Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Today had been a good day. As he dangled his feet from the fire escape, the sun was far from setting, yet the orange tint was already merging into the skyline of New York, and the gifted taco was still warm. Oscar, the owner of a family-owned Mexican restaurant just off Roosevelt Avenue, had gifted him a full meal after he'd caught a thief fleeing from the restaurant. He was getting exceedingly lucky, and it was all thanks to the irreparable kindness of strangers, the loyalty Queens had shown him only growing as the weeks went by. And to think he'd worried about the papers, about people turning on him, about being labelled dangerous, when all people wanted was someone to keep them safe.

Despite it being a good day, his mind was stuck on the rip on the side of his hoodie, big enough to allow the faint draft of May to sweep in and tickle him. The tear was a gift from a criminal who had managed to get the upper hand on him, and as most of his fights went, he hadn't fought fair, and the knife had caught on the loose material. But it was fine; he could fix it easily with a sewing kit and any colour string, it could still be a good day.

As if he didn't have enough problems, an obnoxious yellow warning plagued his HUD once again.

Turns out he had a bunch of sensors that fed this very persistent, full-body medical scan, which ran at all times, monitoring him and compiling all the information to determine when they got too low, dangerous, or downright critical.

The slight broken part about it was that, when you are living off gifted street food and stolen hospital meals as a treat, when sleep eluded you most nights, and you were periodically burning away all your calories at a surprising but very inefficient pace… Well, let's say basic needs were never fulfilled.

He swatted at the warning in vain, his hand flailing over the space where the display was projected, even when he was well aware it was a digital display, courtesy of his optical unit rather than a physical sign he could dismiss. He was exasperated enough to not care.

Who thought it was a good idea to create a warning system and not give the androids access to modify those parameters or disengage those annoying, flashy warnings?

"I'm holding a taco, can we call this a win and move on?" He mumbled as he went to take a third bite from a generously stuffed chicken taco.

He never got to sink his teeth into it for a third time, startled by a yelp peeking through all the city noise, past busy streets and train tracks. It was far, seemingly barely outside of Queens, and even though it hadn't been a persistent cry for help, nor a scream of agony, there was a reason his ears had picked up on it.

Sometimes that sort of pretend dramatics happened, though; people scream all the time, especially in New York City, sometimes for the most minor inconveniences, and Peter had had enough awkward encounters with people that needed no saving whatsoever to make him think twice about bursting into action. Besides, he was getting better at discerning, so he should be able to tell if anyone was in danger if he could simply focus on it.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and allowing the wind to shift through his hoodie as his fingers lazily trailed the ridges and bumps of the rusted rail. He was looking for the place the yelp had come from, attempting to get a read on what was happening, if anything, but his spidey senses lay dormant, relaxed and content to rest without batting an eye.

It must have been a fluke, then, nothing more than his ears picking up minuscule snippets of people's lives, sentences he'll never hear the context of, voices he could never place.

He went back to his regular programming, frowning at the still unwavering yellow warning, persisting even when the smell of a fresh taco was impossible to ignore. He wondered if there was a sort of colour system for the severity of the warning, if yellow was moderate— because he wasn't feeling that bad— then maybe purple would be next, all the way to red and then black once he was at death's door. Why was it that people associated black with death? Was it because black was all you saw when you shut your eyes in fatality? Although there's no true way of knowing—

"Put me down, you psycho!" Another scream made its way past all the distant sirens, all the petty street arguments and even the radio chatter, practically clawing its way through the noise wall, demanding to be seen, to be taken seriously.

As Peter's senses remained quelled, new yelps flourished around the last one, each new voice merging with the complaints of the others until it was an incomprehensible mess.

He leapt off the fire escape before he could even process the information, hands dropping his food in favour of hastily webbing to two buildings and catapulting himself west towards the noise, towards the people in danger. He used whatever footing he could to propel himself forward, cursing the wind for slowing him down, even if surmountable.

Although the squealing slowed down significantly as he got nearer, he wasn't naive enough to assume the silence meant good news. Thankfully, instead of embroiling himself in the fraughtness of surmises, he chose to focus on the realistic deductions. Foremost, there hadn't been any pained moans or grating screams, so most likely there wouldn't be anyone badly hurt. The less pressing factor was that there was no ignoring the nagging and venomous complaints from aggravated New Yorkers— or at least the ones distinct enough for him to decipher amongst all the hullabaloo, the grumbles and groans louder than the grain buzz of subway tracks and trains.

He thrusted his momentum with his left hand's web, keeping a bruising hold on it as he fired another sticky string with his other hand, using it as a pivot point to turn a sharp corner between avenues.

He was comfortable propelling through the sky by now, familiar and confident enough to spend most of his time up between buildings. However, the moment he laid eyes on the scene below, he almost dropped himself entirely.

"What the fuck am I looking at?"

He asked for the sake of asking, because he wasn't sure even the civilians involved could rationalise the events that had led to this moment. There were a dozen or so people, all bound to various surfaces such as walls, sidewalks, cars, showcase windows and even the courthouse's stairs. His retina was kind enough to signal them all out, boxing them in faint green squares, but there was no time to count them all. His display provided an interpolated image of the closest victim, a woman possibly in her forties, and —

"There's no way," he whispered, almost missing his next web.

She was stuck to a light pole, all wrapped up against it, yet it wasn't any normal rope tying her tightly, nor any trap technology. No, she was entrapped by webs. His webs. Well, not exactly his, but a close enough replica that managed to stick like his, and was resistant enough to hold up a full adult.

"How did they get that?" he pondered, but his thoughts were quickly derailed by a string of new yelps, this time close enough that he didn't have to rely on his heightened senses.

Realistically, there was no real use in helping the people already targeted, at least not just yet, since they weren't technically in danger, more just so inconvenienced. The plan of action should be to find whoever was doing it first, then stop them in a fashionably quippy way, and then do damage control and free the civilians. All in a day's work. He hoped they understood his reasoning for prioritising, but the nasty glares they were sending his way as he breezed past were enough to create some sort of bad aura that would surely grant him bad luck for the next week.

What he saw next came as no surprise, since he had been provided bewilderment upon bewilderment from the moment he abandoned his lunch, but it wasn't expected either.

There was a small machine of sorts, a dog-sized oval-shaped robot, maniacally crawling the wall with a total of eight lanky, three-jointed legs. It was a spider, there was a metallic, tiny spider mascot, decked in his signature friendly blue and red design, and it was plastering people to the street with webbing launched from his face without a sense of direction or motive.

"Hey! Little guy!" He called down, not even sure the creature would know how to communicate in human language, let alone possess any reasoning skills.

Just his luck, the robot flinched at the callout and turned around to match Peter's stare. Well, "stare" was a generous word, since it had no visible eyes, just a painted-on mask and two glowing blue optics where they should've been.

A few uncomfortable seconds went by as both of them maintained loaded eye contact, gauging each other's next move, predicting next steps, and trying to figure each other out, so even though the thing wasn't even the size of a Labrador, Peter knew better than to underestimate a machine.

In the end, it was Webby— yes, unoriginal name, but he didn't exactly have all the time in the world to come up with something thought-provoking, did he?— who broke their standoff by promptly shooting a web at a passing cyclist.

Honestly, are people not aware of their surroundings anymore? They deserved to get webbed to the wall if they cycled straight onto the fighting grounds.

"No, we don't do that, that's not nice," he reprimanded, cautiously lowering himself to the street, if to catch Weby or try to parent him remained unclear. Everything was a bit surreal at the moment.

The thing remained attentive to his every move, but made no move to flee or attack, for that matter— just stared curiously. Was it also freaky for him to see Spider-Man?

"Where did you get that?" He insisted, pointing towards the web he'd just shot.

Webby didn't answer, didn't even cock his head in recognition or gesture a sign he understood, so maybe not fully intelligent, just instinctual. In which case, Peter had to resort to option number two: catching it.

The machine was fast; he'd seen it moving around with exemplary ease, but Peter was faster, and he went to town, throwing web after web after web at it to wrap it all up in a pretty cocoon that would hold even if the machine had more strength than average. With enough tampering, the cocoon swayed for a moment, probably Webby trying to claw out, and in a way, it pained Peter to have to apprehend it like this, while the guy was conceivably scared and confused, but he also doubted it could understand an apology… or a reason.

Which only raised more questions, both of its origin and its intent. The irony of a machine branding itself with Spider-Man colours. The irony of a machine pretending to be something it wasn't. The irony of the machine being a loose cannon, lost in itself and bringing havoc with it. None of that was lost on him. Maybe that's why he felt oddly paternal towards it, eyes fond yet horrified in the way a man might regard a miniature, anthropomorphic animal version of himself armed with a web shooter and a thirst for capturing every civilian he set his eyes on.

To his horror, Peter caught the tail end of a sizzling gurgling from inside the web-ball, something liquid and fizzling, white bubbles melting through the patches in the web, freeing the spider in a matter of seconds.

"Who taught you that?" It was the strangest mix of terrified and intrigued he'd ever witnessed, let alone felt, and the need to choose only one almost made him nauseous.

Webby, of course, didn't answer, instead picking the first two free spindly legs he'd dragged out to haul himself onto the street, booking it from Peter and resuming the havoc over the foolish onlookers who had wrongly deemed the situation under control. Rule number one of civilian survival: never assume a situation is under control— even if friendly neighbourhood Spidey is at the scene, and especially when he claims to have the situation under control. Rule number two was to always gift your local superhero a sandwich from Delmar's, but it seemed less relevant in this case.

"No, come here, psps, come back," he rattled, following close behind but unsure how to apprehend it now that his webs were rendered useless. Unless the thing had a certain amount of that mystery dissolvent stored, in which case it'd come down to how much web fluid he had on himself, and that was a battle he would for sure lose.

"Stop arresting random pedestrians!" he groaned, after two more people were webbed up, tightly together to the side of a car this time.

Suddenly, from one of the quaint shops to their right, a guy came out running, bolting it to the nearest alley, and Peter had seen enough robberies to know that running meant nothing good. His processor did the math for him, both efficiently and cautiously, with a final verdict of:

With that decision quickly made, he didn't spare another thought, or sight, to the criminal, sure that the moment he took his eyes off the robot, he would disappear deep into Manhattan's streets.

He had nothing to worry about, though, as Webby, the predictable machine it was, webbed the robber right up to the wall before he could even reach the alley. It would have been cool, if not for the fact that Webby hadn't actively done it on purpose, but rather as collateral damage from whatever his robot brain— probably faulty programming— was telling him to do.

"Hey, that's my thing," he complained, already able to see the headlines forming: Spider-Man Menaces Midtown, again, "Seriously, this is awful publicity. Why do you gotta be a blue-and-red mechanical spider? Do you have any idea how specific that is? You couldn't have been a squirrel? A pigeon? New York has plenty of those."

A rat-upscaled robot would have freaked him out, in all fairness, given all their history, so at least he got a chubby animated spider that chirped every time it fired a web.

"You are lucky you are cute," but despite that, Weby was giving him no option but to attack him, maybe damage it enough to get it under control and then try to fix whatever had gone haywire.

When he finally made up his mind, a persistent string of 'you have to do it, it's fine, he'll be fine, you have to hit him', Webby seemed to have gotten bored with toying with civilians, and instead had abruptly turned to face him, almost as if he knew about Peter's resolve.

Peter would like to clarify, for the record, that Webby was the one who started the subsequent fight. Not him; Webby did, so whatever happened next, to either of them, was not on Peter.

Still, he felt kinda bad about just decimating the poor guy with one kick, so in the spirit of being nice, he went easy. Fighting ensued, and Webby was not only fast on his feet but also extremely agile with his webs, which was no surprise. However, and heaps more frustrating, Webby was exceptionally good at dodging his attacks. Uncannily so. Almost like he could predict what he was gonna do next, like he could see the kicks and swings before Peter had even thought them out, like he knew his fight pattern by heart. For a machine that didn't seem that capable of rationality, it sure as hell was good at combat.

In the end, it was one misstep that did him dirty, a piece of concrete from the street curve giving in under his feet, causing him to stumble enough for Webby to signaturlly web him tightly to the conveniently placed mailbox.

It was a very smart move, too smart for a simple machine like this to make, given that he was stuck in such a position that his feet couldn't lever with the ground to pull himself out. His own webs had become his demise.

"You got me, what now?" He asked, half in frustration, half because he was curiously peeved at what this guy's plan was.

Predictably, he didn't offer any answer or even a hint of acknowledgement, but it did stay on him, eyes trained on Peter's struggling frame. He wasn't scared that the Spidey robot was going to hurt him; his fighting style, although painfully similar to Peter's, spoke to a more passive intention.

No, the real nightmare was being left behind by this mindless machine, stuck for hours in the middle of New York City, helpless and ridiculed.

Turns out he didn't have to worry, not for long.

Truthfully, Peter had heard him before he saw him. It was hard not to; the suit's propulsors were a sturdy thrumming, much like a distant thunderstorm, intimidating, towering, and imminent. But, unlike a storm, the suit was also flashy, polished to perfection, so that you could see a mirror of yourself in the red and yellow metal.

He must be in pretty deep shit for Iron Man to show up. And here he was thinking Friendly neighbourhood spider-machine was not that much of a threat.

He was expecting Webby to attempt an attack the moment the suit landed on the street, try to deliver a web straight to his chestplate, only for Iron Man to blast the poor guy with a propulsor hot enough to melt the motherboard or fry its sensors— even if that would be cruel and, frankly, overkill.

However, none of that happened. The suit landed without any intervention, a hard clank echoing the vacated street the moment the metal boots made contact with asphalt. Yet not even the loud ruckus could catch Webby's attention. What a strange machine.

"Well, that's a new one. Never thought I'd see a spider caught in its own web," the superhero's voice filtered out of the suit through some sort of speaker built into the helmet.

Only then, with Iron Man's carefree, taunting tone, did Peter's eyes narrow in suspicion. His senses weren't on high alert, but then again, who would expect to be ambushed by Iron Man?

"Did you have something to do with this?" The moment the icy words left his mouth, he cringed at the rudeness, but he couldn't take it back, especially not if the guy had orchestrated a trap for him.

"Why would you think that?" Iron Man's helmet snapped towards Webby, who had given up on monitoring him, instead idling by climbing various structures, "I thought he was yours, is he not?" he pointed a careless thumb over to the robot currently attempting to scale a traffic light, "He even has the uniform."

Peter wasn't sure what to make of any of it, let alone why Iron Man of all people was taking such an interest in his latest disaster. He could infer the ignorance was an act, but he hadn't known the man well enough to determine a cadence of speech, and, frustratingly so, his spider senses weren't at all phased by the machine suit in front of him. It wasn't exactly a secret that the man had an ego the size of Manhattan— the S.I building smack in the middle of the borough, enough proof— but surely he didn't feel threatened by Peter? He barely made local headlines as it was.

When Peter didn't answer, and he was sure his face was even more dumbfounded than before, Ironman snorted. He would've felt offended that the man had just laughed to his face, or at his face, if not for the words he spoke next.

"I'm kidding, relax, the little freak is mine," his voice had gone softer, a telltale sign of his sincerity if Peter had to guess, and as further proof, he whistled a short and lively melody which got the immediate attention of the robot spider, "Spitting image of you though, maybe even better dressed."

His blood turned cold in mere seconds after Iron Man's words, and the goosebumps along his arms were almost painful for all they were worth. His senses were rattled, the precarity of his situation finally settling in in the face of a heroic but dangerous man out for him.

He didn't like how laidback Iron Man's body language was, how he seemed to take every movement for granted, how he wasn't looking over his shoulder because he almost certainly had a machine doing that for him. As if to exacerbate him even further, the superhero scanned him up and down— the movement merely performative as he set up the next joke.

"Actually, definitely better dressed. Then again, you're currently wearing half a gallon of web fluid, so it's not exactly a fair competition."

Peter wiggled at the reminder, but the webs didn't give, just rubbed impersonally against his ribs. Damn, he'd built these things well.

"I'm sorry, but what's going on?" The question left his lips in a breathless concern, not because he was scared, but because the situation grew more suspicious the more the other superhero spoke, "Because this feels like the part where I realise I've walked into a trap."

The last thing he wanted to do was antagonise an Avenger, but it was hard not to point out the most logical conclusion. From the way the man's shoulder pads dropped, he knew they were both on the same page, at least on that.

"It was a trap," he confirmed without a hint of shamefulness nor regret, stunning Peter so much he was sure his open mouth could be seen from outside his mask.

"You just admitted it," he squealed, darting his head around in disbelief, like someone was about to pull out a camera and confess it had all been an elaborate prank for Punk'd.

He needed to emphasise his words with revolting hands flailing around, but the webbing remained stubborn and firm, so head lolling was the next best thing.

"Well, yeah, you figured it out," he commented, as if it were that simple, and not for the first time, Peter noticed how silky and renewed his voice sounded— reserved for matters of consequence, trained to slither and deflect.

He caught the faraway tone as well, the choppy trailing betraying the lack of immersion in the conversation at hand, probably tending to other matters with a similar operating DU like the one Peter used, only miles more advanced. He couldn't find it in himself to be offended, not when the one and only Ironman stood in front of him and had seemingly planted a trap to capture him… What a crazy string of words.

"That's not how traps work," he tried wiggling his hands free, or at least shifting them so he could find leverage on something, anything, and to his relief, the webs did stretch somewhat around his wrists. Seemed they hadn't quite perfected his formula. Amateurs.

"And yet, here you remain. Trapped," Ironman got closer to the mailbox, and Peter didn't feel exactly scared, but nervous about what the end goal was here, "Which is kind of your fault, since you are incredibly hard to contact," he offered, shrugging even under the heavy armour, "Trust me, I've tried."

Why on earth would Iron Man be trying to contact him? Better question: Why would his only method of contacting Peter be setting a trap to get him webbed to a mailbox? Wasn't Iron Man loaded? Maybe it was because Peter had no real legal identity linked to him, not on paper anyway, or perhaps Iron Man was astronomically bad at tracking people down. He didn't voice any of that, though, not keen on revealing how fundamentally lost he felt in this interaction.

"You built a robot spider," was all he had to refute, because how was that the most efficient way of contact?

"I built a robot spider dressed as you. Important distinction."

"That doesn't make it better."

"It absolutely makes it better," weirdly enough, his tone was deeply austere despite the rather inconsequential topic of discussion, but Peter was glad for the bits of information sweeping through the back and forth, "Look at him."

And Peter did, because it was hard to miss the mid-sized robot spider dangling upside down from a traffic light, gently spinning in the wind. Ironman did have a point; it looked kind of cool, and his first train of thought had been along the lines of 'how was this created' and 'how does it work', so it was no surprise when he conceded.

"It makes it, like, twenty-five per cent better."

"I'll take twenty-five per cent." Peter hated that he sounded pleased with that, that in the man's eyes, Peter's diplomacy was a win, but he wasn't done, gearing up from his vantage point to deliver what was presumably the real reason for his visit to Manhattan's edge, "Look, you're a masked vigilante who's somehow allergic to cameras, impossible to track, and apparently capable of sensing when someone's watching. Which, by the way, is deeply disturbing to be on the other end of."

Peter's lungs froze, seizing all the air out of them in one fell swoop as the implications of his words pieced themselves together at record speed. Iron Man had been watching him through the cameras, not some random villain, not a curious stalker, but Iron—freaking—man. He almost wanted to curse, because what were the chances of any of this going down the way it had? Oh my god, Iron Man had been watching him. That was so bad, terribly, monumentally bad. What did he know? Had Peter's past finally caught up to him? Was he here to mail him straight to the authorities?

"See? That right there. That thing you just did," amidst Peter's stupor, the hero's words were like an ice-cold bucket drenching him from head to toe.

"What thing?" He was quick to retort.

"The panic staring thingy," he twirled a hand around, signalling to all of Peter's body, "It doesn't matter, the point is I tried the normal routes. Couldn't find a phone, couldn't find an email, couldn't find an address. At a certain point, the robot spider starts looking less crazy."

"Building a miniature version of me and releasing it into the city is 'less crazy'?" Peter asked, incredulous but not blind enough to believe Ironman wasn't aware of how dicey a move it was.

"Again with the distinctions," Ironman sighed, "I built a friendly miniature version of you and released it into the city."

As if it knew it was being talked about, the tiny menace in question immediately shot a web at a newspaper dispenser, all whilst Tony just watched it happen.

"Mostly friendly," he mumbeled, more to himself than anything really, before conceding back to Peter, "He could be in a children's book."

"He just committed property damage."

"Kids love property damage."

Peter was rapidly getting the sense that he would say just about anything for the sake of keeping the upper hand in conversation. Just his luck that Peter was glad to let it play out, trusting his wits enough to avoid getting wrapped in the knots of the man's blubbering— even if, in a convoluted and impressive way, he turned out to be right in the end. Even if he was getting tired of running around in circles.

Luckily, they seemed to land on an alienating understanding once again, both of them standing on two different corners of the same crumpled page.

"I have a proposal for you," Iron Man said, like this was all perfectly reasonable, like Peter hadn’t just been webbed to a mailbox in the middle of whatever this was, "But first, we need to get on a first-name basis."

There was some peace brewing deep in Peter's sternum, warm and deceiving, assuring him that the man couldn't possibly be here to arrest him or to surrender him to cyberlife for parts, not when he didn't even know his real name.

The suit's helmet opened with a soft mechanical shift, pressurised air bubbling over as the plates folded back to reveal none other than Tony Stark in the flesh, looking far too comfortable for someone standing next to a restrained Spider-Man. However, his eyes were drawn to the freshly bruised black eye he sported, harrowing in itself if not for the larger situation at hand. Occupational hazard, perhaps… He didn't want to see the other guy.

"Pleasure to meet you, I'm Tony Stark," he started to extend a hand on instinct, then paused when he seemed to register, almost belatedly, that Peter was in absolutely no position to reciprocate the gesture.

"I already know that," Peter said before he could stop himself, the words slipping out with the kind of exhausted disbelief that came from adrenaline overload rather than actual confidence, "Who doesn't know that? And you already know I'm Spider-Man if you've been watching me through security cameras."

Sue him for wanting to play him a dig, for being petty, because those cameras had truly driven him insane for those first few weeks, the paranoia, the constant awareness of being observed without ever knowing by whom or for what nefarious reasons. Not that it was any clearer now, with the still-looming possibility of being persecuted for his android origin and faulty deviancy.

Despite the worry, he couldn't help but wonder absently what had changed, what had made it stop, though now didn’t feel like the time to unpack that particular mystery. The black eye might be enough of a clue.

"That's your job description, Mr Spidey," Mr Stark clicked his tongue, correcting him like he was doing Peter a favour, "Spider-Man is not a first or last name."

"I'm not telling you my name," Peter bit prematurely, a little sharper than he meant it to be, trying to keep it controlled and polite instead of letting the panic bleed through, "You just said this was a trap. Why would I give you my name?"

For a beat, Mr Stark just looked at him, wearing no-nonsense eyes blinking owlishly at him. Then, in the normal progression of a man not accustomed to getting denied, he sighed, as if Peter were being difficult on purpose.

Which he would have all the reason to be, if he wanted to, since he was still stuck to the godamn mailbox.

"Okay, see, I feel like you’re getting hung up on the semantics of ‘trap’ and not appreciating the broader context of ‘I went to considerable effort to get your attention’."

"I'm not telling you my name," he parroted himself, each time the words tasting saltier, as if he was accumulating every nervous twitch and quivering breath, camouflaging them into something stronger, sturdier, and spitting them back at Mr Stark.

"Really?" Mr Stark's eyebrows rose, clearly not expecting the resistance.

"Really," Peter stood his ground, because he could be friendly and accommodating, but he was not giving up his safety just because Tony Stark wanted to know his name, "I’m not giving you my identity. I don’t know you. And you’re not entitled to it just because you built a robot spider and webbed me to a mailbox."

It was so uncharacteristic of him to marshal his words into such peremptory ones, but his palms were swimming in growing sweat, and he resented how restricted his movement was on a deep instinctual level.

Surprisingly, that exact tone Peter shied away from seemed to be the only thing that gave Stark pause, his eyes focusing on him for a very long second, as if he were re-running the whole interaction over in real time. He knew the man was still set on getting his way, but he was thankful Stark was at least considering his side of things.

He was wrong.

"Yeah, okay, I don’t have time for this."

The words were merely a breeze, and Peter barely had time to process them before Stark was stepping forward aggressively.

"Wait—what?"

Stark reached for the edge of the mask, the chunky metal glove not wavering the closer he got, and Peter's mind filtered a mile a minute frantically for an escape.

Instinct hit first.

He jerked back so sharply the webbing strained against the mailbox, his body moving before his brain could even catch up, twisting away in a half-panicked hop that left him hanging at an awkward angle.

"Hey—don’t—!"

Stark paused mid-reach, looking mildly put out. Concerned actually made it to his forehead for what Peter would like to attribute to sincerity, and it seemed to catch both of them off guard.

"Whoa. Hey, that’s a bit much," Tony's voice was controlled, procedural, but he was paying close attention to Spider-Man's absolutely panicked reaction, at how viscerally he'd shaken despite being trapped.

The kid's chest was jumping in hitches as he tried to control it to no avail, and the more they held eye contact, the worse it got.

Tony knew firsthand how fear could take hold of you, numbing everything logical or rational until the only answer when oxygen didn't reach your lungs was to claw your chest out, or suffocate someone else to survive. He wouldn't put the kid through that, especially not when he was working on borrowed time.

"Fine, whatever, we’ll figure that one out later," He gestured vaguely at the trapped hero, at the situation, at everything, "But we are absolutely coming back to it."

Spidey's trapped shoulders relaxed at the postponement, or at best, his nervous system managed to distance itself from the previous harrowing panic, but it was clear it had left him strung up. It was definitely not an advantageous position to ask what he needed to ask, but if Tony couldn't count on charming the guy with the whole 'famous, billionaire, superhero', he would have to try a different approach.

"Now, if I get you out of those webs, do you promise not to run on me?" Both Stark's hands came up in question, an olive branch to align them in a similar tangent of trust as a necessity rather than a courtesy, but all Peter could read was 'it's not in your best interest to try to run away'.

It was most likely his paranoia, but his spider sense, even if it had relented considerably since Stark had backed away, remained like tinnitus deep in his ear canal. Tony Stark would have to work hard to gain his trust.

"Because I'm sort of on a time-sensitive debacle and I can't logistically do this again," Tony filled the silence again, hoping a sliver of vulnerability would show Spidey he wasn't a threat. As non-threatening as a man in a huge flying suit machine equipped with weapons could be, anyway.

After some excruciating seconds, seconds in which Tony debated just freeing the kid from his bonds and hoping for the best (something about 'to receive trust you have to give trust' or some other corny rambling from Cap, which felt ironic given their current standing).

His newfound patience paid off, however, as the vigilante nodded tentatively, and for the third time since this whole encounter had transpired, Tony resented the mask plastered on his face, not allowing him to read his true intent.

To be completely truthful, Peter had nodded instead of verbalising an actual response because he was both confused about Stark's plan of action and peculiar approach, but also wasn't completely sure what he was going to do once he was free; his senses worked on autopilot for the most part, and sometimes, they acted on impulse, but he had gotten this far by trusting his instincts, so he was not going to stop now, and if they deemed that running away from Ironman was the best course of action, then it was the best course of action and would be executed as such.

Stark retrieved an actual kid's water gun and began spraying what must have been the liquid web dissolvent. The only explanation for the careless container it was stored in was a grumble along the lines of 'I was short on time', but other than that, neither of them spoke a word as the liquid made its way through the sticky material.

Peter was biting his tongue, preventing any scientific curiosity over the components of the solvent from flourishing, since it was still a massive red flag that Iron Man had created a substance that rendered his webs useless, but the questions still bounced around insistently in his mind: How was it not acidic to fabric or clothes? How did it break down the web's bonds? Was the remnant reusable? Could it be painful when in contact with skin?

"Wait, what about the people he webbed up? They're okay, right? This isn't gonna hurt them?"

Stark seemed taken aback by the question, like he wasn't expecting Peter to be worried about civilians in the midst of his predicament. Maybe he hadn't even bothered to think about the collateral damage he was causing with this little trap, although Peter found that hard to believe; Iron Man helped people, he knew that much, even if the man under the mask was not the perfect image of a doting superhero. Then again, no one was.

"Relax. The web dissolves on its own after about three minutes, so they're probably all free by now and back to their regularly scheduled boring lives."

Now Peter really couldn't keep the questions contained, and they all flowed out of his mouth like a very vivid waterfall.

"Three minutes?! On their own? Wait, how? Like, do they dissolve back into a liquid, or do they evaporate? Is there a solvent involved? Because if there's a solvent involved, that's actually sick as hell."

Well, maybe from a chemistry standpoint it was, but it was definitely top three bad news for Peter.

"I'm still kind of offended you designed it to get rid of my webs," he corrected, attempting to sound bigger than he physically was, "I'm very proud of my webs."

He authentically was; that was god's honest truth. It fell under the intimidating umbrella of things the mutation had provoked in his behaviour that he would rather not look too much into, but there was no denying the protectiveness he developed for some of his more complex web patterns. The more twists and turns he got to assemble, the more it fulfilled him, and the occasional disappointment was imminent whenever it got either destroyed by a villain or fell through after a couple of hours.

"Wait, does this mean you can—-"

"Okay, whoa, slow down there " Stark's hand came up, succeeding in making Peter shut up, "Me first. You are enhanced."

He didn't say it like it was a question, more of a statement, a sentence to get them both on the same page. However, Peter wasn't comfortable with the millionaire knowing so much about him already, so he shook his head as vehemently as his shoulder allowed him. Stark looked less than impressed, and it wasn't lost on Peter that he genuinely seemed to be in a hurry.

Out of nowhere, his right ear buzzed alive, making his head twitch, and without even thinking about it, he ducked and rolled both to avoid whatever was heading his way and to get a look at it. It was the robot spider, Webby, waltzing over him and landing on the street a couple of feet from him.

"Not fair," Peter mumbeled, getting back up and blushing from embarrassing himself in front of Iron Man, "I just have fast reflexes, that's it."

They both knew that wasn't the case; Tony Stark wasn't stupid, and Peter Parker had never been a good liar. Besides, in the same way Peter hadn't liked dancing in circles with Stark's first theatrics, the man didn't seem fond of being lied to in such a crude way.

"Huh," he hummed, the scepticism flooding out of the suit, "Kid, I'm not here to arrest you. Believe it or not, I have significantly better things to do than drag a college student into custody for what is, at worst, an aggressively unsanctioned community service project."

Despite the piling up of lies, Peter sighed in relief, because at least Stark thought he was old enough to drive and not a fourteen-year-old pretending to be a superhero. At least he thought he was old enough to bear the responsibility of caring for a whole city; at least he saw him as someone good enough and not the frightened, lonely kid he saw in the mirror.

He could pretend he was 21 for a bit. What did 21-year-olds do? They drove, they got drunk, they could buy a flamethrower… He didn't have the need to drive as webs beat New York traffic any day, and he didn't think he could authentically get drunk, on account of his fast metabolism. A flamethrower might be cool for an hour or so.

Stark was still peering at him, trying to make sense of something his mask wasn't going to give away, but even then, he wasn't exactly expecting an answer. It was just a quiet observation, eyeballing what was there to see, what little Peter let him, and he knew it pissed him off not being able to see his face, for more reasons than one, but well, he'll have to deal with it.

"Why do you do it?" he asked suddenly, and Peter immediately knew what he was talking about, knew what he wanted to know, "I need to know what makes you wake up every day and choose to keep fighting for this city."

His response was almost instant, overlapping with the tail end of Stark's.

"Because I can," was all Peter had to offer, all that really mattered.

Tony almost laughed, not a jolly giggle, not even a lazy chuckle, but something sour and sarcastic, because Oh, if he hadn't said that exact phrase a couple of hundred times. Only it usually involved vastly different circumstances, with ecstatic excesses, liquid courage or reckless money decisions, always chased by a smug, irrefutable smirk.

He said it with the pompousness of a rebellious teenager, with the lashing of a grieving young man and later on with the egocentrism of a cover-up— All a far cry from the solemn straight way Spiderman conveyed them, and especially not with the weight clinging to them, clinging to the kid's shoulder. So much so that whatever came out of Spiderman's mouth next, Tony knew would be more sincere than anything he'd ever said.

"Because if I can do something, and I choose not to..." Peter trailed off, shaking his head, "I don't know, that just feels wrong."

His palms had only grown clammier despite now being free, and he pondered if the answer to such a serious turn in conversation could be found in the salt of the sweat gathered there. The answer was him; he couldn't afford to joke around when it came to Spider-Man, he had the responsibility to care for the people of New York, and he wouldn't downplay that just to keep things light.

"There are people out there risking themselves to help others every day, and they don't have what I have," he shrugged subtly, like it was the most logical thing in the world.

Because it was; someone needs help, you help them. His aunt helped sick people, his uncle protected the community, and now he had to help keep the street safe.

"We all have our responsibilities, so if they're willing to do it, why shouldn't I?"

A silence lulled between them, and Peter considered if Stark had grown bored of him, or if his answer hadn't been quite the drama he was expecting. Although his face was hard to read— probably the price of being regarded as a public figure— his expression wasn't quite cold, so he must have found something acceptable in his roundabout argument.

To his surprise, Stark took a step forward, slow and careful, not wanting to scare Peter away after their — his— last approach.

"I need your help," Tony announced, and despite the decisive tone he carried, it wasn't as loud as his previous talk.

Peter didn't know Tony Stark very well, but even he could tell how incongruous the ask was. To say that raised a hundred alarms was an understatement, but it wasn't the decision of helping that worried him, because that was never in doubt, but rather what Stark was about to say next.

Looking at it, although his eyes had grey bags deeply etched under them, and his forehead was scratched and crumpled with a remembered overused frown, his demeanour betrayed no fear or terror, just a desperate urgency.

“I’m sure you’ve seen the news. The endless parade of talking heads discussing the Sokovia Accords, and, naturally, the small but vocal contingent of individuals who remain… reluctant to sign."

Peter had heard about the Accords, mainly from the waiting room TVs, the faint audio enough for his enhanced hearing to catch on long heavy nights. Furthermore, his program had done the most basic of research, trying to fixate on anything other than the growing hunger the moment he stopped focusing on being Spider-Man, but even then it was almost all surface level, and he couldn't possibly fathom what that all could have to do with him.

"Some of the Avengers are about to make a really bad decision," he said quietly. "And if nobody stops them, things are going to get a hell of a lot worse."

The Avengers. Right.

What the actual fuck was Peter's life, honestly? He must have been knocked out by Webby at some point and was now unconscious on the street, no doubt.

Stark mistook Peter's astonishment for uncertainty, so he began to plead a case Peter was already pretty sold on, because you don't say no when Iron Man asks for your help.

"You talk about responsibility and duty, right? Well, so do they," the words came out more tired than angry, but the slow hand he rubbed over his face was the most telling factor, "These are good people, kid. Stubborn, infuriating, impossible people, but good people. And they're so busy proving each other wrong that nobody's stopped to think about what happens when this goes sideways."

That's the thing, wasn't it? Nobody in this mess thought they were the bad guy. They all thought they were doing what was right, that they were protecting people, that they were carrying some moral obligation. Blinded by what they thought was the right thing.

"But responsibility isn't just doing what you think is right. It's living with the consequences when it isn't and making sure you never commit that same mistake again," his gaze settled back on Peter, the severity of his words sinking deep into the asphalt in between them, "And right now, they're about to turn their carelessness into a mistake they won't be able to fix."

Peter gets it, he really does. Responsibility wasn't just doing what felt right, or what your hunch told you was the good thing, but thinking about the after, about the consequences, the effects your actions and choices will have on other people, especially at such a large scale as the Avengers.

These Avengers Stark was referring to… they weren't trying to make things worse. They thought they were stopping something bad from happening, something unjust, something they wholeheartedly believed was worse than the alternative. Just like Mr Stark was trying to do. But they didn't care for the repercussions, reacting rashly and avoiding the weight of their choices settling.

And Tony was right about that too… How easy it was to focus on being right instead of being careful, to act first and deal with what came after only if you had to. Because once you did something, you owned it. All of it. Even the parts that went wrong, especially the parts that went wrong.

"I'm in."