Chapter Text
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit—”
“Sam,” said Bucky impatiently, ducking back behind the alley corner and reloading. “That’s not gonna help.”
“Keep it PG, man,” said Spider-Man. He gingerly pulled his suit back on his leg to inspect the gorey gash there. “Oh, gross.”
Sam turned away when he fired webs to close up the wound, but his pained groans were enough to picture it.
“Alright, new plan,” said Sam, injecting some confidence into his voice. “We need to get far enough away til they cool the hell down—”
“That’s never gonna happen. We’re too recognisable,” said Bucky.
“I don’t know about you, but I don’t carry around a costume change!”
“We could—” Spider-Man cut himself off, blank eyes revealing nothing. He fidgeted with his web-shooters, sleekly blending into the dark fabric of his suit. His old one had apparently been irreparably damaged a few months ago, and following a few appearances in a paper bag and pyjamas, he’d emerged in a new black-and-crimson get-up. Something about its anatomy put Sam on edge; all but his shoulders and thighs were inky black, and his eyes (though usually white and unblinking anyway) stared scarlet right at them. The red, he thought, stripped the last of the man away.
Sam raised his eyebrows. “You gonna share with the class?”
“My— My apartment’s not far from here,” he explained reluctantly. “You guys could borrow some clothes—they don’t target civilians. Well, if we make it that far away, that is.”
Spider-Man stepped up to the edge of the alleyway, scooping up a chunk of rubble as he went. He launched it at the other side of the street, but just before it hit the office doors, a shining purple light passed over it with a rumbling, deafening sheem, leaving a scar on the stone wall, and the rubble split in three. He looked back at Sam for a response. Like he had one.
“You good with that?” Sam asked, more than surprised. He didn’t even know the guy's name. He’d fought him once in Germany, and four years—nine years—later, he’d teamed up with him for the first time. Many months after that, again. They didn’t cross paths often, even in battle.
“… Well, I'm open to other ideas, obviously,” said Spider-Man with a laugh, head flitting between them. “Anything?”
Sam looked at Bucky, and Bucky at Sam. They shook their heads.
Spider-Man heaved a weary sigh, slumping onto his good leg. “Okay. Come on.” He limped past them into the alleyway, walked up the wall of the red brick building next to them and released the fire escape ladder. Sam, glad Spider-Man could still use his powers (he’d been a little off during the fight—a little slower, a little sloppier), and Bucky approached and began to climb with him, still not quite believing he’d said what he’d said.
“Take off what you can,” Bucky instructed. “Or cover what you can.”
He judgementally eyed Sam’s wing vest and tugged his jacket from his hips to hide his metal arm. Sam activated the nanotech with a button on his shoulder; his wingsuit did not vanish from existence, but it flattened enough to fit under the beaten bomber jacket Spider-Man dangled from above him on the wall.
“Hey, wait,” said Sam when he reached to zip it up, “don’t you need this to cover your…”
He looked up and stopped. Although, logically, he knew the guy walking sideways up a building was Spider-Man, he couldn’t help but blink at him. Any and all hints of the Spider-Man suit had vanished. In only an undershirt and sweatpants, Spider-Man continued to stroll, face staunchly turned to the sky so that all Sam could see was the back of his head. His backpack swung lowly away from his back.
Spider-Man’s mask was gone. Spider-Man had brown hair and red ears.
Sam managed to hold his tongue until they were all striding across the rooftop.
“You switched up quick,” said Sam, aiming for casual but landing somewhere near unnerved.
“Hah, yeah,” he replied, walking ahead. “I’m used to quick changes—kinda part of the masked-vigilante gig. On-call, like, twenty-four seven.”
“How old are you?” asked Bucky.
“Fifty,” he said.
He looked young, if skinnier than Sam had thought. His muscles were sinewy.
“Can we get a name?” asked Bucky.
Spider-Man snorted. Bucky lengthened his stride to get a good look at his face, but the kid simply sped up. Sam had to jog to keep up; damn super-soldiers.
“Come on,” said Bucky, “we’ll know where you live. I could find out who you are in five seconds flat.”
“But you won’t try,” said Spider-Man at last, iron faith in his voice. “That’s the only reason I’m even… considering this.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened, annoyed to be brick-walled like that. Spider-Man suddenly hissed and slowed down, grabbing his thigh. He did a few hops.
“I thought you had super-strenth?” said Sam.
“What’s your take on chemical burns in open wounds?”
Sam kissed his teeth. “We could get you some help at the compound later?” he suggested, already knowing his offer would be declined—as it was, moments later. Spider-Man had attended their celebratory dinners a total of one time and had adamantly refused invitations to the compound for years. The team had long understood Spider-Man liked to keep his life separate from his side gig. Sam could respect that.
“… Well, can I call you Charlotte?” he asked, and Spider-Man laughed, the sound uninhibited by the mask for the first time.
“Call me whatever you want,” he answered, slipping down the side of the building.
They made it halfway to the apartment before one of them got recognised. Just not who Sam had feared.
“Oh my God.”
Each of them tensed at the sound; it was a quiet one of recognition they had all heard hundreds of times before. It was usually followed by ‘You’re an avenger!’ or ‘You’re the Falcon!’ or Sam’s personal favourite, ‘You’re the Iron Patriot!’.
None of these came.
“Peter Parker?” said the voice.
Spider-Man froze. Sam turned to see a young black woman, arms crossed and happy surprise across her face. The late summer sun made her squint, but her hooded eyes remained locked on Spider-Man behind him.
“It is you,” she said, and Sam could not tell if her tone was soft or smug. “Wow.”
His brain buzzed. There was no way…
She continued into Spider-Man’s silence, a little sheepish, “I just realised you probably don't remember me, actually. It’s been a few years. I worked at that doughnut place? The first time you came in for a coffee, you—”
“Wow, no, yeah, I remember,” Spider-Man stumbled, and holy shit, that was his face and holy shit, his name was Peter. “Uh, MJ, right?”
“Yeah,” said the woman. “Peter Parker,” she said again, smirking. Spider-Man laughed like she’d told a funny joke.
For a moment, neither spoke, only looking at each other while people bustled past them. In those eyes Sam had never seen before, something shone like a dying star, flickering and desperate above his wide grin.
MJ asked, cheeks dark in the heat, “So, how have you been? You look…”
“Horrible, I'm sure,” said Spider-Man, hand moving to cover the blood beginning to stain his sweatpants. “I'm good, though. Getting on with everything. How was, uh, MIT? Are you visiting from Massachusetts?”
“Oh, it was great,” she replied, posture relaxing, a quiet smile blooming. “I’ve actually got interviews lined up here at SI, Oscorp, Alchemax… I mean, I know which one I’d prefer, obviously, but… Don’t wanna jinx it. Anyway, like it or not, everything’s in New York.”
“Well, sounds like someone’s in high demand,” said Spider-Man with a laugh, still, for some reason, looking half-tragic, half-ecstatic. “I might see you around if you go with—”
“Kid,” Bucky interjected, and Sam swallowed the urge to slap a hand over his mouth. Right. This wasn’t a TV show. Missions. Avengers. Lasers. “We should keep moving.”
Spider-Man blinked rapidly as if waking from a dream. He glanced at them, then back at MJ.
“Right, uh,” he said awkwardly, “I'm so sorry. You sorta caught me at a bad time…”
MJ looked at Sam and Bucky like she’d only just noticed they were there. Shocked realisation dawned on her face. Sam spared a thought for Spider-Man’s secret identity.
“No, don't be,” said MJ, graciously trying to hide her bewilderment. “Sorry to— I just thought, like, what are the chances?”
“Yeah, no kidding,” laughed Spider-Man, strained, ushering Sam and Bucky behind him like he could hide them from view.
“Well…” MJ said at length, playing nervously with her necklace, reluctant to leave. “Don’t be a stranger, Peter Parker.”
Sam struggled to take in much of anything as they said their politely awkward goodbyes (Spider-Man warned her away from Main Street unless she wanted to part with a limb). This was not how he’d foreseen this day going. A face and a name for Spider-Man. Damn.
He didn’t quite see the Tom Selleck comparison, though; Tom Selleck never looked so sorry in his movies.
Sam had not given much thought to what sort of place Spider-Man would live in, maybe somewhere with lots of colour, or strewn with beeping, flashing electrics, or bouncing with nineties hip-hop. He hadn’t considered something like what he stepped into: A studio apartment, messy, people yelling outside the window, piles of bent papers on any free surface, a strange banging noise from elsewhere in the building, and its only furniture a bed, a nightstand and a chest of drawers. Stacked on top of the latter were a multitude of books with nowhere else to sit, a camera bag took up half the nightstand, and next to the stove lay a half-drunk coffee in a mug that read, ‘ Don’t trust atoms—They make up everything!’.
“Sorry about the mess,” said Spider-Man, the first thing he’d said since they set off again. He moved quickly through the apartment, turning picture frames over and stuffing things in drawers.
“Be glad we didn’t go to my place,” said Sam, though his place would definitely be preferable. Spider-Man didn’t need to know that.
Spider-Man told them to get themselves some water while he rummaged around for enough spare clothes for the three of them. Sam stayed politely by the sink with his glass but Bucky walked quietly through the space, surveying it, surreptitiously inspecting things with him distracted. He shifted the paper mountains with one eye on their host, peeked in the kitchen cupboards (near-empty), and lifted the photos Spider-Man had hidden. Sam disapproved, but spies will be spies. He filled his glass again.
Suddenly, Bucky signalled Sam with his head and wiggled the frame in his hand. Sam took a closer look at it; it took him a moment to notice what was wrong, but once he did, his eyes went wide as saucers. There, young and smiling at a Filipino boy, was, unmistakably, MJ. Her smile was more subdued than the one she’d given Spider-Man on the street—controlled, like most teenagers, to avoid seeming too enthusiastic about anything. Sam’s gaze slid to Bucky’s, and they both seemed to come to the same conclusion: Spider-Man shouldn’t have a picture of a woman up in his house who didn’t seem to know him at all. Sam replayed what he could remember of their conversation… something about not having seen or spoken to one another in years… long enough for him to forget her… that odd look on his face …
The look on Bucky’s face as he perused the other picture frames told Sam it was not the only one of her.
Just then, Spider-Man straightened up with three bundles in his arms, and Bucky had thankfully given up on his sleuthing before he looked at them. Without a word—but with a curious smirk on his face—Spider-Man handed the clothes to Bucky, then Sam. His mouth had shut up like a trap.
Sam was halfway into thin sweatpants when he heard Bucky groan.
“Kid, seriously?” he groused, holding up the T-shirt he’d been handed.
Sam barked a laugh when he saw it.
He resolved to put this whole strange day behind him once they were finished with their fight. For the first time in far too long, the Avenger’s assignments had lined up such that they all would (God willing) finish up that day and meet at the compound for a well-earned night of rest. And as long as the three of them stayed on their A-Game, everything would be fine.
::::::
“Spider-Man’s down,” Natasha told the room, snapping her work phone closed. “Sam and Bucky are bringing him to the med bay. Let Dr Cho know.”
“FRIDAY, you heard her,” Tony called.
“Already done, Boss,” said FRIDAY.
Tony blinked his dry eyes at “Parker, Peter Eamon” on his StarkPad, trying to decide if he had met him before or if he just looked like Stanley Tucci. He propelled himself around on the counter’s swivel chair and stared at the high, spinning ceiling in defeat. Every other second, he caught an envious glimpse of Natasha, Clint, and Bruce lounging on the couch. There were many Peter Parkers on Tony’s cursed List, but none of their records had any links to FRIDAY, so he’d been blindly sifting through them on and off for months. He’d thought with all the extra superheroes around the compound that evening his brain might have got inspired and had a eureka moment of remembrance, but no dice. He could at least enjoy the reunion instead.
Miraculously, the stars had aligned, and everyone’s missions either finished up the day before or would by that evening. There was a word for that sort of coincidence, but Tony couldn’t think of it.
“The Falcon, White Wolf, and Spider-Man have arrived. Spider-Man is stable. Uniformed.”
“Thanks, FRI.” Tony grabbed the counter with a woosh of vertigo.
Some said the Avengers reacted perhaps too mildly to the news of someone being injured, but they couldn’t have helped it if they tried; everyone got hurt in their line of work, and often.
“Spider-Man’s here. Wo-o-o-!” Clint cheered weakly.
“Barton,” Tony chastised. He looked at Peter Eamon Parker again and decided that not only had they never met, but he also looked like Mark Strong, not Stanley Tucci. Tony was losing his flair. He turned his gaze to his physical List. Screens were so out. Paper was in.
“D'you think he'll come up here?” Clint continued, unbothered.
“I can’t believe he even agreed to be treated here,” said Bruce.
“He acts like we have the plague,” Clint agreed, twanging his bowstring. He was pretending, as usual, to make improvements to Tony’s design.
“I wouldn’t say agreed,” Natasha drawled, “so much as couldn’t disagree. Barnes said he was out for eleven minutes. By the time he came to, they were already halfway here, and he was too tired to care.”
“Well, that’s always positive,” muttered Tony, trying to ignite the name of “Parker, Peter Joseph” with his mind. Printing out the List had not helped one bit. Its length only made Tony more frustrated.
Oh, the List, the List. Capital ‘L’.
There were an inordinate number of “Parker, Peter”s in America—far more than Tony had anticipated—and it was driving him up the wall. He’d eliminated any who were not white, too old, too young, blond, black, or red-haired, and still, there remained so many to wade through. Who’s idea was it to do this? This was the worst. Tony didn’t have the energy to spare for this. Tony was a dad. He’d passed out on his family couch from exhaustion two days prior and woken up with whiskers drawn on his face. His life had changed.
“Did I ever mention a Peter to any of you?” Tony sighed out. “Think back. Way back.”
The others stared at him curiously. “Nope,” said Clint.
“Not that I can remember,” said Bruce.
“Peter Quill?” asked Natasha.
“Different Peter. Sorry, I should’ve mentioned: Think on earth.” He shook his head at the List of Doom, then opened Google. Serendipity; That’s the kind of coincidence they were experiencing.
“Welcome back, Steve,” said FRIDAY.
Steve strode into the room, removing his baseball cap and fixing his hair. “Thank you, ma'am. Hey, everyone.” The room chorused their greetings. The room was filling up; something almost nostalgic sparked in Tony’s chest. Almost. He was a dad, not a whole new person.
Then again, a few years ago, he would never have done what he did next. Run clear of options and with the perfect captive audience laid at his feet, Tony began to explain the whole situation to the team. While they settled into the couches and made coffees they probably shouldn’t have drunk that late in the day, Tony passed around the List, and the team ooo-ed and ahh-ed at all the juicy parts of Tony’s mystery. He waited like a dog at the end of the tale to hear the solutions come rolling in.
“Is this guy a security risk?” asked Steve.
“No, no,” said Tony, shaking his head. “The footage is from years ago. All of it. The latest FRIDAY found, just over five. If this guy’s a danger, then he’s playing the really long game. No, this is more of a personal curiosity. I mean, I clearly knew him, but… it’s TV static up here.”
Clint whistled. “No shit. No face, age, name…”
“No, I know his name, but it’s no help.”
“How come?” he asked.
“Because there are five zillion Peter Parkers in the US of A.”
“There’s only fifty-four on here,” said Natasha, reading his list judgementally. Tony snatched it back.
“Welcome back, Bucky,” said FRIDAY.
Barnes walked purposefully over the threshold, boots stomping. In response to the team’s hello’s, he only grunted, snatching a glass from the cupboard. He filled it to the brim with water and drained it with a hiss.
“Everything okay with Spider-Man?” Steve broached carefully.
“What?” he snapped, then softened—in as much as Barnes ever did. “Oh. Yeah. Sam’s got him down in the medical wing. His leg is closing up already, it's just a concussion he has to worry about.”
“What’s got you all riled up then?” asked Steve. Barnes shuffled over to the couches, stripping off his jacket and his hat. He sighed heavily.
“We were supposed to wrap it up by lunch.” Steve scooted up to make room for him on the couch. Barnes slumped down with a huff. “Stupid me thought we would.”
“Tony’s got a mystery man,” said Natasha, apropos of nothing.
“I thought he was married,” said Barnes, loudly unzipping his Teflon vest to reveal a cotton T-shirt. Tony didn’t think he’d ever seen the man in white before.
Steve noticed his shirt, too, and chuckled. “Where’d you get that?”
Tony stood from his seat to get a good look. The T-shirt was worn soft, print peeling, proclaiming he was the ‘Number One Spider-Fan!’ under a cartoon of Spider-Man web-slinging. Barnes was a fanboy. Who knew?
“Oh,” said Barnes, glaring down at it. His lip twitched. “Uh—”
“Welcome back, Sam,” said FRIDAY.
God, this place was like a train station. Serendipity sucked.
“Hey, hey, hey, everybody,” Sam greeted smugly, sauntering up to the room. He silenced their greetings with a hand. Tony narrowed his eyes. “Guess who I brought with me?” Sam reached to pull someone through the doorway. “Spider—”
“Welcome back, Peter.”
Sam fell quiet, followed by the whole room. Spider-Man stumbled inside, stiff as a board.
Clint’s bowstring twanged.
“Peter?” Tony repeated intelligently, staring down Spider-Man’s scarlet eyes. “FRIDAY, did you say ‘Peter’?”
“Yes, Boss,” she answered, like it was obvious.
“What?” Spider-Man whispered.
“FRIDAY just called you Peter,” said Tony, not quite hearing himself. He pinned the Spider-Statue with his gaze, unblinking.
“Who’s Peter?” Spider-Man asked quickly.
“FRIDAY seems to think you’re Peter,” Natasha deadpanned.
“Peter? I don’t know any Peters. Do you guys know—”
“You’re Peter,” Barnes said flatly.
“What? No,” Spider-Man said breathlessly. He wormed his arm out of Sam’s grip, who was staring at him with a look of betrayal on his face.
“That girl you stalk called you Peter,” said Barnes. “Said it three times.”
“No, she— Girl I stalk? That is so not—”
“—The point,” interrupted Tony, mind racing (“It’s a logical conclusion,” muttered Barnes). He turned to the ceiling and demanded, “Tell me he’s not Peter. As in Parker-comma-Peter.”
“I’m only permitted to lie when using sarcasm, Boss.” Just then, FRIDAY’s voice changed in a way Tony had only heard when Morgan visited. “You haven’t visited in a long time—I missed your music, Peter. Mr Stark never plays Hot Fuss.”
Spider-Man was breathing heavily. “Well, you can’t have missed me because I’m not Peter.” He flicked his head to Tony. “What the heck do you mean Parker-comma-Peter?”
“Wait, Tony, you know him? The guy is Spider-Man?” blurted Clint.
“You know what?” said Spider-Man, pointing fingers around like a car salesman. “She probably meant that, um, Star-Lord… guy… his name was totally—”
“Of course he knows him,” Natasha laughed. “Who else brought him to Germany?”
Tony blinked at her. “I thought you brought him.” His id tripped on its own feet and abandoned him completely, causing his next words to come out less than confident: “I don’t know him?”
“He doesn’t know me,” Spider-Man said firmly.
“Oh my god,” said Steve suddenly, capturing the room’s attention. His face cycled through too many emotions to discern. “I do know you. It was you that day, wasn’t it?”
Everybody knew Peter—who wasn’t Peter—apparently.
“‘Through Spider-Man’?” Steve said with an air of quotation.
“What day?” asked Peter—who was Peter—clearly trying to sound aloof.
“You been here before?” Sam suddenly accused, breaking free of his stunned silence. “All the times I invited you down, and you couldn’t even pick a day I was here?”
“Hey, I have never even seen this place before,” Spider-Man lied. He darted his head around the room. “Where— Where am I?”
“Cut the crap, kid.” Tony rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. His blood was rushing. His head was hurting. “Cap, I wanna hear about that later. FRIDAY, pull up exhibit A.”
Tony walked towards Spider-Man, who was inching his way out the door, and took his arm. He dragged him like a large wooden cupboard across the room to the holoscreen. The footage began to play, and Tony held him in place with an arm around his shoulders. Heavy guitar quietly rumbled out through the room. Peter the Enigma stuffed his face with Doritos, and Peter the Spider-Man, the Statue, who was Peter, who was Spider-Man, who was Parker-comma-Peter, froze like a statue.
Tony continued smugly, “Quick question of the rhetorical variety… That’s you, right?”
Spider-Man made a strangled noise.
Parker-comma-Peter turned the music up.
Tony got a strange wave of déjà vu.
“No. I don’t— I don’t…” Spider-Man’s voice was so small. The silence lasted so long Tony was sure he’d given up speaking. Then, in a whisper only Tony and the supersoldiers among them heard, “How?”
“What, the footage? Kid, have you seen how stacked this place is with cameras?”
“No… No, it’s been four years. Everything is supposed to be… gone…” As if in a trance, Spider-Man drifted towards the screen. Tony’s arm fell to his side. “… Why now? Why…”
Tony watched Spider-Man’s hand reach up to his mask like it was in slow motion. He grasped it gently with three fingers and tugged. Tony’s eyes just about fell out of his head. The screen washed his pale skin blue, the back of his neck shone with sweat, his hands shook as they lowered, and Tony held his breath because he felt, inexplicably, an anticipation so intense it could not be ignored. He felt like a child who’d sung their heart out, waiting for the announcement of first place, like a convict staring down a judge’s gavel, like he was under glass, like his fate was in someone else’s hands. It was as ridiculous as it was compelling.
He stared a hole through the back of Spider-Man’s head.
“Not that you made any sense just now,” Tony said with a tight throat, “but you’re right. FRIDAY had to do a lot of legwork to get all the footage. She’s been going through backlogs day by day because, as it turns out, Peter Parker is astounding at avoiding facial recognition, voice recognition, name recognition… You really did a number on her.”
You really did a number on me. Why don’t I know you?
“… Just to be clear,” Spider-Man said, infinitesimally turning his head, “you don’t remember me?”
“No need to rub it in.”
“Mr Stark.”
The kid sounded so tired; it made Tony swallow heavily. “What did you do, Spider-Man?”
Finally, the young man turned to him and studied Tony long and hard, eyes deep-set, haunting, a bruise yellowing on his cheekbone. He looked at Tony the way Pepper had when he first woke up—a memory fuzzy and forgotten on the shelf but brought back to him like no time had passed at all. Peter looked at him like he was a ghost. Tony saw his lower lip tremble. He bit it and took a shuddering breath. The room was deathly quiet.
“I never meant for it to go on this long,” Peter said shakily. Tony blinked at him. He scanned the room, but everyone seemed as lost as him.
Tony was finding it hard to swallow, and so when he spoke, his voice wavered oddly. “What’s going on, kid?”
Peter shook his head desperately. “You need to understand that I didn’t have a choice, Mr Stark. Everything was going wrong; the spell wasn’t gonna work, so I— I had to. And you!” he said, imploring. “You were still… We— I didn’t even know if you’d wake up, let alone be concerned with any of the bull I made you deal with… I thought I could explain it all if you ever got better, but the longer I waited, it was like I couldn’t just tell you, and then I couldn’t tell you because I still hadn’t told you— And don’t tell me your life hasn’t been easier without me around to screw it up.”
“You’re gonna need to get real specific real fast, here, or we’re gonna have issues,” said Tony, whose face had darkened further with every word Peter spoke.
“I may— I might have, uhm. You see, I sort of… erased myself from existence?” Peter’s eyes flitted over the team. When no one spoke, he barrelled on, “It seemed like the best idea at the time! It was the best idea, it worked, but I really, honestly, didn’t mean to never tell you. At first, anyway. Everyone in the world found out who I was, and my— my friends,” his voice broke, “were denied college places just because they knew me, and they are smart , way too smart to just let them throw their lives away on me. And then when I was gone, it was like, ‘Oh, life goes on! Life goes on better for people actually, without you there—’”
“I’m sorry,” Tony cut in. “Can we circle back to ‘erased from existence’?”
Peter shuffled guiltily, like a child caught in a lie. It made Tony want to scream.
“Well, not actually. Just Peter Parker. On paper. And in, like, memories and stuff. Dr Strange didn’t have time to sit down and explain—we were kind of on a time crunch.”
Tony took a deep, deep breath.
“So, I don’t know you… But I did,” he spat, voice shaking with a ferocity he didn’t know he was still capable of, “didn’t I?”
If Tony hadn’t been paying such close attention, he wouldn’t have noticed the tiny step Peter took towards the door, but he was, so he did.
“You know what I am really sick of?” Tony prompted in the tone of someone conversing about traffic congestion. “I am so sick of losing my memories. You know what it feels like to have a hole in your brain? Do you?”
“It wasn’t just you, it was— it was everybody—”
“Well, there’s a load off my mind.”
“You were never meant to know!” Peter cried.
“See, you say things like that, and it makes me think you’re not so sorry! Like that’s not the worst part of this!”
“Wait, so we all knew you?” Steve asked quietly. Tony had forgotten there were other people in the room. Those who had been lounging on the couch had stood, coming closer.
“We’d met in costume,” croaked Peter after a pause. “My mask was off for a lot of the fight with Thanos on Earth, so you might have seen it, but you guys never actually met me. I only ever knew… uhm…” His gaze flicked cautiously up to Tony’s and skittered away again.
Tony opened his mouth to speak but closed it again. ‘ Were we close?’ he’d wanted to ask, but he suddenly knew the answer, all at once; it was in the feeling in his chest, the one he felt blooming, tucked in with all the rest of him—his lungs, his diaphragm, his stomach, kidneys and that, the warmth. It was intense and unexplainable, but Tony’s heart tightened with it.
It didn’t even occur to Tony the kid could be lying; he could feel the rightness of his words.
His anger waned. He was very tired. His eyes roved over Peter, trying to summon his fury, but all he saw was a kid in a homemade suit.
“How old are you?” Tony asked.
“I can take care of myself.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Terrible way to live.”
“You’re one to talk,” Peter said, almost petulant.
“Yeah, that’s how I know it’s bullshit. How old are you?”
“… Twenty-two.”
Peter seemed to be bracing for a lecture, standing up taller, flinching back slightly. Tony cleared his throat, doing some quick math and coming to the conclusion that Peter was the most idiotic person he’d ever met. Deep breath, deep breath.
“You make that suit yourself?” he asked. The question appeared to surprise him.
“Yeah,” said Peter, adjusting it self-consciously.
“I’ll be honest, I’m not a fan,” he said, keeping his tone regular. “Of this one, or suits one and four through six. There was something about suits two and three, though. They had class.”
Something like hope lit in Peter’s face.
“I’ll need a while, but you’ll be receiving a new one in… hm… math… a week. You better make it last longer than your others. You go through suits like my dad did chewing tobacco.”
Peter smiled cautiously. Tony returned it reluctantly.
Once the tension had broken, everyone’s curiosity burst from them like eager little monsters. Peter was peppered with questions; some he was willing to answer (“I don’t believe in cleaning. People are just trying to sell you plastic organisers.” “Italian, definitely. Shawarma’s overrated.”) and some less so (“Oscorp’s projects are classified, Mr Stark.”), but Tony watched him, listened raptly, feeling lucky to see the light spark in Peter’s eyes, to see the life return to his face.
“So, about that woman today…” Barnes hedged. It was the only thing he’d asked.
“She was my girlfriend,” Peter answered slowly, eyes down. His lips quirked in a wry smile. “And probably the only person who would call me by my full name over and over again as a joke. My bad luck. So much for a secret.”
“And you’ve picked one of the rare times the whole team is actually here,” said Sam. “If you visited any other day, you’d have been fine.”
“I only come out to the compound every so often,” said Clint, nodding with a grin.
“Me too.”
“Same.”
Peter shook his head. “Parker luck.”
“I would call it serendipitous.”
Peter met Tony’s smug smile with a glare. Tony didn’t mind, though; the insult was diminished by the fact Peter’s eyes were suspiciously shiny.
“How come you agreed to come say hi?” asked Sam. “You could’ve just left after you got treated.”
Peter shrugged with enough fervour to say, ‘Well, now I wish I hadn’t, don’t I?’, but he explained, “No night classes on Thursdays. And I got the night off from work.”
“But you said you’d graduated college,” said Bruce.
“I’m back.”
“You said you were out of college,” Clint corrected, just to prove the point.
“I lied?”
“What degree?” asked Tony, smiling a little too wide.
In the following minutes, Tony would learn Peter had enough brains to rival himself, a Master’s in material science and engineering, and the diligence to study at community college for a degree in biochemistry while holding down an internship at Oscorp, a pittance job, and a full-time side gig as Spider-Man. Tony would acquiesce for that night but pledge to convince Peter to come work for him instead when he got the chance. With no small number of unshed tears, he would also hear the story of how he recruited Peter, a—highly edited, Tony suspected—account of the rocky months that followed, and an appropriately detailed explanation (to both Tony and Bruce) of how he manufactured his webs.
There was more to know, much more than could be covered in an evening (especially with Steve robbing Peter’s ear in the quiet hours to have a private conversation that had them both patting each other’s shoulders awkwardly with unhappy smiles, Natasha laying out her theories to him just to hear she was right, and Barnes forcing him to swap shirts), but Tony didn’t mind. Peter’s stories were already filling the dead gaps in his memory with wildflowers, and he had time, lots of it, to find out just how much of Peter Parker the world had missed.