Chapter Text
The thing about life is, although it can be unpredictable at times, it can easily fall into a predictable pattern. Routines are so easily maintained, especially when a big part of your day-to-day life is repetitive. A lot of times weeks get by without a ripple on the surface of a well-practiced flow of tasks. That naturally, days start to blend into one another, then weeks, and then you blink and it’s suddenly June when you could’ve sworn it was just new years yesterday. And it can be dull, for time to lose its shape and measure, but mostly, it’s easy to find comfort in the known.
Peter misses that comfort.
He misses the way the dishwasher hummed faintly in the background as he scribbled homework, the rhythmic clatter of May's spoon against her mug, the quiet certainty that nothing unexpected was coming.
As of late, his days feel cramped with life-changing events. Every moment is an earth-shattering, ground breaking, erupting transformation of himself. Each day is different, each day is a challenge. He’s shed more skin than his body is capable of forming. In a single day, he's been reborn at least ten times.
If he’s not learning something new at school, he’s learning something new about his abilities through experience. He’s discovering new sides of New York every time he goes out to patrol, the good and the bad, the pretty and the ugly, and most importantly the horrors some humans are capable of committing.
Every day is a lesson, every day is proof that the world is lacking humanity and why it’s so important for him to not lose his. People are jaded, concerned only about themselves and their gains. Stuck in an unfair world, they become unfair themselves.
It’s overwhelming trying to keep up with all these constant changes, constant realizations. He’s a student at daytime, struggling to maintain his previous levels of enthusiasm and eagerness to learn when his fairly sheltered life was brutally shattered the day he became a not so “normal” teenage boy.
He’s a loving nephew for an hour or two after that, coming home to get some chores done, desperate to be of use to aunt May in any way. He tidies up a little, does the dishes if there are some left, and does his homework because apparently being a student doesn’t stop the moment you leave school.
Then he’s off swinging across the city memorizing it building by building, street by street, brick by brick until Queens feels like an extension of himself. He feels it in his bones: the danger that lurks in the streets, the calm that falls on quiet days, and all that is sinister, brewing beneath the ground.
It’s draining living all these lives, maintaining these lies for three different versions of him throughout a single day.
There are times his almost predictable unpredictable days stumble off the routine that’s not quite a routine he desperately crafted for himself. Those happen to be the days he’s scheduled to be at the tower with Mr Stark learning how to take care of his spider suite, coming up with new formulas for his web fluid, or on rare days, working on Mr Stark’s nano Iron suite.
Days like these are at peak unpredictability.
Dodging bullets and swerving daggers, although not a situation he’d been in previously to the spider bite, are arguably expected challenges of his vigilante gig. If he’s off fighting criminals and stopping robberies, it is kind of inevitable for him to be shot at.
What’s unpredictable, truly, truly unpredictable, the kind that is so out of the question impossible that it didn’t cross his mind, is his weekly visits to Stark Tower. Which actually started off as a monthly check up and maintenance for his suite that accidently turned into a weekly thing and is no doubt on the way of becoming a biweekly meeting.
Who would’ve ever thought that him, Peter Parker, orphaned nobody Parker, with his hand me down clothes and knock off shoes, his childlike excitement and enthusiasm over almost everything, and terribly nerdy jokes that match his terribly nerdy shirts could ever be in the presence of someone as brilliant, and intelligent and charismatic, and important as Tony Stark?
It never crossed his mind, not even in dreams where the impossible is certainly possible.
Yet now he has a working desk right next to Mr. Stark’s, just as messy and chaotic as the mechanic’s. His unreadable handwriting cramped in the margins of Mr. Stark’s notes, adding his own insight— his insight! Now, when Mr. Stark gets stumped he turns to Peter and asks “What do you think, underoos? Want to give it a go?” As if it’s not far off for him to be able to solve something he couldn’t crack himself.
Now, polite inquiries about his day turn into genuine curiosity and continuations of previous conversations. Now there are snack breaks and dinner times, tables to set and old— timeless, in Mr. Stark’s words— movies to watch because “you haven’t lived if you haven’t watched it kid.” Now Stark Tower feels as close as a home could ever feel like and it’s the most terrifying thing in the world.
When did he start calling Mr Stark with the certainty that his calls would be answered? When did he start ranting to him with the expectancy of being heard? When did it fall onto Mr Stark’s duties to help him study during his exams weeks, make sure he’s consuming his healthy calorie intake per day, or taking attendance every night to make sure he’s actually at home, preferably in bed, and not breaking curfew?
These quiet almost undetectable changes that happen so painstakingly slowly are the most dangerous ones. Because you never realize they’ve happened unless you get slapped in the face with their consequences. Unsurprisingly, that’s exactly how Peter realizes how rooted Mr. Stark is in his day-to-day life. With a very straight to the point short text only two hours before school is out.
Can’t make it today
See you Friday
His stomach drops at being cancelled on. Then drops some more once he notices just how much he looks forward to their scheduled lab sessions. His thumb lingers over the message, rereading it, like a bruise he can’t stop pressing.
To be fair, after the whole Vulture fiasco, Mr Stark hadn’t really done anything to prompt his next line of thought. On the contrary, other than slight awkwardness and a rather sloppy start, he’d done a good job at being more involved and present in Peter’s life. Granted, all the while keeping him at an arms length. But nevertheless, present. And yet still, like some kind of default reaction, he can’t help but think that he sat himself up for heartbreak.
The default trajectory of a human life, from the moment they take their first breath to their last, is a rhythmic flow of ups and downs that map out a fairly balanced existence. It’s a well-planned recipe for the good and the bad mixed in with all the right kicks of miracles and curses.
Yet when Peter compares this formula to that of his own life and its crazy events he finds that once again, he’s the odd one out—the exception. If he is to put into words the logic behind the way his life operates, he’ll ironically use Newton’s laws of motion to explain it. The third, to be more accurate.
There is no rhythm to his life, no scale to balance. He’s either soaring through cloud nine living the ups or plummeting full force living the downs. It’s a constant motion towards one of the two directions until a matching or greater force than his collides with him, sending him into the opposite direction.
So when Mr. Stark cancels on him, the programming of his brain expects nothing but a series of other cancellations until he’s out of the billionaire's life just as quietly as he’d warmed his way into it. The thought alone is enough to send him spiraling and whether true or not, it unfolds a sequence of sloppy and stupid mistakes that starts with him flunking his Spanish test.
He groans when Mrs. Alonso hands him his graded paper with a giant C- and a frowny face drawn in red in the corner.
“Come talk to me after class, Mr. Parker” she says, more sympathetic than disappointed and for the first time, Peter reaps the privilege of being embarrassingly underprivileged in a rich kids' school.
He nods at her in agreement, too embarrassed to form words. He’s not worried about his grade. He knows that a C- is out of the ordinary for him enough to warrant attention. Paired with his family situation, which is for some reason widely known amongst students and staff alike, will most certainly grant him a merciful retake of the test. One he’ll hopefully ace and erase the shame of the C- blinking tauntingly at him. But the comfort of knowing that doesn’t even register to him. Not when alarm bells are blaring in his mind signaling the grade as a bad omen and preparing for hitting rock bottom.
“Dude,” it was a hiss disguised as a whisper, sharp with urgency. Peter glances to his side, meeting Ned’s accusing eyes. “What happened?” he asks. A hint of disbelief shadows his words. He can’t fathom Peter getting anything below a B+, at worst. And that’s only because of his tendencies to skip school to fight crime and nothing to do with his intelligence.
“Later,” he replies, the disbelief he is feeling is for an entirely different reason. What Peter can’t fathom is how he’s supposed to focus on anything when he has a more pressing matter at hand.
Ned doesn’t seem satisfied with his answer and frankly, Peter doesn’t care. He drops it though, sensing that now is not the time to nag him about his terrible grade or simply realizing it’s none of his business. Whichever one of the two it is, Peter is just grateful for being left alone to stare into the abyss. Reminiscing on all his happy memories with Mr. Stark as if they were his last.
His brain plays a sad montage paired with an equally sad song— the notorious dead character video. It’s all made up of course, an eternal torture session. Nothing but teenage hormones intensifying normal healthy emotions. Turning a pang of disappointment into a monstrous feeling of abandonment.
The heart truly wants what it wants, no amount of intelligence can ever convince a heart to think or believe anything other than what it already does. It’s a hopeless cause, an impossible task. All the logical conclusions are there, he knows. Deep in the folds of his brains, carved on each brain cell— he knows.
He realizes he’s being dramatic, that he took a small tiny feeling and ran with it all the way onto monstrous lands. It’s all just happening in his head, in his heart. Yet none of that stops his pulse from quickening or squishes down the funny feeling in his heart— the one he long ago associated with anxiety.
Time passes differently when you’re wallowing in self pity. Mrs. Alonso talks, Peter hears none of it, only sees her lips moving. MJ glances at him a couple of times, shifting her attention between him and her notebook, no doubt making him the subject of her next masterpiece. Ned tries to get his attention at some point, too impatient to wait for later and ends up getting increasingly more frustrated by being ignored.
Peter, in his own little world, reacts to nothing and thinks of nothing. There are little fires starting in his mind and alarms blaring in his ears. Chaos comes alive inside of him and the singular shining light within all this madness is a single thought.
Get back onto Mr.Stark’s good grace.
Happy is waiting for him once school is over.
The moment he steps out of the door, his eyes land on the familiar sleek black car making itself at home amongst the other expensive looking cars lined up to pick up privileged spoiled kids. It glistens under the sunlight, streaks of pure reflective white appear on its black surface where the sun hits just right.
It looks almost angelic– holy.
Peter stares at it in disbelief, mortified that his grief had manifested itself into the first stage– denial.
Or, in his case, actual delusion.
But Ned is looking at the car too, just as confused as Peter feels. So it must be real and that must be Happy here to pick him up and take him to the Tower where Mr.Stark must be waiting for him.
The relief he feels almost crushes him. The urge to laugh-cry is almost too overwhelming to resist. However, his newfound joy manages to tone it down to a choked up chuckle.
“Wait,” Ned says, frowning at the Audie. “I thought he cancelled.”
Next to him, Peter shrieks, clumsily trying to cover his friend's mouth and failing a few times. “Don’t jinx it!” he hisses then winces when he accidentally shoves his pinky up Ned’s nostril.
“Ahhh,” he yelps, his face scrunching up in disgust as Ned's contracts in pain. He blindlessly wipes his fingers on the other’s shirt, unable to tear his eyes away from the Audi.
He doesn't say anything as he steps forward, stumbling over his own two feet in his haste. As he does so, he hears Ned’s groaning voice saying something along the lines of: “I’ve been violated.”
Peter doesn't look back— he doesn't look at all.
He's practically sprinting across the street to the parked car. The urgency he feels overpowers any sense of logic he once had. Like a wild animal, he claws his way through the crowd. Peter pushes past students and gets nasty looks in return along with echoing yells of ‘ watch it ’ — nothing registers to him. Not the shoulders he shoves as he rushes through, not the cries of protest that follow him.
And neither do the cars.
It's almost comical how his spider senses don't pick up on the car heading his way. Considering he once felt a storm brewing two days before it hit, felt the impending rain deep within his bones. But his senses are not to be blamed. In the face of the threatening danger of being cast out of Mr. Stark's life as easily as he's warmed his way in it, getting hit by a car is insignificant.
He’s halfway across the road when the sound of tires screeching and the smell of burnt rubber snap him out of his drunken haze. Peter freezes, everything in him halts. The breath he was taking lodges in his throat as his heart all but stops beating. His entire body stings, adrenaline lighting a fire under his skin.
He watches, wide-eyed as the smoke clears to reveal a car brought to an angry abrupt stop mere inches from his frozen body.
There is a split second where the entire world feels like it’s collectively holding its breath.
Nobody moves or brinks.
Then…
The driver, a father of a girl on the volleyball team, presses on the horn even well after the moment passes. His shock seemingly delaying his reaction. His lips move, forming words drowned out by the loud beep. Peter winces, having no doubt what's being said is not appropriate enough to be spoken within a ten mile radius of a school.
“Sorry,” he says, shoulders up to his ears and face burning. “Sorry,” Peter repeats, to the poor man then the crowd whispering around them.
“Watch where you're going,” a voice yells, gruff and angry.
As Peter repeats ‘ Sorry ’ again like a prayer he realizes that this isn’t directed at him.
“This is a school area,” Happy barks, giving the driver a dirty look. He yanks Peter out of the way, albeit a bit roughly, and continues to glare at the car as it drives away. He mutters a series of rants under his breath, his grip tight on Peter's wrist.
Most of what Happy says goes unheard by Peter, who's deafened by his own heartbeat pulsing loudly in his ears.
Once satisfied with glaring unblinkingly at the disappearing car, Happy turns to him. “And you,” he hisses, pointing an accusing finger at the teen. “What the hell were you thinking?” he asks, redirecting the force of his glare at Peter who shrinks under the weight of it.
He's too out of breath to answer. His legs feel like jelly underneath him. As if one step forward is enough to send him tumbling to the hard gravel. He swallows, blinking up at Happy wordlessly.
Peter feels the gaze of a thousand eyes on him.
Curious kids linger to catch a glimpse of what happened, no doubt weaving exaggerated tales to add a bit of excitement to their day tomorrow. Worried teachers follow him with their eyes, waiting for him to leave before he gets hurt under their watch. And helicopter parents saving the incident deep in their memory, planning to use it to set new safety rules.
But the one gaze that burns the biggest hole in his skin is Ned’s
Peter can see him in the corner of his eyes. He's still standing where Peter had left him by the door. Ned is squinting worriedly in his direction, brows furrowed together into a tight line. His eyes glance from Peter to Happy, then right back to Peter. The gears in his brain are turning, calculating the situation, debating whether or not to intervene.
He doesn't.
Happy, growing impatient, opens the car door for him. He lets go of Peter's wrist in favor of gesturing for him to get in. He watches him expectedly, his annoyance with Peter increasing with each car that passes them by. The hustle and bustle of students filtering out of the school first, then the street, starts to die out, leaving nothing but silence to fill the air between them.
When Peter makes no move to get in, Happy finally takes a second to look at the boy.
Really look at him.
There is a wild frantic look in his eyes, that of a cornered wolf. His grip on the strap of his backpack, casually hooked to one shoulder, is tight. To the point that his entire hand is ghost white, cutting off blood circulation. The breath that he lets out is shallow and every time he inhales, a wheezing sound follows.
Something is amiss.
“Are you okay, kid?” Happy questions, his glare softening into a concerned look. He, not so subtly, makes a silent check over Peter. His eyes seek out each limb, as if taking count in case he's missing any.
Peter opens his mouth to reassure him but what comes out is something entirely different.
“What are you doing here?”
Happy’s brows rise, pulled back by his surprise. “I always pick you up on Wednesdays.” He says with a hint of confused hesitance lingering in his voice. He eyes Peter suspiciously, his looks bordering between genuine concern and fond annoyance. Happy gestures for him to get into the car once more. He’s been glancing around every other beat, uncomfortable with their position out in the open dangerously close to each passing car.
He wants to get off the street.
Peter feels rooted in his place.
“I thought Mr. Stark couldn't make it today,” his voice is tentative when he speaks, low and slow. A glimmer of hope raises amidst all the little fires burning his insides. Peter grabs it with a vice-like grip, refusing to let it go. A part of his brain feeds this newfound hope. Coming up with possible reasons as to why Happy is actually here. And all of them end up with Peter spending his day with Mr. Stark, like he always does on Wednesdays.
“That's right,” Happy confirms, shattering Peter's fragile hope into tiny irreversible pieces. “But he wanted me to drive you home. Pick up lunch for you on the way.”
“Oh,” is all that comes out of his mouth. His voice is small, disappointed. He looks down to his sneakers, dirty and well worn out. His face burns with shame and his eyes sting a little.
And oh god, he feels so stupid.
If Happy catches the hurt in his voice he doesn't comment on it. “Yeah,” he says instead, back to being impatient. “Get in.”
Peter finally does as he's told, thankful for the opportunity to wallow in self-pity in relative privacy instead of giving New York’s subway riders a front row seat to his pity party. He pulls the door closed with slightly trembling fingers.
For the first time since their new arrangement of Happy picking up and driving him to the tower, Peter is the one to shut the partition separating them. Happy’s grunt of surprise is the last thing he hears before engulfing himself in his own miserable bubble.
At first, Peter tries to reason with himself. The voice that argues back is that of his 6-year-old self—timid, wide-eyed, still waiting at the door for someone who isn’t coming. They go back and forth. Peter presenting facts and using logic to prove that Mr. Stark is not cutting him off. His younger self, that scared little boy he carries with him, uses his history as hard evidence. In comparison to a string of gut-wrenching losses—his parents, Ben—lab time and movie nights seem almost laughable.
He loses the debate.
Thus resurfacing his hypothesis of being cursed.
Happy allows him ten minutes to sort out his teenage angst before pulling the partition open and glancing at him curiously through the rearview mirror.
“So,” he starts, feigning the casualness in his voice. “What are we thinking for lunch?”
Peter sighs. It sounds dramatic even to his own ears. “Just take me home, Happy. I don’t have much of an appetite,” he says, watching the city blur past the window, the reflections slipping over his face like rain.
“I do,” Happy responds, “and I’m feeling like pizza.”
Peter doesn’t argue with him, drained from arguing with himself.
The rest of the car drive is silent. Neither one of them speaks, but Happy steals worried glances at Peter.
It’s only when he’s standing outside his apartment with three boxes of pizza and a family-sized Pepsi does Peter realize Happy hadn’t gotten himself any.
And suddenly, that matters.