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Since his first semester at MIT started, Peter’s heard countless horror stories from friends and classmates about roommates who leave globs of hair in the drains, have loud kinky sex with their partners in the bunk above them, or get into impassioned arguments over who ate whose food. According to May, her former roommate liked to run the cat litter scoop through the dishwasher to clean it—a contributing factor to why Peter’s aunt is firmly a dog person these days. MJ’s already on her second roommate. The first had a mental breakdown during week three of classes and lit thirty-six tea candles in their dorm, trying to summon a demon and getting the Berkeley fire department instead.
Ned mentioned over a Zoom call that he’d never been more glad of his decision to attend community college than when he learned his cousin’s roommate passive-aggressively baked her a laxative-laced cake to “celebrate” the end of finals (as payback for the worm-riddled puppy said cousin had brought home one day without warning).
So, as far as roommates go, Peter thinks he lucked out.
Martin is pretty cool. He’s nineteen, good natured, laid back—an urban studies & planning major from central Detroit with a rich online gaming life. He usually picks up after himself, makes sure to text a warning to Peter when he and his girlfriend will be using the room for ‘extracurricular activities,’ and lets Peter borrow his Xbox pretty much whenever he wants. Working a strange part-time schedule himself, Martin doesn’t bat an eye at the odd hours Peter keeps with his secret Boston vigilante activities. Once, he even cleaned the bathroom, totally unprompted.
The two of them aren’t close or anything—they don’t share any classes and typically only interact with each other a few hours per week when their schedules happen to overlap—but they usually try to be considerate of each other, which is more than can be said for many.
Martin’s a good egg.
X
Having just wolfed down his gourmet dinner of instant mac & cheese, two packets of fruit snacks, and a beef jerky stick, Peter grabs his patrol backpack out from under his bed.
“Headed out?” Martin asks without taking his eyes off the game he’s been playing all afternoon.
“Yeah, got a shift tonight,” Peter replies, which isn’t exactly a lie. As far as his roommate is concerned, Peter works as a local security guard four nights a week. He just never clarified that his security isn’t exactly… authorized. “You’re not going to that Delta-Kappa-Whatever party?”
“Might go later.” Martin shrugs. “I got this killer sinus headache thing. Allergies or something.” He rubs a hand at his temples, eyes still glued to the screen. “I swear, I can barely even see straight.”
Peter snorts. “You sure that’s not just from all the Assassin's Creed?”
“Fuck off, Parker,” Martin laughs, but there’s no heat to it. “You don’t get to play mom unless you’re making me chicken soup.”
Peter smirks. “I can boil you a ramen?”
Martin flips him off, grinning. “Get out of here, man.”
X
Patrolling in Boston is different from patrolling in Queens. For one, less skyscrapers. Peter can still get a good swing going between buildings, but he misses the rush of flying through the air hundreds of feet off the ground or sitting on top of a high rise with his feet dangling over the edge.
Then of course, there are less people, and by extension, less crime. Sure, there are muggings and robberies and carjackings in Boston too, but things aren’t as concentrated here. He has significantly more downtime between bursts of activity, which he wouldn’t mind so much if the hot dogs from the vendor carts here tasted as good as they did in Queens. Must be the water.
Tonight, Peter’s having a particularly slow patrol. It mostly consists of perching on various parking garage rooftops and waiting for Karen to alert him to any citizens who might need saving. After three hours, all he’s accomplished is petting two dogs, adding an extra quarter to someone’s expired parking meter, and helping a drunk sorority girl find her lost cell phone (which turned out to be in her other pocket all along).
“Alright, that’s enough for tonight, Karen,” Peter says. He shoots a web and starts swinging back in the direction of the alley where he stashed his street clothes.
“Would you like me to send a report of tonight’s activities to Mr. Stark for you?” she asks.
Peter heaves out a sigh. One of the stipulations Tony and May put in place for him to be able to continue Spider-Manning in a new city was that he check in every night at the end of patrol. “If you must,” he mutters. “But see if you can up my badass factor, alright?” He drops down into the alley and retrieves his backpack. “Maybe toss in some mob boss I single-handedly took down. Or, like, a baby I saved from an apartment fire. Something like that.”
“My programming prohibits me from lying, but I will be sure to inform Mr. Stark of the local business you supported earlier by purchasing that overpriced gyro,” she says helpfully.
Peter rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Karen.”
He sheds his suit and quickly pulls on his hoodie and jeans, stuffing all evidence of his alter ego in his backpack. That’s the silver lining of Boston’s slightly lower crime rate—less replacement backpacks. He fishes his phone out and glances at the screen. There are seven texts from Martin:
9:37 p.m: Hey man I’m out of advil. Can you pick me up some on your way home? I’ll venmo you
9:38 p.m: Or like sudafed or some shit
9:38 p.m: Nyquil?
9:38 p.m: Whatever the fuck people take when their head is exploding
9:39 p.m: The end is nigh, Parker
9:39 p.m: Tell my mother I love her
...
9:44 p.m: Ooh and get some Cheez-Its too. I sent you $15. Thanks bro
Shaking his head slowly side to side at his roommate’s theatrics, Peter pockets the phone and starts heading back in the direction of campus.
X
It’s half-past ten by the time Peter reenters the dorm, a plastic shopping bag containing the requested items in tow. He pauses in the doorway for just a moment when he feels a sudden shiver race up the back of his neck, the familiar low buzz of danger. But nothing looks amiss—everything on his side of the room just as he left it, and Martin is still slumped on the bean bag in front of the TV.
Peter huffs out a laugh at the scene as he mentally pushes the buzz down, kicking off his shoes and locking the door behind him. He’s probably just tired, he thinks to himself as he sets the plastic bag down on Martin’s desk. “Still at it, even with your death headache, huh?” he chuckles as he sheds his backpack and tosses it onto his mattress. “How many cultists did you track down?”
His roommate doesn’t reply—just continues staring straight ahead with somewhat glazed-over eyes. Peter wouldn’t think much of it except that he notices the game controller, held loosely in Martin’s left hand, has slid half-way off his leg.
Frowning, Peter moves a few steps closer, now registering the sweat stains on Martin’s gray t-shirt. His skin has taken on an ashen tone, and there’s a small trail of drool dribbling down the corner of his mouth. “Hey. You good, man?” he ventures.
Martin groans something unintelligible, and Peter’s concern deepens. This is a far cry from his jokingly dramatic demeanor earlier. Must be some headache.
Ignoring another low buzz racing up his spine, Peter lowers his voice and tries again. “I got the meds for you. Do you want water for them, or…?”
Rather than answering, Martin’s eyelids droop and his head lolls to the side. For a second, Peter thinks he’s fallen asleep, but then Martin lets out another small groan, which morphs into a weak gag. Peter’s eyes go wide as vomit begins to spill out of the side of Martin’s mouth and down the front of his shirt.
“Oh shit!” Peter yelps in surprise. He grabs the trash can from beside his desk and tries to nudge it into Martin’s hands, but the boy makes no effort whatsoever to take it from him. He gags again, so Peter, grimacing, places his hand behind Martin’s head to try to steer it towards the bin.
“Hey, hey, c’mon man, you gotta work with me,” he implores as Martin slumps forward bonelessly. Alarmed, Peter drops the trash can and loops an arm around Martin’s back, holding him upright.
“Dude, you’re really freaking me out,” Peter admits worriedly. “You need to say something, okay? Tell me what’s going on.”
But he doesn’t. For the next minute or so, Peter tries desperately to get a response from him—calling his name, tapping his cheek, shaking him, pinching him—all to no avail. Then Martin starts to vomit again, and Peter panics. He uses his strength to basically manhandle Martin’s limp body off the bean bag and down onto his side on the floor. What had been the low buzz at the back of his brain is now screeching at him danger, danger, danger.
He checks Martin’s pulse, going still with panic when there’s nothing, only to let out a relieved breath at the weak tha-thump he finally feels against his fingers.
But the beat is far too slow, and Peter realizes with a piercing clarity that whatever is wrong with Martin, it’s gone beyond his ability to fix. His roommate is not just ‘sick’ anymore—he’s actively dying on their forty-five dollar clearance IKEA rug.
“Focus, Peter. Think,” he snaps at himself as he looks his roommate up and down, trying to assess the next steps. Hospital, he decides.
“Okay, just hang on man, I’m gonna get you help,” Peter promises. His hand fumbles for his pocket to pull out his phone, only to have his breath catch in his throat upon seeing the lockscreen. There are four new missed texts from Martin:
10:03 p.m: Never mind
...
10:11 p.m: I fddel really bad
10:12 p.m: Thnnk somethings wrong wuth me
10:13 p.m: are yiu coming hhome
A surge of guilt climbs up Peter’s throat. Martin had already reached out for help—had reached out to him—and he hadn’t even realized. If only he’d checked his messages, gotten home sooner, hadn’t wasted those few precious minutes browsing the seasonal clearance aisle of Walgreens...
Martin’s neck jerks suddenly to the side, reverting Peter’s attention back to him. “Martin?” he calls. “Hey, are you with me?”
The boy’s eyes are open now, pupils shrunk to pin points. Peter watches as his mouth opens and closes like a fish, over and over between gasping breaths. Then his eyes roll back and his whole body goes rigid.
Peter’s only ever seen seizures on TV before, and as Martin’s muscles start to twitch and jerk rhythmically on the ground, he wishes desperately that it had stayed that way. “Martin! Martin, just hang on, okay? Just hang on,” he begs, barely holding it together as he dials 9-1-1.
Please, just hang on.
X
Peter sits at his desk, staring down at his phone and wondering who, if anyone, to call.
It’s been almost half an hour now since EMS flooded into his dorm. By that point, Martin was on his second seizure and his lips had taken on a horrible bluish tinge, and Peter couldn’t remember the last time he felt so utterly helpless. As soon as the paramedics took over, Peter was taken out into the hallway by the RA and a campus police officer—the latter of whom took a brief statement from him, while the former offered to buy Peter a soda from the vending machine in an effort to ease his shaking.
She didn’t get the chance, however, as a second later, the EMTs were rushing Martin out of the room and past them on a stretcher, his body seizing once more against the restraints as the medics pumped air into his lungs and barked out information to each other about his dropping vitals.
Both the police and RA departed soon after, and Peter was left standing there in the hall, wringing his hands as his mind replayed the events of the evening over and over again, shaking his head wordlessly at every student who popped out of their room to see what all the commotion was about. It just didn’t seem appropriate to try to explain what had happened to others when he could barely wrap his mind around it himself.
But now, back in his room alone, a wave of nausea passes over him at the thought that Martin might never be okay, that Martin could– he could–
Peter’s thumb presses the call button of the contact he’d last selected. He closes his eyes when the person picks up on the second ring.
“Hey tiger,” MJ greets smoothly. There’s a beat of silence, then, “Not that I’m not happy to hear from you, but isn’t it a little late on the east coast? Don’t tell me you waited until now to study for that physics test you were complaining about.”
Peter lets out a shaky breath as he runs a trembling hand through his hair, and MJ’s tone changes to worry. “Peter? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
“No, no, I’m totally fine, I promise,” he assures her quickly. “It’s not me, it’s… it’s Martin.”
“Martin? Your roommate?” MJ asks, sounding confused. “What’s wrong with him?”
The words all come tumbling out at once. “He was sick but not like, that sick – or I thought he wasn’t – but later he was texting me, and it was normal, I swear, but then when I got back he was – and I just –” He exhales shakily. “God, it– it was really bad, MJ. I think he could– he might–”
He cuts himself off again, not wanting to so much as whisper the idea that Martin could die, irrationally afraid in that moment of speaking it into existence.
“I’m right here, Peter,” MJ says calmly. He forces himself to take a deep breath, letting the familiar tone of her voice soothe his frayed nerves. “Now, start from the beginning. What happened?”
Over the next fifteen minutes, Peter tells her everything, from Martin’s “sinus headache,” to the texts, to arriving home to find his roommate unresponsive and vomiting and calling 9-1-1, only to watch Martin be rushed past him into an ambulance, looking more dead than alive.
“I never should have gone out tonight,” Peter says guiltily. “Patrol was useless anyway and I knew he was sick when I left, but it just– it just seemed like no big deal, you know? But I’m looking at his texts now, and–” He inhales shakily, scrolling through the now-ominous messages on his phone. “My own roommate literally told me that he was dying, and I did nothing! Like I’m out there, swinging around like some kind of spandex-clad idiot, looking for someone to save, while the one person who actually needed my help was–”
“Peter, I think you’re being way too–”
“–back in my dorm room dying and I just–”
“Peter, stop,” MJ cuts him off firmly. “Listen to me for a sec, okay? You are reading way too much into this. This isn’t your fault.”
“Yeah, but he said–”
“But nothing. Whatever else you may be, you are definitely not a mind reader,” MJ says pointedly. “And anyway, people say dramatic stuff all the time. Didn’t you tell me that Tony literally updated his will the last time he had the flu?”
Peter groans. “Yeah, but, that’s Mr. Stark,” he argues. “He’s different.”
MJ scoffs a bit in amusement. “Oh yeah? Remember last month when you ate that sketchy bodega sushi?” she asks, causing him to grimace at the recollection. “Pretty sure you sent me like four texts saying you were dying that night. Should I have taken all those seriously?”
Peter hesitates for a long moment. “I guess not,” he says at last, then lets out a deep sigh. “It just sucks.”
MJ’s voice softens. “Yeah. It does,” she agrees. There’s a beat of silence between them before she adds, “I know you’re going to argue, but I think you should call Tony. ‘Cause you know he’d have a jet there for you in like, two-point-five seconds to take you back to May’s. Tomorrow’s Friday—you could stay the weekend.”
“I dunno,” Peter sighs, feeling conflicted. “I have my test in the afternoon…”
“I’m pretty sure my roommate almost died in front of me qualifies as a valid excuse to take it late,” MJ interjects. “You won’t even need a note. And like I said, it’s not like Tony would mind.”
It’s certainly a tempting thought. “You’re right, he wouldn’t mind,” he finally admits, “but I think I need to be here. Just like, in case the hospital calls or something. I don’t even know if they even can or not, since I’m not family or anything, but… yeah.”
“Okay,” MJ says after a beat, though it doesn’t really sound like she thinks it is. “If you’re sure.”
Before Peter can reply, there’s a loud knocking at the door.
“Hang on, someone’s here,” Peter says. He steps over, only to hear the clear sound of someone say ‘We’ve just arrived at the kid’s dorm, over,’ followed by the distinct sound of a radio beep. Frowning, he looks through the peephole and his suspicions are instantly confirmed.
“Looks like the cops are back,” he whispers into the phone.
Peter can hear the frown in her voice. “I thought you already gave them a statement?”
“Yeah, I thought–” Peter cuts himself off with a gasp, breathing out the next words all in one anxious breath, “Oh my god, do you think they’re here because Martin is– Like that he…? Oh god, I gotta go!”
“Wait, Peter–”
“I’ll call you back later, I promise,” he says quickly, ending the call before she can reply.
X
Peter opens the door to see two uniformed officers—Boston PD this time, not the campus security. One is middle-aged and balding, with a name badge reading G. Johnson, while the other, D. Slezak, looks younger and has a dark goatee. Their jaws are set and there’s a hardness to their eyes, which does nothing to quell Peter’s growing sense of dread.
“Mr. Parker,” Johnson greets him with a nod. “May we come in?”
“Yeah. Yeah of course,” Peter rambles, stepping aside to allow the two men to enter. “What’s going on? Did you hear anything from the hospital? Because I called and they won’t tell me anything…”
Johnson shakes his head. “All I am at liberty to say is that Mr. Campbell’s condition remains critical,” he says gravely. “Which is why my partner and I would like to investigate further—see if we can determine the cause of tonight’s incident.”
“What do you mean?” Peter’s brow furrows. “Didn’t he just have a seizure?”
The other cop, Slezak, clears his throat. “That’s what we’re trying to determine, Mr. Parker. According to the paramedics, your roommate’s symptoms are consistent with some type of opioid overdose.”
Peter’s frown deepens. “Overdose?” He shakes his head firmly. “But Martin doesn’t do drugs.” He’s never even seen Martin smoke weed—which is something he can’t say for many of the students in their neighboring dorms (though he isn’t about to mention that to the cops).
Both cops look skeptical. “It’s not the kind of thing he would necessarily advertise,” Slezak points out. “And we haven’t ruled out the possibility that this was intentional.”
Instantly Peter feels as though someone has sucked all the air out of his lungs. “You… You think he was trying to kill himself?” he stammers. Sure, he and his roommate weren’t best buds or anything, but if Martin was actively suicidal, that’s definitely something he should have noticed, right?
Although… now that he thinks about it, Martin had been staying in more frequently than he was in the beginning of the semester, and it’d been a couple weeks since Peter saw his girlfriend come around—were they even still together? And he knew his roommate’s bio grade had slipped recently, thanks to a rant he overheard Martin having with one of his friends over his Xbox headset one night about a particular ‘hardass professor’, but that hadn’t seemed like anything at the time. Just like the texts—none of this had seemed like anything at the time.
Slezak holds up a placating hand. “We’re not saying anything for certain. We’re just exploring all possible avenues.”
“Listen, kid,” Johnson says with a hard sigh, “I’m gonna be straight with you—your friend is in pretty rough shape, and without any information to go off of, the doctors are shooting blind. All we’re asking is to take a look around—make sure there’s nothing here we missed. Will you let us do that?”
“Uh…” Peter takes a breath, side-glancing back at his patrol backpack, which he’d haphazardly tossed onto the bed upon arriving home, and a fresh wave of nausea washes over him. His racing mind is telling him that the fact they’re even asking his permission must mean they don’t have a warrant; he could just refuse. But how is that going to look? Does he just say ‘ No, sorry, I’d rather let my roommate die than have you rifle through my belongings’? That’s only going to draw more suspicion on himself. And if Martin really did take something, then these moments he’s wasting could be the difference between whether or not his roommate makes it out alive.
Besides, the officer probably won’t think to check if there’s a false bottom, especially if the backpack isn’t even Martin’s. Best to just act natural and hope that Slezak doesn’t even bother with his side of the room.
Peter nods. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees, his throat thick. “Go ahead.”
The next few minutes are nerve-wracking, Peter’s danger sense buzzing constantly at him as Slezak pokes around the room. Meanwhile, Johnson pulls out a notebook and pen and goes on to ask him more questions about Martin’s behavior recently—changes in sleeping patterns, study habits, moods, and so on. Peter answers to the best of his ability, but it’s hard to keep focused when he’s so preoccupied by the fact that these officers could be mere seconds away from discovering they’re standing in Spider-Man’s dorm room.
Slezak is methodical, moving quickly and efficiently through the room, pulling open dresser drawers and checking under the mattresses. Peter’s breath catches and he honestly thinks he might throw up for a brief moment when the officer unzips his backpack and starts poking around the inside and pulling out the contents. The check lasts probably less than ten seconds in total, but feels like an eternity and Peter goes almost lightheaded with relief when Slezak finally tosses the bag back down, seemingly appeased.
“What’s this?” he asks, moving on to the plastic pharmacy bag on the floor.
“Just some medicine I got for him,” Peter replies. “He didn’t take any of it though—I just picked it up on the way home.”
Slezak checks the seals on each bottle, along with the time stamp on the receipt. Seeming satisfied, he sets the bag back down and moves on.
“You said he’s been sick, right?” Johnson goes on.
“Yeah, for the past couple days,” Peter confirms, guilt twisting his insides once again. “Said he had a really bad headache.”
“So he’s been taking painkillers?” Johnson presses. “Anything prescription? Oxy? Norco? That kind of thing?”
Peter shakes his head. “Just over the counter stuff. But he didn’t even have that tonight—he told me that he was out.”
“Any chance he borrowed yours?” Slezak interrupts.
Peter glances up to see the officer standing in front of his open desk drawer, holding up a small pill bottle with the word “PARKER” scrawled in permanent marker just above the peeling generic-brand ibuprofen label, and realization slams into Peter’s gut like a bullet train.
Because they’re not just any painkillers; they’re Peter’s painkillers. The ones Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner had spent months synthesizing in the lab specifically to work with his enhanced metabolism.
“H-How many are left?” he blurts, already dreading the answer. At the beginning of the school year, Tony had given him a fresh supply of twenty. Between all of his various Spider-Man-related injuries, a few homework-induced headaches, and the wicked cold he’d gotten a couple weeks ago, Peter knows he was down to his last two pills. If Martin took even one of them...
Eyeing him suspiciously, Slezak twists the cap off and flips the bottle upside down. To Peter’s absolute horror, nothing comes out.
The cop raises an eyebrow. “I take it this bottle wasn’t empty before, was it?”
Peter can only shake his head. He thinks he’s going to be sick. Did he just kill his roommate?
“Guess we have our answer then,” Johnson says gruffly. “I’ll go ahead and radio it in.”
“Wait, no!” Peter blurts. They’re obviously assuming this is some sort of over the counter drug overdose, but that doesn’t even scratch the surface of the trouble Martin is in. “It’s not– it’s not that.”
Both officers narrow their eyes at him. “What are you saying, kid?” Johnson asks.
“The pills. They–” The words stick in Peter’s throat. How on earth does he explain to two cops that his roommate accidentally took a probably lethal dose of custom-made superhero drugs? “They weren’t… normal.”
“Not normal how?” Slezak demands.
Peter’s head swims as he tries desperately to think of some way to get Martin help without revealing too much. “I–I can’t tell you exactly,” he says shakily. “But they’re strong. Really strong. He wasn’t supposed to–” He cuts himself off, pressing his fist to his lips as tears start to prick at his eyes. This is all his fault. Martin is going to die now, and it’s all Peter’s fault.
Johnson’s tone hardens. “Mr. Parker, now is the time to be honest with us. Your friend’s life is in jeopardy.”
“I– I–” Peter stammers. He wants to tell them— god, does he want to—but what on earth is he supposed to say? As far as he knows, the drug doesn’t even have a proper name.
Slezak’s jaw sets into a hard line. “Are you really not going to tell us what he took?”
But he can’t.
After a beat of silence, Johnson steps over to him. He places a heavy hand on Peter’s shoulder and sighs. “Alright, son. Why don’t you come on down to the station with us?”
X
Peter feels like he’s living a nightmare. He’d give anything to wake up and have this all been a horrible dream.
Upon arriving at the station, he is ushered back into a small dimly-lit room with a one-way mirror and told to have a seat at the metal table in the center. Johnson and Slezak proceed to drill him for another twenty minutes or so—Peter mostly just repeating the same responses he’d given them at the dorm—before both officers step out.
Alone in the room, Peter inhales shakily and props his elbows up on the table to rest his forehead on his palms, his mind going back to a day in mid-July just over a year ago. He was lying on a gurney in the compound’s Medbay following a multi-story fall on patrol, his right hip dislocated and the femur broken in two places, in so much pain he could barely see through the haze of tears. Dr. Banner had wanted to wait—said that the painkiller they’d spent the last three months formulating and testing in the lab was still too much of a gamble—but Tony was adamant it was ready; he’d do anything to ease his kid’s pain.
Peter agreed to risk it, so Bruce gave in and injected their creation straight into his IV line. Ten exceedingly tense minutes later, the drug managed to bring Peter’s pain level down from a high eight, to a low four, and Tony declared Project SDP —or, “Super Duper Pill,” as he jokingly dubbed it—a success, and he’s been supplying Peter with painkillers ever since.
So no, it’s not just possibly outing himself as Spider-Man that Peter has to worry about right now—if it was, he’d have blabbed the entire story straight through the radio to the doctors at the hospital at his first opportunity. It’s more than that. If he tells the truth now, he’ll be doing more than implicating himself in Martin’s overdose; he’ll also be implicating his mentor in the creation and manufacturing of an extremely powerful, extremely illicit drug, only to then hand the equivalent of probably twenty lethal doses (for an unenhanced person, anyway) over to a college kid to use at his discretion.
Peter knows that Tony had gotten out of plenty of drug charges when he was younger, but he’s pretty sure there would be no easy way to get out of killing a teenager with his own concoction, however indirectly. And then it’s not just Tony’s life on the line; he’ll also implicate Dr. Banner, and the repercussions could spill over into countless other lives as well—Dr. Cho, Happy, Pepper, Morgan. All because of him.
Not to mention, Martin might already be dead for all he knows—no one here will tell him anything, and not for Peter’s lack of asking. The thought of it twists the knot in his gut so tightly he can barely breathe.
Finally, the door opens and Peter looks up wearily to see a new face enter. This time it’s not Johnson or Slezak, but a new face—older, sterner. His badge reads Chief Keller, which only increases Peter’s anxiety. If they’re bringing in the big guns now, something must have happened.
As the chief settles into his seat, Peter repeats the one question he’s been asking all night: “Did you hear anything about Martin?”
“You know, I find it interesting how invested you are in your roommate’s wellbeing,” Keller drawls. “Given that you clearly know more than you’re letting on, yet you refuse to give us any information that might help him.”
“I told you, I don’t know much about the drug, but–”
“But you know where you got it, don’t you?” Keller presses. “And yet you refuse to tell us. You’re so concerned with protecting your drug dealer that you don’t give a shit about the comatose nineteen-year-old in the ICU with a tube down his throat!”
Peter’s throat grows tight and tears well up in his eyes. He does care. He cares so fucking much that he feels like he could pull his own hair out in frustration. A panic attack is building, his brain going into overdrive as he desperately tries to think of anything to say that could help Martin without throwing Tony and Bruce under the bus.
“I – all I know is that you’re supposed to take it in really small doses, if– if you’re normal,” he finally spits out, Keller’s eyes narrowing.
“What do you mean, normal?”
Peter licks his lips, the gears in his brain turning rapidly. If he can just keep Tony and Spider-Man out of this, maybe he has a chance.
“Normal, like—not enhanced,” he says. “They—they’re made for enhanced people. Like, mutants, you know?”
“Enhanced in what way?”
Just play dumb, Peter. You’re just a stupid kid who got his hands on some street drugs, that’s all.
“I–I don’t know, but, uh– if I had to guess, maybe like, a really fast metabolism?” he stammers. “‘Cause then normal drugs would wear off too fast, so they’d need something stronger for the p– to get high.” He nods emphatically. “Yeah, yeah probably that reason.”
Keller says nothing, considering him for a moment. Peter forces himself to meet the man’s gaze and tries to keep his expression as blank and unassuming as possible. Whatever the man sees there must be enough, because he’s a bit calmer when he says, “So before you said all you knew was that it was a painkiller and it was really strong. But now it turns out you also happen to know it was crafted specifically for enhanced people.” He pauses, eyes sharp. “Sounds to me like you know a hell of a lot more than you’re telling me, kid. Perhaps you’re hiding a bigger secret than just where you got it, eh?”
Peter goes still, biting the inside of his cheek until he draws blood. His heart is galloping in his chest, and he distantly wonders if Keller can hear it too. Does the man suspect he’s Spider-Man? Or – or did he figure it out? Or, god – what if the other officers already went back to the dorm and searched his things again? What if they already found the suit?
Maybe the man has known the truth ever since he came back in here, and this whole thing has just been to toy with Peter—to see how much he’d fess up to before they read him his rights and locked him up for good. It’s what he’d deserve, isn’t it? For probably killing his roommate?
Peter closes his eyes, trying and failing to control his breaths. God, he can’t do this. He was never a great liar to begin with. Even if they don’t already know, they’re going to figure it out eventually. So wouldn’t it be better just to come clean now, when Martin might still have a chance at surviving this?
I tried, Mr. Stark, Peter thinks. I’m sorry.
He opens his eyes, sees Keller still staring at him—only this time with a smirk on his face. It’s clear he can tell Peter is about to confess.
Peter takes a deep breath. “The – the truth is… the truth is that I’m–”
Just then Peter hears a muffled commotion in the main hall of the precinct.
Frowning, Keller gets to his feet and moves toward the door. “Sit tight, kid,” he orders Peter, swinging it open.
“Sir! Sir, you can’t be back here –” the secretary is frantically arguing.
"Chief Keller! Long time, no see,” an unmistakably familiar voice calls, and Peter whirls around in his chair, suddenly wondering whether extreme stress can cause hallucinations when he sees Tony Stark himself strutting through the station.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” his mentor goes on. “I do miss the wood paneling, though the tile color is definitely an improvement.”
The very unamused-looking police chief rolls his eyes. "God, I thought I was done with you in 1987...”
“That painting in the lobby, however, is hideous,” Tony says, ignoring the man’s grumble. “Was that our tax dollars at work? Because that should be criminal.” His gaze shifts to a particular officer sitting at a desk just outside, her mouth agape. “Ruiz!” Tony grins and shoots her a thumbs-up. “You made sergeant after all!”
Without taking her eyes off of him, Ruiz quickly touches her forehead, chest, and each shoulder, her lips moving silently.
Strolling past several other dumbfounded-looking officers, Tony comes to a stop in the interrogation room doorway.
“Hey Pete,” he greets with a casual smile—as though this was just a normal, everyday visit—before turning to Keller and announcing, “I’ll be taking him home now.”
The police chief crosses his arms. “We’re in the middle of an investigation, Stark, and this kid here has answers.”
“This kid here has rights,” Tony replies, his laidback grin disappearing as he pulls off his trademark sunglasses and pins Keller with a glare, “which include refusing to submit to police questioning. Tell me, did your officers inform him he has the right to leave at any time? To remain silent?”
When Keller doesn’t reply, Tony says, “That’s what I thought.”
“His name was on the pill bottle!” Keller blurts in obvious frustration. “He practically confessed!”
“You mean the empty Advil bottle?” Tony fixes the man with a piercing stare. “Look, let’s cut the crap here, Chief. We both know that if you had any actual evidence of his involvement—aside from some panicked remarks he may or may not have made while under duress—he’d be charged by now. So unless you’re about to throw him in handcuffs and sing him his Miranda warnings, we’re leaving.” He looks over at Peter, expression softening as he motions for him to stand up. “C’mon, kid.”
Peter stumbles to his feet, walking past the fuming chief and over to Tony, who immediately puts an arm around his shoulders and starts to guide him out.
“Your friend will die if you don’t tell the truth, Mr. Parker!” Keller yells after them. “You really want that on your conscience?”
“Don’t answer him, Pete,” Tony says in his ear.
“Mr. Stark–”
“Not til we’re in the car.”
Peter stays silent, staring down at the ground as Tony leads him through the station, not wanting to see the accusatory looks he feels certain are on all the officers’ faces.
“Have a good night, Sergeant,” Tony says as they pass by Ruiz, the woman grunting disdainfully in response.
It’s not until he’s sitting in the passenger seat of Tony’s rental that he finally lets out a breath, only to explode the moment his mentor climbs in and closes his door.
“Mr. Stark! You have to–”
“It’s already taken care of,” Tony interrupts, backing out of the parking space and driving out onto the road. “Bruce and Helen are both in contact with the hospital. They’re attending to Martin as we speak.”
“But– But how?” Peter sputters. “Won’t that just get them in trouble too?”
Tony raises an eyebrow at him. “What, you seriously thought I’ve been letting my mutant kid fight crime a four-hour drive from the Avengers medical facilities without making sure I have some inside contacts at the local ER? I got three of those doctors jobs myself. They won’t question it.”
Peter’s mind is still racing. “But the police have the pill bottle, they could still analyze any residue, and–”
“Relax, kid. Nat’s taking care of it.”
Peter sighs in relief, only for his brow to furrow a second later. “How did you even know what was happening?”
“Michelle called me after you didn’t get back to her,” Tony explains smoothly. “I had FRIDAY do a little digging and then I pieced the rest together during the flight over.”
Peter wonders idly how much of that ‘digging’ was through strictly legal channels, but he also doesn’t really care at the moment. The adrenaline and shock that have been buzzing through his system all night are finally receding, but the cold dread that’s replacing them is almost worse.
Lowering his gaze to his lap, Peter exhales a shaky breath. “Is Martin gonna be okay?” he whispers.
Tony’s almost-smug expression softens. “We think so,” he says gently. “According to the docs, it was touch and go for a while, but Bruce says he’s responding well to the treatments now. He’ll probably feel like shit for the next couple days, but he’ll live.”
“God…” Peter breathes, running a hand through his hair. And then just like that, all of the pent up emotion that he’s been holding for the past few hours comes spilling out. His throat tightens and his breath hitches before a choked sob escapes his lips.
Tony sighs quietly, taking one hand off the wheel to rest it heavily on Peter’s shoulder. “He’s gonna be okay, Pete,” he whispers, giving his arm a squeeze. “We’ll be at the hospital soon—you can see for yourself.”
Peter shakes his head, scrubbing roughly at his eyes with his palms. His head is aching—a throbbing spot settling around his left eye. “They won’t let me in,” he says. “I called already. They said only family.”
“We’ll say you’re brothers.”
Despite Peter’s state, a short, empty laugh slips out. “We look nothing alike, Mr. Stark.”
“So we say you’re adopted,” Tony amends with a little shrug. “Always worked for me and Rhodey back in the day.” He pauses a beat, looking thoughtful. “Well, that and I think the nurses were just glad someone showed up to collect the mouthy seventeen-year-old threatening to sue half the hospital.”
With a little huff, Peter leans back against the car’s headrest. “Lots of fond memories in Boston, huh?”
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it, kid. Which brings me to my next point–” Tony turns onto a side street. “First rule of illegal substances: don’t write your name on the fucking bottle.”
Peter groans. “Yeah, no shit.”
“Second”—Tony changes lanes—“We clearly have to come up with a better storage solution for your super drugs than a childproof cap. I’m thinking retinal scanners. Maybe some fingerprint locks...”
As Tony continues to drive, prattling on about all the possible security protocols for locking up his painkillers, Peter tilts his head back, rubbing at his left eye again—the throbbing there getting steadily worse.
Tony pauses, having caught the movement this time. “You alright, Pete?”
“Headache,” Peter mutters as he leans sideways, pressing his forehead into the cool glass of his window. The action grants him barely a moment of relief before the pain is back in earnest, and after a few seconds he adds, “Prob’ly getting a migraine, but there’s nothing for it without my pills.”
Tony doesn’t respond, Peter keeping his eyes firmly closed as he tries not to wince from the brightness of every streetlight they drive under.
The sudden sound of loud rattling makes him jump, eyes going wide as he realizes it’s coming from within a small container Tony is holding out not two inches from his nose.
“Here.”
“What the…” Peter trails off, taking the container in hand and noticing the label. “Um, not to be rude, but… how are Tic Tacs going to help?”
“Not Tic Tacs—Tic Tac,” Tony emphasizes sternly. “Singular. Unless you wanna end up in the bed next to Martin.”
Peter blinks at him. “Wait, are these my–” He cuts himself off, looking closer at the clear box. The little white mints inside are slightly bigger than normal. “But… weren’t you just saying… ?”
“We’ll design a better system tomorrow,” Tony says with a sigh. “These are just some emergency backups because I knew you were out. And anyway, nobody’s going to steal the mint flavor. Now if these were the orange ones, or—god forbid—Fruit Adventure, then we’d have a problem.”
If Peter’s head wasn’t killing him, he’d probably point out the clear hypocrisy, but as things are he just rolls his eyes and grabs at the little plastic box, taking out a lone pill and swallowing it without comment.
His quick metabolism takes over from there, and within a couple of minutes he’s already feeling better, the pain not entirely gone but definitely more manageable.
Just then Tony’s cell phone pings. He glances briefly at the screen before setting it back down and grinning at Peter. “That was Helen. She says Martin woke up briefly and was able to complete a simple cognitive assessment. They think he’s through the worst of it now.”
“Thank god,” Peter breathes out. Not even seeing Tony swagger into the police station earlier could compare to the relief coursing through him at hearing that his roommate is going to be okay.
Only once the good news about Martin has truly sunk in does Peter notice just how exhausted he is from the events of the night, his head starting to bob as he fights to stay awake. But it’s a losing battle, Peter’s head falling back as his eyelids droop lower and lower with each blink.
“Get some rest,” Tony says softly, momentarily breaking through the growing fog in his mind. “We won’t be to the hospital for a little while yet. I’ll wake you up then.”
Peter hums a bit in appreciation. “Thanks, Mr. Stark,” he whispers.
The last thing he is aware of before drifting off is a hand gently brushing his curls back—a soft, fond voice murmuring, “Anytime, Pete.”