Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"It'll just be for a week. I promise he won't miss much."

May lifted an eyebrow, arms still tight across her chest. Peter watched with a small amount of trepidation, heart fluttering in his throat. May hadn't liked Tony Stark on a good day; let alone after Peter had so stupidly left his door open after getting his suit back. But Peter thought maybe the two had been getting along pretty well lately. So when Mr. Stark had mentioned a science convention he was attending, Peter thought for sure May would let him tag along if he asked.

But that hadn't been the case.

He'd breached the idea of attending the Switzerland-based convention two weeks ago. Since then Peter had begged, bargained, cajoled, and took out the trash without being told on numerous occasions. He'd even cut back his number of injuries while on patrol. But getting a 'yes' was like pulling teeth. Eventually Peter had to concede defeat and call for reinforcements.

Mr. Stark showed up a day later.

May and Mr. Stark sat down across from each other in a restaurant that had a salad Peter was pretty sure cost more than a month's rent (he wasn't completely positive as this place took "authentic Italian" way too far). Mr. Stark had started with some small talk, trying to keep things casual. But it hadn't taken long for May to grow impatient.

"Cut the crap, Stark. I know what this is really about."

To the point, his aunt.

Through the following apertivo, antipasto, and primo piatto, Mr. Stark explained to May the convention, its purpose, and some of the other attendees as well as a few personal anecdotes that Peter suspected were a lot tamer stories than the actual events had been. The second course and insalata were dedicated to Switzerland and its many sights and sounds. At that point, May had looked less upset and more stern.

"And what about school?" May asked, leading to Peter's current moment in time.

Mr. Stark declared his resolution with a careless shrug. "Besides," he continued, "Peter's the smartest kid at that school. I doubt there's anything they're teaching him he doesn't already know."

Peter blushed, ducking down into his tiramisu. It was still so wild, even after almost six months, hearing the Tony Stark compliment him. He felt severally unqualified to hear it.

May sat back; her gelato melting, lost and forgotten. Peter would have eaten it by now if his stomach wasn't so full of knots. "He doesn't have a passport."

Peter and Mr. Stark froze. "About that," the billionaire began.

"You didn't! Tony!"

"In my defense, I was desperate."

May huffed, rolling her eyes in such a way that Peter hadn't seen since he was seven and she'd found him in her make up bag. She'd dropped her arms' stranglehold of each other at least.

"I'll write the excuse and cover all costs. While we're gone, Pepper mentioned you coming over to the loft. We'll check in every night and I won't leave him left unattended longer than a shower. I promise."

Another huff of air, more amused this time, which Peter took as a good sign. Maybe he had been right and it wasn't just wishful thinking that May and Mr. Stark had become something like friends (and what was this about Miss Potts? He didn't even know the two had met!)

"Are those terms to your satisfaction, Mrs. Parker?"

Peter sat on the edge of his seat (literally), staring wide-eyed at his aunt. He should probably blink but was too focused on telepathically implanting a 'yes' in May's mind to bother. The woman crossed her arms again.

"One other thing."

"Name it."

May looked to Peter. Her smile was large and genuine and the best thing Peter had seen in days, "Take lots of pictures."

Peter just about flipped the table in his excitement. "For real?!"

May laughed, gave his trembling arm a soft pat, "For real."

"Fantastic," Mr. Stark cheered. Or cheered in as refined a way as only Mr. Stark could do. "The convention is next month which gives us plenty of time to get our affairs in order."

"This is so cool," Peter whispered. He was shaking so much, he was sure was sure he'd jitter his way to the next 70s club. "Am I dreaming?" May and Mr. Stark laughed. For a split second, Peter was convinced two pairs of eyes were looking at him with all the paternal love he'd craved since Ben's death. Then Mr. Stark turned away to speak to their approaching waiter.

Peter filed it away under wishful thinking.

"What is your life at his point?" Ned asked the next day. He and Peter sat in their usual place in the busy Midtown cafeteria, chowing down on pot roast (Ned) and leftover pasta (Peter. Italians did not skimp on the portions). "You're being mentored by Ironman, you're a superhero, and now? You're going to Europe. Again!"

Peter laughed even as he tried to get his best friend to quiet down. He wasn't entirely sure, but he thought maybe MJ sitting a table over was listening.

"It is neat. But it's not for superhero business. This convention is the place to be for all things tech and clean energy. Mr. Stark said last year they'd been this close to making plastic bio-degradable." Peter squeezed his fingers millimeters from each other same as Mr. Stark had done. "He thinks they'll crack it this year."

Ned's eyes were the size of dinner plates. "Dude. Could I stow away in your luggage?"

Peter lit up, "I wish! Hey, maybe Mr. Stark could bring you too!"

"That'd be so awesome," Ned wheezed. For a moment Peter was afraid he would faint, "But…"

"'But'? 'But' what? Dude, it's Switzerland and science--two of the coolest 's' words in the English language."

"Doubt," MJ said.

Peter whipped around to glare at her. She was listening!

Oh, crap. She was listening.

MJ looked up from her book. The glint in her eyes dared him to make a scene.

Something to unpack later then.

Shakily turning back to his best friend, Peter placed his head on his closed fist, "You were saying?"

Ned's eyes flickered between the two of them. Ned lately seemed to find MJ hilarious. He looked both amused and confused by the panic in Peter's expression. "But," he said, drawing out the word, "It's really short notice, and I don't want to interrupt bonding time."

Peter's face fell, "Ned, you have to stop this."

"There's nothing wrong with wanting the best for your best friend!" Ned shouted. Peter flapped his arms, spluttering spitty shushes as Ned went off on one of his rants. Again. "Mr. Stark cares. I don't care what your angst-ridden emotions say."

Drastic measures needed, Peter pulled his best friend into a stranglehold, trying to smother Ned's words with his chest and sheer determination (also a touch of superpowers). He giggled nervously at the few students who turned to glare at them.

"Don't mind him," he let (a blessedly quiet) Ned go and hissed in his face, "he's delusional."

"We're not having this argument again, Peter."

"You started it!"

"You both need help." MJ interrupted. She stood, picking her books up with the grace that only ballerinas who had sold their souls could do. Her droll statement matched her expression, "Have fun in Switzerland. Bring me back water from Reichenbach Falls." She then shuffled away.

Peter stared after her. "Do you think she's serious?"

"As a heart attack, my friend."

"You're going to do what now?"

Peter lifted his goggles, blinked up at his mentor who seemed to be in the middle of gutting every model of camera in existence. "She asked," he said. "Or, well, more like demanded? Stated? It was a very firm statement. She expects results."

Mr. Stark fought a smile, "Really now."

"You haven't met her yet, Mr. Stark. She can be very intimidating."

He couldn't place Mr. Stark's expression. It was like the man was organizing puzzle pieces in his head. "What did you say her name was?"

"Michelle. Or MJ. But only the decalathon members get to call her that. Everyone but Flash anyway."

"I see."

Peter didn't like his tone. "'I see' what?"

"Hm?" He'd returned to his gutting.

"You said 'I see.' But like 'I've connected dots I shouldn't have connected' kind of 'I see.'"

"My. That is scarily paranoid."

"Mr. Stark--"

"May Parker calling," FRIDAY's accented voice interrupted.

"Accept call," Mr. Stark immediately answered.

May's face appeared in the hologram display to Mr. Stark's right. She was in her scrubs, the sounds coming through FRIDAY's speakers indicative of the hospital she worked at. Peter smiled and waved, the display angled so they were both visible.

"Oh, good. He's already there," May said.

"You know," Mr. Stark said, not looking up from his work. "There isn't really a need to pick up extra shifts if I'm around."

"And I appreciate that, but I told you 'no.' Sorry, Peter, I won't be home 'til late."

"That's okay. I can steal food from Mr. Stark's fridge before I leave tonight."

"You can also use the bed in the spare bedroom. Oh, wait, that's not a spare room--it's yours."

May giggled at Mr. Stark's obvious frustration. "Thank you, Tony. Please let him stay the night."

"Fine. But I won't like it."

"Liar."

Peter's attention bounced between the two adults like a very intense game of Pong. It was moments like these that made Peter think they were friends. After last night's dinner, it was nice to have things confirmed. Ever since Ben's death, May had lost all contact with people outside of work acquaintances. He always worried she might be lonely with only a mostly-absent teenage superhero for a conversation buddy. But it seemed both Mr. Stark and Miss Potts (mind-blown) were picking up where he couldn't. May had friends--good ones. She was living the life she so richly deserved.

"Please don't stay up too late. Peter still has school tomorrow. Speaking of, did you give the school Peter's excuse?"

Mr. Stark finally looked up. "No, not yet. Thought I'd send it with the kid tomorrow."

"Good idea. Well, I need to get back to work. Love you, Peter. Night, Tony."

"Love you!"

"Night, lady."

His aunt's face disappeared leaving the default 'end call' screen that all Stark phones utilized. Peter flushed to realize her contact name in Mr. Stark's personal phone was "Co-Parent." Mr. Stark didn't seem to notice that Peter had noticed. He'd already refocused his attention to his task at hand.

For a second, Peter thought to ask about it. Ultimately, he let it go. Some things he didn't think he needed confirmation for just yet.

Peter double-checked his front backpack pocket for the typed note Mr. Stark had given him that morning. Despite being a STEM school for young minds, Midtown still lacked quite a few modern conveniences. Like a working website to submit excuses through. Permission slips for field trips (like the one to Oscorp) were still handed out in class to be signed by parents. It was undoubtedly one of the less cool things about going to such an elite school. That and the fact they still had gym class.

Happy had dropped Peter off with plenty of time to go to his locker, hand in the note, and make a cake (icing included). There were, at the most, twelve other students waiting outside the front doors. They weren't even allowed to go into the building yet.

"Why, Happy?" Peter grumbled, "Don't you love me?"

And even though it was early, it wasn't enough time to suit up, patrol, and then return to school to do all the things needed to be done that morning (minus the cake, of course). Also, Peter was sure Mr. Stark would give him an earful about designated school hours, never mind that the school hadn't even been unlocked. Resigned to his fate, Peter sat down on the stone steps and did the one thing all non-superpowered teenagers did: fart around on his phone.

Eventually the early morning quiet came to an end. Kids begin arriving; parents shouted about forgotten lunchboxes and the occasional "I love you!" Peter heard the 'pop' of the safety bars as the doors unlocked for the hour it took most students to enter. A much-needed crosswalk guard arrived to stem the flood of teens. Peter looked up from his phone and gazed out on the sea of faces. The many souls of a city he swore to protect. These were his people, his neighborhood. He felt a rush of pride and nerves at the responsibility he had so willingly picked up. Sometimes it hit him that--wow, he was a superhero.

He was also a dumb loser who didn't get up in time to avoid Flash and his posse as they ambled up the stairs.

"Sup, Penis!" Flash shouted for the whole world to hear.

"Flash," Peter attempted to greet politely. It came out more like a curse.

"Whatcha lookin' at?" Flash asked, carelessly throwing himself beside Peter and squinting out at their fellow students. "Looking for another date to ditch?"

Ok. Ow. That stung.

Of course Flash was being purposefully mean. But he didn't know the half of what such a statement entailed. He didn't know about the fight with Toomes or the plane. Or the building. All he knew was that loser Peter Parker who couldn't get dates ditched the first one dumb enough to accept his offer.

Also that Spider-man totaled his car.

But those two events were completely separate in his mind. Peter's high about being a superhero crashed; because, goodness, he was a superhero. And secret identities were the worst.

No wonder Mr. Stark never bothered with one.

Already tired, Peter stood up. He checked his pocket again then left, ignoring Flash's faux-innocent "was it something I said." His friends laughed making Peter cringe.

Peter stopped at his locker long enough to grab his books before heading to Ned's. His best friend was struggling with a cardboard cut out of Francis Bacon when he arrived. "Presentation day?" he asked.

"Presentation day. Did you know Francis Bacon went to jail?"

"I've taken that class, Ned. I know."

"Yeah, but did you also know he's the one responsible for the ghostly chicken of Pond Square?"

Peter could only stare dumbly at his friend. "Did you put that in your presentation?"

"Possibly."

Shaking his head, the teen hero walked away. Ned's love of the supernatural baffled him sometimes.

"Where're you going?"

"Front office. Gotta drop off my note."

Ned's eyes lit up. "Oh! Okay! See you in calc."

Peter faced his best friend, gave a lazy salute and turned back around without breaking his forward momentum. Sometimes his spidey skills came in handy in even the most normal of circumstances.

It was eerily quiet in the front office when he entered. Peter's face scrunched in discomfort as he tried to close the door as carefully as he could. When it finally clicked, even the sounds of the other students cut out. Incredible sound proofing. He noticed Miss Bell as he approached the front desk squinting at her monitor. She was a pretty woman but very nasty. Which meant this wasn't going to be a very fun visit.

"Good morning, Miss Bell," Peter greeted. He tried to channel his inner Tony Stark. Confidence, he thought. Anything else and she would put him through the paper shredder--spidey powers or no spidey powers. The older woman barely looked up. She was typing with the speed of a desperate gazelle on the Serengeti. Peter tried not to laugh. Uncomfortable situations always made him laugh. And that wasn't very confident.

It took five very long minutes before Miss Bell finally stopped typing. "Do you need something."

Peter had better customer service from a soccer mom. He plastered on his best smile and hoped he wasn't sweating. "I'm here to drop off a note."

Miss Bell stuck her hand out.

Even Peter's spidey-sense wasn't fast enough to warn him. He jerked his head back, startled. Quickly he dug into his pocket for the note. Breath. Be confident. He unfolded his note and handed it over. His hand only trembled a little when she snatched it from him.

Miss Bell gave a quick glance over it once, then started again from the beginning. She seemed bored at first; but the longer she read, the more annoyed she appeared. She hadn't even reached the end before she crumbled the paper up much to Peter's horror. "Is this a joke to you?" she snapped.

Peter blinked, "Miss Bell, my note--"

"I have better things to do than fulfill childish fantasies. You're lucky I'm too busy to report you to Principal Morita."

"Miss Bell--"

"Go to class. I'm busy." She turned back to her screen.

At this point, Peter was too surprised to argue further. It hadn't even been Mr. Stark's chicken scratch signature that had caused her to be so upset. He was just some dumb kid who wanted a week off and didn't care what he wrote to get it. He felt a tiny burst of annoyance. It wasn't enough that the Stark Internship was thought to be a lie (which at this point, it no longer was), but now everyone would think Peter would use any excuse to get out of school.

Peter stormed out of the office, digging his phone out as he went.

"Why are you calling me?" Mr. Stark's voice sounded a little more panicked than Peter thought it should. "There should be no reason for you to call me from school."

"Miss Bell crumbled up my note."

"Excuse me."

"Miss Bell, the scary office lady. She crumbled up my note."

"Any particular reason why that would be a necessary thing for her to do?"

"I don't know," Peter sarcastically replied, "Maybe she's a busy lady who doesn't like to believe in honest kids. Is me going to Switzerland really that far outside the realm of possibility?"

"Switzerland?" the distinctly annoying voice of Flash shouted. He and a few friends were walking to their first class of the day. "You can't even afford a new phone!"

There was a rather pregnant pause--so pregnant, it is was probably twins. "You didn't hear that."

"I gave you that phone three months ago."

"It's so shiny! I'm afraid I'll break it!"

"It's indestructible, kid!"

"Oh," Peter blinked. "That was not in the owner's manual."

"Unbelievable. How are you my kid?"

"Say what now?" Peter winced as one of the band members dropped an entire tuba, making such a ruckus that even he couldn't pick up Mr. Stark's words. "Sorry there was some noise."

"Nothing, kid. Just get to class. I'll take care of the everything."

"Okay. Bye."

"See ya, Underoos."

When Mr. Stark said "see ya," Peter didn't think he'd see him today. And definitely not at his school. But there the man was, outside of the front office reading the flyer for the Drama Club's mid-semester play.

"Mr. Stark?"

The billionaire looked up, already smiling, "Hey, kid."

"Wh-what, what are you doing here?" Peter was having a serious case of de-ja-vu as he tucked his sweating hands under his armpits.

"Came to sort out your excuse, but…" Mr. Stark tapped the 'out to lunch' sign hanging on the door, "seems my timing is bad."

"In person?"

"Felt that would be easiest. What are you doing?" It caught Peter of guard to see Mr. Stark go from easy-going to stern in the breath of two sentences.

"Lunch," he wheezed.

Mr. Stark relaxed. "That makes sense. Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans, the older man looked around. Peter noticed he didn't once look at the large mural behind him. "So, this is what school looks like."

"Yeah," Peter said. "Didn't you go? Or were you, like, tutored or something?"

"Private boarding school. Extremely boring. MIT was better."

"That's where you met Mr. Rhodes, right?"

"That's right. You do listen." Mr. Stark placed a hand on Peter's head, lazily moving it back and forth rather than ruffling his hair like normal.

"I always listen," Peter admitted. He looked away, guilty. "Now."

Mr. Stark didn't drop his hand, "I know, kid."

There was some chatter a hall away, reminding Peter the two of them weren't likely to be alone for very much longer. "Are you going to come back later?"

"Waste of gas," he replied, like he couldn't afford a tank or two even at New York's prices. "Show me around?"

Peter's gut churned. As awesome as that sounded, he didn't think Mr. Stark would appreciate a couple hundred starry-eyed teenagers taking pictures of him. He voiced as much.

Mr. Stark laughed. "Don't stress about it, kid. The paps have been a worse problem than a few pre-pubescent geniuses. Give me a tour." He waved a hand towards the nearest hall.

Well, if Mr. Stark was okay with it…

For the next twenty minutes, Peter led Tony Stark aka the Ironman around his humble school. He bashfully pointed out his locker despite Mr. Stark not needing to know that. When Mr. Stark asked, he explained the posters plastered around them as they moved through the more boring corridors. They peeked into a debate class only because Mr. Stark was alarmed by how loud they were.

"Mr. Harrington has got it in his head that we need to know how to project. You know, like the great orators."

"Huh."

The tour continued. Midtown had several sports teams and it looked like a few were practicing through their lunch break. They stopped on the second floor landing to watch them from the window.

"Honestly, they need the practice. No one comes here for the sports."

A smile. "I can't imagine why."

"Shop class!" Peter announced, throwing his arms out as he entered the spacious room. Thankfully no actually shop class was in progress. Mr. Stark gaped at the piles of stuff stacked around the walls, cabinets, and tables, "A lot of projects from previous students are kept here. This place never throws anything out."

"I feel like this is a major safety hazard."

Peter laughed, amused. "Don't worry, Mr. Stark. They update the sprinkler system every week."

"I am worried. So worried."

The next room they slipped into was an art class. "I forget sometimes that we have art classes," he whispered. The gathered students, too engrossed in their work to notice the two of them, were sketching a copper pot overflowing with fake daisies.

"Don't you have to take an art class to graduate?"

"Correction: I try to forget that I took this class."

Mr. Stark gave him a consoling pat on the back.

"You know," Peter said as they descended the steps, making their way back to the first floor, "it's unfair that you do science and can draw."

His mentor snorted. "That's a bit of an exaggeration, kid. Technical drawing skills are different from your artist friends up there. You think I could draw a straight line without a ruler?"

"Finally, the great Ironman meets his match: Circles."

A thrill went through Peter at Mr. Stark's delighted laugh. If asked even just a few months ago that he would make the great Tony Stark laugh so effortlessly, he wouldn't have believed it. If there had been one good thing to come out of his fight with Toomes, it was that Peter had slowly begun shedding that awe-struck hero worship he held for his mentor. That isn't to say he didn't still get a little misty-eyed even looking at the man. But at least now he could say something without tripping over his own tongue.

"Do you think lunch break is over?"

Mr. Stark shrugged, "Guess we'll find out."

The bell rang just then, ending Peter's lunch hour. He frowned surprised by how quickly the time had passed.

"Aw, crap! Ned!" Peter's heart twisted imagining his best friend seated at his usual spot, wondering where Peter was. He pulled out his phone to check for messages just as they reentered the front lobby. Mr. Stark looked on with a small hint of concern.

"Hey, Peter. I'm gonna need you to marry MJ."

Peter whipped around so fast he was sure he heard his back pop, "What?!"

Ned stood behind him (well, in front of him now) wearing a smile and a look so devious, Peter was certain his life flashed before his eyes. "I sat with her during lunch cuz you never showed up. We should hang out with her more."

A shudder passed through Peter, still hung up on the whole 'marry MJ' part. He could feel Mr. Stark's silent gaze as he waited for a reply. The reply wouldn't come.

"Where were you, by the way?" Ned asked, taking pity.

"Hey, Ned."

"Oh, hey, Mr. Stark." Ned nodded his head at the billionaire like seeing Ironman in the flesh was an everyday occurrence for him. It took two seconds for that to change. "Holy crap! Mr. Stark!"

Mr. Stark looked like he was having the time of his life, teasing high schoolers. "What was that about Michelle?"

"That's me," a new voice said. "But I'm pretty sure he said, 'MJ.'"

Mr. Stark didn't even flinch. If it were possible for Peter to think any higher of the man, that was the moment it happened. The older superhero looked into the reincarnated eye of Rosa Parks and said, "Kid says only the deca-nerds call you that."

MJ didn't move. The two of them stood off like morons at high noon. Mr. Stark blinked first.

"You're all right." MJ said.

"Thank you?"

"You're welcome." The being Peter was certain was some long forgotten deity walked off.

Mr. Stark smiled, "I like her."

"She's terrifying, isn't she?"

"Absolutely."

"Right?" Ned asked, still smiling.

There was some kind of conspiracy happening that Peter wasn't aware of and didn’t think he wanted to know about. "We're going to be late for class," he grumbled.

A large majority of Peter's classmates were heading to and from lunch now. They'd been standing out in the lobby long enough that everyone had noticed them. Peter cringed a little, ducking his head down toward Mr. Stark's shoulder. Unsurprisingly, the billionaire handled their shifting attention like a pro. He kept most of his attention on Ned as he babbled about MJ and decalothon, but he would occasionally look up to smile at a stunned student. Peter felt better when he noticed no one trying to approach the superhero. Instead they gave them a wide berth but a lot of stares.

"Interesting," Mr. Stark interrupted, not unkindly. "And I'd love to hear more, but I gotta handle Peter's excuse and then make it to a meeting across town. Nice to meet you in person."

If the overly polite nature of Mr. Stark's tone bothered Ned, he didn't let it show. The boy beamed, "Sure, Mr. Stark. I hope Switzerland is fun."

Mr. Stark placed his hands on Peter's shoulders, guiding him towards the office behind them, "Always is. Maybe next year you could join us."

Ned couldn't verbalize after that; but if his frantic nodding was any indication, the answer was an emphatic 'I would freaking love to.'

"Good kid, your 'guy in the chair.'"

Peter smiled involuntarily. He liked it when people liked his best friend, "He is." Mr. Stark opened the office door, the sign gone now, and pushed Peter inside.

Miss Bell was already glaring at him, "Hey, Miss Bell," he squeaked, "About my note--"

"I heard there was trouble," Mr. Stark continued for him. He trailed in after Peter and closed the door, cutting off the outside noise immediately. "Was I supposed to format it a certain way?"

Peter smiled. Mr. Stark was being surprisingly polite for a situation he had had to make time for--time being one of the few things Mr. Stark didn't have an abundance of. Even though the whole thing could have been avoided, he didn't at all show his impatience if he had any to begin with.

"I assumed that to be the case, since there couldn't possibly be another reason why I had to come down here."

Or maybe Mr. Stark was just a really good actor.

Peter's smile fell into a cringe so hard he could have opened a walnut with his eyebrows. He'd been on the receiving end of Mr. Stark's anger only once before, and it wasn't an experience he was ready to ever repeat. All of Peter's life, he had experienced only one kind of anger: Explosive. Thugs, bullies, even Aunt May were of the brand of anger that came hot and heavy and right in his face. That anger could go away just as quickly as it came too. Either because he knocked the bad guy out or he did the thing Aunt May had told him to do.

Mr. Stark was not the kind of anger Peter was used to.

Mr. Stark seethed. His emotions simmered. You didn't realize he was angry until you were three sentences into the conversation. Like, yeah, you're in trouble. But he isn't angry, just disappointed. And it isn't until he lands a sentence so succinct and articulate that it rips you open neck to gut, that you realize--yes, he is angry.

"I wanted you to be better" is a sentence Peter is likely never to forget.

Despite his earlier frustration with the secretary, Peter felt a little bad for Miss Bell. It wasn't fair to have her first impression of Mr. Stark be the terrifying man before her. Still…she kinda deserved it. A little. Maybe.

Some higher power was merciful though. Principal Morita chose that moment to emerge from the hall leading to his office, holding a clipboard of paper he was frowning at. "Miss Bell, do you know what happened to the 2017 gym statement?" He looked up.

Mr. Stark waved.

Principal Morita was possibly the calmest person Peter had ever met that wasn't already a superhero. But seeing a billionaire like Mr. Stark standing in your work office with no prior warning would throw even the coolest of individuals off. For a split second, he looked like he was about to power-walk back to his office.

Even Mr. Stark was impressed by how well Principal Morita collected himself. The white-knuckle grip on the clipboard was the only betrayer of his nerves. He stepped forward and extended a hand across the desk, "Mr. Stark, what brings you here?"

"My intern," Mr. Stark indicated Peter, shaking the principle's hand with the other hand. Peter trembled under the gazes of the three individuals: Mr. Stark's proud smile, Principle Morita's shock and Miss Bell less-than-impressed expression.

"Mr. Parker?"

"That's right." The older man looked Peter's principal in the eye, "I had him deliver an excuse this morning, and he was…disregarded." The secretary didn't miss the glare turned her way.

Principle Morita caught on to his inflection better than most. "I see."

There was an awkward pause where it seemed Mr. Stark didn't feel the need to explain himself further. Peter coughed loud enough to startle them all, covering another inappropriate laugh. "Sorry," he mumbled. Mr. Stark shook his head, his face turned away enough that the other two didn't catch his mentor's annoyed expression. "Sorry," he said again.

His disruption was enough to break the ice though. Principal Morita placed his clipboard down, "I apologize for the inconvenience, Mr. Stark. Can I ask what this excuse was for?" He pulled a sheet of paper from a nearby folder and picked up the closest pencil.

"The kid and I are attending a science convention outside of the country."

Principal Morita smiled, "Interesting."

Mr. Stark's grin was a little less genuine. "He'll be with me for a week."

The principal nodded, having started writing as Mr. Stark talked. He jotted down the dates and what subjects Peter would be missing. "I'll be sure to notify his teachers. They can either have him work ahead or set his work aside to be completed when he returns."

"Excellent. Thank you."

"Of course. If there are any problems in the future," Principal Morita glanced to the blinds covering the office windows, "please feel free to…call next time."

Mr. Stark grinned, "I'll keep that in mind." The two men shook hands again.

"Thanks, Principal Morita," Peter said, suddenly embarrassed as Mr. Stark led him outside.

"You're welcome, Peter. Do you need an excuse?"

Peter did an odd two step, not wanting to leave the grip Mr. Stark had on him, but also needing the excuse. The bell had rung some time while Mr. Stark and his principal were talking and his next class was with Mr. Dechert. The man did not mess around when it came to attendance. Mr. Stark squeezed his shoulder, thumb digging into the muscle by his neck. Peter relaxed. "Yes, please."

Miss Bell glared at him as she tore off the small piece of paper from its pad. Peter had a sinking feeling that he'd made an enemy worse then the weirdos he chased on patrol. He smiled as best he could and backed out of the office. "Bye," he squeaked.

"I'll see you this weekend, kay, kid?"

Peter picked at the edge of his note, "Sure. Of course. Thanks, Mr. Stark," he waved the note a little, "for coming in. You didn't have to do that."

Mr. Stark shrugged, "Eh. I didn't want to go to that meeting anyway."

That startled a laugh. Mr. Stark could be so strange sometimes. He didn't know how the man managed aloofness and care all at once. Mr. Stark treated every action he did like it was no big deal. But to Peter, it was all so huge. After Ben died, Peter had only really had May. Most adults in his life did the bare minimum--mostly because Peter was a smart kid who didn't need the attention that a lot of other kids needed. It was nice then when Mr. Stark actually explained something to him instead of having to figure it out for himself. He took time out of his ridiculously busy schedule to check up on him. Listened to voicemails that Peter sometimes forgot he left in the first place. It was all a little overwhelming. But nice. Comforting.

"Bye, Mr. Stark."

Mr. Stark didn't walk away. He stood in the empty front lobby, hands in his pockets, and watched Peter leave. When Peter turned the corner, he was still there. Something in Peter thought that was important.

He just didn't know what it meant just yet.

Chapter Text

Mr. Stark's lab was an engineer's playground. It wasn't just the interactive hologram displays or the state-of-the-art tools. It was the small stuff too: like the wide space, the ventilation system, even the benches with their smooth metal surfaces and independent power sources. For Peter though what made the lab so special was a little more personal. It was Mr. Stark's rock playlist blasting from the speakers. The goofy photo they took when they set up the official Stark Internship sitting front and center on Mr. Stark's worktable. His mentor guiding him through mistakes, heads close together as they worked away hours on end.

It was a comfort Peter rarely felt.

He looked up from his most recent project. Mr. Stark had returned to his cameras. He'd organized the parts and scanned them into FRIDAY's system. On the hologram displays before him, he had diagrams of each model labelled to keep it organized. Peter wondered not for the first time what he was doing.

"Have you packed?"

Peter dropped his screwdriver. He didn't think Mr. Stark had noticed his staring. "Um, yeah. Started to."

The genius nodded. "Don't bring the suit."

"How come?"

Mr. Stark raised an eyebrow, gaze sharp, "I know you're bad at keeping secrets, kid, but c'mon. People are going to connect some dots if Spider-man shows up in Switzerland the same time as Peter Parker."

Peter scoffed, "No one really believes I'm going anyway."

"Michelle does."

Good Point. "Ok. I won't bring the suit."

"Good. Don't forget a suit."

"What?" Peter jerked his arms out, "You just said not to bring the suit."

"A suit, kid! Not the suit. Are you doing all right? You're running a little slow lately."

It would be a lie to say he was fine. Peter felt painfully off-balance, and didn't know why. An uncomfortable itch formed every time the trip was mentioned. He didn't want to say it was his senses warning him of something. He didn't want to miss out on this trip just because of freaky anxiety.

"I'm good," he lied.

Mr. Stark didn't look like he believed him, but as long as he wasn't asking any more questions, Peter could live with that. The trip was in just two weeks. Whatever paranoia he had developed could hold off until he was back.

Peter returned to his work. He was having a difficult time getting his power source to connect with the device. The few times he had tried either resulted in small explosions or bad connections that zapped the power too quickly for the battery to regenerate its energy. He removed the plain silver pack for the fifth time that hour.

He worked like this for the next four hours. When working in the lab, the two of them rarely talked once they'd gotten into their respective projects. It wasn't until FRIDAY suggested dinner that Peter looked up. His neck gave a painful twinge.

"That sounds great, Fri. What d'you want, kid?"

"Chinese," he mumbled, rubbing at his sour muscles. Mr. Stark chuckled at him.

"Go ahead, Fri."

"Of course, Boss."

Peter dropped his arm. Mr. Stark was flicking away camera parts, shutting down for the afternoon. He stood a little awkwardly, his movements stiffer than Peter remembered them ever being. In fact, now that he was paying attention, Mr. Stark looked tired. His shoulders were too bowed to be the posture of a well-rested man.

He leaned on his forearms, the metal of his bench cool against his skin. As he watched Mr. Stark discard and keep various hologram pieces, he wondered. "Mr. Stark?"

"Yeah, kid?"

The teen genius hesitated for a moment. Long enough for Mr. Stark to look at him, a furrow between his eyebrows. "Is everything okay?"

Mr. Stark blinked. Whatever he'd been expecting Peter to say, that had not been it. "Yeah, Underoos. Why do you ask?"

He shrugged, "Don't know," he muttered, "You just look tired, is all."

His mentor chuckled. There was an almost unnatural look of relief in the way he stood now. Peter wondered if he'd brushed up against something Mr. Stark didn't want him touching. "I'm fine. Promise."

Peter doubted that, but he'd take a page from Mr. Stark's book and not push the issue.

Two weeks went by about as fast as Peter expected it to: Ridiculously fast and not fast enough.

Peter packed two bags for the trip: a carry-on and a suitcase for check-in. He'd taken a peek at airline prices (of which he was deeply regretting if the number of advertisements he was getting in his sidebars was any indication); and, depending on the airline, the prices for check-in bags were ridiculous. Mr. Stark kept reminding him they'd be taking his private jet, but that didn't stop Peter from forgetting on a near daily basis.

As it turned out, it was more prophetic than forgetful.

He woke up Monday at three in the morning. His bags were by the door, and May managed to crawl her way out of bed long enough to walk him to the car waiting for him. She had wrapped a worn bathrobe over her pjs and hugged his arm down the seven flights of stairs to the front lobby.

"I don't care how boring the takeoff instructions are, Peter. You follow those flight attendants to the 't'. Do you understand?"

"Yes, May."

"You didn't pack your shampoo in your suitcase, did you? Because those will explode. They'll ruin all your clothes."

"I have them in a separate bag."

"Ok. Good." May looked a little teary as she faced him outside the front doors. Peter didn't really understand why.

"May," he laughed, "I'll only be gone a week. And I said I'd call you every night."

"I know. I'll just miss you." She rubbed his arm.

Peter smiled, touched. "I'll miss you too. I'll bring back souvenirs."

"Y'Better," she pointed a stern finger at him before smiling and pulling him into a tight hug. He returned it happily.

"I'll see you late Sunday, okay?"

"Yep. Love you, May."

May waved as Peter stepped away from the apartment awning and toward where Happy was idling. "I love you too!" She stood there until Happy pulled away and they drove out of sight.

He remembered those airplane ticket prices when Happy glanced at him in the rear-view mirror a few minutes later. "Change of plans, kid."

"What do you mean?" Peter asked. He moved to the edge of his seat, clutching Happy's headrest to better see the older man's profile.

His temporary chauffeur shook his head, "There was mix-up with the jet. You'll be flying coach today."

Having only flown once in his lifetime, Peter didn't realize the full impact that "flying coach" could mean. Airports were busy. There were people everywhere, pushing and shouting--most of them in languages Peter didn't understand. It was a sensory overload.

One perk to so many people was that not a lot of them recognized Mr. Stark. Happy had picked him up at some official government building, a messily stuffed carry-on bag over his shoulder. A meeting he'd attended the night before had run more than a little late, and it didn't appear Mr. Stark had slept even before the meeting. Dark circles bruised his eyes; his skin was almost gray in pallor. Peter had moved his arms to catch the man as he dropped into the car only for the billionaire to wave him off.

"I'm fine, kid."

Mr. Stark's almost drunk swagger through the airport hadn't had the same reassurance that his voice had. More than once, Peter reached out to redirect the man away from speeding strollers and indifferent teenagers. Keeping track of Mr. Stark helped keep Peter's focus away from the crowd though. The many shops and restaurants of the JFK Airport was teeming with families and businessmen on layover. Children screeched through the corridors. All of this and they hadn't even checked in their bags.

Having lived close to JFK for most of his life, Peter had grown accustomed to planes taking off and landing at all hours of the day. After the spider bite it became a little harder, but Peter still managed it. Now in the building itself, it took Peter everything he had not to shout "SHUT UP!" in the busy check-in line. He could hear the planes outside, the machinery as bags were moved to their appropriate claim terminals, thousands of heartbeats; someone with a squeaky roller bag wheel was really grating on his nerves.

It was…a lot.

So guiding Mr. Stark around was a task Peter took to with gusto. Especially when Happy had dropped Uncle Ben's old suitcase in his hand and said, "Go easy on him, okay? It's been a rough week."

Peter had suspected that anyway. Their last lab day hadn't been far from his mind. Mr. Stark had had to cancel three intern days after that, citing SI business and trip plans. If the news reports were any indication, the Accords were more the issue than window seats. Which probably explained why Mr. "coach-is-for-the-weak" Stark would bother with JFK in the first place.

Peter jumped a little when Mr. Stark thrust his plane ticket under his nose, "Don't lose this." He grabbed it and stuffed it in his pants pocket next to the Stark phone he finally built the courage to boot up last night. Mr. Stark raised an eyebrow at his haste but seemed satisfied with the outcome. Together they deposited their suitcases to be weighed and were directed away from the desk.

Mr. Stark pulled on the bill of his cap as they moved toward their gate. Peter didn't think anyone would be fooled by the disguise; but with such a sea of people and most of them paying attention to their own plane tickets than those around them, he didn't think anyone would point that out.

JFK Airport of Queens, New York lived up to its reputation as tenth busiest airport in America. While there were a lot of people to navigate through, the crowd never paused for longer than a second. Twenty minutes after check-in, Mr. Stark and Peter dropped into some vacant seats at the back of Gate 12. Mr. Stark let out a breath so relieved he melted into the chair's backing. Peter huffed a quiet laugh.

Cap tipped over his eye, Peter thought Mr. Stark had fallen asleep. They still had roughly forty-five minutes until their plane was to start boarding, so he had confidence the man could catch a few minutes of rest. Except, Mr. Stark sat up, frowning. He dug into his pocket and tossed a white cube at Peter.

"Sorry, kid. Meant to give that to you sooner."

Peter frowned at the small box. He fixed his thumbnail into a small notch on the front and flipped the top. A set of wireless headphones were nestled inside. Peter grinned, "Cool."

"Try 'em," Mr. Stark mumbled. He'd already made himself comfortable again, crossing his arms over his faded Metallic tee.

"Thanks, Mr. Stark." Peter continued to grin. They were obviously Stark-made if the ease that his new phone connected to them was to go by. He opened Spotify and selected a playlist at random.

As soon as Peter slipped the buds in there was pure, uninterrupted silence.

He didn't bother selecting a song. He slumped down and joined Mr. Stark in sweet sleep.

Something was jabbing him in the arm.

Peter jolted awake, but didn't lift his head mostly because another something was pressing down on the top of his head. Brown eyes rolled sluggishly before focusing on a young woman bent over him. A silver tablet was clutched against her chest, and her mouth was moving but no sound was coming out.

My headphones.

With a herculean effort, Peter picked a bud out. Sound flooded his senses before settling. The woman had paused when she noticed what he was doing, but spoke again now that she knew he could hear her. "Are you and your dad getting on this plane?"

He blinked at the line of people leading to the gate behind her. Switzerland was still displayed above the entrance. An attendant was scanning tickets.

"Uh, yeah," he rasped, blinking hard.

"You may want to get up then," the unfamiliar woman said, a laugh in her voice.

Peter stretched a little. His closed fist hit something above him and the something grunted. He turned his head. "Mr. St'rk," he slurred.

"Yeah, kid?" Mr. Stark's equally half-asleep voice said.

"Pl'ne's boardin'."

"What?!" Mr. Stark shot up. Having slumped over Mr. Stark's arm at some point, Peter went toppling to the floor. "Sh--kid!"

Awake now, the teen flopped a hand. The young woman and Mr. Stark stared down at him in alarm. "I'm okay." Mr. Stark reached a hand out that Peter gladly accepted.

The two heroes staggered on bambi legs. He kept an arm over Peter's shoulders as the teen tried to get his body to catch up with his brain. "He's tougher than he looks." He reassured the girl still staring wide-eyed at them, rubbing a hand over Peter's curls.

"Oh, crap."

Peter blinked at the young woman who woke them. As Mr. Stark gathered their things, the girl pressed a hand to her lips, "I'm so sorry. I thought he was your dad. Unless…" Her eyes flickered to the older man.

It didn't take long for Peter to understand what she was talking about. His eyes went wide, "Oh, no...nonononono…I'm just his intern." He wasn't sure if the panic in his voice was convincing her he was telling the truth.

She smiled, dropping her hand to fiddle with the stylus attached to the side of her tablet. One of those 'Hello, my name is….' stickers was on the device's kickstand, 'Paul Bunyan' written in the empty space with a purple crayon. "Sorry, you kinda looked like you were--related, I mean," she shrugged, blushing.

Peter matched her. He hoped Mr. Stark was still too sleep-addled to have heard any of that. "No. Not-not that."

"Oh, well, okay…" She gave an awkward wave before turning away to join the dwindling line. Considering the red she had gone, Peter figured this was probably going to be all over the internet in an hour.

The resounding clap as Mr. Stark clasped his right shoulder startled him. His mentor raised his eyebrows, "New friend?"

He shook his head, "Not likely." He'd just let Mr. Stark's PR department find the story.

Peter's short nap in the airport apparently was enough to keep him awake for the seven hour trip to Geneva. Mr. Stark on the other hand dropped off as soon as the plane leveled off. He felt bad seeing the man look so tired. He hoped that even with the workshops and group discussions scattered throughout the week Mr. Stark still got to have something like a vacation. With the Accords and the Rogues and who-knows-what-else, he deserved it.

The flight attendants were very nice, offering him drinks and snacks more times than he thought was strictly necessary. Paul Bunyan must not have had a first class ticket as Peter didn't see her again. He silently wished her a happy trip anyway. Like May instructed, he listened to the attendants and read over the emergency brochure in front of him. Mr. Stark had been awake long enough to see that. His laugh was fond, the squeeze to his forearm fonder.

There was some turbulence somewhere over the Atlantic, but for the seven hours of flight time, Mr. Stark slept undisturbed and Peter watched some movies he'd downloaded to his phone beforehand. The other passengers kept to themselves and with his new headphones, Peter didn't realize there were three small children on board until they began filing out of the plane.

Peter pulled his left bud out and watched his fellow passengers unload. He tapped Mr. Stark's arm. "Mr. Stark. We're here, Mr. Stark."

His mentor swatted at his hand, face wrinkling under the bill of his hat. Peter giggled.

"Sir," a flight attendant approached them, "It's time to depart."

"Yeah," Peter smiled. "He's still asleep."

The woman's smile was somewhat indulgent, "That happens. But we will need you to leave soon."

"Of course." Peter increased his taps. There was something oddly comical about the scene to him, like he'd walked into one of the movies he'd watched through the flight. "Mr. Stark!"

"Here, kid!" he shouted, sitting up. His hat flipped off in his mad scramble and fell to the floor with a quiet 'whap!' There was a soft gasp from a couple behind them.

Peter ignored them. "You're awake!"

Mr. Stark groaned, ran a hand over his face. He dug at his eye with the heel of his palm, "What time is it?"

"Time to leave the plane. The lady says so."

He laughed, pushed Peter playfully. "Right. Got it."

The teen superhero grinned at the flight attendant. She should know who Mr. Stark was if she'd seen the plane's passenger list. That or she didn't care the Tony Stark had been on the same plane as her. The couple behind them had a better grasp of the situation's magnitude than she did.

The Genève Aéroport wasn't as large as JFK had been, but it certainly matched it in crowds. These folks didn't move as quickly which Peter wasn't all that surprised to discover. He followed behind Mr. Stark to the airport exit and the rental that would be waiting for them.

Geneva was nothing like the photos Peter had stared at before the trip. It was better. He hardly blinked as Mr. Stark navigated the streets toward the convention. Small snippets of people's lives whizzed by the windows: family outings, friends spilling out of shops and cafés. There were bridges and water and rustic buildings. Peter felt his brain melt down to his toes.

"Wow," he breathed.

Mr. Stark chuckled.

Eventually the city faded away and mountainous countryside took over. Peter rolled the window down and folded his arms outside the car. Clean country air jammed up his nose choking him before he could breath well enough to keep up. He laughed, overwhelmed and happy.

Forty minutes from the city of Geneva, up winding gravel roads was a hotel. The Hotell av Vandrar was a beautiful estate-turned-hotel. The Science and Earth Works committee rented it out every year. And it was invitation only, so there wouldn't be any guests there with an IQ lower than a 150. As they pulled up to the hotel's entrance, Peter stared up at its five stories in awe. The leaflet Mr. Stark had tossed at him hadn't done the place justice.

It was already bustling with people just two hours before the opening ceremony. Peter stumbled out of the car, too busy staring at all the men and women coming and going. Mr. Stark handed the keys to a kid a few years older than Peter. He helped them unload their luggage. "Check-in is in the front lobby. Just approach the desk," he said in accented English.

Peter smiled at him, "Thanks."

When they entered, the dazzling chandelier blinded Peter. All he could do was stare at everything: warm mahogany, rich velvet, richer guests. Mr. Stark looped an arm through his so he wouldn't wander off in his daze. "This place is great."

Mr. Stark wrinkled his nose, "Is it?"

Peter punched his arm, "Ok! So I'm not used to this. Don't make fun."

He laughed, punched back, "I would never. It's cute--this whole tourist aura you've got going on."

"That's not nice, Anthony. He looks like such a sweet boy."

Standing as close to Mr. Stark as he was, Peter noticed when his mentor locked up. Peter looked over his shoulder. A woman stood behind them in a floral sundress. A large hat rested on her pretty blond curls. Everything about her appearance looked meticulous and planned out down to the last button.

"Patricia!" Mr. Stark smiled. His tone sounded forced. Peter squinted at the woman, discomfited. "It's been too long."

"Isn't it always?" She pushed her large-framed glasses up on her nose, "Who is this young man?"

"My intern," his voice lifted, growing more genuine, "Peter Parker."

"An intern? How unheard of!"

Peter pressed in closer to Mr. Stark. They hadn't turned around to face the woman which made talking to her difficult. His senses were tingling uncomfortably at the base of his neck, not enough to mean an attack, but enough to keep him on edge. Whoever this woman pretended to be, her true intentions were that of common thug.

"There you are, honey." A man possibly Mr. Stark's age or older joined them. Patricia's face immediately fell. The buzz in Peter's neck died with it.

This fellow was thin and pale, someone who obviously spent most of his time in the lab without superhero heroics to keep him active like Mr. Stark. His voice was soft and warm; his clothing simple but comfortable for travel. He noticed Mr. Stark almost immediately missing the look of slight disgust on Patricia's face. "Tony! I was hoping to see you."

"Likewise, Doyle," his mentor untangled himself from Peter to extend a hand. Their handshake was firm but friendly. "I didn't realize you and Patricia knew each other."

"It's a recent development," Doyle said. He smiled at the sour-looking woman. His glasses must be very rose-colored not to realize what was really going on. Even Peter who was a little slow in the romance department could see Patricia was only using the soft-spoken gentleman for whatever reason. Peter frowned at her.

"Next, please!"

"That's us, Mr. Stark." Peter wanted as far from this situation as could be possible.

"Right. Hope to speak with you soon, Doyle. Patricia."

Mr. Stark turned away before the woman could reply. He gripped Peter's arm again and pulled him close, "Stay away from her."

"I kinda figured that." Peter ran a finger over the spot where the tingle had started up again.

"Ah, Mr. Stark. Good to see you again."

"Hello, Jeeves," Mr. Stark joked. "How are you?"

The portly woman behind the desk rolled her eyes. She straightened the black vest she wore. Her nametag read 'Mrs. Burglund'. "You're here every year, Mr. Stark. You know what I'll say."

"I do," he grinned, "But I'm sure every year presents its own challenges."

Her smile was sweet and motherly. She reminded Peter vaguely of May. He pulled his phone out to text her. "Wait," he whispered, "Mr. Stark, am I able to text?"

Both Mrs. Burglund and Mr. Stark looked at him funny. "Yeah, kid. It's Switzerland not the Middle Ages."

"No--" his eyes darted to the receptionist, hoping he hadn't offended her. "I mean, like, the cost?"

Mr. Stark's expression went soft. "I said I'd cover the costs for the trip. You're fine, kid."

"Right." Peter opened his messages app and started a text. He half-listened to the two as he typed.

"Who is this handsome child, Mr. Stark? You've never brought guests before."

"He's my intern."

"Oh, my!"

"Don't be so surprised."

Peter hit send and looked up in time for the older woman to hand him a key. And not a keycard like Peter was used to, but an actual metal key, ornate and prettier than such a thing should be. Mr. Stark laughed at his confusion.

"Don't worry, kid. I'll show you how it works."

"I--wha--I know how a key works! Oh, hey, that's mine--"

The blonde man dropped his suitcase like he'd been burned. Over his arm were the two garment bags Mr. Stark had been lugging around. Now that Peter had time to actually look at him, he noticed the silver and blue of the other bellhop uniforms. "Oh, sorry! I didn't realize you worked here."

He didn't reply only looked confused. His hand hovered between the two of them as if waiting for permission to return to his task.

"Sorry," Peter repeated. "I didn't mean to scare you." The man spoke, but Peter didn't understand him. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Don't scare the help. He doesn't speak English," a voice said. A burly man appeared by his side. He was dressed like the other guests, but was native if the order he barked in Swedish was anything to go by. The bellhop jumped a little and reached for Ben's old bag. Peter scurried to stop him again, placing his hand on top of the case. He looked up.

"Thanks," Peter said, hoping his smile was enough to bridge the language barrier. The return smile was a little strained, but in a sort of 'what can you do?' way. Peter chuckled. "Peter," he said, hitting his chest with an open hand.

The man somewhere between twenty and twenty-five pointed to his nametag. 'Elias,' it read.

"Nice to meet you,"

"Trevligt att träffa dig med."

Peter didn't understand him and the burly fellow from before was arguing with another desk worker now. Not that Peter wanted his help in the first place. He hoped whatever was said was something nice.

"Show him your key, Pete." He stood up, having forgotten about Mr. Stark. He had his hands in his pockets. That same warm look was on his face that Peter thought he saw in the restaurant. "He needs to know where to take your stuff."

"Right." He presented the key. A number 25 was printed on some sturdy cardstock attached to the key by a blue ribbon. The man nodded and trotted off, arms full.

"I could have carried it."

"Yeah, kid. We know."

Peter's room was perfect.

There were outlet converters for his charges, a TV, no weird toilet and a bed large enough that he couldn't resist throwing himself on top of it. The comforter gave that satisfying 'whump!" sound and multiple throw pillows fell on top of him. It was where Mr. Stark found him ten minutes later.

"You okay there, kid?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, if you can bear to part with that bed, I got something for you."

Peter sat up. Pillows tumbled to the floor. "You all ready gave me the headphones!"

"Yeah," Mr. Stark grinned, "Now I'm giving you this." He didn't toss the box this time. It was average-sized which eased Peter's mind just a little.

"I didn't get you anything."

His mentor dropped into a comfy looking arm chair near the fireplace. He laughed at the almost dejected look on Peter's face. "You came. That's enough. I wouldn't have survived Patricia without you."

"Yeah. What's with her?" Peter frowned as he began unwrapping his gift. Mr. Stark gave a weak gesture.

"Pretty, smart, young. Mean. Trust me, kid. Don't get involved."

Peter pulled the top up with a little more effort than he expected. Nestled inside was black camera. And not one of those cheap cameras Peter had been staring at at the local Walmart. A DSLR, expensive and beautiful. A strap, SD card and tag for his name were in slots off to its sides. He looked at his mentor. Any thoughts of Patricia had already scurried from his brain.

"Is this what you were working on?"

"Yep. Now, it's a prototype. So I need you to take it for a spin, so-to-speak. Let me know if it's any good."

"Oh, wow, Mr. Stark." He would have thrown himself at the man if he wasn't so afraid to let the device go. "Thank you. So much. Really."

He got up, a satisfied smile on his face. "Happy to help, kid. We've got an hour-ish before the ceremony. You might want to nap to ward off the jet-lag at least a little before then."

Peter scrambled to his feet, followed the man to the door. He clutched the box to his chest much like how Paul Bunyan had her tablet. "Yeah, yeah. Okay."

Mr. Stark ruffled a hand through Peter's hair. "Thanks, Pete."

"I don't really thing you should be the one to say that here, Mr. Stark."

"Call me 'Tony' and we'll make it even."

Peter wrinkled his nose. Mr. Stark laughed.

A kid passed by Peter's door behind Mr. Stark. Peter raised his eyebrows. An older gentleman followed a little after, but he was dressed more like a butler than a guest coming for the convention. Curious, Peter stuck his head out the door. Mr. Stark didn't ask what he was doing.

The kid was at the most twelve years old. He inserted the key into the door of the room next to Peter. Peter smiled when he noticed him.

"Hey."

The kid didn't say anything right away. His gaze was sharp and calculating, but faltered when he noticed Mr. Stark. He mumbled out a 'hello,' before disappearing into the room. His butler(?) entered after him.

"I think he likes you, Mr. Stark," Peter teased.

"Don't all young geniuses?"

"I suppose."

"Brat. Take a nap."

Opening ceremonies were boring. Peter caught on to that rather quickly. There were a lot of name calling and hand clapping. Boring speeches by equally boring white dudes. It was only Mr. Stark's insistence that he sleep before the ceremony that saved him from falling face-first into his salad.

Thankfully Mr. Stark didn't seem to be that big of a fan either. Throughout their meal, he sent odd texts, blueprints, and gifs to Peter. He gave as good as he got, sending back snapchat filters of the other guests, bad jokes, and vines references he knew Mr. Stark wouldn't get. He grinned every time he looked at him like he regretted ever getting close to a Gen Z kid.

During their second course, Mr. Stark was called on. By the flash of annoyance on his face, it was something that wasn't run by him beforehand. Peter was obnoxious in his clapping until Mr. Stark finally cracked a smile.

"You'll have to excuse me. I wasn't told to prepare a speech." Despite that, Mr. Stark seemed to have enough fluff speeches stored in his brain that he could pull one out at the drop of a hat. Even Peter was convinced by the end.

"Also, if I have to suffer through this humiliation, I should introduce someone else."

Peter swallowed. He shook his head, even as he saw the canary-eating grin on his mentor's face grow. "My intern, Peter, was able to come along for this trip. If you happen to run into him this week, please be careful: he's a charmer."

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Peter sank down in his seat when he noticed several people turn their heads to look at him. The other three guests at their table, smiled encouragingly. Peter waved awkwardly.

"I'm going to kill you," he hissed when Mr. Stark returned to his seat.

"Sure, kid."

The night went by rather quickly after that. Before he knew it, he and Mr. Stark departed the party and headed back to their rooms.

"When do you think I could visit Reichenbach?"

Mr. Stark's laugh bounced through the stairwell. The elevator was so flushed with guests returning to their rooms that the two superheroes decided climbing stairs was a kinder alternative. "Are you still hung up on that?"

"You've met Michelle, Mr. Stark. Of course I'm still hung up on it." He hopped a few steps ahead of him, grabbing a support beam and using it swing around to the next flight of stairs. He looked down at his mentor and smiled.

"I'm sure we could find the time then."

"Thanks!"

"Have you tried your camera yet?"

Peter held open the stairwell door, letting Mr. Stark exit first, "I took a nap, remember?"

Another laugh. "Right."

An older couple was entering the room next to Mr. Stark's. They smiled politely, but didn't stay to introduce themselves. Peter didn't think they'd been one of the names that was called during the ceremony which made him feel a little bad. He decided he'd introduce himself as soon as he could.

"Try to sleep. Trust me, it'll make things easier later." Mr. Stark patted his back gently, squeezed the nape of his neck. Peter leaned into the touch.

"Got it. Night."

"Night. Call your aunt."

In all the excitement, Peter had forgotten. He dug his phone out of his pocket, sighing in relief when he noticed he only had three missed messages, one of which was from Ned. He and Mr. Stark parted ways.

Peter flicked on the lights as he replied to Ned. His best friend answered almost immediately and Peter spent his nightly routine texting him back. The bathroom switch gave a loud 'snap' when he finished both getting ready for bed and texting.

He paused for a minute to look at his new camera. He didn't remove it from the box.

As he tapped into his aunt's message intending to call her, someone called him first. Peter frowned at the unknown number. Normally he'd let it go to voicemail, but zinging pains shot up and down his back harder and faster the longer he let his phone ring. Swallowing, he swiped to answer the call.

"Hello?"

"Don't talk. Just listen."

Chapter Text

Peter was a smart kid. He was the brightest kid in a entire school of bright children. He could easily hold a conversation on theoretical physics with Tony Stark--the smartest man of his generation--and even pitch ideas the billionaire had never thought of. He didn't know this himself, but Peter Parker was one of the most intelligent young minds in the entire world.

But he was also a teenager. And teenagers--even brilliant ones--can be brilliantly…stupid.

"Um, okay." Peter replied to the weepy-voiced caller.

"I said don't speak!" the voice snapped through a sob.

He did as instructed and even stood up a little straighter for an added measure.

The man's voice, American as far as Peter could tell, garbled through the phone line. He choked on spit and snot before inhaling shakily. "I didn't mean to do it," he finally said. "It was an accident, I swear."

"What did you do--"

"Shut UP!" Peter jerked the phone away. With the quality of a Stark phone, the shriek was brutal on his already sensitive ears. He pressed two fingers to his lips as a reminder. It was in his nature to respond, to try to help especially for someone in so clear distress. But this gentleman didn't seem very grateful for his generosity.

"Are you going to listen?" he sobbed. "Are you listening?"

Peter kept quiet.

That seemed to be the right answer. The man gave a wet cough, "I didn't do it on purpose. It's their fault I did it. I can't go to jail. I won't make it if I go to jail. Do you understand--don't talk!"

He barely breathed. There was a samba playing in his head; his heart dancing the two step with his stomach. This was serious. Toomes had been serious. His actions were leading to very real world problems for all of New York--and if it had gotten big enough, the whole country. This mysterious weepy-voiced caller was a different kind of serious. More…personal. Whatever he had done, he'd decided Peter was a part of it. And that was likely to change Peter's entire world.

He couldn't contain it. "What did you do?" he whispered. He squeezed his trembling hand into a fist.

Another sob, "I didn't do anything! It was them! I didn't mean to stab them. It was their fault!!"

Peter snapped. His queasy innards couldn't deal with this any longer. "Is this some kind of sick prank? Are you drunk?"

Peter had escorted his fair share of drunken New Yorkers in his months as Spider-man. He knew first-hand the kind of behavior someone completely out of the gourd could display. Something that made perfect sense with some tequila and a Yeager didn't look too pretty in the morning. If this sick joke was some dare put on by hammered college students, Peter was going to do more than file a report with the local police.

"NO!" he wretched, "I thought you would understand!! Why don't you understand??"

"I'm hanging up. This isn't funny." Peter still heard the wracking sobs as the man shouted for him to stay on the line, but he was fed up. Angry now, Peter hit the end call button as hard as he could without cracking the screen. Too wired to sleep, Peter paced his room, hands tucked into his armpits.

He should probably tell Mr. Stark.

But it was just a stupid drunken prank. Probably some local college buds tricking some American student for a good laugh. There was no reason to wake Mr. Stark for something so stupid. The man needed the sleep.

But what if it wasn't a prank?

What if there was some innocent person out there? Bleeding? Dying? Peter's throat closed up and it took a great deal of effort to swallow.

He had to tell Mr. Stark.

Peter stumbled out of his room. Faced with the neighboring door, he paused. What if Mr. Stark was already asleep? For a moment, he had a weird sort of out-of-body experience wondering what billionaires like Mr. Stark wore to bed. Silk pajamas probably. Maybe this could wait until morning?

Someone was potentially stabbed out there. This wasn't the time for indecision. Peter knocked.

It took several minutes, but another knock later and Mr. Stark opened the door. He wasn't wearing silk pjs like Peter thought but an old MIT t-shirt and sweatpants. His expression, on the other hand, was exactly what he'd imagined. Mr. Stark wasn't happy.

"Kid."

"H-hey, Mr. Stark. I'm sorry for waking you up, but--"

"Did you call your aunt?" he asked, eyeing the phone Peter was holding like May was going to reach through it and slap him across the face.

"I was going to, but then--"

He held his hand up, "I'm going to stop you there. I told you to call her. Not that hard, Pete."

The teen hero frowned, "I was going to," he repeated, voice firmer. Mr. Stark blinked, crossed his arms. His raised eyebrow said that Peter better make this excuse a good one. So Peter did. "Someone called me first."

His mentor frowned. There was a dark look in his eyes that Peter hadn't seen before, "Who?"

"I-I don't know." Peter dropped his arms down to his sides, "But he was crying and junk. He said he stabbed someone."

Mr. Stark stood up straight. "What?"

He didn't repeat himself again. Mr. Stark listened better than the other adults in Peter's life--even when Peter was unaware of it. Peter also didn't lie--and was an atrocious liar when he tried. He wouldn't try tricking Mr. Stark for any reason. So it could only mean that what he said was true.

Mr. Stark shifted his weight, "What were his exact words?"

"He said he didn't mean to stab them."

"Was he drunk?"

Peter shrugged, "He was crying too much. I couldn't really tell either way."

"Hm." Mr. Stark disappeared back into his room and emerged a moment later. His phone was the same model to Peter's but he imagined it had more features that his didn't have. That proved correct when he said, "Fri, what's the local chatter?"

FRIDAY's voice was tinnier than Peter was used to, coming from such a small speaker. Still the accent was the same as he heard in the labs. "Police scanner is calm, Boss. A few disorderlies and a drug bust. No assaults or arsons."

Peter sighed through his nose. His shoulders slumped. Mr. Stark smiled gently. "Just a prank, kid. Don't worry about it."

He smiled, "Got it. Sorry for waking you."

"No worries. Get some sleep."

Peter knocked on Mr. Stark's door for the second time in eight hours. His mentor opened in less than a minute, hand on his hip. Peter could feel the silent judgement. "You're not even dressed." The pile of clothes and toiletries in Peter's arms never felt heavier.

"Can I use your shower?"

That wasn't the question Mr. Stark had expected to hear. "Why? You have a perfectly good one of your own."

"There's a spider in it."

For a moment Peter feared Mr. Stark was going to slam the door in his face. Instead he sighed like the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders. He dropped his head into his open palm. "I would have thought you and spiders would be best friends."

"I feel like my track record with spiders should be evidence enough that that is not the case."

With another sigh, Mr. Stark opened the door wider and stepped back. He gestured to the open bathroom. "Knock yourself ou--no, you'll take that seriously. Be my guest, kid."

"You have so little faith in me, Mr. Stark," Peter chirped, almost running into the door jamb as he walked backwards to still talk with him.

"I have all the faith in the world in you, Pete. Just not in your luck."

Peter felt that didn't justify an answer.

Twenty seconds later, the two superheroes stood in the bathroom staring into the footed tub. A spider roughly the size of Peter's thumbnail was spinning a web among the still evaporating drops of Mr. Stark's own shower.

"I was just in here," he muttered.

"Do you think it followed me?" Peter whispered. He grabbed Mr. Stark's sleeve when the creature suddenly scurried up the tub's side, trailing delicate looking silk in its wake.

"Maybe it's a cousin."

"Are you making fun of me?" Peter frowned, "I just wanted a bath, Mr. Stark. There's no reason for this kind of treatment."

That got a laugh out of the older man. "We'll just call room service and have them take care of it."

Peter tightened his grip on the blazer sleeve, "We can't do that, Mr. Stark!"

"What? Why not?"

"'Cuz then we'll look like snooty tourists, and we're not snooty tourists, Mr. Stark. We're superheroes. Besides they might kill it."

He raised an eyebrow, "You gonna retrieve it then?"

"I was kinda hoping you would."

Mr. Stark snorted. "Right. Of course."

Many shrieks, a newspaper, and a nearly destroyed window later, Peter had his shower and Mr. Stark decided he was never having kids again.

"We should probably still tell the staff."

Peter looked up from his camera. He'd been fiddling with the settings as Mr. Stark read over SI contracts and the news over in America. He didn't seem to mind him snapping pictures to test the camera's aperture and capture speed. Peter planned to keep the one photo of Mr. Stark reading from his phone, coffee mug half-way to his mouth.

"Tell them what?"

"The spiders. They might have an infestation."

He shivered. "Ehh, that sounds horrifying. But won't they get in trouble?"

"With who?"

"I don't know. The health inspectors?"

Mr. Stark squinted at him, "Goodness, kid. I forget sometimes how ignorant you are."

He pouted, "Your treatment of me this morning is bordering on abuse, Mr. Stark."

The billionaire choked. He hurriedly pressed a napkin to his mouth, placing the cup down and pushing it away. Peter faltered.

"I was just joking, Mr. Stark."

"I know, kid," he replied. He dropped the soiled napkin next to his half-finished breakfast. "Do you know which workshop you want to attend first?"

Peter scrabbled through his assortment of things trying to find the sheet he'd printed before the trip. He knew his phone could track things in a more dignified and organized way, but he tended to be a bit old-fashioned. He found the right sheet and flipped it to Monday's schedule.

"Dr. Stanton has an Applied Chemistry and Practical Sciences lecture after breakfast. I was thinking abo--you okay, Mr. Stark?"

Mr. Stark had started looking around the dining room, arms braced like he was going to stand up. Peter reached his senses out thinking maybe he'd missed some sound of distress while he was distracted. All he heard was the gentle 'thud thud' of guests' heartbeats, the kitchen staff, and late arrivals bossing the bellhops around. He couldn't imagine what had Mr. Stark fidgeting so much.

"Mr. Stark?"

His mentor refocused on him. His smile was a little strained, "Nothing, kid. How about you go to that lecture and we'll meet up for lunch?"

He frowned, "No."

Mr. Stark sat up a little straighter, "Excuse me?"

"C'mon, Mr. Stark. I'm almost sixteen. You have to stop treating me like a kid."

"It doesn't matter how old you turn--you're always going to be a kid."

"Whatever you have going on, you need to stop trying to act like it's not happening whenever I'm around. I have access to the internet, you know." Mr. Stark didn't say anything. "Is it the Accords?"

Mr. Stark sat back, crossed his arms in his lap and rolled his shoulders. "What do you mean?"

Peter shrugged, "The news seems to want to blame you for how things fell apart. Like you have any control over the actions of other people. You weren't even the leader of the Avengers and their acting like it's all your fault."

"Part of it is, kid."

"Mr. Stark--"

"Really, kid." He shook his head, "The whole thing was a mess. It was doomed from the start. Our entire team. We were people playing cops and robbers with no parental supervision."

Peter clenched his hands together. "Were you ever even friends?" he asked nervously.

Mr. Stark's eyes fluttered. He'd hit a nerve too sensitive even after four months. Peter pulled his lips in and bit down, fighting the urge to giggle. "Yeah, kid," Mr. Stark finally said. They stayed quiet for moment. Peter stared hard at Mr. Stark's scrambled eggs and tried not to think what his mentor must have felt when the whole thing started to fall apart.

Peter like the rest of his generation had grown up in the age of heroes. The Battle of New York had been as pivotal a moment in American history as 9-11 had been. And at the center of it had been Tony Stark. There was before-Ironman and After. Peter couldn't imagine a world where there wouldn't be superheroes.

The Accords and the Civil War as the media had dubbed the fallout hadn't figured into Peter's worldview.

"Will-will you, you know?" Peter shrugged, uncomfortably. He pressed his shoulder to his ear for no obvious reason than that it brought a little comfort.

Mr. Stark looked at him for the longest time. "In time. Do you know why?"

Peter straightened, "No."

Mr. Stark sat forward. Peter mirrored him. Without thought, the two placed their arms on the table and locked eyes. The atmosphere was heavy with an anticipation Peter had never experienced before. Tony Stark reached across the space and gripped Peter's wrist. The metal of his ever-present web shooters dug into his skin that left an impression that wouldn't last nearly as long as Mr. Stark's next words would.

"Because of you. You're the future, Peter. And our bitterness will not be the reason why you won't succeed."

Peter breathed in shakily. "Yes, sir."

Mr. Stark smiled, patted his arm. They sat back. "As wonderful as this conversation has been, the Accords weren't what I was worried about."

"What? Then why did you let me rant about it?" Peter squeaked.

"I like to hear your thoughts. Your insight gives me hope."

Peter looked away, fighting a smile and blushing to his roots. "What were you worried about then?"

"Mrs. Burglund. She's usually down here by now."

"You know her pretty well, huh?" Peter picked at his neglected muffin.

"She's been the manager here for twenty years. I've been attending this conference for almost twice that. So you can say I know her."

"Maybe she's busy?"

Mr. Stark shook his head, dark eyes searching the crowd. Peter looked about the large dining room. It was raining heavily outside, but that didn't stop anyone from drifting in and out from the covered patio area, holding plates of food and conversation. Peter noticed the elderly couple from last night in a small corner. He'd have to introduce himself after he helped Mr. Stark.

"She never misses an opportunity to tease me." Mr. Stark looked at him sharply, "She's the only one who can do that so don't get any ideas."

Peter mimed crossing his heart. He hid his crossed fingers under the tablecloth. Mr. Stark probably still saw through him.

"Her husband passed away five years ago. I worry about her sometimes."

"Should we look for her?"

Mr. Stark fidgeted. Breakfast was drawing to a close. Kitchen staff were hauling away the mostly empty catering dishes. Normal people would dismiss the idea and head off to the first lecture. But Mr. Stark and Peter were at their cores, heroes. Something was wrong. Mr. Stark didn't need Peter's spidey-sense to figure that out.

"Sure, kid. Let's go."

"Are we allowed back here?"

"Did the sign say 'Guests Welcome'?"

"No…."

"Then, no, probably not. Keep your voice down."

Seeing the Tony Stark sneak around the employees only section of a hotel was not something Peter had expected during his trip. But that didn't mean he was complaining. These partners-in-crime moments with Mr. Stark were always exciting. Most of the time it was doing 'strictly forbidden by Miss Potts' experiments, but that didn't make them any less fun.

Today though was more terrifying than thrilling.

Which was odd as the worst that could happen was that they'd get a firm reprimand and be shoved back where they came from. But the uncomfortable feeling in Peter's stomach wouldn't go away. He was regretting that muffin.

They'd moved away from the more populated areas like the kitchen and supply closets until they stumbled upon what seemed to be a living quarters of sorts. "Do the workers really live here?" Peter gasped.

Mr. Stark shook his head. "Mrs. Burglund does. But most of these rooms are for emergencies or bad weather."

"Huh. That's generous."

"I suppose. Ah, here we go." Mr. Stark trotted a little faster down the hall. A set of double doors were at the end. 'Mrs. Heidi Burglund, General Manager' was embossed on a gold plate. Peter's senses doubled their efforts in getting his attention. Clumsily he grabbed Mr. Stark's hand, jerking the man to a stop before he could knock.

"Kid? Hey! You've gone pale." Mr. Stark pressed a free hand to the side of his face. Peter was sweating pretty heavily by then and his mentor pulled a face. "Peter. What's wrong?"

"I don't know," he whispered. He hadn't torn his eyes away from the doors. Everything was going fuzzy at the edges and Peter realized he wasn't breathing. He took a gasping breath. "Something's wrong, Mr. Stark."

Mr. Stark didn't respond. Just looked to the doors. He pulled Peter a little closer, didn't try to shake his hand off. Together they approached the room.

The doors weren't as closed as they first appeared. Mr. Stark reached out and carefully pushed the closest door open. The inside was as extravagant as Peter's own room was. Only more personal. There were photos scattered on most every flat surface. Quilted blankets were piled in a corner in a wicker basket next to another basket of knitting supplies. A stack of books had been knocked over and were scattered across a well-worn floor rug. Mrs. Burglund sat in a soft arm chair beside the fireplace. Someone had spilled a dark paint all down her front. It collected in puddles on the floor staining the carpet and her nightgown.

It didn't take long for Peter to realize it wasn't paint.

It went dark. Mr. Stark's hand was warm against his eyes. He didn't move, rooted to the spot, clutching to his mentor like a child. "Is she dead?" he whimpered.

"Yeah, kid. She's dead."

Peter hadn't been able to look for very long, but that long-distance gaze was something he was intimately familiar with. He saw it in his nightmares, in those last memories he had of his uncle, bleeding out in a dirty alley while Peter let his murderer get away. He couldn't move then and he couldn't move now.

A weepy-voiced caller whispered through his thoughts.

He'd killed an innocent person. And Peter let it happen.

Again.

Chapter Text

Peter pressed his face into the material of Mr. Stark's blazer and breathed. It didn't matter the number of showers or the strength of his cologne, the smell of metal stuck to Mr. Stark like a second skin. The alloy the Ironman suits were made of had a unique tangy scent that had caught in the back of Peter's throat when they first met. In all honesty, he didn't care for it those first few visits, and the smell hung around his room for days. Over time though it became a smell as familiar to Peter as May's floral perfume or Mrs. Leed's cooking clinging to Ned's hoodies. It was comfort and home and Peter's racing heart could really use a little of both.

Peter could feel Mr. Stark's eyes on him, alternating between checking on him and speaking with the assistant manager at the front desk. The other guests were still in their lectures, completely unaware of what had happened. They were only able to alert a few staff members of the situation. It made Peter miserable.

Which for most people would be an odd reaction to have. Mr. Stark especially didn't want a panic on their hands. The fewer people who knew of the murder (murder, Peter's heart was going to burst) the better. But all he could think about was all those people going about their day, not taking a moment to think of the poor woman. A woman who had been nothing but dedicated and hard-working all of her life. She deserved better than as a footnote to a group of geniuses.

Sure, honey, the conference was great. Caught up with some old friends. Had some lovely dinners. Worked on some ground-breaking research. Oh, and some lady died.

Did Mrs. Burglund even have family anymore? Mr. Stark mentioned her husband had passed away not too long ago. Did she have any children? A sister or brother? Peter couldn't imagine there not being a single person to mourn her than an occasional acquaintance and his mentee.

"What's gotten you so shaken up? Other than the obvious." Peter looked up. He hadn't noticed Mr. Stark approaching until he'd taken a seat beside him.

"Did she have any family?"

Mr. Stark put his arm around Peter's shoulders to adjust the blazer so it fell more evenly, "I think she had an aunt in Holland. But it's been about a decade since she told me that."

Peter fisted the coat's lining, feeling the silky texture between his fingers. "What will happen to her?"

"Well," he sighed, "The police will have a look at the crime scene before they remove her body. She'll have an autopsy. During that time, they'll try to contact what family she has left and release her when they're done."

"What if she doesn't have any family?"

"Then I'll take care of her."

Peter nodded, "Okay."

Mr. Stark leaned forward, rested his elbows against his knees. His knuckles went white when he clasped his hands together, "This has to be hard. I'm sorry, kid."

"It's not your fault, Mr. Stark." A familiar fire sparked in Peter's stomach. It was the same feeling that roared to life every time he took to Queens' streets. He felt it keenly the night of homecoming. "It's that caller's fault." He inhaled, "It's my fault."

"Kid, no," Mr. Stark sat up. "You don't know that they're connected."

"And if they are? I could have saved her, Mr. Stark."

"Peter."

He snapped his jaw shut. Mr. Stark very rarely if ever called him by his name. His stern expression further cemented how serious he was being. For several long moments they looked at each other.

Mr. Stark finally broke the silence, "Y'know, your empathy for others makes you just about the best of humanity. Did you know that? Shut up, you do now." He sniffed, rubbed his hands down the seat of his pants. His discomfort was palpable, but he made no move to stop. "But that doesn't mean that you're responsible for the actions of others. You put yourself in other people's shoes; you think of the victim. Not everyone is like that. His phone call was never so you could save her. It was to sooth his own guilt. He thinks he gets to move on. That's on him--not you. It's never on you, Peter."

Peter swallowed. He pressed his wrist to his nose and hoped it wasn't leaking. "You think it was him then. The killer was the caller?"

"I don't know without proof."

He met Mr. Stark's eyes. By some unspoken agreement, they retrieved their phones. "I need you to find out where this call was made, Fri," Mr. Stark commanded.

Peter rattled off the digits to the AI, something like excitement flooding his veins. There was never a greater thrill for him than when he was working for a solution. By the light in Mr. Stark's eyes, his mentor shared the same trait.

"The number is attached to one of the Hotell av Vandrar's guest phones."

"He made the call here?"

"Correct."

"Can you tell us which phone?" Peter asked, interrupting Mr. Stark before he could question FRIDAY further.

"I cannot, sorry. The number is shared by all public guest phones."

So he hadn't made the call from any of the rooms. Problem with that was any person in the hotel could have made it. Maybe if they narrowed down the timeline of the murder, they could limit their pool of suspects. Peter's mind circled in different directions, picking out answers they could get if only they just gathered a little more information.

"Well, it's something, yeah?" Mr. Stark asked. He returned his phone to his pocket, "It's definitely connected. We can tell the police when they get here."

Peter's enthusiasm deflated, "We're not going to look into it?"

Mr. Stark gave him an odd look, "Why would we? It's not our job, kid."

A black hole opened up in his chest. The flippant statement sounded distasteful coming from Ironman's mouth. "But we're heroes."

His mentor's expression crumbled from confusion to devastation, "Pete, no, there are people trained specifically for handling these kinds of crimes. Our good intentions can't go stomping all over evidence."

"We can't just leave her in there," Peter whispered. He kept circling back to her. A kindly woman sitting in her chair like any other night in, covered in her own blood. It was like that alleyway all over again. Ben's death was something he purposefully never talked or even thought about. But her face--it had been so much like his. Peter didn't want to repeat history. Doing so left a dry lump in his throat he was having difficulty speaking past.

"We won't. Once the police get here, they can begin. The sooner that happens, the sooner she can be moved."

"How long will it take for them to get here?"

"About forty-five minutes."

His hands curled into fists once more. He heard the pop of a few stitches and tried desperately to get himself under control before he ripped the very expensive jacket he was borrowing. Forty-five minutes wasn't very long, but in this instance it felt like an eternity. They hadn't even given themselves time to close the poor woman's eyes. Peter squeezed his own shut hoping it would block out the mental image. It did nothing of the sort.

"I don't feel like going to any of the lectures," he finally admitted. They'd been sitting there long enough that Peter could here one of the speakers move onto a Q&A time. It reminded Peter of what he had actually come here for.

"Yeah, I don't blame you, kid. You want to lie down?"

"Hm, yeah, maybe--"

"Mr. Stark, sir."

The pair looked up to see the assistant manager beside them, holding the handset of a sleek gray phone. His grip was tight on the device, and he kept having to reach up and dab at his leaking eyes. His handkerchief was just as mangled as his spirit. "The polis are on the line."

Mr. Stark stood up, concerned, "Thanks." He took the receiver from the man's shaky hand and held it to his ear, "Stark."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stark." Peter didn't have to strain to hear the officer on the other line though there seemed to be a great deal of static. He was yelling to try and talk over the noise that Peter quickly realized was the lashing sound of rain. He looked out toward the dining room and the closed patio doors. He focused his senses to hear the splattering of water like someone was throwing buckets of it on the hotel. Distracted he didn't hear the rest of Mr. Stark's call.

"Bad news, kid. Police aren't getting here anytime soon after all."

"What do you mean?"

Mr. Stark didn't look at him, just followed the shape of the phone receiver with his thumb. "There was a mud slide at one of the valley passes. It's going to be hours before they can dig it out, and that's only after it stops raining."

"How long is it supposed to rain?" Peter stood up too, no longer able to sit still. The more questions he asked, the less satisfied he was with the answers.

He finally looked at him, lips twisted in a apologetic frown, "Tomorrow evening."

"You can't be serious."

Mr. Stark didn't answer. He knew as well as Peter he wasn't expecting one. He felt his gut churn in all kinds of uncomfortable directions. At the earliest the police wouldn't arrive until Wednesday. If there were further delays, the conference would be practically over. A murderer could slip away--all because the weather had turned in his favor. And poor Mrs. Burglund's body would sit there in that room, collecting dust. He shuddered at the thought.

For several long moments, Peter didn't know what to do. He could only stand there staring off into the middle distance. Mr. Stark took a deep breath; a fortifying sound, like he had made up his mind about something. He slapped the phone receiver against his other hand, startling Peter back into the moment.

"C'mon, kid. Follow my lead."

Peter jumped into action, trailing after his mentor back to the front desk. "Don't let anyone into the employee rooms," Mr. Stark said. He handed the phone back, but didn't release it until the older gentleman nodded his consent. "Good. Ready, kid?"

"Ready for what?"

"We're going to go look at a body."

 "Where do we start?" Peter asked. His camera felt heavy where it rested against his chest, fingers fiddling with the strap in a vain attempt to calm his nerves. The two stood in the doorway of Mrs. Burglund's humble home. They hadn't moved past the entrance when they discovered the body. Mr. Stark had rigged his watch--a prototype for a nanotechnology he'd been tinkering with for a few months now--to lock the doors. Since then no one else had been in the room.

Mr. Stark was consistently clenching and releasing the fist of his left hand. As his dark gaze swept across the room and its many furnishing, he squeezed his wrist tightly trying the ease the tension. "Not the subject matter I was hoping you'd capture with your new tech, kid, but I'm gonna need you to take pictures of the room."

"CSI?"

He fought a smile, "That's right. Be as thorough as you can."

Peter nodded. "What are you going to do?"

"Take a look around. Start on that side of the room."

He did as he was told. It was hard to marvel at the ease of his new camera when he was cataloging a woman's entire life. There were framed photos from family holidays (most of them with her deceased husband and he noticed a distinct lack of children) and odd knick-knacks that obviously only had value to the woman who lived there. All the furniture was second hand; she'd furnished the whole place herself instead of relying on the hotel. The fireplace was cold, but the bottom was heaped with ashes. She'd used it recently. The books she owned ranged from historical dramas to romance. Peter wrinkled his nose at a few American novels with men on the cover with rippling muscles on display. Mr. Stark had snorted at his disgust.

While Mrs. Burglund had a lot of stuff, it was mostly different variations of the same object. She liked cows if all the figurines were any indication. She knitted…a lot. She read just as much. The room revealed much about Mrs. Burglund as a person--but not as a corpse. For that, Peter would have to take photos of her body.

He swallowed.

"It's okay, Pete." Mr. Stark's hand was gentle on his shoulder. He reached out for the camera held limp in Peter's hold. The strap around Peter's neck was the only thing between it and the hard floor below.

For half a second, Peter thought maybe he could do it himself. But one glance at the woman's gray face, and his entire system rebelled. He hastily pulled the camera from around his neck and handed it over.

"Check the other rooms, okay?"

Peter a muttered a quick, "sure" before he made his quick escape. Mrs. Burglund had only two other rooms: a bathroom and her bedroom. The tub was lined with all number of bottles and soaps. Her vanity was just as cluttered. Even with all the mess, the surfaces were clean, sparkling even. Peter found that a little suspicious.

He left the bathroom and crossed to the bedroom. He could hear the shutter of his camera as Mr. Stark took his photos. His SD card would have to go to the police when they got here. Peter didn't think he wanted it back from them.

Mrs. Burglund's bedroom was as lived in as her living room. More knitted blankets and figurines--faeries this time. A suncatcher hung in the window. Peter imagined that if it wasn't raining the whole room would be lit up with rainbows. There also would be police and he wouldn't be standing here now.

"Mr. Stark?" he finally shouted.

It didn't take long for his mentor to appear beside him. His expression was expectant. Peter hoped he was done with Mrs. Burglund's body. "How did she die?"

"She was stabbed," Mr. Stark sighed, "Just like your mystery caller said."

"Then I think I found the murder weapon." He pointed into the room where a set of knitting needles had been discarded on the floor rug. They were tacky with blood.

"Ah. Yeah, that would do it."

"How many times?"

Mr. Stark shook his head, "I don't know for sure, kid. Twenty--thirty times? An autopsy would give better information."

"We're not going to do that too, are we?"

"I hardly think we qualify for something so delicate."

Peter sighed in relief. "Thank goodness," he muttered. He sat up in his seat a little more. They were in one of the other employee living rooms. The camera sat on the coffee table between them. "He must have been really angry at her, right? To stab her so many times?"

Mr. Stark crossed his arms, "I would say so."

"Who do you think did it?"

"The butler," he murmured. His tone was flat and not-at-all serious.

"They don't have butlers here, Mr. Stark."

A chuckle. "I know, kid."

Peter bundled all his courage together and opened his mouth, "Was that all we were going to do? Take photos?"

Mr. Stark had his hand propped on the arm of his chair. A finger was pressed against his lips; his eyes distant until Peter had spoken. He looked at him with a distinctly blank expression. Peter didn't think he was going to answer him.

"I'm not sure yet, kid."

Peter shifted forward, tucked his hands under his knees. "The killer called me at almost 10:30. If we find out when the last time Mrs. Burglund was seen, we could find an estimate time of death, yeah? We had the opening ceremony last night. Maybe he did it then."

He pulled his hand away so he could better meet Peter's eyes. "People were coming and going out of that ceremony the entire time. That's a lot of people."

"But not everyone."

"Very optimistic of you, Pete."

"It's a start."

Mr. Stark grew quiet again. He crossed his arms and sighed heavily. "Are you doing okay."

A demand for an answer--not a question. Peter didn't deflect, "I'm not thinking about it. Finding answers keeps me focused."

"Trust me, kid, not a good idea."

Peter's next breath was shakier than the last, "I can't think about it, Mr. Stark."

"Fine. Understood. Where do we go from here? Seems you've got ideas."

"Do you think they'll let us look at the guest list? Or is that like client-hotel confidentiality?"

Mr. Stark's laugh lifted the depressive haze that had fallen over Peter's mind. For a moment clarity returned and more ways to locate their killer emerged. Peter clung to these solutions and to his lifted spirits. "I'm not quite sure that that's even a thing, Underoos."

"You never know!"

He sobered, "We can ask."

Peter absently nodded his head, "Okay. Okay." He laughed uncomfortably, "Are-are we really doing this? Solving a murder?"

"I've stared down the emptiness of space. I'm pretty sure this is above our paygrade."

"We're still doing it."

"Yes. We are."

Mr. Åkesson was a stocky man who when he woke up this morning didn't know he'd been promoted overnight. Until the corporate office that owned the hotel came in, he would be the end-all be-all of the managing staff. By his shiny forehead, it seem he thought himself unready for the task.

Peter graciously accepted the leaf of papers handed to him while Mr. Stark explained the situation and what they planned to do.

"You want to solve her death?" he asked.

"It's going to be at least two days before the police arrive. In the meantime, a murderer is gallivanting through your hotel."

"I'm not dissuading you," Mr. Åkesson interrupted, "I just want you to keep in mind that there might be consequences to such a thing."

Mr. Stark accepted a large binder from the other man, "I'll take full responsibility."

Mr. Åkesson appeared concerned before smoothing into a gentler expression, "Thank you. Fru Burglund was a good woman. I appreciate your effort."

His mentor looked away. "No problem," he mumbled quickly. He cleared his throat, "Is there a place where we can look over this stuff?"

"You can use one of the other employee rooms. All of the conference rooms are being used."

"Good. Thanks." He awkwardly patted the marble top. "Ready?" he asked Peter.

"Yes sir."

"Ugh, gross. Never say that to me again." Mr. Stark moved back to the rooms; Peter flashed a smile to Mr. Åkesson before trotting after his mentor.

They made themselves comfortable in the same room as before. Peter had left his camera on the coffee table and he moved it over to one of the spare seats within view. He felt an irrational fear that someone was going to try and steal it.

"So--" Mr. Stark hefted the large binder unto the table and flipped it open, "This is the list of guests who were to come to the event." He pointed to the thick stack of papers Peter held, "That is the people who have actually arrived."

"Why do we need the binder then?"

Mr. Stark was silent a moment. "You're right. This is redundant." He slammed the book closed and tossed it to the side. "Gimme." Peter moved to sit beside him and split the stack.

"Anyone who arrived today can probably be removed from the list." Peter said. He dumped a few pens and highlighters on the table that Mr. Åkesson had given him and grabbed a green highlighter while they still clattered about. Mr. Stark uncapped a pink one. Peter gasped, hit with a sudden idea, "Unless they got in the night before and didn't check in until the next day to give themselves an alibi!"

Mr. Stark was already shaking his head. His marker hardly made a sound as he went down his list of guests. "The entire hotel is rented out for the conference, remember? No one is allowed unto the property unless they're on that list." He jabbed his highlighter in the direction of the discarded binder.

Peter exhaled in relief. With what Mr. Stark had said in mind, he went through and marked out guests whose arrival times were late last night or early morning. One or two folks who'd arrived just an hour before were also marked off the list. Between the two of them there were still roughly 450 guests left.

"How are we going to figure out who was at the ceremony last night or not? And of the people who actually attended how many left early or stepped out?"

Mr. Stark muffled a sigh against his hand. The highlighter's tip was dangerously close to dying his beard a lovely fuchsia, but his mentor didn't seem to notice. His eyes lit up with a brilliant idea, "The hotel has a security system. I'll have Fri hack in and determine that for us."

That certainly made things easier. "While you're doing that, I'll go ask one of the coordinators if they know which guests never came to the ceremony."

Peter was waved off, Mr. Stark too distracted to say anything. He jogged off with a strong feeling of purpose. Things were falling into place faster than he'd thought possible. He wondered, if the police in Queens had access to the same tech as he and Mr. Stark, that case solve rates would increase just as easily.

Mr. Åkesson directed Peter to two women who were chatting outside one of the ballrooms. Inside Peter could hear the droning tones of Professor Steltzer and his lab partner Mr. Lawrence. Cringing Peter remembered why he'd planned on skipping that particular lecture. The two woman whose nametags simply read "Rita" and "Flora" smiled at him with that calm professional way Peter had begun associating with the SI interns back home.

"Can we help you?" Flora asked.

"Um, yeah, I was wondering if you had maybe a list of people who didn't make it to the ceremony last night?" Peter bit his lip, realizing in that moment how odd that statement was. Mr. Stark had given him strict instructions not to let the other guests know of what had happened. He couldn't exactly tell these ladies the truth without raising a few eyebrows. Peter giggled. "You see, uh," he pinched his ear, fiddling with the cartilage in his discomfort, "there was a family friend that was supposed to come. And I was hoping maybe I just missed them. But you know, just to be on the safe side?"

Peter's entire excuse made no real sense if one was to actually think about it. But Rita and Flora didn't seem to care a whole lot. "We don't have a list, but I collected the nametags of those who didn't arrive. I can give you that if you want?"

"Yes! I mean, yes, that would--that would be perfect. Thank you so much."

Both women smiled at him, a little indulgent. Peter didn't think there was any reason to look at him like he was a child asking for a coloring page at a restaurant. But…

Whatever got him what he needed.

Rita gave him a simple cardboard box that someone had gift-wrapped to make it look a little less cheap. The plastic tags inside rattled around like poker chips. "Thanks," he said again. He gave a strange bow as he lifted the box, wondered why he was so uncoordinated for someone who had superpowers.

With an embarrassed shake of his head, he beat a hasty retreat.

"Got it, Mr. Stark!" Peter held his prize above his head when he burst into the room.

"Great work, kid! Glad you did, because Fri is tracking our guests and only two people so far have been gone for any length of time."

"Really? That's surprising," Peter plopped back down into his seat. Mr. Stark bounced a little but didn't take his eyes from the projected hologram from his phone. Displayed were four camera angles going at a speed much too fast for Mr. Stark to be watching himself. He tapped a finger against his blessedly short list he'd written in the closest corner of his guest list stack. "I also had Fri look for anyone who made phone calls at 10:30 last night."

"I'm guessing by the fact were not citizen-arresting the guy that that didn't pan out."

Mr. Stark pointed a careless finger at him before writing down the next name Fri flashed across the display. "Correct," he muttered.

Peter sighed, falling over his box. He supposed it couldn't be that easy. But that brought up another vital clue they could use to their advantage. "If they weren't caught on tape, then that means the killer knows the hotel pretty well, right?"

"Fri, pause." Mr. Stark put all his attention on Peter, "Elaborate."

Suddenly nervous under such scrutiny, Peter pressed his shoulder to his ear. "I mean, you'd have to know the hotel pretty well to know where the cameras are, right? Like, I don't know where they are but this is my first time so…"

Mr. Stark was impressed, "And I've been going here longer than you've been alive so I  know that there are only cameras on the ground floor and elevators. For privacy reasons."

Silence. "Did you do it, Mr. Stark?"

He scrunched his face, "Kid, I will disown you."

Peter laughed into his box. "Okay, okay. How do we find out if a guest is coming for the first time?"

Mr. Stark shrugged, "I can probably determine that. And if there are anyone I'm unsure about, between the coordinators and Fri, we can figure it out."

"Sounds good." Peter gripped the sides of his box and stared down into it. "Guess I'll go through these."

There weren't a whole lot. Peter grabbed a few and flipped the first one to see the name. "Huh. Miss Patricia didn't attend last night."

"Ah, that explains the severe lack of cat calls," Mr. Stark grumbled.

Peter gave his mentor a funny look, "What's with you two?"

"There was never a 'two,' that's what."

Ew. Peter like most everyone else in the world knew of Mr. Stark's past. But that didn't mean he thought about it. It was like trying to calculate what his parents had been doing nine months before his birth. It just wasn't done.

"Well, it can't be Miss Patricia anyway. The caller was male."

Mr. Stark sat up and looked dramatically off into the distance, "Ah, but if any woman could drive a man to murder, it'd be her."

Peter dropped the next nametag back in the box, "This lady sounds less and less pleasant the more you talk about her."

"I speak from experience, kid. Heed my wisdom; don't get caught alone with her." There was almost something like fear under Mr. Stark's casual delivery. Peter remembered the prickly feeling of his senses when they first met Patricia and wondered what that could mean.

"So," he refocused, "If she could convince a man to murder--Doyle?"

Mr. Stark went gray around the edges. "No, not Doyle. He would never." His eyes fluttered like he remembered something unpleasant and didn't want to be reminded of it. "Maybe," he eventually whispered.

Peter held up a nametag. Doyle's full name was written in the same pretty handwriting as Patricia's. "Maybe?"

The engineer shook his head. There was a slump to his shoulders that sobbed of resignation. "Doyle and I were at MIT together. Fri, continue." He spoke while the video surveillance continued, needing something to do, "We weren't particularly close until senior year. He could get into these moods--hyperfixation is fine, but sometimes he didn't have the means to channel it like others. He almost burned down a science building because he was so convinced of his hypothesis and there was no one to talk him down from the ledge."

"Then there's a possibility?" Peter gingerly hedged.

"Not on his own." Mr. Stark rubbed his face with both hands, "If she manipulated him into thinking murder was the only way he could keep seeing her, he could do it. He can grow…irrational if he's not careful."

Peter looked up to the ceiling, thinking. "But what motive would Miss Patricia have for murdering Mrs. Burglund?"

"She once bankrupted a shoe company because they sent her stilettos in the wrong shade of puce. Any number of things could set that woman off."

"Okay," he drawled, "But it still sounds shaky."

Mr. Stark waved his hand, dismissive, "It's just a theory, kid. No reason to confront her now until we have more solid evidence."

"Right." He dove back into the box. He juggled between nametags and the list of guests. By the time Mr. Stark finished running through the security footage, Peter had tossed out the names of guests who hadn't arrived until today and added two to their suspect pool.

"How many?" Peter asked.

"Five." Mr. Stark drawled. "Mr. Harry Faulkner--"

"I recognize that name." Peter grabbed a tag and held it up for inspection, "His wife Sally didn't attend."

"Maybe she was sick. Might explain him leaving early to be with her."

"Or--"

"They're an elderly couple, Pete. You seriously think they committed murder?"

"You'd be surprised, Mr. Stark. I watched a YouTube video where this one old lady killed some women and made their bodies into soap. That she gave to her neighbors."

"Okay," Mr. Stark made a heel motion, "That's enough internet for you."

"I'm just saying--we shouldn't mark them off too early."

"Fine. We'll leave Mr. and Mrs. Winslow on the list. Happy?"

"Not really."

He rolled his eyes, "Where are you at, Agatha?"

Peter shrugged, "Most of them are guests who arrived late, so there's just a couple."

"How many do we have in total?"

"Miss Patricia, Doyle, Mr. and Mrs. Faulkner…" Peter trailed off, "Seven."

Mr. Stark raised his eyebrows, "Better than 500. Nice work, kid."

"Eh, I had help."

Now that they had a list there was only one logical step that could be made next. But pulling seven random strangers--some of whom they had only met in passing--out of their different lectures to grill them about  murder was awkward at best. Peter could only imagine the horrors that would be unleashed if Patricia hadn't done it. Not that he was hoping she had.

It was all such a mess and not what he signed up for coming here.

Mr. Stark hadn't been looking for this level of trouble either. He'd been more than generous in letting Peter tag along. Peter wondered if he would have gotten involved if he hadn't come with him--effectively ruining the entire trip. As they made their way back to the front desk to talk with Mr. Åkesson, Peter was compelled to ask, guilt chewing at his insides now that he was thinking of the inconvenience he'd brought to the billionaire.

"Mm," Mr. Stark slipped his hands into his pockets, "Probably. Honestly though I wouldn't have come this year if it wasn't for you, kid."

"What, really?"

He shrugged, "I've been going to this conference for years. I wasn't exaggerating that. My dad would drag me to these things; and I only went after he'd passed because of…reasons." Peter snorted at the not-so-subtle way Mr. Stark tried to cover for himself. "Anyway, they become old hat after awhile." Hands still in his pockets, he nudged Peter's side, "A fresh pair of eyes would have really brightened this place up."

Peter felt his face warm, uncharacteristically flattered. "Thanks, Mr. Stark. Really."

Mr. Stark shook his head, smile something that bordered on pride. He didn't reply as they approached the desk.

"Back already?" Mr. Åkesson asked. He was sorting through a stack of mail. Elias the bellhop from yesterday stood nearby.

Peter smiled the moment Elias recognized him. He returned the gesture with a degree that was more strained than friendly. His eyes fluttered away like he'd been seized with sudden nerves which Peter didn't understand. He left Mr. Stark to speak with Mr. Åkesson and approached the bellhop.

"Hi again. I know you don't know English, but…" he waved hoping that was enough.

Relief flooded the older man's posture. He gave a shy wave back. He pointed to the stack of letters and then at Peter. He spoke in Swedish.

Peter bit his lip, "Um, I don't--"

"Do you have mail?" Mr. Åkesson interrupted. He was smirking at Peter's cluelessness.

"Oh! Oh, no." He shook his head vehemently, not wanting the other man to misunderstand him as he rambled, "No one I know sends letters. Plus America! They'd have had sent that letter awhile ago for it to have gotten here so soon."

Elias fought a smile. Despite not understanding him, Peter thought his behavior was funny enough to tickle the man. Peter didn't mind so much. Not if it made Elias comfortable with him. He seemed nice if a bit awkward.

"Kid?"

He turned to his mentor, "Yeah?"

Mr. Stark jerked his head in the direction of the conference rooms, "C'mon."

Peter took a fortifying breath. Time to get to the real work. 

When Peter was a freshman, new in face and spirit at Midtown Tech, Ben convinced him to participate in a Mother's Day Fun Day in the weeks before the actual holiday. It was one of those silly attempts by the school to get involved in the community by babysitting for local mothers for a few hours. Long enough to have lunch with friends and maybe a pedi or two. While moms and grandmas went window shopping through downtown, Peter and a few other hapless teenage volunteers corralled children between the ages six and twelve. Thankfully the idea of twenty-odd pimply, barely-teenagers babysitting their precious treasures wasn't a rousing success. Otherwise Peter didn't think he'd have lived to tell the tale.

Sitting in the small sitting room surrounded by six yelling adults and a stoic twelve year old brought back so many memories of that fateful day. None of them were good.

At the center of the hoard was Patricia Conley whose increasingly high voice was making the greatest portion of the noise. The longer Peter stared at her reddening face, the older she appeared until suddenly Peter felt he'd gone cross-eyed and couldn't tell up from down. Eventually the cacophony of voices reached a peak so intense, his sensitive hearing made him want to dig his own eardrums out.

"ENOUGH!"

Peter breathed a sigh of relief so heavy he thought maybe his soul had slipped free. Mr. Stark had returned from his talk with Mr. Åkesson. If the distraught look on the manager's face was any indication, even Mr. Stark wasn't enough to soothe his fears. His entire character screamed that nothing that was happening had been included in his employee handbook.

Then again, it wasn't every day that the two amateur detectives trying to solve a murder in your hotel was a multi-billionaire and his wonder-less ward.

A new week of experiences for everyone.

In the reigning silence, Mr. Stark took a seat beside Peter. Their other guests stood on the opposite side of the room from them, arranged about a love seat and matching arm chair. The buff bodyguard of twelve-year-old boy genius Toko glared from the fireplace on their right. Mr. Stark's stern gaze challenged him in ways Peter could never hope to emulate, and his voice was just as hard. "I know we've cut into your very important margarita hour," he hissed, "but we've called each of you here for good reason."

"And this child? Is there a reason for his presence?" Mrs. Sally Faulkner asked. Her dark eyes were trained intently on Peter. She was far less terrifying than Patricia but ten times more intimidating. There was a silent judgement in her expression that made Peter feel more like a child than he had felt in while. He twisted his fingers into his shirt in a feeble attempt to not laugh in face of such awkwardness, but thankfully Mr. Stark was quick to jump to his defense.

"He's here to help me."

"Him?" Patricia's shoulders jumped, "He's cute, Anthony, honey; but not enough for me to hang around here. I've got places to be."

Doyle reached for her arm, but only long enough to just skim the surface of her skin. Patricia pulled away with a vehemence that was too extreme for an action coming from a supposed romantic partner. Peter narrowed his eyes. Doyle didn't let that stop him from pushing through with his comment, "Go easy on him, Trisch. I'm sure this won't take long. Right?"

"Um, yeah, that will just depend…" he shuffled the pages he compiled beforehand, licking his lips as he flitted a nervous look in Mr. Stark's direction. His mentor didn't even glance in his direction, too focused on staring down Keith Sjöberg--the rude man from check-in--into submission. The man had been difficult from the start and was only by miracle of Mr. Stark and Mr. Åkesson that he was there at all. "On what it is you're able to tell me."

"And what are you telling us?" Toko asked. He'd quickly commandeered the armchair close to the fireplace, his delicate legs crossed and hands resting primly in his lap. He was exactly what Peter had imagined Artemis Fowl looked like when he read the books as a kid. His bodyguard of five years reminded him of Butler just as easily.

Peter clenched his fists in time with his breaths. Finally he pulled all the public speaking practice he'd had in school and used it to bolster his confidence. "There was an incident last night and between records and CCTV, the seven of you were the only ones with opportunity for the crime."

"Crime?" Patricia shrieked.

"Yes," Mr. Stark spoke, shouting to be heard over Patricia before she had the chance to go off on them both.

"To avoid ruining things for the others, we ask you not speak of this outside of the present company." Mr. Åkesson said. The nervous wringing of his hands cemented how bad of an idea he thought this whole thing was. Without proper authority to keep an eye on their suspects, there could be any number of ways this thing could go sideways. But it was either this or let their murderer run free.

"Is it theft?" Mrs. Faulkner asked. She was clutching the collar of her shirt like someone her age would do if they had a string of pearls. Peter almost laughed at her. "I'll have you know I have no reason to be stealing."

"Of course. You can afford to have people do it for you." Peter's eyebrows shot up at the scathing remark coming from the twelve year old. Little Toko had bite.

Mr. and Mrs. Faulkner glared at him. "Show respect, child. Just because you have the parents you do doesn't give excuse for your recent behavior," Mr. Faulkner snapped. He patted the back of his wife's hand as she practically swooned at such harsh treatment.

"This is all very interesting, but I have a lecture to prepare and have no time for this squabbling. Check my room, I have nothing to hide." Keith stood. Mr. Stark immediately followed.

"You're dismissed when I say so," the billionaire remarked, hand rising as if to blast his repulsor. The taller man took a hesitant step back.

"Tony, really. Is any of this necessary?" Doyle appeared less inconvenienced and more concerned--for Mr. Stark. As if he thought Mr. Stark was jumping to conclusions in some bout of unexplained paranoia. "If it's a simple theft, I'm sure it could wait until the police arrive."

"The police aren't coming," Peter said. It took all of his inhuman super strength not cringe at his wording, "I mean, there's been a landslide and they won't be arriving for a few days."

"And you thought, what? That you would take care of it instead?" Michael Thomenson pushed away from the fireplace mantle and rose to his full, not-unsubstantial height. Peter knew by the sad truth of genetics that he would never be as tall; but, boy, in that moment did he wish he would.

Mr. Stark didn't back down. If anything, he stood up just that much straighter. Peter could hear the tiniest of clicks from the hand tucked out of view of their guests. The metal slid down over his knuckles and reached toward the tips of his fingers, turning the hot rod red familiar to all Ironman tech.

The older hero didn't get to use it though. Doyle stood up as well, arms out in as non-threatening a way as he could get. Sweat beaded his brow, "Let's take a breath, gentlemen. Obviously if Tony is going to such great lengths, then that must mean this is a very important matter. If that is true, it's in all our best interests to calm down and work together to make things right."

You can't make right what's already dead, Peter almost said. He restrained himself just in time; instead putting his energy into getting Mr. Stark to refocus on their plan. They were going to interview each suspect separately, get a first-hand look at each of their reactions. See who was genuine and who might be covering something up. "Mr. Stark."

His mentor held his stiff posture a moment longer, before relaxing his shoulders, "Thank you, Doyle. Good to see you as levelheaded as always." He gave the man a brief smile that didn't reach his eyes. He spared a glance Peter's way as well, but didn't say anything further.

Peter took it as his cue, "Well, uh, if you don’t mind, Mr. Sjöberg; since you have a lecture later, let's start with you."

The older man frowned, but the untightening of his brow appeared to indicate that he appreciated Peter's thoughtfulness. Peter didn't receive a smile, but Keith's willingness to follow him into the adjacent room spoke volumes of his gratitude.

Peter placed his phone on the coffee table between them, recorder already queued up and ready to go. He rearranged what few notes he had and sat down. Mr. Stark entered just as he hit record and quietly closed the door behind him.

"Is it all right if I address you as Keith?" Peter asked nervously. The man's arms were crossed and he was leaning back in his chair with the air of someone whose good temperament only lasted so long.

"It's fine," he grumbled.

"Right." He cleared his throat. Mr. Stark tapped his shoulder with the back of his hand. When Peter turned to look at him, he made a circular motion with his finger. Get a move on. He nodded, coughed again. "Mrs. Burglund, the hotel manager, was found dead this morning. We were hoping we could ask you a few questions about your whereabouts last night."

It was amazing how quickly a person's demeanor could change. Keith Sjöberg sat up as soon as Peter had finished speaking, eyes large, "What?" he whispered.

Peter didn't take his eye off the man, not even to blink. He knew his enhanced vision made it that much easier to catch the minuscule changes in a person's expression, much faster than Mr. Stark could. And while FRIDAY could easily do the task for them, Peter felt more secure in doing it himself. Nothing in Keith's expression spoke of a lie.

"Mrs. Burglund was killed last night." Mr. Stark repeated.

The shock was so genuine on Keith's face that Peter was ready to strike him from the list then and there. Still, it was best to be safe than sorry; Peter didn't stop his intense scrutiny. "Why did you leave the opening ceremony last night?"

There was the flash Peter had been looking for. His gaze darted away too quickly for any other man to catch; the press of his lips spoke of nerves. "I had urgent business."

"You're one of this week's speakers," Mr. Stark pointed out. "Isn't it a requirement for you to attend?"

"Seeing as you've never been selected to speak, you would need to ask."

"Hey!" Peter snapped, rushing to his mentor's aid despite knowing the man didn't need it, "Mr. Stark's business isn't why we're asking. What was your business that you had to attend to?"

"That's confidential," The man returned just as harshly.

Peter raised an eyebrow, "What? You think I'm going to leak it out to one of your competitors? Here's a gentle reminder: A woman is dead."

"Whoa, kid," Mr. Stark whispered. Another soft tap to his shoulder had Peter taking a deep breath through his nose.

Keith didn't speak. He'd begun sweating the longer they sat there, twiddling with the golden band on his ring finger. "We don't have all day," Mr. Stark stated, voice pitched low, "If you're not responsible, then we need to move on. Being caught up with you because of company secrets isn't what we need right now."

Keith sat back and crossed his arms. "I don't need to tell you anything. You're not the police."

"That's true," Mr. Stark chirped, hands in his pocket and posture as relaxed as he could be in the current situation, "But they will be here. And do you think they'll be very trusting of you when we tell them how dodgy you're being?"

"Are you threatening me?"

"Never. Just trying to clarify things for you. Make things easier in the long run."

"I was on a business call," Keith grounded out. He maintained eye contact with Mr. Stark, brow furrowed. When his mentor turned to him, Peter could only give a small shake of his head. Peter's senses only worked when he was in direct danger; he couldn't detect lies and his skills as body language reader only went so far. He should probably watch some YouTube videos later.

"All right, sir." Mr. Stark waved to the exit. He kept his eyes down, but his careless posture spoke of who was really in charge. Keith didn't leave time for them to change their minds. He was up and gone within seconds. Peter puffed his cheeks out and let the air escape slowly through his mouth.

"Do you think that's how all of them will go?"

"That is very likely, kid."

Mr. Stark was not wrong. Their questioning continued for the rest of the day. With the rainfall it was hard to determine what time it was inside their temporary interrogation room. The hours bled together like wet-on-wet paint (Peter had seen MJ paint this way once before--what she created was a good representation of his brain at the moment). Each of their suspects had been edgy: not giving full answers or out-right refusing to answer like Keith had. Excuses were half-baked at best, but logical enough to not be discredited at face value. Young Toko (brilliant enough to stage a crime without having to commit the crime himself) was especially hard to work with. All that stubborn child pride made getting an answer impossible. It made Peter irrationally uncomfortable. All the intelligence of Mr. Stark with none of the morals.

Even Patricia and Mrs. Faulkner were suspicious. Their dodgy way of answering made it appear that they knew more than they were letting on. Whether it was because they were protecting themselves or someone else was hard to tell.

By the end of their session, all the facts that they had were these: Patricia had fallen ill during lunch and retired to her room for the rest of the day. Doyle was in and out of the room during the afternoon, disappeared for several hours and reappeared around 9:30. Keith had left the ceremony early to answer a business call (per Mr. Stark, a four hour phone call was a minimum amount of time spent). Toko had attended the ceremony with Thomenson, but only stayed for thirty minutes before taking their leave as well. Toko said they went for a walk around the grounds. Thomenson said they returned to their bedrooms. Finally Mrs. Faulkner had been sick from the long trip and stayed in bed after check-in. Mr. Faulkner left the ceremony early saying he was going to tend to his wife. Mrs. Faulkner insisted she didn't see her husband until ten after he had initially left their room.

There were too many gaps with no explanation given for any of them. As frustrating as it was, there wasn't anything Peter or Mr. Stark could do. They had no real authority and "persuading" information was a no-go (no matter how annoyed Mr. Stark grew). All they could do was ask questions and collect as much information from their words and non-verbal cues as they could.

"How do detective do this?" Peter slumped in the same chair he'd been in most of the day. His butt felt flat.

Mr. Stark struck an imposing figure in front of the lit fireplace, back to Peter. The stiff set of his shoulders spoke volumes of his frustration. "They usually have training and resources created specifically for this purpose. We're at a bit of a disadvantage."

Peter leaned forward, elbows digging into his thighs as he rubbed at his face. His voice was muffled behind his fingers, "Should we have not done this?"

His mentor turned to him. He slipped a hand into his pocket. "Yes. And no. We're likely to get chewed out by the cops when they arrive. But if we catch our culprit it could be moot."

"How are we going to do that when no one will talk?" Peter nearly whined. He fell back into his seat and slid down. His arms thumped into his lap, hands clawed in annoyance.

Mr. Stark hurried to his side, dropping onto the coffee table to face him. "They won't talk because each have something to hide. It's why they're our suspects."

"So what are they hiding? They didn't all kill Mrs. Burglund."

Mr. Stark tapped Peter's knee, "Exactly the question."

Peter sat up, "Patricia, what is she hiding?"

"An affair. Definitely."

Peter huffed a laugh, "No hesitation. Tell us how you really feel, Mr. Stark. Doyle?"

"Experiment. An invention. Something he's too paranoid to tell anyone about. Someone plagiarized his work at school, never the same since."

"Okay. Toko?"

Mr. Stark scrunched his nose, "Shouldn't you know? He's your age, right?"

"He's three years younger than me!" Peter gestured, frustrated that his age was a sticking point for Mr. Stark. Again.

"So?" Mr. Stark mimicked his wild flailing.

"Fine! Fine. Um, well," he pushed his tongue against the back of his teeth, "I don't know! Maybe a hobby of his? Maybe his parents are super strict and this is the only time he can do whatever."

Mr. Stark looked impressed, "Sounds like a solid theory. If his parents run in the same circles as the Winslows than they're probably not much on fun either."

Peter bounced a little in his seat, growing eager, "Keith?"

"Well, I actually think he's not lying."

Peter's face scrunched, head tilting to the side before swinging back up in one smooth arc. His tone was skeptical, "Really?"

"Hey, business calls are exhausting."

"All right. We'll go with that for now. The Faulkner's?"

"Sally coming down with the vapors is believable, but I couldn't imagine what Harry had to have been doing."

"Bar?"

"He could drink at the ceremony."

"Affair?"

"At his age? With whatever outdated hip he's got?"

"Extramarital relationships aren't just about sex, Mr. Stark."

"One: never say 'sex' in my presence again," Peter snorted, "Two: where did you read that? Reader's Digest?"

"What?" Peter frowned.

Mr. Stark shook his head, "Please shut up."

"What!" Offended, Peter jerked back, arms out, "I just asked a question."

Not sure if he was amused or nauseous, Mr. Stark moved on, "Thomenson?"

"He was with Toko. For sure. They're just really bad at getting their stories straight."

Mr. Stark laughed, amused by Peter's almost playful tone. He glanced at his watch and frowned, "You should call your aunt. It's getting late."

"What about--"

"We can continue in the morning. It's been a long day. You've been through enough."

"I'm fine, Mr. Stark."

Mr. Stark got to his feet. He pulled Peter up after him, "No you're not, kid. You need to vent, and it can't be with me."

"Why not?"

The billionaire's hands were warm on his shoulders, the pressure he applied comforting in its familiarity. "Trust me, kid. Talk to your aunt."

They stopped in their impromptu holding room. The seven had been in and out most of the day between interviews. Keith had a lecture and everyone had needed to eat at one point with bathroom breaks interspersed throughout. A few confused staff members had escorted them the entire time. When they re-entered, everyone was present but Patricia.

"Miss Conley?" Peter asked.

Mr. Åkesson looked up from his tablet. "One of the staff brought her to her room after lunch. Was still not feeling well, she said."

Mr. Stark nodded slowly, appearing suspicious, but he didn't question it further. "That's fine. The rest of you are free to go. Please don't speak to any of the other guests about this. If you try to run," he smirked, "you're likely to implicate yourself further. I wouldn't recommend."

The others shot dirty looks as they passed them, annoyed at a day wasted. Peter couldn't understand why they weren't all eager to help solve Mrs. Burglund's death. At the very least, he thought they would want to clear their own names. He sighed.

Another firm clap on his shoulder and a friendly shake for added emphasis, "Call your aunt. Try to get some sleep. 'Kay?"

"Got it."

Peter woke unexpectedly some time around three. He squinted at the sudden light that had flooded his hotel room. He'd dropped his phone on the nightstand screen-up after talking with his very worried Aunt May hours earlier. He'd only fallen asleep an hour before. The device buzzed, trembling across the wooden surface until it dropped to the floor. Disorientated Peter nearly fell from bed trying to retrieve it.

"'Lo?"

"I'm so sorry!! I didn't mean to do it!! I'm sorry! Please, PLEASE, I'm so sorry. Don't come after me!"

Suddenly awake, Peter threw himself from his bed. "Mr. Stark!!"

"NO! Don't! No--"

The line went dead just as Peter burst from his bedroom into the dim hallway. Mr. Stark followed from his own room not too long after. Peter hissed a few choice words as several different doors opened down the hall. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hear over the noise and pinpoint a voice, a clatter of a phone on its cradle, wild footsteps. Anything that could help them.

There was too much. His hearing was too sensitive after such a sudden awakening; he couldn't hear over the worried and angry voices on their hall. For once, Peter regretted calling for Mr. Stark.

"Kid?" The hand on his shoulder was gentler than normal. Peter leaned into it. Struggling he looked into his mentor's eyes.

"He did it again."

Chapter Text

Michelle Jones had this odd way about her that just liked to drop random information at the most inopportune times. All that Peter knew about police procedure and true crime came from MJ. She loved that kind of stuff. Also fossils, dark nail polish, and giving Flash Thompson existential crises. Above all else she loved art.

Like many of her nuggets of knowledge, MJ dropped a concept artists called "the rule of thirds" during literature class. From what she explained it had to do with composition. When making art, artists should construct a scene that could be divided into three equal parts. Or something along those lines. Peter wasn't an artist so he hadn't been able to understand all of it.

Presently, he hoped their murderer wasn’t an artist too.

Two was enough of a balance in Peter's analytical mind. Sure, he'd been uncomfortable around Patricia Conley, but that didn't mean she deserved to die the way she did. Peter had taken one look at the twisted expression on her face and promptly threw up. Mr. Stark caught him around the middle and practically dragged him to the nearest trash can.

"Easy, kid. Don't fight it."

Peter didn't. He didn't fight the tears either. They dripped down from the tip of his nose into the mess below him. It tickled. While Mrs. Burglund's death looked almost picturesque in its gore, Patricia's was a scene stripped from a horror movie--a snuff film sixteen year olds like Peter shouldn't witness.

Much like Mrs. Burglund, Patricia's front was a waterfall of blood, differing by the slash marks and stab wounds criss-crossing her chest, arms, and stomach like a macabre version of tic-tac-toe. Her hands were contorted across herself in a vain attempt to stop the inevitable--her right almost split down the middle by the force of the stabs. The robe she'd worn over her baby-pink nightie had been slashed. A steak knife pinned her neck to the chair she'd fallen into.

She'd died during dinner. Terribly.

"Did anyone hear anything?" Peter rasped.

Mr. Stark handed him a glass of water. Peter had created crude mittens with the blanket Mr. Stark draped across his shoulders and worked to move them out of the way to accept the gift. The glass was slippery. A touch of superpowers insured he didn't drop it. His hands trembled badly enough.

"Mr. Åkesson hasn't told me anything."

Peter took a slow sip of his water. He could hear Doyle the room over wailing. He was inconsolable making the whole situation that much worse. He'd obviously cared very deeply for the woman--it was sad to know she didn't feel the same way and died too soon to tell him so.

Doyle had found her body, just seconds before Peter had gotten his phone call. He mangled out through sobs to Mr. Stark that he'd gone to check on her. She'd refused to answer the door earlier in the day after he and the others had been released from interrogation. Assuming she wanted to be alone, he'd let her be. He'd only tried again because he couldn't sleep.

Mr. Stark took a seat on the bed next to Peter. His hand was warm where he'd placed it on Peter's hunched spine, burning through the fabric. Keith had graciously given them his room. He and Doyle were on the same floor that Patricia had been. The man in question was attending to the crying Doyle.

"How are you feelin'?"

"'M fine."

His lips twisted, not believing Peter. He pressed the back of his fingers to Peter's burning cheek, "Don't lie, kid."

A lot had happened in only a day and half, enough that Peter felt suffocated being treated so gently. While normally he accepted affection from his mentor with all the energy of a boy starved, he chaffed against it now. He stood suddenly, shaking off the blanket--and Mr. Stark's hand--almost violently. He spilled his water trying to place it on a nearby table.

"I'm fine," he growled.

"Okay then." Mr. Stark slapped his hands down against his thighs and stood up. His demeanor did a complete 180, stare unrelenting. "Pack your things; we're leaving."

Peter gaped at him, "You can't be serious." He threw an arm out toward the storm outside. It hadn't let up. "And go where? We can't go anywhere!"

"You think a little rain is going to stop me? There is a psychopath in this hotel! And he's calling you!!"

There was always something so startling when Peter made a discovery. When he had found some of his dad's old research as a kid and it took only a handful of minutes to understand. When he had woken up after three days of being violently sick feeling like he'd shed restraints he hadn't even realized were there. When he had made his first web formula. The day he'd seen Liz for the first time. It was a moment of clarity that hit Peter right between the eyes, knocking him numb for seconds at a time. He felt it now in a stranger's bedroom an hour after seeing the most startling discovery of the night.

Mr. Stark was angry.

Peter was reminded of that day in the school office. The slow anger Peter didn't notice until Mr. Stark let it be known. It boiled gently under the surface, showing in signs of frustration and stiff shoulders. Mr. Stark was so so angry. And he had been for a while.

Not at Peter. At the killer. Because he had involved Peter.

"Whatever sick, twisted game this guy thinks he pulling--it's done! Do you understand? We are leaving and no amount of rain and mud is going to stop us."

"Mr. Stark, breath." Feeling a little overwhelmed, Peter reached out and gripped his mentor's arm. "Deep breaths, Mr. Stark. You're having a panic attack."

Mr. Stark looked bewildered at the very notion. "I am not--" he cut himself off, choking a little as he tried to act like normal.

"Yes, you are." Peter guided him back to the bed. Mr. Stark's wide eyes unsettled him. The closest he'd gotten to seeing Mr. Stark loose his cool was at the ferry. His anger toward Peter always masked the worry in Peter's memory, but thinking on it now he realized all over again how much trouble he'd caused the older man. Even so, now was an entirely new experience. Mr. Stark was the constant steady hand in situations. It was odd being on the other side of it.

But as Mr. Stark calmed, hands tight over Peter's where he gripped his arm, Peter realized he didn't mind too much. He liked being someone Mr. Stark could rely on.

"Okay?" he whispered.

Mr. Stark nodded, head bowed. He pressed his slightly damp forehead to the back of Peter's hand before sitting up and releasing him. "Sorry, kid."

"It's okay, Mr. Stark. I understand."

A small smirk lifted the corner of his mouth, "Do you now?"

He shrugged, awkward. "I worry about stuff too."

His mentor sighed like a familiar weight was being reacquainted with his shoulders, "You shouldn't have to."

"I want to. You shouldn't have to carry all the burdens."

Mr. Stark shoved Peter's face away, "Don't wax poetic at me, kid. It's unbecoming."

Peter almost laughed. The pit in his stomach refused to be lifted though, and he could only muster a tired smile. "Are we still staying?"

Mr. Stark's expression sharpened, "You thought I had changed my mind?"

"We can't leave these people, Mr. Stark!"

"My top priority is keeping you safe. Your aunt will kill me otherwise."

The idea that Mr. Stark was lying--that he wanted to keep him safe because it was Peter and that was a good enough excuse already--passed through his mind. He pushed it firmly aside though. It wasn't appropriate to insinuate the feelings of other people especially if one was projecting onto another. Peter didn't want to be disappointed at the realization that Mr. Stark didn't think himself particularly close to the teen. Not like how Peter felt.

"You're upset, Mr. Stark."

"You think?!" the older man shouted. He huffed at Peter's startled body language. Mr. Stark closed his eyes and pressed a tight fist to the skin in-between. "I can't believe you're not getting this."

"Enlighten me then. Because all I'm getting is that you want to give up. You want to leave these people to this-this guy and it's all my fault."

"How many--" Mr. Stark shifted forward, hands curled in frustration as he shook them at Peter, "This isn't your fault!"

"Then why is he calling me?!"

"I DON'T KNOW! But when I do, he's getting a mouth full of metal for his efforts!!"

Peter lurched back a step when Mr. Stark rose suddenly to his feet. The two heroes were relatively close in height, but those few inches Mr. Stark had on him had never been more apparent. Peter's senses didn't go off, but he raised an arm protectively across his torso regardless.

"Um…Is everything all right in here?" Keith Sjöberg knocked lightly against the door frame to his room with the knuckle of one finger. His startled expression meant he'd observed the last few seconds.

"Sorry," Mr. Stark apologized immediately. He pressed a hand against his eyes and scrunched his face up--embarrassed or overwhelmed Peter couldn't tell which. He glanced at Peter and repeated himself, eyes not drifting far from the arm Peter still held aloft.

Peter dropped it immediately. "It's fine."

Mr. Stark huffed again, "It's really not. How's Doyle?" He turned back to Keith.

"I think he passed out."

"What?" Mr. Stark crossed the room in three quick strides and disappeared from the room. Peter hung back not sure what to do with himself now that there was this awkward tension between him and the billionaire.

"Are you okay?" Keith asked stepping further into the room.

"Yeah. Yeah! Sorry, that was…" he ran a hand down the back of his leg, "…unusual."

The other man cracked a small smile, "Not how things typically go?" His soft accent made his words lulling and pretty--different then the harsh way New Yorkers spoke.

Keith didn't seem like a bad guy (murder suspect notwithstanding) so Peter didn't feel terribly suspicious in answering. "We don't typically fight, no. Unless I mess up, I mean." He pulled his lips in and bit down, suddenly nervous, "Um…he's actually--"

"Nice?"

Not the word Peter was looking for. But he was never sure what word he searched for when describing the older hero. 'Nice' was as good a word as any. "Yeah, he's-he's nice."

"Hm."

The silence lasted until Keith went to his dresser. He pulled out a photo from one of the drawers and handed it to Peter. Framed were three young kids--one with a cast on her arm. The boy in the middle was missing all his front teeth as he grinned at the camera. Peter smiled a little back. "Are these your kids?"

"That's right. It's a few years old."

Peter looked up. The taller man sat down on the bed. Peter followed slowly after.

"My wife and I," he began, playing with his wedding band, "we've been separated for a few years now. Too many work hours, trips, distractions. Bless her for staying as long as she did. But I still see her and the kids on occasion."

Peter tilted the photo away from the light so he could see the three children better. Keith pointed to each one as he said their names, his tongue rolling over the foreign names with all the ease and love of a father. Peter knew plenty of kids from divorced or separated families. But he personally had never experienced it. He couldn't remember what kind of relationship his parents had, but he didn't need to. May and Ben had set a shining example of what a marriage could be. When he was thirteen and sloughing his way through the nightmare that was puberty at its finest, Peter daydreamed about having a relationship like theirs (he still did if he was honest--though these days it was just a blurry image of someone with curly hair and pretty skin rather than his current crush of the week). He couldn't imagine a world where if his uncle had lived, Ben and May would slowly start drifting apart. Where the first thing on their tongues wasn't a name of endearment or a silly compliment. A time when it was either go their separate ways or stay in a home stifled by growing hatred.

He gazed at Keith. His enhanced eyesight took in all the lines and imperfections that once his wife had thought so endearing and now could only find repulsive. It was a horrible thing to think about. That someone who loved you so much could tear you down as easily as they had once built you up. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Keith shook his head, "Don't be. It isn't your fault. And neither was it hers. But…I think after this," he smiled crookedly, "it's time to go home."

Peter smiled slowly back, "Yeah. But…why are you telling me this?"

The man sighed. He looked suddenly older, closer to Mr. Stark's age than Peter had realized. "I wasn't on a call the night of the ceremony. I was with Patricia."

"Ah," Peter breathed, frozen in shock. While it wasn't entirely surprising, what he didn't understand was why he was telling him now, after the same woman had been found murdered.

Until the thought struck him that, maybe, Peter was seated next to a killer.

"Why are you telling me this?" he repeated, voice trembling.

Keith took the photo from Peter's slack hands, "I didn't want to be accused if it came out some other way."

"Of killing her?"

"Yes." He sighed, "It was a frivolous, stupid relationship. While I may have been separated from my wife that doesn't mean I still wasn't unfaithful. Of the things she thought I'd done on my many trips, an affair was never one of them."

"Until now." Peter slumped a little. His sympathy for the man rekindled some as he watched him gaze longingly at his children.

He nodded. "It was wrong. I shouldn't have tried to cover it up. I did try to see her yesterday, but she never answered the door so I gave up. But seeing her like that--I realized how very quickly a person can go. And what is left?"

Peter inhaled deep and long. "I don't know. I didn't know her."

"Exactly."

There was silence again, more introspective than before. Peter could hear a little commotion in the other room, but not enough to alarm him. He hoped Mr. Stark's conversation with Doyle was going just as well as Peter's.

"When I return home," Keith said, tapping the edge of his photo against his thumbnail, "I want things to change. Be more like Mr. Anthony Stark."

"He's a good role model." Peter bounced a little, encouraging. "Though I don't recommend building multi-billion dollar suits in your spare time."

"God forbid!" he laughed, "I think my life will feel more fulfilled if I were more generous, a better husband." He turned to Peter, "A better father."

Throat dry, Peter sat straighter, "He's--he's not my--yo-you know--um."

Keith looked skeptical. Peter went red.

"Hey, hey, what's going on?" Peter jumped. Mr. Stark had peeked his head in, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You okay, kid?"

"Yep!" he squeaked. He almost punched Keith when he noticed his smug grin.

Still not entirely convinced, Mr. Stark opened the door further, "All right. Can I speak with the kid?"

"Of course," Keith got up. "How is Doyle?" he asked as he returned his photo to its resting place.

"Sleeping. Properly this time. Mind watching over him?"

Looking almost eager to be of a help, Keith nodded. He gave a not-so-subtle wink to Peter as he left. Peter dropped his head into his hands.

"Why are you two so chummy?"

Peter shifted so Mr. Stark could take Keith's place. "He was with Patricia during the ceremony. He wanted to be honest."

Mr. Stark raised an eyebrow, "So you immediately think he's innocent. His mistress is dead a door over."

"I am very aware of that." Mr. Stark flinched, apologetic. "I just don't really think he did it."

"I'd still like to know your reasoning."

"No reasoning," he muttered, "Just a gut feeling."

"Well, if you say so…" Mr. Stark's tone was more sarcastic than Peter believed was warranted. But he didn't dwell on it.

"Did Mr. Doyle say anything?"

Mr. Stark slapped his knee back and forth with his hand, trying to beat out a white smear that hadn't been there before he left the room. His eyes were distant in a way that made Peter just a little sad. "Just a bunch of nonsense. I think any cop would agree it wasn't him. No one fakes grief like that."

Peter nodded. "Yeah," he muttered quietly.

Silence stretched for a moment. Mr. Stark had leaned forward and was bracing his elbows against his knees. Peter twisted his hands in his lap.

Peter cracked first. "I'm sorry."

"Kid, you gotta stop with the apologies. I swear there's a quota and you've far exceeded it." He shook his head. "I should be apologizing. I know you well enough by now that you're not going to give up on this. Even if it means more doctor visits for me in the future."

"More apples?" he suggested weakly, trying to lift the mood.

It fell a little flat, but still Mr. Stark snorted. He sat up and clasped a firm hand to Peter's closest shoulder. He leaned in.

"Shut up, kid."

Peter Parker sucked in a deep breath and squinted out into the hazy dawn. The storm had finally broke, leaving wet muck, the smell of petrichor, and fog so thick it could be mistaken for a horror movie backdrop. Patricia's room had been marked off limits by the staff and the guests were left none-the-wiser. The waiters, attendants, and event coordinators had finally been informed of the situation, but weren't told more than that a crime had been committed on the hotel's premises. They were reassured by a nervous Mr. Åkesson that the police were on their way.

That had been hours ago.

Crossing his arms, Peter shifted his weight. The other guests were in their meetings--still unaware. Mr. Stark had been adamant that stay the case. Just as he had been that once the police arrived, he and Peter were leaving. It was for the best, Peter knew this, but it didn't stop him for feeling like this entire situation was his own fault. Would their killer have gone through with things if Peter and his continuously bad luck hadn't attended?

"You think a lot for someone so young."

Peter turned his head. Keith stepped out onto the lobby patio. He'd gotten changed since the last time Peter saw him. He looked ready to leave too.

"Hey," Peter croaked. "Anything?"

Keith shook his head. He and Mr. Stark had been working with Mr. Åkesson to check with their other suspects. All of his hard work before the second murder had essentially fallen apart. Everyone had alibis for the time of the second murder. Which meant they were back at square one.

Peter hummed, disappointed. There were so many guests in the hotel. And everyone had had free reign of the place during dinner. It was a lot harder to narrow down new suspects when there was no way to track any of them. Even FRIDAY with all her advanced tech couldn't help with what she couldn't see.

The older man stood beside him. He slipped his hands into his pockets and looked out, trying to see what it was Peter was so intent on. Not that Peter was looking for anything in particular. In all honesty his guilt was eating him up and he was trying valiantly to empty his mind of any further thoughts. Especially with no progress to encourage him.

"May I ask a question?"

Peter liked Keith. He smiled a little at his politeness. "Sure."

"How did you find out it could be any of us?"

The teen tilted back onto his heels. He looked down as he explained what he and Mr. Stark had done. The phone call, the convenience of the opening ceremony, the name tags he'd snatched from the two women.

"He called you?"

"Ah. Yeah, guess I never mentioned that."

Keith frowned, concerned, "How did he get your number?"

And it was like the whole world just stopped. For two geniuses…that was the one question they had never asked. His arms dropped to his sides, numb. A gaping hole opened in Peter's gut--could we have caught him sooner if we had?

"We never--we never asked…" he whispered. He looked at Keith in horror, mouth open to apologize. Keith's brow bunched in worry. Then something passed over his face. Like a dawning realization. Peter stepped forward, "What? Keith? What is it? Did you--hey! Wait!"

The other man ignored him, turning away and going back into the hotel. He pointed a stern finger at Peter, "Stay there. I'll be right back."

"Keith!" Huffing, he followed regardless. Only to be stopped once he passed out of the dining room by Mr. Stark.

"Hey, kid. You packed?"

Displeasure pulled at Peter's face. Mr. Stark noticed quickly, eyebrows raised. "Did you see Keith?" he asked instead.

"Yeah. Think he was headed to his room. Hey, wait, stop." Mr. Stark pressed the back of his hand against Peter's shoulder, effectively grinding him to a halt. If he bulldozed forward, he would snap the other hero's wrist with how delicately he held the touch. "Last time I ask, have you packed?"

"I have not," he grounded out.

Mr. Stark's expression cooled. Stubbornly they stared at one another. Peter squirmed first, mostly because he needed to see what had Keith moving away so quickly than any sense of guilt. For once, he felt justified in disobeying his mentor. "I'll go now," he lied.

"Good." Mr. Stark dropped his arm. "Be back in twenty. The chief just called. They'll be here soon."

Schooling his expression, Peter fought to not let his frustration show. He nodded once and headed off in the direction of the elevators. He glanced over his shoulder a few times as he waited. Mr. Stark was still standing where he'd left him, watching to see if he did as he said. Peter had never thought he would ever actually be annoyed with Mr. Stark.

But here he was.

Peter hit the button for his floor. As soon the doors began to part on his floor, he slipped through the opening and dashed for the stairwell. His heart was pounding and not he figured from his run. Whatever had spooked Keith was scaring Peter too. There must have been some clue in what Peter had said. Something that alerted the older man to someone they hadn't guessed before. Or someone they did? The kid? The Faulkners?

Mr. Åkesson?

Peter's hand cracked against the stairwell wall. The drywall crumbled, dusting him. He hardly noticed.

Because they never questioned the staff.

Peter bit his lip. No. There was no way. Why would any of them take any interest in Peter? Enough to actually look his number up from the hotel records? But why would any of the others? If anyone should have been contacted it was Mr. Stark.

"What am I missing?" he gasped. He tripped over the metal strip as he finally tumbled onto Keith's floor. With all the guests at the lecture, the hall was eerily silent. Peter slowed to a walk, cautiously moving past the empty rooms. His senses were screaming in the back of his mind. He kept his eyes moving going from door to door for even the slightest movement.

Everything dialed to eleven, he could hear the whine of someone's television set--on but not playing anything. A seemingly forgotten window was left open in another and the soft fluttering of the curtains had his heart thundering against his ribs. Up ahead he could clearly hear the sound of someone dialing a number.

A dull thud. A sigh. Shuffling feet.

Peter moved closer toward room 539.

His phone rang.

He slapped a hand against the device through the material of his pants. There was a crunch as it broke under the force. There was a continued silence from the room. Peter shivered. Agonizingly slow, he reached for the doorknob. It was unlocked and he carefully opened it to reveal not Keith's room, but Doyle's.

Mr. Stark's old MIT friend was gone. But Keith was there, spread-eagle on the floor. Peter didn't need to get any closer to know the man was dead. Anger and pity swirled through his stomach, prickling under his skin. So upset, he didn't notice the quiet sniffles until he'd stepped fully into the room. He turned around.

Elias was tucked against the other side of the door. A bloody knife was gripped in a trembling fist. He glanced up at Peter through his lashes with the most pitiful look on his face.

Peter had no sympathy for him. Not anymore.

"What did you do?"

"I didn't mean to," he said in fluent English. He shivered head to toe. His voice warbled like a child's. "He was going to tell on me. He was going to tell you."

"Why me?" he wanted to shout. It came out more like a plea.

He lowered his knife. "You were nice to me," he said simply.

Peter didn't know what face he made, but it hurt. "So you repay me by killing? How does that make any sense?!" Elias looked away. There was something so fragile about him. It was such a contradiction to his actions that Peter's head swam. "You have to turn yourself in."

And like a switch had been flipped, Peter could suddenly see the side of the man that would cause him to do such unspeakable things. His eyes cooled, his spine straightened. He frowned in that severe way only truly disappointed people did. "He told me the same thing. But I can't." Tears began pooling in his eyes again, like just the thought of prison would undo him, "I can't go to prison."

"You killed three people!"

Elias grew firmer. The base of Peter's skull buzzed with that same feeling he associated with his senses. His eyes flickered to the tightening grip the man had on his knife. "I didn't have to do that. They made me."

Indignation burst in Peter's chest like a pop rocket. His lips twisted in a snarl, "You're blaming them now?"

"I wouldn't have had to do it if Mrs. Burglund hadn't threatened to fire me. And that lady--she wasn't nice. And he--"

"What kind of motivation is that??!"

Peter knew it was coming. He'd riled him up--the boy who'd been nice to him, shattering whatever delusion he had of what Peter was to him. Elias moved toward his face, the knife brandished. Peter leaned back. His eyes tracked the blade as it whizzed by his nose. "Did you think," he barely choked out through his anger, "I was going to actually agree with any of this? Did you think I was going to help you hide the body? Is that why you called me that night?"

Elias growled. He made another swipe for Peter, but the young hero shuffled back and he missed again. "I thought you would understand!"

Peter almost laughed. But he was too focused on his anger to grace that statement with a verbal answer. As Elias drew his arm back for another stab, Peter looked back at Keith's prone body. He thought of the man who admitted just this morning that he was going to return to his family. Try to mend what had been broken. Make a better life for--if not his wife--then his kids.

He'd never get to do that now.

The murderer shouted when Peter struck first, gripping his wrist and halting the knife's forward momentum. Like a fire had been ignited deep inside him, Peter glared at the man with as much hatred as he could muster. He twisted his free wrist, dislodging his webshooter. He snatched it from the air as it fell and crushed it between his fingers.

A mouth of metal, Mr. Stark had threatened.

Vehement--for all three victims and for Peter who had had no say in any of the events that followed a simple 'hello'--Peter shoved the broken metal at the man. He twisted his eyes shut not wanting to see what may follow. He felt the shudder up his arm as he slammed his clenched fist against Elias' mouth. The killer's jaw popped. His front teeth bent like cardboard.

Elias' muffled screams didn't comfort Peter in the least.

Mr. Stark found him minutes later. One dead body, one unconscious murderer. And Peter--shell-shocked and curled up by the dresser.

Chapter Text