Archive of Our Own

Tony disrupts Peter's fanboying train of thought by pulling out a phone and projecting a hologram video of Spider-Man catching a car. Oh man, Peter remembers that day. It had been a rush. So much so that Peter can almost feel the phantom tingling of adrenaline run up and down his body, momentarily distracting himself from this Very Bad Event.

“That’s you, right?” 

Oh. Shit. This is starting to track. Peter doesn't like where it's heading. Best to try to lie his way through, despite the fact that he's desperately lacking in that department. 

“Um, no. What do you – what do you mean?” 

“Yeah. Look at you go. Wow! Nice catch. 3,000 pounds, 40 miles an hour. That’s not easy. You got mad skills.” 

This is bad – this is very, very bad. “That’s all – that's all on YouTube, though, right? I mean, that’s where you found that? Because you know that’s all fake. It’s all done on a computer.” 

“Mm-hm.”

“It’s like that video. What is it?” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah... oh, you mean like those UFOs over Phoenix?” 

Phew. “Exactly.” 

Peter’s spidey-sense tingles. It really needs to get more accurate, though, because Peter's homemade costume is dropping down from its hiding spot before he's even located the danger. 

“Uh... that’s a...” 

“So you’re the Spider...ling. Crime-fighting Spider... you’re Spider-Boy?” 

It’s very clear to Peter what Tony is trying to do, but his alias is a sensitive spot. “...Spider-Man.” 

“Not in that onesie, you’re not.” 

“It’s not a onesie.” (Not everyone is a multi-billionaire who can whip out a top-of-the-line suit without even putting a dent in their bank account.) “I don’t believe this. I was actually having a really good day today, you know, Mr. Stark. Didn’t miss my train, this perfectly good DVD player was just sitting there... algebra test -” Peter slaps his pencil down on the desk. “Nailed it.” 

“Who else knows? Anybody?” 

“Nobody.” 

“Not even your... unusually attractive aunt? 

“No. No, no, no, no. If she knew, she would freak out. And when she freaks out, I freak out.” 

“You know what I think is really cool? This webbing. That tensile strength is off the charts. Who manufactured that?” 

“I did.” (Peter totally isn’t freaking out about the fact that Tony Stark just called his webbing ‘really cool.’ Totally not.) 

“Climbing the walls, how you doing that? Adhesive gloves?” 

“It’s a long story. I was, uh...” 

“Lordy!” Tony presses Peter’s goggles in front of his own eyes, and then pulls them away quickly. “Can you even see in these?” 

“Yes, yes I can! I can. I can – I can see in those. Okay? It’s just that... when whatever happened happened... it’s like my senses have been dialed to 11. There’s way too much input, so... they just kinda help me focus.” 

“You’re in dire need of an upgrade. Systemic, top to bottom. 100-point restoration. That’s why I’m here.” Peter sits on his bed, contemplative, and looks up at Tony. “Why are you doing this? I gotta know. What’s your MO? What gets you outta that twin bed in the morning?” 

With great power comes great responsibility...  

Fidgeting with his fingers, Peter speaks. “Because... because I've been me my whole life, and I’ve had these powers for six months.” 

“Mm-hmm.” 

“I read books, I build computers... and – and, yeah. I would love to play football. But I couldn’t then, so I shouldn’t now.” 

“Sure, because you’re different.” 

“Exactly. But I can’t tell anybody that, so I’m not.” Peter hesitates for a moment, buried memories of Ben resurfacing. “When you can do the things that I can... but you don’t... and then the bad things happen... they happen because of you.” 

Tony makes eye contact with Peter, and something tells him that Tony has really taken his words to heart. “So you want to look out for the little guy? You want to do your part? Make the world a better place, all that, right?” 

“Yeah! Yeah, just looking out... for the little guy. That’s - that’s what it is.” 

Tony smiles and pats Peter’s leg, moving to sit next to him on the bed. “You ever heard of the Avengers?” 

“E-Er, yes?” 

“Well, we’re always looking for new recruits.” Peter’s eyes widen comically. “Mm-hm. Yep. You caught our eye, kid, and we want to help you. Become a sort of... Avenger-in-training, if you will.” 

“Avenger-in-training...!” 

“Yeah. You know, we need some young blood. We’ll teach you the tricks of the trade, maybe bring you along on a low-stakes mission every now and then. What do you say?” 

“Well, I mean, y-y-yeah!” 

“Great. And one more thing – you’ll be getting a package from Stark Industries soon. Can’t have the world thinking that we send our recruits out in pajamas, can we?” 

And with that, Tony gives Peter one last pat on the head and leaves the room, presumably off to schmooze with May. 

Wait. 

What the fuck does that mean?!  

“Peter, a package for you,” May calls out when Peter returns home from school the following day. She holds up the box with a grin, shaking it in her hands. “It’s from Stark Industries.” 

With a quick smile, Peter takes the parcel from his aunt. “I’ve got a lot of homework, May, I – I'll open this later.” 

“You really are keeping secrets from me now, huh?” Peter freezes. A beat, and then May snorts. “What was that look on your face, Pete? I’m joking.” 

“O-Oh! Yeah. Yeah, I knew that.” Peter huffs out a forced laugh and pointedly ignores May’s bewildered expression. “So, er, I’ll go – go open this now.” 

Peter does feel guilty for lying to his aunt, but most of that guilt is offset by excitement. He really is in need of an upgrade, though he hadn’t wanted to admit that to Mr. Stark. 

Once safe in private, Peter tears the tape off of the cardboard box and slowly peels up the flaps, revealing a silver briefcase. His hands shake as he flips up the clasps on the case. He pauses for a moment, inhaling the moment and tattooing it in his memories. Then Peter takes a deep breath, flips open the cover, and... it's perfect. 

He gingerly takes the spandex out of its case, turns it around in its hands, familiarizes himself with the way it feels against his skin. The striking red and blue starkly contrast against one another, and the black spider emblem in the middle is sleek and refined. 

So, yeah. It’s fucking awesome.  

If Peter were a responsible student, he’d stay in and finish that essay that’s due tomorrow.  

Ha! 

“Smells kind of like new car in here,” Peter says, once he’s inevitably gotten into the suit.  

“Shall I provide an air freshener?” Comes a disembodied voice. “Your options are: cinnamon apple, rainforest mist, pine tree -” 

“Where’s that voice coming from? I – I have abnormally long fingernails and I’m not afraid to use them. Show yourself, asshole, or I'll -” 

“My apologies, Peter. Tony Stark installed me in your suit to assist you in any way necessary.” 

“Oh. Cool. Like an AI, right? Cool. Wait, what’s your name?” 

Suit Lady pauses. “I do not have a name.” 

“You're Karen,” Peter decides. “Like Plankton’s wife.” 

“Plankton?” 

“Oh, there’s so much to teach you, Karen.” 

The next morning, Peter wakes up feeling like shit. When his body isn’t burning, it’s itching. When his body isn’t itching, it’s burning. Highly inconvenient. 

“May,” he chokes out, tears pooling in his eyes. “May?” 

“Yeah, baby?” May calls from the kitchen. 

“Can - can – can you come here?” 

Peter listens intently to the soft vibrations that May’s feet make as they approach his room, and then her head finally pokes through his door.  

“Oh, Pete,” she mutters. She walks in and rests the back of her hand against his forehead. 

Peter hisses through his teeth and jolts away. So, sensitive skin. Stupendous.

“S-Stop!” He shouts through clenched teeth. May raises an eyebrow and pulls her hand close to her chest as though she'd been the one to be burned. Peter bites his lip. "Sorry. That, uh, didn’t feel so great.” 

“Ah. My bad. Can you lift your sheets up for me, honey?” 

“I can.” 

“Peter -” 

"But -"

"Please tell me I don't have to get out Mr. Fuzzybottoms."

Peter suppresses a giggle. When he was younger, he'd been an even stubborner sick person - and that's certainly saying something. The only way May and Ben could get a word out of him that wasn't some sort of incoherent moan was Mr. Fuzzybottoms, a multi-colored puppet that's really just a ball of fuzz with some googly eyes stuck on. And it worked, for some reason; Peter actually spilled quite a few secrets to Mr. Fuzzybottoms.

"I do miss that little guy," Peter muses. "Where is he?"

"Peter. Sheets." The words are harsh but loving, and they're spoken in a way that tells Peter that his aunt is concerned. It's dumb. There's nothing to be concerned about and he wishes she'd see that. Sure, he's currently dealing with a boatload of pain, but he does that pretty much every day. At least once a week. Part of the Spider-Man gig.

Peter really wants to shoo May away, to make her let him deal with it all himself, like he always does, But he knows that the only way to ease her worries is to prove that there's absolutely no cause for anxiety. Refusing to let her check the damage is only suspicious. 

“Just - fine.” 

Biting his lip, Peter carefully peels off his sheets.  

He’s never been good with words, but if he was forced to describe the pain, this is how it would go:  

It feels like scraping a vegetable peeler down each of his legs, slicing one thin sheets of skin off at a time. It feels like waking up on a bed of hot coals. It feels like a shower of acid, like skinny dipping in radioactive waste, like searing his limbs on a fired-up grill. 

But he isn’t forced to describe the pain, and so it goes like this instead: 

“Fuck! F-Fuck, Jesus Christ – May – agh, agh, May, it hu – sh-shit -” 

And then, once the sheets are in a pile on his floor, apparently the universe isn’t done fucking him over because his limbs aren’t supposed to look like that. A scaly, red rash climbs up over his body, sneaking under and out through his clothes like tendrils. Peter’s heart drops into his gut. 

“What’s wrong with me?” He whispers, his tone filled with despair. That had backfired. Majorly. Now he's worried, too - a deep kind of a worry.

“You’re definitely having an allergic reaction to something,” May says. She frowns. “I just don’t know what it could possibly be.” 

Peter bites the inside of his cheek. “I want it to stop.” 

“I know, I know, Pete. I’m going to take a personal day today and I’ll grab some medicine for you, okay?” 

Peter pouts. “School's important, May. I can't cut.” 

“Hon, you're not cutting. You're sick. I'm about 110% sure that this is an excuse your teachers will gladly accept."

"You can't be 110% sure, May. That's mathematically impossible."

"See, look how much you know. You can afford to miss a day." Peter rolls his eyes. He'd set her up for that one. "You can ask Ned for the work you miss. I know high school is stressful, Pete, but overworking yourself is not the answer. In fact, this rash is probably a blessing in disguise."

Peter scoffs. "It's got a really good disguise. Like, a sweatshirt, sunglasses, baseball cap. The whole shebang."

"Uh-huh. Now sit tight, baby, I'll be back soon."

Peter, against the better judgement of every fiber of his being, does so. Because there really is no arguing with May when she dives headfirst into Mama Bear mode. It's a fact of life, right in between: do not give Ned coffee past 10:00 AM, and: never ask to see MJ's sketches unless she's done with them.

A stone-cold, unmovable, fact.

"Oh!” May exclaims. She’s sitting on the side of Peter’s bed, keeping him company while he lathers a thick cream over his legs. It doesn't feel like it's doing much, though May claims that it isn't a magic fix and he's got to have a little patience. Hey - a magic fix, that isn't too bad an idea. There's got to be someone on the Avengers team who can magic all of this dumb rash away. If only May'd let him sneak away to ask. (Though, honestly, there's no universe in which he'd do that. Peter's not going to bother the freaking Avengers about something he should be able to can tough out.) “I started using a new detergent," she continues. "Could that be it?” 

Peter shrugs uselessly. “Is that a real thing?” 

“Yes, actually.” May sighs, and Peter does too. “Do you have any other ideas?” 

“No,” with a groan. 

“Are you sure? You can’t think of anything new or different you did yesterday?” 

Yeah – going out as Spider-Man in Tony’s sui – no. No. He... can't be allergic to the suit. Right? How – how would that even work? To be allergic to a piece of fabric? 

“Well... I tried on this, er, piece of clothing.” 

“Huh. Any weird materials in it?” 

“Spandex, maybe?” 

May frowns, ruminating over the thought. “Then maybe you’re allergic to spandex, baby.” 

Peter shuts his eyes tightly and lets out a thick breath. “Of course I am.” 

They have a moment of silence, in which they mourn the loss of Peter's sanity. Then Peter tosses the bottle of medication against the wall, satisfied when it lands with a thump.

"May," he says, with the utmost sincerity. "Life is french fries and I'm just a potato."

"I have no idea what that means, Peter." He rolls over on his bed to face her and slaps on his practically patented Puppy Dog Eyes. She bends under them, but there's still no solution for his issue. "I'm sorry," is what she says instead. It's all she can say.

Peter crosses his arms and stares up at the ceiling.

"I'm waiting for Mr. Fuzzybottoms."

By the next day, Peter’s rash has healed. 

Logically, he knows that he has to return the suit – he’s painfully aware of this difficult fact. But Peter has never had such great willpower, and he really, really wants to take it out for one last spin. Come on, he can't just abandon Karen. She’s not just an AI, she’s... well, fine, she’s an AI. An AI with a name, though. That has to be an important distinction. 

Yeah, he's doing this. Maybe it's stupid but he's doing this.

Peter's going to grab the case when he catches sight of the allergy medication nearby it, right next to the slight crack in the wall's plaster that he should probably cover up before May sees. The memories of yesterday flow to the forefront of his mind, scratch at his skin. He shivers. Yep, okay, fine, this suit is going back. 

Throwing the box in a bag, Peter heads out of his apartment and jogs down onto the subway. Tony had never really given him any way to get in contact, so Peter’s just planning on heading to the Tower and... figuring it out from there. The Avengers Tower stop is on the express train, so it's only twenty minutes or so before the doors ding open and Peter's following a throng of people out the sliding doors. When he emerges from the subway station and into the cool air, the intimidating Avengers Tower is staring him down from across the street. Tall, sleek, elegant, fucking incredible.   

“Okay,” Peter whispers to himself. No time to get sidetracked. He stubbornly averts his gaze from the gorgeous decor of the lobby. Ignores the fact that he sticks out like a sore – no, like a broken thumb. Makes a beeline for the pair of elevators at the back of the floor, but, of course, the front desk is in his way. 

“Can I help you?” The receptionist asks. 

Huh. How should he put this? “I, er, need to speak to Mr. Stark?” 

Casey – that’s from the enamel pin on Casey’s lapel – offers a condescending smile. “I’m sure you do.” 

Yeah, he should have seen that coming. “No - really, he gave me something – I – I need to give it back.” 

The receptionist opens her mouth to dismiss the notion when FRIDAY interrupts her, startling both Casey and Peter.  

“My apologies for interrupting, but Mr. Parker has full access to Avengers Tower. Peter, I have notified Boss of your arrival, and he has instructed me to bring you up to his lab.” 

This isn't all bad, Peter guesses, as he heads over to the elevator. Because even if Mr. Stark does end up laughing him off of the team - who even gets rashes, come on - at least he’d had full access to Avengers Tower for a few minutes. Flash never had that. Not that Flash would believe him, of course, but... still. 

As he mulls this over, the elevator arrives in (holy shit) Mr. Stark’s personal lab. The doors open, and then Iron Man, sans the iron, turns to him with a smirk.  

“Hey, kid. I saw you went out for a test run in the suit yesterday. How was it?” 

Peter chooses to ignore the pressing question of how the hell did Mr. Stark know that and focus on the uncomfortable situation at hand. “Yeah, uh... about that...” 

“What? Something wrong with it?” Tony crosses his arms defensively, furrowing his brow and taking in Peter’s timid appearance. 

“No! No, it’s - it’s amazing, really, Mr. Stark! I just...I just have to give it back.” 

“Are you serious?” 

“Y-Yeah.” 

“Kid -” Tony whips his sunglasses off and digs the heels of his palms in to his eyes. “We’ve already planned this whole thing out, you know. It would have been nice if you had told me this in advance.” 

“I - I’m really, really sorry, Mr. Stark – really.” 

“Alright, lets have it,” Tony mutters, holding out his hand expectantly. 

Slowly, Peter deposits the case in its owner’s hands. It's not just the loss of the Karen, not just the loss of the suit, but the loss of this opportunity. To work with the Avengers. To work with Tony Stark.

“At least fill out the customer survey, kid. What was wrong with the suit?” 

“Nothing - n-nothing was wrong with it!” 

“You’re damn right, I made it. So care to share with the class why you're returning it, then?” 

There's a beat.

Peter doesn't want to do this. It's a weakness. He'd be admitting to a weakness, and that's just not something you do when you're a superhero. It can't be. You have to be super duper super, from top to bottom, and allergies are certainly not super.

But what other choice does he have? Offending Tony Stark is not at the top of his bucket list. (It is actually on MJ's, though.)

So, swallowing his trepidation, Peter tells his feet: “...’M al’lerg’c.”

“Old ears, kid. I know I look like I’m twenty, but I’m not. You gotta speak up.” 

Great. Great, great, great, this is all great! 

“I - I’m allergic, sir. I’m allergic to the spandex.” 

Tony stares at Peter in disbelief for a moment. He's waiting for the other shoe to drop. It doesn't. This is a one-shoe drop, though Peter thinks that it was probably at least a size ten.

Then - “Seriously? That’s all? That's why you're quitting on us?” 

“Well, yeah!” Peter responds, a bit taken aback by Tony’s dismissal. Maybe he'd change his tune if he saw just how fucked up that rash really was. “I was out sick with an awful rash. It’s - it’s not ‘it.’ It’s -” 

“No, obviously I’m not going to ask you to keep wearing the suit. I'm not an asshole. I meant – I'm a multi-billionaire. I think I can make you a new one. Guaranteed spandex-free or your money back.”  

Peter’s jaw drops open. It feels weird. He still lets it happen, because did his ears just hear that correctly? He runs through the audio in his mind a couple times and then, safe in the assurance that he had, in fact, heard it correctly, he stammers out a classic: “I’m not worth all the trouble, sir -” 

“Yeah, yeah, let’s just skip past this part where I have to assure you that you’re worth it and just get to working on the next Mark. Sound good -? Yep, sure does, don't even bother answering." Tony ruminates over something for a moment and then says: "Iron Spider has a nice kind of ring to it.” 

“I-Iron Spider, huh?” 

That doesn't mean what he thinks it means. It can't. There's no way. 

But Tony just grins and awkwardly pats Peter on the head. It musses up his perfectly gelled-back hair and he doesn't even complain. 

“Ready to meet the team, Spidey?” 

Not at all. Peter could probably use about a three-year-long vacation after all of this. But Tony has a way of saying questions instead of asking them, and Peter doesn't know how to respond other than with a - "Y-Yeah. Sure.”