Peter remembered the first time he ever saw the Avengers together.

There wasn't much he could recall from that one day in 2012, what with the commotion and the panic and the screaming of everybody on the streets, scrambling for cover under the rain of alien fire. He could remember his father, though. Remembered that the man, for once, looked unsure of himself, scared even.

Alien invasions tended to have that effect on even the hardest of people.

Nevertheless, Peter remembered his father and the Cons sitting in the Station with him, down underground away from the chaos above their heads, watching the crisis unfolding on the spare TV they had down in storage. He remembered sitting cross-legged on the floor between his father's legs, staring at the TV with wide eyes and shaking hands. He remembered leaning his cheek into his father's knee, scrunched close for any comfort he could get.

But over all of it, he remembered them.

Remembered the shot of them together, a group of people standing and fighting in the center of the city, lights flashing and concrete exploding around them. Surefire looks on their faces, fear and uncertainty in their eyes that did not seem to slow their movements, their punches, their drive.

He remembered staring at that TV. Remembered the strange feeling that'd tickled against his chest, slowly leaning away from his father and closer to that screen. It would be a long time before Peter would ever recognize that feeling. Even longer before he'd come to understand why he'd felt it.

But hope had a funny way of leaving a lasting impression, it seemed.

For even now, staring down the end of an arrow pointed right at his chest, Peter couldn't find it in himself to be scared.

Not really.

"Don't move an inch, bastard."

But, boy were they giving it their best shot.

"Yeah, yeah, I got that," he said slowly, making sure to keep his body nice and still. He was crouched low against the floor, one hand pressing into the concrete while the other hovered by his side. Oh, and let's not forget the capture net currently entangled all around him, weighted down for good measure. He grinned behind the mask and wondered if the nervous smile matched his tone of voice. "What's it been? A month? Month and a half?

"Four."

"Right..."

Peter swallowed and took stock of the scene. Four people. Four weapons. Clint Barton at the head, what he could only hope was a non-lethal arrow aimed at him; Wanda Maximoff a little ways behind, hands glowing in very ominous fashion, Sam Wilson standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Barton, very lethal gun leveled at him, and...last guy. Simon or Sean or...something holding a bat. The news never really focused on him.

Kinda rude, honestly.

Sam didn't lower the gun, but he did relax his stance a bit more than the others, perhaps remembering their night together on the roof. "What are you doing here, Spider-Man? Change your mind about coming after us?"

"Not really. And you still haven't answered me about my octopus."

Maybe-Sebastian lowered his baseball bat and raised a brow. "You were serious?"

"You think I'd just make this stuff up?" He shifted a bit to relieve the weight on his knees and jumped at the little high-pitched squeak that emanated from his pocket. The others jumped too, weapons leaning closer as Peter reached behind him. "Oh, boy the way, could you hold this for me?"

He tossed it forward, eyes and weapons trailing the little multi-colored rubber cupcake that rolled along the ground. Maximoff narrowed her eyes, the glow in her hands brightening with a vicious intensity. "What is it? An explosive?"

"Chew toy. Actually, a chew toy that was on clearance, which makes it way better," Peter said while subtly scanning the room. Plenty of windows. Catwalk overhead. Tons of hiding places. No sensor tech on their part, easy to sneak into the shadows. Take account of Maximoff, powers are a wildcard.

He mentally scribbled down the notes. "Hey, do any of you have a dog, by chance? You think I should get a dog? Maybe this is a sign. Spider-dog...hmm. Sounds kinda horrifying. Maybe-"

"Hey!"

He froze.

Barton stepped closer, drawing his gaze away from their surroundings and down to the arrow now dangerously close to his chest. "Shut your mouth and stop moving. And keep your eyes on me."

Right. Super-spy. Peter wasn't dealing with some run-of-the-mill thugs. These guys had plenty of tricks up their sleeves, which meant most likely, they knew some of his too.

The adults huddled a bit closer together, weapons still drawn. "What are we supposed to do with him?" Maybe-Spencer asked in a low voice.

Peter noticed the way Barton's brows furrowed along his forehead, jaw tensing as he cast a glance around the warehouse.

"Peter"

He jumped at the voice, causing the others to twitch and glare back with tightened grips on their weapons. The teen swallowed and tilted his head a bit to listen in. He'd forgotten all about Karen.

"You seem to be under duress and I've noted an increase in your heartrate. Would you like me to contact Mr. Stark?"

He stiffened, sucking in a sharp breath as he frantically shook his head. "No. Don't. Karen, don't call him."

Barton scanned him over, eyes frantically searching in confusion before his brows shot up to his hairline. He folded the bow with a flick of his wrist and leapt forward. "He's got an earpiece!"

"Stark!"

"Get the mask!"

The tingling that shot through his spine pulsed into his arms as his hands curled around the net and pulled it apart like wet toilet paper. Instantly taken aback, the others halted in their advance and crowded together while Spider-Man stumbled back with his hands outstretched and the lenses of his mask blown wide.

"Whoa, whoa..." he breathed slowly. "Let's all just take a second here...alright?"

Barton, staring at him from overtop his newly aimed arrow, pursed his lips and lifted his chin.

"...Alright."

The arrow shot forward like a bullet, capture net flying towards him.

Peter leapt backwards, sticking to the wall right as a wooden crate glowing in red light shot towards him. "Hey!" He dropped to the floor and sidestepped the next pair of arrows that embedded in the ground by his feet, only to stumble as a layer of ice crawled out from the tips, growing under his feet and slipping them right out from under him.

He faltered to a crouch and leaned back at the fist that swung past his face. Using a hand for leverage, he kicked Wilson back, the man sliding along the new ice as Peter jumped up and stuck to the ceiling, firing a round of webs down at their feet.

Unlike the thugs from the heist, these guys dodged the incoming projectiles with ease, aside from Maybe-Santiago, who stumbled back with cries of shock and a few distant shrieks of "whoa...that's goo! That's straight-up goo."

Peter was starting to like Maybe-Stanley.

At least until the guy pressed something in his hand and subsequently disappeared.

"What the - ACK!"

His head flung back at the sudden force knocking into his chin, landing him into an envelope of bright red light that hurled him towards the nearest wall. He grunted and leapt away from the arrows that slammed the concrete, hissing at the buzz of electricity that crackled from the tips.

Tingling.

His eyes shot towards the floor, where he was barely able to make out - is that a flea?

"Ah!" The flea leapt up and slammed into his gut before looping around to grab his arm, flipping him onto his stomach as it began to bend his arm behind his back. Peter's lenses widened in thought as he rolled out of the way of three more arrows.

"Oh my gosh! I remember you!"

Wilson was here now, pressing his body weight into Peter as both him and Flea-guy tried to pin him down. Barton readied another arrow right as Peter smiled in realization and flexed his arms back, flinging them off of him like stray rats.

He ducked under the next few arrows and grabbed Barton's bow, pressing it into the man's chest before sweeping his legs and tossing him backwards towards Maximoff. The two grunted as they rolled on the ground, Peter tilting his head as he watched Flea-guy grow back into Maybe-Sergio, Wilson by his side.

"You're that Giant Guy! Or small guy, maybe? I'm sorry, I'm not really sure what your thing is and...actually what's your name again?"

Maybe-Sullivan curled his face into an expression of genuine hurt that immediately made Peter feel bad. "Dude, seriously? I'm Ant Man! Or, I guess you can call me Scott."

"Scott! See, I knew it started with an s."

Barton growled and lunged forward, throwing a punch that Peter ducked underneath, countering with one of his own while Wilson charged forward as well. "Hey, you can't blame me, man. I'm terrible with faces."

He sidestepped Wilson and slammed his elbow into the man's face as he passed, catching the bow Barton swung at him and pushing him back. Only for the assassin to swipe his legs forward, knocking Peter's knees out from under him. He felt gravity lurch as the man hoisted him over his shoulder and flipped him down into the ground.

Tingling.

A hand.

Peter swung his legs and flipped back onto his feet as the hand grabbed at empty air.

"Sorry, the mask stays on, guys."

Wilson growled, the gun from before now secured by his waist. "Come on, man. We don't want to hurt you."

"Then stop trying to!"

"Screw this." Barton narrowed his eyes and pulled out a few new arrows, Peter's spine tingling as he eyed both him and Maximoff, watching her face pull into a menacing scowl as the rubble and stray stones littered around the warehouse began to hover behind her.

Peter flicked a web forward right as Barton released the arrows, a cloud of smoke flaring up as they smacked the ground. He blinked and stepped back as the smog began to envelop him.

Duck.

His body moved on instinct as the brick soared right past his head, imbedding into the wall behind him. Three more followed after, causing Peter to twist and turn around them as two more arrows landed by his sides, crackling in blue light.

The sparks danced along his arms, eliciting a yelp of pain as he stumbled back, right into the awaiting flash of red light that slammed into his side and sent him headfirst into a flea-sized punch, the force sending him careening out of the smoke cloud. He rolled along the ground and twisted into a crouch, lenses narrowing as he stared back at the four figures before him.

He swallowed, trying to ignore the aching flare of pain burning along his side. He could still feel the blood dripping down his skin. The wounds Doctor Stupid-head had left hadn't had any time to heal, apparently.

Another capture net. Peter rolled away.

Couldn't imagine why.

Another barrage of bright red blasts shot towards him, guiding him into the path of another mini-charged punch, knocking him off his feet and into the roundhouse kick of one Sam Wilson.

Peter leapt back, tossing a web at Maximoff's hands. It caught the tips of her fingers, which was enough of a distraction for Peter to slide under her legs and web them together. She gasped in shock at the imbalance and hit the ground with a thud.

Tingling.

He snatched his hand through the air and caught the flea mid-leap, tossing it forward towards Wilson. Scott regrew and slammed into the other man with a grunt as they fell together in a tangle of limbs. Peter twisted around and ducked under the arrow that flew over his shoulder-

Right into the path of the second just underneath it.

And suddenly everything exploded in white.

Peter screamed in shock at the flash-bang and brought his hands up to his face, trying to mask the screaming dots now blinking over his vision. The entire warehouse was now spinning, head shrieking as the colors mixed together in oily streaks. He knelt, crouching protectively as he heard approaching footsteps. Trusting in his senses now on high alert, Peter listened for the tell-tale whooshing of an approaching fist and leaned back, firing a web towards the closest heartbeat.

A grunt tuned him into his mark and he fired another round of webs, leaping up and sticking one hand to the ceiling while the other pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Jeez, man. Talk about playing dirty," he muttered as he tried to blink through the flashing colors.

He was barely able to make out the details of the back wall when he felt something wrap around his leg and yank. Suddenly, he was crashing back down the ground as tendrils of red light wrapped around his body, tying his arms down with a ferocious squeeze. He grunted in pain at the tug of his earlier wounds and stared at Maximoff as she glared, hand stretched out towards him as the light dripped from her fingers.

"Okay...I feel like this is...a little unfair."

He couldn't even say anything else before Barton was surging forward, knocking his legs out from under him and sending his shoulder crashing painfully into the concrete floor. He grunted and stared up with wide eyes as the archer grabbed the front of his spider suit and reared his fist back.

Peter sucked in a breath. Two minutes. Not a bad showing against half of the Avengers.

He readied his shooters, jaw aching in preparation for the hit as he shut his eyes.

BANG!

 

. . .

 

. . .

 

. . .

 

And opened them again at the sound of vibrating metal.

Steve Rogers stood tall, big silver shield in hand now held protectively over Peter's face, Barton's fist still pressed hard against the surface.

The warehouse echoed with the vibrations, a harsh ringing of bones against metal. Everybody stared back in stunned silence as the sound slowly drifted into nothing. Peter took a breath, a small hint of air as he gazed up at the solder with wide eyes. From behind him, Peter could make out Ms. Romanoff running in from one of the back doors. Had they come from outside?

Rogers narrowed his eyes and grabbed the back of Peter's shoulder, wrenching him from Barton's grasp and pushing him towards Natasha. Peter stumbled to a standing halt, tendrils shivering slightly, as the soldier spoke sharply. "What the hell is going on here?"

Barton was the first to snap to, shocked expression morphing into an indignant grunt of impatience as he angled his head towards Peter. "We caught this little asshole sneaking through trying to get the jump on us."

Well, that was straight-up slander.

"Hey, I told you! All I wanted was my octopus!"

Rogers rounded on him, eyes wide and face pulled into an expression of stunned disbelief, like he couldn't quite decide how to feel. After a second, he settled on incredulous irritation. "P-Spider-Man?" The man hesitated for a moment, sparing a glance behind him at his approaching teammates before turning to stare the teen up and down. The annoyance on his face softened into concern. It echoed in his voice.

"Are you alright, son?"

The others reared back in shock.

"What?

"Steve!"

"Do you know him?!"

Peter, ignoring the huffs of the others around him, shifted his shoulder as he tried to maneuver the red tendrils off of him. They stuck true like chains. "Yeah, I'm good. Your friends are a bit trigger-happy, though. You should scold them."

Steve placed a hand on one of the tendrils and cast a glance over his shoulder. "Wanda, let him go."

"But-"

"Now."

The girl looked like she wanted to protest, but after another stern look from the Captain, she pursed her lip and dismissively flicked her wrist. The chains dissipated into plumes of mist. Peter's eyes the smoke up into the air before landing back on Steve. The man stared back at him with a hard expression, deep in thought. Peter caught him and Romanoff sharing a glance.

After a moment, the soldier reached out and latched a hand around Peter's wrist. "Come with me." The teen yelped as he suddenly found himself being dragged towards the catwalk stairs.

"Whoa, whoa!" Suddenly, Barton was back, standing in front of the soldier with his arms outstretched in a shrug. His face was scrunched into a scowl. "Cap, what the hell is going on here? Why are you so chill about this?"

"Steve..."

He and Peter turned, took note of Sam staring at his friend with confusion. Wanda and Scott followed behind him, the former glaring with a heated gaze of mistrust while the latter tilted his head in curiosity. They were all staring with some hint of unease or suspicion, aside from Ms. Romanoff, who was merely gazing at Peter with an unreadable expression.

He squirmed a bit under her stare and glanced back up at the Captain as he spoke.

"I'll explain everything later, Clint. To all of you. Right now I need to talk to him alone."

Maximoff stepped forward, voice tight. "He'll tell Stark where we are," she said with a notable spit in her voice that made the boy stiffen. He opened his mouth to retort back, but Rogers beat him to it.

"No. He won't. I know he won't."

Peter jolted at that, blinking in surprise at the surety of the Captain's voice.

"But-"

Steve held up his hand, silencing any other grumblings or complaints. "You're going to have to trust me on this, guys."

Glances were shared between them, some more hostile than others before Barton was scoffing. They turned towards him and Peter noticed a stronger hint of derision in his gaze. A bitterness that lingered in the wrinkles of his face, deeper and sharper than any of the others, even Maximoff. It made Peter's spine tingle with unease as he stared at that face, a pit of anger and frustration.

The archer didn't voice these feelings, though, merely stalked past the soldier and grabbed at his bow, which was sitting lifelessly on the ground a little ways away. "Yeah. And why wouldn't we trust you, oh illustrious leader? Go on, cook up some more secrets while you're back there. We don't mind," he muttered with an edge to his voice before slinking off towards the back of the warehouse.

Peter heard Ms. Romanoff mutter "Clint..." under her breath before tailing behind him. Wanda and Sam both stared at Peter with suspicion and unease respectively before following after them. Scott more or less looked more confused than upset, but he followed suit as well.

Steve stared after them, lips pulled into a tight unreadable line. His hand was still wrapped around Peter's wrist, pulsing fingertips thrumming up against the teen's suit, vibrating down his arm in tiny little shockwaves. Peter fought down the sweeping urge to pull away from the man's touch and simply allowed himself to be guided up the stairs in silence.

At the top of the stairs, it was a short walk along the railings before they came upon a side room, what looked to be a manager's office or something. It was large enough to fit a desk and maybe a couple of chairs, but that was it. Now, though, it only housed a handful of wooden crates, a dusty desk under some broken windows, and a couple pigeons that quickly fluttered away as the door opened.

As soon as they were in and the door was closed, Rogers stepped closer, inspecting the teen with a sharp eye and a furrow in his brows. "Hey. You okay? Are you hurt?"

He reached out to touch the boy's shoulder, but this time, Peter ducked under the hand and gave a shrug. "Yeah, I'm good. Barely even scratched me. I do want my dog toy back, though." Hopefully the joke covered the slight wheeze of his voice and the exhausted sag of his stance.

Steve stared at him for a moment, perhaps gauging him to see if he were lying or not, but soon enough he sighed and ran a hand down his face. Peter almost chuckled. Mr. Stark was always giving him the exact same look of weary exasperation.

"What are you doing here, Peter?"

"I-"

Footsteps.

Both soldier and spider tensed as the door swung open, Natasha strolling in without even a hint of hesitation as she sighed. "Well, you've really pissed them off this time, Steve. Gonna need one hell of an explanation after this."

Steve glanced over at Peter before hastily turning back to Natasha. "I...Nat, can you give us a second here?"

Peter ignored them as they spoke, instead choosing to turn towards the dusty wooden desk in the center of the room. "And to think," he muttered to himself while hopping up to take a seat on the surface. "...this night was going so well. Stopped a car thief. Got a pic with some perv hanging from a light post. What more can you ask for?" He set his elbows on his knees and rested his chin down against his palms. "Ugg...good thing Mr. Stark isn't here."

He noticed Natasha shifting her gaze between him and Steve before settling back on him. Peter furrowed his brows a bit at the look on her face, an almost inquisitive gleam that lingered in her eyes. She seemed to think for a moment before speaking.

"It's nice to see you again, Spider-Man."

Peter, blinking at her suggestive tone of voice, swallowed and resisted the urge to rub the back of his neck. "Uh, yeah. You too...ma'am."

The gleam in her eyes flashed for a moment before disappearing just as quickly with a nonchalant swish of her hair. Natasha shrugged her shoulders and scoffed, pulling a hair-tie from her pocket as she spoke.

"You're gonna need a voice modulator, Peter. You sound like a toddler under there," she muttered while pulling her hair into a bun.

Peter stared.

Blinked.

What?

"...What?"

Silence.

He could hear the lenses of his mask adjusting, whirring and widening as he stared at the woman now lazily taking a seat in one of the rolling chairs. Had he...had he heard her correctly? He couldn't have. She must have...have...

Slowly, like disarming an active bomb, he angled his head towards Steve, who was also staring at Natasha with hopelessly shocked eyes. No help there.

Peter swallowed, tightening his jaw underneath the mask as he tried to quell the sudden trilling of his heart, running around like a mouse on a wheel.

"I...uh...that's not..."

Words.

He had to say words.

 

. . .

 

. . .

 

"What's a...Peter?"

He had to say better words.

However, as the woman angled her head down to look at him with a face of pure confidence and certainty wrapped in a deceiving if not slightly contemptuous smile, any backup excuses died right there in his throat.

"YOU TOLD HER?!"

And made way for blatant accusations.

Steve, to his credit, looked both completely lost and amusingly frightened as he lifted his hands in surrender and shook his head frantically. "What? NO! I-"

"You swore you wouldn't tell anybody!"

"I didn't! I don't know how she-"

"You are a total blab! Who else knows? Your team? Twitter?! Did you TWEET about it?! Is it trending already?"

"I don't even know what that means! I-

"He didn't tell me."

They both clamped their jaws tight and turned towards Natasha, who had the audacity to still look smug as she bounced her foot up and down, twisting back and forth on the chair's swivel.

Peter turned to her with balled fists, face no doubt reddening under his mask. "What? Then how did you figure it out?"

"I didn't. You just did it for me."

 

. . .

 

. . .

 

. . .

 

"I...uh..."

"Besides, there's only one nerd out there with the balls to call me 'ma'am'."

He blinked at her.

She raised a coy brow.

And Steve, innocent soul, merely gazed back and forth between them with a confused frown.

There was a long pause, a thick moment of silence where the three of them exchanged terse glances - well, two terse glances, one amused smirk.

Peter swallowed. Pouted.

And removed his mask.

"Stupid spies with their...stupid spy tactics. You're the worst," he muttered over his shoulder as he once again took a seat on the manager's desk and hung his head in his hands with quite possibly the loudest sigh he'd ever sighed in his entire sighing career.

Thank GOD Mr. Stark wasn't there.

Steve let out his own puff of exhaustion as he rubbed a hand against the side of his face, looking very much like an out-of-touch dad trying to figure out his kid's math homework. He shook his head and took a seat on the nearby stack of wooden pallets. "What are you doing here, Peter?" he said in a much calmer voice, Natasha straightening a bit as she leaned in to listen.

Peter tensed a bit at that, sparing a brief glance at the two of them before focusing back in on the floor below. There was a moment of hesitation, a little seed of niggling unease echoing in the back of his head, like he wasn't sure how much to say. Was there any point in continuing to lie? Anything he'd overlooked that could come back to bite him? Ms. Romanoff was obviously fine at keeping her mouth shut, but still...the number of people who knew his secret had suddenly spiked and Peter had not been prepared.

He should have been angry. He should have been afraid.

Peter paused at the thought, lifting his head to gaze at Natasha's inquisitive stare. Turned to Steve and noticed a similar look in his eyes. But above all else, he noticed…an absence.

His senses weren't tingling. His spine wasn't covered in a layer of chilling frost. And his arms weren't itching with goosebumps or prickles.

 

("He was…he was a good guy, though. They all were.")

 

As he stared, Peter couldn't find it within himself to be scared of them. Of either of them.

Hmmm...

He wet his lips. "There was a break-in down by the Lower East side. Chemical plant. I'm not sure what they took, but I was tailing the truck. Took out the escorts when all of a sudden, I was ambushed by this...this guy...I think?" He leaned back and waved his hand in the air with a confused frown. "He was wearing this sort of...suit thing."

Natasha furrowed her brows. "A suit? What kind of suit, like Tony's?"

"No. It was...I mean, it was mechanically advanced, sure. But it was...weird." Peter wiggled his fingers as he spoke, arms gesturing with each word. "He had all these arms sprouting from his back. Like, these metallic tentacle things with claws on the end. And they could spin like blades and he could climb buildings and pick up cars and jump super high and-"

He looked up. Noticed their faces.

"I'm not making this up. Swear."

The two Rogues glanced at each other in confusion.

Peter pursed his lips at their doubtful looks, only to blink as he noticed the inside of his mask - more specifically, the little red light now blinking near the bottom right lens.

"Uh...give me a second," he murmured as he reached up and slid the mask back down over his face. The internal interface flashed to life as he glanced around at the edges of the screen. "What's up, Karen?"

"I have footage of the encounter if you'd like to show it."

Peter straightened in surprise before glancing around a bit unsurely. "Uh...sure? How do I do that?"

"Remove your mask please and press the indent by the right lens."

"Who are you talking to?"

Peter yanked the mask back off as Steve stared curiously. "Mr. Stark and I made a new AI interface for my suit. Kinda like FRIDAY," he said offhandedly as he pulled the mask inside-out and fingered a little blinking button at the bottom of the lens. "That's why all your little hooligan friends were after me. Thought I'd try calling Mr. Stark, as if I'm ever telling him about tonight."

He tilted his head quizzingly and pressed the button.

Instantly, a bright light flashed from the lenses of the mask and all three of them jolted back as a hologram setup materialized in the air above the lenses, taking the shape of a projector screen that suddenly flashed to earlier that night.

"Whoa...that's awesome..."

The two rogues shared an amused look.

True to her word, Karen's footage flickered right to the truck chase, a first-person shot of the pursuit through Peter's eyes, swinging through the city at breakneck speeds. He noticed Steve grimacing a bit at the shaky filming.

"Heh, sorry. You'll get over the nausea in a second."

The footage skipped, showing him landing on the roof of the truck. Peter held his breath as he watched the first claw shoot out from under his feet, swallowed as the Doctor rose up into view and finally looked away entirely as the fighting began.

"The hell...?" he heard Natasha murmur under her breath as they both stared at the fight. Peter could hear it just fine, didn't bother in watching. Didn't want to see the embarrassing failures for a second time that night. He could watch it later. Analyze it for where he'd gone wrong, all the moves he should have made, the mistakes he should have corrected.

The flush of heat rising to his cheeks made him acutely aware that he was no longer wearing his mask. He was Peter Parker once again. With all his Peter Parker mistakes.

"You think he made those himself?" he heard Natasha murmur after a while.

"Not sure. There aren't many people out there who can replicate suits like Tony's."

Peter perked a bit, suddenly craving the need to feel useful. "It wasn't powered by an arc reactor. Not like that guy from 2011. The, uh...the whip guy that attacked Mr. Stark on some racing track?"

Steve nodded along. "Right. So the design isn't an exact replica of the Iron Man suits."

"But it sure as heck is strong like one. I mean, this thing was fast. I...uh..." He faltered, glancing up at the footage as the bridge collapsed for a second time that night. He glanced away. "I...well, I gave him a run for his money, but um..."

He pressed the button on his mask when the footage finally ended, leaving him to freely wring his hands nervously around the mask. "I wasn't good enough. Obviously."

This had been a mistake. He shouldn't have shown them anything. Shouldn't even be engaging them in conversation. What would Mr. Stark say? What would he say after he saw this footage? Would he be disappointed - as disappointed as Peter was? Maybe he'd be angry, frustrated that his protégé wasn't living up to-

"I wouldn't say that."

He lifted his head.

Steve shrugged, taking a second to think before folding his arms over his chest. "You kept damage to a minimum with no civilian casualties while fighting off an assailant."

"Sometimes not even we can do that," Natasha murmured.

Steve hummed in agreement before pausing. The man swallowed and lowered his head before leveling the boy a strong look. It was a heavy stare. Weighted. And yet, it glowed with a hint of something more. A brightness.

"Never apologize for prioritizing life over victory. You did good, son"

Peter blinked at them, lips parted ever so slightly as the light overhead gave a little flicker. He felt his cheeks beginning to heat up with a reddish tint. This time, there was no shame. Only a duck of his head as he rubbed the back of his neck.

And tried to hide a little smile.

"Yeah, well..." he coughed, clearing his throat of any lingering residue and straightened back up. The others did as well. "Anyway, he was working with the guys in the truck. Same for those other escorts." He paused for a moment. "They had alien tech, too."

The smile on Steve's face instantly vanished. "What?"

Natasha narrowed her eyes. "What kind?"

"Run of the mill blaster and some gun with a homing shot. Like...heat seeking."

The woman lowered her head in thought before angling her gaze to Steve, who's face had hardened into a look of frustration. "Could his suit be powered by that tech? You think they could make something like that? Something that big?"

The man hesitated for a moment before turning to the kid. "Was his suit glowing, Peter?"

He pursed his lips in thought for a moment before giving a small nod. "Yeah. Or, the arms were, at least. The interlaying circuitry was bright green." He tilted his head a bit. "Now that I think about it, it made that same weird humming noise that those guns made. They might have the same type of processing system, which would explain how he was able to use such a huge piece of tech without an external power source." He frowned. "The power might be coming from inside the arms."

It wasn't hard to notice the instant shift in the atmosphere as he spoke, both Steve and Natasha either shaking their heads or glaring at the ground with a new uneasiness in their stances. "Where the hell are these guys coming from, Steve?" Natasha murmured under her breath, gazing back at him with a hint of concern in her otherwise stoic expression.

Peter couldn't help but compare her to MJ. The emotion was there, if you knew where to look.

He shifted in his seat a bit and couldn't help the involuntary hiss of pain that slipped past his lips, bringing a hand to guard over the wound on his side. The slight noise was apparently loud enough for the super soldier, for he instantly perked up like a dog being beckoned. "Whoa, whoa. Are you hurt?" He asked with a new hastiness in his voice.

Peter shook his head, ignoring the smear of blood that stained his hand as he pulled it back. "Barely. It's just a scratch. It'll be gone by morning."

Steve pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes and Peter stiffened as the man approached, hovering around him like a showman inspecting his latest car model. "Hey!" He hissed, slapping the man's hand away as it brushed the wound. The soldier did not seem deterred, for he merely clicked his tongue and walked over to the cabinets by the back wall, opening them to reveal mountains of top-line first aid kits, bandages, gauze and much more.

"Just a scratch, huh? Lucky for you, this is where we store all our first aid equipment."

"Lucky me," Peter muttered with a roll of his eyes, only to yelp as the soldier suddenly pressed a fresh pad of gauze to the kid's side. He huffed with a glare, but said nothing as the man worked. Natasha, on the other hand, stood from her seat and began to walk back and forth across the room as she spoke.

"They're getting more advanced with their tech. Guns. Tasers. Density shifters. Anti-gravity blasters. Heat seekers. And now a full-blown suit powered by the stuff?"

She shook her head, folding her arms over her chest as she watched Steve work. He was fast in sliding a fresh piece of gauze between the hole in Peter's suit, taping it in place with a firm loop of bandages. She pursed her lips and continued, eyes dark. ""If we don't get to the bottom of this, who knows how far they're going to take it. Pretty soon, the whole city'll be crawling with these weapons. They'll be on ever street corner, every block, in the hands of every thug out there, as common as regular pistols and ten times as deadly."

Peter grimaced, both at the wound on his side and at the image of more injuries popping up all over the city. "That sounds bad..."

Steve's face pulled into a tight frown as he finished up, wiping his hands of any excess blood as he stood back up and sighed. "Listen, son...I don't want you getting involved in this. Next time you see this guy, just stay away from him."

"What?" Peter reared back.

"He's obviously bad news and with his suits being powered by alien tech, there's no telling what he's capable of."

The teen scoffed, resisting the urge to bristle under the man's concerned gaze. "Yeah, I saw what he was capable of. He took down a whole pedestrian bridge tonight! Imagine what would have happened if I hadn't gotten involved! I mean, didn't you just say I did a good job?"

"You did. That's not the issue-"

"No, the issue is you still don't think I can handle myself. You still have it in your head that I'm some defenseless little kid looking to be rescued when I'm not," he said with a knowing glare. By the way the man stiffened, he could assume that Steve remembered that night all too clearly. "I'm not staying away. If I had, who knows how many people would have been hurt tonight!"

The soldier gave him a withering look, brows furrowing in another attempt to be stern. "Peter-"

He breezed past it, leaning closer as he raised his chin and narrowed his eyes. "I'm not walking away. And you can't make me." The heat in his eyes dwindled just a tad, replaced by a softer gleam of determination. A heavier look of resolve.

"This is my city, too."

The soldier stared down at him, holding him in place with the strength of his gaze. Peter could see it in his eyes, in the wrinkles by his forehead, the stiffness of his stance. The man was worried for him. It wasn't a contemptuous, patronizing worry like Peter had thought. Instead, it was...deeper. Genuine. He could imagine the soldier staring at one of his own teammates with a similar look of concern.

He felt his anger simmer back down, felt his fingers unclench.

The soldier glanced away.

After a moment, Natasha seemed fed up with the silence, for she strode forward and placed a hand on Steve's shoulder. "Those plans...the ones about staking out the DDC building in Manhattan? I think it's time to finalize those."

Peter perked. "What?"

"It's risky, Nat," the soldier said with another long sigh, bringing a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"That place will have all the information on the cleanup measures of the entire city. Washington didn't have any answers. All it did was lead us back to the city." She tilted her head, green eyes glistening. "Whatever's happening...it's happening here. And that building will have the answers we need on where these goons are coming from. At the very least, it'll give us a lead on who to look to as our main suspect."

 

("I'm only here to create a...how did he phrase it? A mild headache.")

 

(Butterfly.)

(Butterfly.)

(Butterfly.)

 

Peter swallowed and shook it away. "You're going to go to Manhattan?" He waited for them both to turn before continuing. "That place is crawling with cameras and last I checked, you guys are still the most wanted people on the planet."

Steve strode forward, pausing for a moment before resting a large hand on Peter's shoulder. The teen flinched, but didn't push him away. The soldier smiled down at him. "Nobody said being a superhero was easy."

Peter stared up at him for a moment before returning the smile. "Heh...that's for sure."

Steve opened his mouth, presumably to say more, but they all jumped at the sudden sounds of a loud brass band and an instantly recognizable piece of music echoing through the room. Natasha lifted her head and cocked a brow. "Is that the Imperial March?"

"From Star Trek, right?"

"Close enough."

Peter ignored them, walking over to the mask he'd left behind on the manager's desk. He pulled it up and the hologram popped back into the air, displaying a little alarm clock. He sighed.

"Darn it..."

"What's wrong?"

"I have to go. I only have 30 minutes until my curfew...I mean- not a curfew! A scheduled Avengers progress check-in with Mr. Stark."

He paused. Held his breath.

Natasha grinned and tilted her head. "Aww. Spider-baby's got a bedtime."

He gritted his teeth, opening his mouth to retort back, only for Steve to shake his head and frown at her. "Come now, Nat. You shouldn't tease him." The soldier smirked. "He might throw a tantrum."

"You guys suck."

He shoved the mask back down over his face, mainly to hide the furious blush washing over his cheeks and stalked over to the back wall, climbing up the wall and pushing the window open with one hand. He turned, hanging on to the concrete with a few fingers. "Uh...what's gonna happen with your teammates? They're not gonna like...try to hunt me down, right?"

Steve shook his head. "No. I'll make sure of that. Don't worry about it."

The teen hummed in confirmation and turned to leave, only to feel himself hesitate. He stared out the open window, jaw tensing in thought as his fingers curled into the worn brick.

After a second, he jumped back down to the floor and scooped up one of the stray pieces of paper from the ground. They gazed at him in confusion as he grabbed a loose pen from the desk and scribbled down some numbers. He paused for a second before jamming the paper into Steve's hand.

The man blinked at him.

Peter turned away. "Just, uh...if you need me."

Steve uncurled his hand and stared down at the hastily written phone number. He smiled.

"Bye, Peter," Natasha called with a chuckle as the kid slipped through the frame and tossed them a parting wave.

"Later! Oh, and call me if you see our octopus guy! I got first dibs on him!"

 

---

 

Monday - June 13, 2016

Stark Tower - Private Lab 1

12:24 PM

 

"Okay, okay, almost done here. Hand me the vector probe."

"Size?"

"T23."

"Hmm...I'd go 24 or higher. Remember that loose nanowire along the brachial ridge? You need something small enough to slip through and stabilize that thing."

"Right, right."

Peter handed over the microtool, one hand continuing to type in command prompts, eyes never leaving the screen before him. Beside him, Tony accepted the tool and fiddled with the external sensors on the arc reactor holding unit. Inside that unit festered around 3 billion antsy nanobots ready and waiting to assemble.

The lab echoed with their battling musical tastes, bouncing between Def Leopard and AC/DC to Hey Jude and Johnny B. Goode - which Peter had explained away as one of Ben's favorites. They were currently on CD number 23 of the late man's seemingly endless collection. And for the past few hours, the two of them had slaved away by the workbenches, rolling from table to table, inputting new system codes, circuit wires, nanite insulators, weaving back and forth between each other like a well-oiled machine.

Peter kept typing the most recent line of coding into the computer, the veritable set of instructions for the nanites to follow once they were released. He scanned the screen as he spoke, fingers flying. "You know, if we can figure out a way to successfully push these nanites through molecular self-assembly without the need for a housing unit and recharge down-time, maybe there's a way to adapt that to organ replication or limb regeneration."

Tony hummed and picked up said housing unit for a 360 inspection. It looked like a standard metal medical bracelet. "Certainly an idea. But for now, let's focus on making sure they don't destroy my arm."

"I keep telling you to use the dummy model."

"Where's the fun in that?"

Peter rolled his eyes with an exasperated smirk before focusing back in on the screen. "Strain accumulation limits have been updated." He rolled his chair backwards towards the opposite table housing a holographic projection of a human body, complete with a glowing right arm. He expanded the image to show the nanite interlay of the arm. "The cells are programmed to stop spreading as soon as they reach your upper bicep," he pointed.

Tony glanced behind him at the kid's gesturing and gave a nod. "How many are we looking at?"

"About 3.2 billion individual nanocells."

The billionaire rolled up the sleeve of his T-shirt and grabbed the silicon sleeve protector, slipping his hand through and pulling it taut against his forearm. "And how many are we up to for housing capacity in the arc reactor?"

Peter leaned back and glanced over at the reactor. "12.8 billion. Just enough to cover both arms and your chest. But first things first," he rolled his chair back over towards the man, bumping shoulders. "We have to make sure they actually bind to your musculature and not...you know...crush you like a soda can."

The teen picked up the nearby Petri dish, which contained what looked to be a shiny, metallic liquid. He dipped the tip of his finger into the liquid and they both watched it slide up his skin in metal rivets before covering his entire finger in a protective metal coating. "I'm cautiously optimistic if our preliminary tests were anything to go by. They adapt to smaller surfaces with little problem."

He pressed a button on the arc reactor and the metal rippled before turning liquid again and harmlessly sliding off his skin. Tony gave the kid's shoulder an encouraging squeeze before rolling his chair back and standing up with a flourish, grabbing the bracelet on his way. "And they'll adapt to the larger limbs just as easily!"

Peter watched him take his place over by the testing station, loose smile drifting onto his face as he folded his arms and shook his head. "I can't imagine going through life with your confidence, Mr. Stark."

The man winked back at him. "Just takes practice, kid."

"And plenty of test runs." Peter rolled over towards the main computer, which was hooked up to the arc reactor's primary sensors. AKA, the main control unit for the nanites.

"Alright, enough talk. I'm getting antsy to try this thing out." The billionaire slapped the housing bracelet onto his wrist, the locks snapping in place with a harsh click.

Peter scrunched his face a bit, sparing nervous glances at the control panels before casting the man another doubtful look. "...Maybe we should test the heat index capacities one last time. I noticed a slight deviation from the standard measurements we got last time and-"

"Ugg, no more safety checks, kid, you're killing me. Starting to sound like Pepper, too."

"What? Smart?"

"Kiss-ass. She's not even here."

The kid's frown remained, worry lines creasing his brow as he scanned the computer again. He threw the billionaire a concerned look. "I'm not sure, Mr. Stark..."

"Well, I am." The man folded his arms over his chest and threw the teen a confident smile. "Relax, kid. It's gonna be great."

Peter stared back at him for a moment before returning the smile while pointedly adjusting his grip on the fire extinguisher.

"Roll it, FRI."

The camera system across the way beeped to life, red light flashing as Tony repositioned himself into the caution zone, a yellow-and-black lined box on the floor. "Test number..." He scrunched his face. 'What is this?"

"23, I think? If we're counting that one test where the nanites got into your pants and-"

"Okay, okay!" Tony scoffed and straightened up, shaking out the nerves as he lifted his arm and stared down at the metal bracelet pressing against the sleeve protector. "Commencing test number 22.5 of the Mark 85 nanoset suit. Mr. Parker is on fire safety, a marginal improvement from DUM-E"

The camera panned to him. Peter gave it a thumbs-up.

"Ready?"

"3."

 

"2."

 

"1."

 

Click.

Sheeeennn!

 

"And...aha! See! What'd I tell you? Complete succe-"

WHOOSH!

"Oh SHIT!"

"JESUS, STOP MOVING!"

"PUT ME OUT! PUT ME OUT!"

FSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

. . .

 

. . .

 

. . .

 

. . .

 

. . .

 

. . .

 

"Hmm. Shoulda tested that heat index."

 

. . .

 

"Let's take a break."

 

---

 

Stark Tower had, from the moment of its creation, been a pinnacle of modern architecture and construction. Following in the line of all Stark Industries works, it embodied a sleek, minimalist design that reflected itself in polished steel exteriors and metal sculptings inlayed between window panes and support beams, design choices that did not stop on the outside. Inside, the building continued this image of sleek professionalism with dark modern furniture, crisp geometric wall designs and even a few fountain pieces scattered around the building, including one full-sized marble fountain on the fifteenth floor receptionist lobby.

The 101st floor did not have a fountain.

The 101st floor had Mr. Jumbles.

A 234-piece Lego 'creation' made up of random bits and bobs to form a misshapen ball of plastic bricks. Two days ago, Peter had crafted a pair of paper eyeballs for the monster. Now it stared out across the room disapprovingly. Perhaps because of how much the Communal Floor now differed in terms of the usual Stark Industries chic.

Bright yellow sneakers sat lined up along the back wall, neat, tidy and out of the way. It only took two days of their presence before they were joined by a couple loafers, some high heels, and even a pair of bunny slippers that Happy, to this day, refused to claim. The TV stand, once housing a few mini metal sculptures and a couple decorative magazines were now covered in different gaming consoles, respective controllers rolled up alongside them. The couch, previously decorated with a simple white throw blanket was now in the peak of Star Wars fashion with a Death Star blanket tucked into Peter's corner of the sofa. And all over the room, on the kitchen counter, the TV stand, the coffee table, even on the toilet cover in the bathroom - were little Lego creations. None were as magnificent as Mr. Jumbles, but everywhere you glanced, you'd get a peek of a plastic cat or a flower or in the case of Happy's guest room in the building, a couple Lego shrimps scattered all over his bed.

It certainly wasn't messy. Peter would never allow a mess, no matter how much Tony claimed he was alright with it. But there was a chaos about it all. Evidence of life in the details. Like colorful splatters of finger paint coating an otherwise boring white couch.

Peter much preferred the couch with its latest Star Wars fashions, anyway. Tony, secretly - or not so secretly considering he'd ordered matching pillows - did as well.

The teen's ears perked at the sounds of a rustling bag and a following string of curses. He glanced over towards the kitchen and watched with a half-smirk as Tony tried to maneuver the freshly-poured bowl of chips under his arm, which was tied up into a makeshift sling complete with its very own homemade ice-pack of frozen vegetables.

Peas, if he remembered correctly.

The teen turned back to the TV while Tony approached the kitchen counter, setting down the bowl of chips and grabbing for the jar of loose Lego pieces they kept in the corner. He poured out a handful of little plastic pieces and stuck a few to Mr. Jumbles.

Kitchen tax. Everyone had to contribute to Mr. Jumbles.

It was a new addendum to the Tower Rules. Sanctioned in last week

Peter had just begun to settle on the couch, Death Star blanket wrapped snuggly around his shoulders, when he heard the billionaire call out from the kitchen. "What...on Earth are you watching?"

Peter reached towards the table and grabbed his plate, panini still steaming. "Zombie Cook-Off. It's pretty good. Already on season 3."

"Ooo. Looks like Chef Sandra has just been bitten by one of our resident kitchen zombies. Things are not looking good for her chicken risotto."

From the corner of his eye, he watched Mr. Stark shuffle over. The billionaire was sporting a pair of grey sweatpants and a faded AC/DC shirt, which seemed to match the lax fashions of Peter himself, who was wearing a plain pair of gym shorts and an oversized Zelda sweater that matched the fuzzy green socks on his feet.

Tony set down the bowl of chips next to his own plate of paninis, freshly made by their resident intern. Peter tilted his head at the man as he plopped down on the couch beside him with a huff. The teen bounced a bit at the jostling movements.

"How's the arm?"

"Char-broiled and ready for serving."

He eyed the loose bandages around the man's limb. Luckily for both of them, the sleeve protector had saved him from any serious burns. Merely a couple patches of red, irritated skin and a fairly bruised ego. Peter hummed and took a bite of his sandwich. "You know, honey works as a really good anti-inflammatory. It's great for burns."

"I'm going to pretend you don't know that from personal experience."

"Of course not. Just common everyday knowledge."

"Right."

They both let out muted chuckles and turned back to the show. Peter, ever the clean-freak, noted the two or three crumbs that had fallen onto the sofa and picked them off one by one. "Where are the others? I would have made more for them."

Tony waved his hand, continuing to eye the TV show weirdly. "Nah, don't bother, kid. We're alone. Pepper's downtown handling a business merger at the main office and Colonel Honeybear is currently dealing with a couple brown-nosers in DC."

"And Happy?"

"He's at his mom's, probably getting yelled at for not having a wife and five kids already."

Petter hummed under his breath and pictured the bodyguard's mom. For some reason, all he could see was an identical Happy-twin, complete with a frizzy wig, lipstick and a nightgown covered in cat hair. The disturbing image was thankfully pushed aside as he heard Tony letting out a muted groan from beside him. The teen turned and threw him a strange look.

"What?"

The billionaire ignored him for a moment as he took another bite and spoke around the chewing. "Maybe you should toss aside the science gig and get into the restaurant business. I know a couple Michelin-star chefs if you need some good PR."

Peter chuckled and turned back to the TV with a roll of his eyes. "Please..."

"I'm serious," Tony said with a nudge to the kid's shoulder. "So far, all the shit you've made has been nothing short of fantastic. And that's not just because my point of reference is my own cooking, which could be classified as bio-terrorism. I've had plenty of chefs cooking for me all my life and I gotta say," he gestured with the sandwich in hand, crumbs flying. "You rank in the top ten, at least."

The teen brushed his cheek against his shoulder, as if he could wipe away the sudden blush rising to his cheeks. "You really think so?"

"Don't tell my chefs. They'll put a hit out on you." He took another bite. "Where'd you learn this stuff, anyway?"

Peter sniffed and gave a little shrug before focusing back on the TV. Some commercial about tax refunds. "Hmm...once my house started getting a bit more crowded, my dad asked me to take on cooking for the family. He doesn't like hiring outside help - maids, butlers, all that. So I agreed and decided to try to learn a bit of stuff," he said with a wave of his hand, trying to ignore the subtle scowl that brushed across the billionaire's face at the mention of his father.

"Some of it was self-taught. I'd borrow May's cookbooks and come up with new stuff. It's not all that different from chemistry, I guess. Combine a little bit of A and B to get C. Just, instead of web fluid, it's this," he said while holding up his sandwich.

He didn't take a bite though. Instead, he stared down at the food for a moment of thought, the words coming just a bit slower this time. If Mr. Stark noticed, he didn't comment on it.

"Everything else...Uncle Ben taught me." He fiddled with the edges of the bread before forcing his hands towards his mouth. He took a bite and chewed for quite a while before finding the voice to speak again. Thankfully, with a little bit of effort, the words came out loose and lightweight.

"May was never a very good cook, still isn't honestly. So Ben would take the reigns most nights after work. I'd help him chop vegetables while he worked on the more complicated stuff." He paused for a minute before turning to Mr. Stark with a mischievous smile and whispered behind his hand, like he was spilling some grand secret. "But I'd always hide the carrots behind the pot. Hated those things."

The billionaire chuckled and turned his attentions back to the TV as he took another bite of his sandwich. "Yeah, well...I think I'd better stick to suits and shooters rather than pots and pans."

"You're getting better. You haven't set fire to the kitchen in like...two weeks."

"Lab fires don't count, right?"

"Not if we say they don't."

They snorted, Tony adjusting the bag of peas resting on his arm while Peter finished off his sandwich in one last bite. "Cooking is fun, Mr. Stark. It's just like tinkering down in the lab. It's nice...making something out of nothing."

 

("Come on, Tony. It's not that difficult. Just throwing stuff into a pot and seeing what sticks - making something out of nothing. Figured you'd be able to relate. Isn't that what your suits were all about? Now come on, Clint's been eyeing your plate so get a move on. We're all waiting on you.")

 

Peter glanced over as he noticed the billionaire shift slightly in his seat, heartrate bumping up for just a second before relaxing back into its steady rhythm. He furrowed his brows. "What? What's wrong?"

Tony turned towards him, perhaps forgetting for a moment about Peter's hearing. When it finally registered, he shook the kid off with a grin. It wasn't as relaxed as before. "Nothing. Just...Steve used to say something sappy like that. He was the resident housewife around here, making sure everyone had three square meals, flossed their teeth, saluted the flag everytime they passed or shit like that."

It was his usual quippy deflection. Peter was getting good at noticing it nowadays. He turned his eyes away from the man and back to the show.

It was a while before either of them spoke again. His words were soft.

"Do you miss them? Your friends?"

This time, Tony did not respond with his quick wit. Didn't even turn his eyes from the TV screen. But he did set his sandwich down. And Peter noticed the irregularities in his heartbeat. A waver then a beat. Waver then beat. Waver-

 

"...Sometimes."

 

Then beat.

 

Peter pinched the corner of his napkin, ripped a tiny little piece off and let it settle against the palm of his hand. "I'm sorry."

It took a bit longer than usual for the billionaire to wave it away with his normal carefree scoff. It sounded thicker than normal. Heavier. "Don't be. I'm keeping much better company nowadays."

Peter hummed in acknowledgement, but didn't say anything more. Instead, he pulled his socked-feet up onto the couch and folded them underneath him while yanking the blanket tighter around his shoulders. The Tower was much colder than his house ever was, he'd noticed. Not an uncomfortable chill, more like a fresh breeze of air, like the feeling of bare feet against tile floors. A bleak contrast to the stuffy humidity that seemed to suffocate his own house.

He picked at a loose string on the toe of one sock. "Did you ever...keep secrets from them?"

"No."

He jolted at the harshness of it. Tony did too, he noticed. For the man cleared his throat and glanced away for a second, just a second, but the silence lasted a bit too long for it to have been an accident. "Well...I tried not to," he finally murmured softly, fingers thrumming against his knee.

The teen said nothing. Just stared at the TV and listened to the steady rhythm of Tony's heartbeat, noted the sharp intakes of sound with every pulse.

Peter wasn't stupid and he certainly wasn't as naïve as some people liked to claim. He knew that the fight between Mr. Stark and the other Avengers had deeper roots than the Accords. Mr. Stark wasn't one to burn bridges just because someone disagreed with him. They regularly bickered in the labs, debating the best processes for their latest inventions, and never did the billionaire get offended over it. At most, he'd quip a few insults with a roll of his eyes and a playful shove to lessen the blow, but never anything outright hostile.

Peter knew. If Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers had only disagreed on the Accords, then they would have figured it out together. Perhaps after a few harsh words and maybe a fight here or there, but they'd have managed something. The fact that they didn't - that it devolved into international terrorism and a bounty on the world's greatest heroes - the fact that this bridge was not only burnt, but a smoldering wreck down at the bottom of a ravine?

It wasn't just a fight. It was a betrayal.

Peter clenched his fingers and lifted his head back towards the screen but found himself staring right through it. Instead, he saw a different show playing out in front of him, an episode of him late at night hacking into Karen's systems and deleting the footage of his encounter with Captain Rogers and the other Rogue Avengers. The live audience watching in disapproving silence before cutting away to commercial break.

He blinked back into reality. Cold, shameful reality.

"I told Ned," he said suddenly.

"Hmm?"

"About...about Spider-Man. I told him."

Tony didn't even glance over. Just smirked and took another bite of his sandwich. "Yeah, I know. He's not very subtle about it."

"Ch'yeah. Tell me about it." He rested the back of his head against the lip of the couch.

"Just him?"

"Well, it was...kind of an accident. I'm not sure if I would have told him otherwise."

"Are you going to tell the others, then?"

Peter blinked up at the ceiling. Counted the tile lights as he thought over his answer.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve...

"I don't know. I don't like keeping secrets from them. It's just..."

Tony held up his hand and leaned forward to set down his plate, groaning through the words as he stretched. "Nah, I get it, kid. You don't have to explain it to me. Superhero business isn't exactly the easiest pill for the common man to swallow. Just don't announce it during a press conference and you'll be good."

 

("Are you going to tell anyone about this? Tony maybe?")

 

(Rogers staring at him. Rogers handing him another lie. Peter all too quick to receive it. Habitually stuffing it into his overflowing pockets.)

 

("...You keep my secret...and I'll keep yours.")

 

Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen...

"What would you do?"

"I don't know. Drink, probably."

"Mr. Stark-"

"You asked."

Peter turned his head to stare over at the man, cheek pressing into the plush cushions as he stared with big amber eyes. Tony held his stare for a moment before leaning back as well, resting his arm over the lip of the couch and pressing the palm of his hand gently against the crown of Peter's head, pushing his big brown curls down over his eyes.

"I think you need to listen to your gut. Can't trust anybody else if you don't trust yourself."

Peter said nothing, merely noted the faint smell of metal and aftershave drifting over from the man beside him.

His gut, huh?

Right now, his gut was a lone voice drowning in a sea of rationality. Everything in him could see the dangers that followed Captain Rogers and the other Rogue Avengers, like a poison that sucked more life out of you the closer you got. These affairs were not for him to get mixed up in, that much was for sure. And it certainly wouldn't do him any good to be caught hanging around the world's most wanted criminals.

The right choice was obvious. Stay as far away from them and their inevitable problems as possible. Or, better yet, tell Mr. Stark about it like he should have done that first night. Stay out of it and walk away, head down, mouth shut-

 

(Turn the other way.)

 

(Why do they all turn the other way?)

 

(Why don't they see what he's doing? Why don't they help me?)

 

He paused. Watched the billionaire next to him turning back to the TV show, head tilted as he tried to follow along with the plot. Slowly, the teen's eyes drifted around the room, picked at each and every detail that was slightly out of place: brightly colored sneakers in the corner, sweaters hanging from the kitchen chairs, school textbooks stacked on the dining table. He shifted his head a bit and the man's hand fell from his head and landed by his shoulder, a steady weight of warmth against his arm.

The right choice was obvious. But his gut said otherwise. His gut said to get on the plane to Germany. His gut said to trust Mr. Stark with something nobody had ever understood before. And his gut said to save Captain America that night in the alleyway, to show the soldier Blue Booth, to give him his phone number, to lie to Mr. Stark...

Yeah.

Right now, his gut was churning up a storm.

Tony must have picked up on the look of slight unease on his face. "What's wrong, kid?"

"Nothing, I just..."

 

("He'll tell Stark where we are.")

 

("No, he won't. I know he won't.)

 

The billionaire stared back at him with that telltale gleam in his eyes, a look that was uniquely Tony. Curious and warm with hints of mischief and intelligence, whirlwind thoughts swirling just behind the lenses, too fast to see. A heaviness, too. A pensive thoughtfulness that hid in the dark brown rims.

There was something about that gaze. It wasn't intrusive or cynical like it might have been when they'd first met. And it wasn't pitying or contemptuous like he'd imagine others to look. There was a heat within, similar to his father's. But this was not a burning heat. This did not singe the skin of Peter's cheeks and scar his bones raw. This was a sheltered warmth, like sitting by a fire in the middle of a snowstorm. Or maybe even sitting on a couch wrapped in a Star Wars blanket while watching cooking marathons.

Whatever it was in that gaze, it came with an incentive that made him sit up with a sigh. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. If he pressed hard enough, he could see little floating swirls in the blackness of his vision.

"I hate keeping secrets," he finally said after another second of staring into nothing. "It's just another way to lie. And it's like...it's like that's all my life is now. Just a series of secrets and lies. My friends don't know I'm Spider-Man. My dad doesn't know how much I talk to you. My classmates don't know about anything past my grade-point average, I - hell, New York City doesn't know that their resident vigilante is actually some rich-kid twerp who can't even get a bottle of water at home without practically begging for it."

And let's not even get started with the things YOU don't know, Mr. Stark.

He curled his fingers into a fist and rested his chin against his hand. Carefully, he reached over towards his plate and picked up a stray crumb of bread, pinching it between two fingers. "It's hard to remember what's real and what's fake. What color of the story I've told who and how to keep them all straight. Which version of me is actually...me. More importantly...which one people prefer."

He stared down at the crumb before licking it from his fingers and rubbing his hand against the stray napkin in his lap. He leaned back. "It's a dumb thought."

"It's not."

Tony folded his arms over his chest and leaned his head back to stare up at the ceiling. Peter wondered if he was counting ceiling tiles too.

"Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist…there's probably a few others in there, but the point is that I've wracked up a couple of titles. And honestly it could be worse. Back in the day it was a lot worse. But still, it's not always easy keeping them straight. Figuring out how to turn them off at the end of the day, if you even still can. Trying to figure out which version is…right, if any."

And Peter, suddenly feeling an overwhelming wave of loneliness and a trailing urge to be close, scooted over a tad so that his shoulder was just barely touching Tony's. He spoke in a small voice. "What if…what if none of them are?"

He swallowed. Waited for the man to pull away. Tony had, on more than one occasion, (perhaps to make Peter feel better about his own aversions) stated that he hated to be touched almost as much as the kid did and-

"Well…I guess you just do what I do."

Peter nearly choked on his next breath as Tony looped his arm around him and dragged him into his side.

"You tinker away. Build up what you want and discard the rest." He waved his free hand in the air in a wild gesture while keeping a firm arm around the kid. "Eventually, you'll either be left with a masterpiece or a hunk of junk. It's usually a 50/50 shot in my experiences. But more importantly, it'll be yours."

He gave a slight squeeze. "It'll be you."

And just as quickly, the billionaire was letting go, leaving the kid to flounder in place as he suddenly had nothing to lean on. He watched in stunned silence as the man picked up their empty plates and casually strolled into the kitchen to dump them off.

Peter sat quietly for a moment, listening to the sounds of water pouring into the sinks and plates clattering together. He fought the urge to rush from his spot and take the man's place at the sink, cleaning dishes and drying plates as he would at home. For some reason, the billionaire did not seem to like Peter's habit of cleaning up after others, whether up here or down in the lab. In fact, the man had been making a point recently of always cleaning up whatever messes he made, whether clearing the kitchen table of empty Chinese food containers or putting away tools in the lab that Peter suspected had never been organized before.

It made him wonder.

But more importantly, it made him smile.

"I like this version of Tony Stark," he said when the water shut off, just loud enough for the man to hear. "The kind that sets himself on fire."

"Occasionally sets himself on fire." He dried his hands and whacked the kid with the tip of the towel as he returned to his seat. "This show is ridiculous, by the way."

"Do you wanna change it?"

"Of course not. They're starting round three."

Near the finale, the show apparently graduated from 'ridiculous' to 'offensively idiotic.' But this did not stop Tony from all but ordering Peter to pull it up on Netflix so they could binge it from the first episode.

It wasn't until episode five that Tony finally said something that wasn't a scathing remark about the chefs' cooking and/or zombie-fighting abilities.

"By the way," he said as he poked the teen in the side of the head, ignoring how Peter swatted his hand away. "The Peter Parker that's ready with a fire extinguisher? The one that makes killer paninis and watches…questionable television? The Peter Parker that's always ready to help literally everyone…even if they don't deserve it…" He glanced over and Peter met that tell-tale gaze head-on.

"That's the kid I'd tinker with."

 

("I never thanked you, you know? …For saving me.")

 

("I saw the news. Washington DC. I've got your back too…")

 

("Just, uh…if you need me.")

 

Peter stared for a second longer before meeting the man's smile with one of his own. His stomach settled, at least for now. It was pleasantly full.

"Me too."

Tony reached over and scruffed the kid's hair one last time before they turned back to the TV.

"Chef Michael has just pulled out his shotgun. Ooo, and he got shell casings in his couscous. How unfortunate."

"Rookie mistake. Should have gone with the machete."

 

---

 

Tuesday, June 14, 2016

Stark Tower - Private Lab 01

01:45 AM

 

- Twelve Hours Later -

 

Tony bit back a yawn as he fried the last edge of connecting wire to the reactor housing base, shaking the soldering pen in the air as the remnants of smoke dissipated. He flicked his wrist to take a peek at his watch, only to remember as he stared at bare skin about having taken it off near the three hour mark. Burns were a lot worse with a molten watch melting to your skin.

"What time is it?"

It took a moment for Peter to respond. Whether that was because he was engrossed in his task of inputting the most recent series of codes into the nanotech system operator or because his half-lidded eyes were drooping dangerously low with each passing second didn't much matter. The fingers of his closed fist gently scratched at his cheek before curling back under his chin, a prop for his tired head to lean against as he stared at the screen.

"I don't know. Tomorrow?"

"Hmm. You think we should start working on the more in-depth control algorithms?" Tony rolled his chair backwards and reached a hand up to fiddle with the holograms hovering over the workbench. "You mentioned the Schrodinger equation, right?"

"Yeah, that's one option, specifically if we're talking about present quantum mechanical effects. Then we can roll in the Schrodinger equation or even the related Dirac's equations depending on how you want to control the systems," he said in a slow drawl, the ends of his words slurring together ever so slightly. Not enough to muddle the meaning, but enough for the kid to spit out a yawn behind his hand as he uploaded the last bits of code for FRIDAY to verify. In seconds, it returned, a bright green checkmark next to the project file.

Flawless as always, Tony noted. Even at 2 in the morning.

"Of course, that's only if those quantum effects are in play. If not, I think you'll have to use the dynamic model of motion and apply the control strategies to the nonlinear dynamic systems." He sniffed and shut his eyes for a moment as he waved his free hand in the air. "Can you pull up the equation, FRI? I don't know it off the top of my head."

"Of course, Peter."

Tony was only half-paying attention to the new mathematical equations now lighting the screen, eyes focusing on his own holographic projection as his fingers flew around the keys. His ears remained perked though.

"Yeah, this is..." Another yawn. "Uh...'U' is the total potential energy of the bot's rotations while 'K' is the controller. When you add the nonlinear control algorithm, you get a linear behavior for the entire system."

Tony pulled up a schematic of the in-progress suit, eyeing the projected curves and edges of the future armor. He pinched his fingers into the image and blew it up, narrowing in on the circuit inlays around the right repulsor. "Hmm. More than likely, we're going to be focusing on the quantum aspects of these bots."

Distantly, he heard Peter's forehead gently thumping against the table. The kid's voice was muffled. "Schrodinger it is, then."

"Probably couldn't hurt to program in the dynamic models as well. At the very least, they can act as a fail-safe if the prime system controls go down." He scanned the hologram before curling his hand into the displayed arm repulsor, watching the image conform to his exact measurements, like a suit of armor made out of pixels and light. "You know, it'd be great to get an actual expert in quantum mechanics for a little tete-a-tete. Not that your assistance isn't very much appreciated, Mr. Parker, especially at the ass-crack of dawn. But I'm sure we could make much faster work of this if we had someone who specialized in this shit. What's that scientist's name? The guy in California that was in the news a few years back. Pin or Pym or something..."

He didn't wait for a reply. "Anyway, I think he and my dad had a falling out back in the day, not that I'm surprised. The only thing more impressive than my father's laundry-list of deep-seeded anger issues was his ingrained ability to piss everybody off. You think that's genetic? Multi-generational assholery? It might be."

Peter's muffled voice trickled through. "You're not an asshole. Not all the time, at least."

Tony hummed in response. Glanced back up at the projected measurements currently being displayed. Perhaps they were working with too few nanites? Maybe they could recalibrate the connection sensors. "Hmm. That Lang guy...he was associated with Pym, wasn't he? You think he worked for him? I know he didn't design that suit of his all by himself. The guy doesn't seem like the straightest wire in the coil. Especially if he thought following Lady Liberty and his merry men was a good idea." He eyed the calibrations with a narrowed gaze before scoffing. "Jeez, I can't even remember what his first name is."

"Scott..."

"Right. See, this is why I keep you around." He typed in another series of commands. The hologram switched over to a close-up of one of their nanites as the telltale sound of DUM-E's wheels echoed somewhere behind him. "You're hip to all the up-to-date happenings in the world so I don't have to be. Anyway, looks like DUM-E has returned with the back-up fire extinguisher and an extra bag of frozen peas and I'm just starting to get my second wind," he said in between another yawn. He stood from his chair and eyed up the housing unit bracelet from earlier. "What say we give this another shot. The night is still young and we're only on test - what?" He eyed the computer screen. "Thirty-two? Psshh, child's play. Things don't get serious until we break into triple digits at least, right kid?"

He grabbed the bracelet and had just enough time to slap it on before he realized he'd forgotten the sleeve protector. Which was especially strange considering Peter had been reprimanding him all night on what he called a 'blatant disregard for lab safety and human life'. The fact that the kid had even allowed him to grab the bracelet without first shoving the sleeve protector into Tony's arms was...

"Kid?"

He turned when he once again received no reply, expecting that maybe the kid was engrossed in some final code tweaks or something. But instead, he stared down at Peter's slumped form, cheek squishing into his arms folded on the table. His hair was messy and unruly, brown curls hanging down around his closed eyes, gently swishing with each careful breath.

Tony blinked at the sight of the sleeping teenager before bringing a hand to rub at the back of his neck. He sighed. "Hmm...I guess you're right. Probably isn't very 'adult' of me to keep you up this late." He slid the bracelet off and tossed it onto the workbench like it was a rusted screwdriver and not a multi-billion-dollar prototype. "Alright, let's pack it in, Pete." He waved his hand along the holograms, shutting them down with a gentle hum as the bright blue projection lights died down, leaving the lab in a warm darkness save for the gentle yellow overhead lights.

Tony started to gather up the loose papers strewn around the table, pencils rolling and paperclips clattering between his fingertips. He muttered a curse and cast a glance over his shoulder when he heard no rousing movements. Peter had still yet to get up. Tony pursed his lips and nudged the kid with his hip, arms full of files and a few empty soda cans. "Hey. Up and at'em, kiddo. I got your message loud and clear."

The teen's nose scrunched as he shifted slightly in his seat. "Uh-huh..." he murmured with a slurred drawl, eyelids tightening before relaxing back into sleep.

Tony stared down at him, eyes flitting back and forth across the lab in a moment of uncertainty before he dumped the armful of junk back onto the table. He put a hand on the kid's shoulder and shook him a bit more forcefully this time. "Pete, I mean it kid. Let's go. If Pepper finds out I let you sleep down here, she will actually kill me." He hesitated for a moment, feet shuffling. "And don't even think I'm going to carry you to your room cause that is a line I'm refusing to cross. I have standards to uphold and an image to maintain."

He paused. Waited.

Peter sniffed once and buried his head deeper into his arms.

The billionaire clicked his tongue and muttered something unintelligible under his breath as he continued to gather up the random junk cluttering up the tables, if only to buy himself some time to dwell on his options. Any other time, Tony wouldn't even hesitate to kick the kid's chair out from under him, waking him in a fit of panic and amusement on his half. But he knew the kid was still having some trouble sleeping, FRIDAY having made him aware of how Peter had woken up at two in the morning the night before and had spent the rest of the morning cleaning the kitchen from top to bottom instead of going back to sleep. Tony hadn't commented on it when he'd gotten up. Peter hadn't brought it up either. Safe to say, the kid could use all the sleep he could get.

He stuffed the loose papers into the filing cabinet and eyed the couch in the corner of the room. FRIDAY would 100% rat him out to Pepper if he let Peter sleep on the rickety old thing, which would lead to an unimaginable ear-chewing come the next morning. Which left...what exactly?

Tony slowly turned back towards the worktables and watched the gentle rise and fall of Peter's back.

 

. . .

 

. . .

 

. . .

 

"How much do you weigh, again?" he asked as he walked over towards the tables. Peter responded with something that sounded like a cross between a snore and a sniff.

The billionaire eyed the kid up and down, trying to figure out the best way to maneuver this. Eventually, he looped his arms around the teen's midsection and leaned him backwards before sliding a hand under the crook of his legs. Ever so gently, he pulled the kid closer until he was nestled securely in his arms, pressing up against his chest as his head lolled against his shoulder.

"You better not wake up in the middle of this. For both of our sakes," he muttered before moving over towards the lab entrance. FRIDAY thankfully opened the doors for him, the elevator at the end of the hallway opening up automatically for him to step through easily. Not that carrying the kid was any particular challenge. The reminder that the kid weighed less than 100 pounds sat heavily in Tony's stomach, but he swallowed it down for now. Not a thought he needed to be dealing with right now. Instead, he filled the silence with his own one-sided conversation. Peter was a good listener.

"How long until you start to weigh a reasonable amount, huh? I've been stuffing you like a wicked witch and you're still absolutely tiny." The elevator doors slid closed with a gentle hum. Tony noticed that the lights inside were dimmer than usual. "Pepper could probably give you a piggy-back ride without even breaking a sweat, you know. And you're supposed to fight thugs? Brooklyn thugs? How do you manage to not get snapped in two?"

Again, Peter did not respond with anything more than a twitch of his eyelids, cheek pressing against Tony's chest.

The billionaire stared forward at the bare elevator doors, pointedly avoiding staring down at the sleeping face of the charge in his arms. He could only count his lucky stars that they were alone in the Tower. The thought of anybody catching him performing such a mundane, domestic act made his cheeks practically melt from the heat of embarrassment. And God forbid Peter ever find out about all this. The kid would probably explode into a puddle of Peter-goo, foamy and shame-filled.

The doors slid open onto their floor and Tony made quick work of moving towards the kid's door. Again, FRIDAY opened it with no hesitations and Tony carefully slid in. Using the toe of his foot to pull the blankets down from the top of the bed, he carefully laid the teen onto the comforter, detangling himself from the spindly-armed grasp that the kid had somehow managed to wrap him in.

He took a breath once the teen was fully separated from him and quickly glanced towards the open doorway. Was this…all he was supposed to do? Was there anything else? He didn't have to get any pajamas or something, right? Because that seemed like a major boundary violation, even for Tony's liberal standards.

Tony pulled his eyes away from the door and back down to the kid laying peacefully on the comforter. The uncomfortably awkward heat on the back of his neck had still yet to go away. But still…

He sighed and knelt down beside the bed, gently reaching for the kid's shoes and undoing the laces.

"I don't know why you insist on the closed-toe shoe rule in the lab. You can make any rules you want and that's what you go with? I'm fine with the bunny slippers, you know." He pulled off the shoes and arranged them neatly on the floor next to the kid's nightstand. "By the way, you better not tell Pepper or the others about this, or they're never going to let me live this down."

He quickly yanked the blanket over the kid's shoulders and stood, glancing up at the ceiling as he did. "If anybody asks, you slept-walked up twenty floors. FRIDAY will back me up, right girl?"

"Of course, Boss. And what would you like me to do with the security footage proving your deception?" The quiet snark in her voice was hard to miss, Tony noted with an annoyed scoff. He turned back to the door and made to walk away, only to pause as he caught sight of the kid shifting.

The man froze in place and held his breath as he watched the teen twist, willing him not to wake and hopefully spare the both of them the embarrassment. He released this breath when the teen's movements finally ceased and he settled back into a quiet stillness. The moves had caused a couple of big brown curls to flop down around his eyes again, tickling his forehead in a way that made the kid's nose scrunch in his sleep.

Tony paused.

He stood by the bed for a moment, staring down at the sleeping face of a kid he hadn't even known six months ago. A kid that carried with him more problems than Tony could have ever suspected. A kid that otherwise looked plain and ordinary, perfectly masking the incredible superhero lying just underneath. A kid that was just that.

A kid.

Too young to handle the shit he had to. And doing it all anyway. More often that not with a smile and a friendly wave.

"Boss?" FRIDAY whispered when she received no reply. "Shall I go ahead and delete it, sir?"

Tony swallowed down a sigh. The heat on his cheeks remained. But he noticed that it was now accompanied by a similar simmering heat dwelling somewhere within his chest, an aching gnaw hidden beneath his breastbone. It was warm, he noticed. Not unpleasant in any way. Just...warm. Like a Star Wars blanket around his shoulders.

He smiled, a hidden secretive smile that played at the corners of his lips, and gently carded a hand through the kid's curls, carefully brushing the strands of hair away from the teen's face.

"Nah. FRIDAY. Just leave it."