Work Text:
This was not the first time Peter had attended an Event.
“Event” with a capital “E”. With a black-tie dress code, a fancy venue, and more complimentary caviar blinis than you could shake a stick at.
He’d been to an Event before. At the beginning of the summer, Mr. Stark had invited him to a gala promoting the September foundation and the discoveries made under its funding. The whole affair had been kinda stressful, but Peter had enjoyed himself. Turned out caviar tasted pretty good.
Tonight was, however, his first time attending an Event as Spider-Man.
Last time he’d just been Peter Parker. No-one had really cared about him beyond the fact that he had sat next to Mr. Stark for the sit-down dinner.
Tonight he anticipated that he would attract a lot more attention. This was Spider-Man’s first public appearance outside of patrols… ever. He hadn’t even attended the press conference that announced him as an official associate of the Avengers, due to apparently not being “media-trained”.
It was his first time officially donning the suit just to… be Spider-Man. Not to patrol, or fight crime—just to make an appearance as Spider-Man. To say he was nervous was an understatement.
At least it was for a good cause. It was a charity fundraiser for victims of the battle of New York and their families—a yearly event that apparently most of the Avengers had attended at least once. When Peter had pointed out that he didn’t have money to donate or to bid for things in an auction, Mr. Stark had shaken his head. Spider-Man had been invited to raise awareness amongst younger adults, apparently, which would hopefully lead to a rise in donations from that demographic.
“So does that make Spider-Man an influencer?” Peter had mused.
Mr. Stark had grimaced. “No. Definitely not. Don’t even think about it.”
“I should be an influencer,” Peter decided. “Influencers get sent so much free stuff! I should make a Spider-Man Instagram—”
“Kid, you’re literally talking to a billionaire. You don’t need companies to send you free stuff.”
He’d made the Instagram anyway.
Still, Peter wasn’t quite sure how he felt about an event where there would be that much attention on him. Was he excited? Terrified?
As their limousine slowly rolled up to the entrance, fashionably late as per Mr. Stark’s instructions, Peter was very much leaning towards the latter.
There were fans gathered outside the venue. “Uh, Mr. Stark?”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Mr. Stark, coolly adjusting his cufflinks. “There are some big names here tonight. You don’t have to interact with the fans if you’re not comfortable.”
They finally pulled up, and there was a red carpet, photographers lining their route into the venue.
Peter’s voice pitched up. “Mr. Stark?”
“I know, kid. It’s not ideal. Here’s the game plan: don’t stop, just smile and wave and get your ass inside that building as fast as possible. Capiche?” Mr. Stark tilted his head. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter if you smile. Is there any way for Karen to make those big eyes of yours look a little more friendly?”
Peter tugged at his collar. He suddenly felt ridiculous, fully suited up. Twice over. He wore the Spider-Man suit under the tuxedo Mr. Stark had had specially tailored for him just for tonight. Thank God for the Spider-suit’s cooling system or he would have been slowly roasting.
Still, he couldn’t help but feel like he looked ludicrous. And now he was about to be photographed like this.
He tugged at his webshooters, the familiar tightness of them around his wrists calming him down just a little. He just hoped he wouldn’t be turned away for having what could be considered a weapon on his person.
“Okay,” said Peter. At least he had the mask on. Like Mr. Stark had said, no-one could see if he smiled or not—and they also couldn’t see if he was absolutely terrified. “Just smile and wave. Aye aye, Skipper.”
Their chauffeur climbed out and, after a quick word with the on-site security, opened the car door.
“After you,” said Mr. Stark.
Taking a deep breath, Peter climbed out of the car. As the mask came into view, screams erupted from the gathered fans, and camera flashes blinded him. The suit’s eyes automatically darkened, but the roar of noise and bright lights were kind of overwhelming.
He stumbled out of the way for Mr. Stark to climb out, dress shoes slipping on the red carpet. Oh, God. What if he fell over? His anxiety spiked and nausea rose in his throat. What if he threw up in the mask and choked? He’d have to either take off the mask and reveal his identity in front of everyone, or choke to death, and he honestly didn’t know which one he would choose. Which would make a more embarrassing headline?
Then Mr. Stark’s hand settled between his shoulder blades, grounding him. He began to guide Peter towards the doors.
Smile and wave, he remembered. Mr. Stark had said it was optional, but he was the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. He had a reputation to uphold.
Weakly, he offered a wave towards the fans, drawing even louder screams from them. Peter flinched and allowed Mr. Stark to drag him into the venue.
“I didn’t realize this event was such a big deal!” Peter squeaked once they were inside.
Mr. Stark patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry. That’s my fault. I forgot you weren’t used to this kind of thing.” He straightened Peter’s bowtie. “That’s the worst part over with. There’s a dinner and then there’ll be speeches. I’m giving one, so watch out for that, it’ll be a highlight. But for now? We mingle.”
Mingling turned out to be okay. Peter felt very conspicuous in the mask, and he or Mr. Stark had to keep politely refusing to answer personal questions aimed at him. But other than that, Peter enjoyed talking to various people from all walks of life, always with Mr. Stark at his side to extract them smoothly and professionally from the conversation if he sensed Peter was uncomfortable or bored.
Peter hadn’t remembered a single name, but that’s what Karen was for.
When people weren’t asking Peter invasive questions, he could almost enjoy himself. It was easy to slip into his confident, witty Spider-Man persona and, unlike the criminals who were normally treated to his humor, the guests at this party actually seemed to enjoy his jokes. They didn’t treat him like a child, either, even though it was public knowledge that Spider-Man was on the young side. They just saw a hero and respected him like an equal.
They sat down for dinner, the rest of the seats at their table filled by Stark Industries high-ups and investors Peter didn’t recognize. He felt a little bit out of place as they greeted one another, and he noticed various curious glances thrown his way. As if sensing Peter’s discomfort, Mr. Stark patted his shoulder.
“Great job out there today. Very charming. I knew you’d do great.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. And I think you’ve earned yourself a few influential new Spider-Fans.”
Mr. Stark’s comments left Peter buzzing.
The dinner was exquisite, the food so fancy that Peter felt unworthy to even look at it, let alone eat it. He didn’t know what half the ingredients even were, let alone which cutlery to use and when he could start to eat. Was it like the Queen of England where you had to wait for the most important person to start eating? Who even was the most important person here? Peter just followed whatever Mr. Stark did.
Mr. Stark had even strategically chosen their table so that Peter could pull his mask up to eat without feeling as though he were flashing the lower half of his face to the whole guest list.
It was after they’d finished the final course that Peter began to feel uncomfortable.
His Spidey-sense came online like a headache. He didn’t notice it at first, but once he had, he couldn’t ignore it.
The charity president was giving a speech, but Peter ignored him in favor of scanning the grand ballroom. It was a stunning room, with huge marble pillars and giant windows over a gallery level to let streams of natural light in during the daytime. Ornate French doors were open to allow access to a balcony. The colored LED lights were kept fairly low, which had worked in Peter’s favor when he’d pulled his mask up to eat, but now it meant he struggled to make out faces on the other side of the room.
Maybe that was why his Spidey-sense was tingling? Had someone taken a photo of him with his mask up?
His Spidey-sense flared again, and he went to warn Mr. Stark. Just as he was about to speak, however, he tuned back in to what the man on the stage was saying.
“—and now, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage Mr. Tony Stark!”
Peter’s eyes widened in panic. Mr. Stark patted him on the shoulder, then stood up and made his way to the stage amid cheers and applause.
No, no, no. Something was wrong.
He glanced around the table wondering what the hell he was meant to do. Something was wrong. His Spidey-sense screamed danger but offered him absolutely no clues as to what said danger was.
Mr. Stark reached the stage, basking in the applause. As it quieted down and he began his speech, Peter was practically halfway out of his chair with the need to move, to stop whatever was coming.
But he didn’t know what was coming.
He scanned the ballroom wildly, taking in faces and body language and the fact that nothing appeared out of the ordinary, everything was fine, so why was his Spidey-sense going crazy?
Another spike of panic in the back of his neck. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused his senses. He tuned out Mr. Stark’s voice, the laughter and light murmuring of voices from the audience, the sounds of people moving, breathing, coughing—there! So quiet as to be inaudible if it weren’t for Peter’s enhanced hearing—
Tick, tick, tick.
Peter’s eyes snapped open and his head whipped around to where Mr. Stark was on stage. A joke was met with smatterings of laughter, and Peter just knew. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did.
“No,” he breathed.
Peter threw himself to his feet. He wasn’t thinking, all he knew was that his Spidey-sense was screaming at him and he needed to move.
His goddamn fancy loafers slipped on the tablecloth as he jumped onto the table, not caring that a crystal glass that was probably worth more than May’s monthly rent cracked beneath his feet.
“Everybody get down!” he shouted, cutting off his mentor’s speech.
People cried out in confusion. Peter shot two webs towards the wall behind the stage and, with all his strength, used them to yank himself forwards.
Mr. Stark frowned. “Spidey—?”
Peter barreled into him. He wrapped one arm around Mr. Stark, sticking firmly to the fabric of his suit, and aimed his other arm upwards. His Spidey-sense screamed.
An impossibly loud bang sent pain shooting through Peter’s ears. Wooden flooring buckled beneath him and Peter’s gut lurched as he and Mr. Stark were thrown off their feet before he had a chance to fire a web.
Desperate not to let Mr. Stark get hurt, Peter twisted, curling himself around his mentor as best he could. They hit the ground heavily several feet away, Peter’s head and shoulders taking the brunt of the blow. People screamed. Stars exploded across his vision and everything went black.
When he came to, it was to throbbing pain throughout his entire body. His ears were ringing, a high-pitched shriek so loud that he couldn’t hear anything else. He screwed his eyes up and moaned silently.
Hands grabbed at him, shaking his shoulders and probing the back of his head, but they didn’t try to remove his mask. They didn’t set off his Spidey-sense either, so he ignored them.
He hurt all over, but especially his head. And his leg. Oh, God, his leg. It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the bone—
Wait. Mr. Stark. Someone just tried to murder Mr. Stark.
Pushing aside his pain, Peter squinted his eyes open. He was flat on his back, staring straight upwards, but the ceiling was obscured by a smoky haze that caught the LED lights and glowed an eerie electric blue.
More importantly, Mr. Stark was leaning over him, talking to various people Peter didn’t recognize. It was Mr. Stark’s hands on his shoulders and weakly, Peter grabbed onto his wrists to ground himself.
Mr. Stark’s gaze snapped back down to him.
“Spider-Man?” he said, his mouth moving but no sound reaching Peter.
Mr. Stark’s face was strangely pale, a finger-shaped smudge of blood across his forehead. One of his hands cupped Peter’s face.
“Spidey?” he mouthed, eyes searching.
The mask, Peter thought distantly. Mr. Stark couldn’t tell if he was okay or not, because the mask had to stay on.
Peter tightened his grip. “Mr. Stark,” he mumbled.
Mr. Stark’s face softened in relief and he started talking, but far too fast for Peter to lip-read. Peter’s eyes drifted to the other people around them and their distraught expressions. The charity president’s face was streaked with blood and ash as he pressed his blazer against an epicenter of pain in Peter’s leg. There were several security guards around them, too, faces stern and focused as they gathered protectively around Peter and Mr. Stark.
The relief in Mr. Stark’s eyes turned to panic when Peter didn’t answer. Peter wanted to get up and move—someone had just tried to assassinate Mr. Stark with a bomb! What was he doing lying here on the ground? —but he just couldn’t. His body screamed in pain every time he tried to move.
Mr. Stark turned away to talk to the people around them. Faintly, sound started to filter in again.
“—not going anywhere. I’m staying with Spider-Man until my suit gets here—”
“—unresponsive, we need an ambulance—”
“—all due respect, sir, your safety is just as important—”
Peter couldn’t keep lying here. He was Spider-Man, and a bomb had just gone off. He needed to help.
With a groan, he let go of Mr. Stark’s wrists and tried to push himself up into a sitting position, but hands grabbed him and forced him back down.
“Mr. Stark?”
“Right here, Spidey.” Mr. Stark’s face swam into view. “You just stay down, alright? Very impressive move you pulled just there. Now take a power nap. That’s an order.”
“Is… is anyone hurt?”
“A few. But you saved a lot of people, and you’re our main concern right now, kid.” Mr. Stark flicked Peter under the chin, softly so as not to hurt him. “You’re clocked out. No more superhero duties tonight. Just worry about yourself.”
Something beeped, and Mr. Stark glanced down at his watch. A moment later, repulsors whirred and an Iron Man suit shot in through the open French doors. Mr. Stark stood and allowed the suit to wrap around him, then knelt back down by Peter’s side.
“FRIDAY, he still okay to be moved?”
Peter’s hearing hadn’t recovered quite enough yet to hear FRIDAY’s response. But she must have said yes because Mr. Stark picked Peter up, cradling him against his chest and being careful to support his head. The movement jostled Peter and pain shot through him. He cried out.
Mr. Stark winced. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
With a nod in the charity president’s direction, Mr. Stark took off. They shot through the French doors and out into the warm NYC night, sirens wailing below them headed in the direction of the gala. Mr. Stark gripped Peter securely as they flew towards Avengers Tower, lit up in the distance.
“Christ, Pete,” Mr. Stark muttered, now that it was safe to say Peter’s name. He let out a shuddering breath, as if what had happened was only just catching up to him. “Thank you. That was incredible, kid. You saved a lot of people with that move. Let’s see the Accords committee try to reject you to go on a mission with us now.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, kiddo.” He clutched Peter closer. “You did great. I’m impressed.”
Peter smiled to himself. “Did I… blow your mind?”
Mr. Stark snorted, startled.
“Really? You’re still gonna subject me to your awful puns when you’re actively bleeding out?”
“That’s my… that’s my brand.”
“We need to get you a new brand. Especially if you want to be an influencer. Now shh. Focus on healing.”
“Yes, sir.”
What little he could see of the New York skyline where his face was buried in Mr. Stark’s chest warped and swirled before he squeezed his eyes shut again.
***
The regeneration cradle was uncomfortable, but it made quick work of the shrapnel wound in Peter’s calf (the one he hadn’t even been fully aware of until it had been pointed out to him). Then, as they waited for the results from an MRI to come back, Peter and Mr. Stark amused themselves by checking the news.
“You’re the hero of the hour, kiddo,” Mr. Stark said.
SPIDER-MAN SAVES IRON MAN FROM ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT
Watch: The Avenger-in-training is never off duty as he saves fellow hero Tony Stark from bomb at charity event in New York
“Good,” said Peter. “It was actually me that planted the bomb. I did it so the Daily Bugle would have to write a nice article about me.”
“Careful. You know how people speculate. It won’t be too long before people decide you really were responsible.”
“If I was gonna plant a bomb I’d actually do a good job of it. I was the only one that got hurt!”
Which was mostly true, fortunately. A few people from the front row had been rushed to hospital with various injuries from the flying shrapnel, but luckily, most people had listened to Peter’s order to get down. Injuries were minimal, and no-one had been killed.
Detectives working the case hadn’t yet discovered who had planted the bomb, which made Peter antsy for Mr. Stark’s wellbeing. But he tried to remind himself that Mr. Stark was safe and unhurt.
And, well—if he looked on the bright side, his gala experiences could only go uphill from here.