Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter squats at the edge of the building, watching as Earth’s Mightiest Heroes struggle against a robot lizard. Even from far away, Peter can see how to turn it off, yet the Avengers have been battling for almost two hours. Then again, they don’t have the… background knowledge Peter possesses. Peter groans. He has to pick Morgan up soon, so if he wants to help them (he’d feel pretty bad if someone died. Imagine the headstone: Jane Doe, killed by Mechagodzilla.) he’d have to pop in right about now.

Sighing, Peter jumps off the roof, swinging towards the robot. Peter would think it’s pretty cool if it weren’t a murder-bot. It is green with sharp spikes running down its back and the size of two giraffes, give or take. Its scales sort of remind Peter of a pangolin. He makes a mental note to build a small model of it the next time he gets his hands on the materials. He’d just give it less murderous tendencies.

“Hey, guys!” Peter yells as he lands on the lizard’s long arm, cartwheeling along it. Peter taps the side of his mask and instructs his AI (named Karen after Plankton’s computer wife, but he always comes up with a new reason whenever someone asks. Peter would prefer no one to know the origins of her name, thank you very much.) to tap into the Avengers’ comms. It only takes a few seconds before Peter hears them complaining about his presence.

Peter rolls his eyes and smirks as he crawls onto the top of the robot’s head. “What the hell are you doing, Spider-Man?” asks Iron Man, his tinny voice the worst to translate through earpieces.

“Well, I could use some help, but see, I’m super smart and know how to get this dude down. Can someone get him to pause for, like, two seconds? I need to get the hatch door open, but I think it needs to be unscrewed and I can’t do that when he’s flailing around.”

“Why should we—” Captain America begins, but Peter cuts him off in a deep voice that sounds nothing like the hero but is meant to mock him.

“Why should we trust you, Spider-Man?” He returns to his regular tone. “With a hyphen, by the way. I think you guys leave that out every time. I can hear it as you scold me for stuff that is totally not a big deal. Anyway, you guys have to because I know how to configure this and you obviously don’t. I’m actually really smart and I’ve been watching for, like, the last hour. Also, I haven’t stolen from you all in so long!” There is a brief silence while everyone tries to piece together Peter’s ramble before Natasha speaks up.

“You stole my wrist cuffs last week.”

“Semantics. My little sister wants to be Black Widow for Halloween, so I obviously had to get her your Widow’s Bite—super cool name, by the way. No pointers. Oh, that reminds me, she drew you another picture because she said it was mean that I stole them. I’ll show you after one of you gets this guy to stop thrashing around. I think I’m getting sick.” Peter unzips one of his many pockets and pulls out a screwdriver. There’s a sigh on the comms, unintelligible who from, and Iron Man shoots his gauntlet rays along one of the indents in the pangolin-esque scales, stopping it from moving for so short of a time that if not for Peter’s razor-quick reflexes, he wouldn’t have been able to get the screwdriver into the screw. Quickly, Peter unscrews and pops the hatch open.

“Got it!” he exclaims. The power source matches the color of the robot, and the off-button is even harder to spot, but Peter has already seen the designs for the robot, so it isn’t hard to scavenge around and feel for the slightly raised circle. Peter pushes it in, and the lizard whirs as he falls to the ground. Peter hops off giddily, racing towards the Avengers. Immediately, Captain America begins his spiel.

“Spider-Man, we cannot let you go after your numerous crimes concerning—” Peter groans, throwing his head back. It is such a pain to talk to them.

“Guys,” he says, ignoring how whiny it comes out as, “can we skip this whole thing? You yell at me, I placate you with my amazing charm, yada yada yada. Anyway, Karen, which pocket do I have Mango’s drawing in?” Tony lands as he speaks, flipping his mask off as Karen answers Peter.

“You know, we have former thieves on the team, Scott and all. If you’d just tell us who you are, we could get you pardoned.” Peter grins, pulling Morgan’s drawing folded seven times out of his pocket.

“Aw, I knew you loved me! But, no; there is no way I would ever tell you all my secrets. I didn’t even mean to tell you about Mango.” Four or so months back, Peter had accidentally mentioned that his little sister was a big Black Widow fan, complaining that she preferred her to Spider-Man. He ended up calling Morgan Mango whenever talking about her from that point on, lying to the Avengers by saying it was because she loved Mangoes. In actuality, it was just a nickname he had always called Morgan.

“He said your identity, not all your secrets,” Sam murmurs.

Peter unfolds the drawing and shoves it into Natasha’s hands. It has Morgan and Natasha both shooting at a blue blob that is apparently supposed to be a monster with their matching Widow’s Bites. When Morgan first began sending Natasha messages in the form of art via Peter, Natasha was convinced there was a bomb or tracker in the paper. They’ve grown so much since then. Now, Natasha stashes the drawings away, only occasionally threatening to arrest Peter.

“By the way, pretty sure this was OsCorp,” Peter mentions flippantly. Everyone who wasn’t looking his way snaps their heads to Peter. “Why don’t you guys pay this much attention to me when I’m telling you all of my great adventures of the week?”

“How do you know this is OsCorp?” Tony asks, stare hard.

“You guys are going to get mad.” Peter bites the inside of his cheek. It’s not that he wants the Avengers’ approvals—stealing from Stark Industries wouldn’t be an event marked on his calendar if that were the case—but they get unnecessarily pressed whenever Peter mentions one of his excursions, even if it’s at OsCorp, which is Tony’s enemy.

Steve groans. “Seriously, kid?” He massages his temple, aging him ten years in just this one conversation. Peter tries not to find delight in that.

“I wanted their stuff. For such evil people, they have so much material. It probably goes hand-in-hand. No offense, Mr. Stark.”

“None taken. Why wouldn’t you tell us about the robot, though? We could’ve stopped it much earlier.” Peter picks at the sleeve of his sweatshirt, a spray-painted spider in the center. The only tech parts of his suit—if you could even call it a suit—are his mask and web-shooters. Besides those, his outfit can be found at your local thrift store for twelve dollars. He wears a blue shirt under his red sweatshirt, the sleeves cut out so the blue can be seen, cargo pants with about two million pockets (one suspiciously gun-shaped, though, at least at the moment, there is no gun in it), and Converses with spider webs drawn on the toes of the shoes.

“When would I have told you? You guys would’ve just tried to arrest me.” It comes out far more bitter than Peter had tried for, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by the Avengers standing there. There is a collective sigh, which is unfortunately a frequent occurrence while in conversation with Peter.

“You can come by the tower if you have information. I swear we won’t arrest you.” At Peter’s silence, Tony adds, “Seriously.” Peter shrugs.

“Yeah, okay, whatever. I gotta go. Bye.” Peter swings off, ignoring Steve’s complaint about how they spent two hours with the robot just for Peter to take it down in minutes.

Peter has to walk from the direction of the local middle school to pick Morgan up from preschool. When Mrs. May comments on how good of a brother is, he pretends he picks Morgan up because her school is on his way home, not because there is no one else to.

Peter usually goes home, enters his townhome from the top so no one sees, and quickly changes. Luckily, the school is between his house and Morgan’s preschool, so he doesn’t have to walk past it and then make a U-turn.

Peter wears a graphic tee of some band he’s never heard of and a pair of thin dark sweatpants. He has an extra pair of shoes, the same Converses but without the webs. He checks his phone, seeing how long he has to get to Morgan. Her school lets out at 3:30, and it is just past 3:10, so he can stay in the house for an extra ten minutes.

If Peter hadn’t dropped out of school at 12 years old, pretending he was being homeschooled by an uncle who doesn’t exist, maybe his lock screen would’ve been filled with notifications from friends texting him, asking to hang out or just to play video games together. Instead, the only message on his phone is from the bank confirming the 1,000-dollar input. He can’t put too much in often or else it would be suspicious (how could a 14-year-old make 10,000 in a day? Stealing 200,000 in materials, of course, and donating 190,000), but he puts in a couple thousand in his bank a month, and keeps the rest in cash or other banks.

Peter swipes open the bank account, clicks a button affirming the deposit, pockets his phone, and leaves the house. New York is a beautiful place, though not always in looks. Moreso the way everyone blends together yet stays individualistic, their own person but still a part of a community. Back in Tennessee, Peter hadn’t known how different everyone could be, though he only ever really knew Harley. They’d grown up together, practically brothers. Harley’s mom had let Peter stay over at the house whenever, not asking questions about Peter’s drunk mother. He’d lived there until he was 10, moving in with his dad in New York after his mother’s death. They talked every day for a while, but Peter ghosted him the day his dad died. It’s safer to be alone. He can’t abandon Morgan, though. He’s all she has.

The preschool is nice but nothing pretentious. Peter could afford the most expensive in all of the city, but he’d rather Morgan play outside than worry about staining her uniform. Instead, she attends a small one with some 40 kids and a playground she’s actually allowed to play on.

Her teacher, May Reilly, is always nice to Peter, probably out of politeness but nice nonetheless. Of course, if anyone found out about Morgan’s living situation (very nice and with anything she could ever want—including Black Widow’s weapons—but apparently having no legal guardians is bad), they’d be separated and sent to foster homes. Peter doesn’t consider that maybe it would be better for her to be adopted by someone else, that maybe the life she’s growing up with isn’t beneficial. It’s selfish, but he has no one else either.

Peter walks into the building, the wall above the entrance door decorated in bright colors spelling the preschool's name. It looks tacky, but that’s a staple among young kids.

There isn’t a lot of security, but the teachers are always with students so Peter lets it slide. He knocks on the door to the ‘otters’ room, waving when Ms. May opens it. Her hair is in a bun—she used to wear it in a ponytail but stopped when a kid started pulling on it incessantly. She’s in her early 20s and isn’t engaged to her boyfriend yet, but they’ve been dating for two years and she thinks he’ll propose soon.

Peter has to pretend he doesn’t know every detail of her life.

“Hey, Peter,” she says before calling Morgan over. Morgan bounces over, her only belonging an ugly rat plush she insists on carrying everywhere. Peter stole it for her just after their dad and Morgan’s mom died. That was before his large-scale Fortune 500 thefts.

“How was your day?” Peter asks Morgan. Morgan lights up, always excited to talk about anything and everything. She gets that from Peter.

“I drew a duck but then Jack messed it up because he’s so mean, but then when we played lava monster, he was the monster and couldn’t get anyone because he’s so slow. And Mayday and I played with Nibbles, but then we went outside and you said I can’t play with Nibbles outside because then you have to—” Morgan is about to say that Peter has to wash Nibbles whenever the rat gets dirty, but that would seem suspicious to Ms. May, Peter assumed. It’s a wonder that they haven’t been discovered with Morgan’s blabbermouth.

“Yep! Uncle James hates washing Nibbles ‘cause of the sensitive material.” Morgan’s eyes widen and she nods knowingly, a childish look of understanding on her face, as if she has any idea about the spike of anxiety through Peter’s chest whenever she says something questionable.

“How have you and your uncle been?” Ms. May asks. Peter used to feel bad about lying, but there is no other choice and he’s grown numb to that guilt.

“He recently got a promotion at work. It means longer hours, but he’s working really hard. And his boss says he’s in line for a raise soon. And I’m doing well in school. All A’s and B’s. I was going to join a club, but I’m not interested in any of them, and I’m not a sports person. My friend’s coming over later today, and we’re going to have a Star Wars marathon, so I probably need to get home soon.” The deception slips off his tongue like honey, so easy and so sweet. It’s a stark contrast from his previous stuttering and hesitant lies. If he ever had a moment to think about it, maybe he’d feel bad.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye, Morgan!” Ms. May says, patting Peter’s shoulder before returning to the preschool group and the assistant caretaker. Morgan continues talking about her day on the walk home, her thoughts too many to be coherent. Finally, she says something Peter catches.

“Are we going to see Yel today?” she asks, looking up at Peter. Peter nods, already on the way to their friend’s house. Or, she’s more like a co-worker who the siblings happen to hang out with, but Peter considers them friends. He doubts the sentiment is reciprocated.

“Yeah. I don’t know if she’s home, though, so we might just chill in her house for a bit.” The breaking-and-entering is a relatively new leap in their relationship, but it hadn’t even been Peter’s fault when it happened. He had a knife sticking out of his stomach and he was right near her house—why wouldn’t he use the fully-stocked first aid kit?

Since then, after being found on her couch munching on a piece of toast he heated up, Peter has been crawling in through the window whenever necessary. Or whenever unnecessary. Really, just whenever he feels like it.

This time, though, when Peter knocks on the door of the plain-looking house, it opens without any lockpicking involved. At the door stands a woman a few inches taller than Peter with blonde hair in a braided bun and a black vest. Her dog, Fanny, barks incessantly. Peter is a dog person, but Fanny is his favorite. He leans down to scratch the dog, effectively ignoring who he actually came to see.

“Yel!” Morgan exclaims, jumping into the woman’s arms.

“Hello, Morgan.” She looks down at Peter, who beams at Fanny. “And you, Spider.” Peter looks up.

“Oh, hi, Yelena!” he says as though he was surprised she was there. Yelena rolls her eyes, tugging Fanny away from Peter. “You are so mean. Anyway, how’s my gun?”

Morgan runs off with Fanny, holding Nibbles out of the dog’s reach. Peter stands up, noticing Yelena’s annoyed gaze. “What?” he asks, completely unaware.

“You do not ask about my day, Peter?” Peter drops his smile, an ‘are-you-joking’ expression taking its place. “What? You came two days ago and now you immediately play with Fanny. I’m going to hang out with Morgan.” Yelena turns around as Peter laughs.

“No, wait, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. How was your day, Yelena?” Peter asks. Yelena returns to facing him, wearing a hint of a smirk.

“Oh, it was great, Peter, thank you for asking!” she says in a fake voice of glee. “And you?” Peter sighs.

“Did you watch the news? Got to play with the Avengers.” Yelena clearly takes joy in Peter’s misery, laughing heartily. “This is what I’m talking about! You are such a jerk. Every time I work with them, I help, and then Mr. Good and Righteous scolds me. Yes, okay, I steal from Stark Industries, like, once a month, but I also help get cats out of trees! And save New York. Like, today, I destroyed this robot lizard, and I come down, and Steve just starts telling me about how he needs to arrest me. We both know he can’t!” Yelena drags Peter to the couch, practically pushing him into the cushions. The TV isn’t on, but it never is anyway.

“He would throw a fit if he knew you were 13.” Peter nods, exasperated.

“I’ll be 14 in two months—keep that in mind. But, right? And Mr. Stark keeps trying to get me to reveal my identity. No, thank you! They’d just send me off to CPS. Obviously, I’d run away, but I might not be able to get Morgan out, you know?” They’ve had this conversation many times. Yelena never pushes him to get help, but Peter doesn’t know why. He knows close to nothing about her background. All he knows is she has parents and a sister she doesn’t talk to anymore. He doesn’t push either.

“Did Morgan give Black Widow a drawing?” Yelena asks. When Peter first brought up Natasha Romanoff almost a year ago, Yelena had flinched minusculely. If Peter weren’t so observant, he wouldn’t have noticed. But, growing up, he had to watch. He had to watch everything.

“Yes, and since she’s a traitor, she drew it as an apology for me stealing her—well, she calls them Widow’s Bites. I like the name, honestly. We both have wrist things, though, and even though hers came first, I still think she copied me. Reached into my mind. From the future. Do you believe in time travel?”

Peter leaves with Morgan fed and exhausted and his gun fixed. While Peter considers himself a good engineer, he’s better at coding and science, so he usually drops his gun off at Yelena’s house whenever it breaks. It isn’t anything super high-tech, but it is a lot better than the average weapon. Still, with Peter’s constant battles, it has to break every now and then.

Morgan falls asleep as soon as he tucks her in, not having to even sit in there with her. Peter turns on the baby monitor and puts his suit back on. While it would be convenient for Peter to only patrol while Morgan is at school, crime is much more prevalent at night and Peter can’t ignore the screams he hears while going to sleep knowing he did nothing to stop them.

Peter pulls his mask over his face, watching as it lights up with blue statistics. Peter presses the side of the mask, the HUD disappearing as Karen boots up.

“Good evening, Peter,” she says. Peter grins, pulling the window open and jumping out. The night is chilly but never dark in New York. The streetlights illuminate each corner and road, but not the alleyways, and not the roofs. That’s why there is where he lurks.

Peter considers that that may sound bad. He doesn’t lurk, per se. He just watches people in the shadows of the night, ignoring how creepy it must look for a 5-foot kid in a spider mask to creep from above. Peter wonders if the Avengers do know he isn’t quite an adult. They must, he thinks, or at least the spies. Peter has grown about an inch since he became Spider-Man, so it isn’t noticeable, but the most observant of the team had to have figured it out. People who have already gone through puberty don’t typically get taller. Well… whatever. They haven’t bothered him thus far. Or, they haven’t bothered Peter about his age, minus calling him ‘kid’ or ‘son’ sometimes. That doesn’t have to relate to being an actual kid, though. Most of the time, they hone in on his kleptomanic tendencies.

Peter has been out for a few hours when he sees it. A guy, somewhere in his late teen years, backs up towards a grimy, brick wall as a man Peter recognizes waves a gun angrily. The man’s name is Ellis Rockden and has experienced the uncomfortable sensation of being webbed to walls a great number of six times. Somehow, the man is back out on the streets within months each time, regardless of his sentence.

“Get away, man,” the younger mumbles. Rockden laughs and kicks at him, just like all the other times Peter beat up Rockden. Sighing, Peter drops down behind the man, holding his index finger up to where his mouth would be if not for the mask to shush the victim. Peter quietly creeps up behind Rockden, who is growing more manic by the second.

“Hey, Ellie!” Peter exclaims happily, knocking his fist into Rockden’s head. Rockden groans, pulling out a knife as he barely catches himself from his skull cracking against the pavement. “It’s been a while. Or, I wish it had been. How long’s it been? A month? Ah, I love these fun encounters.” Peter rams his foot into the crook of the man’s torso, pulling out his gun when the man brings his knife across Peter’s lower leg. “Call the police, dude,” he says, turning to the other guy. He nods shakily, running off and pulling his phone out of his pocket with trembling hands. “I’d suggest you stay down.”

It isn’t really a suggestion because Peter immediately webs Rockden up, but the illusion of choice is meant to soothe children. Peter groans aat the sharp pain from the light stab and crawls back up the building, excited to jump to go home. However, he is met by Natasha and Clint. His Spider-Sense doesn’t even alert him.

Embarrassingly enough, he yelps—high-pitched and sudden. A blush creeps up his neck, and he is instantly grateful for the face coverage. The spy duo seems… angry? Annoyed? Peter isn’t sure, but he doesn’t like their expressions. Their lips are molded into matching frowns and their eyebrows furrowed just the same.

“Hi,” Peter says, lacking the usual enthusiasm. Natasha grabs his arm and drags him to the center of the roof. Peter snatches it away. “Let go of me.” Natasha glares at him.

“What were you doing ?” she asks, though it doesn’t sound much like a question. Peter scrunches up his face.

“Excuse me? This is Queens—my area. Why don’t you go hang out in… Manhattan? I’m sure there’s some white-collar crimes to bust?”

“We’re busting a trafficking organization over here, thanks,” Clint interrupts. Peter reels back.

“Huh? How does that involve me?” Peter cringes at the words. He’d obviously help, but it isn’t like he’s been told about anything about this all, nor has he attacked Natasha and Clint.

“Because Ellis Rockden was our lead, brat,” Clint argues, growing more irritated. Peter has never been good at being the bigger person.

“Don’t call me a brat, asshole! How could I have known?”

“That guy gets out of prison within months every time, and you didn’t consider he’d be part of anything bigger?” Natasha doesn’t look any less aggravated than Clint. Peter doesn’t appreciate her condescension. Peter isn’t stupid.

“Maybe, if you were going to look into someone in Queens, you should’ve told the guy who patrols Queens twice a day. It would’ve helped, you know?” Clint’s eye twitches erratically as if Peter had cursed out his mother.

“Maybe we could’ve told you if you hadn’t sulked off like a teenager this afternoon. Every single time, you give Nat whatever your sister made, make some stupid jokes, and then get all angry. You know, everything would be a thousand times easier if you just told us your identity!” Peter, in an immature act that easily backs Clint’s point, makes a noise somewhere between a shout and a groan and pushes Clint off.

“What the hell do you know? God, you two are so horrible!”

“You’re a criminal! We should be arresting you, Spidey, and you’re lucky we aren’t right now,” Natasha butts in.

“Who asked you, fuckface?”

“Don’t call her that, kid!”

“I’m not a kid,” Peter grumbles, suddenly self-conscious. Clint sighs, dragging a hand down his face.

“Just… don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.” Peter rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.

“‘Kay, dad. ” Peter propels himself off the roof, flipping down in the middle of two women who seem to be about to kiss. He mumbles out an apology but doesn’t spare another glance.

He decides not to tell Morgan about tonight’s conversation. She’d be so disappointed.

Chapter Text

Clint is certain that 1. Spider-Man is not old enough to drink, 2. Natasha knows this as well, and 3. Tony at least suspects Spider-Man’s age. The confrontation on the roof began with pure irritation. Ellis Rockden was on his way to a meeting with his boss, who was then to report to his boss, who then reported to the man in charge. Probably, Rockden would’ve been killed at that first meeting. If not for his stellar strength, someone would’ve gotten rid of him sooner for his recklessness and anger.

And then came Spider-Man.

Neither he nor Natasha had even noticed the kid crouching on the edge of their roof. He blended in with the night, despite his brightly-colored outfit. Clint didn’t hate him, despite what it’d seem. The boy was smart and strong, perfectly fit to be a hero—in theory. His morals, however, were sketchy. He decided when he wanted to help, he decided who he wanted to help, and he decided who he wanted to hurt. Yes, the multi-billion-dollar companies could shrug the loss off in a week, but that doesn’t mean it’s some random kid’s decision. A kid who Clint is pretty sure grew in the last year. 

Now, Clint and Natasha have to wait for Rockden to be freed from prison again, which is unlikely since this is his seventh time, and Clint doubts the organization will waste funds on him again, or the two need to find a new lead.

Clint is aware he might’ve been a bit of an ass to Spidey, but he has tried to tell him to stay out of the way before. Unfortunately, the man always flees before Clint can talk to him, and he refuses any methods of communication.

The Avengers know very little about Spider-Man, but they stopped trying to arrest him a few months back. Steve still performs his little spiel about justice and laws, but he doesn’t actually care. It’s only for the off-chance that Spider-Man feels guilty and surrenders himself. Tony seems like he wants to steal Spider-Man off the streets and adopt him (because he apparently needs another snarky orphan to add to his collection. Well, Spider-Man might not be an orphan, but there aren’t many reasons for someone to be raising their little sister. The other explanations aren’t much better.)

Clint… doesn’t know what to think. On the one hand, that’s a thief who has stolen millions from Stark Industries. On the other hand, he’s probably a college student out all day helping the elderly cross the streets and saving cats when he isn’t committing crimes. Plus, he’s a great brother. For all his faults, that seems to be his biggest strength.

At the moment, everyone is sitting in the living room. Everyone, meaning Tony, Natasha, Steve, Sam, and Clint—Thor and Bruce have been off-world for a while now. A movie is playing, but the topic of discussion pertains to the masked vigilante. Surprisingly, it’s nothing important. It’s betting.

“I mean, we all agree he’s young, right?” Tony clarifies, holding a glass of water. He avoids alcohol now, ever since he adopted his kid.

“Obviously,” Sam agrees easily. “I’m thinking early 20’s. Like, just graduated college.” Steve nods along, only half-listening.

“No way. I say he’s 18,” Tony argues.

“Why’s that?” Steve asks, paying slightly more attention.

“He acts exactly like Harley, just more… hyper. And Harley’s 15, but Spidey has to be 18. He has custody of his little sister, right? So that means he can’t be a minor.”

“That’s my guess, too,” Clint chimes in. “Nat and I talked to him last night.” Heads snap towards Clint. “Didn’t we mention that?”

“No, Legolas, you did not. When could you guys have even run into him?” Tony asks incredulously. Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Midnight. He got in the way of our crime bust.” Steve looks at her suspiciously.

“As in he tried to stop it?” Clint scoffs.

“No. As in, he’s a teenager who misses key observations and doesn’t realize a man getting out of jail within months for each felony isn’t some street thug.” He shakes his head to himself. “Anyway, he basically threw a fit. Called Nat a fuckface and me an asshole.” Sam and Tony let out a burst of laughter.

“Tell them the last part,” Natasha suggests slyly. Clint dismisses her with a wave, but she decides to tell the story anyway. “After that, Clint said, ‘Don’t call her that, kid,’ and Spider-Man groaned about how he’s not a kid. Crossed his arms and everything. I think Clint’s fatherly instincts kicked in because he pretty much just told him to mind his business. Then—” Natasha begins laughing before she can even finish the story, “then he says ‘Okay, Dad,’ with that weird teenager-being-an-asshole voice. It was hilarious.” Sam’s mouth is agape.

“Okay. I change my vote to him being 13.” Tony laughs heartily, ignoring Clint’s scowl.

“He’s a little brat,” is all Clint says before pointedly raising the TV’s volume.

Morgan is having a bad day, and that is Peter’s problem. She’s only four, so everything sets her off. Usually, she enjoys picking out her outfit in the morning, but today, it was a struggle to wrangle her into a shirt and pants.

Peter not only doesn’t have time to change his bandages, but he forgets about it until he changes into his day clothes. By that point, he’s too busy to change the bloody bandages or check how it’s healing. It should be fine—he has a healing factor.

“Mango, come on,” Peter drawls tiredly. He returned home at midnight, earlier than usual, but couldn’t fall asleep until an hour before his alarm rang. It isn’t abnormal for Peter to run on a few hours of sleep a night, but he usually gets more than one. Whatever, he’d deal. Or, he would’ve if not for Morgan’s immediate tantrum.

“No! No, no, no,” she says, turning her chin up and looking away from Peter. He feels like Morgan right now and just wants to go back to sleep. His chest is tight, ready to implode. He massages his face with a hand, looking at the uneaten microwavable french toast. Morgan falls to the floor, kicking and screaming.

“ Please, Morgan. I can’t do this today. What’s going on?” He had checked if Morgan was sick as soon as she woke up, but her temperature was normal. She was just having an off-day that coincided with Peter’s off-day.

“I don’ wanna go to school,” she whines, draped across the floor like a Renaissance painting. Peter is infinitesimally close to bashing his head into his food, but he has to get Morgan to pre-k, and he couldn’t do that with a malformed skull.

“Fine, whatever!” he says, grabbing a pack of muffins that Peter finds disgusting but Morgan loves. He picks Morgan up (she’s getting so big—it’s a good thing Peter has super strength. He never wants to tell Morgan he can’t hold her.) and trudges out the door. Her cries are muffled in the crook of his neck, but Peter still gets odd stares from passerby’s. He checks his phone, and they’re already 15 minutes late. Well, pre-school doesn’t really matter. They learn how to play with toys—Morgan will be fine.

When they finally arrive at Morgan’s school, she’s calmed down. Her eyes are still watery and her cheeks red, but she’s no longer sobbing. Peter pushes the door open before knocking. He can hear the kids yelling inside, so he isn’t surprised when it takes a minute for Ms. May to open the door just enough to see through.

“Oh, hello, Morgan!” she says, letting them in. Peter puts Morgan on the floor, but she doesn’t run off like she usually does, instead clinging to his leg. Peter sighs, waving tiredly.

“Hey, sorry for coming so late. Morgan wouldn’t wake up and it was hard to get her ready.” Mayday, Morgan’s best friend with a name much more interesting than the five Sarah-Grace’s in his grade back in Tennessee, hops over to Morgan, her cheery personality infectious.

“I thought your uncle got Morgan ready,” Ms. May says as Mayday drags Morgan away. Peter pauses (freezes—freezes, because she can’t find out, she can’t, she can’t.) before laughing.

“Usually, yeah, but with his promotion, he has to go in earlier.” With his enhanced hearing, Peter can hear his own heart speeding up. No matter how good his lies are, as soon as a person suspects something, everything proves it.

“You’re taking care of Morgan every day?” Peter shakes his head, his smile not falling.

“Only in the mornings, and Uncle James tries to go in late whenever he can.” Ms. May nods, but her brows are furrowed worriedly. She grabs a pad of paper and a pen from the top shelf of a short bookshelf before scribbling something on a page. She rips it off and hands it to Peter. On it was written 10 digits.

“If you ever need anything, call me. Even if it’s just advice on Morgan.” She smiles warmly as Peter bites his bottom lip. “Now, you should get to school. I’m sure you’re already late.” Peter nods, not looking up at her as he walks away, only muttering a quiet thanks.

Peter did not go to school. Instead, he left the way opposite of the local middle school, in the direction of his own home. He had planned on going directly home to become Spider-Man, but he was so tired. His eyelids were so heavy that his blinks lasted seconds, eyes hard to reopen.

Peter stops in front of a small coffee shop. He pushes the door open, uncharacteristically weak from fatigue. The sweet aromas of pastries and sugar filled his nose, but he immediately eyed the caffeinated machines. Peter trudges towards the barista, each step an effort.

“Good morning and welcome to Reed’s Coffee. What can I get you?” she asks, not acknowledging how dead on his feet Peter appears.

“Hi. Can I have a double espresso?” he asks. He doesn’t drink coffee often, disliking the taste. Today, however, he isn’t sure he can make it home without caffeine. He got no sleep at night, and Morgan hasn’t helped at all.

“Size?” the barista asks.

“Uh… largest you have. And can you put a lot of sugar in it?” he requests. The woman quirks an eyebrow.

“What’s a lot?” Peter shrugs, bored and looking away.

“I dunno. I like sugar.” She adds something to the order on the tablet, flipping it around. Peter taps his phone to the sensor, absently tipping 25% and giving her his name. As soon as his drink is ready, Peter sits alone at a two-person table, his head dropping almost immediately, continuously waking himself up with wide eyes each time. He sips on his coffee, trying not to collapse.

And then his eyes close, and he tips to the side.

Tony doesn’t usually hang out with Steve one-on-one. Their bad blood had mostly dissipated since a year back when Steve told him that the Winter Soldier (Bucky Barnes, apparently, because that’s the world Tony lives in) killed his parents, but they still prefer to see each other in group settings.

Which is why when Natasha and Clint bailed to work on a case, Tony and Steve were left to sit together at a coffee shop Natasha frequents. If the spy duo had told them earlier that they couldn’t come, Tony wouldn’t have gone either, but by the time they texted, Steve and Tony were already at the café. Tony wonders if their flaking was planned.

Nonetheless, the two sat at a table after each ordering a muffin and a coffee, Tony’s drink much more caffeinated. The air wasn’t as tense as it would’ve been a year prior, but their awkward idle talk bored the both of them. They were in an uncomfortable silence when a boy no older than 14 stumbled in, almost looking drunk. Steve and Tony share a confused look as the kid orders a drink. The waiter calls out his name, Peter, three times before the boy picks up his drink and sits at a table one away from Steve and Tony.

Tony watches as Peter’s head falls repeatedly. Steve glances worriedly at Tony, his eyebrows tight.

“Is he okay?” Steve asks. Tony rolls his eyes.

“How would I know? He probably stayed up all night on his phone and can’t stay awake now.”

“Doesn’t he have school?” Tony levels Steve with a look, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“I know you were a goody-two-shoes, Capsicle, but it’s called playing hooky.” Steve playfully pushes at Tony, shaking his head and laughing. 

“Right, right,” Steve says sarcastically. “You have no idea what I was like in the 30’s.”

“Oh, don’t want to get on your bad side, do I?” Tony mocks, looking at his finished muffin. “One sec, I’m going to throw this out.” Tony stands up, carrying the wrapper so the crumbs don’t all tumble to the ground.

He sees exactly when Peter’s eyes close and his body tilts too far to the right. Tony drops the wrapper, lunging forward to catch the kid. His head is about to hit the floor when Tony’s arms slip under Peter’s neck and behind his knees, catching him before he smashes against the tiles.

Steve jumps up and rushes to Tony, kneeling as Tony slides the kid onto the floor. He looks young, yet his eyebags match Tony’s. He wears a red shirt a few sizes too big and baggy jeans. His converses are dirtied but not old. His cheeks are littered with freckles, accentuating his youthful features.

“Wait, Tony, look at his leg,” Steve says. Tony shoots him a confused look as Steve rolls the pant leg up, but eventually looks and sees the bandage. It is soaked in blood and probably leaked through his pants.

“Holy shit ,” Tony exclaims. By this point, a mini-crowd has formed around the three. The barista is looking down at them with concern, and other bystanders hold their coffees while watching. Peter’s eyes open slightly, warm brown through sluggish blinking. Suddenly, his eyes snap open, and he looks wildly around at everyone.

“Alright, back off, people. Give him a minute.” The crowd disperses, most out the door, some to their seat. The boy doesn’t say anything, instead gazing blankly at Tony and Steve.

“You’re the… assholes…” Peter mumbles. Tony barks out a laugh.

“To some, I suppose.” The kid seems to become more aware, a bright blush creeping up his face.

“Sorry.”

“What’s up with your leg?” Tony asks. Peter’s head tilts to the side before looking at it. His eyes widen exponentially.

“Oh. I thought it healed.” Steve raises his eyebrows.

“You… thought it healed? It seems pretty fresh based on the blood flow. Can I call your parents, son?”

“Reception isn’t good in graveyards.” Tony strains his mouth, blatantly ignoring the reluctant smile forming. Steve would be extra righteous if Tony laughed. Steve, who is currently looking at Peter with much more concern than before.

“Who’s your guardian, then? I’d like to call them before the hospital.” Peter immediately shoots up, not paying any mind to his bleeding leg.

“You’re not calling a damn ambulance, Captain America. I’m fine,” he says, his accent slipping into one similar to Harley’s. Why does Tony keep finding little southern kids with no self-preservation?

“Your bandage is peeling off, Applejack. How’d you get that gash? It looks pretty bad.” Tony maintains a level voice, careful not to scare off the boy. He recognizes the flightiness in his body language, how his feet are positioned for a quick escape as though he could out-run a super soldier. However, despite Tony’s desire to avoid uncomfortable situations, the gash is pretty bad. More than that, really. It’s deep and was left to heal alone.

“It’s not much of your business, is it?” Peter’s accent has dissipated completely, masked by one closer to a New Yorker’s. Tony shakes his head, standing up so Peter isn’t towering over him. The kid is at least half a foot shorter than Tony, but he can’t tell how much is added by the platformed shoes Peter wears.

“I’m a hero, and you’re bleeding out. It sounds exactly like my business,” Tony argues.

“Womp, womp.” Peter rolls his eyes with a hand on his hip. “I can deal with this on my own—I don’t need your savior-complexed jerks trying to save me, or whatever.”

“The bandage is peeling off more. That’s a really bad cut. Also, did you just say ‘womp, womp?’” Steve asks.

“Beside the point. Anyway, buh-bye!” Peter says, spinning on his heel and beginning to leave. He’s stopped by a firm grip on his arm. Tony narrows his eyes. He was an adult when his parents died, so he didn’t quite know the system then, but when Harley’s mother died, he was immediately transferred to a foster home until Tony could gain guardianship. If Peter is avoiding his guardians, or at least avoiding telling Iron Man and Captain America about them, they’re probably not good news.

“We don’t have to call your… adults, but at least let us take you to a hospital,” Tony bargains. Peter’s lip curls up in disgust, swatting at Tony’s hand until he lets go.

“This is what I’m talking about!” Peter paces in a circle. “You guys just want to save, save, save, save. Well, good news, I’m fine! I don’t need red-white-and-blue to save me, I have anti-biotics.” (“Oh, my God.”) “And it’s not even the stab wound! I just didn’t sleep well, and—”

“You got stabbed? ” Peter pauses, as though trying to recall if he really said that. He nods slowly, looking into space.

“Yes, I suppose I did. But that’s totally irrelevant! It was, like, a light stabbing. Honestly, I don’t know how it cut me so bad.”

“Maybe it’s come with memory loss.”

“I have a great memory. In fact, my memory includes that I need to get home. Now, if you’ll politely disregard me, I’d be ever so grateful.”

Tony and Steve exchange a glance. They’re both heroes, and neither is oblivious. Among the Avengers, it’s not uncommon to ignore or hide injuries. Among children, it’s unnatural. It’s a learned behavior, the sort a child who’s able to stand with a horrible gash in his lower leg would acquire. It’s not a good look.

“Son, at least let us re-bandage that wound.”

“ Son, I’m pretty sure that little old lady back there is one drop of blood away from a heart attack,” Peter responds sarcastically, pointing at a white-haired woman with her husband in the far-away corner of the café. “So, I should make my way out. Farewell, Bubbles and Blossom!”

Tony rolls his eyes before hurrying after Peter. “It’s extremely morally grey to leave a kid to bleed out—”

“I’m not going to fucking bleed out.”
“—so at least let us buy you some bandages or rubbing alcohol.” Peter is about to refuse. Tony can see it in how his mouth opens slightly, only to close a moment later. He pauses on the sidewalk, people walking around him absently. They don’t even notice the superheroes on either side of him.

“Sure. Let’s go; I know the way,” he says to both Tony and Steve’s surprise.

Peter wasn’t planning on letting Tony and Steve follow him around like dogs, but he was running out of materials in his first aid kit. Plus, the dynamic duo probably wouldn’t leave him alone if he denied them, anyway. At least this way, he’s getting some free shit.

“How old are you?” Tony asks, as if making small talk with a random person and not a kid he’s harassing just because of a small flesh wound. Deep, but small. Peter side-eyes him, just to make sure he knows Peter isn’t awe-struck.

“I’ll be 14 in two months,” he says proudly. 13 is a teenager, sure, but it’s a young teenager. 14 is experienced. It’s a very different age.

“So, you’re 13?” Steve clarifies. Peter rolls his eyes. They clearly do not get his thought process.

“Technically,” he settles on. “How old are you guys? Mr. Stark, did you bang Queen Victoria?”

“Ha. You’re hilarious.” The dryness in his voice is not left unaccounted for. Well, good. Peter wants the two to forget about him after this excursion. He doesn’t act all too differently as Spider-Man than he does as Peter, and he can’t have anyone connect the two. Yelena and Morgan are more than enough.

“Where do you go to school?” Steve asks because of course that’s what he asks. The issue is he’s not actually enrolled in any school and someone like Tony Stark could easily access enrollment records and find out he’s lying. Divert, divert, divert.

“Today, I don’t. My uncle let me skip. I skip a lot, but he usually doesn’t know.” Something else for them to focus on: his uncle. Ask questions. Those, he’d know the answers to. Those are in online databases with sufficient proof, all meticulously crafted by a barely 12-year-old Peter, newly orphaned and horribly aware of how the foster system had been since the Battle of New York.

“Your uncle—what’s his name?” Steve asks, falling into Peter’s perfectly laid plan.

“James. He was named after James Cook. I’m not sure why anyone would name their kid after him, especially considering my grandparents weren’t sailors and grew up in a land-locked state.” Peter keeps his lies complex enough to dissuade anyone from thinking he’s hiding something, but simple enough to remember.

“Hm. I know a James,” Steve says, and suddenly Tony’s pace slows, and his mouth purses. Steve, too, freezes for a millisecond.

“Right,” Peter mumbles. It’s awkward for the rest of the walk to the pharmacy. Peter chooses the expensive one. It has the bandages with packaging that says ‘high-quality fibers.’ Peter doesn’t shop here, even though he has the means to, because store-bought bandages don’t really differ in standards. He just wants Tony to spend a few extra dollars. He’s still agitated about Natasha and Clint, and this is the closest he can get to revenge until he goes back out as Spider-Man.

They stop in front of the clear doors. It’s a large pharmacy, the sort that sells lotion and stuffed animals. He only ever comes here for yearly vaccinations (he bribes people to act as Uncle James whenever he or Morgan needs an actual shot. He’s gone to a multitude of different offices to make sure he doesn’t get caught.) and Morgan always asks for candy afterwards. Peter sometimes buys chocolate for himself, too, but he usually gives whatever he gets away to kids on patrol.

“Alright. Where are we going?” Tony asks, shoving a hand in his pocket. His black card is probably in there, Peter thinks, laughing to himself.

“Follow me,” Peter says, as if he has any idea where the first aid supplies are. Still, he waddles around until he lands in front of an aisle of white gauze and cloths. “Here we are!” he exclaims.

“Yes,” Steve says, “after five minutes of stumbling around.” Peter puts a hand on his hip.

“I don’t appreciate your tone.” Tony cackles behind as Peter walks into the aisle. Peter looks scrutinizingly at all the products as the heroes continue their interrogation.

“So, how are you walking so easily with your leg like that?”

“I dunno. I just am.” They must know he’s enhanced in some way, but there’s no way to combat that theory without them bringing it up first. Also, the majority of enhanced people aren’t Spider-Man, so that’s probably not a running theory.

By the time Peter is done, his arms are filled with every medical item he could think of. Partway through, Tony quipped that even the Avengers Tower medbay doesn’t have as many supplies.

In line, Tony and Steve appear to be communicating in a language based solely on eyebrows. Peter can’t begin to tell what either is thinking, but eventually they fill him in.

“You know, kid,” Tony begins in the same way Harley’s mom used to whenever she was about to suggest something she knew Peter would protest, like finishing his homework instead of blowing up whatever he and Harley could get their hands on, “I was wondering if you’d think about going to the café next week. Just so we—Steve and I—can make sure you’re fine. I get that—” Peter holds out a hand.

“Sure,” he agrees mildly, amused at the matching expressions of shock on either hero’s face. But Tony and Steve had been surprisingly nice to him, not even calling an ambulance when, from their perspectives, they really should have.

“Oh, that’s good,” Steve says, still a little off-guard. After paying, they part ways. Well, he’d see them next week. After that, though, he’ll make sure Peter becomes a small, hopefully forgotten, memory.

When Peter picks up Morgan from pre-school, she’s as happy as a clam at high tide. He wonders if every parent goes through tough mornings with their kids, or if children just aren’t meant to raise children.