Chapter Text
It was quite possibly the most excruciating lift ride of Peter’s entire life. He had learned over the past year to handle having eyes on him, but only, it seemed, when those eyes were trained on the bright red-and-blue fabric of his mask, or filled with the patronising pity reserved for orphaned teenagers in faded thrift-store hoodies.
Thirty pairs of intrigued, thoroughly confused, and bordering-on-awed eyes staring directly at his bare, unmasked face? That was entirely new territory. And he hated every single second of it.
The metallic cube was heavy with a suffocating silence. On the far side of the lift, Flash Thompson was huddled into the corner, wedged as tightly as humanly possible between the brushed-steel wall and the safety handrail. His usual flushed, chest-puffing bravado was gone; his face was pretty pale, shifting into a sickly shade of ash-grey while his thumbs flew across his phone screen in a furious, frantic blur, no doubt texting his dad or firing off desperate, wild posts to his Instagram story trying to rationalise the last two floors. Every time Peter so much as shifted his weight on his sore ankles or adjusted the strap of his canvas backpack, Flash’s eyebrows hitched together in a sharp, defensive flinch.
Ned leaned into Peter's space, keeping his head low and his voice at a hushed whisper. "Dude," he hissed, his eyes practically bugging out of his skull. "Flash looks like he's about to throw up his breakfast."
"I am going to throw up my non-existent breakfast if we don't get out of this elevator," Peter muttered back under his breath. He rested the back of his head against the cool steel wall, letting his eyelids flutter shut. The cool metal felt heavenly against his warm skin, but deep in his core, his stomach gave a low, vicious rumble - a sharp, clawing reminder that his accelerated Spider-Man metabolism was currently eating his reserves alive to knit together his bruised ribs. "I just want to crawl under a workbench in Lab Four and sleep for a week."
"Not a chance, Petey-Pie," MJ said smoothly from his left, her voice a flat, deadpan murmur. Her pencil made steady, rhythmic scratching strokes across the heavy paper of her sketchbook. "I'm currently writing the captions for the graphic novel adaptation of today's tragic events. Chapter Four is titled The CEO's Kiss of Death, featuring a very detailed portrait of Pepper Potts treating you like a sleepy golden retriever."
"I hate both of you so much," Peter groaned, burying his face in his hands, though a faint, tired smile tugged helplessly at the corner of his mouth.
Near the front control panel, Mr Harrington stood frozen, clutching his worn wooden clipboard against his chest like a flimsy life preserver in a stormy sea. He kept clearing his throat with tiny, dry coughs, opening his mouth to speak, shutting it, and sweating profusely enough to glisten under the overhead LEDs. Finally, as the elevator began its smooth deceleration, he worked up the courage to take a tiny, painfully hesitant step toward Peter.
"Peter," Mr Harrington said, his voice pitching a full octave higher than normal, trembling with a sudden, frantic need to smooth over past administrative friction. "Ah... Peter. When... when you had your graduation grades slip signed by a guardian at the start of term... and you brought back that signature P. Potts..."
"And you called my aunt, flagged my account, and tried to get me suspended for forging an official document," Peter mumbled flatly, tugging his hoodie strings tight until his face was practically hidden inside his fleece collar.
"Right! Well! I see now that it was... absolutely valid!" Mr Harrington said instantly, his hands flying up in a frantic, placating gesture as if he were trying to talk down an armed robber. "Very... legitimate! I never truly doubted it for a second, Peter, you know I always support your... extracurricular endeavours!"
Ned had to bite the inside of his cheek so hard a single tear leaked out of his left eye, his shoulders violently vibrating as he fought back an explosion of hysterical laughter.
Peter glanced up through his hoodie opening, a small, weary smirk breaking across his face. “Okay, Sir. Thanks.”
Before Mr Harrington could dig his hole any deeper, the lift chimed softly, a pleasant, resonant tone that broke the agonising tension like a physical weight lifting off the room.
"Level Nine: Biochemistry," FRIDAY’s clear voice announced from above.
The elevator doors parted to reveal a floor that looked radically different from the rest of the tower. Gone were the warm timber accents and exposed steel of R&D; Level Nine was a brilliant, sterile white. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls enclosed temperature-controlled lab bays, raised stands where people and anatomical models stand, and ultraviolet sterilisers humming overhead. The class stepped out, and it immediately separated those who preferred the science or technology by who basked in the sci-fi atmosphere.
"Level Nine is where our advanced medical, cellular, and biochemical research takes place," Claire explained, leading the group down the central walkway. "The teams on this floor develop everything from rapid-healing skin grafts for emergency medicine to high-density synthetic proteins for field medical kits."
Flash, who had spent the last two minutes in a catatonic state of shock, suddenly twitched. His eyes darted around the sleek, pristine lab, landing on a large, glowing warning placard bolted to the glass door of Lab 9B: BIOHAZARD LEVEL 4 - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
A tiny flicker of his old, desperate defiance flared back to life. Flash swallowed hard, his voice raspy and thin as he forced out a dry, harsh laugh that sounded entirely hollow in the sterile hallway.
"Okay... fine. So you paid off the CEO and Mr Banner. Whatever, public figures will always take bribes if you throw enough money or sob stories at them. Big deal. But this is real science. Real, high-level bio-chem." He turned toward Peter, pointing an unsteady, shaking finger at the heavy, sealed airlock doors of Lab 9B. "I bet you don't even know what an incubator is, Parker," Flash challenged, his eyes wild as his sheer refusal to accept reality drove him forward. "I bet you couldn't even scan into a bio-hazard bay without setting off alarms!"
Before Peter could pull his hands out of his hoodie pockets (or before Flash could pull his finger out of his ass), the airlock doors of Lab 9B hissed violently, depressurising with a sharp, heavy rush of mechanical air.
A sharply dressed woman in a pristine, tailored lab coat stepped out into the hallway, tailed closely by a tall, lethal redhead who was actively itching and tugging at the high-collared, skin-tight black Lycra framing her torso.
“Dr Cho, it’s pulling on my suit,” a strong-voiced complained, the voice laced with a strange, childlike annoyance that juxtaposed with everything the tour group were thinking of her. “I can feel the stitches.”
Dr Helen Cho, world-renowned geneticist and head of SI’s advanced MedBay, looked thoroughly exhausted by her patient until she nearly walked straight into the cluster of thirty frozen teenagers.
“Natasha, there are no stitches. You are feeling nothing,” Dr Cho said dryly. Then she blinked, her eyes widening slightly as she took in the crowd. “Oh! A tour group?”
Mr Harrington’s eyes bulged so wide his glasses slid halfway down the bridge of his nose. He recognised her instantly from cover features in scientific journals; she was practically royalty in the world of biotechnology. The rest of the class was having similar jaw-dropping reactions. However, theirs was far less about the world-class geneticist and much more about the second Avenger of the morning casually striding out of a bio-hazard airlock right in front of them.
Natasha Romanoff stopped in her tracks, her sharp, dangerous eyes scanning the sea of terrified high schoolers before landing directly on Peter, who was actively trying to dissolve into the wall behind Ned.
“Hello, паучок,” she smirked, tilting her head as Peter tried desperately to hide inside his oversized hood. “How is your field trip?”
The class started whispering again in frantic, breathless bursts, but the buzzing noise was rapidly shifting in Peter’s mind from embarrassing and stressful to just deeply, profoundly annoying. He felt like every time he was forced to 'prove' himself, the headache only got worse. That was the whole reason he had tried to avoid this stupid intern summer school bullshit in the first place. Why couldn’t Tony just be a normal billionaire for once in his life and write a massive, press-bringing check to Midtown Tech, so they could go to a museum instead?
Natasha frowned a little, her brow knitting together as she looked at the class around her as if to say, 'Get a load of this guy.' She turned back to Peter, her tone shifting. “Peter, I am talking to you.”
He could tell she was mocking him slightly now, clearly aware of the deep-rooted, nuclear embarrassment radiating off him in heatwaves.
“Hi, Nat,” Peter muttered into his collar.
She barked a sudden, clear laugh that echoed off the glass walls. “Petey, you wound me! I asked you a question. I am telling Tony.”
Peter leaned in slightly, dropping his voice to a hushed, desperate whisper. “Did he put you up to this?”
Natasha shook her head, but a dangerous, amused smirk graced her features.
“Sorry, if I could interrupt,” Dr Cho cut in, checking her tablet screen with a furrowed brow. “Peter, you are due in MedBay tonight. Please don’t go straight to the main workshop. I’m only out of my office because the dramatic Widow and an even more dramatic Stark wanted me up here for… suspicious reasons. And did Tony give you my notes on the synthetic vascular weave?”
Peter winced, taking a tiny, reluctant step forward while thirty pairs of eyes tracked his every single breath like targeting lasers. "Uh. Hey, Dr Cho. No... I haven't been up to the main lab yet today."
"Well, he altered the molecular density again," she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in profound exasperation. "He thinks he can make the tissue self-seal faster, but all it did was ruin the elasticity under lateral tension. I need you to re-run the secondary stress simulations for me later. You know how the algorithm handles the tensile strength better than he does."
Flash’s jaw dropped so fast it practically hit the sterile tile floor with an audible click.
"I... I can look at it later, Dr Cho," Peter stammered, his cheeks heating up to a shade of red that rivalled his suit. "I'm... kind of on a field trip with my high school right now."
Dr Cho paused, looking over the top of her reading glasses at the crowd of gaping Midtown Tech students, then down at the bright, fluorescent yellow lanyards draped around their necks.
"High school," she repeated slowly, her brow furrowing in genuine, unscripted confusion. "Wait... you... On a field trip here? In your own building?"
"I know," Peter groaned, burying his face directly into both hands. "My aunt made me come."
"Well, don't forget to check those stress models," Dr Cho said, walking towards the elevator. As the doors began to slide shut, she added over her shoulder, "And tell Tony that if he overrides my lab protocols again, I'm locking him out of the cradle room for a month."
While the doors sealed with a mechanical thud, Natasha remained standing in the corridor, her cold, unblinking green eyes slowly sweeping across every single member of Peter’s class. She gave them the same flat, terrifying, uncaring look she gave hostile targets, letting the silence stretch until half the front row took an instinctual step backwards. The doors slid open again.
“Natasha!” Dr Cho’s voice called out from inside the lift, prompting the Black Widow to finally break her staring contest with the traumatised teenagers.
She turned back to Peter, her sharp expression melting into something fond as she reached out, pulling him into a swift, firm hug that pressed right against his sore ribs (though she was careful enough not to hurt him)
“See you later, паучок,” she murmured into his hair, stepping back and patting his shoulder. “You need me, you call me, okay?”
Peter nodded slowly, letting out a vague, exhausted sound of agreement. He was so completely over this day that he felt like he might genuinely fall asleep standing straight up.
As Natasha turned on her heel and glided down the executive corridor, Ned leaned over, whispering into Peter's ear with pure, unadulterated awe. "Did... did Dr Cho just ask you to fix her Nobel-prize-level medical tech? In front of the Black Widow?"
"Yes," Peter whispered back, pulling his collar up over his ears to hide his face from the rest of the world. "She does it when she's annoyed with Mr Stark."
Claire took a slow, deliberate breath, smoothing down the front of her blazer as if trying to reassemble her professional composure piece by piece. She looked from Peter, who was actively trying to fold himself into a ball without moving, to the rest of the class, who were standing in jealous, stunned silence.
Breaking into a bright, heroic smile, Claire clapped her hands together with a sharp crack that rang through the sterile corridor.
"Well!" Claire announced, her voice snapping everyone out of their trance. "That was Dr Helen Cho! Head of World Biotechnology! And the second Avenger of the day, Natasha Romanoff! On that completely unprecedented note, I think it is officially time for our next stop on the itinerary before lunch."
Claire took the opportunity of the much longer elevator ride to explain the history of Stark Tower, Tony’s father, and history science, which – sorry, Claire – Peter immediately tuned out. This day was long enough without hearing history he already knew.
Minutes later, FRIDAY announced her presence once again. “Level 82, Avengers Museum.”
"The museum," Mr Harrington croaked, his voice cracking into a high squeak. "Yes. History. Excellent. Everyone... single file into the lift. Please do not touch... any bio-hazards, Avengers, or ancient artefacts."
"Peter, Mr Stark has left a noteregarding the display case 45. He asks that you do not let your classmates lean on the glass."
A few muffled, nervous giggles broke out among the students, but Peter just groaned loudly, letting his head thud gently against the cool steel wall.
"I'm going to lock him out of his own lab," Peter muttered into his hoodie collar.
"Dude, the museum level is legendary," Ned added in an eager, hushed whisper, nudging Peter’s elbow. "They have the damaged Iron Man suits on display, right? Flash hasn't spoken in twelve whole minutes. Seeing you casually walk past Tony Stark's old armour like it's no big deal might actually put him into a coma."
"I just want a normal field trip," Peter mumbled, though a tiny, exhausted smirk finally tugged at the corner of his lips as they all filed into the huge, lived in common room.
Peter had been here before, when it was still the living quarters, common area and training rings. Seeing it now, he felt 14 again, Tony pushing him out of the executive lift across the room, straight in front of a sparring War Machine and Black Widow tumbling over the sofa. He’d been wearing his mask (just in case), and they had immediately ribbed him for it.
Now, the bare bones of the first room were the same, but dead centre in front of the elevator was the familiar Avengers silhouette. 5 replica suits (and one Very Large plastic Hulk statue) stood in a fighting formation, with Iron Man and Captain America centred, facing each other. The class ooh’d and ahh’d at the sight, taking in the sight that had made them feel safe their entire childhood. They tumbled out of the lift, but Peter felt like he couldn’t lift his feet.
Ned tried to nudge him along, “Dude, are you…” but as he turned his head, he noticed just why his friend was glued to the spot.
Hanging upside down from a web-like string, dangling above a crouched black widow, was the familiar red, blue and black suit that Tony had gifted Peter in Germany. Spider-Man was presented as part of the Avengers.
Claire chimed back in, “This is the Civil War exhibit, honouring the battle between Iron Man and Captain America. The main Avengers all feature in time accurate suits, and this was the first iteration of Spider-Man working with the Avengers!”
Peter and Ned were both looking emotionally at the statue, while MJ was looking suspiciously at them both, while Claire got going. “This Spider-Man model is a very new addition; in fact, it got added this week. If you follow to the right, you will find the Hero-specific displays.”
Ned, moving his camera repeatedly between the statues and Peter, filming his reaction, was making them lag. “Dude! I can’t believe this!”
MJ laughed a little, “You two are so up Spiderman’s ass it’s insane, I’m sure he’s got his own exhibit to the right if we actually caught up with the group!” The boys gave a little private smile to each other and moved along, but MJ caught it, as she always did.
"Dude! I can't believe this!" Ned hissed under his breath, practically vibrating. "Yo- He is literally in the display!"
MJ let out a low, dry laugh. "You two are so far up Spider-Man’s ass it’s insane. I’m sure he’s got his own exhibit to the right if we actually catch up with the group."
The two boys exchanged a private, knowing look and moved along, but MJ caught it (as she always did).
"Spider-Man doesn't have his own exhibit," Peter said casually, trying to feel chill about the emotional hole in his chest filling with was that… pride? Over himself? ew. "I was here last week and—"
Flash pounced from around the corner, his eyes wild and his voice bursting with loud, explosive triumph.
“Ha! So you are lying!” Flash crowed, pointing a finger directly at Peter’s face, his voice echoing off the high museum ceilings and drawing half the class's attention back to them.
Peter blinked, taking an instinctual step back. “What are you talking about, Flash?”
“Are you blind, Parker? Look in front of you!” Flash sneered, gesturing frantically at the large, polished archway right in line with the rest of the Avengers' galleries.
Just past Cap and Iron Man's doorways, a dedicated bay sat under bright, warm spotlights. The illuminated plaque above the entrance read: SPIDER-MAN.
"You said you were here last week!" Flash yelled, desperate to reclaim an ounce of ground. "If you actually worked here, you'd know there was an entire section built for him right next to Thor's! You don't know anything about this tower!"
Peter stared at the newly opened archway in genuine shock. He had walked this floor six days ago, and this bay had been completely walled off for maintenance.
"Flash, it wasn't here last week," Peter said softly, his voice dropping as he took a step toward the glass display cases.
"Because you're making it up!" Flash shouted, marching straight past Peter into the middle of the gallery to mock him in front of everyone.
The gallery's opening was identical to the others structurally, the archway framing the room in the same pattern as his suit, but as he stepped in, he felt like he was going to start sobbing. Around the room, small screens played repetitive edits from his early YouTube clips, of him training in the Avengers Gym, of him and Tony, suited up, having a competition of which got them up the tower quicker, swinging or flying. Fan selfies, Peter’s personal photos, fan art and painted murals were scattered all around the walls. Short walls of text explaining the science behind him, the shortened, simplified version of his origin with the spider, and his famous battles. In one case, several different, old and new versions of his Webshooters, in another, a detailed explanation and example of his web fluid. But what was taking his breath away was the largest, clear square in the middle of the room where, back to back, two suits were displayed proudly.
One, a very impressive replica of his current suit that was calling to him even now. The other, much less remarkable.
It was a faded, scuffed red sleeveless hoodie with dark blue sleeves poking out, the bottom half of the tattered blue onesie, and cheap goggles with hand-ground lenses held together by modified camera parts. The chest bore a rough, hand-drawn spider symbol in black fabric marker. He’d spent weeks watching sewing tutorials, cutting his fingers (one of the main ways he realised he healed quicker than he used to) on the needles, and practising the spider on the back of his homework sheets.
It was his original, home-sewn suit. The one Peter thought had been permanently destroyed after the Vulture collapsed a warehouse on top of him in Maryland.
Beneath the glass, a brass plaque was engraved with a short inscription:
"BEFORE THE TECH, THERE WAS THE HEART. DEDICATED TO QUEENS' OWN SPIDER-MAN, WHO PROVED THAT 'IF YOU'RE NOTHING WITHOUT THE SUIT, THEN YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE IT.'"
Peter stood frozen in front of the glass, his throat tight, his vision blurring slightly around the edges as he stared at the frayed cuffs of his old sweater. The weight of the gesture hit him like a truck. The quiet, public recognition Tony had poured into restoring that worn-out cloth, the fact that he would have had to have found and pieced the tatters together from under the rubble in Maryland.
Above both suits was a framed photo of Iron Man and Spider-Man, the metal mask lifting to reveal Tony’s face, and yet somehow the masked face of Peter was more expressive with total joy, sitting on top of the Statue of Liberty together.
Beside him, Ned wiped a stray tear from his eye, camera completely trained on Peter the whole time.
MJ looked from the scuffed hoodie in the case, to the plaque, to the way Ned was recording like a proud mother, and then directly at Peter. Her mouth parted slightly, the sharp, analytical edge in her eyes softening into absolute, unshakeable quiet as the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place.
Flash, meanwhile, scoffed loudly, scoffing right at the glass. "Look at this, Parker: even Spider-Man started as a broke, desperate loser in a hoodie, and he still made something of himself. Meanwhile, you're just a glorified coffee-runner taking credit for his exhibit."
Flash shook his head in complete, oblivious contempt, entirely blind to the truth standing six inches away from him. Placing his hand on the display case, Flash made a move to lean closer to Peter’s face, but was interrupted by a single blaring noise coming from the overhead speakers.
“Alert! Mr Stark specifically asked for no classmates' touch display case 45. Peter, would you like me to alert security?” Said FRIDAY in her distinct matter-of-fact voice.
Peter didn't even seem phased. He just kept staring at the worn red cloth, a small, genuine smile finally breaking across his face. “No, that's okay, Fri. Thank you.”
Flash turned on his heel, talking to himself, “Just because the display is new, I have to be humiliated in front of the Spider-Man exhibit.” He sounded dejected, but Peter wasn’t even worried.
He couldn’t get over what was in front of him. Tony always knew the exact right thing to do to make him feel like a real guy again, to make him feel like just a kid on a field trip and yet the most special person in the world.
MJ, internally close to hyperventilation, was praying to any god (maybe even to Tony Stark) that what she was thinking wasn’t right. She tentatively dipped her toe into the water of her thought process, “Peter… Is there something that maybe you haven’t told me?”
Because they are geniuses who are masters at being nonchalant, both Peter and Ned whipped around to face her entirely too quickly. Ned’s phone clattered out of his hand, still recording, but neither of them made the move to pick it up.
“What?” He squeaked (very chill and cool about everything).
She laughed like she was finding herself ridiculous. “It’s just, I don’t know, everything that doesn’t make sense about you is suddenly making a lot more sense in this room.”
Peter started to inch towards her, like she was some wild animal, “MJ, I don’t know what you are talking about”
“MAN OF SPIDERS!”
From the archway behind her, in came walking Thor. MJ facing him gave Peter the perfect opportunity to try to subtly convey to God that this was NOT a Spider-Man secret safe zone by wildly shaking his head and putting his finger to his lips while Ned was doing a similar game of solo charades.
“... is what this room is dedicated to!” Thor continued, really, really trying to be helpful. “Hello, different friend Peter Parker.”
MJ turned around so sharply that both boys had to snap back to standing like military cadets. “Hello, Thor. It is nice to see you again. This new exhibit is lovely.” Maybe he was overdoing it, but he had never had someone figure out that he was Spider-Man all by themselves before, and he was freaking out.
“Yes, Man of Spiders is an invaluable member of our team, eh?” He clapped Peter on the shoulder once and winked. Peter deflated as MJ pounced on the information.
"Our team?" MJ repeated softly, her voice dropping into a dangerously quiet, razor-sharp register. She didn't look at Thor. Her eyes were locked onto Peter, unblinking and hyper-focused, like a prosecutor who had just watched a suspect accidentally sign their own confession. "You're on their team?"
Peter went entirely stiff. "I—no! I mean, no, he meant 'team' as in... the whole Stark team! The Stark Industries student outreach initiative team!"
"Yes!" Ned chimed in frantically, waving his hands around. "Everyone who works with Stark is part of the same team!”
MJ ignored Ned completely, taking a slow, deliberate step toward Peter. "Thor didn't say 'the intern team,' Peter. He shouted Man of Spiders at you and said you were an invaluable member of our team. As in the Avengers. As in the superhero initiative."
“No!” Chimed in Thor, although he was sort of giggling like a child as he said it. “Imagine Peter as Spiderman!”
Peter looked up at Thor with wide, pleading eyes that practically screamed help me, but the God of Thunder was looking between them with an expression of grand, booming pride.
“That’s the main issue. I can. I can imagine Peter as Spider-Man. In fact, I can 150% picture his face behind the mask several times he has wound up saving me.”
"Indeed!" Thor thundered, sending an entirely indiscreet thumbs up Peter’s way. "Well, he makes it work!"
Peter buried his face directly into both hands, letting out a long, muffled groan of complete defeat.
Ned slowly raised his phone back up, his jaw hanging open. "Okay, well, there's literally no lying out of that one."
MJ didn't react at all. She just stood there, arms hanging loosely by her sides, her mind visibly whirring through every strange detail of the last two years at three hundred miles an hour.
"The physical education fitness test," she murmured, listing items off an invisible mental checklist. "The weirdly specific rib injuries. Disappearing in Washington D.C. Disappearing in Germany. The fact that you somehow survived getting hit by a car last semester and walked it off in two days. How you constantly joke about being stabbed."
She snapped her sharp gaze back to Peter, her eyebrows drawing together, and lowered her tone to a barely audible whisper. "You're Spider-Man."
"MJ, please—" Peter stammered, taking his hands away from his face, his voice cracking horribly. "It's... It's really complicated, okay? Mr Stark made me promise—"
"You let me believe you were just a weirdly stressed runner! You’re letting our whole class believe you are just some weirdly connected intern! You let everyone believe you grew abs after having food poisoning for a week in freshman year, but you’re telling me you were actually just bit by a radioactive fucking spider?" MJ interrupted, though her voice lacked any real anger. Instead, her eyes drifted past Peter, back to the glass showcase behind him - to the faded, hand-sewn red hoodie, the cheap modified goggles, and the brass plaque praising the kid from Queens who proved he was something without a suit.
Her expression softened, the sharp, analytical barrier completely melting away into something quiet, awe-struck, and remarkably gentle.
"You fought a giant bird guy in a sweater you bought at a thrift store?" she asked softly.
Peter rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing a brilliant, nuclear red as he looked down at his sneakers. "I mean... yeah. I didn't have the Stark suit then. Well, it was the sweater on top of my homecoming outfit."
Thor looked between the two of them, nodding but not quite grasping the social nuances of the situation. "He fought valiantly! And then he wept in the common room because he missed his curfew!"
"Thor, no!" Peter groaned, burying his face back into his hoodie sleeves while Ned let out a snort so loud it echoed down the corridor.
In the next arched hero gallery, Flash was standing by the Thor exhibit, holding a replica Mjölnir paperweight from the gift shop and trying to take a selfie with the life-sized wax statue of him that looked remotely real.
"Right," MJ said, taking a slow breath and crossing her arms over her chest. She looked Peter up and down, a tiny, rare, undeniable smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "So. You're Spider-Man."
"Please don't tell anyone," Peter pleaded quietly, looking at her with wide, genuinely anxious eyes. "I’m supposed to be completely anonymous. The small circle of people who know is already way too large."
“I was here first!” Ned bragged, like a child.
MJ and Peter both looked at him in silence for a second, desperately trying to portray the “Not The Time” energy that they felt in their souls.
“Please, MJ. It would mean the world.”
"Parker," MJ said, her voice dropping into its usual cool, unbothered cadence as she gave his shoulder a light, reassuring nudge. "I won’t tell anyone about your little secret identity. But we have a lot of catching up to do."
Peter let out a massive, breathless laugh of sheer relief, the crushing weight in his chest finally lifting. "Deal.”
Thor’s face lit up with a brilliant, thunderous grin as he looked between the three of them, entirely oblivious to the nuclear meltdown he had just single-handedly caused and defused in under ninety seconds.
“This has been so wonderful, Peter!” Thor declared, his booming voice echoing off the reinforced glass display cases. “I must visit Midgard more often; it has been far too long. And now I have met your friends! I have two extra Earth fellows!”
For the first time in a long time, the crushing weight that had lived on Peter's chest for years almost completely vanished. The terrifying secret he had been guarding with every fibre of his being was out to the only other person he had ever thought about telling, and she hadn't panicked, hadn't abandoned him, and hadn't turned him in. She was just terrifyingly MJ about it all.
The relief washed over him, and a breathless, tearful laugh escaped his lips. "Missed you too, Buddy," Peter said, wiping a quick hand across his eyes before giving Thor a short, fond smile. "Why are you even here anyway? Aren't you supposed to be off-world?"
“Oh, Tony asked me to come down to your planet for a short while,” Thor replied flippantly, waving a massive, armour-clad hand in the air as if interstellar travel were a minor errand. “Something about a field!”
Peter froze mid-thought. His eyebrows knit together as a sudden, horrifying realisation began to piece itself together in his head.
"Tony did what?" Peter questioned, the dots connecting in his mind with terrifying clarity.
Before Thor could answer (or before Peter could start formulating a plot to break away and shout at Tony), Mr Harrington poked his anxious, sweating head around the archway of the display bay.
“Kids-” Mr Harrington began, his eyes darting around the gallery before landing directly on the 6”6 Norse God of Thunder standing in full battle armour next to his students. He stopped dead in his tracks. “Oh. Hello, Sir!”
Mr Harrington couldn’t get away from the thought that this field trip was far, far above his pay grade.
“Hello!” boomed Thor happily, taking a massive step forward with an infectious grin. “Nice to see you!”
Confusingly, and purely out of autopilot survival instinct, Mr Harrington reached out and accepted the unbelievably strong handshake offered to him. His entire arm vibrated up to the shoulder socket.
“Um. Yes. You too,” Mr Harrington squeaked, wincing slightly as he retrieved his crushed hand. “Deeply sorry, but... I need to steal the kids back.”
Thor’s cheerful expression instantly dropped into a sharp, protective worry. His brow furrowed so deeply he looked like a confused Cabbage Patch doll. “Steal?”
“I just mean... I need them back with the rest of the group,” Mr Harrington stammered quickly, taking a nervous half-step backwards toward the main corridor. "We're moving to the next section."
Thor searched his face for a long second before relaxing. “...But no stealing?”
“No, Mr Thor,” Mr Harrington whispered, looking like he might faint. "No stealing."
“Good to hear!” Thor thundered, his booming laughter returning at full volume as he clapped Mr Harrington on the shoulder, nearly knocking the poor teacher off his feet. “Goodbye, Peter! And Peter’s Earthling friends!”
Thor thundered off down the main gallery, leaving a trail of shell-shocked tourists and a thoroughly catatonic Flash Thompson in his wake, while Mr Harrington ushered Peter, Ned, and MJ back toward the rest of the group.
MJ didn't say a word as they walked, but as soon as they fell into step behind Mr Harrington, she reached out and smoothly yanked the strap of her heavy canvas backpack off her shoulder, slinging it directly into Peter’s chest.
Peter caught it instinctively. "What's this?"
"My bag," MJ said calmly, not even looking at him as she adjusted her sketchbook under her arm. "You're Spider-Man. You have super-strength. Carrying my notebook, pens, and a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo shouldn't break your ribs."
"Right. Obviously," Peter mumbled, a soft, fond smile tugging at his lips as he slung her bag over his shoulder next to his own.
Beside them, Ned was still hyperventilating in hushed, frantic whispers. "Dude. MJ knows. MJ knows. And Thor called you 'Man of Spiders' in front of her. This is officially the most insane three hours of my entire life."
"I'm going to kill Mr Stark," Peter whispered back, though his voice was entirely devoid of real anger. "He set the whole thing up. The suit in the case, Banner, Nat, Dr Cho, Thor... he literally choreographed my entire life today."
They reached the main elevator lobby where Claire was waiting, smoothing down her blazer with a bright, heroic smile.
"Alright, Midtown Tech!" Claire announced, clapping her hands together. "After that... truly extraordinary gallery tour, props to those lucky enough to catch a 3rd avenger sighting of the day, I think it is officially time for our scheduled lunch break on the Executive Dining floor!"
A collective, ragged sigh of relief rippled through the Midtown students.
"If everyone could follow me back into the lift," Claire said, ushering the class forward. "Stark Industries has provided $30 onto all of your ID cards to spend at the dining hall, and we have reserved seating in the main atrium!"
Mr Harrington practically collapsed into the elevator, clutching his wooden clipboard like a lifeline. "Lunch. Yes. Food. Excellent. Everyone... single file into the lift."
As the lift doors glided shut, FRIDAY’s smooth voice filled the cabin. "Descending to Level 15: Executive Dining. Peter, a reminder from your boss: He can and will enforce High Chair protocol."
A few muffled, nervous giggles broke out among the class, the jokes of the day finally becoming funny and not lowkey stressful.
When the lift chimed and the heavy doors parted on Level 15, the rich, mouthwatering aroma of a hundred different dishes wafted straight toward them, instantly overriding the sterile scent of the circulating elevator air. The layout made the room feel huge. An expansive square of intimate seating booths occupied the centre of the floor, surrounded by high-top timber tables, while three full sides of the perimeter were lined with open-kitchen restaurants like the most high-end mall food court imaginable.
"Go get us a table, Alpha Gold," MJ said, nudging Peter toward the centre booths while the rest of the class scattered toward various queues with frantic, ravenous energy. "I’m getting Thai.”
Ned stalked off right behind her, splitting off toward the adjacent restaurant window that was serving mountains of fresh, steaming pasta.
Peter didn't argue. He hauled both his and MJ’s heavy bags over to a clean, vacant six-person booth, dumping them onto the plush leather bench before sprinting straight toward his absolute favourite joint in the entire building. His Spider-Man metabolism was practically screaming, his stomach rumbling loudly enough to rattle his bruised ribs.
The pizza shop was tucked into the far corner, almost always manned by a woman named Mary who had been feeding Peter huge, greasy slices for over two years now. It was one of the few stalls that stayed open much later than the others (mostly because it was a particular, late-night favourite of Tony’s), which meant Mary had seen Peter stumble up to her counter looking worse for wear more times than he cared to admit. She’d ignored his scraped knuckles, hidden extra garlic knots in his boxes, and never asked a single invasive question.
“Hi, sweetheart!” Mary called out the second she spotted him over the glass display. Her thick, authentic New York accent curled around Peter’s ears like a warm hug, instantly cutting through the noise of the crowded hall. “I’ll get you a pie, hold on, Honey.”
Peter leaned against the cool granite counter, a genuine, relaxed smile finally breaking across his face. “How’s your son doing?” he asked, genuinely interested in the ongoing family saga she regaled him with regularly. “And the puppy? Did he stop chewing the baseboards?”
“Oh, don’t even get me started on the dog, Pete,” Mary laughed, wiping her hands on her apron and pulling out her phone to show him the latest pictures. “He ate my shoe last Tuesday, but look at this face–”
She was cut off mid-sentence by a loud, dripping-with-venom scoff from right behind Peter’s shoulder.
"Unbelievable," Flash sneered, stepping up beside Peter and looking back and forth between him and Mary with a cruel, mocking twist to his mouth. "I mean, seriously, Parker? You're even faking a relationship with the lunch lady now?"
Peter sighed, not even bothering to turn around. "Flash, leave it alone. We're just trying to eat."
"No, no, I get it," Flash said, his voice rising maliciously to make sure the nearby Midtown students queueing for tacos could hear every word. His posture was tense, aggressive, fueled by three hours of mounting embarrassment. He leaned heavily against the counter, his eyes narrowing into something ugly and frantic. "It all makes sense now. You don't have a real internship. You don't know Tony Stark. You're just... hanging around."
Mary’s smile instantly vanished, her gaze hardening into steel as she looked Flash up and down. "Excuse me, kid—"
"I mean, think about it!" Flash interrupted loudly, gesturing wildly toward Peter. "A broke, orphaned kid from Queens who somehow spends all his free time wandering around a billionaire's private tower? Getting special treatment from the staff? Free food? Access to private floors?" Flash took a menacing step closer into Peter's space, leaning down to drop his voice into a disgusting, quiet accusation. "What are you actually doing to get all these perks, Parker? What kind of 'favours' are you doing for Stark to keep you around?"
Peter froze. The casual, relaxed warmth in his chest instantly vanished, replaced by a sudden, icy shock. "What did you just say?"
"You heard me," Flash spat, his face flushing red as he completely lost his grip on reality, desperate to tear Peter down by any means necessary. "You're a leech. A charity case who probably snuck in, found one way to make himself useful, and now you're creeping around being that kind of useful to all the avengers so you’ll finally have a place to stay-"
"Hey! Watch your mouth, boy!" Mary snapped, slamming a pizza paddle onto the counter with a crack like thunder. "You get out of my line right now before I call security!"
Flash didn't back off; he shoved his hands violently against Peter’s chest. "Answer me, Parker! What are you doing here?!"
Peter didn't fight back. He couldn't fight back. He knew with terrifying certainty that if he threw a single real punch or anchored himself to the floor using his stickiness, he would shatter Flash's hands or expose his super-strength to thirty watching classmates. So Peter just let his body go, absorbing the hard shove without bracing himself at all.
"Flash, stop," Peter warned softly, but his feet were already losing their grip on the polished, slick tile floor.
"Don't tell me what to do!" Flash roared. Blinded by fury, he stepped in and swung a wild, clumsy right hook straight at Peter's jaw.
Peter’s Spider-Sense pinged a soft warning in the back of his mind. He could have dodged it easily, but trying to play the part of a normal, fragile high schooler, he simply leaned back to let the punch miss. Between his exhausted metabolism, his bruised ribs, and the slick floor, his foot slipped out from under him.
The punch grazed his cheek, throwing Peter completely off-balance. His heels skidded backwards, and as he fell, the back of his head struck the sharp, solid edge of a timber high-top table, then fell straight onto the polished marble floors with a sickening, heavy thud.
Peter hit the floor hard, his world instantly exploding into a blinding burst of white light before fading into a sharp, disorienting ringing noise.
The entire food court went dead, silent as a graveyard.
Flash stood frozen in place, his fist still half-raised, staring down at Peter with wide, terrified eyes as his sudden burst of rage evaporated into pure panic.
Peter lay on the polished tile, making no noise and not even twitching. Across the hall, Ned dropped his plate of pasta onto the floor with a loud crash, and MJ bolted up from the booth.
Before anyone could even move, the low, calm hiss of the executive elevator doors parted behind the food court.