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Apart from the somewhat-unpleasant experience of almost being asphyxiated with a Walmart plastic bag—save money, live better—whilst stopping a street stall robbery, his patrol that day goes rather smoothly.
He’d ended up chilling on a streetlamp, mask rolled up to work his way through the three punnets of freshly-picked strawberries the hijabi woman from the farmer’s market shoved into his arms as a generous thank-you gift. Karen informs him at some point that the stem part contains health benefits so he stops pulling the leaves off and just pops the fruit whole into his mouth, legs swaying idly twenty-five feet above the ground. He’s the epitome of health.
“I ate a vegetable last week, don’t be a bitch,” he mutters after he makes the mistake of voicing that last thought out loud and Karen tears him to shreds.
His voice is hoarse, but that’s to be expected after almost getting choked to death. Peter cringes, rubs his neck. He definitely needs to start paying attention to potential accomplices. He needs to do–to be–better.
“Karen, can you call Happy, please?”
It goes straight to voicemail–of course, it had been the same since forever, but Peter knows his ramblings aren’t falling in deaf ears because 1) Happy’s inbox still isn’t full, 2) that one time he, dispirited by the lack of feedback, had decided to stop bothering the man with updates, Mr. Stark had called him up after a week and a half of radio silence, apparently convinced he was dead?
The familiar bip resonates and it seems to severely wane his brain-to-mouth filter, already pretty dicey.
“Hey, Happy, it’s Peter–” He clears his throat, trying to smoothen the roughness of his voice into something that vaguely resembles his normal high-pitched one, “Peter Parker! So, um, pretty hectic day up here… stopped a car hijacking attempt but turns out he was trying to break into his own car. This is not the first time this happens. Then there was that robbery attempt at the Farmer’s market? Er–slight resistance, but I webbed them up for the police. Also, I almost got kidnapped by this old lady? I think?” A pause, ”...Anyway, yeah, nothing new under the sun. Just hanging. Patrolling. Helping the little guy. You know, friendly neighborhood Spider-man...” he trails off, hangs up with a sigh when he doesn’t think of anything to add.
He feels... hungry.
He’d noticed, the recent shift in his mindset. Under the mask, he’s more frontal, more ambitious. The feeling’s familiar because he’s been through this before. After Ben, and again after Germany, all throughout the months leading up to homecoming. He’d thought he was past it, but here he is, slipping right back into the pattern.
It’s not as strong as it had been back then. Peter thinks the humiliation of his recent near-death experience—which had been… completely preventable, had he been better at his job—exacerbated the ever-pervasive fire in his chest, like an oxygen breeze causing it to burn hotter, faster.
Peter recognizes it for what it is: frustration. The burning desire to do more, be more.
It’s an ugly feeling—all-consuming and hideous as it constricts his throat like a tightly-clenched fist—and it’s dangerous, because last time he’d seeked satisfaction? Ended with a ferry split in half and a building crushing his back.
With a sigh, he jumps from his perched spot and walks until he finds a recyclable bin to dump the plastic cartons in. He’s in the middle of helping an enthusiastic kindergarten class cross the street when Karen announces, “ Incoming call from May Parker.”
.
.
He has dinner with May every night because there’s a tacit agreement between the two of them that dinner time is sacred quality time. She’s… not that great of a cook, but she’s also lazy, thank god, so more often than not, they end up eating out, rotating between the same four cheap places. Tonight, they’re at the italian diner with the oysters to die for.
“–so she goes, 'are you one of those avengers?', and I’m like, 'oh my god, yeah!' And, okay, I’m not gonna lie, I was kind of thrown ‘cuz she looked exactly like the wicked witch in Snow White would if she was Asian–like this creepy, evil-looking old lady, all hunched down on herself and with like, long, slender fingers complete with a crooked nose, and she had like, what, four or five teeth? But then I thought to myself, Spider-man, you fucking asshole, you’re not gonna not help this old woman just ‘cuz she’s unusually ugly, you know? So there I was, right, I’m talking all, like, animatedly, trying to break the ice. I’m carrying her bags, okay? And I ask her where she lives, and then. Then she just. She goes like, completely bonkers. She digs her nails into my shoulder and she does this super weird thing to me that completely cuts off my chakras or something–it was crazy–and then she tries to make me swallow something? And me, I’m feeling all sluggish, I’m like, oh my god! What is happening? while this old witch’s like, all over my face trying to take my mask off.”
“Jesus Christ,” a troubled May comments when Peter marks a pause to take a breath and a swig from his soda.
“Anyway, I got out by just like, full-out chucking a random item I grabbed from one of the grocery bags at her. Slowed her down long enough for me to swing away.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“It was a can of Del Monte green beans,” Peter admits sheepishly.
He lifts a bundle of spaghetti into his mouth as he watches her abandon her gluten-free penne pasta to down her wine glass.
Her bewildered concern is understandable, but it isn’t the reaction Peter was expecting. Now that it’s over and he’s unscathed, Peter thinks the whole thing is fucking hilarious. But, well. He can’t blame her, not really. It’s probably too soon to hope for anything other than, considering.
This is all still new to her, after all, and Peter’s immensely grateful for the way she’s trying . In return, he shares bits and pieces of his daily superhero adventures—the funny ones, lighthearted and absurd–along with anecdotes and heroic stories, just to get her used to it. By keeping her in the loop, that part of his life seems a little less like this giant unknown ball of constant danger. There’s tangibility to Spider-man. He’s just helping people out, that’s it.
And it’s working; they’re getting there. She’d giggled once, when he told her about the shoplifter who’d flung one of her Uggs directly to his face. In one or two months, his 11PM curfew would probably be negotiable.
At least that’s what he thinks but then May sets down her empty glass and looks at him with a wince in her eyes and goes, “Look, I want you to take a break from the whole–just a temporary break!” she adds hurriedly, voice raised to shroud Peter’s protestations. “Just until the school year ends, okay? That’s in a month, right?”
Peter stares at her. “Is this about Mrs. Warren’s call again?”
She shoots him an eloquent look.
“Oh my god,” he exclaims. “I told you, that was a one-time thing, it won’t happen again–”
“It wasn’t even some light dozing off!” she cuts off. “You actually fell asleep, Peter. And didn’t wake up the whole time they set up that prank–” Peter grimaces at the memory. She leans over, lowers her voice a shade, “As long as it doesn’t stomp onto your school work, that was the agreement. Plus finals are coming up–”
“And I will ace those,” Peter says, “You don’t have to worry, you know that.”
She makes a face. “I don’t know, I’d still rather you put your whole head into it.”
“May, crime is not just going on hiatus while I sit my exams.”
“Oh, please, you’re not the only superhero out there.”
There’s really nothing to say to that. He aggressively winds up strands of spaghetti around his fork, frustrated.
She sighs, tries to placate him, tells him that she’s not going to take his suit away—and it works. Peter lifts his head up to look at her, taken aback. “You’re sixteen, you can make your own choices,” she continues, “as long as you own up to the consequences.”
Peter stares. “Okay,” he says, slowly, before adding, “I’ll think about it.”
May nods with a smile and starts digging in her pasta and jokes about using the classic birthday lie to scam a free dessert out the waiter and just like that, they move on.
That, Peter thinks, that right there. He wants more of that.
.
.
On Peter’s sixteenth birthday, Tony Stark had shown up to his door with two gift-wrapped boxes and a once-in-a-lifetime offer at an internship—a real one—at S.I. The job, he soon found out, simply consisted of being Stark’s personal assistant, which meant spending a lot of time with the man. A chance for some much needed resume padding, he’d called it. Peter prefers to think of it as quality time.
(that same day, he became the proud owner of a brand new laptop and a 101 totally cool science experiments for kids kit)
The thing is, Peter’s fairly sure he’d gotten over his formative Iron Man idealization sometime over the past few months working for the guy. The nervousness and general awkward-ness he’d always felt around his childhood hero that never failed to reduce him to a stuttering, starry-eyed mess had gradually ebbed down as time rolled by. Now, when he talks, his sentences are more coherent, less anacolutha-riddled.
He still looks up to Mr. Stark—of course—but the pink of the glass through which he’s always looked at him has long faded out, revealing the fire-truck red of the flags behind.
Red flags meant flaws and Peter could work around a flawed human being, because God knows he’s far from perfect. Once he’d had that epiphany, Peter became surprisingly more comfortable around Iron Man—more so than he ever thought he could be.
That’s why Peter doesn’t think twice when, the next weekend, he finds himself confiding to his boss. “She thinks I should take a break from being Spider-man for a while.”
“She’s right,” Tony replies, from where he’s laying under a car. It’s severely dented, like it’s been in a pretty serious accident. Peter only knows approximative facts about cars and nothing about how to fix them up. He’s crouched next to him, worrying the white string of his hoodie between his teeth and occasionally handing over a specific tool.
“What do you mean? I’m smart!”
“Of course you are. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. Doesn’t hurt to take a break, though. Finals are what, in a month? Focus up, get it done, go back to swinging around buildings and stopping local bodegas from getting robbed.”
“But the crimes? The criminals? It’s still gonna continue? The criminality? Illegal?”
Tony snorts. “You’re right. What would Queens become without its local vigilante? Fanatic old hags would have to find another victim to kidnap.”
Peter stuffs his face in his hands, mortified. “Oh my god, of course you know about that.”
“I actually do not. Happy told me the bare minimum. What was that about?”
While May found the anecdote worrisome and disturbing, Tony thinks it’s side-splittingly hysterical. The corner of Peter’s lips twitch upwards as he punctuates his story with high-pitched exclamations and far too many filler words, and at some point the man’s laughing so hard he has to sit up.
When Peter conclude with a sheepish smile, Tony has a balled up fist pressed against his mouth, the corner of his eyes scrunched up in amusement. “Top-notch vigilantism, kid. Keep doing what you’re doing. I can’t imagine Queens in better hands.”
Peter beams, watching the man grab the water bottle abandoned on the floor. “What happened to the car?”
“You drive, kid?”
He flashes back to Flash Thompson’s busted car. “Not... well...” At Stark’s hum, he adds, “I’m thinking of getting my license over summer break.”
“Interesting,” the billionaire simply mutters. Then, a little louder, “Grab a towel for me, would you?”
“I should be paid for this.”
It’s an offhand comment, muttered with the only purpose of filling the silence as he stands up, but when Peter says it out loud, it suddenly makes sense.
He’d immediately accepted the internship without thinking of anything beyond getting mentored by mr. stark! and spending time with mr. stark! The topic of an actual salary? Just kind of... never came up. And Peter hasn’t had the guts to bring it up himself. He feels incredibly lucky just having the opportunity to learn from Iron Man. It’s always felt like enough, but he'd lie if he said he didn't think about it before.
“For what?” Mr. Stark scoffs. “Dum-E could do what you do. I’m sorry,” he says when Peter looks betrayed. “I forgot you had that whole insecure thing–”
“It was really hard for me to talk about, Mr. Stark.”
“You’re very important,” Tony nods. “Wanna get paid though? You have to convince me.”
He’s staring at Peter expectantly, like he’s expecting something. Peter blinks back, his previously amused smile twisting into a confused expression.
“You’re not doing a very good job, kid,” he sighs, trying to wipe his hands on the washed up AC/DC t-shirt he’s wearing, only succeeding in smudging the grease all over.
“Oh my god, right,” Peter hands over the towel he’s holding, a little too late. “Sorry, sorry.”
“Convince me,” the man repeats.
Caught off guard, Peter stammers over his words for a moment before his mouth settles for, “Okay, well. Erm–unpaid internships, right? They got a learning curve, sure, and a chance to gain experience and sh–tuff, but it’s shameless–it’s shameless labor exploitation. Capitalism brainwashed us all into thinking this is even remotely okay. The system...”
A snort. “You a communist now?”
“I just think Marx was onto something,” Peter maintains, on a roll. “They’re also kind of a class warfare tool, if you think about it? They’re specifically designed to filter out poor people who can’t afford to work for free from the skilled job pool, and that’s just really unfair, I think.”
Mr. Stark lets out an impressed whistle. “Damn, who you been talking to?”
MJ.
“Am I not allowed to have opinions?”
The billionaire throws his hands up. “You wanna get paid? Fine. What’s the minimum wage nowadays, anyway? Fourty, fifty bucks an hour?”
Peter tries to remember what he read on Forbes’ website. “More like, seven dollars, I think.”
Tony raises his eyebrows. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he says, scrunching up his nose, “it’s a problem.”
“Tell you what, let’s triple that, we got a deal.”
Peter perks up, exchanges pleading doe eyes for his brightest smile. “Really? Oh, man, that’s so awesome. Thank you, Mr. Stark! Thank you, thank you! You’re my favorite superhero!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, help me up, instead of lying to my face. You think I don’t know about your little Thor figurines?”
Peter presses his lips together, guilty and amused. He extends a hand and pulls him up on his feet—effortlessly, but too quick. Peter apologizes three times when Tony says, “Hey, hey, hey, watch it with the super strength,” but his brows furrow in worry at the way he clutches his side and grunts.
“You alright, Mr. Stark?” Peter hesitates, hands hovering over the man’s shoulders.
“I’m fine, get off me.”
Peter has a horrifying moment where his eyes catch the car—it’s dented, like it’s been in a pretty serious accident—but then Tony slings an arm around his neck, pulling him back against his side and he has to look in front of him as the man steers them out the garage.
“Listen, kid,” he says, jabbing his chest, “Let me tell you something. This is Stark Industries–”
“I know that.”
“–I’m sure you know this. We don’t do unpaid internships.”
“What was I–what was I doing these last few months then,” Peter asks, voice soft.
“Look,” Stark says as he leads them into the elevator, “In this world? It’s speak... or be spoken to.”
“That is true.”
He moves to stand in front of him. “You know what that means? It means, you want something? You ask for it, out loud, with your voice. The odds of actually getting what you want? Around fifty percent, I’d say. Sixty if you throw in those lovesick puppy eyes, but that number’s down to zero–” He forms a circle with his thumb and forefinger, “–if you never ask. So you gotta learn to speak up. Be assertive. To say, ‘I want this.’ Say it.”
“...I want this?”
“What do you want?” Tony asks, jabbing him in the chest.
Well, in that case... “Can I have Netflix?”
Tony shoots him an interrogative look. “The whole thing?”
“An account,” Peter clarifies. “A Netflix account.”
“Oh, of course. That makes more sense. Yeah! Sure. Done. Why not?”
.
.
Saturday night, Ned comes over. He’s digging into a vanilla ice cream pot on the other end of the kitchen table with his laptop covered in Gumball stickers open in front of him, when he says, “dude, are you sure you’re Spider-man?”
Peter looks up from his human geography textbook, pulled out of a paragraph about gentrification. “What?”
Ned nods at his screen. “They’ve uploaded a new video.”
“What? Let me see.”
He abandons his book to walk behind Ned and props an elbow on his friend’s shoulder to look at the screen. He recognizes YouTube’s familiar interface, blinks at the seven digits views count underneath the lengthy, all-lowercase title.
“ Seven minutes of Spider-man being Spider-man for when you’re lying alone in bed at 3am and want to feel something,” Peter reads over Ned’s shoulder, flabbergasted. “Wack.”
“It’s trending,” Ned says, playing back the video he’d paused two minutes in.
“Oh my god,” Peter groans. Whoever edited the video had put Wii music over it.
They watch as he swings around buildings, executing a series of complicated acrobatics with ease. Roundhouses a guy into a wall. Catches a car, stopping it from crashing into a school bus. Munches on a chicken wing, perched on a streetlamp, mask rolled up halfway and hugging a KFC bucket to his chest.
“Nevermind, that’s you alright,” Ned laughs.
And about six more short low-quality clips of him going about his web-slinging ways. Peter scrolls down the comments.
Three thousands pounds, fifty miles an hour. Caught it like it was a STOOL. Fucking sick
i want to be friends with him so bad what the fuck i hope he’s doing well in life
I do not know who this guy is but I owe him my life. Literally. He saved me from a mugger holding me at gunpoint once. I’m so glad he’s out there. Feels safer.
SPIDER-DUDE JUST CHILLIN WITH HIS KFC BUCKET KILLED ME LMFAO WHAT A MOOD
Hey guys support a rapper thats just starting out and check out my channel :D
bless the “spiderman, do a flip” dude and he fuckn,,, he just fuckn does it. spiderman's the funniest person on earth
i know we been over this multiples times but i'm never getting over his legendary glow-up. do you guys think iron man knows who he is?? bc either he does and he’s protecting him from the gov and those shitty accords (dont @ me i have opinions and i will fight you) or he doesn’t and spider-man is just that iconic imagine him just like hanging out at stark’s in full costume LMFAO
He’s the chillest superhero. When will your fave ever
He throws sick punches AND mad shade at the same time. He’s SO underrated. Like if you agree [EDIT]: holy shit I've never gotten so many likes before sign my petition to get the sokovia accords cancelled
his moves!!!! imagine being that comfortable in your body phhewwww
FAVVVVVVV
“They love you,” Ned remarks, pointlessly. Peter can see that. There’s a swing-beat in his chest as he takes in the overall adoration of people towards his alter-ego.
“Did you read that? I’m the chillest.”
“Well, that’s hilarious,” Ned watches the comments roll out with the amused expression of someone who’s barely believing what he’s reading. “I’ve known you for almost a decade now and you have never been chill. Ever. Not even for a second.”
Peter straightens and waves a hand around. “Oh my god, they’re right. I am underrated.”
“Peter, the video’s way over the million milestone in terms of views, despite the fact that YouTube apparently deleted a few hundred K. I’m afraid to know what you think rated is.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t matter. That’s–that’s meaningless,” he scowls, vaguely pointing at the laptop while pacing. “I meant, the Avengers. Aunt May! Well, she’s slowly coming around, I guess, but still. The government! They didn’t even send anyone after me, as far as I know. How insulting is that? I’m supposed to be a vigilante, Ned. They don’t take me seriously. No one takes me seriously!”
“Soooooo… you want to be hunted down by the government?”
Peter stops pacing to glare. “You’re misunderstanding me on the purpose.”
“Okay, you got me. Sorry.”
“You know I hate it when you do that.”
Ned brushes it off with a hand gesture and leans back in his chair. “Does all of that matter, though? I mean, with you, Queens is safe.”
“Yeah, ‘til eleven p.m on weekdays and one a.m on weekends and holidays. See, this is what I mean,” he exclaims, slapping his left palm with the back of his right hand for emphasis, “What kind of superhero has a curfew?”
“Oh, no,” Ned blurts out, looking like he hates this conversation. “Don’t tell me you’re obsessed with proving yourself again. I can’t go back down that road with you right now, man. I need to study.”
“No, no, of course not," he says. "That shoe has dropped. Ship has sailed. Been there, done that. It’s just… I don’t know, I feel like…” He sighs, dropping down in his chair. “Nevermind. Whatever.”
“Like what,” Ned prompts.
“Like I can do more.”
“I’m going to punch you in the face,” Ned says. “You turned down the Avengers.”
“That was a test,” Peter protests, “...probably. I think. Look, whatever. Forget it.”
“No, I will not forget it! Just like I won’t forget last year, and I’ll never let you forget it either. You were in way over your head. You got hurt! And almost expelled. You can’t do that to yourself again, dude. Come on.”
“No, no. No! It’s not the same. It’s not!” he insists at Ned’s unimpressed look. “I just feel like I have all this potential, you know? But I can’t reach it with... all of this,” he makes a vague gesture with his hands, “around me.”
“You mean, your life?”
Peter shrugs. “Dunno. I guess. It’s holding me back.”
He watches as his friend blows out a breath, palms glued together. “Pete, you’re like a brother to me. You know what that means?”
“You love me? You look up to me?”
“It means I think you’re the stupidest and I hate you so much,” Ned hisses. “Now can you please reschedule this–whatever this is, ‘til after finals? I promise we can get in as many life or death situations as you need in July.”
“That’s fair,” Peter concedes, grabbing his abandoned textbook. “And yeah, you’re right. I have to study too, anyway. I’m so screwed.”
“Same.”
Approximately twenty seconds pass by where Peter keeps re-reading the same three sentences without processing them, before...
“Ned?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think YouTube deleted the views because they’re still mad about that time I crashed their offices?”
“I’m sorry, buddy.”
.
.
Two weeks before finals, MJ comes out—or rather, she’s dragged out when a picture of her making-out with some girl from the year above at Nasir’s ‘last chance to relax’ party starts going around social media.
It’s four in the afternoon when Peter first sees it. He’s at his favorite O’Tacos, the one next to the burned-down bookstore that used to be his go-to post-school hang-out place with Ned before Spider-man had begun to eat up his free time. They’re patiently standing in one of the six lines, both engrossed in their respective phones and occasionally throwing a comment out loud. Peter’s mindlessly scrolling down his IG feed when Ned says, “holy shit. Check this out.”
Peter glances over his shoulder and raises his eyebrows at the screen. “What? Who’s that girl? MJ’s a lesbian?”
“I thought she was American,” Ned mutters, a reply stemming from a deep-rooted reflex. He follows it up with, “It’s all over Snapchat.”
Peter winces. “Yikes. You think she knows? Should we text her?”
"Yes, definitely, and do it on our group. That way I get to chime in without starting the conversation."
By the time Peter decides to, they’re at the front of the line and he only has time to shoot her a simple hey??? with a screenshot attached before he slips his phone into his pocket to place his order. He checks the conversation again once they settle down on one of the high tables near the window. She left him on read.
“She probably needs some space,” Ned says. “Let’s wait ‘til tomorrow, I guess?”
The next day, on his free period, he finds her on the bleachers by the football pitch, legs on each side of the bench and lime green headphones over her ears. She’s hunched over an open binder. Peter carefully grabs her abandoned pile of textbooks to sit in its place, setting his backpack on his feet. “Hey! Studying for finals?”
She deigns him with a brief glance before dropping her gaze back on her notes. Peter shifts, feeling a tad awkward. He flips through the textbook in his hands, finds it riddled with aborted sketches and doodles.
He side-eyes her three times but MJ refuses to acknowledge his existence. The silence stretches while he ponders what to say because he hasn’t thought up of anything beforehand, convinced he’d felt comfortable enough around her to wing it.
A sudden breeze of wind swishes by and she holds down her spreaded notes to stop them from flying off; she’s not fast enough, though, and Peter springs up and drops onto the row of seats in front of him to catch the sheets of papers. They wrinkle in his fist.
“Quick boy,” MJ simply says when he spins around and hands them over with an apology. “Thanks.”
He feels awkward standing on the bench so he crouches, arms crossed over his knees as he watches her smooth out her notes. “You okay, MJ?”
He can’t hold back the tinge of genuine concern that bleeds in his tone and that makes her look up. She lowers her headphones, setting them around her neck.“I’m perfect.”
Peter has never been able to tell whether she’s being sincere or full of shit, her only concession to showing any kind of emotion being via half-lidded eyes and a vague smirk at the corner of her lip; but right now, she truly seems unbothered.
“I’m sorry this is happening,” he says, “It absolutely sucks that you got outed like that and fuck the person behind it, you know? Just. I want you to know that I’m cool with– obviously, I’m cool with it.”
MJ’s just staring at him, at this point, grinding her tongue against her front teeth. She seems amused. Or seething with vindictive rage. Peter is really bad at reading her. “And I know you have like, that whole Rosa Diaz vibe going on,” he jokes, because yeah, it’s awkward but he’s not wigging out, “and this thing kind of kills it but if it’s any comfort, I still know nothing about you beyond your name and now, this.”
At that, her lips tick upwards, which encourages a cheerful Peter into going on, “Ned’s fine with it, too. Obviously. He’s a cool dude, you know. His first reaction was to quote a vine.”
“I hate that I know exactly which one,” she finally, finally says, closing her binder and pushing her leg over the bench to face him.
Peter wants to pump his fist in victory. He settles for a tentative smile. “You really okay? I mean, I’m sure no one’s actually going to have a problem with it once the whole ‘ oh my god did you hear ’ moment blows over, you know? But we can totally skip next period, if you want to.”
“Thought you grew out that phase, Parker.” She gives him a lopsided shrug. “I hate the attention but it’ll pass. Some dumbass is gonna do something embarrassing eventually and get exposed for it and everyone will move on. That’s how it works. They’re teenagers.”
“You’re a teenager, too,” Peter points out.
“Am I?”
She’s used that line on him so many times before, but he still hasn’t come up with an appropriate comeback beyond a bewildered look.
She shoots him a smirk.
“I don’t know how you do this,” he admits, stepping over the bench to sit next to her, cross-legged. “How you take all of this in stride. I know if I ever got outed like that... God. I’d be a sobbing mess–and I’m talking, like, straight-up ugly-crying, with like, tears and snot all over, it’d be absolutely disgusting–begging May to let me switch schools. She’d say no, of course, she’s never been the indulging type, and I’d consider running away from home but I won’t really go through with it ‘cuz like, I’m a coward.”
He would’ve went on, happy to fill the silence, if not for her interruption. “Is there anything to out?”
Peter blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“You said, ‘if I ever got outed like that’,” she spins her head to look at him, “You hiding something?”
Peter’s face goes blank and he lifts his gaze to meet her eyes. His mouth is open but he doesn’t reply because he knows his stammering would probably give him away, so he clamps his mouth shut and focuses on trying not to look too much like a deer facing headlights.
Luckily, she caves in to the silence before he does, looking back down to her notepad with a scoff. “Relax. I don’t really care. We’ve established that.”
“Why do you do this to me,” he mutters, shoulders slumping in defeat.
There’s a beat, where he kinds of just watches the pencil curled around her fingers slither across her pad, idly sketching what he recognizes as the start of his persona’s logo. “That’s pretty cool,” he comments when the silence gets too thick for his liking. “Is Spider-man your favorite hero?”
“I like the aesthetic,“ she says, “his commitment to it.”
“Mine’s Iron Man.”
“Have I asked?”
“Let me bond with you!” Peter yells suddenly, strictly for comedic effect.
It startles an amused scoff out of her. “I don’t even like Iron Man.”
“You don’t like Iron Man?” Peter raises his eyebrows, and winces at the involuntary high-pitch his voice takes. “No, really? You don’t like Iron Man?”
She shrugs. “I’m not too big on the concept of hoarded wealth. No man should have that much money to himself. Not when there are people with nothing suffering at the bottom. Do you even realize how much a billion dollars is? Let alone whatever Stark’s worth–”
MJ stops. He doesn’t know if it’s because the bell rings out, or the sudden way he cradles his head and covers his ears and shuts his eyes, the sound shrill and painful to him even outside.
Right. He still hasn’t found a way around the fucking bell except weather it eight times a day.
When the piercing notes finally die down, he looks up to find MJ’s eyes on him and yes, there’s that ever-illegible expression. Peter’s not above thinking she knows about his secret, but he rather not open that can of worms.
“We should… head back,” he says, grabbing his backpack. “Otherwise Mrs. Brown’s gonna rant about the importance of punctuality again and no one wants to hear that.”
“Go ahead, I’ll meet you in class.”
Peter stares, hesitant. Her stuff is all around her, headphones back over her ears, and she’s focused on her sketch, not displaying any signs that she’s going to get up anytime soon.
He heaves a sigh and begins to walk away, makes it four steps before she calls out,
“Hey, Spider-man?”
Peter spins around whilst continuing to walk backwards, shouldering his backpack. “Yeah?”
It’s the first time he sees a non-mocking smile on MJ’s lips. It’s small and soft, and it’s genuine.
“Thanks.”
It’s only much later, as he’s restocking on web fluid in Cobwell’s class, that he realizes he’d responded to Spider-man’s name.
.
.
“So, I have a couple questions,” Ned says as he watches Peter push the plastic-wrapped couch against a corner without even breaking a sweat. “First of all, why are we doing this in my basement?”
“Because no one ever saw or will see your basement,” Peter replies, straightening, “It’s a neutral background! Nobody’s gonna recognize it.” He gauges the room with a satisfied look, hands on his hips. “The lighting is so bad. This is perfect.”
“Okay, fair. Next question : why are we doing this at all?”
Peter moves to grab his backpack. Ned’s sitting at the bottom of the stairs, fidgeting with his phone, and he’s staring at him with an odd mix of appalled apprehension and utter delight.
“You know how our school’s totally obsessed about Spider-man, right?” he says, zipping his bag open, “If they see this, how do you think they’ll react?”
“They’d go apeshit,” Ned answers with a tremor in his voice that betrays his hilarity.
“Yep, and just like that–” He snaps his fingers, “Who’s Michelle Jones?”
Ned looks dubious, but Peter ignores him in favor of digging through his stuff until his fingers brush against the familiar material of the spider suit. “Okay, so, make sure you get that perfect angle, you know? Bad enough that the video could be straight from Tik Tok but good enough to capture my moves. Also, you have to lean against the wall. Who doesn’t have a tripod, seriously?”
“Peter, hold on, wait a sec.”
Peter looks up from where he’s hastily shrugging the suit up his legs. “Mmh?”
“Listen, this is going to be the most hilarious thing to happen since that prank we pulled on you, and I want to thank you for letting me be here today–” Peter rolls his eyes, “but are you sure you wanna do this? Like, one-hundred percent? This isn’t exactly something you can come back from.”
Peter sighs. The thought of shifting the school’s gossip from MJ’s coming-out to his famous superhero persona had bloomed in the back of his mind during his talk with her, and he’d mulled it over for the next two hours. He genuinely does want to help her out, because he knows first-hand how being the center of attention in high school can be a freaking nightmare.
(and if she wasn’t going to keep his secret before, she definitely would after this, right?)
“She covers for me all the time, man. I owe her.”
“Yeah, a shawarma durum and maybe some curly fries, not social suicide .”
“Ned, I’m not going to kill my credibility because there’s nothing to kill. You said it yourself, Spider-man’s a fucking meme,” Peter says with the solemn voice of someone who’d recently come to terms with reality. “Now please stop trying to talk me out of this, you’re so close to actually succeeding.”
Ned sighs and pushes himself up from his spot.“ We should be studying, you know that, right?” He walks over to the decades’ old sound system against the wall. “This is going to be so hokey. Okay. Shake it off or Umbrella ?”
“Rihanna, all the way,” Peter says as the vacuum seal properly compresses the suit around him.
.
.
MJ: Do you have a crush on me, Parker?
peter p: what? no
peter p: you said you hated the attention so i just distracted ppl out of kindness
peter p: with no ulterior motive whatsoever
peter p: please dont tell anyone my secret
GITC: WHAT SECRET
peter p: it’s ok ned. she knows
GITC: She knows?!
MJ: I know.
GITC: How???
MJ: Well, one day I’m telling Peter Parker that I’m waiting for some dumbass to do something embarrassing so people can move on.
MJ: And that exact night, Spider-man, whom Midtown is head over heels obsessed about, conveniently makes a video of him executing a suggestive choreography to Rihanna’s song and posts it for the entire world to see.
MJ: Mmmhhh.
peter p: i’m not the subtlest
GITC: IT WORKED THO????
GITC: i thought it was gonna be 100% humiliating but people actually LOVE it!!! It’s trending??? someone even re-posted it on twitter and it has over 90K retweets and twice that number in likes AND no one knows if it’s the real deal or just a really dope cosplay. i finally feel part of smth
peter p: crazy
MJ: Well, you got moves. I’m actually impressed.
peter p: i studied ballet in elementary school i still got it
GITC: what? Ballet?? How do I not know this
peter p: btw do you guys want netflix? i finally have an account
MJ: Sly.
GITC: Is it for real or just the one month
peter p: no its indefinitely
GITC: im so used to giving and now i get to receive
GITC: Hey dont think i didnt notice you changed topics. srsly ballet??? when was this
peter p: around the time you made a lets play youtube channel
MJ: What?
GITC: So, MJ, you like girls?????
peter p: sly
MJ: What about you?
peter p: you didn't even answer?
GITC: I love girls
peter p: girls are everything
GITC: I distinctly remember those two weeks you ditched us for Neal tho. Are you also into guys?
peter p: ned we talked about the inquisitive questions!!!
GITC: I Have A Natural Curiosity
MJ: What about you?
Peter doesn’t get the chance to reply or even think of a reply. He picks out the sound of jingling keys over the lo-fi music filling the bedroom and all but flings his cracked iPhone across the bed and dives for his cluttered desk. Not even a minute later, May pokes her head into his room.
“Hummus!” she grins excitedly, brandishing a jam-packed grocery bag.
Peter shoots her a half-smile and two thumbs up. “Looking forward to it, May.”
He spends the next hour chatting with her through the open bedroom door whilst filling out a series of math problems, and it’s all very productive up until his mind wanders off and he finds himself thinking about MJ’s last text.
What about him?
.
.
“You smell like garbage,” Tony greets him that Wednesday afternoon, strolling into the spacious living area, “Why are you wearing yoga pants?”
Peter flounders awkwardly on the creamy sofa he’s slouched on, upending his textbooks and scrambling his sneakers-clad feet off the oversized ottoman. He looks up from where he’s been blindly yellowing entire paragraphs of his American history book to frown at Mr. Stark, offended. “They’re not yoga p–” He spits out the highlighter cap between his teeth. “They’re sweatpants!”
“Skin-tight? That what the youth chooses to wear nowadays?”
Tony’s standing behind the armchair across from him, arms crossed around the backrest with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows and a watch that definitely looks expensive around his wrist, and he’s staring at him with a tinge of amusement in his gaze.
Peter’s suddenly really self-conscious about his Target NASA t-shirt. He tugs on the hems. “You’re so old.”
“And you’re severely underdressed,” the billionaire fires back. “What’s that? A scooby-doo bracelet? In my living-room?”
“It’s more likely than you think,” Peter laughs, before sobering up at Tony’s stoic stare and pressing his lips together. “Sorry.”
“And what’s your excuse for the smell? You been dumpster-diving again?”
“Yeah,” he deflates, shoulders slumping. “I'm building a computer and there was this old hard drive that was perfect for...” A brief, awkward silence, that lasts for two seconds before Peter pops it with, “Anyway… so I wasn’t really planning on coming in today? But I forgot to cancel. Was in my room when Happy just kind of… showed up and told me to get in the car. He didn’t leave me any time to shower or change. That’s why… the PJs…”
He trails off when Mr. Stark dismisses his words with a wave. “Relax, I don’t care. Mi casa es tu casa, or however the saying goes. Just don’t get too comfortable.” He straightens and nods towards the corridor, “Come on, there’s something I wanna show you.”
Peter makes a face. “Actually, can I just chill here? I really wanna reach my study goal for today.”
Stark raises his eyebrows. “Wow, how painful was that?”
Peter’s as surprised as him that the curiosity hadn’t overthrown his self-control. He’d normally be up and sauntering about before Tony even utters a word, but he really wants to wrap up whatever he could today, so he can partake in some well-deserved crime-fighting during the weekend.
(the desire to gain may’s trust+ mr. stark’s words had been enough to convince peter to put a moratorium on spider-man. it had lasted about twelve hours, before he had had to admit defeat and compromise: he can patrol, but only after reaching whatever study goal he’d set that day.
he… kind of sticks with it?)
“I’ve been concentrating.”
“Yeah? How’s that going for you?” Tony walks over and plops himself down next to him with a heavy sigh. “What’re you studying anyway? Where you at?”
Peter shifts into a more comfortable, cross-legged position and nudges his backpack out of the way. It’s brand new—obtained only after he’d promised May he’d keep better track of his bags from now on—yet it’s already bursting with haphazard sheets and messy notes. His Avengers pencil case is popping out and he shoves it back inside.
Before chancing a glance at Tony. “I’m in Junior year.”
He doesn’t seem to have noticed anything, busy flipping through one of Peter’s textbooks. “Yeah, that doesn’t mean anything to me. I don’t really have a solid grasp of the Common Core, or any… grasp at all. Letters? Are there letters in math yet?”
“Math isn’t the problem,” Peter sighs. “It’s more subjects like History that are a pain. Not that it’s hard, per se, but it’s super time-consuming? In that there’s all these facts you have to learn by heart. It’s like, no, I don’t know what the 1765 Stamp Act was about. I don’t care! Please, let me rest.”
Tony drops the book on the floor, uninterested, and Peter suddenly has his undivided attention. “Have you been doing that?” he asks. “Resting? No offense, but you don’t just smell like shit.”
“I resent that,” Peter mumbles, grabbing his highlighter to colour a string of sentences in. It’s more an excuse to not have to level the billionaire’s gaze than anything.
“Wasn’t exactly being rhetorical here, kid.”
Peter gives him a one-shouldered shrug. “I mean, well, my sleep’s schedule definitely fucked, but, like, when has that ever not been the case? There’s just so much to do and only so many hours in the day, you know? ‘S all good, though!” he quickly adds, “I’m just so done. I want to get it over with.”
He glances up at Tony, whom… looks less pleased and more unimpressed. Peter’s been at the receiving end of a lot of his ‘listen and learn’-style monologues and lectures over the past months and he’s fully bracing for one about the importance of self-care now, so he’s surprised when all Tony says is, “You eaten yet?”
Peter blinks. “What?”
“Food. Have you had any?”
Peter thinks about it. “Huh, no. But I’m not really hungry right now.”
“You’re not hungry,” Tony repeats, skeptical.
Which. Peter agrees, it’s weird. He’s used to constant hunger, being lazy and enhanced. Right now, though? The thought of food makes him want to barf.
That alone is an indicator, really. Not to mention the heavy head, the damp armpits. The uneasy feeling of a too-tight skin and a sandpaper-textured mouth. All symptoms stuffed under a tight lid of denial since yesterday morning. He can’t afford to fall sick right now.
“Yeah.” He tries to shrug it off; it’s honestly not that important. “I dunno. It’s fine, though. I had like, two bowls of cereals this morning.”
“Oh? The ones with the bird, right? I have that here.”
“He’s called Sam,” Peter corrects, a touch vexed. “And no. May’s boycotting since she listened to a radio program that talked shit about fruit loops. It’s fine, though. Cheerios aren’t that bad. I got a Star Wars color-changing spoon from one of the limited editions... it’s really cool. What are you doing?” Peter says when Tony presses the back of his hand against his forehead.
The billionaire’s brows are knitted in concentration. “I don’t know how to–FRIDAY?”
The A.I’s voice sounds out all around them, subdued and Irish-accented. “Peter exhibits symptoms of the common cold as well as a mild fever. His current temperature is 102.1 degrees fahrenheit, which doesn’t require immediate medical attention. Would recommend fluids and rest. ”
Peter swallows down the “finals are literally in a week, but go off I guess” on the tip of his tongue when he looks over at the man sitting next to him.
Tony Stark looks honest-to-god lost, staring at him and scratching his goatee. “Alright, okay. What’s the... protocol for this type of thing? Is there some kind of manual I can read?”
“ Yes, parenting books. Do you want me to recommend a few?”
“...She’s joking,” Peter clarifies after a beat, a little disturbed at how seriously Tony seems to consider her words. “You don’t have to do anything, Mr. Stark! I’ll go home once Happy decides to show and I’ll get a good night’s sleep, alright? I’ll be fine.”
He starts packing his stuff but for each book he shoves in his backpack, Tony pulls one out, until Peter gives up and whines, “Mr. Stark!”
Tony makes a dismissive gesture. “It’s a two hours drive and it’s six PM right now–”
“That’s because you’re four hours late,” Peter points out.
“–you might as well stay over.”
Peter blinks. “Okay.”
“No, see, this is where you do the thing where you try to protest before I cut you off, but you say you don’t wanna impose and then I insist one last time before you surrender and accept the offer.”
“But I wanna stay at the Avengers compound.”
“I know.”
A beat.
“Oh,” Peter realizes, “do I still have to–”
“FRI, be a dear and tell May Parker her nephew’s gonna be spending the night.”
Peter grins, broad and bright. “Am I gonna get to see an Avenger? That’d be so cool.”
“I’m an Avenger,” Tony says with a hand on his chest and a hint of a hint of offense in his voice.
“I mean like,” Peter smiles sheepishly. There’s really nothing to say to that. “You know.”
“Thor’s unlikely to come over, given that he’s literally off-world. Am I not enough, all of a sudden?” he asks when Peter sinks in the couch, disappointed. “Pepper’s gonna be here, you ungrateful child.”
Peter perks up, eyes wide. “Pepper Potts?”
“This is her home,” Tony remarks nonchalantly, as if Peter isn't about to meet one of the most powerful women in America, the CEO of a billion dollars company and Tony’s fiancée. Peter wonders if she’s going to like him. “You should probably go take a shower,” Tony adds, ruthless. “You stink. Next time, just walk past the dumpster?”
“But I like sticking my head in the trash.”
Ten whole seconds pass wherein Peter manages to stare back with a straight face. Tony eventually seems to figure out he’s only joking and shoves him away with a click of the tongue and a “Just go,” which Peter does, sauntering out the room with a laugh.
Dinner isn't what he expected it to be.
In all fairness, he doesn’t know what he expected: a poorly-lit dining room, maybe. An immaculate white cloth over an unreasonably long table. An eight-course meal and fancy wine glasses and stiff conversation. A rich people dinner, like in the movies.
The real deal turns out to be… the complete opposite. Peter pauses at the door to take in the sleek logo he doesn’t recognize on the several pizza boxes covering the coffee table, the plasma screen, set on a local news channel and on low volume; the woman sitting on the couch with a pair of black heels messily toed off at her feet and her phone abandoned next to her thigh, a few inches away from falling on the floor.
It’s a fairly normal scene except it’s bizarre as fuck, because that’s Pepper freaking Potts with one hand curled around a pizza slice and the other buried in Tony’s hair—Tony who’s sitting on the floor with his back against the couch.
He has one arm swung across her lap and they’re talking, idly, low voices that die down when Peter clears his throat and is met with two pairs of eyes. He fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt, waiting until Tony says "oh, there he is" and tells him to come sit down and dig in, there’s pizza, to move from the door.
He takes Tony's example and sits on the floor. The efforts he puts into maintaining a straight posture are pretty much useless because Tony wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him against his side, ruffling his hair. "Why so stiff? Relax, it's just Pepper. Pepper, this is he. The kid. Feel free to ignore the sweatpants .” He pins Peter with a look as he emphasizes the word, tone sharp like a dagger, before turning back to his fiancée. “He’s a work in progress."
"Peter, right?"
"Yeah!” He tries really hard not to stammer. “It’s–it’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Potts. Mrs. Stark?" he panics as he catches sight of her ring and remembers their engagement on live TV which he’d watched on Twitter.
Tony shoots her an amused glance. "Not yet?"
"Not ever," is her answer, square tone contrasting with the smile that stretches her lips when she fixes her gaze on Peter. "Pepper is fine! It’s nice to finally meet you, too. Tony talks a lot about you.”
A snort. “I do not.”
“You called me while I was in a meeting that one time to ask about–”
“Pepper, I swear to God!”
While they’re bantering, Peter carefully dislodges Tony’s arm from around his shoulders and reaches inside one of the boxes. The shower had opened up his appetite and the smell of cheese almost makes him want to wolf down everything on sight, boxes included.
Had it just been him and Tony, he probably would have voiced that last comment aloud. As it is, he keeps to himself, happy to listen and eat. He tries to stop himself after four slices because it feels really rude to reach out to grab yet another while Pepper’s still munching on her second, but then Tony drags the box in front of him without even looking in his direction and. Well, it’s right there.
Pepper eventually tires of Tony’s endless repartee and decides she’d rather focus her attention on Peter.
She asks him about the internship (Tony doesn’t work you too hard, does he? On a scale from one to ten, how insufferable is he? You can tell me.” ) and inquires about his interests, and Peter has no idea if she knows about Spider-man or not so he avoids the subject of superheroes altogether and sticks with science and computers and pop culture references—some of which she gets! He can’t help but shoot long, eloquent looks at Mr. Stark every time she throws them back at him. Tony simply rolls his eyes and calls them both nerds.
The conversation follows its natural course and merges into Peter’s post-high school plans.When she asks if he has any colleges in mind, he instinctively glances at Tony, takes one look at his raised eyebrows and says, “I’m thinking MIT.”
The silent interaction doesn’t go unnoticed. “What was that?” Pepper asks, eyes narrowed.
“Mmh?” Tony drawls, eyes following the spin of his head a second too late. “What was what, dear?”
She ignores him. “Peter, is Tony pressuring you into MIT?” Peter shrugs, evasive, and she goes on to say, “I hope you know you don’t have to listen to him. You can attend whichever college you want.”
“I can?”
“Of course you can, Peter,” Tony replies, all fake smile and honeyed tone. Peter flashes back to the ferry incident and has to hold back a shudder. “And obviously, MIT is the college you want.”
The truth is, Peter never really gave it much thought. He’d figured he still had time to mull it over, so he doesn’t know which college he’ll be applying to first. What he does know, however, is that he full well intends on earning his way into it, no nepotism needed—or wanted, for that matter.
He shakes his head, lips puckered and nose scrunched. “I don’t think it is.”
“Isn’t it, though?”
“It definitely isn't.”
“But isn't it.”
“It’s–it’s really not.”
“Is it really, though? Is it really the case?”
“Yes, it is!”
“To which question?”
Peter’s eyes widen and he blinks. “Both?”
“Excellent!” Tony throws his hands up, pleased. “I wholeheartedly support your decision.”
“What?” is all Peter can sputter, mentally going over their conversation. Where had he… ?
“Tony, leave the kid alone,” Pepper reprimands, but it has zero effect because her tone and expression are amused. Peter reaches out to down the rest of his soda in hopes of covering his embarrassment at being called a kid. “He’s a superhero, I think he can make his own decisions.”
He chokes.
“You–you know?” he coughs out, setting his glass aside. “You know about the–...you know? You know?”
“Oh, did I forget to mention that?” Tony yawns. “Obviously, she knows. It’s Pepper. Remember when I said everyone else told me I was crazy to recruit a teenager? Yeah, she’s everyone else.”
Her mouth contorts into a grimace. “That is not what I said, I told you to stop paraphrasing me.” She looks at Peter, “I said he was insane and an idiot for involving a kid in his mess.”
“A kid who can benchpress a bus,” Tony scoffs.
She raises her eyebrows. “Really?”
“Uh, yeah.” He rubs his neck, cheeks a bit red at the curious way she scans him over. “I guess.”
“That’s pretty impressive, I’m not going to lie.” She leans over, a gleam of interest in her gaze. “Were you born like this, or did you pick these powers up somewhere?”
Peter almost sighs, having been over his origin story too many times already. Tony, Happy, Ned, May, MJ.
“Alright, let’s do this one last time.”
The conversation, pleasant and flowing now that Peter doesn’t have to tread on eggshells anymore, stretches well past 11PM until he lets out a jaw-splitting, tears-inducing yawn and Pepper decides to call it a night. Peter doesn’t argue, feeling the beginning of a headache forming. He stumbles into the dark corridor fully intending on going directly to bed.
Twenty minutes later, Tony finds him dangling upside down on a web, nose pressed against the glass of a pod as he adoringly stares at the Iron Spider suit.
"Hey, kid. FRIDAY says you got lost."
“This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen, Mr. Stark," Peter enthuses. He’d gotten a quick glance at it last year after Homecoming, but it's the first time he looks at it from up close. "The design is insane. It's so… sleek. Is that gold? That’s ridiculously posh, even for you.”
The sound of footsteps come to a halt right behind him. "Oh, you found it,” Tony smirks, crossing his arms. “Yeah, this is what I wanted to show you, earlier. I've been thinking, we haven't really gotten around to working on it. Not that it needs any work, it's perfect as is, but I figured you'd want to familiarize yourself with it? It's not exactly the suit you're currently using; and it's a tad bit more advanced than the onesie you used to run around in. Just a tad."
Peter chuckles, deep and louder than he'd meant to. “Just a teensy-weensy.”
“Hey, forget the suit for a second.” There’s a hand on his arm and then he’s being spinned around, web twisting, to face Tony. “There’s something I wanna talk to you about.”
His face is just blank and serious enough that Peter figures he probably shouldn't have this conversation upside down. “What is it?” he asks, landing on his feet and looking up at Mr. Stark with a concerned frown.
He worries for a second that he might have been rude to Pepper, but then Tony says shit, okay and tips his head back and blows out a breath and rubs the bridge of his nose, and Peter decides to wait until he’s ready, because he’s bleeding the nervous tics he’d taught Peter to recognize.
Finally, he glances down. “My dad,” he starts, and Peter blinks. “He never–he provided for us, but ultimately–” He pauses and frowns, seemingly frustrated at himself for not finding the proper words.
Peter wants to say something along the lines of take your time but doesn’t get a chance to before Tony heaves a sigh. “Okay. Look.When I went through my first real heartbreak, my dad was in Italy. A broken ankle? Hospital bills paid all the way over from Dubai. Senior year, I lost my last game, the last chance our team had at ever winning a season, and it felt horrible, it sucked, I felt shitty for days, and my dad–he was home, but he didn’t even notice, or he knew, but he refused to acknowledge it–to this day, I don’t really know what was going on in his head? That tells you something, I guess.
“I don’t wanna be like my dad, Pete.”
you’re not! Peter wants to protest but Tony raises a hand and the words die in his throat. “Look, I give you the means to swing around and fight the bad people, and that means you’re my responsibility, it means I keep you alive, I look out for you, but it also. I want it to mean more than that. I’m not saying it has to be me, but...they tell you to muscle through pain, through the discomfort or the hunger or the sickness, but I want you to know that you don’t have to stay quiet and bottle it up and deal with it all on your own.”
Peter considers the words tumbling out his mentor’s mouth. It’s messy and tangential and at times inconsistent, but Peter thinks he gets what Mr. Stark says—or rather, wants to say.
The display of concern is equally touching and embarrassing—he’s pretty sure the tips of his ears are red—and Peter’s tempted to dismiss it, to laugh it off and assert his fine-ness, but it doesn’t feel like he can do that; this doesn’t feel like a conversation—like a tone—he can just...brush off.
He wants to nod, to smile and say okay. Okay, he understands, he’ll try to be more forthright, but... “You do it,” he blurts before he can stop himself, looking away.
There’s a brief, bewildered silence, before… “I’m sorry?”
Peter shrugs. Flashes back to the dented car, the not-so-subtle wincing. He gets where Tony’s coming from, he does, but it’s kind of unfair, he can’t help but think. Kind of hypocritical.
To his surprise, Tony simply blows out a breath and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Ah, fuck. Of course you picked me for a role model. Great, and now I said fuck.” Another sigh, as he brings a hand down his face. “Look, I’m not the best example, I’ll admit that. Hell, I’m not even an example, except if it’s for what not to do. And I’m trying, alright? I’ve actually gotten better at this... stuff.”
“Talking?” Peter guesses from the vague hand gesture the man had accompanied his words with.
“Hundred-percent would recommend.” He tilts his head, mouth contorting into a grimace. "Again, it doesn't have to be me but… a lot of people care about you.”
Peter’s shoulders slump and he looks down in shame, hating himself for a second before promptly forgetting about it because: what? Tony had mentioned twice now in the span of three minutes that he doesn’t have to go to him for… what, the touchy-feely conversations? Was it because he wanted to avoid having to manage a cumbersome kid? Or… ?
"It does, you know?" Peter whispers, wringing his fingers. "Mean more than that. For me." He looks up, aware that he’s blushing fire-truck red. "I kind of—it's weird, I know, but you're like a D-...I kind of consider you a… a father figure."
Peter purses his lips, wishing he’d just kept his mouth shut immediately after the words leave his mouth because the silence that ensues is unbearable and Tony’s blank stare even worse, somehow. There’s a slight tilt of the head that Peter doesn’t miss, and the excessive blinking that followed most likely upon processing his truly awkward statement. Great. Did he really have to say that out loud?
He bites his lip, anxiousness and embarrassment welling up in him. "Is that… not okay?"
“Nah,” Tony finally, finally says, and his lips twitch, like he’s trying to stave off a smile. “That’s fine with me.”
Peter grins and tries to not think too hard about the warm thing that explodes within him.
There’s a distinct and noticeable pause that Peter spends absorbing this moment, but then Tony opens his mouth and, because the man’s incapable of staying serious for more than six minutes, Peter fully expects some sort of joke—he can see it coming from the amused lines at the corner of his eyes—something like as long as you don't make me give you the talk or does that mean that i can ground you?
Peter beats him.
“I love you, Mr. Stark.”
And then he hugs him. It’s a quick thing, Peter’s cheek clumsily bumping against Tony’s chest as he wraps his arms around him and traps Tony’s own arms against his sides.
Then, just as quickly, he lets go and steps back. His cheeks are flushed and his heart is skipping away but that’s okay, he’s really happy.
Peter’s not actually expecting affection back; Tony’s always been all action and very little words on that front.
Predictably, Tony’s face contorts into an amused-looking expression and he reaches over to ruffle Peter’s hair.
Unpredictably, he says, “Love you, too, kid.”
Peter beams.
“Okay, not to break this moment we’re having, but,” Tony continues, looking up. Peter follows his gaze before his mouth twists into a sheepish smile, “get that stuff off my ceiling. It’s really bugging me.”
“Sorry, sorry."
“This lab is worth millions, honestly.”
“It dissolves!” Peter protests, jumping on the ceiling to tug at the dangling web from its root. “I’m still working on the timing, though. Two hours’ just too long, I was thinking to get it down to one. Still ample time for the police to show up so I don’t have to stick around after webbing criminals up…” he muses softly. His gaze lands the pad he’d been marveling against a few minutes ago and he resumes, a bit louder, “Hey, Mr. Stark, can I use that suit sometime? Like on patrol?”
"Nope. For Avengers only."
"I’m never gonna be able to use it, am I," he sighs, landing on the floor with a thud and rolling the web around his right hand.
"Hey, I gave you the opportunity. You turned it down."
“That was–that was a test, though, right?” Tony simply stares at him in silence before the door. “What, it wasn’t a test? Mr. Stark?” Peter yells behind him, following him out the workshop. “Mr. Stark, it wasn't a test? Mr. Stark! Holy shit!”