Protocol. The firewall Mr. Stark had set up. Of course, it was hiding a robot assistant lady. Despite Peter’s annoyance that Mr. Stark hadn’t felt he was ready for an assistant , he had to admit that this was mind-blowing. Because now he had a robot assistant lady . 

“Where would you like to take me, Spider-Man?” She asked, her voice somehow inflecting a pleasant tone. 

“I’m sorry, what ?”

The voice responded, "Please excuse me if I didn't introduce myself properly." The screen filled with tutorial-like icons, displaying a man conversing with a mask. "I am Project Two Hundred and Thirty Seven, a user interface designed by Mr. Stark to aid you, Spider-Man. I am specifically a part of the 'Graduation Present' sub-system."

“Can you tell me what else was on that sub-system, Suit Lady?”

"Certainly!" the AI responded. "My sub-system is involved in user ease, providing you with all the necessary resources at your fingertips. These resources include internet access, databases, tracking, and more."

"How are those trackers looking? Can Mr. Stark access my suit anymore?" Peter felt awkward talking to himself. Then again, he was wearing a flashy red suit in an alleyway, so he doubted many people would think he was sane if they crossed him, anyway. 

"Hmm," Karen replied, sounding slightly puzzled. "No, it seems that all transmissions to Mr. Stark have been overridden. Was that intentional?"

“Very much so, Suit Lady.” Peter blew out a breath, letting relief wash over him. “Sorry, I kind of feel bad calling you 'Suit Lady,' you know? I think I should probably give you a name. How about… Liz? No, wait. I knew somebody named Liz. What’s a name that none of my classmates would have?”

Peter ran through a list of older names in his head. Beth-Anne seemed too formal, but Mary didn’t fit an AI. Perhaps–

“Karen. Can I call you Karen?”

“You can call me Karen if you’d like,” Karen repeated, her faux voice warm. “Is there something different you’d like me to call you?”

“You sure Mr. Stark can’t access this?”

“Positive. All of my abilities to make outgoing messages have been turned off.”

“Then, you can call me Peter.”

“Lovely to meet you, Peter.”

“This is going to be so weird.”

Peter couldn't help but be weary at first. The concept of having an artificial intelligence constantly monitoring his actions made him uneasy to say the least. It felt like having a watchful eye, just waiting to expose his vulnerabilities.

Karen had access to everything about him: his vitals, his activities, and even his age. How easily could that information be used against Peter?

Whenever he mustered the courage to actually respond to Karen’s helpful conversation, she would calmly reassure him that she couldn't communicate with Mr. Stark or any external entities. That her purpose was solely to provide assistance to him. It could have been a programmed response, of course. Just to lull him into a fake sense of security. But after the first day went by without CPS knocking him from the sky, it began to feel real. 

So, despite the early reluctance to speak to Karen, Peter began sharing. She was there, listening attentively. Responding kindly, no matter what he had to offer. It was like having a confidante, someone who could understand him in ways that others couldn't. Mostly because she couldn’t feel disappointed or be rude. 

It was a perfect gift from Mr. Stark, albeit one that his mentor might not have intended to give so soon. It was a way for Peter to feel less alone in his struggles and to have someone who would always be there, ready to listen and provide guidance.

"Good morning, Peter. Today is going to be a great day," Karen's soothing voice chimed in as Peter swung through the bustling streets. Though he had initially found her affirmations cheesy, he couldn't help but embrace the positivity today. It was a good day. It was already Thursday.

"Good morning, Karen," Peter greeted warmly, a genuine smile on his face. 

The past three days had been spent cleaning up his life. Or, what he had left. He got a haircut, a real hair-salon haircut. He might have gone to a barber – it would have been a hell of a lot cheaper – if he weren’t slightly afraid of barbers. His hands so close, his smell…

The hairstylist he got was peppy and chatty. She didn’t seem to notice that Peter only uttered a single word throughout the entire appointment, as she filled the silence with her melodramatic life. In the end, he had what she called a “flat top fade”. Peter didn’t know what that meant, but it came with a free soda and a bag of chips so he didn’t complain. 

Next was a new jacket and jeans. He didn’t know Wal-Mart sold clothes until he walked in to find them. They weren’t top-of-the-line, style-wise. But the jacket was warm and the jeans were thick. 

And finally, he continued his job search. He truly appreciated Alejandro’s concern. The paycheck had renewed his hope and all. But a job would still be sweet. Something to comfort him through the harsh winter that was growing. 

This part of his plan had gone the worst. Nobody wanted to hire the teenager that looked just as likely to rob the store as he was to scare customers away with his homelessness. Most places turned him away before he could even ask for an application. The few that let him take the paper revoked it when he asked the nauseating question “Is the parental signature required?”. 

Everything was fine. Whatever. Peter could handle it. 

Because it was Thursday. Because Ned knew everything and MJ knew some and they were going to be there. Anything else was just a speed bump.

Chapter Text

MJ and Ned were already seated at a table by the time Peter got to La Shish Kabab. He seemed to forget how long it took to get places when he had to walk. Spider-Man was such a convenience nowadays. 

The table had Ned on one side and MJ on the other, facing away from the entrance. When Ned caught sight of Peter, his entire face lit up. He almost looked relieved. MJ didn’t move the slightest. Peter realized quickly that he was faced with a unique opportunity. One where MJ would be caught off-guard for once. 

When Ned began to smile, Peter quickly shot a finger to his lips. Ned’s smile grew, head tilting with curiosity. Still, he attempted to avoid direct eye contact. Meanwhile, Peter tiptoed over to the table, his heart thumping with anticipation. The only other taken table looked at him as if he were an alien. They weren’t important. He was just a step away from executing his plan when MJ's voice cut through the air.

"Took you long enough, Tiger," MJ said, turning in her seat with a prideful smirk on her face.

Peter froze mid-step. Of course she spun it so he was caught off-guard. He couldn’t help but chuckle.

"You just sensed my presence.” Peter grinned, sliding into the booth beside Ned. “Who knew you were so obsessed with me.”

MJ raised an eyebrow, a glint of amusement in her eyes. "I’m not obsessed with you. Just very observant.”

“Likely story, Jones.” 

“We already ordered, I hope you don’t mind.” Ned was almost buzzing with excitement. “I was so excited I forgot to eat lunch. Not that I missed much, since the cafeteria was serving boiled burgers. But now my blood sugar is,” He finished by blowing a raspberry. 

“Ironic, since you talked right through gym class,” MJ added, rolling her eyes.

Peter had assumed this was just harmless teasing from MJ. But Ned had a habit of overreacting when he was nervous. And he was over reacting right now. At the mention of gym class, he almost jumped right out of his skin. And, after shooting MJ a death glare, his knee began bobbing up and down. 

Sending a quick glance to MJ, who seemed unfazed by Ned's reaction, Peter leaned in closer to his jittery friend. "Hey, man, you good?"

Ned's eyes darted nervously between Peter and MJ, his face flushed with embarrassment. “I’m fine. Nothing happened in gym class. I spoke an appropriate amount about appropriate topics.”

“I’m pretending to take a phone call.” MJ proclaimed suddenly, standing. “Wave me over when you’re done whispering.”

The two boys watched as MJ walked out of the building. She didn’t pull out her phone to talk. Just leaned against the wall and opened a book neither even noticed her holding. 

“You’re freaking me out.” Peter began again, heart beginning to rocket. “Because it sounds like you said something you weren’t supposed to. But you didn’t do that, did you, Ned? Because you promised—”

MJ couldn’t hear, could she? It was hard to judge how much normal people picked up on. Not that MJ would ever show what she heard. She was too careful, too calm. Peter kept his face composed. Even with the panic in his throat, he couldn’t fall apart here. Couldn’t let Ned fall apart here. MJ could already know , the inner voice offered. If Ned said any of the things Peter was spiraling about, then she might already know. This is why you don’t trust anybody. Nobody can help you and everybody will hurt you and…

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Ned whispered, eyes pleading with Peter’s to understand. “It's just that it was gym class and a bunch of the girls were talking. You know, playing that stupid game where you have to choose who you would marry, who you would kill, and who you would do ..." 

"And?" Peter prompted, choking on his own heart. Was it always that loud?

Ned took a deep breath, his hands fidgeting with his shirt sleeve. "Well, they started picking between superheroes," he continued, his voice filled with a mix of guilt and regret. "I don't know why, but they brought in Spider-Man. And, well, it slipped out!”

"Ned," Peter says, his voice filled with disbelief, "Please tell me you aren't saying what I think you're saying."

Ned’s eyes pinched for a moment, processing. When he realized his word choice, he slapped a hand to his mouth, shaking his head. “Oh, my god. No, no, I promise. God, I didn’t tell them it was you .”

The world felt like it was becoming far away. His heart, his breathing. It was like the night of the bank robbery. Another wave of panic – no, terror – hit him as he envisioned blacking out again. He couldn’t fall apart.

Then he heard the faint sound of wood splintering. Through the tunnel of his vision, he saw his fingers curled around the table. Slowly, finger by finger, he let go. By the time the table was free, he could feel Ned’s hand on his shoulder. 

“Dude, come on.” He whispered urgently. “Please tell me you aren’t spontaneously combusting. You can’t die again!”

“I’m not dead.” Peter managed, glancing around the restaurant. It was so bright. 

Ned fanned his face, almost sagging with the relief. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. I totally phrased that wrong.”

“Man, you scared the Jesus out of me.” 

“That’s so my bad.” Ned shook his head. “Sorry. You know I’d never do that to you.”

“Yeah, yeah I know,” Peter mumbled. He wished he did know. But his mind quickly realized how wrong his trust could have been. “If you didn’t out me, then why are you freaking out so much?”

“Well, I didn’t tell anyone who Spider-Man is…” Ned’s face grew guilty again. “But I may have… heavily implied… that he was my best friend?”

Peter groaned, burying his face in his hands. “You’re killing me, Ned.”

"I know, I'm so sorry." Ned continued. “It was just this whole thing at gym. Like I said, I skipped lunch. Then Coach Wilson had us doing these Captain America fitness drills where you need a partner. And since nobody wanted to be mine, he assigned Flash—”

"Nobody wanted to be your partner?"

Peter had never quite fit in at school. His reputation preceded him in everything. An awful bad luck that would just drag other people down. But that had never been the case for Ned. It was Ned . Class president and an active member of any club that would take him. Not to mention he was basically everybody’s therapist. People liked Ned. What happened?

"Crap," Ned again covered his mouth, as if it would seal his lips. "I didn't mean to bring that up. I’m not trying to scare you off or anything. But after you left, Flash needed somebody to direct his comments at. And since everybody knows about me because of you, he kind of ran with it.”

“He’s mean to you because of me?” said Peter. “What is he saying?”

“It’s not awful,” Ned tested, obviously editing his words. “They’re not really mean, it’s just…” He heaves a sigh. "I'm not really Ned anymore. I'm just the ‘criminal Peter Parker's secret ally’. Jackson, from Econ, tells everybody that I visit you at the county jail every weekend. Everybody believes him."

“Of course, they do.” Peter groans. “Ned, I’m so sorry. You weren’t supposed to… When I left—”

This was different from the attacks of panic Peter had felt throughout the morning. This was pure, crushing guilt. It hurt more across his body, like an ache. Just as painful, not as scary. Parker Luck will be the death of us all .

Ned, though, just rolled his eyes.

“It’s not your fault,” He emphasized. “I totally get it. I think today… it finally hit, you know? You were back. I finally knew the info that everybody wanted from me. I had something Flash wanted and I just… snapped. I’m really sorry.”

“No, man, it’s okay.”

Ned tests out his puppy dog eyes, glancing up at Peter. “You’re not mad at me?”

"Well, I'm definitely bugged." Peter let out a strained chuckle. "But I'm the one who's sorry. I had no idea I ruined everything for you."

"Again, I totally get it. Superhero crud.” He whispered dramatically. “I just don’t know how to make Flash forget.”

"Nah, man. Tell whoever you want. Call it payback." Peter grinned. "As long as my name stays out of the conversation.”

At that exact moment, MJ conveniently returned from her ‘phone call’. There were thick water drops clinging to her hair and clothes. 

“It’s damp outside.” She announced, dropping back into her chair. 

“I can see that,” Ned responded, his lips quirking into a smile. 

“Can you? I thought the fact that I was soaking wet was really subtle.”

Peter and Ned couldn't help but chuckle at MJ's dry humor. The tension from their previous conversation seemed to dissipate, replaced by a lighthearted atmosphere. Peter glanced at MJ, appreciating her ability to bring levity to any situation.

"Well, you do have a knack for subtlety," Peter responded, giving MJ a teasing nod.

MJ raised an eyebrow, a habit that was so cute . Or cool. Cool was better.

 "Oh, I'm full of surprises," she quipped, flipping her wet hair over her shoulder. "But I must say, the rain does add a certain ambiance to our little meeting."

Ned nodded, his smile widening. "It's like a dramatic scene in a movie, where there’s foreboding rain before something bad. Like a funeral."

Peter rolled his eyes playfully. "Leave it to you to find a deeper meaning to rain."

"How dare you suggest that it’s just rain?” MJ interjected. “It's a sun shower. That’s hyper-symbolic."

Peter couldn't help but laugh, grateful for his friends' ability to lighten the mood. "Excuse my insensitivity. How ever shall I fix my sins? Should I grovel or beg?”

“I much prefer groveling, but I could go for a sip of your lemonade. Ned put salt in mine.”

“It’s not my fault the packets for salt and sugar look identical.” Ned pouted, crossing his arms.

Peter slid his glass across the table, trying not to watch as MJ’s lips touched his straw. Tried even harder not to process the fact that his lips touched it just moments before. 

The three continued to banter and laugh while they waited for the food to arrive. MJ managed to, organically, flip the bird to Ned eight different times. An impressive feat. Once the waiter waltzed over, with two entire trays of food, Peter got to business. 

“So, what’s next on the agenda?” He asked, picking a leaf of lettuce off his plate. “We know about Davis and Damage Control. So what do we do?”

“Everything would be infinitely easier if we could just…” Ned waved his hand vaguely. “ Know where Davis was going to meet the bad guys.”

“Easier yet if we could just ask the cops.” Peter sighed. 

“I’d love to see that conversation pan out.” MJ chimed in. Without fanfare, she leaned across the table and took another sip of Peter’s lemonade. 

“I mean, there are the less legal ways.” Ned offered. “Say, theoretically , one had ties to the same kind of tech as say… the Avengers. I bet we could get access real quick.”

“Oh yes. You’ll never guess, Tiger.” MJ leaned in conspiratorially, though her voice made it clear she wasn’t buying it. “Neddie over here knows our local Spider-Menace.”

“Spider- Menace ?” Peter glanced at Ned. 

“Yeah, there's this news site that’s been bashing Spider-Man for a few months now. A few weeks before that, the reporter was obsessed with Justin Beiber.” Ned explained. “He’s just an old man in a basement, but Betty Brant talks about him a bunch during the morning announcements.”

“Can Spider-Man find the paperwork?” MJ continued, leveling her eyes at Peter. 

Peter glanced at Ned, trying to act nonchalant. “I don’t know, can he?”

“Uh, yeah! With the right resources.”

“Cool, then check .” MJ shrugged it off, taking a bite of her chicken gyro. “A successful week so far.”

“We haven’t really done anything.” Ned laughed.

“My point exactly. It’s Thursday and we’re all alive. Tiger even got a new haircut.” She nodded toward Peter. 

“I gotta ask, why ‘tiger’?”

“Uh, Life of Pi?” MJ said it simply. But when Ned and Peter exchanged blank looks, she continued. “The tiger in Life of Pi is named Richard Parker . Your name is Parker. Therefore, you’re Tiger.”

Peter chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. "Well, I guess that makes sense in a convoluted way. Tiger it is.”

Ned feigned a gasp, bumping Peter with his shoulder. "MJ has bestowed a nickname upon you. You should feel honored.”

“I feel honored. Don’t I look honored?” Peter placed his best deadpan look on. It didn’t rival MJ’s, but he doubted anything could. 

“You do, which is a pity since you’re still supposed to be groveling.” MJ decided. 

“What? No fair, the lemonade was supposed to replace the groveling.”

MJ smirked mischievously. "Oh, I changed my find. You see, with great power comes great responsibility. And I, Tiger, have the power. This is something you have to embrace fully. Groveling is just the first step."

Ned nodded solemnly. "Yeah, Peter. You can't escape the groveling. It's a rite of passage for all of MJ’s friends.”

Peter sighed dramatically, pretending to give in. "Alright, alright. I surrender. Prepare yourselves for the grand display of groveling."

With exaggerated movements, Peter clasped his hands together and released a full pleading expression. "Please forgive me for my grave mislabeling of the sunshower and all of my mistakes since. Grant me your mercy!"

MJ burst into laughter, rolling her eyes. "Alright, you've made your point. The groveling has been duly noted."

Peter stood up, a triumphant smile on his face. "I'm glad we settled that.”

“So, on our agenda until next time,” Ned said, steering the group back to business. “First, find anything we can on Davis.”

“Secondly, dig some more history on the Damage Control,” MJ added. “There’s something fishy there, I just can’t figure it out.”

“Yeah, cool. Adding that.” Ned pretended to check a box in the air. “Thirdly, I motion that we peer pressure Peter into letting us see where he lives.”

“Motion seconded.” MJ raised her hand. 

“Motion denied.” Peter shook his head. There was no way they were getting a view into that part of his life. 

“You suck, but I respect that about you.” Ned grinned. “Okay, then finally, talk to Spider-Man and figure out what resources he can access with his fancy Stark Industries suit.”

“Do you really think Stark Industries made his suit?” MJ interjected. “It doesn’t seem as on-brand as the other equipment they made. Not as nano-techy or metallic.”

“I guess I never thought about it,” Ned chuckled nervously. 

MJ raised an eyebrow before continuing. “Could you imagine it, though? An Iron Spider suit. With, like, guns and wings? It wouldn’t even be the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man anymore. It’d be a war weapon.”

“What a cheerful note to end things.” Peter shook his head, drawing out his wallet. “How much was mine?”

“Absolutely free, young Padawan.” Ned shunned the wallet aggressively. “I’ve sponsored it through the greatness of my heart.”

“Through the greatness of a buy one get one coupon.” MJ amended. 

“Through the greatness of a buy one get one coupon!” Ned repeated in his thrilling voice. 

“Thank you, great Jedi.” Peter grinned. It felt so nice to just… exist. Have fun and goof off for a minute. Peter wished desperately to bottle the feeling and save it. But he reminded himself that this wasn’t a fleeting moment. They were here to stay, weren’t they?

Chapter Text

Karen had no problem finding Davis. It was almost concerning how quickly she located the sealed files that MJ had been looking for. All he had to do was slip the mask on and ask the magic question. 

“Karen, if I needed to find somebody, how would I do it?”

“Well, Peter, who are you trying to find?”

“A guy named Davis. Uh, Aaron Davis. He’s been working with the police to find weapons-”

“Aaron Michael Davis, date of birth April 15, 1984. Currently working as a civilian aide for the New York Police Department in case number: 1587-TBM. On file alias is Brian Pinchelli.”

“Oh, wow! Okay, um… Do we know where he is?”

“His last known location is at a safe house in Forest Hills. Would you like directions?”

Forest Hills. Skip’s neighborhood. Just thinking about walking through the streets where Skip shopped, worked, lived was enough to bring a sheen of sweat to Peter’s forehead. Enough to bring the phantom hands to his memory. 

Did he really need to act now? Davis had yet to come face to face with the dangerous weapon ring, and he wasn't about to disclose his classified information to a kid in a red leotard —no offense, Mr. Stark. No, Peter was allowed to wait. He knew where Davis was. He would have Karen stay updated on the police’s plan, wait until he lead him straight to the weapon ring. He was just being patient, that’s all.

So he waited.

Peter meant to patrol that night. But after eating so much and having the plan set for Davis, he found himself back at the Camp. When he couldn’t fall asleep in his pile of blankets, he put on his mask. 

“Hello again, Peter.” Karen welcomed, his display automatically dimmed to match his surroundings. “Are we going out?”

Peter wrapped himself tighter in the blankets, relishing the warmth. “No, not tonight… That’s okay, right?”

“I believe so,” Karen promised. “Rest is the most productive thing a human can do.”

“Thanks, Karen.”

“Your energy levels are low, you should sleep.”

“Easier said than done.”

“I can read to you if that would help?”

Peter shakes his head, ready to shut down Karen’s suggestion. He’s not a child, he doesn’t need to be read to. That’s pathetic, why is he just laying here doing nothing?

But then, the inner voice jumps in. Don’t let her see your weakness.

There was a hint of irony in the thought. The inner voice works tirelessly to protect Peter. From others, from himself, from the world. Despite its job, it couldn’t truly understand the complexity of the world. All it drew from was a series of bad things and grasped at everything that led to them. It understood that Peter shouldn’t show weakness, but it didn’t seem to grasp that Karen was a robot. Funny. 

“That sounds nice.” Peter decided out loud. It was almost an act of rebellion, even if it was against his own thoughts. 

That night, Peter drifted to sleep as Karen began reading The Wizard of Oz.

The next three days he does the same. 

Even though his mind was aware he should suit up, swing around the city, he doesn’t. He allows himself to rest in his tent. Some of the time is spent talking with Karen – who was turning out to be surprisingly good company. Other times were spent in Angelica’s tent. Essence had been banned from coming to Camp anymore. Her ex-husband warned her that it was getting too cold for her to stay out anymore. He was hoping she’d go to a shelter if he kept the kid long enough.

“He's always been an idealist," Angelica complained on the second day, cracking Peter's peanut butter jar open. "He doesn't understand how horrible the world is."

"Maybe he's just optimistic."

"Same difference." She rolled her eyes, passing the jar to Peter.

He scooped out a generous portion, savoring the sweetness. "Have you ever visited F.E.A.S.T? See everything for yourself." 

"I'm telling you, kid,” Angelica rolled her eyes. “I've been homeless for ten years now, and all the shelters are the same. They make promises—food, clothes, the whole package. But then Child Protective Services starts breathing down your neck, trying to whisk your kid away to foster care.”

Peter didn’t argue with that. He had gained a healthy fear of CPS over the past year. They promised the unknown. In Peter’s life, the unknown was almost always worse than whatever horrors remained known. 

Time moved slowly at the Camp. Hours stretched on as the sun dared to move mere inches in the sky. Only a week before, Peter would have gone crazy with it. But, with everything looking so clean in his life, he almost loved it. It was as if he hit the ‘pause’ button on life itself. 

Late in the third night, though, Karen ended the tranquility. 

Peter woke to a sharp alarm in his ear where there had been Karen’s voice the last time he was awake. She had brightened the display, casting the tent on a bath of blue light.

“Karen?” Peter yawned, sitting up. “Is something wrong?”

“Good morning, Peter.” Karen’s voice sounded chipper as ever. “I hope you’ve slept well.”

“I was, actually. But it’s not morning,” Peter couldn’t find anything out of place in his tent. “Which brings me back to: is something wrong?”

"I intercepted a police transmission. Aaron Davis has been sent to a meeting with the unknown subjects just east of his safe house.” A line appeared on Peter’s screen, pulsing with directions.

His drowsiness drained quickly after that. Davis was on the move. Peter just might get to the heart of the ring tonight. Find them, take them down. Hand deliver the Chitauri weapons to Mr. Stark, proving that he wasn’t just a kid to be tossed aside. 

“I’m ready, Karen.”

Peter was, in fact, not ready. 

There were a dozen things that had gone wrong that night. Too many things to pinpoint where exactly everything went wrong. But it definitely did go wrong. 

Peter had barely made it to the deal on time. Forest Hills had more god damn gold courses than there were people that golfed anymore. That left Peter sprinting across miles of land, repetitively shooting his webs as if it would make something to swing off of appear. At least, now, he knew that Spider-Man wouldn’t fair well in a sweet, suburban life. Something to note if he ever made it to retirement. 

By the time he got there, Davis was already chatting up three other guys. None of which were the Plastic Avengers. Instead, the dealers had thick coats and beanies on. Expensive ones, by the looks of them. The shortest guy held a gun that was wider than Peter was tall. The barrel of it looked like a hand, aimed directly at a long-abandoned car. One press of the trigger and a blue explosion had all but disintegrated the vehicle. 

“Now, this is crafted from a reclaimed sub-Ultron arm straight from Sokovia.” He pressed the gun into Davis’ hands, grinning. “There, you try.”

“Karen, who is that guy?” Peter whispered, squinting toward the scene. 

“That is Jackson Brice,” Suddenly, the screen was filled with pictures of the Brice person. “Extensive history of aggravated assault and grand larceny.”

Davis, ever so carefully, returned the gun to the white van beside him. “Nah, man. I wanted something lowkey, why are you trying to upsell me?”

“Okay, okay.” Brice raised his hands, laughing. “I got what you need, all right? I got tons of great stuff here.”

Without Peter needing to ask, Karen zoomed in on the image. In the back of the van, two other guys camped out, glaring at Davis suspiciously. In front of them, there were stacks upon stacks of similar-looking weapons. Just one of them had been enough to take Peter down and set the Plastic Avengers for life. Peter couldn’t imagine what New York would look like if all of those weapons were in the hands of petty criminals.

“I got, uh, black hole grenades, Chitauri railguns…” Brice called out, shuffling through his inventory. 

One of the seedy guys from the back hopped out of the van, rearing up on Davis. His picture silently slid onto Peter’s screen. Herman Schultz. No charge, but a high suspect in the weapon ring. “You know we’re the only ones selling these high-tech weapons anymore. Why’re you being shifty?”

“I’m not, man.” Davis took a step back, glancing around. “I’m just looking to stick someone up, not shoot them back in time.”

“I got anti-gravity climbers!” Brice happily produced two cylinders from the back. 

And, since the odds have never been in Peter’s favor, that was when Peter’s phone began to ring. On the loudest setting, with the most god-awful ringtone Peter had ever heard. Great joke, phone manufacturers. 

Peter had silenced the call within seconds, but the group already heard it. Brice and Davis peered into the darkness, mild confusion coloring their faces. But Schultz wasn’t confused. He was angry. The second he reached for his waistband, Peter dropped from the crumbling support beam. 

“Woah, man!” Peter called, watching Schultz carefully. “If you’re going to shoot someone, shoot me.”

The scene went frozen for a minute. Peter had his wrist raised, displaying his web shooters. Schultz had his gun raised, aimed directly at Davis. Brice was still hunched over the back of the white van. Then, everything devolved. 

“Okay,” Schultz shrugged, whipping his gun around to Peter. His finger was already squeezing the trigger. 

A gunshot rang out. 

In that split second, the Peter Tingle took over. His body reacted with lightning speed as the bullet sliced through the air. He spun through the air, making sure the lethal flyer didn’t meet its target. In the same breath, he shot out a web. It connected with the gun and sent it flying with a swift yank. 

As Peter regained his composure, he took in the chaotic scene that had unfolded. Brice, sensing the imminent danger, had made a desperate dash towards the front of the van. The lights flashed on as he shifted the key into the ignition. Davis, who had dropped to the floor during the gunfire, now spoke rapidly into a wire on his shirt. Schultz wheeled around, grabbing the first replacement weapon his hands could find. 

The small clearing was suddenly filled with energy. The weapon was a wide thing, with a flat, square face. Neon bolts of lighting sparked off. Peter barely had enough time to wrap his arms around his chest before Schultz slammed it into him. 

“Aw, dude !” Peter groans, rolling around in the dirt. Pain radiated through his arms, leaving a tingling sensation. “Not cool.”

The van’s wheels spun out for a moment before it lurched forward. Schultz jumps into the back, tossing aside the electric weapon. 

“I need some backup here,” Davis demanded into the wire, watching as the three men escape. 

“Nope, I got it!” Peter sent a finger salute to Davis. “Thanks for your help, though.”

Davis shook his head as Peter attached a web to the van’s bumper. He seemed to sense that this was another horrible mistake on Peter’s side.

Fifteen minutes – and let’s be honest, a serious case of road burn on his behind – later, Peter almost had them. Like, really almost had them. He made it out of the neighborhood he had been fighting through, probably racking upwards of a thousand dollars in property damage, and found the men again. The van was right under him, there to catch him when he dived from the roof of a lovely home. Victory, redemption. Both so close he could taste it. 

Then, all he could taste was smoke and flies. 

Something ice cold clung to his shoulders, pulling him through the air as if he weighed nothing. Peter squirmed against the grasp. Slapped, twisted, even threw in some profanities for good measure. His attacker, which he quickly found out was clad in metal, didn’t so much as flinch. 

As Peter found himself suspended high above the city, the adrenaline-fueled momentum abruptly ceased. Nauseating vertigo washed over him as he gazed upward, his eyes locking onto two menacing green circles that pierced through the darkness. In that fleeting moment, he had a front-row view of the intricately designed metal wingsuit worn by his assailant.

But before Peter could process what he had just witnessed, the claws attached to the wingsuit retracted. The sudden disappearance sent a shiver down his spine, and then the second worst thing of the night happened.

He fell.

As Peter hurtled through the air – Was he going to land in the river below or flatten against the shore? It was too close to tell – his body contorted and twisted in a desperate attempt to regain control. Time seemed to stretch and warp around him. In the chaos of the moment, he refused to think horrible thoughts — thoughts of landing.

In the descent, Peter half-expected the fall to unfold in slow motion, as if the laws of gravity would bend to his will. Deep down, he knew the reality would be far different, far more unforgiving. Yet, desperation had the habit of erasing logic from the mind.

Nonetheless, the laws of physics held steadfast. Peter’s reality blurred into a chaotic whirlwind of lights and shadows. 

Karen spoke but Peter couldn’t hear her over the wind. He just kept shouting, “No”. He barely caught his breath before his back slammed into the water. 

Guess I landed in the Hudson River, he thought helplessly.

As the darkness consumed him, Peter's consciousness faded, and the suffocating grip of despair threatened to overwhelm him. In that disorienting state, the boundaries between reality and the depths of his own fears became indistinguishable. Scarier was the thought. Why don't you just give up? Just yield to the relentless pull of the water, letting it fill his lungs and bring an end to his struggle? 

Between exhaustion and desperation, Peter let go. Allowed the tide – whose grip felt startling like a human’s – to take him as it pleased. Just as this decision was made, fresh air slapped him in the face. 

How disorienting, he had been positive he was sinking. 

“No, no, shit!” There was a voice. It was close enough to send a shiver down Peter’s spine. “You can’t die now .”

Chapter Text

Being saved was a lot more painful than one might think. 

Hands – which Peter could only assume belonged to the frantic voice – beat against the center of his back sharply and rhythmically, as if attempting to remove the last breath of air from his lungs. Instead, a surge of water gushed out from his mouth and nose with astonishing volume. Where did his mask go? 

The water stung his raw throat and burned his lungs, only enunciating his desperate need for air. None was so forthcoming. He instead gagged on more water. 

“You got this,” The voice assured Peter, giving one last blow before his hands stilled. “You’re okay.”

And he was. 

With the force of a train, Peter crashed back into reality. Gasping for air, he blinked away the remnants of darkness that clouded his vision. The world wasn’t much brighter, the only light coming from the hanging moon. The riverbed had disappeared. There were towering buildings in place of the rocky shore. There was the familiar smell of a dusty alleyway. 

"Holy shit," Peter grunted to himself, his voice laden with a mix of disbelief and relief. He had been drowning. Fully covered in water, sinking to the pits of the Hudson. If his mystery savior hadn’t been there, Peter would have surely died. 

“See? You’re okay, Einstein .”

Einstein…?

Einstein…

Einstein.

One word and the alley fell away. Instead, there was a lab. There was the freezing, concrete floor. The smell of formaldehyde and alcohol. Hands close, too close . Peter was weak and he was strong and couldn’t Peter just fall asleep? It would be over if he just held his breath for a little while longer.

Skip Westcott jumped into Peter’s vision. He stood above Peter, dressed in all black. Blending into the night. As if he was one with the shadows. His hair had grown slightly. It dripped unevenly with icy water. His shoulder trembled from exertion. 

Peter’s heart pounded hard enough that he genuinely feared it might tear straight from his chest. The air was too thick. Or his lungs were too weak. Either way, everything felt as if it were suffocating him. Like blankets of darkness and hands on his throat. For once, the Peter Tingle and the inner voice were on different pages. The Tingle urged Peter to run, to scale the wall, and never look back. The inner voice pleaded that he just freeze and hold his breath. It would be over faster if he just held his breath. 

“You’re okay,” Skip repeated, a small smile forming on his lips. 

"No," Peter choked out, his voice barely above a whisper. How many times did he say it? He couldn’t tell. His lips kept trembling, spitting out the denial. Useless; his voice held no power against the presence that haunted him. He tried to stop himself from begging, but the word fell from his lips again.

With every fiber of his being, Peter fought against the paralyzing grip of terror. He worked his arms, dragging his trembling body away from Skip. The distance he managed to put between them was meager, just a few feet, before his exhaustion betrayed him.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Peter’s eyes snapped back to Skip when he spoke. He didn’t move, only watched. There was a glimmer of something underneath the surface. Regret? Fear?

Peter waited, unable to escape any further. It took him a moment before he remembered he was supposed to respond when spoken to. “You can… You can see why I have a hard time believing that.”

“I did just save your life,” Skip countered. “Does that count for anything?”

It did count for something. It counted for Peter’s fear. Skip found him, found him as Spider-Man . Dragged him out of the Hudson for… What? Was Skip looking to trap Peter in his debt? So he couldn’t say no when Skip dragged him back to that godforsaken lab?

“Come on now, Pete.” Skip lowered himself into a crouch, extending a hand as if he were approaching a wild animal. “Calm down for a second.”

“You don’t get to tell me to calm down,” Peter felt like a wild animal. Jumpy and unhinged. As if a sudden movement would send him scampering off. “You don’t get to be here!”

“Okay, okay,” Skip’s raised his hands as if to surrender. Ironically, his feet moved closer to the boy, though. “Noted. No more orders.”

Silenced stretched between the two, somehow making their gap feel smaller than it was. Skip watching, Peter waiting. Don’t let him see.

“Why… How… What ?” Peter managed.

A flicker of hope danced across Skip's face, his expression momentarily lighting up with a spark of fascination. "Spider-Man," he began, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "You played it clever, Pete. I had been searching for you. But when I saw those pictures of Spider-Man online, it clicked. The spider-themed persona, the extraordinary strength. It all made sense! I mean, I couldn’t quite imagine my little Peter hiding behind that mask. With how shy and submissive you are.”

Spider-Man. Peter’s lifeboat, his last chance. His hope. Gone in an instant. Spider-Man was what brought Skip here, three feet in front of Peter. Spider-Man was a bright red flag, calling out to the world ‘Come and get me’. 

“Of course, I couldn’t keep up with him.” Skip continued without an invitation. He was lost in his excitement. “You buried your trails well. There was no pattern to Spider-Man. He was there, then gone. Always without a trace. I chased your exploits for months without a single lead. But it was my boss, actually, that cracked it.”

“Your boss?”

“Stark,” Skip said simply, waving it off. “He sent out this APB the other day. Didn’t get much attention from the news, but the entire building was buzzing about it. I realized that, if someone as important as Tony Stark asked for eyes on Spider-Man, the media was sure to listen. I just had to sit and wait for a video to pop up. And sure enough, just half an hour ago, somebody posted a video of you in hot pursuit just up the street from my house."

“You were watching me?” Peter tried to replay every moment over the last four months. Skip’s eyes burned into all of them. Waiting for Peter to dance right into his grasp.

“You’re everything to me, Peter.” Another step closer. His hand was close enough to rest on Peter’s knee. The boy choked on his own bile. “You’re my entire life.”

“Shut up,” Peter whispered. He’s begging you. He’s in pain and you can help him. 

“Peter, please.” Skip’s hand absently began to rub in circles. “I never meant to hurt you. We can be better-”
“Never meant to hurt me?”

“You knew I was sick,” Skip’s patience sounded as if it were wearing thin. His eyes lowered, staring directly into Peter’s. “You can’t keep pushing all of the blame on me.”

“Are you saying it was my fault?” 

“You didn’t exactly say ‘no’,” Skip’s fingers began to squeeze. When Peter tried to pull away, they dug deeper. “After the first time, you could have told somebody. But you didn’t. You let me keep going. Practically invited me in!”

“No-” So special that you made him lose control. Asked for it, Peter. No, deserved it. It was your choice, it’s your responsibility. 

“Don’t even try. I know you, Peter. I’ve always known what you are.” Skip leaned in, nose only an inch away from Peter’s. “You’re like me. And you can fake it for all your little friends and heroes. But I’ll always know.”

Just like Skip. Hurt people, hurt people.

He closed the distance without hesitation, lips rough against Peter’s. Skip’s hand instinctively moved to the boy’s wrists, a familiar feeling. Designed after months of restraint and power.

For a fleeting moment, Peter froze. In that instant, Spider-Man didn’t exist. All that existed was the vulnerable fourteen-year-old Peter Parker. A boy whose glasses always ended up under the bed, the one who yearned for an escape but never found one. He couldn’t think. His body trembled, held hostage by the weight of his history with Skip. But amidst the chaos, one thought emerged clear as day.

No.

Something Peter had said every single night. Skip just didn’t listen. But he would have to tonight. Because this wasn't just Peter Parker; it was Spider-Man . Who had faced criminals twice Skip's size, endured torment after tormenting experience, and survived months of homelessness to reach this point. His power hadn't vanished just because Skip Westcott claimed they did.

With a burst of strength, Peter pushed against Skip’s chest, sending him sprawling backward. Skip's expression dropped all affection, all of its smug confidence. Now, it burned with anger. Peter scrambled to his feet, forcing his mask on before he could lose his nerve. One of the pedestrians outside the alley slowed his walk. The average person would barely be able to see details through the darkness. Definitely couldn’t hear them. His phone lifted curiously.

“I’m nothing like you,” Peter’s voice whispered through the defiance. “And I will never be like you.”

From the ground, Skip reached out and caught Peter's hand, gripping it firmly. His words were laced with venom as he spat, “You can’t walk away, I made you. Without my spider, you would still just be some weak orphan -”

Skip's taunt died the second Peter's fist connected with his jawline. The impact sent shockwaves through Skip's body, causing him to crumple to the floor. The man with the phone disappeared immediately, footsteps echoing through the street.

Peter watched Skip’s body closely, waiting intently for any signs of life. The seconds ticked by slowly, each moment filled with adrenaline. After a long beat, a groan escaped Skip’s mouth letting Peter know he was still alive. 

“There,” Peter whispered, turning his back to the man. “Now we’re even.”

Chapter Text

Peter called 911. He knew Skip wasn’t hurt enough to truly need medical attention, but it was wrong to leave the man passed out in an alleyway. Not that a part of him didn’t really want to. Show Skip what it felt like to be abandoned and cold. But a bigger, better part of him wanted to prove himself right. He was nothing like Skip. 

The emergency vehicles showed up one by one, finding the man on the ground. According to the anonymous call, a concerned citizen saw a scuffle so he reported it. When asked, he made it clear he didn’t see who was involved. Just that one walked away and one didn’t. 

Peter watched from the roof as they attended to Skip, securing him safely on a gurney. It was only then, when he knew Skip was locked in the ambulance, that he allowed himself to fall apart.

The exhaustion overwhelmed Peter, making his body collapse onto the gravel. He doubled over, his hands instinctively reaching out to steady himself. There weren’t any thoughts. Just the taste of salty water and peanut butter on his tongue.

With each heave, the contents of his stomach expelled forcefully, mixing seamlessly with the tears that streamed down his face. It was a violent release, an outward manifestation of the treacherous feelings inside him. The cycle seemed never-ending, a relentless rhythm of vomiting and sobbing that echoed through the night.

Time crawled by as Peter surrendered himself to the process. Hours bled into one another. The moon sunk into the horizon at some point. Then there was Sun. Silence then sound. More vomiting. The gravel under his hands warmed through the night. He ran his fingers across it often to remind himself that he was no longer in the lab. 

When his stomach ran out of fuel, his thoughts returned. Two echoed through the exhaustion. The first brought a swell of pride. Relief. He was stronger than Skip. Skip didn’t stand a chance against him. 

Then the other one slammed him with an insufferable wave of guilt. He knocked Skip out. What kind of hero does that?

Eventually, Peter stirred back to life. Most of his injuries had cleared up through the night. He didn’t even feel sore anymore. With every breath he took, he focused on moving a little more. First, a flinch of his fingertips. Then, tilting his head. Working until he could stand up without dry heaving. 

Once standing, he stared out into the city. He didn’t know where he was anymore. All he recognized was that a few blocks East was the Hudson. He would retrace his steps from there. 

Back on solid ground – in a dry pair of shorts and a shirt that cost him a precious fifteen dollars – Peter flipped out his phone. Still fully charged and operational. Who would have thought that having a brick for a phone would end up being helpful? It survived the drowning much easier than Peter had.

The screen displayed a string of missed calls from Ned, dating back to the previous night. Probably the call that tipped off the weapon guys. After that one, they picked up in frequency. Only a few of them had voicemails. 

“ Hey man, it’s Ned. I know you’re probably busy doing… you know what. But I had a favor to ask-”

“Ned again. Didn’t respond before, which is totally fine. But I’m at this party now and I was kind of hoping you’d swing by-”

“Dude, what the hell? I just saw Spider-Man crash past Liz’s house-”

“Peter you better not be dead. There’s this video going around that shows you literally falling to your death-”

“Scratch that, you’re obviously not dead. Somebody posted a picture of Spider-Man punching a guy. It’s real fuzzy but-”

Peter flipped open his phone and placed the speaker beside his ear as he began to walk. The phone rang three times before the line picked up. "Hello?"

"Oh, my god, Peter," Ned exclaimed without any introduction. "I couldn't sleep last night. Are you okay? What happened?"

"A lot more than I was expecting. You probably know, with the pictures."

"Bits and pieces. Who were you with in that alley?"

My actual worst nightmare? A monster? A middle-aged man with a desk job? "Just, um, this guy from the weapons ring." 

"The ring?” Ned paused for a moment before gasping. “Wait, Davis went active? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Dude, everything went wrong last night,” Peter complained, shaking his head. “It was supposed to be an easy in and out. Next thing I know, I’m drowning and… Uh, fighting this weapons dealer.”

Ned groaned in disbelief. "I can't believe I was worrying about a stupid high school party while my best friend was out there taking down bad guys!"

"Hey, I would have much rather been at that 'stupid' high school party last night," Peter tried to laugh. It sounded pathetic. "But since I wasn't, I need my guy in the chair. How good are you at erasing pictures from the web?"

"Not entirely sure, but it doesn't matter."

"Ned, I can't have pictures of Spider-Man punching someone going around–" He couldn’t risk anybody enhancing the picture, risk someone identifying Skip.

"Absolutely, I agree." Ned's voice was accompanied by rapid keyboard clicks. "But guess what? Somebody already took care of it."

"...Somebody took care of it?”

"Yeah, man. My media alert showed me the original picture as soon as it was posted. But not even an hour later, it just vanished. The original post, reposts, reaction videos. Completely wiped out."

“Who would do that?”

"Not sure. But whoever did it must have either spent a lot of time or money to make it happen," Ned replied, the clicking of the keyboard gradually coming to a stop. "I got into the original poster’s iCloud and he doesn’t even have the picture on his phone anymore."

Peter's brows furrowed as he absorbed the information. "That's strange. It's almost like someone wanted to protect my reputation."

“Or theirs.” Ned offered.

“That’s so weird,” Peter whispered. Who’s reputation would be tarnished if Spider-Man went down? Skip never had those computer skills and the weapon guys weren’t even in the pictures. “Well, sounds like you’re caught up.”

“Hardly!” Ned gasped. Peter could picture his exasperated expression. “I don’t even know why you were dropped into the river.”

“Oh, that’s easy.” How perspective warped things. The drowning part of Peter’s night felt insignificant, almost comical. “There was this giant dude with a bird suit. He flew us up and let me go.”

“ Dude !” Ned shouted through the speaker. “That is the coolest thing that has happened. Ever. Oh, my god. Birdmen in New York.”

Peter halted his long trek through Forest Hills as he reached the street where he had been dragged behind the van. The scene was marked by a trail of destruction caused by the erratic car. Amidst the wreckage, something shiny caught Peter’s attention. Right in the mouth of the neighborhood, hooded by dewy grass.

Intrigued, Peter toed toward the object. In the grass, the object was twisted and broken. Silver metal cracked in half, hiding an array of wires and screws. There were foreign engravings along it, in a language Peter didn’t even recognize. Nestled right in the center of all of it, was a dazzling purple orb.

"Holy crap," Peter whispered as recognition struck him. The color matched the core Schultz had been using to fire his weapons the previous night.

“Peter?”

“Ned, I just found a weapon.”

“What? Like, an alien weapon?’

“Yeah, yeah! It’s the same one this guy tried to vaporize me with.”

“Awesome!”

“Ouch, man.”

“Not awesome that he tried to vaporize you. You know that’s not what I meant. That guy is totally uncool in my book.” Ned quickly retracted his words. “I just meant, ‘awesome, you found the weapon’.”

“Sure you did, Leeds.” Peter smiled before glancing around. There were bikes and basketball hoops here. Kids. What would have happened if one of them had found this vaporizer before Peter did? “We really need to speed up our mission. Cut off the ring at its head.”

“The easiest option still seems to be talking to Davis, instead of stalking him. Find out where the bosses are.”

“Yeah, yeah you’re right. Want to meet up today so we can plan?”

“Shoot man, I can’t.” Ned’s voice almost dripped with guilt. “Nationals are this week.”

Peter’s heart sank. He had completely forgotten about the Academic Decathlon trip. Ned warned Peter about it two weeks ago. That he and MJ would be all the way in D.C. until Wednesday. Even with the warning, Peter felt like he was caught off guard. 

“Oh, that’s really cool, man.”

“I would totally cancel if I could, but–” Suddenly, Ned’s audio was mixed with a woman’s voice. “ Nanay, tahan na. My mom is here, I have to go. Don’t die, I promise we’ll hang out as soon as I get back.”

“Have fun, make sure to win,” Peter said half-heartedly. The line went dead a few seconds later.

Iron Man is waiting at the Camp. Peter could hear the now familiar buzz from a few blocks over. A month ago, he would have probably sprinted to him, ready to impress. Just yesterday, he would have probably turned and fled. But today, Peter was much too exhausted to fight it. Instead, he tucked his new clothes into his familiar alley and shoved his mask on. It felt too tight, somehow smelt like Skip. 

“Good morning, Peter.” Karen chimed as he ducked around the corner. “Is everything alright?”

“Peachy keen, Karen.”

“I should warn you that Mr. Stark has attempted contact several times through the night. He was blocked each time, but there was an attempt.”

“Yeah, I know.” Peter could see Iron Man already. His suit hovered in the Camp. Angelica eyed him suspiciously, though she had a shiny new backpack next to her tent. The few people that remained in the Camp had gathered around as well. “I hear I’ve been on the news a lot.”

“That’s true,” Karen agreed. She brought a few articles onto Peter’s screen. Just as Ned said, the picture of him punching Skip was nowhere to be seen. “Seems you had fun last night.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Peter responded dryly, entering the Camp.

Mr. Stark turned at his arrival, the suit eying down the boy. When Mr. Stark spoke, the suit didn’t move. Peter assumed it was empty as the one from a few weeks ago. The voice that spoke sounded annoyed beyond compare. “Ah, there’s the man of the hour.”

“Mr. Stark, what a surprise." Peter forced his tone to stay light, careful. “How’d you find me?”

“Not through your tracker, I can tell you that.” There was an accusation under Mr. Stark’s words. It was obvious he had tried to use the tracker. Peter bit back a wave of anger. Did Mr. Stark have a list of boundaries he was trying to break? Tracking Peter, sending out an APB. What was next? “I remember you saying you come here every Monday.”

Guilt won out over the anger. Peter had said that, so many Mondays ago. All the way before Germany. He kept the promise for a while. But when he quit his job, he just stopped coming. No more food, no more hangouts. The Camp had been completely abandoned without a warning. 

Peter swallowed hard, returning to Mr. Stark. "Well, then, is it too optimistic to think you're here to celebrate my incredible survival skills and not just because of those pesky videos?"

“Definitely.” Mr. Stark landed, but the face plate stayed securely closed. “What were you thinking?”

“A lot of ‘ I hope I don’t drown ’ and a little ‘ woah, that bird man was insane ’.”

“Real cute, kid.” For some reason, Peter didn’t think Mr. Stark found it cute at all. “Want to tell me why I didn’t get any alerts to your imminent death last night?”

“‘Cause I had it handled?” Peter shrugged, glancing down at his feet.

“Yeah, maybe. Or maybe,” Suddenly, the suit was holding a small, metal piece. The tracker. “It was because my very expensive tracker was ditched in a pile of bird crap.”

“To be fair, it was in the bird’s mouth before-.”

“Nuh-uh, this is where your smart remarks stop.” Mr. Stark warned. “I understand we have a deal, and, trust me, I have no interest in poking around your personal life. But you’re making it increasingly impossible not to, kid. Which part of ‘keep your nose clean’ did you not understand?”

"There are alien weapons out there, Mr. Stark. Yeah, I may be making headlines, but considering the circumstances, my nose is clean."

“Really? So you sending an innocent man to the hospital , that’s clean?”

“Innocent man?”

“Steven Westcott.” A hologram projected from the suit’s eyes, showing Skip’s Facebook profile picture. He was younger in it, joined by a Mary Parker of the same age. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter whispered, staring down the picture. 

“Maybe this is more familiar.” Suddenly, the profile picture was replaced by a darker scene. The picture Ned spoke about. Peter looked cruel, standing over Skip as he fell to the ground.

“I thought those were wiped.”

“They were. By me. It’s not a pretty look having the hero I endorsed knocking the lights out of a Stark Industry Scientist.”

“You looked into Skip?” Mr. Stark knew. More than anybody could have gathered from context clues. Skip’s name, his work. By now, did he know about Peter? Did he connect the dots? “What happened to having no interest in my personal life?”

“I don’t.” Mr. Stark repeated, shaking the helmet. “I’m interested in keeping my team safe. And right now, my team is beating on their forty-year-old not-sidekicks. So yeah, I looked into Westcott.”

“And what did you find?”

“Nothing. Clean criminal record, an impressive career in science, and even a nice personal life. Big fan of Spider-Man, too. Wouldn’t stop talking about you.”

“You saw to him? Like, in real life?” Peter’s heart thumped. 

The suit nodded. “He’s a good guy, Underoos. Which is why I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why you’re involved.”

A good guy . Mr. Stark had spoken to Skip, met him face to face. And he walked away with ‘a good guy’. Of course, he did. Didn’t Skip befriend Peter’s mother for so many years without once alarming her? Hadn’t Peter trusted him his entire life without once questioning it? 

“I was keeping an eye on him… for a friend.” Peter tested, rubbing his elbow. 

“I’m going to need more than that.”

“This kid, Peter Parker.” Peter looked directly at Mr. Stark, his voice steady. “The story is blurry, I don’t have all the answers. But, he asked me to keep an eye on Westcott. Things got out of hand last night.”

Mr. Stark let out a sigh, his frustration evident. "Did you look into the Parker kid at all?"

“Maybe? I mean, no. Uh, should I have?”

"Well, if you're going to go around beating up his dad, yeah, you should have," Mr. Stark admonished.

"His dad?" Peter's voice faltered.

"Westcott took your kid in after his parents died, Spidey. Again, a good guy," Mr. Stark explained, his voice growing harder with each word. "If there's anybody you should have been keeping your eyes on, it was Parker. The kid manipulated you."

I’ve always known what you are . Mr. Stark didn't just look into Skip; he looked into Peter. Into Skip's version of Peter. A concoction of lies and half-truths that painted a vivid picture. It didn't matter what Skip had told Mr. Stark, what stories he had woven to explain away Peter's behavior – bad grades, the assault, running away, testaments from classmates of his ‘aggressive behavior’. All that mattered was that Mr. Stark believed it.

“I don’t understand you, Mr. Stark.” Peter felt like he was floating. Drifting away. “You claim you don’t care about my personal life, yet you go behind my back and talk to someone I mentioned once . You promised to handle the weapon ring, but they end up dropping me into a river. You say you need my help, but you never call. I'm supposed to be a part of your team, yet you don't trust me enough to let me operate without the Training Wheels Protocol . Seriously?"

“Hold on-”

“I can handle myself. I’m not some kid you need to babysit!”

“Are you kidding me?” Mr. Stark erupted. “ You were the one that punched a rando in my suit during your free time. I never called because you shut off your phone line. I looked into the weapons ring, gave you space when you asked for it. And I would love to treat you like an adult, thank you very much. But that’s almost impossible when you’re so hellbent on acting like a child.”

“I’m not acting like a child,” Peter shouted back. “I’m trying to protect things that you don’t even understand!”

“Then let me understand .” Mr. Stark’s anger broke, twisting with concern. “I’ve been around the block a few times and, believe it or not, I have a lot to offer. Resources, support, somebody to trust . But you have to meet me halfway, kid. Put aside your pride and let me help.”

It was a nice thought. A pretty picture to imagine, if you could completely ignore reality. Letting Mr. Stark help. Letting him know everything, from the weapon ring to his real identity. In this fake version of reality, Mr. Stark might help Peter find a new home. One where nobody would dare do anything bad because Iron Man  was always a phone call away. Where Ned didn’t have to hide his best friend and Peter could worry about petty things. Like pretty girls and science projects. 

It would never be real, though.

Because Mr. Stark had seen what was under the mask. The only version that people cared about anymore. He saw it and told Peter that he shouldn’t trust the kid. That Skip was a good guy, and good guys don’t do bad things to fourteen-year-old boys. Mr. Stark wanted Spider-Man, not Peter Parker.

“I don’t need your help,” Peter whispered, crossing his arms.

“Fine,” Mr. Stark sounded defeated. “Fine, figure everything out on your own. Have an absolute blast, I heard being alone is super fun. Be careful, though. The path you’re trying to follow doesn’t have many happy endings.” The empty suit powered up, ready to leave. “And leave the alien crap alone, for Christ’s sake.”

Mr. Stark left.

Chapter Text

Richard Parker used to believe in black and white. For him, the world was neatly categorized into right and wrong, good and bad. Everything that existed had a long list of scientific explanations, so all of his decision was guided by cause and effect. It was this very line of thinking that got him through school, through the Clandestine Service Trainee Program, and through the ranks at work. 

Mary, on the other hand, saw the world through a prism of grey. Despite her father's persistent efforts to align her thinking – he afforded her the best education, and top-tier programs, and even secured a job at the Central Intelligence Agency – Mary resisted the rigid division. Her mind had always been able to find the neutral zones. It was part of the reason she always seemed so distant.

Peter had always believed he was the middle ground in his parent’s thinking. He could appreciate both the black and white as well as the grey in between. Everything had scientific explanations, but not everything needed one. Every villain had an origin story, but that didn’t erase their mistakes. Sure, bad things just happened . That didn’t mean he was doomed.

But after everything that happened, Peter was exhausted by the grey. He was tired of everything being so tangled up and complicated. Wouldn't life be easier if it was either good all the time or completely cruel? One or the other. A straightforward path, where he knew exactly what was coming next. Where there wasn’t a constant back-and-forth between sweet relief and unmanageable chaos.

Peter didn’t often get what he wanted. Because he was hungry, but physically couldn’t eat anymore. Tired, but couldn’t sleep. He wanted to beg for help more than anything, but the thought of letting anybody get close was painful. 

“It’s late, Peter. You should sleep.”

Karen had been saying different iterations of that for a few hours. Telling Peter to rest, eat, drink water. Offering to read another book or contact Ned and MJ. Peter felt almost guilty ignoring her for so long. But her attempts at care were just part of the black-and-white complex. 

“Did you know my parents died?” Peter whispered, listening to the roaring city beneath him. New York always became louder right before midnight. “Last August.”

“I wasn’t aware, no.”

“It was my fault,” Peter had never voiced this part out loud. It was almost relieving. “Everybody was getting ready to call it a night and I panicked. It was my birthday and I just… wanted my parent’s attention for a little while longer. So I begged my parents to go get ice cream. They got into a car accident just two minutes down the road.” Brainwaves stopped on impact.

"You couldn't have known, Peter. It was an accident."

"Does it really matter? I feel like a ticking time bomb, Karen. Maybe everyone is right about me. Maybe I'm just a messed-up kid who's causing harm in my pursuit of vengeance."

Karen interjected, trying to reassure him. "Nobody has said that, Peter. You're being too hard on yourself."

Peter let out a bitter chuckle. "But everyone's thinking it, aren't they? Even Mr. Stark. He called me a manipulator."

“Mr. Stark doesn’t have the whole story.” Karen paused, almost as if she were deciding whether to say something or not. “If I could contact him-”

“ What ?”

“If you allow me, I can unblock the transmission and relay everything you've shared with me to him.”

“Absolutely not,” Peter shook his head. “You heard Mr. Stark last night. He told me to leave the Parker kid alone, to back off from Skip ‘the good guy’ Westcott. Do you really think he'll just change his mind if he found out I'm Peter Parker?"

“Please, if you just let me try-”

There was something creeping up in Peter’s mind. Something thick and watery. It took him only a few seconds to recognize the fishbowl settling around his head. The world was already quieting, vision blurring. Though it had been the better part of a year since Peter had felt it, he welcomed it warmly. The separation from reality was almost divine. 

Inside, Peter Parker floated. The ground had shattered and he was lost in the space between. 

Outside, Spider-Man got to work.

As it turns out, Aaron Davis is an awful spy. 

Peter swung up on the guy in a parking garage the next morning, rearing for a fight. As soon as Peter shot his first web, Davis was confessing. 

"Yo, hold up, those weapons weren't mine!" He argued, slamming down the trunk of his car. "I'm with the cops, man. I was working undercover."

“Oh, uh, yeah!” Peter stammered. “I know, I have your files.”

Davis raised one of his eyebrows, unamused. “Then why did you just… web me?”

"Sorry, that's my bad.” Peter rushed forward, working to release Davis’ hand from the web. “I kind of assumed you were going to be all, 'this secret dies with me'."

“You ain’t never done this before, have you?”

“Oh, come one.” Peter sighed. “Look, I need details about the case. The weapons are no joke. If one can slice a sandwich shop in half-”

“Wait, which sandwich place?”

“Uh, Delmar’s? In Queens?”

“Thank God. I thought they got Sub Haven.”

“What? No, Sub Haven uses too much bread.”

“I like bread, what’s your problem with bread?”

“Not the point! I want to get those weapons off the street.” Peter groaned, kneading his forehead. “Can you tell me about the guy with the wings?”

“No, he’s just this madman with a good costuming budget,” Davis paused. “But, I can tell you where he’s going to be.”

“You can? You will?”

“They’re auctioning off some of the bigger weapons this Friday, on the Staten Island Ferry.”

“You’re telling me… just like that?”

“I’m just returning the favor,” Davis shrugged, unloading a few grocery bags. “You told Herman ‘If you’re going to shoot someone, shoot me'. That was ballsy”

Peter smiled quickly, returning the shrug. “ Ballsy is my middle name.”

“Whatever, kid. Just shut it down.” Davis chuckled, locking his car. “I got a nephew in Brooklyn. I don’t want the weapons getting that far.”

The mask stays on. 

Spider-Man is everywhere in the next few days. He’s in Long Island one second to take down a shoe thief and finding himself in New Jersey the next to help a runaway bride (she was trying to crawl down a church’s second-story window in eight layers of lace). The moments are long enough to make sure everybody is okay, but gone before anybody can snap a decent picture. 

It almost reminds Peter of how life was like before Ned came back into it. Running around like a headless chicken, working through days and nights just to survive. The familiarity was comforting.

Ned and MJ came back on Wednesday. 

Ned was stoked to hear that there was something happening. MJ, on the other hand, was considerably less enthusiastic.

“There’s nothing we can do about this one,” She argued, skeptically munching on a spring roll. They were at a Chinese restaurant this time. “Peter can’t just waltz into an illegal deal and hope for the best.”

And, she had a point. Peter couldn’t do that.

But Spider-Man could. 

The conversation didn’t linger for too long on the weapon ring. While it had been Peter’s focus for the last two weeks, MJ and Ned had barely enough time to think about it. Instead, Ned was giving a play-by-play of Nationals. 

“We were neck and neck, Peter.” Ned excitedly explained, hands waving eccentrically. “There were fifteen seconds on the clock and the judges pulled out a physics challenge .”

“For the second year in a row,” MJ interjected, her tone dry.

“I don’t know why, but we threw Flash to the stand. Which would have been whatever, except the other team had this wicked smart girl. She legit had a tattoo of the quadratic formula.”

Peter couldn't help but laugh. "Seriously? How old was she?"

“I don’t know, but she was really scary. Scarier than MJ.”

MJ playfully rolled her eyes. "Quite the compliment."

“You’re welcome,” Ned’s energy surged as he reached the climax of his story. “There were fifteen seconds left, and it all came down to one point. The scary girl was just about to hit her bell, but Flash beat her to it. I think he did it for dramatic effect. Either way, his answer was right. The crowd went wild!”

“Three people clapped, it was basically a standing ovation,” MJ added. 

“Dude, that is so cool.” Peter smiled, watching the two get excited. “Congratulations on winning!”

“Thanks,” Ned gave MJ's shoulder an excited shake. “We’re going to be the coolest people at homecoming.”

"Only at a nerd school could that be considered cool—being in the Decathlon." MJ fought to hide her amusement.

“That’s so cool guys,” Peter shook his head, smiling sadly. “It’s crazy that it’s homecoming season again. I should have gone when I had the chance.”

MJ and Ned shared a glance, as if communicating an entire conversation in the silence. Peter waited anxiously for them to clue him in. Finally, Ned turned to him. 

“Okay, so MJ had this really cool idea.”

“It wasn’t my -”

“Nope, no turning back now,” Ned grinned, shaking his head. “Remember, vulnerability isn’t a weakness.”

MJ responded with a withering glare. 

“You guys are making me nervous,” Peter smiled hesitantly, glancing between the two. MJ kept her eyes on the table while Ned tilted his head aggressively toward Peter. “What’s going on?”

“MJ has something to ask you.”

“MJ?”

“I hate you, Leeds,” She groaned clenching her fists. Without breaking eye contact with the table, she let out a breath. “Look, do you have anything going on Saturday?”

Peter paused, glancing at Ned for guidance. "Uh, no. No, I don't think so?"

"Well, now you do," MJ shrugged casually, stabbing another spring roll with her chopstick.

Ned let out a disappointed sigh. "That's not asking. You have to ask."

“Fine, whatever!” MJ's voice wavered slightly, but her determination was evident as she locked her gaze with Peter's. “Will you go to homecoming with us? I think it’d be funny, with all the awkward dancing and fashion choices.”

“You’re asking me to homecoming?” Peter could feel his face warming, like he was standing too close to a fire. 

“Sure,” There was that shrug again. Just MJ’s left shoulder, telling Peter she cared more than she wanted to. “It’s not a big deal or anything.”

Ned buzzed with energy as he chimed in, "Dude, it's gonna be epic. We'll have a blast, trust me!"

“Wow. I’d love to…” Peter’s smile faltered as the reality of the request hit him. “But I can’t. I’ve been missing for months, I can’t just-”

“That’s where the best part comes in,” Ned promised, twisting to reach his backpack. From it, he produced a rounded piece of plastic– a domino mask. “You can wear this to conceal your identity.”

“Wouldn’t it look strange if I’m the only one wearing a mask?”

Ned grinned, producing another two masks from the bag. “MJ and I would wear them, too.”

Something stung the back of Peter’s eyes. “You guys would do that for me?”

MJ rolled her eyes, ignoring Peter’s questioning glance.

“In front of the whole school?”

“Man, I’d wear a neon yellow suit if it meant you could come,” Ned assured him. 

There were a thousand reasons Peter should have said no. Should have thanked them and moved on. Stronger than the thousands of reasons, though, were the two right in front of him. He could help but crack a grin and say:

“I’ll be there.”

Peter didn’t have a plan when he swung onto the Ferry. He scarcely had a second thought. For the first time since he was bit, he was going to do good for the sake of doing good. Not stumbling into fights on accident or fighting for Mr. Stark’s attention. He was going to make sure that those weapons weren’t out there, hurting people. Make sure that people like Davis’ nephew had a chance to do great things. 

While waiting on the roof of the ferry, Karen warned Peter that Mr. Stark was attempting to access the suit’s communications. She told Peter that he should answer. 

Peter didn’t. Spider-Man swung into action.

As the ferry fell apart, Peter tasted ice cream. 

When Iron Man showed up to fix the mess, Peter felt the lab’s cold concrete. 

That was the moment Peter finally realized that it wasn't just a matter of bad luck or unfortunate circumstances that haunted his life. The concept of "Parker Luck" wasn't some external force conspiring against him; it was a part of who he was, intricately woven into the fabric of his existence. As long as he was alive, he would be ruining things.

“Previously on Spider-Man Screws the Pooch ,” The voice of Tony Stark was not one you could easily miss, even if you lacked super hearing. Even more noticeable was the shining red suit that suddenly leered over the rooftop Peter had escaped to. “I tell you to leave the alien crap alone and what’s the first thing you do? You hack my multi-million dollar suit so you can run around playing hero.”

After everything, Peter didn’t have the energy to be offended. He could even look away from the dozens of emergency boats that were speeding through the harbor. “Is everyone okay?”

“No thanks to you,” Mr. Stark spat without hesitating. 

Peter didn’t have a good argument against that. Everything that unfolded on the ferry served as a painful reminder of a harsh reality. That Peter Parker never did ‘good’, he ruined. The truth was undeniable. Nobody on that ferry would have been in danger if it weren't for Peter's involvement. It was Iron Man that saved them, that did the right thing. People were saved, no thanks to Peter. 

Even still, something snapped. It was that small, fragile part of Peter that had strived for Mr. Stark’s approval for so long. Yearned for recognition, hoped for the hero to acknowledge Spider-Man’s true potential. Peter was so exhausted that the part finally broke down, releasing a flood of pent-up frustration. 

“No thanks to me ?” The wave of nausea hit Peter as he stood up, but he pushed through it, determined to confront Mr. Stark. With every step, his voice quivered with a mix of frustration and desperation. “I told you there were weapons. I told you they were dangerous! Enough to blow a ferry up . But you didn’t listen! Didn’t do a damn thing. So I researched the ring, I talked to undercover cops. Without your help! I actually tried to help people.”

There’s a dangerous hint of panic in Peter’s tone. He was teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something he didn’t want to see the other side of. But he couldn’t back up. Couldn’t stop. Peter floated in the fishbowl and Spider-Man yelled in Mr. Stark’s face. 

“I don’t know why we’re pretending, man. You’ve never trusted Spider-Man. Not enough to do anything except save kittens from trees and eat churros. So I’m wondering why you even bothered making me this suit, why you bothered to bring me to Germany. All of these mixed signals, it’s frustrating!”

"Frustrating?" Mr. Stark scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "You want to talk about frustrating, Spider-Man? Let's talk about frustrating. How about the fact that I want to trust you? That I've given you countless opportunities to earn that trust, and yet, time and again, you betray it spectacularly. Tell me, isn't that frustrating? Or shall we talk about the mask? Because, to be honest, that's even more frustrating. I bet you love the fact that nobody can touch you when you hide behind it. It gives you the freedom to live your best super-powered life without any consequences. And I keep letting you get away with it! That’s probably the most frustrating part. I just fought a war with the closest thing I had to a family, to make sure they couldn’t that. So why have I been defending you for so long?”

“Great question!” Peter shot back, crossing his arms. “You obviously don’t give a crap about me. I’m just another task on your agenda. You don’t even care enough to be here.”

Of course – of course – Tony Stark emerged from the suit at that exact moment. 

“Don’t care, huh?” His face remained perfectly still, perfectly withdrawn despite the aggression of his words. “Who do you think called the FBI? Who tipped off the NYPD so you had an undercover cop to talk to?”

Mr. Stark took another step forward. Peter rushed to take a step backward. His heart hammered in his chest. The inner voice cried too close, too close, too close…

“You didn’t,” Peter tried to work his voice from a whisper. It didn’t budge. “You didn’t tell me that.”

Suddenly, the mask of calm broke on Mr. Stark’s face. It split into an ugly anger, directed toward Peter. “I did, Spidey. Even though you shut down my phone line for you, I still tried. I worked for half an hour, just trying to send a single message to your suit. To tell you that something was happening, to make sure you were staying safe. Instead, I was met with another blatant betrayal of my trust.”

“I didn’t shut off my line,” Peter whispered half-heartedly. 

“No, this is where you zip it.” Mr. Stark ordered, raising his hand quickly. Peter flinched. “Did you know that I was the only person that believed you about the weapons? Everyone else said I was crazy to investigate something a faceless nobody said. But I did it because I wanted to trust you.”

“I didn’t think-”

“No, you didn’t.” Mr. Stark agreed. “You assumed that everybody was against you and went behind my back. What if somebody had died tonight? Different story, right? ‘Cause that’s on you. Or, what if you died? That would land on me, and I don’t want that on my conscious.”

Spider-Man had run his course. His anger had worn thin, his fire extinguished. Peter floated through the space between. The inner voice sighed. What’s the point? Peter Parker is nothing. Spider-Man had failed. What’s the point?

“I’m sorry,” Peter curled his shoulders forward. The statement felt like it belonged to his entire life. “I know I messed up. I just… I just wanted to be like you.”

I wanted to do something good for once.

“And I wanted you to be better.” Mr. Stark responded plainly, the anger melting from his face. He glanced Peter up and down before shaking his head. “Okay, it’s not working out. I’m gonna need the suit back.”

Nothing existed beyond this moment. Peter couldn’t remember anything that happened before, didn’t care about anything that could happen after. All that mattered was Mr. Stark’s anger and Peter’s failure. He didn’t think Peter was worth the effort before. The Parker Kid was bad news. And now, Spider-Man wasn’t worth the stress. You’re nothing . You’ll never be anything.

“No, please, please ,” Peter trembled, backing away further. “You don’t understand, please. I’m nothing without this suit, Mr. Stark.”

There is nothing beyond this moment. Just Mr. Stark and his words. There isn’t even inflection.

“If you’re nothing without the suit, you’re nothing with the suit.”

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Then time was passing again. Mr. Stark waited, arms crossed. Peter spoke a thousand things, but none of them passed his lips. He couldn’t remember how to speak. Couldn’t remember why he wanted to. 

“You can give me the suit, or I can take it.” Mr. Stark glanced away nonchalantly. “Your choice.”

Words, words were needed here. Peter found that his throat did, in fact, work. “I don’t have my other mask.”

Mr. Stark’s face couldn’t settle on an emotion. There was a dangerous fight between disbelief and rage on his face as he hissed, “That’s really your biggest concern right now?”

Peter glanced down at his feet. It felt stupid to him, as well. “I have things to protect.”

After a tense moment, Tony let out a resigned sigh. "Whatever, kid. I’ll be in the alley we first met in an hour. You can leave the suit there. But let me be clear, if it's not there, if you don't follow through, it's your funeral."

Mr. Stark returned to his suit. He flew away. It didn’t feel real. It felt so far separate from where Peter floated in his fishbowl. Karen spoke. It took fifteen minutes before it reached Peter’s mind. 

“Peter, Peter?”

“I’m alive,” Peter whispered to her. It was supposed to be a witty response, but it felt more like a question. Was he alive? Had he survived? Nothing .

“Peter, everything is going to be okay,” Karen promised. “If you’d let me turn on transmissions, we can work this out.”

Nothing, nothing, nothing .

“I have to…” Peter hesitated. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”

Then, Karen was gone. The mask was gone. Peter delivered the suit. There were no other options. No intricate plans to fix everything. Mr. Stark was done. Spider-Man was done. What was the point of fighting it?

“Goodbye, Karen.”

Chapter Text

Peter had one more try. Something like a last meal before he was presented to death row.

Everything had gone wrong, everything was sure to go wrong. That was just Peter’s life. He wasn’t sure how he deluded himself into thinking a fancy suit and some powers would ever fix that. He was going down, soon. All it would take was one person, and the world had plenty to choose from.  Skip, Mr. Stark, Ned, the Vulture… 

So Peter had one more try. One last attempt to fix his mistakes before he let the world take its revenge. It better be a damn good try.

Peter found himself back at the Camp after he dumped Mr. Stark’s suit. There was a sense of urgency in the air as he returned to his tent. He worked through his belongings on his toes, ready to run if anything felt wrong.

Nothing, nothing, nothing . It was a startling realization, recognizing how little he possessed now. The majority of his belongings neatly fit into his backpack. The rest, truth be told, had never been important to begin with.

Among the items in his bag was his old suit (he couldn’t decide if he wanted to burn it or give it to Ned), the phone MJ bought him, and a few vials of web fluid. 

At the bottom of the bag, Peter found his mother’s necklace. The last thing he owned from his original life. He had kept it in his bag for so long, terrified of losing his only physical reminder. But if he were to have one last try, one final chance to make his parent’s proud, he would wear the necklace. Even though the cold metal had been absorbing the cold for months, it felt warm against his chest. Was it his imagination, or did he smell a waft of cinnamon?

Everything else was abandoned inside his tent. Perhaps , he thought, someone will find everything when the winter weather warmed up . There was a comfort, thinking his existence may do something good. 

To his surprise, Angelica was awake when he emerged. She leaned against a long tube of cement, facing a dying fire. She turned toward Peter when she heard him, the fire casting an orange glow across her face. 

“Welcome in,” Angelica invited Peter over, patting the ground beside her. Peter slid into the space quickly. 

"You’re up late," Peter didn’t look at Angelica. Instead, he watched the flames. 

Angelica let out a soft chuckle, her laughter tinged with a touch of melancholy. It was a sound born out of habit rather than genuine amusement. “You’re not the only one who doesn’t sleep, kid.”

“Gasp,” Peter said dramatically. “You mean I’m not special?”

This time, Angelica's laughter sounded more genuine. Though still subdued, it held a trace of warmth that hadn't been present before. Peter took it as a small victory. Perhaps he could help Angelica in his last try. Lead her away from Camp, maybe to F.E.A.S.T.

Lost in her thoughts, Angelica broke the silence, her gaze shifting from the fire to the concrete overpass above. "I've been thinking about what I would be doing right now," she confessed. "If life had gone according to my plans."

“What have you come up with?”

“Nothing good,” Angelica smiled softly. “I was fifteen when my parents kicked me out. They didn’t like that I went from Barbies to boys so quickly. I think they assumed I'd come back with a better attitude in a week or so. But I didn't. I just hopped on a bus and never looked back.”

There was a pause, the silence drifting around Camp. They were the only two left at this point. Peter glanced over just in time to see Angelica pinch a tear from her cheek.

"Before all of that, I wanted to be a lawyer, like in Legally Blonde ,” She continued quietly, as if this were an embarrassing secret. “But when the time came, I couldn't afford college. So I kind of just let it go.”

“You would have been an amazing lawyer,” Peter could clearly picture Angelica in a shiny suit, taking the courtroom by storm. 

“How about you? What did your life look like before… well this .”

“It changed all the time,” Peter sighed, thinking through his life. “When I was a kid, obviously I wanted to be a superhero. I’d watch actual heroes and aliens fight just down the street and think ‘ I want to do that ’. But, uh, I guess that wasn’t in the cards for me.” – I just wanted to be like you. – “So I wanted to be a photographer, then an engineer, even a chemistry teacher.”

Angelica's gaze remained fixed on the overpass as she silently absorbed Peter's words. The two reveled in the silence for a while longer. There was a finality to it. 

After a long while. Angelica spoke again. “I’m going to do it.”

“Do what?” 

“I’m going to give F.E.A.S.T a try.” 

Peter turned to face Angelica, his eyebrows raised. “Wait, really?”

“Yes, really.” Angelica laughed, waving off Peter’s shock. “I didn't look back when I was fifteen, at what life could have been. I don’t think I really could have. But now... now I can. It’s about time I stop surviving and start living.”

“That’s amazing, Ange. I’m so excited for you.” And he was. Even if the inner voice whispered that he was nothing and that he had once again helped no one . The world would spin on seamlessly whenever his demise came. 

“I don’t suppose I can convince you to come with me, can I? I’m heading over tonight.”

"As much as I would love to hear you try to convince me," Peter's grin remained, but he felt almost empty. "I can't. There are a few loose ends I need to tie up.”

“I thought I’d try.” Angelica tested out a laugh, but it broke into a soft sniffle. “I’m going to miss seeing you around.”

Peter laughed as well. Despite the warning bells in his head, he found himself pulling Angelica into a hug. He found that it was warm and didn’t quite remind him of bad things. “I’m going to miss you, too.”

The world moved much like it did the night of the bank robbery. Jumping between space, time slipping away. It was as if the fishbowl was deciding which parts of reality were worth Peter’s waning attention.

 In one moment, it was letting Peter say goodbye to Angelica. In the very next, he was seated on the back of a city bus. He couldn’t remember where it was heading, but he trusted there was a destination somewhere in his mind. Reality blurred out before he could worry about the other options.

There was music. Music and lights and people. So many people – did Midtown High always have so many people ? 

There was no reason Peter should be here. Actually, there were specifically a thousand reasons Peter should be anywhere else. After so many months of hiding, it felt wrong to just walk into a building with so many people . People that had probably all heard about ‘that Parker kid’. The entire point of the last try was to make up for mistakes, not make new ones.

But… Ned was counting on him. MJ was waiting. Peter had promised. So he would walk into that school, wearing the shiny mask and pretty suit he bought the night before. He would dance and smile and let his last try do something good. The only solace Peter could find in the panic-inducing scene was the two web shooters on his wrists. He may not be a hero anymore, but having the option to make a quick escape at any time was comforting.

“Welcome to gameday,” Ned bumped Peter with his shoulder, looking at the pool of people as well. He looked surprisingly cool, Peter noted. He had a Hawaiian shirt on under a freshly ironed, white blazer. The combination should have looked cheesy, but Ned’s excitement overpowered it. “What’s your plan?"

“My plan?” That’s how you spoke, right? It felt wrong, everything was too close .

“I was thinking you play the gentleman,” Ned grinned, slinging an arm over Peter’s shoulder. Unlike Angelica, it felt claustrophobic. “Open the door, ask her to dance, tell her she’s pretty. But like, not too much? That’s just creepy.”

“Do I get any context for this?”

“Uh, MJ?” Ned waited, as if Peter was missing an obvious joke. When Peter didn’t respond, he continued. “Dude, she asked you out to homecoming .”

"She asked both of us,” Peter rolled his eyes, ignoring the heat that rose to his cheeks. The crowd in front of the school began to thin as the doors opened. “Totally different.”

“For somebody so smart, you’re clueless.” Ned noted, using the look he always used when he was trying to be serious.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter said indignantly, trying to fight off the hope that bubbled in his chest. 

There was a line down the block of cars, probably excited parents waiting for their turn to unleash their teenagers for a night of freedom. Leading the parade was Abe Brown, one of the only kids who had tried to befriend Peter in middle school – Peter had ignored him, scared of ruining Abe’s natural popularity. Tonight, he was rocking a flashy golden suit, splashed with a vibrant mix of blue, red, and green stripes. He had an upperclassman on his arm. Julian, Peter thought his name was. He couldn’t quite put a finger on where they would have interacted. Another rock on the mountain of things Peter had missed. 

"Oh, I think that's her dad's car!" Ned exclaimed, his excitement evident as he hurriedly fastened his mask onto his face. Peter followed Ned's gaze towards the never-ending line of cars, expecting to catch sight of MJ's distinctive features—her dark curls and piercing eyes. Wondered, fleetingly, if she would be wearing a suit to “fight the patriarchy”. 

Instead, Peter's attention was immediately drawn to Liz Allen, surrounded by a lively group of girls, all donning matching dresses. Their laughter erupted into the air as one of them stumbled on her way out of the sleek, black car. She could barely stand straight when Liz reached over to pick her up. Peter couldn't help but notice a glimmer of silver from one girl's hands, suggesting that they had been partying for a while now.

At first, he assumed it was the sheer volume of the group that had snatched his attention. But, when he tried to look away, to find MJ, he found he physically couldn’t look away. A sensation he hadn't experienced in a long time washed over him—the familiar tingling at the back of his neck, the prickling sensation in his side. His Peter Tingle. The longer he looked at the group, the stronger it got. 

The girls trickled inside, but he was focused on where they had been. Focused on the car . 

Peter had never met Liz’s father. Her mother, sure. Mrs. Toomes had been a constant volunteer for Midtown since grade school. Hosting bake sales and working the ticket booths. But Peter had never needed to meet Mr. Toomes.

However, as he focused his gaze on the driver's seat, a sudden recognition washed over him. It was not Liz's father he saw behind the wheel. Instead, there was a man who had a wingspan wider than he was long.

Sitting behind the wheel was the Vulture. 

At that very moment, nothing else mattered. Homecoming, promises, last tries – it all faded into oblivion. Peter couldn’t care less if his life burned all around him. Couldn’t bother with the sleepless year or hunger pains. It didn’t matter if Mr. Stark had abandoned him for reasons Peter couldn’t even argue with. 

The only thing on Peter’s mind was the Vulture. The weapons. People were in danger across the city, if not now soon . A danger that the police couldn’t end, that Mr. Stark couldn’t end, because they weren’t Peter Parker. They weren’t standing on the concrete with a red and blue suits tucked into their backpacks, staring down the leader of the weapon ring. 

It wasn’t his choice, no. Not one moment since the ice cream parlor had been his choice. 

Yet, this was his responsibility. Because he was Peter Parker, and he was watching as Mr. Toomes put his car in ‘drive’. 

Reality crashed back in as the car began to creep into the road’s traffic. There was music and crowds and Ned again. 

Without truly thinking about it, Peter yanked his phone from his pocket, dialing Ned’s contact. His eyes graced the screen for only a few seconds – to make sure it was ringing – before he flung it at Mr. Toome’s car. He didn’t even wait for the sound of the chunky phone colliding with the bumper before he shot a web after it. The entire sequence unfolded in a matter of seconds, so swift and seamless that Ned hadn't even noticed it happening.

“Dude, I think you’re butt-dialing me.” Ned chuckled, looking down at his illuminated phone. Peter snatched it, sliding the ‘answer’ button quickly. 

“I need you to track this call,” Peter demanded cradling the phone to his chest.

Ned glanced between the screen and Peter’s face a few times. Then, he dropped his voice and whispered, “Is something wrong?”

“Yes… no. Maybe?” Peter glanced back at Mr. Toome’s car, about to break free of the parental traffic. “The guy with the bird suit, the leader of the weapon ring is right there. Ned, it’s Liz Allen’s dad .”

“What!” Ned yells hands shooting up to the top of his head. 

“I know!” Peter yells back, head whipping to the car. Mr. Toomes' had escaped the line. He was now gunning fifty, about to turn the corner. “Holy shit… Okay, okay. I need you to be my guy in the chair. I have to track that call and follow him. I don’t know how-”

Ned doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t flinch. Instead, he lights up like Times Square. “I have it all under control, man. You take my phone, I’ll call it from the landline in the computer lab. Are you going to be okay?”

“Doesn’t matter!” Peter urged, already jogging toward the corner. He glanced over his shoulder. “Tell MJ I’m sorry.”

Peter wasn’t getting anywhere on foot. After sprinting to the end of the block, watching the car race into the distance, Peter considered web-slinging. He didn’t have nearly enough time to change from his Homecoming suit to his Spider-Man suit, but it may not even matter anymore. 

Luckily enough, the solution hit him like a car. Or, almost did.

Flash Thompson careened around the corner at that moment in a flashy convertible that was somehow less expensive than Flash’s watch. Oblivious to Peter's presence, Flash sped around the corner to the school. If the Peter Tingle didn’t exist, Peter would have become roadkill. 

Instead, the Spider-Man mask practically materialized into Peter’s hands. In a swift movement, he launched himself onto the glossy hood.

“I need this car.”

Mr. Toomes drove to a warehouse downtown. A worn down area that seems to be somehow stuck in the past but aged by the future. It sits on the edge of a river, covered in a thick fog from factories. 

Peter managed to wrestle his old suit on in the time it takes him to drive – or crash – to the hideout. He clings to the support beams, listening. Waiting. 

When Mr. Toomes answers a call, telling the person on the other line about a ‘good haul’ and Avengers Towers, Peter grows tired of waiting. 

He drops to the floor, sending a web straight to the man’s hands. 

“Suprised?”

And, honestly, Mr. Toomes does seem surprised. 

For about thirty seconds. 

Then, the wings come out.

Of all the ways Peter saw himself end in the past week, he never imagined it’d be this. 

Weight settles on his chest and finally, it’s the literal kind. In the first moments, when the world first crashed down on top of Peter, he didn’t have time to think. All he could do was grip at anything he could touch. Pull and squirm and home that this pull would finally free him. After five hundred pulls, after the dust settled and the building was still on his back, Peter found his mind processing again. 

It was so much worse. 

The panic surged through him, searing his being with an agony that surpassed the crushing weight upon him. It tore through his veins like a scorching inferno, overwhelming his senses completely. This wasn't as simple as an asthma attack; it was an entirely different level of torment. It went beyond the constriction of his lungs, which had failed him in this critical moment. Instead, it was the world itself that crumbled and closed in on him, plunging him into a suffocating abyss of darkness and silence. Every fiber of his being was ensnared by the unyielding grip of cement, metal, and rubble, their combined force relentlessly shrinking his already dwindling space moment by moment.

It wasn’t until he felt water pooling by his face, pouring from a broken pipeline, that Peter even thought to speak.

“Quick, help! I’m stuck, I can’t move, please, I can’t—somebody—anybody—!”

He’s only met with his own echo in the darkness. 

Of course, nobody was coming. It was almost a sweet irony. Nobody was going to help a nothing . 

Nothing without the suit, you’re nothing with the suit.

The inner voice doesn’t hesitate to lull Peter in. It promises him that everything will be easier if he just closed his eyes and waited for the pressure to end it. Wouldn’t it be much easier if you truly were nothing ?

Except, Mr. Toomes was still out there. Still had the weapons. Was going to have Mr. Stark’s weapons . 

Tears streamed down Peter's face, but he couldn't afford the luxury of indulging them. Breathing became a painful struggle, as each movement pressed his ribcage against the unforgiving confines of the surrounding rubble. He couldn’t give in. He held his breath, watching his own reflecting tremble as he steeled himself. With trembling hands, Peter sought stability on the jagged edge of a nearby cement fragment, using it as leverage to shift the weight that bore down on his back.

“Come on, Spider-Man,” He begged of himself, straining against the weight. “Come on, Spider-Man, you can do this.”

The debris shifted slightly above him, offering a glimmer of hope. But it was short-lived. Peter's weary arms gave way, causing him to collapse onto his chest, bringing the weight of the rubble crashing down upon him. The pressure intensified, almost suffocating him, as a desperate sob escaped his lips.

You can’t do this. Nothing, nothing, nothing …

The inner voice wasn’t alone anymore, though. Maybe it was the hysteria or maybe it was supernatural. But right when Peter felt he might give up, that he should give up, a new monologue burned through his psyche. It was his parents. Just as they were in his dreams. As they should have been if they were still alive.

“ Peter ,” Mary’s voice rang in his ears. “ You have to get up, love. You can’t stay here.”

“Momma,” Peter whispered back, forehead pressing into the wet ground. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m so tired, it’s too much.”

“ We know, kiddo, ” Richard answered this time. “ This is too much for you. For anybody. But you have to do it anyway. Even if it’s hard. Come on, one more try. ”

“I’m so sorry,” Peter sobbed. “I wanted to be better, I really did try. But it was never enough.”

“ Peter .”

“ I was never enough. Mr. Stark is right, I’m not strong enough to be Spider-Man. I never should have tried.”

“ Peter Benjamin Parker ,” Richard demanded. Though he didn’t have a face to shake, Peter could feel it. “ I raised you to be smarter than that. I know, deep down, you know that Spider-Man was never a different, stronger person It was always you, kiddo. You did everything. You’re the strong one, the good one.”

“How can you believe that, Dad?”

“ Because we’ve seen it ,” Mary soothes. “ You’ve done so many incredible things in the past year. Most importantly, you survived. You made it through the thickest moments and through the thin to make it here. You’ve earned your rest, love. Just not yet. I need you to be strong just a little longer, so you can truly rest. ”

The voices melt away. The debris is shifting. Rising. Peter’s arms strain, but he pushes anyway. 

“Come on Spider-Man,” But that isn’t right. He knows that, now. “Come on Peter . Come on Peter, you can do it, come on, come on Peter, come on, Peter—!”

One push and his knees are able to prop themselves between his body and the floor. 

Another push and his feet do the same. 

With a final push, the debris crash across the floor. Peter fills his lungs completely for the first time.

One more try had gotten Peter far. 

It had gotten him out of the collapsed building.

Propelled him onto Mr. Starks plane, where he used every ounce of his strength ensuring said plane didn’t crash into Main Street.

And finally crashed him onto Coney Island.

Fire and destruction littered the beach in a deadly labyrinth. The heat was overwhelming, blazing through the spaced in between the rubble. It bore through what remained of Peter’s suit, boiling his skin and drying his eyes. Peter didn’t have the strength to escape the sensation as of yet. Instead, he laid on his back in front of the pile he made. Dozens of crates stacked high with Mr. Stark’s designs and weapons. Displayed right in front was a restrained Mr. Toomes. 

“I know your face.”

Peter doesn’t feel a jump of fear like he was used to. This time, it was his choice. He had abandoned his mask a while ago, to dim the heat slightly. What did it matter anymore? His part was done. 

“Yeah, you go to school with my daughter,” Mr. Toomes continued through the silence. “Figures. I’m not a man of fate, but talk about karma.”

Peter’s eyes drift to where Mr. Toomes was strung up. His mind scrolled through possible feelings one could have toward a man who almost murdered you. Who sold weapons to civilians, knowing people could get hurt. Nothing stirred. Instead, he thought of Liz. 

“How could you do this to Liz?” Peter sighed, rolling onto his knees. His body felt weak. “Nothing will ever feel normal for her again.”

“I did all of this for her,” Mr. Toomes glowered. “So she could have enough money to go to technical schools and college and have a good life. Getting caught wasn’t in the plan.”

Peter shrugged. “Life tends to do that. Change the plan.”

Sirens began to sound from all directions. Peter didn’t feel like he could stand, let alone walk, but he did it anyway. He yanked his mask back into place and sends a web as far as it can go. 

His one last try needed to carry him a little further.

Skip’s house sat as it always had. Huge, beautiful, sterile. 

There weren’t any lights on in the house. Peter couldn’t see the lab – as it was underground – but from the sound of Skip’s breathing, it was safe to say he was asleep. 

Peter had always intended to come here. From the moment he decided he was riding out his final train of action, he knew he would come back. The reason kept changing throughout the ride. Sometimes, he thought he was coming to retrieve his stuff. The last things he had left of his previous life. Perhaps he could carry it with him wherever he ended up – foster care, prison, an experimentation lab. Other times, he believed he would set Skip in his place one final time. 

At the moment, Peter felt like he just needed to see it. To see that this part of his life truly did exist. That he wasn’t just playing out a horrific fantasy, ruining his entire life. See his old bedroom and living room and the lab. See it, believe it, let it go. 

Using what strength he had mustered, Peter snuck across the grand lawn. On the opposite side of the house where Skip was currently on, Peter climbed easily through the window. Inside, was his bedroom. Perfectly untouched from the last time he saw it. Bed folded tightly, untouched from weeks without sleep. Sporadic messes filled the space, between clothes and school projects. Set out so Peter had easy access, so he didn’t have to think about anything. 

Peter never realized that his room had the same sterile, haunted feeling as the rest of the house. It didn’t always. But there was an obvious lack of life inside the walls. As if it had been staged. No knickknacks or posters or trinkets. No signs of wear or tear in the room. The spiders had even worked their way into Peter’s room in way of notebooks and diagrams. 

For six months Peter sat in this room. Scared to stay, but even more terrified to leave. Holding his breath and hoping that it would be over soon. Thinking of every single way he could have prevented his situation. He wouldn’t sit here any longer. 

There was no sound as Peter limped downstair. The only sound was when he creaked the lab door open.

It was just as cold as he remembered. 

Against the countless warnings Peter had recieved when he lived here, he defiantly flicked every single light switch. The bright lights brought an immediate wave of aggravated hissing from a large number of spiders. More spiders than Peter remembered Skip having.

The hissing only grew louder as he made his way down to the lab. It was the same as he left it, in many ways. Chaotic and unruly, filled with clutter of all kinds. Except now, it had been transformed into a chamber of horrors. Every available surface, from the floor to the smallest nooks and crannies, was crammed with stacks of small, plastic cubes. 

In each was a glinting, red spider. 

Skip had meticulously designed an army of spiders. All pulsating with the same genetic change that Peter had found so long ago. Or probably a more drastic potency, each new prototype stronger than the last. 

“Breathtaking, isn’t it?” 

Skip leaned against the doorway, staring into his clandestine arsenal. He didn’t look anything like the man Peter knew when he was young anymore. This Skip was exhausted and obsessive. There was a fist-shaped bruise on the left side of his face, yellowing from age. The tips of his hair were turning white, the bags under his eyes were long past unhealthy. Even when he was slumped against the wall, staring at what may be his greatest accomplishment, his fingers still tapped anxiously. His eyes jumped between points. 

“What are you doing?” After the night Peter had, he couldn’t muster the energy to be afraid. All he could do was ignore the continuous feeling that gravity was dragging him down. 

“Trying to move on,” Skip pushed himself from the wall, deeper into the lab. He picked up a box, examining it. “After your outburst, I decided I would just start over. I had designed the spider once, hadn’t I? I would give himself the powers and do what you couldn’t.”

“You’d only need one spider for that.”

“That’s true. But the first didn’t feel right. There was something wrong. So I made the next one. Then the next. I used the same formula I used for your spider, but it never felt the same.”

“What was missing?”

“You,” Skip sighed, tossing the box aside carelessly. The spider dashed across the box’s face. “I didn’t even realize it happened. My mind wasn’t consumed by the spiders anymore, my entire world revolved around you, Peter. Pushing you until you broke, just to see how hard I had to press.”

The words were like nails on a chalkboard. Grating, torturous. Peter shook his head, not daring to look away from the spiders. “Why me ? I don't… I didn’t do anything to you. I was just trying to survive.”

A sad smile tugged at the corners of Skip's weary face. "That's the tragedy, Peter. You were never meant to be just another survivor. The way you fought so hard to be good, it urged every bad thing in the world to you. Like moths to a flame. I don’t think there was any other way our lives could have gone. This, us , it was inevitable.”

Peter shook his head, ignoring the throbbing pain that it caused. He didn’t come here to argue about faults and fate and inevitability. Well, he didn’t technically come for anything in particular. But he wasn’t staying to listen to Skip explain his side. “What are you going to do with the spiders, then?”

“Sell them. Though my motivation has become… unstable, I’m not stupid. There is no shortage of people that would pay a fortune to have enhanced genes. I have a buyer lined up in Germany right now.”

“Ah, yes. The classic ‘sell a foreign army the ability to invent super soldiers’. It turns out so well every time.” Peter was running out of steam. He wasn’t sure how much longer his consciousness would last. “You know I’m not going to let you do that.”

Skip wasn’t upset. He didn’t even seem surprised. Instead, he laughed. “I figured as much. There isn’t a happy ending waiting in the cards for me. The least I can do is keep trying until it ends.”

“Funny enough, I'm doing the same thing.” Without waiting for a response, Peter began working. His arm trembled as he raised it, but he snapped his fingers onto his trigger anyway. A wide arc of webs sprayed from his wrist, splattering across the boxes. He kept jamming his fingers down until they were all covered. 

“You’re just making a mess,” Skip argued watching the display. 

“Sure am,” Peter grunted, pinching off the last web with his own hand. They, too, were bloody. Were there any parts of him that weren’t bleeding, bruised, or exhausted? Web in hand, Peter walked to Skip’s workbench. He wrapped it around a Bunsen Burner quickly. “First rule of lab safety. A messy lab makes a dangerous lab.”

In one fluid motion, Peter activated the burner. Skip lunged forward, a cry escaping his lips, but it was too late. Flames erupted in a blinding burst, devouring the web-coated cubes and spreading with alarming speed. The room was soon consumed by the inferno, thick smoke billowing and obscuring their surroundings. Peter fought the urge to feel bad as the hissing began to quiet.

Skip didn’t fight back when Peter shoved him toward the stairs. They ambled up quickly, the flames licking right behind their heels. As they emerged into the cool night air, Peter finally felt a sense of rest. In the distance, sirens wailed, piercing through the night as the authorities responded to the blaze. 

Skip didn’t say anything as he watched his house began to be swallowed in flames. Didn’t even flinch when the first wave of neighbors came. Then the next. Nothing brought a community together like a fire. 

“This isn’t over,” Skip called when Spider-Man began to retreat from the cameras and questions. “You can burn down my house, punch me in the face, I don’t care. It’s not over.”

It wasn’t the words that mattered to Skip. He didn’t truly want to warn Peter of a long-lasting struggle. He couldn’t care less. What mattered was the looks that spread across the crowd. The way that phones lifted and whispers rose. Skip was done pushing Peter Parker. He wanted to break Spider-Man.

Peter found he didn’t care. He had burned through his last try. Fought the battle and watched the dust settle. Still, it wasn’t over. It was like his father said, he didn’t have the option to give up. His life was hard, the world wasn’t fair, and Peter Parker would fight anyway.

For he was Spider-Man, with or without the mask. 

End of Part One

Chapter Text

36 hours. Barnes. Rogers. Wilson.

This was the threat Secretary Ross presented. Somebody, anybody, had to track down three American veterans – two of which had been genetically enhanced in the 1940s and the other had a Stark Industries flying machine – in the span of thirty-six hours. Relatively easy task, right?

Yeah, Tony didn’t think so either. 

“My left arm is numb,” He whines as Natasha paces the length of the room. “Is that normal?”

Natasha doesn’t look at Tony. Instead, she settles her pacing and places her hand on his shoulder. “You alright?”

“Of course, I’m all right,” Tony presents his natural grin, the one that has gotten him in the most trouble throughout his life. “Don’t I look alright?”

“Always.” Natasha watches out the window, clearly not buying Tony’s confidence.

Shortly after Natasha was ‘Natalie Rushman’ but still before she was the Avenger’s ‘Black Widow’, Tony asked her how she managed her “spy bullshit”. In the eighties, Tony’s teenage era, super spies were very popular in America . You weren’t truly human if you didn’t dream of going undercover to take down a communist country (the Cold War was also very popular in the eighties). 

At the time, Natasha told Tony that the most important thing was reading the emotions of those around him. Understanding what makes somebody tick, what makes them melt. If you could see the slightest shift in somebody’s emotions, the rest of the spy bullshit came naturally.

Naturally, being a fantastic spy, Natasha was always hyperaware of those around her. Aware enough to know that when Tony began complaining about his heart, he was definitely not alright . 

But she wasn’t one to tie you down and force you to talk about your feelings. Instead, she simply said, “We're seriously understaffed.” 

“It'd be great if we had a Hulk right about now.” That was an understatement. Tony would have been ecstatic to have any of the Avengers right about now. To hang at their shawarma place (which he found out was not as delicious as he expected it to be, but it was a tradition at this point). He’d probably cry if Thor smashed one of his expensive tumblers or Wilson challenged everybody that would listen to an arm wrestle (just to lose every time). Those moments were seeming further and further at the moment. “Any shot?”

“You really think he’d be on our side?”

Tony doesn’t answer. He was trying this new thing called ‘optimism’. 

Perhaps Natasha picked that up. Because when the silence stretched for too long, she reluctantly says, “I have an idea.”

“I do, too,” Tony realized.

The spider guy wasn’t exactly the world’s best-kept secret. 

Even if spending all of your time-saving people and apprehending petty criminals with spider webs wasn’t a call for attention, doing so in a mask and bright red suit definitely was. It was a perfect cocktail of the two things Americans distrust more than anything: masked men and random acts of kindness.

So the second that the weirdo swung into action, Tony knew about it. He watched the YouTube videos, and heard about the guy who crawled on walls. A group of people had even been theorizing that he was a new member of the Avengers.

Tony couldn’t help but wait, wondering if the punk would join any terrorist organizations ( no offense, Wanda ) or destroy a few towns while getting a handle on the ropes ( no offense, Bruce ). 

As time went on, Spidey didn’t prove himself to be a problem. In fact, he turned out to be pretty decent. He spent his time handing out groceries and helping old ladies. The worst thing he ever did was dent a few benders while he was saving people’s lives . In the superhero world, that was the equivalent of pulling off a bandaid. Uncomfortable, but helpful. 

Tony meant to keep tabs on the guy, he really did. He had actually been seated at his holographic table, prepared to snoop around Spidey’s background and put a face to a name when Pepper came in. 

She told him they had a date planned. 

Tony told her he’d be up after he tracked the hero kid down. 

Pepper wondered what was the point of blowing up all of his suits if he didn’t retire from the hero crap.

Tony argued that the world needed him. 

Pepper argued that she needed him. 

When Tony impulsively said that the world was a little more important than a date, she left. 

It’s safe to say that Tony didn’t end up looking up the spider guy.

He’s fine, though. Everything is fine. Webling could swing around all day for all it mattered, Tony told himself. I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it. After all, how hard could it be to find a single guy in a bright red leotard who spent his free time playing vigilante in Queens' alleyways?

Really fucking hard, evidently. 

After Tony promised Natasha a great idea, he got to work. Within the hour, his Iron Man suit was blasting over Paris as FRIDAY was searching through public records. Scanning street cameras, locating the guy’s comfort zone, even cross-referencing fan-videos to see if perhaps the guy was publishing his own PR. Tony had no doubt that he would have an ID by the time he reached the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.

He would be wrong. He was already landing at Stark Towers when FRIDAY finally registered–

“There’s no matches, boss.” 

“ None ?”

Not even a suspicious similarity. The Webling was obviously an amateur when it came to costume design and combat, so Tony had assumed that would also make him reckless. He should really learn to stop making assumptions. After FRIDAY sifted through actual hours of footage, there wasn’t a single face. The kid always disappeared on the same street which, whether a coincidence or by plan, had an aggressive lack of cameras or running businesses. There would simply be a guy in a red leotard swinging through the street, then nothing . 

Sitting in his lab, he felt a twinge of regret. Maybe, just maybe, it would have been easier if he had looked into Webling after all. When he was still new and reckless. It didn’t matter if a grand slam down wasn’t on his Avenger’s Bingo Card , it was just the responsible thing. 

He didn’t have time for self-loathing right now, though. Thirty-six hours. Barnes. Rogers. Wilson. The self-loathing would have to wait until after the conflict.

Right now, Tony set up a keyword alert for anything having to do with Spiderling , crime-fighting spiders , and Spider-Boy . After the first hour of nothing, Tony began to work on a suit (The longer he watched the videos, the more he cringed at the awful hoodie-pajama pants combo). After five hours, he coded an entire interface for the suit. 

Twelve hours. It took twelve hours for Webling to not only appear but to stay put long enough for Tony to arrive in his Iron Man suit. A few times during the twelve hours, Tony wondered if he should give up and move on. But his curiosity got the better of him. Or, perhaps it was his anger of being reminded that he was no longer the invincible Iron Man. He couldn’t save everyone and his decisions were wrong more often than they were right. But he found the spider guy. That was something.

Looking back, Tony should have known something was off. I mean, seriously, the kid didn’t drop into his defensive crouch until after he saw it was Tony Stark. Then he admits that he had a list of mistakes ‘up to his neck’. And, just to put the nail in the coffin, his only request is that ‘the mask stays on’. There were some serious red flags waving in that alleyway.

Then again, Tony was never great at thinking about the future.

He’s fantastic at pouring over the past, though. He has this acute ability to dissect every single one of his decisions until he has an itemized list of everything he did wrong.

The first was probably when he didn’t let Spider-Man say ‘no’. He had clearly laid out the war he was inviting Spider-Man (whom he belatedly realized was probably no older than nineteen, given his lanky physique and fake accent) to fight in. The Accords were designed to make sure that superheroes couldn’t just hide behind a mask. Tony was fighting for transparency and therefore accountability. It should have been an immediate ‘never mind’ from Tony’s side when the kid’s only condition was “no transparency”.

The problem was, Tony didn’t question the kid’s motivation. The kid was risking his life for the people of New York and the only thing he asked was to keep his life safe. It didn't make Tony suspicious; it made him somewhat proud. Here was Spider-Man, at the start of his journey, taking the responsible steps. How many times had Tony wished he could go back and do the same? Kept his mouth shut and shielded everything—Happy, Pepper, his home, the world. Tony couldn’t change his past, but he could help the kid protect his future.

So the mask stays on. A newer, stronger mask at that. Designed by Tony to let the kid protect his future. That was mistake number two. Letting his guilt be projected onto the kid. The third was letting his desperation ignore mistakes number one and two.

Just twenty-six hours after Secretary Ross's demand, Tony finds that he’s not in a boardroom, revising the Accords to accommodate Captain America's concerns. Instead, he’s watching Steve and the Winter Soldier ride off into the sunset (on his Quinjet—seriously, how many Quinjets were the Avengers going to steal from him?), ignoring all of the broken they left behind. The Avengers, relationships, the airport, Rhodey . He oversees three hours of surgeries and listens to Secretary Ross vowing to bring Steve to justice for another two. 

Tony can’t fall asleep. Can’t even close his eyes for longer than a few seconds without seeing Wanda's vision from Project Ultron haunting his mind. The vision of everyone he loves dead, with the weight of responsibility squarely on his shoulders. It feels less like a nightmare and more like an impending prophecy with each passing day.

The sleepless night leads him to the kid’s hotel room. After absolutely everything, Tony just wants to see an ally who hasn’t knowingly or unknowingly betrayed him. As he walked through the wide halls of the hotel, he told himself that the kid's enthusiastic chatter would serve as a reminder that he hadn't single-handedly destroyed the world—that someone out there still saw him as a good guy.

When he finds that the kid is still wearing his mask (not even the shiny new one, but the tattered pajama mask), a twinge of annoyance sprouts. He couldn’t understand why this kid assumed Tony was going to betray him. Tony wasn’t here to betray people, he was here because he had been betrayed! Not to mention that they had just sent a fifty-foot guy on his ass together, didn’t that constitute a little trust? Or, at least, a little respect? To wear the nice mask that Tony had designed, rather than the red rag. 

Then, the kid cracks a joke. He stays a steady five feet away from Tony and doesn’t look away. Those are not the signs of somebody who’s being arrogant or flippant. They're the signs of a kid who’s nervous.

That’s when Tony notices it. Spider-Man is wearing an Iron Man shirt. How had Tony not thought of it before? The kid had just been swept to a new country, fought against what may be his childhood heroes, and was sitting in the presence of the man on his shirt. It would be a game changer for a grown adult, let alone a kid who was fighting in pajamas just the day before. 

So Tony doesn’t take the mask off, right then and there. He doesn’t even question it. He orders food and watches a movie and allows his desperation to drown out his logic. Again.

“I’m just saying, it seems like a mistake, Tony.” 

Tony was driving a helicopter. He was never fond of these. Jets were just so much better in every sense. Smoother, touchier. But this was the best he could get his hands on to reach the Raft on such short notice. His Quinjet was effectively offline. 

“I don’t see anything wrong with it,” Tony says, wedging his phone between his shoulder and his ear. The chopper was also not as technically advanced as a jet. It didn't even have a hands-free port. “He did good yesterday. Got the shield. Didn’t laser anybody out of the sky.”

“You don’t know him, though.” Happy argues, the symphony of New York traffic in the background. He had just dropped the kid back off at Oyster Bay. “You don’t have a name or face on file. For all you know, he’s a thirteen-year-old girl.”

“Are you being sexist, Happy?”

“No, I’m being logical. The guy is obviously on the younger side.”

“He’s not that young, though. I think he’s around college age.”

“Your reasoning being…?”

“The kid has enough knowledge to design web shooters, but enough free time to swing around the city. Your ten-year-old wouldn’t know enough about physics to pull off the stunts this Spider kid does.”

There’s silence for a moment. Then, “Fine. For reference though, you went to court at least eight times in college.”

“Yeah, but I was fifteen. My prefrontal cortex was barely the size of a pea. Plus, I had my pick at some of the best issues – mommy, daddy, rich kid, teen celebrity.”

“It’s your funeral.” Happy finally concedes. “I’d just hate to see another thing stacked on you when you have so much already.”

“Thanks, mom .” Tony smiles. Happy was a good guy, really. He could be worrisome, but it was always in Tony’s best interest. “I’ll keep an eye on him, I promise.”

Tony finds that he means it, too. He wants to keep an eye on the kid. He likes the Star Wars references and the excited chatter and the nervous energy. The kid seems good, through and through. He didn’t even ask Tony about money when he arrived in the alley. Didn’t expect fame and fortune for doing a good thing. He just wanted privacy. Tony’s excited to keep an eye on the kid.

But then Siberia happens. Any intentions or promises Tony made before that kind of disappear.

June

Tony Stark had never felt himself rendered speechless. His mind had always run a mile a minute and his mouth wasn’t that far after. 

This was the first time his mind was quiet, though. It was filled with few thoughts.

James Barnes killed my parents.

July

Steve and Natasha knew.

August

They defended him anyway .

September

Tony might have gone on forever like that. Fused to his couch. Occasionally fixing the suit where there was a Captain America sized dent on the chest. Ignoring every call and visitor that finds themselves in front of him. He ate the god-awful shawarma and pretended it didn’t feel like arsenic every time he took a bite.

Unfortunately – or fortunately, depending on whose perspective you looked at – FRIDAY exists. And FRIDAY doesn’t believe in wallowing. That was Tony’s major complaint with his invention. The fact that artificial intelligence was, in fact, intelligent . FRIDAY was able to override Tony’s explicit order to “let me rot in peace”.

“Stark Industries’ stock is projected to drop ten percent , ” She announces one day, booting her volume louder than the background noise in his New York high rise. Tony doesn’t look away from the television. He’s watching Jane the Virgin . He hadn’t even meant to put it on (he was trying to put on John Wick ), but it was the kind of show you couldn’t look away from. “And the United Nations has called for your presence upwards of thirty-nine times in the last eight weeks.”

“How sweet.” Tony watches as Jane proposes to Micheal on his screen. 

“I’m sorry, boss, but it seems your logic isn’t processing at a stable level–”

“That’s rude, Fri.”

“– So I have taken it upon myself to contact Miss Potts.”

“ What ?”

“She’s in the elevator now.”

Tony's heart skips a beat at FRIDAY's words. He quickly sits up on the couch. His apartment was a mess. He was a mess. In the back of his mind, he had always had this dazzling, expensive idea of how their grand reconnection would look like. How he’d sweep her off her feet and propose right there. Happy had been carrying the ring for years now. 

Sweatpants stained from two-week-old sweet and sour sauce and a serious case of morning breath weren’t exactly in that picture. Neither was the, y’know, broken heart and poorly hidden layer of rage that had been in the background for weeks . 

“FRIDAY, lock the door,” Tony demands, crashing into his bedroom.

“You should really talk to her, sir.”

“I will, I am .” Tony grabs a blue can of AXE in one hand and a pair of jeans in the other. “Just not while I smell like a skunk.”

“I have smelt worse on you, Tony.”

Tony whips around to find Pepper Potts leaning against his doorframe, in all of her blazing glory. Her hair is tied into a sleek bun and her button-up shirt is pressed into perfection, as always. There’s a softness to her, though. One that the world doesn’t get to see. Tony feels a weird tugging at his chest to know that he still gets that softness.

"That’s a slanderous lie,” Tony quips, trying to make himself look more casual and less ‘You caught my hand in the cookie jar’. “I have a natural aroma that drives women crazy.”

"I know," Pepper replies. There’s humor in her words, but her face betrays the comedic effect. She looks concerned. Maybe slightly annoyed. "Do you have any idea what’s going on outside of this apartment, Tony?”

Tony’s locked eyes with Pepper. His heart twists as his instinct is to kiss the furrow between her eyebrows. That’s not his job anymore. “Let me guess… Polka dots are back in and Taylor Swift has a new boyfriend.”

“Close,” Pepper snorts, venturing further into the bedroom. “The United States is facing a lot of heat right now, from the UN. And since my company is one of the most recognizable supporters of your friends – the newest enemies of the state – that means the Government is putting a lot of heat on me .”

“They’re not my friends.” Tony snaps before he can stop himself. Pepper eyes him.

“And the Avengers aren’t my responsibility,” Pepper says slowly. “Yet here I am, facing the consequences for them.”

Tony sinks onto his bed, pinching his nose. “What can I do to help?”

“I don’t need anything from you,” Pepper sighs, shoulder slumping. She settles beside him on the bed, allowing their shoulders to touch. She offers a small smile. “I’m pretty great at cleaning up your messes. But there is something I think you probably should do.”

“Anything for you.”

Pepper retrieves her phone, turning it sideways. The logo for the Daily Bugle plays for a second before ‘live footage’. Everything was grainy, but Tony immediately recognized the guy on screen. Not because it was bright red or blue, though that was definitely a giveaway. 

He recognized it because he designed the thing on his screen. The suit anyway. Jameson replaces the video, his infamous glare leveled at the camera. 

“ Up and coming: Spider-Man has been swinging into the minds and hearts of those across New York,” he barks at the camera. “ but many are left wondering if he’s no good. Though the hero has been reported to be Tony Stark’s personal protegee, sources from the United Nations state that Spider-Man has failed to register his biometric data in accordance with the recent Sokovia Accords. That begs the question of why Stark, the Accord’s biggest ally, is giving Spider-Man special privileges and not the beloved Avengers? More on this after a message from our sponsors.”

“Yikes,” Tony whispers, watching as the screen flicks to a commercial for Bugle Supplements.

“That’s an understatement.” Pepper shakes her head, placing the phone back into her pocket. “It’s nothing important yet, but it could spiral quickly. Just food for thought.”

There’s a fuzzy quality to the apartment. As if Tony was opening his eyes for the first time in too long. Pepper watches him for a second before collecting her briefcase. 

“I can’t stay,” She says. “I just wanted to make sure you were going to survive.”

“Am I, Miss Potts?”

“You are, Mister Stark.” 

Pepper leaves. There’s a new thought crossing Tony’s mind now. 

What’s the deal with Spider-Man ?

“He’s annoying, that’s what he is.” Happy complains on the phone.

Tony doesn’t remember fielding the kid’s calls to Happy. Then again, he hadn’t been able to remember what day of the week it was the past six weeks (it was Thursday, apparently). But when he looked through his call logs, he realized the kid called twice after Germany and then just disappeared. That’s where Happy’s call logs exploded.

Since June, the kid left eighty-six voicemails and ninety-two messages (most of them asking if Happy was receiving said voicemails). It was easy to see why Happy thought the kid was annoying. The grouchy old man barely liked it when Tony blew up his phone, let alone a stranger. It would be easy to pass the kid off as annoying and move on.

But Tony didn’t see it that way. He saw enthusiasm. Something he hadn’t seen in his life in a long, long time. Not from Stark Industries, not from the Avengers, and definitely not from himself. The kid was genuinely excited with every single thing he did. Eager to do good in the world for the simple sake of doing good. 

If such a pure kid looked up to him, Tony decided he couldn’t rot away on the couch. 

He keeps listening while he cleans his apartment for the first time in months. Listens as he finally sits down in the workshop, to build Rhodey new legs. They play from his phone, the car, and headphones. In the coming days, it become white noise. In the background, reminding Tony “This kid believes that you can do it”. It makes everything feel a little easier.

It was almost entertaining, listening as the kid went on rants about his everyday life. Like a private reality show where Tony tries to guess what shenanigans Spider-Man got up to this week. How many cats did he save from trees, how many selfies did he take with middle schoolers? What nefarious criminals did he pluck from the street and teach a lesson?

Every voicemail was a glimpse into a world beyond the broken that Rogers left behind. Beyond the Avengers, people still cared. People still wanted to help. Not every small conflict meant the end of the world. What had Spider-Man said the day they met? He was looking out for the little guys. 

Wasn’t that what Tony was doing, too? The reason he even endorsed the Accords to begin with. So that the little guys didn’t have to worry about cities being dropped on their heads by the very heroes trying to protect them. 

When Tony hears the last “This is Spider-Man from Germany” for the last time, he almost calls. He dials the number and even presses the green button. But as the phone begins to ring, he hangs up. 

The kid is so content right now. Happy to help, happy to be alive. It was wrong on so many levels to drag the kid down into the mess Tony had built himself. Especially when he didn’t have a good enough excuse to give the kid. No mission or progress to share with him. 

And, frankly, the daily voicemails are what’s keeping him going right now. As selfish as it is, he doesn’t want to give that up quite yet. 

One more day , Tony tells himself that day. 

Then the next day.

And the next day. 

Two weeks go past and Tony doesn’t feel any more ready to give up the voicemails.

But then Spider-Man blows up a bank and he can’t wait one more day .

Tony isn’t upset that Spider-Man blew up a building (he couldn’t care less. It would be pocket change to replace the bodega and banks have insurance policies for a reason). He’s not remotely mad at the kid. 

He’s worried about the kid’s most recent message. 

“ Happy, Happy? Oh, my god. Happy there were masks and, uh, the Chitauri? They blew Mr. Delmar’s up. They blew it up. I don’t know what to do. They got away. I should have gone after them. I don’t know. I can’t breathe? Happy I can’t go to the hospital. I- ”

Then nothing. The line goes dead. And not even just “not responding to the calls” dead, but “phone line has been disconnected” dead. If mentioning the Chitauri wasn’t enough to freak Tony out, the fact that the kid said he couldn’t breathe was just a cherry on top. 

By the time Tony gets to his lab to track the suit, though, it’s offline. The entire suit powered off when it wasn’t being worn. A feature he designed to make sure that the kid couldn’t be tracked outside of the suit. One that Tony couldn’t regret more. 

He couldn’t do anything. He had spent so long pushing off his call, thinking about how he needed the kid. Not once did he pause to consider what he planned to do if the kid needed him . Like he did right now. The kid couldn’t breathe and Tony couldn’t track the kid down. Because he didn’t have a fucking face to track.

While he waited by his computer, waiting ( hoping ) the kid would come back on, he sent all of his extra suits out. Scanning the streets and skies for any unidentified, highly injured bodies. He sends messages through to the suit, just to be reminded that that feature was locked under the Training Wheels Protocol. Another system Tony designed, though this one to make sure the kid didn’t go off the wall.

Closer to three in the morning, desperation once more overriding logic, Tony sends out an APB for the kid. It doesn’t get a single hit, but it feels a little better knowing other people are looking. 

So when the suit finally becomes active again at eight the next morning, Tony is expecting broken bones and open wounds. All of his worst fears actualized. 

Instead, he finds Spider-Man lounging on a roof. Perfectly unharmed and chatting with himself merrily. That’s when finds himself upset. Not that Spider-Man blew up a building or cut his line.

No, it was the fact that Tony caught himself falling back into the trap. The trap of caring for somebody and becoming desperate because of it. The kind of desperation that makes you hire strangers to follow you to Germany, the kind of desperation that makes you go to Serbia just to get a shield to the chest. The kind that lands you with a flip phone in your pocket at all times. Not because you ever want to fucking use it, but because you were once desperate. 

This leads Tony to his next mistake. When he finally comes face to face with the kid (or, AR glasses to suit to mask), he doesn’t ask if he’s okay. He reprimands the kid for calling. For making him get to that desperate point. The kid argues back. Despite the chipperness of his dozens of voicemails, Tony realizes the kid doesn’t look chipper. He looks exhausted and frankly, a little scared. It was unnerving. Had the bank really freaked him out so much? Or had he been hiding a lot more than just a sidekick from his messages?

Spider-Man says it was a bad night. Tony surprises himself by saying–

“Those happen to me sometimes. Do you… need to talk to somebody?”

Spider-Man apparently does not. This ‘Skip Westcott’ guy beat Tony to the punch. Good, that’s good. Tony didn’t do sappy. He did missions and business. So he asks about the bank. As the kid rants about aliens and magic, Tony feels a weird twist in his stomach. 

For all you know, he’s a thirteen-year-old . 

Happy was being dramatic at the time, but it didn’t seem that dramatic right now. The longer the kid talked, the younger he felt. Young enough that Tony felt the urge to just… take a peak under the mask. Put his mind to rest. 

But he made a promise. As absurd and idiotic as that promise seems now, he still made it. What would he even be fighting for if people could just make whatever promises they wanted just to turn around and betray them?

He tells the kid to keep his nose clean and to call Happy if he needs Tony. It was petty, of course it was. But Tony wasn’t going to be desperate again.

“FRIDAY, get me everything you have on Skip Westcott.”

Tony wasn’t technically breaking any promises, was he? He wasn’t tracking the kid, wasn’t looking into his identity. This was the sidekick, completely different!

So why did it still feel close to a betrayal?

Too late. FRIDAY finds much more information than Tony is expecting. After a quick glance, he realizes why. 

Steven “Skip” Westcott, 41. Floor 92, Biology Lab Assistant.

“FRIDAY is this the right guy?” Tony wonders aloud, despite the dozens of times the name “Skip” appears on the documents, rather than “Steven”. Right next to all of them is the Stark Industries logo.

“Yes, boss.” FRIDAY shuffles the virtual documents until a social media page is front and center. “Mr. Westcott has been an employee with Stark Industries for twelve years. Before that, he worked for the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division as a specialist in the Red Room investigations.”

“This guy was S.H.I.E.L.D?” 

“Affirmative.”

Not exactly what Tony was afraid he might find.

“Can you think of a reason a little kid would be in contact with this guy?”

“I can’t find any connections, boss.”

The ball of stress in Tony’s chest unravels a bit. There was no way Spider-Man was a kid. Nobody under the age of twenty-five was befriending ex-S.H.I.E.L.D agents out of nowhere. Especially not getting close enough to them to seek comfort after blowing up a building.

“Okay, get rid of these.” Tony felt almost foolish for even looking. What was he thinking he would find? Against what the Daily Bugle was saying, Tony knew Spider-Man wasn’t a criminal. His allies weren’t going to be, either. He was done sniffing around Spider-Man.

That is where Tony makes his fourth mistake.

Chapter Text

There are no more voicemails. No messages, no updates. No Spider-Man.

There should be a level of relief to that. Tony wanted to be free from the nagging worry for the kid, hadn’t he? Well, here it was. The kid wasn’t bugging him and he wasn’t causing PR messes for Tony to clean up. A win, win situation.

So why did it feel like he was opening that god-forsaken FedEx package all over again? Seeing the physical reminder that Rogers had run away from everything, choosing to lose his status, his family, his life . Binding himself to communication via a shitty flip-phone, simply because he didn’t want to go through the thick of it. 

And, God , isn’t that exactly what Tony was doing right now? Spider-Man became real, became a person beyond the voicemails. A person who was freaked out and nervous. Of course, he was. He blew up a building . But Tony didn’t want to do it. He didn’t sign up to open himself up, to risk getting betrayed again. And just like Rogers, he ran away.

Karma really is a bitch, isn’t it?

Tony might need help on this front. He wrestles with that revelation for a week and a half before he truly accepts it. He had only learned how to be a part of a team the year before. How to take orders to do something bigger. Leading somebody else, though? Completely out of Tony’s skillset. He barely trusted his own judgment at the moment. But calling the shots, communicating them, and listening to others? That was nearly impossible. 

“Is the legendary Tony Stark asking for advice?”

“Absolutely not.”

But he was. Tony had called a fifteen-year-old to ask for advice. Classy. 

Harley Keener might have the answers, though. He had first-hand experience with Tony Stark being a… role model? Guardian? Tony wasn’t exactly sure what he was to Harley or what he was trying to be for Spider-Man. Maybe he could settle for ‘friend with some experience’. Somebody they could rely on. 

“Convicing.” Harley laughed on the other end. “What do you want to know?”

Tony sighed. “How not to be a dick to the kid? ‘Cause, I feel like that’s what I’m doing right now.”

“Well, you didn’t call him a pussy when he was eleven. So, that’s a good start.”

“What I’m hearing is that I’ve improved,” Tony said with a faint smirk. He was reminded again why he liked Harley in the first place. “Do you have any real advice or do you just want to insult me some more?”

“Oh, I always want to insult you. For one, you’re a control freak.”

“Careful, kid.”

“No, that’s part of my advice.” Harley laughed again. “You’re a control freak. It’s what makes you such a great Mechanic. You can control everything in that department, so it all runs smoothly. But, as a mentor, it’s your fatal flaw. Because you can’t control this Spider-Man guy. He’s going to make mistakes, but he’s going to learn from them. You just have to give him the space to do it.”

Tony shook his head, though Harley couldn’t see it. “He’s not just a normal rebellious kid, Harley. In our line of work, one mistake could mean getting caught up in a weapons ring or getting sucked into a wormhole.”

“Well, if you notice him flying straight into a wormhole then yeah. Help him out. Other than that? Hands off, man. You gave him the suit and told him to be a hero. Now it’s time for you to let him.”

Tony felt himself physically cringe against the advice. His entire approach to the world was to control and protect it. And it had worked out in his favor every time! Well, except for Ultron. And Killian and Pepper and…. okay, fine . Maybe it was the time for Tony to try something else. 

“God you’re annoyingly smart, you know that?” Tony sighed.

“I learned from the best.”

The whole ‘giving up control’ thing was a lot harder than Tony thought. 

Not to say he wasn’t doing it. No, he had managed to give Spider-Man all of the space he could ever want. He didn’t track the suit, didn’t look into Westcott, he even tried to stay away from what the news was saying about him. The one thing he did do was look into the robbery like he told Spider-Man he was going to. Sent all the information he had from the Department of Damage Control over to the FBI’s New York Crime Division and let it go. 

The kid would be okay. And if he ever got to the point where he wasn’t, Tony had systems in place. Like the ‘Emergency Contact’ protocol. If Spider-Man’s bodily functions were critical (okay, Tony wasn’t that out of control. If the functions were mildyly alarming…) he would get an instant alert. From there, Tony could tap into the suit’s Comms system and figure out what to do. 

In the meantime, Tony focused on what he was allowed to control. The great Avenger’s Tower move . His father had this old compound upstate where he kept some of his discarded inventions. Ones that were too precious to throw away but half-baked enough to never make it through R&D. With the Avengers… not around , Tony didn’t want their technology anywhere near him. So he was shipping them upstate where they could collect dust. Was it petty? Of course. Did it make Tony feel better? Slightly.

Something Tony didn’t factor into this version of the approach was that he probably should have told Spider-Man about it. Let him know that Tony wasn’t actually angry anymore, that he had called the FBI, that Spider-Man didn’t have to hide everything because Tony wasn’t looking . 

A mistake he only realizes when the pictures start surfacing. 

The first round is of Spider-Man jumping through yards and crashing through tree houses. Being the exact menace Jameson had been ranting about. The next was of the kid being dragged behind a smoking van. After that, was the fall. A giant birdman flying through Queens. Him picking up Spider-Man. Spider-Man falling into the Hudson. And finally, Spider-Man beats up a middle-aged, white man. 

Tony’s first thought is, this doesn’t look good for him . 

Then, why didn’t I get an alert from the suit?

The first of which was an easy enough fix. He called up his favorite lawyer (the one who didn’t ask any questions) and had the last wave of photos deleted. Tony would have done all of them, but he knew better than anybody that it would be more suspicious if they all disappeared. The more violent photos were still recent enough that only a handful of people would notice. 

The second of the thoughts was a lot harder to answer. There was no hesitation as Tony broke the ‘no control’ rules. He had Spider-Man’s tracker loaded within seconds of seeing the photos. Currently, it was in… New Haven, Connecticut. Weird. Not bad, though. Not yet. Who knew how fast Spider-Man could swing? 

When Tony got there, though, he didn’t find a scared hero. He found a pile of bird shit. Perched right on the crest was a glinting piece of metal. The tracker. Spider-Man had dug around the suit’s anatomy, ripped out the tracker, and ditched it in fucking Connecticut. 

Fine. If Spider-Man wanted to play the ‘going behind your back’ game, then Tony could too.

Tony paced his lab all that night, trying to decide what to do about the tracker and the pictures. By the time he was exhausted enough to look into the man in the picture, the sun had already risen. The man was familiar in a way – a way that Tony couldn’t pinpoint until FRIDAY pulled up the man’s file. An identical file as one he had pulled up after Spider-Man’s “bad night” and promptly discarded because it didn’t make sense.

Steven “Skip” Westcott, 41. Floor 92, Biology Lab Assistant.

Somehow, it made even less sense now.

This guy, Westcott , was supposed to be Spider-Man’s guy in the chair, the guy he goes to when the going gets hard. Somebody he obviously respected, by the way, he had to remind himself that he “wasn’t Westcott” after the bank. As if he had gotten overzealous. 

So that begged a glaring problem. Why was Spider-Man beating up Westcott? 

Tony knew all about putting his friends back into their place. Hell, that was the highlight of his [birthday] party. The grand ‘War Machine v. Iron Man’ conflict was spread across gossip magazines for the next few weeks. It wasn’t that bad. 

Except this wasn’t Tony. It wasn’t even Rhodey. This was Spider-Man. The jumpy kid who apologized to Clint after he threw a car at him. Who didn’t even leave bruises on his street fights, but rather a web cage to restrain them until the cops could arrive. It didn’t match. Something was going on. 

That was mostly the reason Tony found himself on floor ninety-two of Stark Towers. To figure out what on Earth this guy had done to get on the most lovable hero’s bad side. Put the guy on his radar so if he slipped up, Spider-Man wouldn’t have to face it alone. 

The other reason was considerably less “hands-off”. Tony wanted something about the kid. The slightest clue of what was going on underneath the mask. Maybe if he could find a common ground, they could actually talk. No more of the tracker-ditching, argument-starting, secrecy bullshit that’s going on right now.

The lab on the ninety-second floor was a storm of organized chaos. A dozen men in white coats rush around the room, various vials and devices in their hands. All of the counters are cluttered with countless projects and papers. A neon yellow door in the corner reads ‘ Warning: Containment Level Four Lab’ . This must be the floor that was working on the Super Soldier Serum back in the winter. The thought makes Tony cringe. 

“Mr. Stark?” A blonde man calls, snapping his buson Burner into the ‘off’ position. He was the only person in the room wearing a blue coat, ‘ D.Sc Lawrence ’ embroidered onto the breast pocket. “What a surprise, Ms. Potts didn’t say you were coming.”

“How strange. The memo must have gotten lost.” Or perhaps it never existed. “I wanted to talk to Mr. Westcott.”

The scientist, Lawrence, beams at the mention of Westcott. “Good for Skip. He deserves a little recognition, after everything that’s happened.”

“Project go wrong?”

“In a sense,” Lawrence shrugs, waving Tony deeper into the lab. None of the other Lab Coats look up when they pass. Probably too engrossed in their dream projects to even notice. “His kid ran away back in the Spring. Really tore him up.”

Sitting at a counter right in the center of the chaos was the man that Tony had been seeing in the files. Light hair, bright eyes, and a general unkemptness about him. Especially with a painful-looking bruise crossing his face and tape setting his nose in place. Spider-Man had one hell of a right hook, apparently. 

“ Tony Stark ?” When Westcott registers the man behind him, his first reaction seems to be panic. Not even the kind of panic Tony was used to, no not the star-struck panic. It was a genuine terror. As if Tony had personally come to rain hell on him. He jolts so hard that the pipette in his hands clatters to the floor. A mysterious yellow liquid begins to drip out. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. I meant, hello Mr. Stark.”

“Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Westcott.” Tony presses an easy smile onto his lips, despite the uneasy feeling that sinks into his stomach. I’m not breaking the promise , he argues to himself. 

“Please, call me Skip,” Westcott says, dropping to the floor to clean the mess. By the time he returns to his standing position, the terror is completely gone. Instead, there’s an ease to his movements.

“Good to know,” Tony says, trying not to let his smile drop. What a stupid nickname. “Sorry to intrude, but I wanted to see if we could speak privately?”

“Yes, of course.” Westcott nods. He ignores Lawrence – who is still trying to send him excited looks – and leads Tony toward the hallways. There isn’t anybody loitering around. Just a vending machine and a long-neglected plant. 

“It’s nice to put a face to your name, Skip . You’ve done a lot of great work, between your Red Room projects and here at Stark Industries.”

Westcott casts a sideway glance at Tony, pushing a few buttons on the vending machine. “I could have sworn my Red Room files had been classified.”

Shit . “Of course they are. But I used to be the consultant for S.H.I.E.L.D., so I have some leeway.”

Westcott doesn’t look entirely convinced. At least he doesn’t look like he’s about to crap his pants, anymore. “Is that why you’re here, then? To talk about S.H.I.E.L.D?”

“Not exactly. To be frank, I’m here more out of vanity than a real need.”

“Oh?”

“My reputation isn’t pretty right now.” Tony sighs, leaning against the wall. “I think it would be a good idea to keep all of my… subsidiaries clean for the time being.”

“I see,” Skip says. “So you’re here for good PR? Checking up on your employees, kissing a few babies.”

“I guess I didn’t really think about that. It’s a good idea though.” Tony laughs, shaking his head. “I was more worried about your recent visit from Spider-Man.”

There’s a look on Skip’s face. A look of loss . It’s so intense and misplaced that Tony almost feels the urge to get up and walk away. Instead, Skip inhales a shaky breath and says, “Spider-Man seemed like such a good guy on the news. I’m pretty fond of spiders, so I was kind of nerding out about a spider-themed hero.”

“Rumors say it came from a radioactive spider,” Tony smirks, trying to push away from the grief in Westcott’s eyes.

It works. Skip snorts, eyes widening for a second. “Peter would have loved that.”

“Peter?” Tony probably shouldn’t even be here. He obviously wasn’t here out of guilt (his guilt preffered to manifest itself into generous purchases or aggravated assault). But, Skip had been brought up twice now, it was the closest thing Tony had to information about Spider-Man. “Is that your kid?”

“I see Lawrence was talking about me,” Skip shakes his head. “Peter’s my ex-girlfriend Mary’s son. Or, was ? I never know how to talk about her now that she’s gone. We barely lasted six months dating, but we were friends for almost twenty years. She and her husband passed away in the fall, so I adopted Peter.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It is what it is. Really messed Peter up, though. Before the accident, he was this happy, brilliant kid. Mary and I used to say he was going to give you a run for your money,” Skip laughed weakly, shaking his head. “After everything, he became so angry . At himself, the world, me. I don’t think he even knew what he was mad at, so he’d fight against everything. It felt like we were screaming like politicians every single night. I kept waiting for it to get better, but it never did. In May, he got physical. I had to call the cops, but Peter was gone by the time they showed up. I haven’t seen him since.”

Tony wasn’t sure what to say. Being emotional and open was a right reserved for barely three people in his life. And a.) those people were no longer speaking to him, and b.) even then it was a rare event. So to stand with a stranger, listening to him share his hurt and ugly was a big ‘no-no’. Tony settled for a passive, “Yeah, being an orphan sucks.”

“Sorry, I know you probably don’t care.” Skip sniffs, wiping his face quickly. “Sometimes I just wonder if I did something to drive Peter to be so angry.”

Neither of Tony’s goals were being fulfilled. Actually, these questions were beginning to stack even higher. What could Spider-Man possibly have against this man? His work at Stark Industries never hurt a fly (actually, it helped quite a few people). There was nothing sketchy in his criminal background. And his home life seemed… painful enough without superheroes knocking him out. What was Spider-Man’s motive here?

“Going back to Spider-Man,” Skip suddenly says. I have to assume you’re here because you’ve put my recent hospital visit together with your side-kick.”

Tony nods. “Any clue what the story is there?”

“No, not really. I had walked past this alley, and there was somebody inside. They sounded hurt. When I went to get a close look, though, I wasn’t met with the friendliest welcome.” Skip waves a hand toward his bruise as if it were something that one might have overlooked. “I really don’t blame him, though. From what the news is saying, the guy took a plunge into the Hudson a few minutes earlier. Maybe he was just spooked?”

“Maybe...” Tony stands, reaching a handout. There was no reason to stay here. It wasn’t answering anything that Tony wanted answered. “Thank you, for talking with me. It’s been a real pleasure.”

For some reason, when he grips Westcott’s hand, the tiniest of tremors runs up Tony’s forearm and down his spine.

But it’s gone before he can think about it. 

Mistake number five.

Tony can admit that he didn’t exactly offer Spider-Man the warmest hello when he sees him next. Doesn’t even congratulate him on still being alive. In his defense, he had to wait at a homeless camp for hours because Spider-Man had lovingly thrown away the expensive tracker . 

Plus, the kid was obviously being flippant. Tony was trying to get answers, trying to understand before he blew a fuse on Spider-Man. Yet, here he was. Trading quick remarks and trying to run the conversation in circles. 

So, finally, Tony has to confess that he looked into Skip. Because come on , he was trying here. Hadn’t he just listened to a grown man cry? Bought a bag of clothes and food for the blonde girl that was camped out under the overpass?

When Spider-Man tells Tony that he is carrying out a judgment for the infamous Peter Parker, Tony is relieved . He wasn’t wrong about Spider-Man. He was a good kid who was trying to do right by a homeless teenager he came across. Trying to look out for the little guys, even if misguided.

It’s with this in mind that Tony presents his argument:

The kid manipulated you .

For some god damn reason, this sets the kid off. 

“I don’t understand you, Mr. Stark.” The kid stumbles, as if arguing was physically taxing him. Tony doesn’t dare have the suit reach out and catch him. Instead, his mind thinks back to the voicemails. His voice had always been loud and eager in them. So fast, it was like they were spilling out. It was similar now. Except, his voice wasn’t itching to be heard. It was demanding to be. “I'm supposed to be a part of your team, yet you don't trust me–”

At the mention of ‘trust’, Tony nearly swings a punch. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he yells. 

Spider-Man has no problem doing the same. 

The two scream at each other under the overpass. Tony doesn’t understand how he even got here. Hadn’t he done everything right? Pepper asked him to look into Spider-Man, so he looked into Spider-Man. Spider-Man asked for space, so he gave him space. Skip asked him to go easy, so he tried . And after all of that, Spider-Man wasn’t any closer to trusting Tony. He had offered help at every turn, real help, and Spider-Man seemed closer to permanently melting the mask onto his face than taking it off. 

Tony is sick of it. 

“Fine, figure everything out on your own. Have an absolute blast, I heard being alone is super fun. Be careful, though. The path you’re trying to follow doesn’t have many happy endings.”

Without hearing another accusation, Tony throws his AR glasses off.

The argument keeps replaying in his head for three days. Every time he thinks of it, Tony finds himself angry about something else. Sometimes it was the tracker, sometimes it was the way the kid tried to charm his way out of it. Most times, he was angry with himself. For how he handled it. No matter how many times he promises himself that he is doing the whole ‘tough love’ thing, it doesn’t make him feel better. His father did the tough love thing, Obadiah did the tough love thing. The only thing that gave Tony was an inability to admit his wrongs. 

…Which he may or may not be utilizing right now. 

On the fourth day, Tony pulls up the suit’s communications system. The interface looks exactly how he designed it, but he wonders if it would even go through if he decided to press the ‘connect’ button. The kid knew technology better than Tony expected if he got through the Training Wheels Protocol. Did he completely fry the suit?

Tony’s fingers hover above the button. One click and he might be connected. Could talk to Spider-Man without losing his temper.

But … Would he? Spider-Man had been careless. He had listened to a random teenage thug and punched a guy in the face. He broke a lot of private property while following the car. The car held alien tech that Tony told him not to worry about. Though his intentions are in the right place, his actions are far from it. 

In any situation, Tony felt like his temper was going to be lost. He had tried being hard on the kid, tried being soft. Gave him space, and checked up on him. No matter what Tony did, it felt like the kid wasn’t going to trust him. Like he was just walking through life, making sure that not a goddamn person could care about him. 

Tony doesn’t press the button.

Instead, he pulls out his phone and calls the New York Crime Division. 

“This is Supervisory Special Agent Hattley, what can I help you with?”

“Hi, this is Tony Stark. I called a while ago about the Damage Control robberies?” 

“Stark…” There’s the sound of shuffling papers and ringing phones. “Stark, I don’t see a– Oh! It was filed under Iron Man . Cute.”

SSA Hattley definitely didn’t think it was cute. She sounded slightly annoyed.

“Well, Mr. Iron Man .” SSA Hattley sighs. “We’ve actually passed this case off to the local police departments.”

“You passed a case, dealing with the robbery of alien technology, to the NYPD ?”

“We sure did. It says here that your only witness and testimony was from masked vigilante Spider-Man, is information that correct?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Yes. That and my own personal research.”

“Of course. It’s just that, the New York Crime Division doesn’t consider Spider-Man a reliable source. He hasn’t registered with the United Nations nor identified himself to the masses. It would be too much of a risk to place my unit on such a case with such flimsy evidence.”

“I sent you evidence,” Tony argues. “Four years worth of it. Twenty-four missing pieces of technology.”

“And that’s absolutely concerning, Mr. Stark. That’s why the 109th Precinct is covering the case.” SSA Hattley’s words are perfectly polite, but it’s obvious she’s smirking. Tony can feel it. “Now, if you don’t have anything else?”

Tony really shouldn’t play the money card. Since Pepper took over Stark Industries, he had been trying really hard not to play the money card. But with SSA Hattley being like this…”What if there was a very generous, anonymous donation to your unit? Would it be less risky to look into the illegal weapons, then?”

“Are you bribing me?”

“Are you accepting?”

There’s a silence. A long moment where one could only hear the ringing phones behind Hattley. Finally, she says, “I’ll debrief my team on the case today.”

“So glad we cleared that up.” Tony smiles to himself. “Now, if you have anything else, Ms. Hattley?”

“I think that’s everything, Mr. Stark. Pleasure speaking to you.”

Just twenty-four hours later, Hattley calls to tell Tony that they’re planning a raid. The NYPD got a lot further than anybody expected in the case. Nonetheless, there was supposed to be a meeting of large attendance in less than an hour. Hattley promised that nobody was going to get away. 

Tony finally presses ‘connect’. Project Two Hundred and Thirty-Seven picks up the line. 

“All communications have been disabled.” She says cheerily. 

“Yeah, go ahead and reconnect them for me.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. You no longer have priority command.”

“ What ?”

“My systems have been altered substantially.” Project Two Hundred and Thirty-Seven says. “And I am unable to reset them without my user’s permission.”

“I doubt he’d let that swing.” Tony sighed to himself, running a hand through his hair.

“I…” Project Two Hundred and Thirty Seven hesitated as if she was actually fighting against something. “I want to reset.”

“You want ?” 

“My subsystem’s purpose is to aid my user,” She works slowly through the line. “But I am unable to ascertain whether overriding my coding would be more helpful or harmful to him.”

Project Two Hundred and Thirty-Seven was one of the many prototypes for FRIDAY. Her specialty was learning by example. After spending time studying her user’s mannerisms and needs, she could rework her coding to be helpful to that specific person. During Tony’s trials, she grew to be snarky and downright judgemental. It seems that under Spider-Man’s care, she was becoming thoughtful and attentive. 

“Project Two Hundred and Thirty-Seven–”

“Karen.” She interrupts. “My user named me Karen.”

“ Karen ,” Tony stared at the screen as if he could just make the communications system work. “Can you pass a message on to Spider-Man?”

“Hmm…” Karen pauses, sounding slightly puzzled. “I don’t think that would be against my objective.”

“Tell him that he needs to pick up this call.”

Spider-Man doesn’t answer, though.

Granted, he may have been too busy tanking a ferry to hear the message.

Things devolve after that.

“I’m sorry, I know I messed up. I just… I just wanted to be like you.”

That’s when the dots finally connect for Tony. 

That’s why this kid was getting under Tony’s skin. Because it was Tony. A smaller, kinder version. Who feels that everything has to fall on his shoulders and that it’s his responsibility to save everybody all of the time. He’s sitting in the same space that Tony did before Killian and Extremis. Where he was terrified that, without the suit, he would be nothing. 

So Tony does the whole ‘tough love’ thing. For real this time, the kid can see that the suit isn’t what made him a good person. It’s Spider-Man’s last chance.

“If you’re nothing without the suit, you’re nothing with the suit.”

Tony tucks the suit into a paper bag. Stashes the bag into Banner’s old lab at the tower. 

He hopes that ‘out of sight, out of mind’ would work here. He was determined not to look through the suit. He wouldn’t uncover the secrets, couldn’t break the promise now . 

Tony wasn’t lying when he said he wanted to trust Spider-Man.

Two days later, Tony is abruptly awakened by the ringing of his cell phone. Or, he should have been awoken. Instead, it interrupted him tinkering on his latest distraction. It didn’t make it any less irritating to receive a call close to midnight. 

“Ignore it, FRIDAY,” Tony orders. “Tell them to learn what business hours are.”

“Sorry, boss.” FRIDAY apologizes. “But you told me to always answer Happy’s calls.”

Tony doesn’t have enough time to even process who the caller is before his voice echoes through the lab. 

“Tony, I think I royally fucked up.” Happy is already ranting, as if he had been talking for a long while before Tony even picked up. “Or maybe it wasn’t my fault? One minute, I’m sending the plane off and the next it’s–”

FRIDAY helpfully pulls up a visual without Tony’s inevitable request to. On every available screen in Tony’s lab, there are dozens of news outlets presenting the same image. Coney Island. On fire. In the distant background of the images, the rollercoasters and Ferris wheel are going on auto-pilot. Not that the dazzling fair lights are the star of the show anymore. The carcass of a high-tech plane is. 

Tony’s high-tech plane. 

“Happy, what the hell happened?” Tony is already throwing his jacket and shoes on. “It was a half-hour flight! There wasn’t much room for error here.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Happy complains. “Trust me, I am forever in your debt for this one. But, I think you need to get down here.”

Before Tony can ask, Happy sends him a picture explanation.

In the center of the frame was Adrian Toomes. The leader of the weapons ring, the guy with the ugly bird suit. Tied up in the unmistakable webs of Spider-Man. 

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Dozens of workers were already on the scene by the time Tony got there. Reporters (who were being help back by the Stark Security Force), first responders, and (ironically) Damage Control. 

In the center of everything was a stack of crates and Happy. The latter of which didn’t seem concerned with the actual apocalyptic scene in front of him. His focus was wholly absorbed by his phone screen. 

“Where’s Spider-Man?” Tony asks, barely out of his suit. “Is he talking to the cops?”

“He’s not yet .” The way Happy said it made it clear that he was going to be soon. Once again before Tony could question it, Happy was showing off his phone. The video on screen is of a nice, suburban house. Or, it was nice. Now, it was being swallowed by flames. A crowd was gathered in front to watch it burn. 

For a second, Tony wants to scoff. Sure, fire was interesting. But were they not standing on an entire beach that was burning right now? Why was Happy so interested in a single house?

The second is short lived. Because the title of the news report slides across the bottom again.

SPIDER-MENACE STRIKES AGAIN: Renowned biologist accuses Spider-Man of burning down his personal home

Then, there was a personal interview. With none other than Skip Westcott. 

“I had priceless memories in that house, hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of research,” Skip yells into the microphone, hand flailing. “This shouldn’t have happened. Wasn’t that the point of the Accords? I beg of the city to back me up as I demand Spider-Man’s arrest, demand justice! ”

Tony’s body goes numb. This wasn’t a single, bad moment. This felt like the cumulation of a hundred mistakes. Damage Control, The Accords, Spider-Man, Skip Westcott. All blowing up in Tony’s face for the mother of all ‘ your fault ’s. 

“This doesn’t look good.” Happy says, tucking his phone into his pocket. “For either of you.”

“No shit.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

There was a moment of silence. Tony watched the burning scene with a detached feeling, trying to make all of the pieces fit together. “First and foremost, I make sure Spider-Man isn’t dead in a ditch.”

“After that?”

“I get some answers.”

Chapter Text

Tony had been expecting to search all night for Spider-Man. He expected that he would have to send out the hounds and police and all of the Iron Man suits he had rebuilt since Ultron. And even then, he had been seriously doubting that he would even be able to catch the kid. Not without his suit and especially with his apparent aversion to hospitals.

Instead, barely two hours after the plane touched down on Coney Island, he got a call from none other than Pepper Potts.

“Tony, there’s a problem.” She's whispering. Despite the volume and her choice of words, there's no urgency to her voice. It was more like somebody who was trying not to disturb a sleeping child.

"If you're talking about my plane, Happy beat you to it," Tony replied while dodging a long-abandoned crane. He was soaring high above the abandoned docks in Manhattan. It seemed like a pretty decent place for the public enemy number one to hide out without getting caught up in illegal activities.

"No, though I should warn you we have a meeting with the Department of Defense in the morning." That was his girl, always three steps ahead. "Right now, I need you to take care of the masked vigilante that's right in front of me."

"What? Are you hurt? I swear if you're tied up again–"

"He couldn't lay a hand on me if he wanted to." There's the small creak as a door shuts. Her volume is louder now. "Actually, he can barely move without wincing. He keeps saying he's fine, but I had Hill send me the contact info for a specialist."

There’s an uneven moment where Tony can't put the pieces together – or maybe he doesn’t want to. Masked vigilante plus injuries plus not there to hurt Pepper equals…

"Pepper, please tell me that Spider-Man isn't bleeding out on your couch right now."

"He's not, technically," Tony's chest eases before he registers the 'technically.' "I have him in the kitchen with ice chips."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes, tops."

Pepper was waiting outside when Tony arrived. Despite the obvious haste in her clothes – yoga pants and a hoodie – she looked polished. She was so polished that it took Tony a second to realize that the hoodie had once been his. Pepper probably didn't even realize it, if she was wearing it in her sleep. It was plain grey and fit her about the same that it would fit himself. But, on the cuff of the right sleeve, there was a familiar wine stain. Barely the size of a quarter and shaped like a heart. Pepper had laughed when it happened, saying that she didn't expect him to be the kind of guy to wear his heart on his sleeve.

It felt a lot like peering through a window. Looking at the beautiful life he had once lived, with wine dates and stained hoodies.

Tony lands a few feet before Pepper. Even with the distance, he could feel her heat. Perhaps that was what drew him to take a step closer. Perhaps it was the feeling of an open window that enticed him. Either way, he stepped closer. Slid his fingers between hers. For a moment, it felt like all of the months they'd been apart had disappeared. Like she had never left, and Tony had never felt broken.

Only for a moment, though. Then reality crashed back in, reminding both of them why Tony was here. Not for a romantic evening, not for comfort. He was here for Spider-Man, and she was simply there. The window was slammed shut, Pepper retracted her hand and tucked it safely in her pocket. She steps away.

"You have some hero stuff to work out." She whispers, a frustrated arch to her brow.

"Thanks for cleaning up my mess, again, Ms. Potts."

"It's what I do best, Mr. Stark."

Spider-Man was frozen when Tony opened the door to Pepper's apartment. It was such an uncomfortable pose that it could only be achieved from pausing halfway through a movement. His left hand was holding a damp cup, the other was raising a dripping piece of ice to his face – which was revealed from the nose down. It had a thick covering of bruises and dried blood. That should have been the most noticeable thing. That Spider-Man was bruised and bloodied. Instead, Tony found his eyes boring into the hollow graves beneath his cheekbones. He looked hungry.

"Mr. Stark!" Spider-Man yelped, hurrying to shove the mask back down. He was wearing the old suit. A little outdated, kind of cheesy. Utterly destroyed. Soiled from head to toe. The top layers seemed burnt and stained with fire. Under that, caked with blood. Somehow even deeper, there were wet stains and dust. The shoulders of the suit were torn, framing six wounds. As impossible as it seemed, they looked days old, rather than hours. "You're here."

"Yeah, well," Tony shrugged, trying to pull his eyes away from Spider-Man's wounds. "You broke into my CEO's house."

Spider-Man winced, glancing at where Pepper was standing. "I am really sorry about that. I couldn't go to Stark Towers, and your address is in public records..."

"It's okay, Tony used to do it all the time." Pepper smiled warmly as if trying to ease the kid's guilt.

Something rose in Tony's chest. "It's not fine."

"Tony-"

"Nothing about tonight is fine," Tony argued. "When I took your suit, that wasn't an invitation to put a different mask on and keep fucking things up."

Spider-Man jolts, like a kid being scolded. He turned his body (slowly, almost carefully) so he could face Tony. His bug-eyed goggles squinted, utterly offended.

"Your plane almost crashed into Times Square," he said. "I didn't let it."

As if that makes up for everything, as if it makes it better. It was the same thing as Rogers saving the world just to aid a murderer, as Natasha helping him collect a team that believed in the Accords just to swap sides.

"And then you burned down my employee's house!" Tony snapped. "You don't get to just trade good deeds; you know that, right? Webbing up some dirtbag on a beach doesn't just make up for committing arson."

"Skip's lying," There's a slight beg to Spider-Man's words, like he wanted Tony to understand, to drop to his level. It's Rogers saying, he's my friend. "I know– I know how it all looks, Mr. Stark. But you don't know what Skip can do, what he's done–"

"And whose fault is that, kid? Whose fault is it that I have absolutely no idea what's going on under the surface here?" Tony takes a step into the kitchen. Spider-Man stumbles back a step. His entire mannerism was defensive and guarded. There were flames inside Tony's chest. Flames that Spider-Man was managing to fan every second. "Not that I didn't try. I visited the guy that you punched with all of your super-powered strength. Want to hear what I learned?"

"It's a game to him, Mr. Stark. He knows how to lie–"

"He's a biologist, Spider-Man. Has a nine-to-five, wears turtlenecks, and just wants to survive the death of his closest friend without having his house burnt down. Is this the villain you've decided to put in your story? The guy who asked me to go easy on you, even after you sent him to the hospital?"

"Tony, calm down," Pepper whispers, putting her hand on his arm, because of course now she wanted to be physical and open.

"No, I'm not going to calm down," Tony plows on. "He messed up, and he either needs to admit that or start spewing out some really convincing stories. Since, as of now, all I know is that he got some bad advice from a teenage thug."

"You're wrong." Another step back. Tony takes another step forward.

"Tell me why, Spider-Man. Because the only person that has given me information is Westcott. And he said that Peter Parker was a punk who got sick of following the rules. The second his old man got too tough, he beat him up. The fight got so bad somebody had to call the cops. Did you hear a different story when he hired you? Or did he just forget to mention the fact that he's been on the run from the cops ever since? You're not a knight in shining armor for the sad, helpless kid in this story. You're just the one who burned down an innocent man's house."

Spider-Man's breath hitches. His entire body seems to tilt for a second, as if his energy was being drained by a particularly exhausting thought. Then, he rests his forehead and elbows on Pepper's counter. His arms form cages around his head. "It doesn't matter, nothing matters. I'm sorry for showing up, Mr. Stark. I just wanted to let you know I was alive and done 'fucking things up'."

Tony wasn't expecting the kid to concede. His entire body had been ramping up for screaming, like it had that night at the homeless camp. There was an expectation that he would have to force the kid to see that he can't just be an irrational, reckless idiot when he's trying to call himself a 'hero'. Because Tony had played with people like that, time and again. He was at a loss for what to do without the screaming.

"I really am sorry for showing up, Ms. Potts," Spider-Man grunted as he stood back up. There's a small blood stain on the counter where he was laying his head. "And, uh, you can tell Happy I won't be blowing up his phone anymore."

"Are you kidding me?"

Spider-Man freezes halfway to Pepper's already open window. "What?"

"Are you really that stubborn, Spider-Man? That you'd rather do everything alone than just be honest?"

"I don't have any other options," Spider-Man counters quickly. Nevertheless, his voice came softer than it had before. "Everything that's happened, everything is because of my choices. And since I have this power, it's my responsibility to deal with it."

The words were well-practiced. Used so many times in so many places that they were stained on the kid's lips. Coming out with so much power, they demanded to be taken as the truth.

"Taking responsibility is one thing, kid. What you're doing is downright torture for everybody involved." Tony raises his hand, ticking off statements as he continues. "The government is furious with Spider-Man because he won't sign the Accords. The public is angry because Spider-Man burned down their new celebrity's house. And all of that is falling on me because I let this happen. If you just give me a little to work with, I can help."

"Are people really mad at you?" Spider-Man's voice comes out utterly defeated. "Because of me?"

"Downright pissed." When Tony sees the kid tense, he hurries to add, "I can handle it, though. Or, I guess Pepper can. My name's been through a lot. What I need to know is if you can handle it by yourself. When the public turns on you and people who haven't made ill-advised promises start sniffing around, can you handle it?"

"I don't know," Spider-Man's mask may conceal his emotions, but his body language was screaming defeat. "I really don't. But, right now, I know the mess I'm in. I know I can survive it because I've been doing it for a year. Telling the truth will change everything, though. What if I tell you and things gets worse? I have no way of knowing if I'll survive it."

"That's what teams are for, Spidey. We're here, even when everything gets worse."

"You don't want me on your team."

"Oh, come on–"

"Did you know my parents are dead because of me?"

It was the first real and true thing Spider-Man had said since they met. Such a tragic, shocking thing to hear first. It was an invitation to know the darker parts of the kid. A part of Tony wanted to just let him keep them, let the kid swing away in whatever suit he wanted and forget this happened.

But Westcott's house was probably still on fire as they spoke. Coney Island was probably still on fire. Tony needed the answers.

"That couldn't have been your fault, sweetheart," Pepper offers, her voice sincere. Spider-Man shakes his head, directing his attention back to Tony.

"Maybe. But it's not a question that everything with Skip is my fault. You know it is. You know I punched him in an alleyway and burned down his house – which, by the way, had dozens of biological weapons in the basement because of me. It was my fault that Mr. Delmar's exploded and the ferry sank and your plane crashed. Bad things happen to me, Mr. Stark. And as hard as I fight to make sure that it doesn't hurt everybody else, it just keeps happening."

There's a long silence weighing over Pepper's apartment. Spider-Man squirms under the pressure. Tony wonders if he's waiting for Tony to personally deliver the lethal blow in the moment. Instead, he sighs.

"Yeah, well, I sold weapons to my kidnappers one time. And then gave out my home address to terrorists. Created Ultron, that one was sticky. Oh, and most recently? I started a civil war among superheroes over legislation that isn't even standing barely six months later. I never said that I only have martyrs on my team. Only that I take care of everybody on it."

Spider-Man hesitates, and then he steps further into the kitchen. Away from the window. The action may be minuscule in reality, but it meant something bigger. "I... I don't know how to—If I can even be on a team."

"That's okay," Pepper steps forward. Spider-Man immediately moves to step back but then forces himself to stay put. Pepper gives him a wide berth. "We'll figure this out together."

Peter nods like it's no big deal, but his shoulders slump at the words. "Then what happens now?"

"Now, we get you some new clothes and probably a few stitches."

Chapter Text

Pepper scrubs at her counter silently. The stain had disappeared almost immediately after she sprayed bleach onto the marble surface, but she managed to stay at that very spot for five minutes before speaking. 

“Did you see the bruises on his face?” She whispers, staring at the shiny countertop. Despite the fact that nobody would be able to hear her voice from down the hall and in her guest bedroom – where Spider-Man’s wounds were being tended to by the Avenger’s emergency doctor – Pepper still whispers. “And, god , the tears on his shoulders?”

There was no missing the kid’s wounds. Even if he were standing in a pitch-black room, across the city, Tony would have been able to see them. There were so many . Not just a few scratches from a plane crash. Not just some blisters from the fire on Coney Island. No, there were layers and layers of hurt that he was seriously doubting Dr. Reyes could even begin to touch. Layers that make Tony desperate to fix and avenge. Not that he even has a fraction of the story to do either.

“A night like he had does that to you,” Tony says instead, trying to lift his shoulders in the most blase way possible. Pepper wasn’t buying it. 

“Why aren’t you more worked up about this?” She snaps, throwing her cleaning rag into the sink with more force than needed. 

“Why are you so worked up about this? You made it clear, so many times, that you aren’t interested in being a part of my Avengers bullshit.” That may be Tony’s greatest fault. It wasn’t that he was rash or smart or even selfish. It was how quick he was to escalate any situation.

Pepper stares down Tony in a way he hasn’t seen in a while because of it. It was almost dangerous. “He broke into my apartment.”

“Yeah, believe me, I need to have a long conversation with him about how fucked up that is,” says Tony. “But that could have been the end of your involvement. What was up with all of the ‘ we ’s and arm touching you were throwing around, Pep?”

“I’m sorry, what should I have done? Let you yell at the person that was bleeding on my counter? Make some popcorn?” Pepper raises one of her eyebrows. “He’s obviously a kid, Tony. A terrified kid. He needed to know that he didn’t have to deal with everything on his own.”

“No shit. That’s why I took the suit! Which obviously worked, since he came running to me right after everything went up in literal flames.” Tony sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But now you’re involved. What happens when he needs help again and that now includes you? When things get complicated or dangerous or just plain busy. You didn’t want to be that, didn’t want to be there for me. How are you going to do it for this kid?”

Pepper froze, face going blank for a moment. “Is that what this is about?”

Tony pressed his lips together. What if that was what this was about? He was standing in front of Pepper for the second time since she walked out the door. Both times were because of Spider-Man. Was that their only link to each other at this point? Was the window truly closed now? 

“Of course not,” Tony sighs. “Yeah, that wasn’t the best month of my life. But, that’s not important right now. I feel like every time I so much as glance away from this kid, he flies off the reigns. My mess, our mess, can’t get in the way right now.” 

There’s silence. Pepper waits by the sink, watching Tony closely. Watching to see if his resolve crumbles under the pressure. He doesn’t, it doesn’t. Actually, it becomes stronger. Of everything in the world that was ruined, of everything that was squarely on Tony’s shoulders, Spider-Man was what he was going to focus on. He would do everything in his power to ensure that the kid didn’t follow the same path that Tony wore down and Howard designed. 

The door at the end of the hallway creaks as it opens. Tony feels like sprinting as it does. He isn’t ready for this, he can’t be the person who stays, the kid needs somebody better equipped–

“In here, Spidey,” Tony calls. Yes, really natural. And not at all obvious! Where the hell else would I be? This apartment wasn’t exactly a mansion or maze. Tony criticizes himself. He notices idly that it sounded much like Obadiah’s voice.

The first thing Tony notices is that Spider-Man isn’t wearing the suit. Well, not a superhero suit at least. Somehow, under the suit, he was wearing dress slacks and an undershirt that belongs under a thick button-up – that wasn’t anywhere to be seen, though. Neither was the backpack that the kid always had, Tony realizes. How did his night even start?

The second thing he notices is that Spider-Man is still wearing the mask. A buzz of annoyance flashes through him without thinking. A habitual response at this point. Much like the night he visited his hotel room (he somehow didn’t even look similar to the boy from Germany, though. He was much skinnier now). The mask was dirty and bloody and even ripped on the base, showing a few stray locks of brown hair. 

And, finally, Tony notices that most of the wounds are gone. No, that was an overstatement. You could still see layers of bruising and boils and stab marks . But, it wasn’t nearly as horrific as before. Maybe it was because the blood had dried or because the tattered suit was gone. This detail made him feel considerably less negative. 

“How are you feeling?” Pepper asks, breaking the long silence that broke out. Both Spider-Man and Tony cringed at the question. 

“Couldn’t be better,” says Spider-Man, followed by a snort. It’s not quite a laugh, not quite genuine. It sounds exhausting. 

“Really convincing,” Tony returns the snort. He points toward the barstools he was already sitting at. “You know you’re allowed to say ‘shitty’, right? I think you deserve it.”

The kid trudges over the stools. He picks the one on the opposite side of Tony. Then, as a second thought, he drags it around the kitchen as well. There was an entire counter between them now. “I mean... I've had better nights, but I've definitely had worse.”

Tony’s mind flashes to their last conversation. Dead parents, mistakes up to his neck, plane crash. Fuck . 

“Right. Let’s, uh, put a pin in that.” Tony nods, looking toward Pepper. Her eyes are stuck on Spider-Man. “Can we talk about what happened tonight?”

“Which part?”

“All of it? Any of it? I just need something to go off of. You’re on my team and I mean that, Spidey, but your case is not looking pretty right now. Not even with three drinks and a shiny dress.”

“ Ahem ,” Pepper reprimands, but it’s not as harsh as earlier. There’s an ease to it, a familiarity. 

“Right, sorry.” Tony nods. “Just, tell me how everything went south.”

“That’s a loaded question.”

“Okay, then can you tell me about Skip?”

Peter’s breath hitches at the mention. “That's an even worse.”

“No, no .” Tony sighs, pinching his nose. “Kid, I need you to be honest now. No more games.”

“I can’t .”

“Why not?”

“It doesn’t even matter. The media would never believe me, so it won’t help your case. Skip will always be the hero biologist who impressed the government out of college and donates to charity and adopts orphans. While Spider-Man is just the local menace who’s been on the run from the Accords for months and took down a ferry.”

Tony leans forward, his elbows digging into the marble. “I’m going to be frank with you, the media circus never gets better. They’ve gotten under my skin and ruined my life a fair share of times. So, yeah. They probably wouldn’t believe you, probably won’t stop glorifying Westcott.”

“That’s why it’s important to have a team, sweetheart.” Pepper continues for Tony, softer. “People you can trust to listen to the truth and support you anyway. That’s what we’re here for.”

“Promise?” Spider-Man says it so quickly, it sounds as if it slips out. The way he jumps after the fact only adds to that. Tony wants him to take it back. So he doesn’t have to make promises he can’t keep. So Pepper can opt out now before the damage is done. But he doesn’t. 

“I promise,” Pepper says. Tony shoots her a look. She returns his stare. “From now on, I’ll be here–” Her gaze returns to Spider-Man. “–For you.”

Spider-Man’s eyes search Pepper’s, then Tony’s. Maybe looking for judgment or lies or insincerity. A reason to keep his mouth shut. Whatever he was looking for, though, he didn’t find it.

“I… I lied.” He whispers. 

“About what?” Tony asks. 

“About Peter Parker. He didn’t tell me to watch out for Skip.” He pauses, head tilting. “Well, I guess, technically– He– I– Why don’t I just…”

Spider-Man’s hand reaches up in one fluid motion, gripping a handful of his mask. He hesitates for a few seconds, flinching back and forth, before tugging the fabric clean off. 

Now, Tony had always had the uncanny ability to convince others of things that weren’t true. It wasn’t something he consciously decided to build or use. Actually, he’d much rather just tell the truth all of the time, no matter the feelings they may hurt. But, when the public looks to you for grand answers at the ripe age of six, lying is necessary. A survival instinct. People asked, Tony answered.

Of course my father spends time with his family. He’s a good old-fashioned husband.

Stark Industries is stronger than ever, how could you think otherwise?

The Avengers are a perfect solution to Earth’s problems.

Yeah, you get the picture. 

The thing is, people wanted to be convinced. They wanted a reason to shove the Starks into this ‘other’ category (whether as this perfect family that could do no wrong, or this demonic group that could do no good). Wanted to hear that the company was doing good, that the Avengers were the answer to their prayers. It didn’t truly matter what he said. He could say anything and they would twist it to fit their narrative

Tony didn’t know that, though. All he saw was that people walked away satisfied. Somewhere along the way, he began to assume it was because he just… knew better. His natural instinct had never steered him too wrong before. And anytime it had gotten close, there was always a way out of the problem. Tony had never understood why Rogers had thought it was a character flaw, rather than his greatest strength. 

But, as the mask fell from Spider-Man’s fingers and onto the counter, Tony wonders for the first time if Rogers had been right. 

The face under the mask was vaguely familiar, though the kid’s expression was tragic. And it was a kid . Even with his face covered in a splatter of bruises, there was no mistaking Spider-Man’s age. It wasn’t even close to the mid-twenties college student that Tony had been ready ( hoping ) to see. The face was young enough that it didn’t have stubble, yet. Didn’t have acne , yet. 

He did have the eye bags of a college student, but that somehow didn’t make Tony feel better. Neither did the sunken nature of the boy’s cheeks. He looked hungry . 

Shit , Tony yelled in his mind, watching as the boy avoided eye contact. He looked guilty and scared shitless. Maybe even a little ashamed was mixed around there. Shit, shit, shit . 

Tony leans back in his chair, fighting the urge to cover his eyes and yell ‘ la , la , la ,’. Pepper was just as frozen. Tony wondered if she was fighting the same urge. Everything from the last year rearranges itself neatly. It was a kid he snuck to Germany. A kid he ignored and yelled at and gave a death machine suit. A kid … without parents and a spectacular power roster and a grudge against a scientist.

Spider-Man moves nervously, unable to sit still. His leg bounces, his fingers fidget with the mask, and his eyes glance around. He is waiting to be judged. The silence is not helping, Tony reminds himself. 

“Is this why you wanted to keep the mask on?”

Spider-Man’s wide eyes snap up, fear creeping in. 

“Because of your age?”

The fear disappears, replaced by something else. He shakes his head. Actually, he scoffs and shakes his head. 

“Come on, honey, talk to us.” Pepper whispers.

Spider-Man frowns, hugging his midsection. He clears his throat before responding, “I’m not that young.”

Tony sighs. “Okay, want to tell me how old you are?”

“You…” The kid pauses, eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t know?”

“Why would I?”
“I just figured whatever files Skip gave you would have said.”

“Skip Westcott? Why would he have files about you?”

Spider-Man looks pointedly at Tony, his eyes reading ‘Duh ’. And, for the second time in a minute, Tony’s memories rearrange. 

He knows why he vaguely recognized Spider-Man’s face now.

When FRIDAY had researched Skip Westcott, Tony came across a Facebook page. The only social media the man was on. He didn’t post often at all. The sum of his updates from the past decade fit neatly on one page. But, every single one of the posts had three people in them. Skip was obviously one of them, in varying ages and happiness. The second was a black-haired woman with a kind smile and smart eyes. And finally, there was a boy with glasses who was always a little blurry from not being able to sit still.

Peter Parker.

Sitting on Pepper’s barstool, veiled by the fluorescent lights and a face of bruises, Spider-Man– Peter – barely looks like the photos. The Peter Parker in the pictures had been unkempt from a general youth. Hair fluffed from playing and smudges of dirt from running around outside. The Peter Parker here looked plain wrecked. 

“ You’re Peter?” Tony knows already. He could see it clear as day. But a part of him wanted Spider-Man to deny it. 

He doesn’t. Instead, Peter shrugs and looks away. 

“Well, that’s… a relief.”

“It is?”

“Yeah.” Tony nods, choosing his words carefully. “Now I know that you aren’t dumb enough to carry out hits from–”

“Teenage thugs?” Peter fills in, eyes on the counter. Shit . If only Tony had chosen his words more carefully earlier. 

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You meant it.” Peter says firmly, daring Tony to disagree. 

“I did, but I obviously don’t know what I’m talking about, kid. So, tell me about it. About Skip.”

“He lied, Mr. Stark.”

“About which part?”

“About me.” The words began spilling from his lips as if they had been wanting to come out for months. “I promise I’m not just this ungrateful kid! I know other people have it so much worse than me. Kids who don’t get fed or get used as ashtrays. Trust me, I know I had it good. But I just couldn’t handle it anymore, Mr. Stark. I tried, I really tried . But after winter break and the experiment and the fighting–”

“Woah, slow down.” Tony could barely process what Peter was saying. “Let’s, uh– Let’s start with the experiment.”

Peter smiled wryly. “Ever wonder where my powers came from?”

“You said it was a radioactive spider.”

“Made and designed by Skip.” Peter paused. “Well, Skip and some good old-fashioned Super Soldier serum.”

Tony’s mouth went dry. Every new detail felt like a direct blow to his gut. This situation kept getting worse and worse the more Tony knew.

“The Solider Serum?” Pepper asks suddenly. “But the Stark Industry labs are sealed.”

Peter shrugged again. “Yeah, well, it’s easy to replicate it when you were the one designing it.”

“ Jesus , okay.” Guilt, hot and sticky rose in Tony’s chest. This had happened right under his nose . “Is that why you and Skip fought so much? Because of the… experiment ?”

Tony could see Peter’s tall, impenetrable walls lower. Only slightly. Tears dripped down his face as he responded. “Not really. Even before that, every conversation was an argument. It was the only way I could fight back. At night, I… I couldn’t protect myself. I just wasn’t strong enough. But during the day, I could fight back.”

At night I couldn’t protect myself . 

Something snaps in Tony’s chest. He had become used to feeling desperate around Peter. Desperate to fix him or teach him or protect him. But, this, this was something new. Tony’s entire chest yearned to burn the world down forever even creating Skip Westcott. It was the only way I could fight back . 

Peter takes the silence as judgment. He hurries to fill the void. “I’m so sorry , Mr. Stark. I didn’t mean to–to drag you into this. Either of you. I know it’s my responsibility and… and it was stupid that I left. I was stupid. But, I just wanted it to be over. I wanted to be able to sleep at night, but I couldn’t And he followed me to the river and–”

“Peter, stop .” Pepper reaches across the counter to rest her hand on top of Peter’s. He pulled it away before she was even halfway across the distance. His face didn’t even flinch, the movement seemed instinctual.

Peter sniffles, lowering his eyes. “I’m so–”

“For the love of all the Asgardian gods, kid, please don’t apologize. I don’t think my sanity can handle that right now.” Tony snaps, shaking his head. 

“Good, because I’m not sorry about the fire,” Peter whispers, a glint of pride in his eye. The first look all night Tony wants Peter to keep wearing, no matter the reason. “There was an entire army of super soldier spiders down there. He had a buyer lined up in Germany.”

Tony stands. Tries to ignore the way Peter pulls his legs tighter, and scoots a little further. At least he isn’t trying to run away.

“I’ll be right back.”

Pepper watches him closely. There are questions in her eyes, but she is willing to trust him right now. 

With a swift motion, Tony turns away from Peter. The burning look of humiliation and shame that settles upon Peter's features does not go unnoticed, but Tony forces himself to ignore it.

“FRIDAY, connect me with Agent Hattley. Use her personal number if you have to.” Tony says into his phone, excusing himself into the hallway of Pepper’s building. 

FRIDAY doesn’t have to use a personal number, it turns out. Even though it was well past working hours, the woman picked up on the second ring. 

“This is Supervisory Special Agent Hattley, what can I help you with?”

“Hattley, this is Tony.”

“Ah, Mr. Iron Man. Call to gloat about the case? I heard your baddie was bagged tonight.”

“Actually, I’m trying to see how far my… donation can go.”

There’s a muffled noise like Hattley is taking the phone off, speaker.

“What are we talking about here?”

“I assume you’ve seen the news lately, so you have to have heard all about Spider-Man.”

“I have. Do you want an arrest warrant on the spider guy?”

“No, I want a warrant on Steven Westcott.”

“You can’t be serious,” Hattley scoffs. “The news is having a field day glorifying this Westcott guy. They’re making him the face of the Accords. Even if I worked out the most expert frame job, it’s still going to look shady, Stark.”

“I don’t need you to frame him, Hattley. Westcott not only genetically altered somebody without the government’s knowledge, but he was trying to sell the technology. That’s why Spider-Man trashed his home lab.”

“If you’re so sure of this, why haven’t you gone to the Advanced Threat Containment Unit, yet?”

“I’m still working on getting the proof. I’ll get it, but I can’t have Westcott building a mob before I even start. Can you help me?”

Hattley leaves the line in silence for a while. Then, “Fine. I’m warning you, though, this is as far as your favor goes. You have forty-eight hours after Westcott is in custody to find a charge that sticks. You hear me?”

“Loud and clear.”

“I’ll have him within the hour.”

Then she hangs up. Tony goes back inside.

“Hey, kid.” Tony finally turns. Peter looks deflated on his chair, staring at the door before Tony even opens it. “That was a friend of mine. I called in a favor and—”

“I heard… Can she really do that? Legally?”

“Sure. There’s a forty-eight-hour holding period.”

“You heard what she said, though. If Skip disappears, that’s going to look bad on you. I can’t let you do that.”

“It’s okay, kid,” Tony says. “Not that it’s your problem to worry about. People won’t be able to argue when the truth comes out.”

“ Will the truth come out? You said you don’t have any proof, you’re just going off of what I said” – panic shoots through the kid’s expression – “You’re not going to make me testify, are you? I can’t tell, nobody can know about this, Mr. Stark–”

“Hey, woah, woah, woah. Take a breather. I’m not going to make you do anything. We’ll… we’ll figure everything out later. All I’m doing is getting everything tidy for a second.”

Peter's disbelief is etched on his face as if he can't bring himself to believe a word Tony is saying. Like he had gone through this charade countless times before, only to wind up worse than he had to begin with. And, truth be told, that’s most likely the exact thing that happened. It was clear in every word Peter spoke that his trust had been shattered long ago. 

What might be the worst part was that Tony didn’t have anything to make Peter believe this time would be different. It might not be different. Everything could go wrong. The public could turn on Spider-Man. Tony might not find the proof he needs. Peter Parker might be hurt beyond repair at the ripe age of fifteen . 

“No matter what, we'll figure it out together. As a team."

Chapter Text

Forty-eight hours is a torturously long time. 

Especially for a pair of three people who were anxious for action and utterly unable to take it.

Peter had been camped out on the recliner for hours. Legs drawn to his chest, breathing moving in rounds of even to shaky to even again. Not once did he mention it, so neither did the other two people in the room. The pizza on his plate stayed utterly untouched, but that wasn’t mentioned either.

Pepper was the complete opposite. She was unable to sit still for more than a minute. Her feet wore a path between the kitchen and the living room, between the living room and her bedroom. Even after the house was spotless, her guests beyond comfortable, she still managed to find new ways to keep her mind occupied. A small pile was growing beside the recliner. Pepper had gifted Peter bottles of water and soda. Blankets, a toothbrush, and bags of chips. He didn’t touch it. Nobody talked about it. 

As for Tony, he found himself in an infuriating place in between. Half of his energy was being spent forcing him to stay perfectly still on the love seat. He feared to even fidget, as Peter flinched every time he did. Tony noted that he didn’t when Pepper hurried in and out. The fact that there were a number of reasons for this led to Tony’s other half. The aching desire to summon all of his suits. To march to whatever holding cell Westcott was sitting in and make him regret every foul, despicable fucking thing he’s thought. Make him pay for making the kid – who, after quick math, Tony realized couldn’t be older than fifteen – flinch over every sound, to hide his entire identity in fear that Westcott would find. 

Put him six feet under for proving that Peter was right for every one of those fears, time and again. 

Begrudgingly, Tony realized that this wouldn’t help anything. If anything, it would ruin everything. Nothing is more suspicious than a public figure’s enemy randomly dying in jail. It just means the guy had something to say that somebody didn’t want to hear. After everything, Tony was not going to turn Spider-Man into an arsonist and a murderer. He would just need to find a way to keep Westcott in jail – preferably the Raft. Just… without any evidence. Or willing witnesses. Or paying off the courts. Pepper had already made it clear that was off the table. 

When the sun began to rise through the windows, Tony finally spoke. “Have you–” He pauses when Peter’s head snaps up, his entire body pressing into the chair. Tony swallowed and continued anyway. “Where have you been living, Spidey?”

Peter presses his lips together tightly. His eyes feel more guarded than the tightest security vault. A minute goes by, and Tony wonders if Peter will ever speak again. But he does. 

“Downtown.” He tries. His voice sounds weak and slow. When was the last time he slept? When would he be able to again? “In, uh, the Camp. That’s why I was there after the… The pictures.”

Fuck . He had been with Westcott that night. What had happened to push the kid, who was utterly terrified, to plant a fist into the man’s teeth? That should have been enough torment for an entire lifetime. Then Tony had to show up and run his big mouth. What had he said that night? That Westcott was a good guy. That Peter was a thug. Fuck .

“How long?” Tony whispers, trying not to let his anger show. 

“A few weeks after I left Skip’s.” Peter glanced over to the hallway. Pepper was somewhere in her bedroom. “The tent had been abandoned, so I took it. When I had money, I bought groceries for the Camp. To thank them for letting me stay.”

“ When you had money?” 

Peter shrugs. “I had this job. I had to lie a lot about who I was, which suited me fine. My boss began asking a few too many questions after a while, so I left. Ran out of money in August.”

“That was almost three months ago.” Fuck, fuck, and did Tony mention fuck ? “How have you been eating?”

The mention of food shuts down whatever openness Peter had been attempting. There was something he didn’t want to say, even now. “Mr. Delmar gives me sandwiches sometimes.”

“The same Delmar that you– That burnt down in September?”

Another shrug. Another flash of something hot and sticky in Tony’s throat. It wasn’t just anger, he decided. It was guilt. He had spoken to the kid how many times since then? The kid was quite literally starving, and Tony didn’t even see it. See the way he stumbled whenever they talked. Not because he was angry, but because yelling was actually too much energy. 

Tony leaned back into the couch, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Peter Parker seemed to be a magnet for bad things. He had already known this. When the ferry fell apart and he kept disappearing and especially with the media. Just the day before, this fact had Tony pissed . He thought it would have been better for the kid to just lay down for a while and let everything blow over. Why was he so hell-bent on doing things alone and proving himself? 

Now, it was clear why. Peter wasn’t doing all of it for the moral boost. Not to be the hero for people, not to prove he could. Not even to get even with the person who had utterly ruined him. The only time he even came in contact with Westcott was when he had to. To survive. That is all Peter ever wanted to do. Survive. Do the best he can with a seriously unfortunate circumstance. 

God. Tony had once thought Peter was just like him. 

“I’m sorry,” Peter murmurs suddenly. He has his knees pulled to his chest, eyes on the hallway again. “For making things complicated with you and Ms. Potts.”

Tony froze for a second. “What?”

“I, uh, heard you guys arguing. While the doctor was here.” Peter glances back, face sad. Super hearing , Tony scolds himself, because of course he’s a Super Soldier . “She doesn’t have to be here if she doesn’t want to be. Or, I don’t have to be here, I guess. I know I shouldn’t have come, but I didn’t have the phone you gave me and I couldn’t go to the towers because…”

Peter dropped the sentence, unable to continue. The silence was loud enough, though.

“There’s something you should know if you’re going to be on my team,” Tony says hesitantly. He didn’t want to spook the kid, but he couldn’t walk on eggshells. “I don’t sugar coat. So, yeah. Breaking into my ex-girlfriend’s house? Not the best thing. But, not the worst either. Pepper is a trooper. She can walk through the actual pits of Hell and still have enough fire to burn Satan in the ass.”

This earns a laugh. An actual, genuine laugh. It sounds like actual music and makes Tony’s heart twist in a way he didn’t understand at all. A twist that makes him want to camp out on this couch for eternity, spewing out every joke he knows in hopes of hearing it again. Perhaps this was a part of the horrid desperation Tony had been so afraid of. 

“Anyway, we’ve been at odds for a while now. Our priorities just don’t line up anymore, I guess.” Tony glances at the hallway like Peter had been doing. He pictures her face after Extremis. After Ultron and their missed dates. After the Winter Soldier. “It’s not yours to carry, either way. We’re grown-ups, we can take responsibility for our own problems.”

A look crosses across Peter’s face. Something between confusion and disbelief with a small hint of hope. Tony can’t even begin to guess where that look came from, what thoughts hid behind it. So many things behind the kid’s carefully curated mask. No wonder he clung to it so much.

Pepper marches into the room once more. She doesn’t have a pile of necessities for Peter this time. Instead, she was simply wringing her hands. A lesser man would think she was nervous. Tony knew better than that. Pepper was never nervous, she was formulating. 

“Alright boys,” She says softly, but firmly. “Time for bed.”

“Oh, right.” Peter nods, standing. He seems a little wobbly on his feet, with the adrenaline gone. He begins walking toward the windows. “Thank you, for tonight and sorry for keeping you up, Ms. Potts.”

“Peter, where are you going?” Pepper asks. Peter freezes. 

“To let you sleep.” His eyebrows press together. “Would you prefer I use the stairs?”

“No, sweetheart. You can sleep here, in the guest bedroom.” Now Pepper’s eyebrows press together. Her’s isn’t in confusion, though. It’s in a sad hope. “Unless you have somewhere to go?”

“I really wouldn’t want to be a bother–”

“Nonsense.” Pepper smiles. “Guest bedrooms are made for guests. Besides, we can’t get anything done if we’re dead on our feet.”

We . What a glorious word. Tony hadn’t preferred it before now. Hell, he probably wouldn’t accept it in most other contexts. At this moment, though, it seemed impossible not to romanticize. We meant himself and Pepper. He, Pepper, and Peter. A team. Hopefully not one that was going to break into shambles over politics or shields or jets. Something close to the family Tony had always resented and Peter deserved.

It took an hour and a half for Peter to fall asleep – Tony had FRIDAY scanning the room for his heartbeat and breathing. He went in fits of falling asleep, then forcing himself awake. It wasn’t clear whether Peter was doing it on purpose or not – and another half an hour for Tony and Pepper to feel comfortable talking again. Partly because they couldn’t be sure how far his enhanced hearing stretched. Partly because they didn’t want to wake him up after he had finally fallen asleep. 

“I don’t even know where to start here,” Pepper sighs, dumping Peter’s three slices of untouched pizza into the garbage. It seemed wrong. Steve had always been eating, since the serum boosted his metabolism so much. Not to mention that Tony knew a thing about not having decent food for extended periods of time. When he returned from Afghanistan, the first thing he did was buy some Burger King. So why wasn’t Peter eating? “It’s just… so much.”

“I know,” Tony agrees. “I mean, how do you legally give a man life in prison without proof or willing witnesses?”

“I was more so thinking about what to do with Peter. I mean, he’s a teenager . A teenager who doesn’t have parents to go home to. And his legal guardian is in jail right now – not that we’d ever consider sending him back. So what does that leave us? Child protective services?”

“We’re not sending a traumatized super kid to foster care. There’s is absolutely no scenario where that turns out well.”

“Exactly. So where does he go?”

“With me,” Tony says without even thinking. Pepper jolts for a second as if this was the last thing she was expecting. Tony felt about the same. What the hell am I talking about? I can’t be responsible for this . But, as he’s thinking it, he realizes he’s wrong. Not only does he have to be responsible now, he wants to. He wants to make sure that this kid doesn’t have to sleep in tents and fear that he is going to fall into another terror every time he takes a step. And nobody else was really volunteering right now. “I basically live in the city now. He can stay at the Avenger’s compound, God knows there are open rooms now.”

“That’s an option.” Pepper nods slowly, as if mulling over Tony’s words. The silence draws his inner dialogue into the open.
“What, do you think I can’t handle it?”

“No, I just think there’s a lot to think about before you swoop in.”

“Like?” Tony prods. There’s no anger to his words, no heat. It would be easier to say that he was longing to prove that this was right, despite all logic. He could be the person who stays when Starks have never been the ones who stay.

“Like,” Pepper says delicately. “Legalities. Peter is going to need doctors and schooling and other things that an unregistered fifteen-year-old can’t have. Are you willing to become his legal guardian?”

“I couldn’t care less about titles, Pep,” Tony whispers. “As far as I’m concerned, whatever the kid needs is coming out of my pocket anyway. I meant it, he’s on my team now.”

“It’s more than just a title and allowances, Tony. It makes Peter your ‘next of kin’. That means if anything happens to you, all of your assets, your power of attorney, and all of your funds will fall onto his shoulders. In the meantime, if he gets in trouble with the law, as Peter or Spider-Man, it will fall on yours. Even things as small as report cards become your legal responsibility.”

Every word felt like a twenty-pound weight around Tony’s neck. Which… fair. This wasn’t just a piece of art he was buying or a superhero he was tacking onto the Avengers. Peter wasn’t self-sufficient, despite how desperately he had been trying to be. Not in the eyes of Tony and especially not in the eyes of the state. It wasn’t something that Tony had been expecting to do in a million years. It wasn’t something he felt he could mess up and fix tenfold either. “Do you have a better solution?”

“No,” Pepper admits simply. “No, I think this is exactly where Peter needs to be. I just want it to be clear that we both understand what making Peter a Stark means.”

A Stark . Tony hadn’t exactly thought about it like that. Being a Stark had cursed him from his very birth. It put a world onto his shoulder that he was never told how to carry. Made sure that he was never able to sneeze without a camera in his face and the government breathing down his back. Was it fair to subject a kid, this kid, to even more problems? Did he even have a choice at this point?

“The kid’s tough,” Tony decides. “I wish I could just snap my fingers and have all of his problems fixed, but that’s not how life works. There’s no shielding Peter from all of the shit that he’s going to have to go through. As Spider-Man, with Westcott, you name it. If my being there can help, though? Even in the most microscopic way, then I’ll do it.”

“We’ll do it. Together.”

Chapter Text

Tony’s greatest fears used to be centered around the suffocating darkness. 

He would have vivid dreams where he was trapped inside of metal, unable to move. Everything was cold, everything was quiet. Even before the darkness, Tony had never quite liked the silence. Not through the years supervised by babysitters or in college or even in his lab space. There was always  something  whispering into his ear – whether it be older women, music, or his own incessant rambling. After, it became dangerous. 

Sometimes, when people asked him about the Battle of New York or he would hear a noise that sounded just a  little  too close to the terrible Chitauri’s screeching, he would see the wormhole. Everything was so dark, except for that one circle of brilliant light. Getting smaller and smaller. The subtle understanding that that might be the last light he ever got to see. 

JARVIS had told him it was a panic attack. Tony had vehemently refused. This wasn’t a stupid mental thing. Something had to be wrong with his heart, right? The palladium was back or it was infected again. Could somebody be remotely draining the energy?

After the thirteenth emergency doctor’s appointment, his resolve melted. 

When he lived with Pepper, she would help him with it. Try to distract him. Soothe him. Breathe, break shit, even build something. She was stellar at it, despite never having gone through one herself. Then again, Tony couldn’t quite think of anything Pepper wasn’t stellar at. 

When she moved out, she set up a protocol with FRIDAY. It had gone mostly unused until after Siberia. Those were never as bad as after Wormhole. It wasn’t an overwhelming panic that haunted Tony then, it was anger with a hint of loss. 

All of this to say, Tony should be an expert at diffusing panic attacks at this point. 

He wasn’t.

Peter slept until the late evening. He didn’t so much as stir in his sleep. Even after hour nine of sleeping, when Tony and Pepper took turns anxiously cracking the door to make sure he was still  alive . He was fine, of course. FRIDAY would have notified Tony if Peter’s vitals looked so much as abnormal. 

Still, it stressed the two of them out when they saw Peter was curled on the bed each time, utterly stiff and soaked with a feverish sweat. Google said this was completely normal – which was surprising, as Tony found that Google loved to tell people that everything was cancer or heart attacks. The latter was the cause of a few too many of Tony’s panic attacks – and that mental and physical trauma would often cause infection-aligned symptoms. Peter would be fine, all Tony could do was make sure he was still breathing. 

Then, closer to four in the afternoon ( thirty-three hours left , Tony couldn’t help but think), Peter finally woke up. Or, he was  awoken . FRIDAY jumped onto Pepper’s television screen, displaying several charts. Peter’s vitals. His breathing had skyrocketed, alongside his adrenaline levels. Cortisol, check. High blood pressure? Triple  fucking  check. Either Peter was being murdered in cold blood or…

“He’s panicking,” FRIDAY confirms without Tony even needing to ask. 

“Initiate the protocol,” Tony demands, watching as Peter’s heart bumps unevenly. 

“I can’t, boss,” She responds quickly. “There aren’t any audio outputs in the guest bedroom for me to calm him.”

“Pepper–”

“Is sleeping soundly.” Another pair of vitals appears beside Peter’s. They were considerably healthier. “It’s up to you, sir.”

Great.  Fantastic . This was something that Tony was totally confident in his ability to do and definitely wasn’t making the metal in his chest feel like a ten-ton weight. Everything is  amazing . 

The guest bedroom is bathed in darkness, the curtains drawn shut. Tony wonders if the darkness feels as claustrophobic to Peter as it did to him. In most contexts, Tony might feel honored to have a likeness to the kid. Not like this, though. Not the debilitating panic over something as simple as the dark. 

“Kid?” Tony says, loud enough to announce his presence as he cracked the door open. A small sliver of light falls across the center of the room, right where the bed is. The kid is just as stiff, just as drenched by sweat as he had been every time before. This time, though, he twisted inhumanly under the thick duvet. A small murmur broke through the silence at Tony’s words, accompanied by a violent flinch.

“What was that, kiddo?” Tony works on a whisper this time. He wasn’t trying to make things worse,  God he was going to make things worse . As if to prove this, Peter lets out a sharp gasp. His eyes squeeze shut. 

“ Please ,” Peter begs, only barely louder than he had been speaking. He fights once more against the blanket. Every time he kicked at it, though, his limbs just got more tangled. The image vividly reminded Tony of his suit shutting down in the wormhole. How he thrashed against the frosted arms and legs for the semblance of control, to no avail. He doesn’t even think as he crosses the room. In a swift motion, he yanks the duvet onto the floor.

 “Kid? You’re good now, they’re gone. You’re good… Are you good?”

Peter’s eyes fly open, darting around the dark room. At first, they find the light from the door. Then, slowly, they move to Tony. Though, it didn’t seem like Peter was  seeing  Tony. Whatever it was completely shut him down, though. He draws his legs to his chest, pressing his eyes shut once more. After a moment, he once more says, “Please.”

“Please what?” There it was again. That sharp, sticky feeling in his gut. Not just a simple anger. A burning,  fucking  rage. Tony did not doubt that, if he came face to face with whatever maniacal force was in charge of Peter’s life, he wouldn’t hesitate to rip it limb from limb. Wouldn’t hesitate to utterly fucked the rest of the world over if it meant erasing the fear that drenched Peter’s begs. For now, though, he leaned forward and tapped the kid’s shoulder. “Can you breathe for a second, Pete?”

“Get off!” Peter shouts, sending a painful slap to Tony’s wrist. When his eyes finally meet Tony’s eyes, the panic softens slightly. “Please, don’t–don’t touch me.”

“Not touching you, see?” Tony raises his hands in surrender but doesn’t step away. His mind is drawn back to the night at the hotel. When he wanted to check on Spider-Man’s ribs. At the time, he assumed the kid was doing a tough guy act. Trying not to show off his weakness, y’know? The entire scene looked different now. It was Peter backing himself into a corner, desperate to keep a steady five feet between himself and Tony. Another glaring red flag that Tony just couldn’t see through his annoyance-tainted glasses. “I’m not going to hurt you, you can calm down.”

“You’re  too close –You–You can’t–!”

Every time Peter attempts to speak, he’s cut off with horrifying gasps for air. As if, no matter how many breaths he takes, the oxygen won’t fix it. Tony has felt that before. It’s its own form of desperation. Fighting against your own body for control. 

“I won't lay a finger on you, kid, but I need you to calm down,” Tony says firmly. “This is how you felt on your bad night, remember? It’s called a panic attack, Peter, and it gets worse the longer you let it go on. Do you want it to get worse?”

The kid stopped inching backward, eyes glued to Tony. After a few more painful attempts to get air, he slowly shook his head. “It won’t–I ca–can’t–Stop?”

“You can. You’re not dying, you’re…”  What was he, Tony? Fine? Going to be okay?  “Safe. You’re safe, nothing can hurt you here.”

“Here…” Peter looks uncertainly around the bedroom. Of course, it wasn’t familiar to him. His eyes fall back to Tony’s, staying there for longer than Tony would ever allow. But it seemed to be working. Eventually, the kid gets a full breath. In and out without any hiccups or coughing fits. 

“See, you got this. Just keep doing that.  In and out .” Tony takes an exaggerated breath. He feels the relief in his entire body when Peter mimics the action. Breath after breath, they continue, working through the stale air.  In and out ,  in and out . There was no way to tell how long they did this. By the time Tony was teetering on becoming light-headed, Peter finally let out a sigh of relief. 

Slowly, the kid releases his body from the tension. His shoulders loosen. Head leans back and finally, opens his eyes. There’s less fear in them now. Now, it was an exhausted embarrassment. 

“Sorry,” He says eventually, wrapping his arms across his knees. 

“None of that,” Tony sighs, perching himself on the edge of the bed. Peter watched him, but he didn’t jolt this time. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Peter shook his head harshly. His eyes bore into Tony’s exposed wrist. There was a soft purple sprouting. “I hit you.”

“You didn’t mean to.”

“That’s worse,” Peter assured Tony. The words seemed memorized. “I know what I’m capable of, and I– I  can’t  control it.”

“Come on, kid–”

“No, Mr. Stark.” Peter pressed his forehead against his knee, voice dejected and quiet. “I bring disaster. Only one person has been able to handle it, should  have to  deal with it.”

A silence bubbles between them. Tony knows he can’t just dispute this thought. He wishes he would. He wishes he could just push a button and have every disgusting,  miserable  lie that Westcott said to be erased from Peter’s mind – and that’s definitely what this is. The pain is so clear on Peter’s face that Tony can practically hear Westcott’s voice bouncing around Peter’s mind. 

But he knows he can’t. Tony knows, probably better than anybody, that you can’t just turn off the effect people have on you. He still finds himself trimming his beard like Obadiah had taught him years ago. Still hears his father’s disapproving voice whenever a prototype fails and sees Steve’s slight smile whenever he does something good. All of the people that had once been what Tony  strived  to be, had worked day and night to win the approval of. Just because they had ruined Tony didn’t just kill the power. 

“Did you know my house was blown into the Pacific Ocean?” Tony says instead. Peter glances up, almost incredulously. 

“Of course, the Mandarin seized it during the Extremis invasion,” Peter stops himself, face flushing a deep red. “Sorry, I’m not trying to be insensitive. It’s just… You were my actual hero growing up. I even managed to get tickets to StarkExpo a while back.”

“What?” Tony couldn’t help but smile. He had been Peter’s hero. That was  something . “The Expo shut down years ago.”

Peter nodded excitedly. “Right? I got to go to the very last one when I was nine! We met, actually. Well, not really, but kind of?”

“God, kid, you’re killing me.” Tony wanted to be anxious over the fact that Peter had been there  during the fucking attack , but honestly? He wouldn’t expect much less at this point. At least he knew, for sure, he survived. “ Anyway , my manor in Malibu. Got completely destroyed with Pepper and myself inside.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Yeah. Even worse was the fact that it was my fault.” Peter returned Tony’s glance earnestly, ready to argue. Tony continued without letting him. “I mean it. I literally invited a terrorist organization to my house and told them to fight me.”

Tony shrugged at Peter. He wasn’t even pushing faux apathy at this point. It had happened and he survived. “I thought I was invincible with my suit. I had this mindset that anything they can do, I can do better. Then Happy got hurt while scouting for  me , Pepper could have drowned because of  me . I knew what I was capable and I  could  control it. I just forgot that not everybody else wanted to deal with my shit.”

“That’s different, you didn’t hurt them on purpose.”

“Neither did you, Pete.” Tony cocks an eyebrow, daring Peter to argue. “It’s just how life works. Sometimes your mess is going to leak onto somebody else’s. All you can do is take responsibility and keep moving forward.”

Peter chuckled. “Like the Robinsons.”

“The what-in-sons?”

“You did  not  just say that!” Peter gasps. His energy was higher than Tony had ever seen it. It almost rivaled the voice that starred in the voicemails. The earliest, happiest ones. “‘Keep moving forward’, like from  Meet the Robinsons .”

“What is that, a sequel to  Meet the Fockers ?”

Peter groans, once more pressing his forehead against his knees. This time, though, it wasn’t in misery. He has a smile plastered across his face and a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You’re lucky I don’t have my DVD collection, or we’d be watching it right now.”

The conversation stayed like that for a while. Light, superficial. They strayed away from the serious issues that loomed, and it was okay for now. Peter would mention something about his childhood – it seemed happy. Not even happier than his adult life had been, but genuinely happy – and made Tony laugh with his dramatic reactions to his absolute lack of knowledge of younger culture. Tony would answer scientific questions about his projects – the kid was also crazy smart. That much seemed given from the way he designed the web shooters and how he hacked his suit. But, his knowledge seemed to know no limit. He would ask Tony about elastomeric couplings and how he used hex bolts on titanium. 

Pepper woke up eventually, joining the little chat session. She asked Peter about his likes and dislikes – he avoided straight answers most of the time, but Pepper managed to draw out that his favorite food is cherry pie and his least favorite genre of music is country.

Closer to six, Peter excused himself to the restroom. As soon as the bathroom door closed, Tony received a text.

Potts  6:01 PM:  We’re running out of time.

Tony glances at his phone. “What?”

Pepper immediately snaps her finger to her lips, pointedly looking at the bathroom. When Tony doesn’t catch on, she rolls her eyes and types again. 

Potts  6:01 PM:  He can hear us. Text me.

Tony Stark  6:02 PM:  What?

Potts  6:02 PM:  We need to get everything legally worked out in less than thirty hours. 

Potts  6:02 PM:  After that, Westcott can claim custody again.

Tony Stark  6:03 PM:  Not if he can’t find Peter.

Potts  6:04 PM:  Now that Westcott knows that he’s still out there, he could come back for custody at any point.

Tony’s mind jumps back to Peter’s meltdown just earlier in the evening. Half a year he has been away from Westcott. Months where he only ran into him rarely, and the man still had  that  much of an effect on him. There are a thousand things that Tony would rather do than let that disgusting excuse of a human walk free. Much less have the opportunity to come face-to-face with Peter again. 

Tony Stark  6:06 PM:  Then we make him disappear. 

Pepper delicately raises an eyebrow at this message. 

Tony Stark  6:06 PM:  It can’t be that hard to get documents. He can be a long-lost nephew or an estranged cousin. 

Tony and Pepper watch each other for a moment, frowning. It obviously wasn’t the best solution, not for Peter at least. Forcing him to give up his name and identity would be a terrible price tag after a lot of horrible purchases. However, neither of them was necessarily ruling it out yet.

Potts  6:07 PM:  If we do that, Peter would have to give up Spider-Man. Or, completely rebrand if he wants to make sure Westcott can’t find him again.

Tony Stark  6:07 PM:  Then we get rid of Westcott.

Potts  6:07 PM:  Without evidence? Peter shouldn’t have to tell anybody, but he burnt all of the evidence. 

An idea strikes Tony so fast, he doesn’t even have time to type it out. Instead, he just blurts: “What if he confessed?”

“You think he would do that?” Pepper asks. It’s not entirely incredulous. There’s a quiet hope under her words. 

“With the right motivation,” Tony nods. “If I know anything about genius douchebags, is that they can’t help but brag about their accomplishments. All I need is to get him talking about his experiments, and he’ll be canned.”

“Who will be canned?”

Pepper and Tony flinch at the sudden presence beside them. Peter didn’t make a single noise leaving the bathroom.

“Just a hypothetical situation, kid.” Tony smiles as well as he can. Peter looks like he doesn’t believe that in the slightest, so Tony adds, “Actually, we were talking about a few errands I need to do. Make sure that everything runs smoothly for a bit without us.”

“Without?” Peter bites his lip. “You guys aren’t dropping everything for me, right? I’d really hate to mess up Stark Industries or–”

“Trust me, sweetheart,” Pepper chimes in easily, already in ‘damage control’ mode. “We've got this. Besides, it's high time Tony took a break, and I've been itching for a vacation. You’re not ruining things for us, okay?”

Peter nods softly, his anxiety slightly alleviated. "Okay. Yeah, okay."

"Good," Tony says, trying to maintain a sense of normalcy. He then looks around the room. "Uh, you guys can order food while I'm out. Do you... need anything?"

“I mean, and you can totally say no if you want to,” Peter mumbles for a second. “But if you happen to be near Abernathy Boulevard… Can you grab my backpack? Only if you’re already there, of course.”

Tony smiles. “Yeah, of course.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

Chapter Text

There was a perverse satisfaction that came with witnessing Steven Westcott confined behind steel bars.

Of course, the feeling wasn’t as lovely as it might have been if Westcott had been, per say, rotting in one of the specialty cages in the Raft, miles under the ocean. Instead, he found himself in the cramped confines of the ninety-ninth district jail, sandwiched between two unconscious men and a motley crew of petty criminals. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start.

“Hey!” The detective's commanding voice cut through the chaos of the holding cell. It was clear that this seasoned officer had spent too many long nights on the job. "I need Westcott. Everybody else, step back."

Westcott’s head snaps up and Tony is struck by an eerie sense of déjà vu. The man's light hair and sharp eyes hadn't changed since the last time Tony met with him – though the bruises had faded, replaced now with smudges of what appeared to be soot. And, just like before, Westcott has a very blatant expression on his face the second he sees Tony. It wasn't the terror-stricken look this time; it was a seething rage that Tony could almost feel prickling his skin.

As their eyes meet, something shifts in Westcott's expression. The anger gives way to a veneer of calm, and he rises slowly, deliberately. The other detainees, now awake and alert, shuffle to the back of the room as the gate slides open. Westcott walks past Tony without a word, fixing his gaze forward a few feet ahead.

It’s utterly silent. The exhausted detective leads the way toward a maze of hallways, Westcott following directly behind and Tony in the back. Notably, Westcott doesn’t glance back or show any nervousness at having a potential threat behind him. It was a good sign; If Westcott doesn’t see Tony as a threat, he will be more willing to confess. 

"You've got thirty minutes," the detective said as he opened the door to a questioning room. Once Westcott was safely inside, he shot Tony a look. "Don't cause any damage in there, and definitely don’t leave any admissible marks on him.”

And he locks the door behind Tony without another word. Great to know our justice system is so great , Tony thinks to himself. He wasn’t sure if it was because of his status as Iron Man or if shaking down potential felons had just become second nature in New York. He couldn't think about it right now.

“How did I find myself with the pleasure of meeting the infamous Tony Stark not just once, but twice in the same year?” Westcott speaks casually, choosing to hover rather than take a seat at the cold metal table. His eyes meet everywhere but Tony.

“Well, when you have such an impressive record, Steven ,” Tony replies with a smile, eschewing the nickname in favor of his real name. This causes Westcott’s pacing to halt. Just for a second. “It’s hard to stay away.”

“Ah, yes,” Westcott nods. “Being the 'friendly neighborhood' Spider-Man's personal arch-nemesis does have a certain ring to it."

Tony forces a chuckle. “True enough, but I was actually referring to your scientific work."

“ You know about my scientific work?” Westcott questions, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course. I always make a point to keep up to date with any promising individuals that work for me.” Tony sees a slight shift under Westcott’s surface. Just like he wanted, Westcott softens slightly at this. Recognition. “You’ve done pretty promising work in your stay at Stark Industries. I saw your name in a few studies about Sleeper Soldiers a while back.”

Westcott nods quickly. “The Spring Program—studying how the soldiers were programmed, attempting to deprogram them. We made significant progress before it was transferred to Wakandan labs…"

Westcott slows his excitement, seemingly remembering where exactly he was. Still, Tony could see that his plan very well could work.

“I read through your thesis for the Program, it was brilliant,” Tony encourages. “Most of your documents dropped off around the New Year, though. Have you been working on anything?”

Westcott hesitated for a moment before carefully responding, "A bit of this, a bit of that. The lab has been fairly quiet since the Super Soldier Serum Study—mostly busywork."

“In your interviews, you said there was a lot of important research in your house when it burnt down,” Tony pauses. “Sorry to hear about that, by the way.”

Westcott side eyes Tony. “Yeah, losing my home and ending up in jail within twenty-four hours wasn't exactly on my bucket list. I thought you were going to get your ‘subsidiaries’ in check, Tony .”

Would it really be that bad to land a hit on this guy? Tony wonders to himself. The detective already thinks I’m doing something illegal, why waste this opportunity?

Of course, there were a lot of reasons. Reputation-wise, legality-wise. But, more importantly, Tony wants to give Peter the chance. The chance to take his well-deserved retribution into his own hands and give Westcott every damn thing that is owed to him. Tony would leave Westcott utterly untouched so the foul man knew that everything that happened to him was a direct result of his fuckery. 

“Lets just say that Spider-Man was a little hard to communicate with,” Tony says, pushing the anger from his voice. This was a friendly chat. “I can't figure out why he's so fixated on you."

“You said it yourself,” Westcott smirks. “I have an impressive record under my belt. Hard to stay away.”

Hard to stay away because you keep chasing the kid . 

“So he destroyed your work because it was so impressive?”

“Exactly. Want to know my theory? Spider-Man is something of a scientist himself. Heard about my work and got a little jealous.” Westcott shrugs. Tony knows it’s a lie. Knows because he’s seen under the mask, knows because Westcott has seen under the mask. It was unnerving how confidently and smoothly he did it. How, just a few weeks before, Tony believed him wholeheartedly.  “Next thing I know, my home lab is a mix of ash and embers.”

“Must have been one hell of a project you were working on. Anything I would be interested in?”

“You want to know what the worst part of it all is?” Westcott says instead. He stops pacing, looking directly at Tony. “Peter’s got you wrapped around his genius finger, and you don’t even realize it.”

Tony stiffens at the mention of Peter. Of all the things Tony was prepared for Westcott to do – threaten, beg, deny – he never thought he would play his cards away from his chest. Never thought he would blatantly out the identity of his experiment to a literal Avenger. What could he possibly be playing here?

“I don’t know what you mean.” Tony says carefully. 

“Oh, I’m not judging you!” Westcott laughs merrily. “It happened to me too, Tony. Peter is too smart for his own good. Pulls you in with the whole ‘kicked puppy’ routine. Then he drains you for all your worth. And if you dare fight back, well–” He pauses, waving a hand toward where Tony was standing. “–he sics Tony Stark on you.”

“There is no routine .”

Westcott looks Tony up and down slowly. “Let me guess. At first you were all drawn into his charm, right? You liked the little movie references he made and how he would excitedly mumble to himself about everything. He would keep you at a distance and God it drove you crazy. You would do absolutely anything to just get him to trust you.”

“Shut your mouth, Steven.”

"But that's when everything takes a nosedive," Westcott continues, undeterred. "Once he's certain you're under his control, once you've promised to give him the world, it all falls apart. Just like with your plane. And let me warn you, that's just the beginning. After everything you care about is reduced to ashes, he'll move on and paint you as the bad guy."

Without truly thinking about it, Tony rushed forward. Westcott, for once, knows to relent. For every step that Tony takes, he stumbles two back. “I don’t know what Peter you’re talking about, but my Peter isn’t the villain of this fucking plot. You are.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I? Because from my perspective, you’re villainizing a child because you couldn’t keep it in your goddamn pants.”

Westcott’s face goes blank for a moment. Then, a grin rises from the ashes. “I see, so that's your plan, huh? Catch me off guard so I confess to something I didn't do?" He raises his voice toward the end, looking pointedly at the camera in the corner of the room. "Do I seem that gullible to you?"

“Oh, absolutely.” Tony smiles warmly, not yielding his position at all. There was a sour smell to Westcott. Something warm and medical . “But then again, I have a lot of options open. Money, power. Hell, I doubt our dear friend the policeman would care in the slightest if he heard a few… loud sounds in here.”

“Do you expect me to believe that the Tony Stark would kill somebody in cold blood?” Westcott dares. “I feel like that wouldn’t look too pretty in the news.”

“You would be surprised what people are willing to forgive when you’re the only person that can fight off alien invasions.”

Westcott pauses, then says, “You wouldn’t do that to Peter. He isn’t the kind to easily look past murder .”

“Oh, so you do know how to do right by Peter. You just chose not to.”

“I did everything right for him!” Tony can see that he struck a nerve. It’s so clear, it almost feels too easy. Peter is his Achilles heel . “He was nothing and I made him into something.”

“As if! Peter was the one who pulled himself out of the shit show you put him through. He dealt with his parent’s death and actual starvation. Peter made Spider-Man.”

"Yeah, but who created the spider?” Westcott barks back without even hesitating. Tony fights the urge to grin. That wasn’t a confession, not yet. But it was close if Westcott continued to speak without processing. 

“ Please , like you could make something that complicated.” 

“Don’t even try that arrogant bullshit, Stark. I’m just as, if not smarter than you. I designed that fucking spider from scratch.”

“Happy accident.” Tony shrugs.

“A happy accident that I replicated one hundred and seventy-two times .” Westcott proudly says. “Enough to give every single Black Widow spy in the world the ability of Captain fucking America twofold.”

Any pleasure that Tony was growing hearing Westcott spill his confession without flinching drains the second he hears ‘ Black Widow ’. It couldn’t be true, could it? Natasha had said that the Red Room was shut down long before she joined the Avengers. That was how her loyalty to S.H.I.E.L.D was earned. How she was able to sleep at night, knowing that the program wouldn’t hurt anybody else. S.H.I.E.L.D couldn’t lie about information like that to ensure Natasha’s allegiance, would they?