Work Text:
With another successful mission under their belts, the Avengers celebrated the only way they know how: another rocking party and getting very drunk. Most of them, anyways. Their newest recruit, Spider-Man, profusely refused a drink.
“What?” asked Clint, cracking open a beer even though the party hadn’t started yet, “you more of a Capri Sun guy?”
“Actually, yeah,” the red clad hero jest, “sweeter than wine, it’s the drink of gods.”
“No,” Thor interjected, brandishing a large bottle of mead, “This is. Well, gods and super soldiers.”
“That would be me.” said Steve helpfully.
“Hey Spidey, do you want to take off the outfit? It’s hot in here.” Bruce gestured at his colorful ensemble.
He shook his head, “Nope, I have a reputation to uphold.”
Spider-man always kept his suit on around the Avengers, half out of hiding his true self and half out of pride. Tony Stark made it, after all. The one condition was that his identity remained a secret, so not even the man who designed it knew that the wall-crawling vigilante was fourteen.
He honestly didn’t know how the others haven’t picked up on it. He was short in stature, his voice occasionally cracked (he begrudgingly admitted), and he didn’t drink when the others chugged pints after rough battles. They probably mistook him as a wimp or something, but it was better that than putting his aunt in danger.
“Are you sure?” Tony asked, pouring himself a glass of scotch, “you can keep the mask on, but jeez, take a shower and change.”
Spidey pondered for a second before shrugging, “Eh, sure.” He grabbed his backpack (another hint at his age that no one picked up on) and went into the communal bathroom. He quickly freshened up, the shower surprisingly big for a powder room, and scrubbed the leftover blood, sweat, tears, grime, dust, and alien goo off his body. He dried himself off with a towel and pulled a maroon sweater with yellow text on, along with jeans and finally , tennis shoes. He sighed as he looked in the mirror. Goodbye, Peter Parker.
He tugged on the mask and walked out.
Everyone was spread out among the party area, already dressed like they all crammed into one bathroom in the short time he was. How did they all clean up so speedily?
The Avengers were dressed in party attire which included dress shirts, blazers, slacks, church shoes, and a dress from Natasha. He suddenly felt very under dressed next to the heroes. Well, what was he supposed to do? Constantly pack nice clothes in his Jansport?
He sheepishly made his way to the bar where Natasha and Clint stood.
“Hey,” Peter greeted, “I didn’t formally get the formal invite to this formal occasion.”
Natasha waved her hand, “We always do this, sorry no one gave you the heads up.”
“How did you all get dressed so fast? I stick out like a needle in an organized haystack.”
“Ah, a secret to old guys like us who have to suit up in under a minute,” Clint tipped his beer bottle to him, “You’ll learn.”
“But you smell good? I took a shower.”
“So many questions, so little feet.” Clint mused, nodding at the vigilante
“Hey! I’m 5’ 8”!” The teen was swift to defend himself, “Natasha’s shorter than me.”
“And I’m 5’9”. Therefore, superior in every way. Also, Nat wears heels.”
“Whatever, Clint,” She turned to Peter, “Want a drink?”
Peter still wasn’t 100% certain about his abilities yet, but he knew about his metabolism. He assumed that it extended to alcohol, but he didn’t want to try it. The last thing he needed was to stumble into his apartment at five am and his aunt to smell the liquor on his breath.
“Do you have like, water or something? Sorry, I’m on a vegan diet.” He joked.
She laughed and slid a cold amber colored beverage over to him. Peter eyed the drink warily.
“Just apple juice, I swear I didn’t spike it.”
He sighed in relief, “Oh, okay. Thanks.”
“Well that’s no fun,” Clint pouted, “what’s up with the abstinence, anyway?”
Peter hadn’t expected the question and he struggled to find a way to say, ‘I’m underage and so far from legal, I shouldn’t even be standing here’ in a way that made him sound cool and adult.
“I’d… get in trouble with the sorority.”
Clint and Natasha exchanged glances.
“Er, you mean the fraternity?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re in a fraternity? A sorority’s for girls, fraternity’s for guys.”
“Oh. Oh, yes. Yes, I am.” Peter should have researched the difference between them beforehand.
“Well, have fun in college, then.” Natasha said. Beside her, Clint raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“Thanks.” His voice cracked embarrassingly as he excused himself away from the spies.
Stupid! Now they’re suspicious. You get invited to one party with the Avengers then you think you’re the shit, huh?
Peter found his way to Bruce, Thor, and Steve, who were regaling tales about the 21st century. Thor, because he wasn’t from Earth, Steve, because he was from the 40s, and Bruce, because he was perpetually confused.
“Well, if it isn’t the man of spiders!” boomed Thor, grinning at him as he raised his glass.
“Hi, there. Having fun without me?”
“We’re just talking about social media,” Steve said, poking at his phone with his middle finger, “how do I send a tweet?”
“Well, I don’t think you want to right now,” Peter motioned toward the mead in his hand, “Snapchat is more fit for the occasion.”
“Ooh! I have that,” Bruce pulled out his phone and tapped the yellow app, “what now?”
“Take a picture of the four of us first, then we get down to business,” ordered Peter.
They crammed into frame (Thor's broad shoulders really loved to show themselves) and when Bruce tapped the circle, flash came on. The picture loaded and it showed all of them, except Peter, wincing against the light. Must be the drinks.
“Ew, I don’t like that one,” Steve complained
“What was that?” Thor asked, blinking
“The flash option, you turn it off like this,” he demonstrated, “Let’s retake.”
They tried for a second time and got a decent picture. Peter made a note to self to screenshot it and make it his home screen. Sorry C-3PO, you’ve been replaced.
“Much better!” Bruce said, “now what?”
“You can put a filter on it or stickers, just scroll.”
Bruce settled on the timestamp (2:36 am) and was told to put it on his story.
“See, Snapchat’s for like parties and stuff. Twitter’s for just updating people on your life through words and pictures, Facebook is posting important stuff, and Instagram is for posting pictures with captions.” Peter truly felt scholarly as the men nodded in rapt attention, soaking up all the information he gave them. He was about to lecture them on the downfall of Myspace when he was called over by Tony, Rhodey, Sam, and Maria Hill.
“So, we were thinking,” Tony started but was cut off by Rhodey.
“He was thinking. Hell, all of them except me. Sorry, Spidey.”
“What?”
“So , we were thinking that you haven’t done the family tradition.”
“We are not a family,” Sam said, tipping his beer into his mouth, “we are so far from it.”
“What tradition?” A family tradition! This was too good to be true! Moments like these made him wish that someone other than himself knew about his double life. If Ned knew he would absolutely freak. So would May, but not the way that he'd like.
“A little something I like to call, ‘Point Break and his magic tool’.”
“No offense, Mr. Stark, but that’s a terrible name.”
“Nonsense, it’s perfect.” He cupped his hands around his mouth, “Everyone! Gather ‘round!”
Maria Hill chuckled, “Now you’ve got yourself an audience.”
“For what? What’s going on?” Peter gasped, “Is there going to be a blood oath?”
“What? No.” Sam shuddered.
“Hey, Thor, can you lend us Mjölnir for a second? Put it on the table... yeah.”
“Ah, so the itsy bitsy spider is going to try to lift Thor’s weapon of choice.” Clint declared, perching himself onto the back of the couch.
“I’m what ?! Oh no, I’m going to die. Please donate my brain to the Smithsonian and scatter my ashes across the dumpster near Delmar’s, I got my first computer parts there,” the teenager rambled.
“You won’t die,” Thor assured him, “you probably can’t lift it so there’s no damage except pride.”
“Why can’t I lift it? Can you?” he asked Steve, who was closest.
Tony laughed, “Capsicle got it to budge but no one besides Thor can. None of us are worthy.”
“Well that’s disappointing.”
“Indeed,” Natasha nodded toward the hammer, “go ahead and try.”
They quieted and all they could hear was the soft jazz lounge music playing in the background, watching Spider-Man intently.
He rubbed his hands against his pants nervously. He took a cautious step toward the weapon, firmly grasping the worn handle. Don't fanboy, don’t fanboy. Peter took a deep breath then yanked it, imagining it to weigh thousands of tons. That wasn’t the case at all.
The hammer pulled upwards and hit him in the face, he yelped upon the impact, and fell onto the ground in pain.
“Ack!” He forgot all about the situation and prodded his nose. Broken? Most likely. Bleeding? Yes. A lot. Ow, ow, ow, ow.
He tugged off the mask and took in the air around him, “Shit! I thought that was the one you can’t pick up!”
Peter cupped his hands to catch the blood but it dripped onto his jeans and traveled onto his chin, getting onto his sweater.
He looked up to ask if anyone had tissues and realized they were staring at him with moon sized eyes and gaping mouths. Even Natasha, the stone cold spy who never let her guard down.
“Guys?” he asked.
“You’re… worthy.” said Thor
Tony spluttered like a fish out of water, “And you’re like ten-years-old.”
“What? No I’m not, I’m-” He reached up to touch his mask to find it gone. His eyes widened and he saw it on the ground near his feet.
There was an uproar.
“Are you telling me Spider-Man’s a kid?”
“There’s a Backyardigan in the Avengers?”
“Shit, we fucked up bad.”
“Oh my God, we offered him drinks, that’s not legal... wait, is it?”
“How old are you?!”
“This isn’t possible, you can’t be a child.”
"You’re so young…”
Peter grit his teeth as he tasted metal, the blood running into his mouth, “Does anyone have something I can wash this off with? Like a baby wipe or something?”
That snapped them out of their stupor. They started rushing around shouting at each other, “He needs ice! And a towel!”
He remained on the ground, Thor's hammer beside him. He felt a sense of pride on lifting it. He, Peter Parker, can lift Mjölnir!
The heroes returned, handing Peter a wad of tissues.
“Pinch your nose below the bridge and lean forward slightly so you don’t choke on the blood.” instructed Bruce.
He did as he was told, moving to the couch with him. As soon as he sat down, he was interrogated by Steve.
“How old are you?”
Peter laughed nervously, “Would you believe me if I said twenty?”
“No.”
“Okay. I’m nineteen.”
“No you're not.” Sam was narrowing his eyes at him.
Peter sighed, “Fine. Fourteen.”
“What?!” Tony shouted, “so that means we’ve been fighting next to someone who can’t even drive?”
“Well, yeah.”
“How did this happen?” Clint asked, “Like, the spider stuff. Is that just the suit?”
“Nope.” He got up and walked to a nearby wall despite their protests for him to sit down. He walked up the wall with ease, still pinching his nose. Peter stood on the incredibly high ceiling and used his web shooters (which he always kept on) to lower himself back onto the couch.
“Don’t laugh at me, but I got bit by a radioactive spider.”
Bruce frowned, “What’s your name? We’ve been calling you Spider-Man for the entire time we’ve known you.”
Peter at first didn’t meet their eyes but then looked up and smiled, “Peter. Peter Parker.”
They returned the smile with a sort of protectiveness that he could clearly see.
“Well, Peter,” Tony clapped his shoulder, “guess you're worthy.”