Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It wasn’t every day that Flash was really, truly annoyed by Peter Parker.

Granted, it was most days, like when Parker had to show off in decathlon practice and overshadow Flash, or when he earned a higher test score, or when he smiled at a girl that Flash was flirting with, or when he talked about his Stark internship.

His fake Stark internship.

Seriously, how gullible could everyone be? Even the teachers were fooled by Parker’s half-witted excuses to cut class or decathlon practice—“Oh, Miss So-and-So, Mr. Stark needs me! I’ll catch up with Ned!” Even Ned, Parker’s best (and only) friend, was fooled. He even insisted that Penis knew Spider-Man. Come on. Why would Spider-Man interact with a loser like Penis Parker? Only MJ, the new decathlon captain, seemed to not buy it, but the weirdo didn’t even seem to care. Flash was pretty sure she was a stoner, anyway, so her opinion didn’t really matter.

Flash was determined to reveal the truth. He just wasn’t sure how he’d go about it yet.

They were sitting in Physics, Parker right next to Leeds in the middle of the room. Flash had moved his seat up a few rows so he could eavesdrop on the two nerds, away from his friends. Ned kept hissing questions over to the other kid, stuff about the Stark internship and the Avengers. Parker kept telling him, “Not now, Ned!” and that Mr. Stark would have his head if he said anything else in school. Leeds resorted to tossing scraps of paper at Parker’s head, which he ignored. When Ned threw something more substantial at him (a pencil), Parker stiffened and jerked a hand up like a whip and caught it, shooting Leeds a harsh look. “Sorry,” The bigger kid hissed.

The bell rang and the teacher yelled something about homework, but Parker was out of his seat and gone before Flash could even register that he’d moved. Leeds called after him, but received no answer.

“Hey, what’s up with Penis?” Flash hissed towards Ned, who yelped and jumped three feet in the air.

The other kid swallowed nervously and laughed uneasily. “Um—well—he—he’s pretty busy with the Stark internship and stuff, and he’s, like, stressed—”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Flash told him. “You seriously believe him about the internship? He just wants attention. And an excuse to cut class, or decathlon practice.”

“No, he doesn’t!” Ned insisted. “He talks to Mr. Stark all the time!”

Flash rolled his eyes and started toward the door. “Sure, okay.”

Yeah, right. If Tony Stark was taking interns, he obviously would’ve picked Flash, not some kid with dead parents and a dead uncle and a random knack for physics. The choice was obvious.

It was last period, so the hallway was filled with the sound of slamming lockers and kids’ conversations. A few of Flash’s buddies tried to get his attention, probably to play ball or something that Flash didn’t really feel like doing, but Penis caught his attention again. How the hell was the dude outside already?

Flash grabbed his coat, bumped into exactly three pretty girls without apologizing or otherwise flirting, and managed to get out of the building just before Parker disappeared completely. Flash caught a glimpse of the smaller kid just as he turned around the corner and vanished.

Flash made to follow him, but a sharp voice from directly behind him stopped him in his tracks. “Hey, Eugene!”

He turned around to face Michelle Jones, ire sparking in his gut. “That’s not my name,” he snapped. “And I’m busy.”

“You skipping out on decathlon practice?” She asked. “Because that’s not how you get out of your first alternate position. Especially if you don’t know the capital of Mongolia.”

“Harare,” Flash said. “And fine, I’m coming.”

“Ulaanbaatar,” she corrected. “Let’s go, first alternate.”

Flash cast a furtive look back to where Parker had disappeared, then turned around and followed her back into the building.

---

The next morning, Flash scarfed down his Cheerios across from his dad, who was chewing on his cigar and frowning down at a newspaper with the words SPIDER-MAN FIGHTS MYSTERIO ON ROOSEVELT ISLAND, DESTROYS FOUR FREEDOMS MONUMENT printed in bold letters across the front. There was a blurry image of a dude with what looked like a fishbowl over his head, and although it was hard to see because of the “fog” or whatever, Spider-Man was there too, doubled over with a hand over his mouth. Below the photo, a smaller caption read, IS SPIDER-MAN SUITED TO PROTECT THIS CITY?

The publisher was the Daily Bugle. Go figure.

Hey, Flash was a super-duper-fan of Spider-Man. After all, the guy had taken his car to go take down the Vulture. And crashed it, but who cares, Flash’s dad took care of it anyway. It wasn’t like he was piss-poor and couldn’t afford a new car, unlike some kids he knew whose initials were PP. (Peter Parker. Piss-poor. PP. Come on.)

“You had better steer clear of those hero-types,” Flash’s dad grumbled to him between puffs of his cigar. “Never know with them.”

“Right, dad,” Flash told him, scooping his backpack up and heading for the door. “Bye!”

---

That day, Parker wasn’t in school, which set Flash’s plan to a grinding halt. He had been planning to confront the kid after school—corner him against the lockers and demand that he admit that he didn’t know Tony Stark. But since he wasn’t here, Flash was going to have to make do with the next best thing: interrogating Ned Leeds.

“Hey, fattie,” Flash hissed to him. They were in Physics again, except now that Parker wasn’t in school, Leeds was sitting next to Michelle, who was studiously ignoring everything in the room and doodling in her notebook. Ms. Warren was lecturing, saying something about a swinging pendulum, but Flash had decided he could go one more class without paying attention.

“Why isn’t Penis in school today?” Flash continued, speaking at a harsh whisper. “Did you warn him that I’m going to expose his fake internship?”

Ned focused his gaze at Ms. Warren and ignored Flash, but the stiffening of his back let Flash know that he’d heard.

“Or maybe he’s just hungover from all the drugs he’s been doing? I’ve seen him running into those alleys after school—”

“Shut up, Flash!” Leeds hissed. “Peter’s not doing drugs, he’s just sick! Is that unheard of?”

“Sick,” Flash mocked. “Penis is sick. Wow, that’s—”

“Mr. Thompson!” Ms. Warren exclaimed shrilly. Two dozen heads swiveled to face Flash, and his cheeks flushed. “Must I give you another week of detention and another note home? I believe you just finished last week’s.”

Flash sunk in his seat. “No, ma’am.”

He didn’t say another word to Leeds that day. And when Michelle reminded him of decathlon practice, he nodded and went without protest. He’d get Penis tomorrow.

(But not in Ms. Warren’s class. Seriously, that woman was scary.)

---

The next morning, Flash woke up ten minutes before he had to leave for school. He threw on his clothes, frantically brushed his teeth, and grabbed a granola bar. His dad was in the same place as yesterday, chewing on his cigar and reading the Bugle.

WHERE WAS SPIDER-MAN? The front page read. Beneath it, there was a hazy image of the fishbowl-guy that the media had named Mysterio standing tall in front of a burning building. MYSTERIO LEVELS BUILDING, KILLS SEVEN.

“You had better steer clear of those hero-types,” Flash’s dad said to him as Flash raced out the door. “They’re clearly unreliable.”

---

In English that day, Parker showed up with red-rimmed eyes and a tight jaw. He slipped into his seat next to Leeds, his earbuds in, and plopped his head onto the desk. Ned looked over at him, then sighed and looked away. “Sorry, Peter,” He whispered (quite badly, it was really loud), as though Flash wasn’t sitting right behind him and listening to every word they said. To be fair, he probably didn’t know, so…

Parker made a noncommittal sound from where his head was pillowed on his arms. Leeds continued. “There was nothing you could’ve done. The gas—”

“I know, Ned,” Peter snapped. “Just forget about it.”

What gas? If Penis was pretending he’d messed up some experiment at Stark Industries, then Flash was going to freaking murder the kid, investigation or not. Mrs. Winterhalter came in with her thick folders clutched to her chest. “Good morning, class!” She said, cutting Leeds’ and Parker’s conversation short. “Today, we’ll be starting Romeo and Juliet…”

---

After class, Flash’s head spinning with symbolism and light and dark and other themes, he followed Penis out of the classroom. The nerd was keeping his head low and his left hand wrapped tightly around his right upper arm. He ducked into a classroom before Flash could stop him and the bell rang.

Damn. Flash didn’t have any other classes with Penis that day and now he’d have to wait until lunch, or, even worse, after school. Flash couldn’t wait that long.

He spent his next few classes planning exactly how he’d reveal Penis Parker’s lies to the whole school.

---

At lunch, Flash was ready.

He was sitting down with all his friends at the lunch table, conveniently facing Leeds and Parker from where they sat alone at one of the tables on the far side. Matt and James were flanking him, and everyone was talking about the hottest girls that they wanted to bang as well as the Chem test that half of them had failed. Flash himself had barely earned a passing score and he was first alternate on the decathlon team, so that had been a hard exam.

“I heard Parker aced it,” Harrison said loudly. Flash took that opportunity to glance over at Penis. Aside from a slight stiffening of his shoulders, Parker gave no sign of hearing.

“Probably used all that time he says is for the Stark internship to study,” Flash grumbled, smirking in his head. This was perfect.

“Hey, Penis!” He called loudly over the din of the cafeteria. Parker looked up tiredly, already looking ready for the verbal assault. “How much school did you skip to study for the Chem test?”

Parker looked away. Flash jeered, “And decathlon practice! All for that fake Stark internship, right? You know, I think I should just replace you on the decathlon team. I think I’m more than qualified—”

“I think I decide that, Eugene,” A soft voice said from behind Flash. He twisted and holy crap Michelle was standing two feet behind him. He flushed when all his friends snickered at her use of his real name, and he growled at her. She raised an eyebrow at him. “You wanna test me?”

“Defending Penis again,” Flash sneered. “Why do you keep him on the team? He giving you a good time—”

She tilted her head at him before something hard collided with the back of his head. He whirled, noted the apple rolling onto the floor, then fixed his gaze at Penis and Leeds, who were both pointedly not looking over at them. Michelle fixed him with a cold look, then stalked away. “You’re on thin ice, Eugene,” She told him as she sauntered towards the loser table. “And Peter’s a lot smarter than you’ll ever be.”

All the boys at Flash’s table made an ooooh sound and Flash glared harshly at the back of Michelle’s head. The bitch just had to ruin his plan. Now he had to wait until the end of school. For the rest of lunch, his friends talked about girls and driver’s ed, and Flash settled for lobbing meatballs towards the loser table. One hit Leeds on the back of the head.

---

After school, Flash raced to the entrance and still missed Parker. He kicked the trash can over and skipped band practice for that day.

---

The next morning, Flash ate Frosted Flakes (they were out of Cheerios) across from his dad, who chewed on a cigar and frowned down at the Bugle. Today, the front cover read, SPIDER-MAN FACES MYSTERIO ON BROOKLYN BRIDGE, CAUSES MAJOR STRUCTURAL DAMAGE. The blurry picture of the day was Spider-Man perched on top of a car, shooting one of his webs towards Mysterio, who was holding an object that looked like one of the grenades in those crime TV shows.

Below the picture, the Bugle screamed, SPIDER-MAN INJURED! IS HE CAPABLE OF PROTECTING NYC?

“You’d better steer clear of those hero-types,” Flash’s dad grumbled to him as Flash finished up his bowl. “Don’t seem too capable to me.”

Flash rolled his eyes, unseen by his father, as he grabbed his backpack and went to the door. “Right, dad! Bye!”

---

As Flash drove to school, most of the things on the local radio were saying at least one thing about Spider-Man’s skill and general suitability of protecting the city from Mysterio. One radioman insisted that Spider-Man’s vigilantism was the reason that Mysterio was out and about in the first place. Still others shouted that Spider-Man was nothing more than a police stunt or a CIA secret agent. Flash rolled his eyes at all of those. Spider-Man was a hero! He’d defeated the Vulture (and put the hottie Liz Toomes’ dad in prison, but he was a criminal, so…).

Spider-Man didn’t deserve all this hate! Plus, there were rumors that Spider-Man had teamed up with Iron Man. That just made him cooler in Flash’s book. The guy was basically an Avenger anyway.

---

Flash was almost at school when the screaming started.

He was stopped at a red light, idly listening to some woman rant on the radio about Spider-Man’s skill level, when the light turned green and a lamppost crashed right onto the car in front of him. Metal screeched and a lady screamed, and Mysterio stepped right into the middle of the intersection.

(He really was wearing a fishbowl on his head.)

Chapter Text

In Flash’s opinion, Mysterio was… a lot stupider-looking in person.

He was serious. The fishbowl, the green bodysuit that left way too little to the imagination, the purple cape which, honestly, just looked like he was trying to copy Thor and the Vision, and, again, the fishbowl. Why the fishbowl?

Car alarms began shrieking as a truck swerved desperately to avoid hitting Mysterio, only to end up careening into three piled-up cars. Two other cars behind it smashed into the truck’s rear. The sound of crumpling metal made it over the desperate noise of car horns.

Flash couldn’t believe his eyes. Was he dreaming? This had to be a dream. There was no way that Mysterio had just tossed a smoking canister of some form of gas into a crowd of pedestrians on the corner waiting for the light. No way that they had collapsed, coughing, sleeves over their mouths, hands clutching their throats

People were screaming now, abandoning their cars and running through the street. Mysterio still stood, his cape swirling in the light breeze. A Honda crashed into a cab that had been trying to escape the madness, and one of their gas tanks exploded, sending flames spurting up twenty feet into the air. Mysterio watched silently, the flames glowing on the reflection of the fishbowl. Flash couldn’t move.

Distantly, police sirens had begun to wail, but Flash knew they wouldn’t make it in time to keep Mysterio from leveling the entire block. He’d seen the images on his dad’s newspaper.

Suddenly, there was a thud on the trunk of his car, and an all-too-familiar voice yelled out, “Hey, Mr. Aquarium! Why don’t you pick on someone who’s not your own size but can actually fight?”

Flash twisted in his seat and whooped at the top of his lungs. It was Spider-Man. They were saved.

---

A ragged cheer sprang up from the bystanders as Spider-Man shot a web squarely at Mysterio’s face, covering up the fishbowl and sending the villain stumbling backwards. Spidey grabbed a fistful of Flash’s shirt and lifted him effortlessly out of the car with one hand, setting him on the street. He was clearly focused on Mysterio, but he waved Flash on. “Get out of here!”

Flash wasn’t worried about his well-being. He just wanted a selfie, some proof that he’d met Spider-Man and Penis Parker hadn’t. Spidey was his hero, and not many people had had the luck (or misfortune) of meeting the vigilante twice with no evidence. He grabbed Spider-Man’s arm and said, “Please, can I have a picture?”

Spider-Man focused exasperatedly on him, only to do a double-take. He groaned and muttered something that Flash didn’t catch. “Not right now, buddy!” He told Flash before shooting a web at a nearby lamppost and yanking himself towards Mysterio. He knocked the villain down with a full-body kick, and Flash was swept away with the crowd.

---

Flash was two blocks away when a red blur crashed into a storefront across from him. Shattered glass sprayed and people screamed, ducking for cover and desperately covering their faces with their arms. Flash stood tall, trying to catch a glimpse of Spider-Man as he climbed back to his feet, groaning and clutching his side. Mysterio still hadn’t spoken a word, but Spider-Man yelled another taunt and flung himself back at the bad guy.

Mysterio half-turned towards the crowd of fleeing citizens, and Spider-Man yelled, “Oh no, you don’t!” before kicking Mysterio halfway down the block.

---

Flash was two hours late to school that day. The streets were closed, his car was, thankfully, unharmed but caught up in the middle of a taped-off police area, and his dad was working and couldn’t be interrupted.

(What that really meant was that Flash’s dad was too busy smoking and reading his newspaper and he would be busy until about one o’clock, when he finally got up and stumbled to his waiting chauffeur, who would drive him to whatever big business meeting he had that day.)

Flash answered a few of the questions the police posed before they grew exasperated, mostly because they were looking for dirt on Spider-Man and Flash most certainly was not going to give them that. After the lady asked him, “Was there anything otherwise incriminating about Spider-Man that you noticed?” and Flash answered, “I just find it incriminating that you’re asking me questions about the hero and not the villain. Who saved me? It definitely wasn’t the police,” the woman waved him on.

---

Flash walked to school. When he got there, there were two dozen other kids waiting to sign in late. Peter Parker was last in line, in a baggy hoodie and with an arm wrapped around his ribs. He had the hood pulled up and earbuds in, but he still noticed Flash the instant he came in. Penis tugged the hood higher, but it didn’t hide the bruises running up the side of his neck into his hairline and down into the sweatshirt.

---

Flash wondered where Penis had gotten the bruises all day. He was so preoccupied with it, he forgot to ask.

---

When school got out, Flash got a voicemail telling him that his car was waiting to be picked up at the police station. It was, conveniently, in the opposite direction of where Flash lived. It was, even more conveniently, in the exact direction of where Penis Parker lived.

Flash caught a glimpse of the nerd’s hunched shoulders and baggy hoodie as he speed walked down the sidewalk.

Flash belatedly decided this was a perfect opportunity, and he jogged to catch up. He trailed about ten feet behind Penis, but before Flash could call out, Peter groaned and pressed his phone to his ear. “Hey—”

Penis abruptly pulled the device away from his ear, and even from a dozen feet away, Flash could still hear the angry words spewing from the other line. “I’m fine,” Parker protested into the phone over whoever was on the other end. “Seriously, it’s just a few bruises— no, that’s really okay, Mr. Stark, seriously—”

Flash almost forgot to keep walking. No way. There was absolutely no way that Penis was actually talking to Tony Stark. He had to know Flash was behind him and he’d faked a call, just trying to get a reaction out of Flash. Yeah, that had to be it.

“No–no!” Peter snapped. “No, Mr. Stark, Happy does not need to bring me to the Tower, seriously—no, not the Compound either, really, I’m fine— what do you mean, too late?”

Flash stepped sideways into an alley just as a silver Mercedes pulled up to the curb. The backseat door opened, and the driver called, “Get in!”

“I cannot believe you,” Penis told the person on the phone before hanging up and slipping into the car. Flash tripped over a trash can and missed the moment they drove away.

---

Flash also forgot to pick his car up and ended up walking back across half of Queens just to retrieve it. He cursed out Peter Parker on his way there and wondered how exactly it was possible for him to have faked the internship so thoroughly.

---

That night, Flash shut the door against the sound of his parents’ fighting, opened up his laptop and Googled Tony Stark Happy. The first things that popped up were multitudes of grinning Tony Starks, but below that, there was a Wikipedia article reading Harold "Happy" Hogan. Flash clicked on it.

Harold “Happy” Hogan is Stark Industries’* Head of Security, as well as Tony Stark*’s former chauffeur and a dear friend to both Stark and SI CEO Virginia “Pepper” Potts*. The most recent public incident involved him being present when Tony Stark announced his engagement to Pepper Potts, as well as an attack by the Mandarin* two years ago… click here to read more.

*See articles on Stark Industries, Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, and the Mandarin here.

Flash sat back in his chair, now fully confused. If this Happy Hogan was the same Happy that Penis had mentioned to the “Tony Stark” he’d been on the phone with, then did that mean that Tony Stark had sent his company’s head of security to pick up… an intern? That couldn’t be right, even if Penis was telling the truth about the internship, which he most certainly wasn’t. Maybe “happy” was a code word? No, that couldn’t be right, either, that word would be too easily confused with normal conversation. And why would Penis need a code word anyway? Especially if he was talking to Tony Stark—his tech was probably untraceable.

“Dammit!” Flash hissed, slamming his laptop shut. “What the hell, Penis? What are you hiding?”

“Eugene, honey?” Flash’s mom asked tentatively, causing Flash to whip his head up. “Everything all right in there?”

Cheeks flaming (yeah, he knew exactly how that had sounded to someone listening in), Flash called back lamely, “Yeah, everything’s fine!”

“Okay,” Flash’s mom said, doubt clear in her voice. “Well, dinner’s ready, so come on down.”

“Be down in a minute.”

“Okay, sweetie.”

---

During dinner, Flash’s dad read a late edition of the Bugle. The title, as usual, screamed SPIDER-MAN FIGHTS MYSTERIO, ENDANGERS SCHOOLKIDS. From across the table, Flash squinted at the grainy picture, trying to pick out his car. He grumbled when he realized it had been cut from the photo.

Flash’s mother ate silently, the only sound coming from her part of the table being her knife scraping against her plate as she picked at her lasagna and scanned the work emails on her phone. Neither of his parents gave an inkling about the screaming match they’d just been having twenty minutes ago. Flash, on his part, barely ate anything, his gut and mind too awhirl with various theories and conspiracies to be able to stomach anything.

---

Either the Bugle had exhausted all of its Spidey-hating titles, or Spider-Man and Mysterio hadn’t been out and about last night, because when Flash came downstairs in the morning, Flash’s dad was chewing on his cigar at the table, frowning at the Bugle, which said something about the damages Spider-Man had caused the other morning and not much else, at least not from Flash’s point of view.

“Best stay away from those superheroes, son,” Flash’s dad announced, not looking up from his paper. “They cause too much damage to be sane.”

Flash considered telling his dad that Spider-Man had saved his life yesterday. Ultimately, he decided that his dad would say that Spider-Man was the one who had endangered it in the first place.

“Yeah, dad,” He said instead as he grabbed an apple and walked out the door ten minutes early. “Bye!”

---

As according to Flash’s luck, the only other kid who was at school that early was Penis Parker. That was certainly a change—the nerd had practically made a reputation for himself for being smart and being late.

Parker had his earbuds in and he was sitting on the steps of the school, probably because the doors weren’t open yet. Flash had no idea—he’d never been this early before.

He turned his head, as though he’d heard Flash pull up from twenty feet away, then sighed and looked back down at his phone.

“Hey, Penis!” Flash said loudly. “Who was that in the fancy car yesterday? After school?”

Peter irritatedly popped an earbud out. “What?”

“Who picked you up in the Mercedes yesterday?” Flash repeated, enunciating every syllable like Penis was a child. Well, he certainly looked like one, but that wasn’t the point.

“Happy,” Penis told him flatly.

“Yeah, and who is that? Your sugar daddy?”

The tips of Parker’s ears reddened, but that was the only sign of embarrassment that Flash could detect. “He’s Mr. Stark’s friend.”

Flash nodded, drawing closer. “Mr. Stark,” He said mockingly. “Yeah, and next you’re going to tell me you hang out with Captain America?”

Peter muttered something under his breath. “Oh, what was that, Penis?” Flash demanded before snatching the phone out of Penis’s lap. “Who were you texting, Penis? Happy? Mr. Stark?”

“Give it back!” Parker snapped hotly, rising to his feet. His earbuds dangled on the ground, hanging from the phone in Flash’s hand. He ignored the loser, opening the iMessage app, and sure enough, Happy Hogan was the first name listed, and Flash clicked on it. The most recent message from Peter read thx for the ride. you didn’t have to drive me. The response, which Penis had just received, said Oh, believe me, I did. You try telling Tony Stark you won’t pick up his protege from school.

Holy shit. Unless this was some really, really, really elaborate setup, which Flash was starting to doubt, then Penis really did know Tony Stark.

At Flash’s dumbfounded look, Penis grabbed the phone back and stormed up the steps to the school.

---

In first period, from his seat to the side of Peter, Flash caught a glimpse of Penis’s neck before he tugged his hood up.

The bruises were gone.

---

Maybe they hadn’t been there at all?

---

But as Penis had pulled his hood up, Flash had caught a flash of red underneath the sleeve of the sweatshirt. It was skintight and strung with black stripes. Penis pulled the sleeves over his hands.

There was another flash of skintight red and black under the collar of the hoodie, as well as a bigger black blob on his chest, until Penis hunched his shoulders and decided to hide in the sweatshirt.

It resembled the Spider-Man suit far too much for Flash’s liking.

(For some reason, he doubted it was cosplay.)

---

Flash was doing his homework up in his room that night when he heard screams from downstairs.

He furrowed his brow, wondering briefly if he’d accidentally left his X-BOX on or something, but once he ensured the device was off, he opened the door and headed downstairs. The TV was on, despite the late hour, and for once, his dad’s face wasn’t buried in a newspaper. Instead, he was chewing on his cigar, frowning at the TV, which was a welcome change.

It became a very unwelcome change once Flash really looked at was his father was watching.

Half of the screen was an inferno. The other half was flashing lights and frantic firefighters scrambling for their hoses. But as Flash watched, the camera zoomed in suddenly, as Spider-Man perched on a firetruck, staring up at the flames. He yelled something incomprehensible at one of the firemen and then shot a web towards the fiery building before disappearing there himself.

“Where is that?” Flash found himself saying. “Dad, where is that?”

“Mile north, maybe,” Flash’s dad said nonchalantly, waving a hand vaguely in the right direction. “I’m only watching this because I smelled the smoke.”

Flash had no business being there. But his gut had been churning with suspicion for the entire day, and he just had to put this ridiculous theory to rest, because he knew his investigation had concluded, he knew that Penis really had an internship at Stark Industries, but the red in his sleeves, the bruises, the whispers of Mr. Stark, who also just happened to be a superhero, were just a bit too much for Flash.

“I’m going out,” Flash told his dad, shrugging on his leather jacket and grabbing his keys. “Don’t wait up for me.”

Flash’s dad waved in absent acknowledgement, his nose buried, again, in a newspaper.

---

When Flash got to the scene, the firefighters were in a ring around the building, still spraying water, but one of them had a megaphone and was yelling into it. “Spider-Man! Can you hear me? Spider-Man! Are you all right? Spider-Man! Spider-Man—!”

There was a trembling mother wrapped around two little daughters, a few other ordinary people wrapped in blankets, but no Spider-Man.

He was still inside.

---

It took five agonizing minutes for there to be any progress.

Finally, the left side of the building went out under a torrent of water. By now, the ground had cracked with heat and the water was running right through the gaps, soaking everything and making the floor hiss and boil. The heat had popped most of the building’s windows, but another one shattered, and this time, someone came out of it.

Spider-Man looked fine to the ordinary eye, but Flash had seen him when his uniform was clean, and this wasn’t that. The fabric on his right side was nearly burned through, and what wasn’t singed was covered in soot. Spidey climbed shakily down the wall, then shot a web at the building across.

He perched there for a second, looking (to Flash) for all the world that he could wobble and tip off any second. Then the vigilante saluted, shot a web, and swung down the street. He turned an abrupt corner, and he was gone.

The only sounds left were sirens and the whispering flames.

It was a long walk home.

---

Ragged breathing and a whimper of pain from the alley to his left stopped Flash in his tracks.

Usually, while walking in New York City late at night, he would never ever ever ever stop walking, but Spider-Man had just been caught in a burning building around here, so if he was hurt…

Or, if it was a creep, Spider-Man was around for a whole different reason.

“Hello?” Flash called cautiously, stepping into the alley. A red-clad foot shot backwards from behind a generator box, and Flash knew he’d found the right (wrong?) person.

Flash hurried over before Spider-Man could escape, and found a smaller-than-average dude huddled on the ground, clutching his side and struggling to breathe.

“Hey,” Spider-Man managed weakly. He even lifted a few fingers in a feeble wave.

Flash was pretty proud of himself for not fainting.

Chapter Text

“Holy shit,” Flash hissed. “Oh my god, Spider-Man. Whoa. Spider-Man is right there. Um. Hi, do you need—”

“Nope!” Spider-Man said, voice too high, attempting to sit up and epically failing. “No help needed here. I’m just… taking a break. Yep.”

That was so obviously a lie that Flash wanted to laugh in Spidey’s face. But that would probably be a bad idea, because he was close to hyperventilating, not to mention potentially pissing off his idol. “Doesn’t look like it,” Flash told him before something occurred to him. “Oh,” Flash whispered reverently. “Do you want me to call Tony Stark?”

“No!” Spider-Man yelped, managing to pull himself halfway up in his panic. “You do not need to call Mr. Stark!”

Mr. Stark. That’s what Penis Parker called Tony Stark, too.

“I mean,” Spider-Man said, clearly lowering his voice an octave. “Tony Stark isn’t concerned with people like me. There’s no need to contact him. Actually, you can go too. I’m good here.”

Flash stared at him. “Bleeding out in an alley?”

“I’m not bleeding!” Spider-Man insisted indignantly, voice rising in pitch again.

Flash gave him an incredulous look. Spider-Man waved a hand around vaguely. “I’m just gonna—yeah, I’m gonna go. Thanks for the, uh, concern, Fla—er, Fan. Spider-Fan. Um. Yeah.” Spider-Man backed up the wall by his fingers and feet, sticking there ten feet above the ground. Flash craned his neck to even see him in the near-darkness. Spider-Man stuck his hand out, but when nothing happened, he groaned, dropping on top of the generator. He smacked the inside of his wrist a few times, but when nothing happened again, he cursed. “Come on! Stupid—smoke—dammit. Ow.”

Spidey clumsily staggered to his feet and peered towards the street. He smacked his other wrist, but sighed when whatever it was still didn’t work. “Guess I’m walking tonight.”

Spider-Man’s voice was starting to sound more and more familiar. Flash wasn’t sure if it was because he’d met him a few times now, or because he’d been going to school with him since third grade.

God, that was ludicrous. Absolutely insane. Except… what that Flash had seen had disputed that fact? The bruises. The car. The red cloth under his clothes. When Leeds had mentioned the gas… he hadn’t meant an experiment gone wrong, he’d meant Mysterio’s gas from the attack on Roosevelt Island.

“No!” Spider-Man hissed suddenly, as though disputing Flash’s thoughts. Flash stared up at him, but Spider-Man wasn’t looking at him. “No, Karen, you do not get to call him—I don’t care about third-degree burns, they’ll heal. No. I’ll bring the suit later, he doesn’t need to—Karen, do not call him, that is an order.”

He was still fairly sure he was wrong. There were millions of people in New York City. It was doubtful that Spider-Man was a fifteen-year-old kid from Queens. It had to be a fluke.

He probably could have just asked. Instead, he said, “Spider-Man, do you need help getting home?”

Spider-Man jerked and turned to face Flash, as though he’d forgotten he was there. Too caught up in his conversation with whoever Karen was. Flash couldn’t find it in him to be offended.

“Um,” Spider-Man said intelligently, voice high (too high). “Oh, um, no, that’s okay. I’ll just—I can just—Karen, I said no!”

Spider-Man put his hands on the wall, then looked back down at Flash. “Thanks, Fl—er, fan. Right. Spider-Fan. Um. Yeah, okay.”

Before Flash could protest any more, Spidey scurried up the wall and disappeared. His voice still echoed through the streets, though, insisting that no, Karen, you don’t need to call him—!

---

When Flash got back, his dad didn’t even look up. He grumbled, “Fire went out,” then went right back to his newspaper.

“Yeah,” Flash said. “Thanks, dad.”

---

Once he got up to his room, Flash grabbed his empty Chem notebook and a pen and flopped onto his bed. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to think through the tangy scent of smoke clinging to his clothes. His head ached, but he shoved it aside and tried to concentrate.

1. Bruises, Flash wrote. The bruises that Flash had seen running up Penis’s neck on Day 4 of his investigation—the day of Mysterio’s attack, the one where Spider-Man had lifted Flash out of his car and then gotten thrown into multiple buildings. That would definitely leave a mark. And, if Flash was right, they had.

2. the Mercedes. The same day that Flash had noticed the bruises, Penis had been picked up in a super-fancy car. He normally wouldn’t blink, maybe it was a nice Uber driver, except right before, Peter had been arguing with “Mr. Stark” on the phone about “Happy” picking him up in said nice car. Then, the next day, it turned out that Penis had been texting Happy Hogan about Tony Stark. Flash drew a dash, then wrote, Mr. Stark, Happy Hogan. Why would Tony Stark, one of the most influential people on the planet, send his head of security to pick up an intern? And why would Penis fight with him over the bruises?

3. the gas. On Day 3, Ned Leeds had been trying to reassure Penis about… something. Something about gas, which happened to be Mysterio’s main weapon. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.” The day before, Penis had missed school. And the day before that, there had been an attack on Roosevelt Island that Spider-Man had attempted to stop.

Flash frowned, then flipped open his laptop. He typed in, spiderman roosevelt island, and sure enough, several videos popped up. He clicked on one, and fuzzy as it was, there was a semi-clear image of Spider-Man on his knees, clutching his throat, surrounded by a mustard-yellow haze.

The very next day, the day after Spider-Man had inhaled some toxic gas, Peter Parker had missed school. Flash swallowed down his nerves and shut his laptop.

4. This was the one that Flash still wasn’t sure what to make of. Suit?

On Day 5, the day Flash had spied the texts between Penis and “Happy Hogan”, there had been a suspicious, skin-tight red shirt under Peter’s hoodie. The one striped with black lines, just like the web pattern on Spider-Man’s suit. And a black blob placed almost exactly where Spider-Man’s spider-symbol was located.

Flash had doubted it was a coincidence. He doubted it even more now.

5. knows Spidey? Around the time of Homecoming, Leeds had gone around insisting that Penis knew Spider-Man. Flash had laughed in his face, declaring that that fact was as fake as the Stark Internship. Which turned out to be at least half-true.

Flash stared down at his list for a long moment before groaning and dropping his head in his hands.

“Flash, honey!” Flash’s mom called shrilly, causing him to sit bolt upright and bash his head on the lamp hanging over his bed. Flash groaned, rubbing his forehead. “Dinner!”

“Yeah,” Flash said, flipping the notebook shut. He’d figure it out tomorrow. “I’m coming!”

---

At dinner, Flash’s mom absently picked at her meatloaf as she scrolled through work emails on her phone. Flash’s dad frowned down at the Bugle, the same one from that morning.

His mother’s cheeks were tearstained, probably from their most recent fight. Flash ignored the red mark on her cheek and his father’s raw knuckles.

Flash ate as fast as he could before bringing his plate to the sink and escaping back to his room.

---

The next morning, Flash raced to the door, late again, and he grabbed an apple off the counter. His dad was frowning down at the Bugle, cigar between his lips. SPIDER-MAN STARTS FIRE IN QUEENS, the Bugle insisted. CAUSES MAJOR DAMAGE, NEARLY KILLS 20.

Flash almost laughed out loud at that one. Like Spider-Man would have caused a fire. He had been protecting the city for almost two years now, why would he suddenly decide to become an arsonist?

(Plus, Peter Parker wouldn’t start a fire. But if Peter Parker was Spider-Man, Flash was going to have to rethink… a lot.)

Still, Flash’s dad grumbled around his cigar, “You’d better stay away from those hero-types, son. They just keep causing trouble.”

“Right, dad,” Flash told him as he grabbed his bag and raced out the door. “Bye!”

---

Flash got to school and realized that he had absolutely, positively, no idea how to approach Peter Parker.

‘Hey, Penis! Are you Spider-Man?’

‘Hey, Peter! I know I’ve been bullying you since third grade, but are you actually a superhero?’

‘Hey, Spidey! Wait, you’re Spidey, right?’

Flash groaned, kicking a mailbox he passed by. He hadn’t found any parking by school, so he left his car a few blocks away and walked it.

What the hell do you say to a guy who may or may not be the fifteen-year-old who saved your life? Who, just last night, Flash witnessed crumpled in an alley, suffering from third-degree burns? What if Flash was wrong—that Peter Parker was just a normal high-schooler, suffering from a bizarre set of coincidences?

More importantly, what if Flash was right? What if Peter Parker was Spider-Man? What would Flash do with that information? Would he proudly dispense it, claiming that he knew Spider-Man’s identity? Become famous, get on the Ellen Show, CNN, the Late Show, whatever he wanted? Would he keep it a secret?

He’d cross that bridge when he got to it, he guessed. No other way to get around it.

But what was he supposed to say?

---

Penis was late to first period Physics. He came in fifteen minutes late, hood over his head, handed the teacher a note, and then slid into his seat next to Leeds. Anything Flash had been planning to say (which, granted, hadn’t been much better than his earlier ideas) went out the window.

The kid looked like shit.

He wasn’t covered in burns or bruises (that Flash could see), but there were deep shadows under his eyes and he was really pale. Flash wasn’t a doctor, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t healthy. Peter’s shoulders were hunched, but he moved gingerly, and—yeah, that wasn’t normal.

Flash’s theory was pretty much cement now. Of course, he couldn’t get past the freakin’ wow factor, because what Spider-Man is a fifteen-year-old nerd? What the hell?

Leeds hissed, “Are you okay?” And it finally, actually occurred to Flash that Leeds knew that Peter was Spider-Man. He’d known about the gas, the injuries—he’d covered for Peter a few times at least. Leeds had kept it a secret.

Flash suddenly felt guilty at his notions of fame and glory for revealing Spider-Man’s coveted identity.

“All right,” Ms. Warren said wearily, as though she knew nobody was paying attention to her. “Move your desks. Pop quiz!”

The entire class groaned, and Flash pulled out a pencil. Peter quietly asked Leeds for a pen.

---

The bell rang, and Flash watched Peter’s shoulders jerk from where he sat, head down on the desk. Flash had a sneaking suspicion that he’d been sleeping. That made sense, actually, because Spider-Man was always swinging around the city until the wee hours of the morning.

“Peter,” Ned said softly, carefully shaking Parker’s shoulder as the rest of their classmates grabbed their bags and made a beeline for the door. “Peter, it’s time for math.”

Flash dropped his phone on the ground to have more time to eavesdrop. There were only a few other people left in the room, including Ms. Warren, who was packing up her files with a frown. Ned whispered so quietly that Flash could barely hear him. “Are you okay?”

Peter made a sound of assent and lifted his head. Leeds grabbed both of their backpacks, then offered a hand up to Peter. He accepted, then grumbled, “Still stronger than you,”

“Oh, you think?” Ned laughed, and they left the classroom.

That was a weird response, Flash thought. If you didn’t think about the fact that Spider-Man most likely had enhanced strength. Oh, man.

Flash grabbed his phone and stalked out of the room. He just had to get Penis alone.

---

As it turned out, they had PE that day. It was fortunate for Flash. Not so fortunate for Peter.

But before class started, Flash spied a subdued Penis talking to Coach Wilson. As Flash watched, the Coach nodded and gestures to the bleachers. Peter said, “Thanks,” then trudged over.

He must have convinced Wilson that he was sick. It probably hadn’t taken much effort—he looked awful.

Coach Wilson blew the whistle, cutting off his classmates’ chatter abruptly. “All right! Split into two teams, we’re going to play dodgeball as a warm-up…”

---

Flash’s team won dodgeball so many times that Coach Wilson got frustrated and turned it into every-man-for-himself. Flash got out pretty quickly after that. So did Leeds, although he opted to sit next to Penis on the bleachers for the rest of the game. Flash booed and jeered at the still-surviving kids and kept one eye on Leeds and Parker for the rest of the period.

---

“It wasn’t that much!” Penis insisted to Leeds as they walked down the hallway towards the exit. “It was just a beam.”

“Just a beam?” Ned demanded. “What do you mean, a beam?”

Penis laughed uneasily. Flash made sure he was a suitable distance away from them. He was trailing them towards the door to finally escape to their houses for the weekend. Flash’s buddies had asked him if he wanted to go to a party at Bobby’s place, but Flash had told them he’d text them later.

“You know,” Peter said, making a gesture with his hands and indicating an object of considerable size. “One of those metal construction beams that you always see in those movies—”

“Peter,” Ned groaned. “Seriously?”

Oh, God. If they were talking about heavy-duty construction beams falling on top of Peter—Spider-Man—then Flash wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to keep up the façade.

“It was fine,” Peter insisted. “I had to get the last one.”

Ned peered over his shoulder and spotted Flash. And no matter how unobtrusive Flash tried to be, Ned’s eyes fixed right on him and narrowed slightly.

“C’mon, Peter!” Ned said too loudly. “It’s just a video game. You didn’t have to get every coin.”

The bewildered look Peter threw his friend was almost comical. Flash lost track of their conversation after it devolved into a debate over which Star Wars movie was better. Peter thought it was The Force Awakens. Ned went with the original, A New Hope. Classic was better, he insisted. Peter said that he identified with Rey. It sounded like an old argument.

---

Flash thought about the best ways to get Spider-Man’s attention as he made his leisurely way to his car. Go into a shady alley, get mugged, and hopefully get saved by Spider-Man before he gets beaten and robbed? Scream that his bike got stolen? Look lost and hope that Spider-Man stops and ask him for directions?

That probably wouldn’t do.

In the end, Spider-Man found him.

---

“Yo, Fl—Fan!”

Flash looked left, right, and behind him. There was nobody there. It was a pretty deserted avenue, with no cool stores or fancy homes. Flash didn't think that anyone would be calling for him from a window.

The voice sounded amused. “Up here, Spider-Fan.”

Flash looked up, and sure enough, a few feet into the alley to his left, Spider-Man was perched on the vertical surface of the building. He hung there naturally, as though it wasn’t weird to be attached to a wall with only your hand and feet.

Flash didn’t say any of that. He only said, “Whoa.”

Then, he remembered his suspicions of the superhero’s identity. The list burned in his pocket.

“Um, hi,” Flash managed. “Oh, wow. Spider-Man. Hi.”

Flash sincerely hoped that he was wrong, because becoming tongue-twisted because of Penis Parker’s mere presence was really, really embarrassing.

Spider-Man laughed uneasily. He sounded just about as uncomfortable as Flash was. “Look, um, I saw you walking to your car and—”

How would Spider-Man know that he was walking to his car? Sure, he knew that Flash had a car (if he remembered that it was Flash’s car he’d stolen) but how could he know that he’d gotten a new one?

Peter Parker would know that Flash had a new car. And he’d probably seen that Flash’s car wasn’t outside the school.

Spider-Man was still talking. “—I just wanted to say thanks.”

Flash blinked up at him. “Um.”

Spider-Man’s eyes narrowed and widened almost comically. He dangled one foot off the wall, looking almost… nervous. “You know. Last night, when I, um—”

“The fire,” Flash interrupted, then cursed himself inwardly for doing so. “Um, yeah, no problem.”

Spidey relaxed. “Great! Well, I gotta go. You know, criminals, robberies, all that jazz—”

“Yep,” Flash said. This conversation had been one of the most painfully awkward ones of his life. He wasn’t sure if it was because he thought he knew Spider-Man’s identity, or because Peter Parker didn’t know how to act around Flash.

Spider-Man flipped casually off the wall, shooting a web to the building across from him. Vaguely, Flash wondered if he’d ever pulled an AC unit out of the wall by accident.

He went to yell, “Bye, Spider-Man!” but instead, what came out was, “Bye, Peter!”

Flash knew Peter had heard him, because Spider-Man missed his web and only barely caught himself on the side of a Walgreens. 

Chapter Text

When Flash got home, he laid on his bed for almost an hour, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. His brain was running too fast to process anything.

He had done it. He had actually done it. He had just called Spider-Man Peter. He had finally, finally made sure that Peter—that Spider-Man knew that Flash was onto him. Did he know what he would do with the information once it was confirmed? No. Did he care? No, not really. But how awesome could it be to claim that he knew a superhero?

---

Flash was excited for school tomorrow for the first time in years before he realized that tomorrow was Saturday. Then he was disappointed it was a Saturday for the first time in years.

---

Flash woke up with a stomach buzzing with nerves in a way it hadn’t since he was six years old and running down the stairs to see what Santa Claus had brought.

(A few days before his seventh birthday in May, his father had gotten so drunk that he had smacked his mother upside the head with a glass bottle, knocking her clean to the floor. When Flash had shrieked up at him that he was a bad man, that he would be on Santa’s naughty list for hurting his mother, his father had screamed back, spittle flying from his lips, that Flash had to be retarded to still believe that Santa Claus was real.)

(His mother had needed stitches. Flash had needed reassurance. Only one of them had gotten what they needed, and it wasn’t the little kid. Flash still wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He mostly tried to not think about it.)

The clock read 6:34 AM. Flash groaned, turned over, and laid there another hour before finally giving up. At 7:22 AM, Flash rolled out of bed and got in the shower. At 7:39, he was dressed and staring out his window like he’d be able to spot Peter Parker/Spider-Man from there.

For a lack of anything better to do (he couldn’t turn on a video game without his dad freaking out, and the WiFi didn’t reach up to his room to do anything much more than access Google), he pulled his English homework and got to work. Maybe this way, his mom wouldn’t get out on his case if he went out to hang with friends.

(Or try to track down either Peter Parker or Spider-Man. Now that they were one in the same, Flash wasn’t sure what exactly to call him. Spider-Man? Peter? Parker? Peter-Man? Who knew.)

By 8:13, Flash was done with English, and by 9:38, he was done with all of his homework. He could hear his mother now, puttering around the kitchen and making coffee. Flash had no idea if his father was down there with her, but given the way he could faintly hear her humming, he thought it was safe to say no, he wasn’t down there.

Now that his homework was out of the way, Flash had a weekend free to pursue Peter Parker to the best of his ability.

Flash briefly considered going to Peter’s house, but immediately dismissed it. Peter’s aunt wouldn’t let him get close, anyway, and Flash only knew the general direction Peter lived, not his exact address. It would be too much of a long shot.

Managing to track down Spider-Man would also probably not be very advisable. Even if Flash wasn’t in danger of being mugged or murdered when Spider-Man came across him, Flash doubted that Peter would go near him after Flash had basically declared that he knew that Spider-Man was a fifteen-year-old nerdy kid who went to Midtown High and loved LEGO Star Wars.

---

Flash ended up deciding that Ned Leeds was probably his best option. Unfortunately, he didn’t have Leeds’s number. Fortunately, he had one last option.

Michelle Jones, for once in her life, ended up being a godsend. She’d put together a group chat with all the members of the decathlon team a few months back, and Flash had never bothered to read the numbers. That didn’t matter much now—both Ned Leeds and Peter Parker were on that list somewhere. Flash knew already that Peter wouldn’t respond, but, if caught off guard, Ned just might.

The chat mostly consisted of people making their schedules, but Flash hit the jackpot after only a few minutes of scrolling. There were a few texts reading, Peter and I are busy on Saturday night, but Sunday works great and something about evenings not working out for Peter, but Flash knew he had what he needed.

To: (Siri recognizes) Ned Leeds?

Sometimes, Siri was disturbingly right.

leeds, u up?

After waiting five minutes, Flash deduced that Ned was still asleep. He decided to make him not so.

Calling: (Siri recognizes) Ned Leeds?

On the fourth ring, Ned picked up. His voice was muddled with sleep, and Flash secretly triumphed. “Hello?”

“Hey, Leeds, it’s Flash.”

There was a moment of silence on the line, and for a moment, Flash was afraid that Leeds had hung up. Then, “And why are you calling me at whatever in the morning?”

“You talked to Pen—Peter lately?” Flash stumbled over Parker’s actual name, deciding that it couldn’t hurt to call Spider-Man his real name instead of a mean fourth-grade nickname.

“What’s it to you?” Ned asked suspiciously.

“Just wondering,” Flash said lightly.

“Yeah, I have,” Ned said. He was clearly still out of it, as no one in their right mind would have told Flash that after he had just discovered that said friend was an underage vigilante. Flash was betting that Ned knew that Flash knew already; although even if he didn’t, Leeds could still give Peter a message.

“Great! Has he talked to Spider-Man recently?”

The weight of the silence on the other line confirmed that Ned knew exactly what Flash did, and Leeds didn’t know what to do about it.

“I don’t know,” Leeds said carefully, after a while. “What would you do if he had?”

“Just talk,” Flash told him. “And maybe get a confirmation. I don’t much care about the—well, you know. I’d hate to look like a fool, and all that.”

“You already are one,” Ned grumbled. “What will you really do?”

“Ned,” Flash said forcefully, using Leeds’s name for the first time in years. “I am not going to tell anyone. I like Spider-Man too much for that, not to mention my city. I just want to talk.”

Another long silence. Then, “Fine. Today, at eleven sharp, in Corona Park, by the globe. Don’t be late, or he’ll leave.”

“Okay,” Flash agreed shakily. “Yeah, great. Thanks.”

Leeds hung up without responding. Flash pumped his fist and shouted “Yes!” into his empty room. His dad yelled at him to shut up from downstairs, but Flash didn’t care—he had a meeting with Spider-Man.

(He tripped on a pencil and fell on his ass. He was too excited to care.)

---

It was 9:57 when Flash raced down the stairs to scarf down a quick breakfast (Cheerios) before his meeting with Peter. He slid into a chair across from his dad and almost knocked it over. The noise still wasn’t enough to make his dad look up from his newspaper.

After the fire, Spider-Man had kept a low profile. It seemed like the Bugle hadn’t found any additional news or new ammunition against the vigilante, because the headline read, MYSTERIO ROBS MIDTOWN BANK, SPIDER-MAN MISSING. Flash didn’t even have to look at the picture or the caption—he knew that it would be a blurry picture of the fishbowl-dude standing in front of a building shrouded by gas, with the text below saying something demeaning or insulting about Flash’s hero.

His father, frowning down at the paper, chewing on his cigar, said to Flash, “You’d better stay away from those heroes, son. They’re clearly out of line.”

“Right, dad,” Flash said automatically as he dropped his plastic bowl in the sink, milk sloshing all over the porcelain. He grabbed his backpack containing a few essentials for meeting superheroes, and more importantly, his hero. “Bye!”

---

Flash got there at 10:45. Peter was already there.

Well, more accurately, Peter was fifty feet above their meeting point. The little spot of red on the very top of the globe had gone unnoticed by the majority of the passerby—all except for Flash. Peter was crouched on the top, mask on, little more than a red flag waving on the top of the Unisphere.

Flash considered waving his arms wildly at Peter to get his attention. But everyone would notice that he was looking at the top of the globe and look up there themselves, which probably wasn’t a good idea.

Peter suddenly shifted, a movement so quick that Flash barely caught it. It was obvious that Peter had spotted him, because he took a running leap off the monument and shot a web towards the the tallest building in the vicinity. He barely cleared the ground, and the crowd of tourists below screamed as Spider-Man whooped and whizzed over their heads.

Flash sighed and began the jog over to the skyscraper that Peter had swung to.

---

Spider-Man looked… pissed. There was no other word for it.

All that Flash had seen of his body language thus far had been withdrawn, careful. Now, Flash could tell that, under the suit, Peter was rigid and tense and furious.

He was stuck to the wall of the skyscraper in a little alley created by the gap between the parking garage and the building. It had taken Flash ten minutes just to find him. The metal gutter had warped under his grip, the imprints of his fingers crumpling the thick steel.

Flash swallowed nervously. He had absolutely nothing to say. It didn’t seem like Spider-Man did, either.

Finally, finally, after a minute of Flash staring into those reflective lenses, Spider-Man spoke. “So,” He said, his voice high and awkward and so Penis Parker that it was almost funny. “Um. How’s it going?”

Flash stared at him. For some reason, he’d expected more nuance from the famed vigilante. He didn’t know why.

“Take off the mask,” Flash blurted, then immediately felt like slapping himself. “I mean—”

Peter had the gall to look amused (and so, so uncomfortable, but Flash was more relieved and annoyed by the amusement). “No can do, Flash.”

Flash deflated, but then realized that Peter had called him by his name. Ha. Victory for him.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Flash asked, taking a halfhearted step forward. “You’re Parker.”

The red-masked teen looked for a moment like he was debating lying, but then Peter shrugged, sliding down to the ground. “How’d you figure it out?”

Flash shrugged sheepishly. “I was mad about you talking about the Stark internship. I wanted to prove you were lying.”

Peter stared at him for a few beats. Flash felt the tension build every second that Peter didn’t move—because he wasn’t moving. He was unnaturally, eerily still.

Then, he doubled over and burst out laughing.

It sounded kind of hysterical to Flash—like Peter was laughing more out of a lack of a better reaction than actual hilarity. But Peter clung to the wall—stuck to it, really—and wheezed.

“Uh,” Flash said intelligently. “Parker?”

“Sorry,” Peter breathed. “Sorry. I just—wow. Ha. That cover seemed flawless when we thought it up. So, how’d you figure it out? Please tell me it wasn’t Ms. Potts. She hates my secret-keeping.”

Flash was really hoping that Peter didn’t mean Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries. He probably did. God, what was his life? More importantly, what was Peter’s life?

“Um,” Flash said intelligently.

“Okay,” Peter said, abruptly straightening. His shoulders curved inwards, and all of the sudden he looked almost timid. “I have to ask, Flash. Er. Did you—will you—um. Are you going to tell anyone?”

Flash stared at Spider-Man. “Hell no, Parker. Seriously? You think I’d—”

Flash thought back, suddenly, to all the times he’d tormented Parker, all the times he’d called him names and doubted that he knew Tony Stark. Yeah, he probably deserved the doubt Peter was leveling at him.

“Okay, yeah,” Flash admitted. “I can kind of see why you’d—yeah. But no. I’m not. Look, Parker, Spider-Man was my hero even before I found out he was my nerdy classmate. I’m not about to give all that up just for kicks.”

Peter stared at him, then said softly, “Wow. Thanks. I didn’t—wow. I didn’t think anyone liked Spider-Man all that much.”

Flash raised an eyebrow, because seriously? Spider-Man was easily the most popular superhero in Queens, and that was with the Avengers just across the river in Manhattan. There was no contest. He said as much.

Peter glanced up, then sighed. “I gotta go. You know, people to see, bad guys to stop, all in a day’s work for good ol’ Spidey.”

The lenses of the mask narrowed and widened, focusing directly on Flash, then Peter saluted. “Later, Spider-Fan.”

---

Belatedly, Flash wondered how on Earth Peter had stayed so calm.

---

(In his bedroom the night before, Peter had spent an hour and a half hyperventilating, in pure panic, his brain screaming at him identity identity identity identity identity Mr. Stark May Ned MJ Flash oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh GOD. But nobody needed to know that.)

---

When Flash walked back in the door of his apartment, he almost walked right back out.

His mother and father were standing in the kitchen, screaming at each other. It was something about laziness and ungratefulness and “Our son!”

Neither of them noticed Flash come in. Neither of them noticed when he crept into his room and shut the door behind him. Neither of them called him down for dinner that night. Neither of them stopped screaming for hours.

Flash stayed in his room that night, the excited tingle of figuring out Spider-Man’s identity for sure dimmed down to a memory.

---

The next morning, Flash went downstairs later than usual, only to discover that the TV was on and blaring an emergency news announcement.

The woman on the screen, sitting in her office, looked slightly panicked, which was weird for the usually blasé anchors.

“—Avengers are already on the scene,” She was saying. “It’s unclear why exactly the villain known as Mysterio has decided to attack the new World Trade Center buildings, but some are already speculating that this masked man is planning a new event akin to September Eleventh. Also new to the scene is Spider-Man, a Queens-based vigilante who received an endorsement from Tony Stark, AKA Iron Man, the new leader of the Avengers. Mysterio has made an effort to take down Spider-Man multiple times in recent days, but this is the first time the Avengers have—”

Flash was out the door before he could see his father’s new headline or listen to him tell him to avoid superheroes.

Chapter Text

The trains were still running, unlike the first few times that some whackjob had attacked the city under the guise of “saving the people from the Avengers” or whatever. They were stopped south of 34th Street, though, suggesting that the fighting had moved father downtown. Flash caught the M to Herald Square, where he was promptly ordered by three separate policemen that he should “get out of here, son.”

He ignored them. He could hear the sirens from up above, and even though there were police beginning to barricade off a few of the exits leading to the south side of 34th, Flash managed to slip by. The policemen didn’t stop him.

It was even more chaotic than it had been on the TV. It had been horror-inducing to see the flames burning at the entrance of One World Trade Center, and Flash hadn’t even been alive when the Twin Towers had been attacked; but even then, it was almost worse to see the storefronts of 34th street aflame. The streets were empty, and the sidewalks had cracked with heat. Cars were smashed through poles, concrete walls, each other. Three cars near Flash were wailing with various alarms, most likely because they’d all rear-ended each other.

How many cars had been totaled in Flash’s vicinity in the past week? He didn’t even want to know.

---

The whine of Iron Man’s repulsors told him where to go. The occasional fleeing pigeon or squirrel also gave him a hint. When he was a few blocks away, he made it to the police barricade. They didn’t let him by.

---

Until Spider-Man came flying through the sky, smashed into a mailbox, and didn’t get back up.

---

Ha, got you!

Spider-Man lay there inside the crumpled blue remains, letters fluttering to the ground around him. He batted one away from his face and groaned. “Why?” He complained.

“Spider-Man!” One of the policemen yelled, and Flash was still staring. Why was he still staring?

Oh, right. Probably because that was his fifteen-year-old classmate, who was supposed to be studying for their Spanish test on Tuesday, not fighting an evil guy with a fishbowl on his face and destructive capabilities that news anchors had compared to the annihilation of the Twin Towers. With—

“Iron Man!” Another policeman yelled as Tony Stark set down heavily on the street, cracking the pavement and rattling windows.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter announced cheerfully. “Did we get him?”

“Sorry, kid,” Stark said, the suit synthesizing his voice into something robotic and uncaring, yet carrying an amused note that surprised Flash. “He ran after he threw you three blocks into… is that a mailbox?”

“Maybe,” Peter said unerringly, springing to his feet and pretending there weren’t at least three stamps stuck to his suit. There was an envelope clinging to the top of his mask.

Stark ignored him in favor of turning to the policemen. He waved his arms in a shoo gesture. “All right, time for cleanup! Let’s gets Stark Relief in here ASAP—”

“Cleanup, cleanup, everybody, everywhere,” Peter muttered unnecessarily. And of course he was singing a preschool nursery rhyme—God, how had no one found out that Spider-Man was a teenager yet?

Finally, Peter’s eyes flicked to him. Flash could only tell because he stopped short and almost tripped over Iron Man’s feet. “Spider-Fan!” He yelped, then promptly stuck himself to Tony Stark to prevent himself from falling.

Stark turned the expressionless Iron Man suit to face him, the eye slits looking imperiously down on Peter, before it opened up and Stark stepped out. His face was more perplexed than anything. Peter was still hanging on to the now-empty suit.

Stark stared at Peter for a few seconds, then switched his gaze to Flash. “This is the kid you told me about, Underoos?” Stark demanded incredulously. “Dash?”

“Flash,” He corrected glumly, but holy shit Peter had told Tony Stark about Flash? This had to be one of the best days of his life. Right up to yesterday. The best week of his life?

“Whatever,” Tony Stark said, waving a hand and pointing at Spider-Man. “You—you have an appointment with Doctor Cho—”

“Aw, come on,” Peter complained, but Tony Stark wasn’t finished.

“And you,” He said, and he pointed right at Flash. He resisted the urge to check if Tony Stark was talking about someone standing behind him. “You and I are going to have a little chat.”

---

All in all, it turned out that Tony Stark (Flash still wasn’t over that) wanted to give him—

“A superhero version of the shovel talk?” Tony Stark asked, scrunching up his nose. It was a disturbingly normal gesture and Flash resisted the urge to try it himself. “I guess you could call it that. Still, I’m warning you, Splash—”

“Flash,” Flash corrected futilely.

“—Flash, whatever. Listen. Peter’s a good kid. I’ve been trying to help him out best I can. But he’s too trusting. He told me that you promised not to spill the beans, and that’s good enough for him. Not for me.

“I never tried to hide who I was. He has, in order to be able to protect the people close to him—like the people who go to his school.”

Flash shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t really considered exactly why Peter had kept his identity secret, other than avoiding the reporters who would’ve hounded him until he died. Spider-Man had always just been… Spidey. No face behind the mask—just a quick, quippy vigilante with a penchant for sticking on walls.

Tony Stark (Flash had to get over this soon) continued. “I respect that choice. I give him suits with masks, AIs, and every protective protocol under the sun. It’s not enough—he still gets himself into trouble every other week. You need to be ready for that. He might miss school, or not say a word the whole week. And one day, he might end up coming to you for help.”

---

That day came sooner than Flash expected.

---

Lots of things had changed, but somehow, everything stayed the same.

Now, Flash noticed more often whenever Peter wasn’t in school, or if he had buried himself in a hoodie and hunched over all class. He (and Ned, although the other boy still hadn’t quite gotten the point that Flash was here to help) did his best to cover for the most-likely injured vigilante. Peter repaid him with small, short smiles and hushed stories of alien weapons and bicycle thieves.

Peter and Ned still talked excitedly about Star Wars, Michelle still called them losers with a knowing glint in her eye (she knew, Flash had been told. She never brought it up), and Flash still blew things up in Chemistry. But now, Flash noticed when Peter disappeared halfway through class or back in during lunch.

But Peter never got really hurt, Tony Stark never ended up having to follow through with any of the threats that he had made to Flash all those weeks ago.

By weeks, Flash meant three. Three weeks since he’d uncovered his classmate’s biggest secret. And it was okay.

Until it wasn’t.

---

Flash’s parents were fighting again.

It wasn’t an unusual occurrence. It wasn’t even an unusual argument.

What was unusual was the loud thump that came from upstairs, in Flash’s room. Flash’s mom even noticed it, and glanced up at the ceiling.

“I think one of my textbooks must have fallen!” Flash squeaked out, hoping that his parents would believe that it had been one of his schoolbooks rather than (most likely) a fifteen-year-old in a red onesie who had decided to swing by Flash’s house on an adrenaline rush and tripped on his windowsill. “I’ll go check.”

Someone must have been watching over Flash, because all that his mother said was, “Those damn books are so heavy nowadays,” Then went back to screaming at his father.

Flash padded up the stairs in his socks, just praying that, for once, Peter would stay in the shadows until he knew that Flash’s parents weren’t coming up, too. Peter insisted that he could hear who was who, but Flash wasn’t so sure.

It was nighttime, and Flash hadn’t gone up to his room in a while, so it was dark and the city skyline was barely visible through the open window. The fog over the East River had been a permanent fixture the past few weeks—some called it a weather phenomenon, others called it the work of Mysterio.

Speaking of Mysterio—the villain was practically the only thing that Peter talked about. Spider-Man had gone on patrols in the areas Mysterio was known to frequent, had interrogated drug dealers and other criminals, studied the contents of Myserio’s gas under the microscope—and nothing. There had been no other attacks, no other robberies—Peter was flying blind, and according to him, “Mr. Stark has more important things to worry about” and refused to specify.

“Peter,” Flash hissed, searching for the telltale blob of red against the back wall of his room. “Peter!”

Flash picked up the ragged wheeze of breathing and knew instantly that something was wrong.

---

“You gotta watch out for my kid, all right?” Tony Stark said to Flash, clapping a hand on his shoulder pointedly. “He doesn’t tell me much, and now he’s got a friend that can hack into the suit, so I don’t always know what’s going on. Not to mention that I’m a bit busy at times.”

Flash wasn’t surprised by that in the least. What he was surprised about was that Tony Stark was still talking to him.

“Yes, sir,” He agreed hastily.

Tony Stark’s eyes glinted. “He might end up in your apartment one night, and it might not be just scratches. I’ve told him a hundred times that he can always call me, but he doesn’t like seeming… whatever to me. Just call me if that happens.”

Tony Stark handed Flash a slip of paper, presumably with his number written on it, and Flash almost fainted. He was holding Tony Stark’s number in his hand.

“No prank calls,” Tony Stark warned, then smirked. “Well. Feel free to prank call my assistant. He gets bored at times.”

The Iron Man suit’s speakers suddenly spoke up. “Stop calling me your assistant!”

Tony Stark stifled a laugh. “Sorry, honeybear!” He chirped, then turned back to Flash. “Seriously, though, Monster-Mash. Call me.”

---

Flash shut the door behind him and fumbled for the light switch. Suddenly, the movement he’d done hundreds of times was somehow foreign. His fingers trembled.

Finally, he found the lights.

Spider-Man was crumpled in a heap in front of the window, the red of his suit a sharp contrast to the white paint of the wall. His mask was still on, so Flash couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or not, but his breathing was sharp and ragged and painful and he had a hand pressed against his side.

“Peter!” Flash nearly yelped before promptly remembering that there were other people in the house. He clapped a hand over his mouth and hurried over to his… friend? Classmate? Vigilante-buddy?

“Flash?” Peter choked out, and thank-God-he’s-awake. “Shit. I didn’t—I don’t—shit. I’m sorry. I don’t—MJ wasn’t picking up and Ned’s out of town and Mr. Stark’s too far away and shit, Flash, I’m sorry. You were—you were the closest.”

“It’s fine,” Flash breathed, even though it was very much not fine. “I can, um, I can call Stark now. He gave me his—”

“No!” Peter yelped, waving his hands around frantically and forgetting all about what he had been covering. “No, that’s okay. I can just leave—”

“What?” Flash demanded, voice rising in pitch. “Peter, you’re—”

“Fine!” Peter interrupted. “I’m—oh, whoa.”

Peter seemed to be struck by a wave of dizziness, as he wavered, gripping the windowsill for support. Then, as Flash watched in slow motion, frozen, Spider-Man fell down. Again.

The desk rattled from the impact. His mother called up the stairs, “Eugene, is everything all right, dear?”

Their fight wasn’t over. He just had to distract them enough to be able to focus.

“Fine!” He yelled back. “I accidentally dropped the book again.”

“Okay,” His mother answered doubtfully. “Be more careful, please!”

Flash didn’t answer; instead, he hurried over to the downed hero and carefully shook his shoulder. “Dude, you gotta work with me here.”

“Rather not,” Peter muttered, then hissed through his teeth as Flash poked at his chest. His arm was still clamped against his side, but Flash didn’t want to try and mess with that.

“Come on,” Flash told him. Calm. Calm. Calm...ness. Calmness? Whatever. That was what Flash had to be. Calm. He had to breathe. He had to chill out and breathe. Doctors and vigilantes did this all the time. No big deal. Flash just had to…

“Mask,” He choked out. “Take off your mask. Please.”

Peter pawed at the seams of the suit for a moment before he managed to peel the fabric away from his face. He was pale, a smear of blood up by his hairline, but his eyes looked normal enough. There was something about concussions and pupils, but that was all Flash knew about first aid. (He had never thought about it until now.)

“What happened?” Flash demanded. “Are you hurt?”

He obviously was. Flash didn’t know what else to say.

“No,” Peter tried, then immediately grimaced and pressed a hand even tighter to his side. “Maybe.”

“How bad?” Flash demanded hotly. “Peter, what the hell?”

“It’s a—it’s jus’ a burn.”

“How bad?” Flash repeated.

“Dunno,” Peter said. All the color had leached out of his cheeks. He began pawing at the material of the suit, and it was then that Flash saw the hole that had been seared right through it. Peter had mentioned that Stark had built it out of patented super-strong, stretchy Kevlar-like shit. The fact that it was torn through was… bad.

“Shit,” Peter muttered, then hit the spider on his chest. The suit suddenly sagged off of him, baggy and loose. He hissed as the seemingly-stuck fabric pulled away from his side, but Flash managed to pull the upper half of the suit away from Peter’s body.

Ignoring the (admittedly impressive) six-pack that Peter was sporting, Flash slapped Peter’s hovering hands away from the burn and promptly felt like vomiting.

It was obviously either third or fourth-degree and it was ugly. It was raw, blistered, and blackened in some places. It stretched right across his ribs, seared right across his ribs, and Flash looked away for a moment to gather his nerve.

“Okay,” He breathed. “Okay. I can get, um. Um. What do you do for burns? I’ll get bandages, and—”

“Wet towels,” Peter interrupted faintly. “Lukewarm water. Not. Not—cold. Not cold. Warm, wet towels. Towels. And, um. And bandages. I c—I can do it.”

Peter did not, in any way, look up to treating his own burns. But Flash had absolutely no idea what to do about any form of first aid, so he nodded and slipped out the door.

---

“Call me.” Tony Stark begged.

“Call me.”

“Call me.”

Call me.

Call me. Call me. Call me. Call me. Seriously, call me.

CALL ME.

---

Flash closed his eyes and took a deep, deep breath before he opened them, shoved the phantom Tony Stark who was screaming for Flash to call 911 and let Iron Man deal with it, and got to work.

The towels weren’t a problem—there were so many in his linen closet that he doubted his mother would even notice they were missing. He frowned at them, then grabbed a few paper cups intended for mouthwash from the bathroom and filled them up with lukewarm water. He pulled off a precarious balancing act and somehow made it back to his room without spilling anything. He left his collection by the door, then embarked on the most dangerous part of his quest yet—finding bandages.

He rummaged through the various closets upstairs before he realized that his mom might not keep bandages in these closets. So, resignedly, he yelled out over the faint sounds of his parents’ argument, “MOM!”

Silence for a few beats. Then, “Yes, honey?”

“Do we have any bandages?”

“The what?”

“Bandages!”

“Did you say bandages?”

“Yeah!”

“For what?”

“Nothing!”

“Eugene,” His mother warned with a stern tone of voice.

Shit. Flash had to think fast. “I cut myself on the book I dropped!”

Silence. Not his best lie, but it was probably convincing enough for his angry mother. “I’m sorry, what?”

“It’s a really sharp book!”

“It’s in the cabinet under the guest room sink! Please be careful, honey!”

Flash ignored her. He hurried to the aforementioned cabinet, and sure enough, there was a first aid kit sitting inside.

---

Peter groaned when Flash opened the door, allowing a sliver of the hallway light to enter the previously-dim room. Sweat had beaded on his pale forehead, and there were lines pulled across his face from how hard he was gritting his teeth.

“I got it,” Flash announced, showing off his conquests. “What do you need me to do?”

---

Peter managed to take care of most of it himself, which surprised Flash. When he washed the burn clean, his eyes had squeezed shut so tight that Flash thought he’d be squinting permanently. Flash gently eased him up when it was time to bandage his side, and he managed to wrap it not-completely terribly around Peter’s torso.

Peter fell asleep—or passed out, Flash wasn’t sure—about three seconds after Flash was finished with the bandages.

Flash guessed it made it more convenient for him—he didn’t have to convince Peter to stay and rest instead of venturing out again in a half-destroyed suit and a burn that swallowed up half of his midriff.

It had to be at least two. Flash’s parents had finally stopped screaming, and they were probably back to not speaking to each other. Flash had always preferred that—less conflict.

He flopped onto his bed and then vaguely wondered if he should put the injured kid to the bed. He was conflicted decided that if he tried to move Peter an inch, he’d wake up and kick Flash through a wall.

---

Flash woke up to birds chirping, the sun streaming through his blinds, and Peter’s unmistakable yelp of terror as he woke up and smashed his head against the wall.

Flash shot up in his bed and blinked at Peter, who was curled on his side and blinking with eyes that were almost unfairly large. He stared at Flash for an unnaturally long time before clearing his throat. “Um,” He said uncomfortably. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Flash said dumbly. “What the hell happened last night?”

“Uh…” Peter rolled to his feet smoothly, his spine curving weirdly, and—yeah, his feet were sticking to the floor; there was no other way he could get up without using his arms. Curiously, Peter peeled back the bandage and grinned triumphantly. “I told you I could do it! I think.”

Flash opened his mouth to proteste, because he’d done some research on WebMD while Peter had been doing his bandaging, and he was pretty sure that his classmate should not have been taking the bandages off after one night. But lo and behold, the only thing left of the horrifying burn that Flash knew had been there just a few hours before was nothing more than a shiny red mark stretched across Peter’s side.

“Whoa,” Flash breathed as Peter grinned, poking a finger through the hole in the suit. “That’s… weird.”

Peter waved a hand at Flash through the gaping tear in the uniform. “That’s convenient, I’ll have you know. I’ll be able to go on patrol tonight if I can figure out something to tell Mr. Stark about the suit. With the amount of these I go through per year, he’s going to start losing money.”

Flash decided to ignore that comment. “So that’s it?”

Peter shrugged good-naturedly. “Yeah. I mean, that’s it for you to do."

He sighed resignedly, then began stepping into the filthy suit. “Thanks for helping out. I, uh… There wasn’t anyone else around. Dunno if I said that last night, it’s kind of.. blurry.”

Flash frowned. How was this guy not getting the point? “It’s fine. It’s not a big deal,” He insisted, although it really wasn’t fine and it was a big deal—Peter had almost died in his bedroom while his parents screamed at each other downstairs. “I’ll forgive you if you tell me why exactly you ended up on the floor in my room at twelve AM.”

Peter pulled a face. “New guy. He calls himself Electro and he’s got, like, crazy electricity stuff. I dunno if it’s superpowers or some really cool tech, but I’m hoping for tech, because I really want to know how exactly he did that when I get him, because he harnessed it even more efficiently than Ivan Vanko did a few years back, and—”

Flash waved his arms around, frantic to stop Peter before he went on a science rant that would last all morning. “Okay, okay, okay, I get it. Just.. be more careful next time, yeah?”

Peter pressed his chest and the suit compressed around him. The material had held up better than Peter’s skin had, so the rip wasn’t too noticeable if someone saw Peter whizzing by. He gave a cheeky grin and a sloppy salute, and Flash resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

Then he frowned. “Shoot. I can’t call you Captain, because if I ever bring that name up around Mr. Stark he has an aneurysm—ah, never mind. Aye, aye, Spider-Fan.”

He pulled the mask over his face and slipped out the open window, shooting a web at the building across and starting up the street.

Flash stared at the silhouette of Spider-Man—hero, vigilante, and Flash’s friend—outlined by the rising sun, and grinned.