Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter let out a loud whoop as he swung in a wide semi-circle over an array of rooftops, before landing, light-footed, on the top of a passing train.

He leaned back and lay down, one leg propped up, arms behind his head, enjoying the feeling of cool wind whipping over him as he closed his eyes contentedly. The late morning sun beat down and heated him through the suit - something he was extremely grateful for - in contrast to the cool, slowly warming metal of the battered train.

There hadn't been a lot of trouble today; crime rates were down and there wasn't a great need for Spider-Man besides a stray mugging or two. And, as much as Peter liked doing good, it was nice to be able to take a breath, once in a while. Today was a good day.

Peter didn't have many of those these days anymore - too busy figuring out how to keep himself alive. Food was becoming harder to find, after the homeless shelter near him shut down a few weeks ago; he'd only trusted the people there because he'd saved a few of them, but going to any other shelter was off the table, never knowing if they'd catch onto his age and hand him in. Plus, they were quite far away.

Still, laying on the train with the soft autumn sun high in the sky, he tried not to think of the impending cold of the coming months, instead focusing on the sounds of the city bustling around him, humming in unison.

It was calming, to be so surrounded by people and yet unseen, unnoticed, and comfortably alone. It reminded him of the people he fought for, the people he sought to protect; they were the main reason he dragged himself out of 'bed' (though you could hardly call it that) in the morning and stayed out until ungodly hours. They gave him motivation.

Soon, too soon, his journey was over - signalled by the familiar, tall, graffitied bridge rapidly approaching. Sighing, Peter pushed himself up and shot out a web, bracing as the train rushed under and using the resulting momentum to swing himself up onto a nearby building.

Glancing around and taking a moment to listen out for danger, he stood still on the smooth concrete rooftop, sunlight now significantly duller in the sky, obscured by large clouds. They’d come quickly, with no warning. Most things did, Peter noticed.

One day, the world was turning as usual and you were walking to school with your best friend, laughing and chatting contentedly. The next, you were crouched in an abandoned building, hunting for comfort in the bare stone around you.

After feeling assured that there was no impending doom anywhere near, Peter simply stepped forward, letting himself drop off the building - falling for a moment - before shooting out a web with a fwip and twisting to launch himself in the right direction.

He let his eyes skim over the buildings as he moved, each painting a unique picture of the lives inside; flora overflowing in a cute balcony-garden on one, others dull and conformist in their monotony. He ghosted a smile at the variety of lives bustling around him, another reminder of the people he was helping, and a small comfort as well.

A minute or so of swinging himself into progressively more run-down parts of town brought Peter to his destination; he angled his trajectory and sailed into the open window of an abandoned apartment complex. Home sweet home , he quipped in his mind, grimacing at the newest expanse of the gradually growing mould on the nearby table.

It was quite bare, as you'd expect an abandoned building to be. There was a table and a few stray chairs, a pillow or two - but that's all there'd been when Peter had first found this place. He remembered that first day, when he'd been cold and alone, searching for somewhere to stay. Trying to just take shelter from the downpour in the awning outside, he'd found the door opened easily and provided some shelter - better than nothing, at least.

He'd thought it was quite empty and sad, used to the clutter in his bedroom or the various strange decorations in several of the foster homes he'd stayed at. Since then, he'd brought in some old, ragged blankets and other small things, but nothing that could suggest - even to himself - a permanent residence, let alone a home.

After all, who knew when he'd need to move, or when someone would wander by and decide to take something? Better not to have too much stuff in the first place. And, as for a home… well, he hadn’t had one of those in a long while now.

He sauntered in, pulling off the Spider-Man suit and inspecting it. Luckily, there were no holes of any true consequential size today (thanks to the general lack of stabbing).

It had definitely seen better days; the spandex-esque fabric was worn and stretched in several places, sewed up gashes littering it, along with a few stubborn blood-stains that soaked beyond the red and tainted the blue an ugly maroon.

There wasn't much patching anywhere visible, thanks to the (quite genius, if Peter could say) choice to add more details to cover up the damage caused whenever he got stabbed or shot. Peter had to make the best with what he had, due to the whole, you know, homeless thing. He'd gotten the original fabric from an abandoned factory and - after a thorough cleaning - it worked well.

Taking a look at his watch (clunky and old, sure - he’d salvaged most of the parts to repair it from back alleys and dumpsters - but it worked well enough), Peter's eyes widened. 2:07pm . Shit . He was going to be late for his shift.

Pulling on a big hoodie and jeans, Peter climbed out the window and jumped, landing on the pavement not far below. Taking off at a sprint, he quickly made his way from the somewhat-abandoned area in which his temporary home was located and found himself surrounded by traffic; the road was jammed with various vehicles, and the streets bustling with crowds of people blocking the way.

Despite it being 2pm on a Thursday, the city was as bustling as it always was - hundreds of pedestrians rushing this way and that to get where they needed to go. Peter wormed through people in business suits, t-shirts, clown outfits… you name it - New York truly was an interesting place to live.

Finally, he skidded to a stop in front of a small corner store, checking the time. 2:31. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door, glancing over to the till where, to his dismay (but no real surprise), a rather irritated man reading a newspaper was sitting.

"You're late." It was a statement, not a question - and that made Peter buzz with annoyance, which he swallowed out of his voice. He was one minute late.

"I'm really sorry Mr Pilmore, I tried to get here on time but there was traffic and I didn’t mean to-"

The man looked over the top of his paper rather pointedly, "What have I told you?"

Peter stopped in his tracks, "Sorry, sir." He quietly walked into the back room and began unloading boxes of stock: bags of sweets, crates of energy drinks, massive packs of chips, and much more, all needing to be put in their correct places.

Wasting no time (there was no point stalling, he wasn't paid by the hour, after all), he managed to get the job done with scant trouble in a little over two hours. It took longer than it should because Mr Pilmore was a stickler for details. He would insist everything be placed in a very specific, very inconvenient and unnecessary order. If anything was wrong, you'd be sure you could sit through a lecture and then spend another hour doing it right.

Tracing his eyes over his handiwork, Peter felt a familiar pang of hunger, glanced around, and pocketed a protein bar. Mr Pilmore wouldn't notice; he was too busy reading the sports section of various newspapers - and never anything else. Locking up the back before walking over to the counter, Peter waited by the till for a moment before speaking.

"Uhm, Mr Pilmore?" he asked, hating how meek he sounded, "I finished."

The man simply grunted in response, taking a few minutes before shoving a hand under the counter and pulling out a few bills and shoving them at Peter.

"Thank you, sir." He looked over the meagre pay, regretful that he couldn't find anywhere else that would pay more to someone his age with no credentials, and who was technically, officially, missing. Waiting a moment for the inevitable lack of response, Peter turned and pushed the door open, only to groan as he stepped outside.

A slow drizzle began to spit from the gray sky, and Peter flipped up his hood for the small bit of protection it could provide, before beginning the slow trudge back to the shelter.

* 

Peter was grateful for the apartment and the protection it provided from the weather, he really was. But on days like these, days when winter was creeping up and cold breezes swept through cracked windows, he couldn't say he was a huge fan.

It was probably far better than being completely exposed to the elements, Peter knew that. But he also knew spiders couldn't thermoregulate, and that - annoyingly - seemed to have been something he inherited.

The moment he got back, he ripped off his clothes and threw on some new dry ones, wrapping himself in as many layers and blankets as possible. He managed to drift off for a short while, before the cold soaked into his bones and he awoke with a shiver.

The blankets really weren't a substitute for proper heating. They kept him from freezing, sure, but he didn't think he could legitimately survive a winter in this place. Last year, he'd managed to find a place that was quite warm throughout the winter, but he wasn't so lucky this time. Rubbing his hands furiously up and down his arms, Peter shivered.

Was there something he could do to stave off the cold? His stomach took that moment to growl, and he sighed. Great , he thought, pulling himself to his feet, just my luck. Parker luck.

'Parker Luck', as Peter said, was something Uncle Ben used to say whenever things seemed to go especially wrong. It worked like Murphy's law: if something could go wrong, it would, according to Ben. And Peter was inclined to agree. His whole life seemed to have been plagued by Parker Luck, from the moment he was born.

Pulling up a loose floorboard, Peter grabbed a can of soup from his stash and an old camping stove from the corner of the room, stomach aching with hunger pains as he poured a small amount of fluid into the apparatus, and dumped the contents of the can into the small metal bowl.

He was loathe to part with it, looking at the meagre pile of canned foods that were truly only enough to last a day or two, if he ate enough. But hunger was hunger, and he could only ignore it to a certain extent.

He'd found the stove in a trash heap - still quite functional (after a bit of tweaking), though some parts were missing. Huddling close to the little warmth provided by the small, blue flame, he waited impatiently for the food to heat up, grabbing a bottle of water.

Luckily, water wasn't a big problem, as he'd found a few public water fountains he could use to fill up his water bottles. Food was the main problem. Food required money, money required a job, a job required a home - plus being over 18...

So he was glad he'd found a job he could use to satiate the worst of his hunger, even if it was severely underpaid and probably illegal. Still, it worked for him, and who could blame a guy for trying to survive?

…apparently the government, as well as the universe itself, if his bad luck was anything to go by. Oh well, he was getting by.

Peter quickly shovelled the soup into his mouth as the flame died out, savouring the momentary fullness before his body quickly realised this was nowhere near enough food, and promptly went back to protesting its hunger. He walked over to the other corner of the room and looked out the window. He'd been asleep long enough for the rain to clear, and the sky was just tinted a light gray. Of course it stops as soon as I'm sheltered…  

He sighed, gazing at the sky with a feeling of longing. The days were getting shorter, and bringing the cold with the fading light.

The day Peter left his foster home for good was one of the shortest days of the year; sun coming and going far too quickly, the lingering moments of light muffled by dark clouds pouring down pelting rain. He winced at the chill seeping through the windows, the weather bringing back bad memories.

Shaking off the lingering remnants of those thoughts, he grabbed his Spider-Man suit; he'd already patrolled for a fair while this morning, but what else was there to do? Maybe it would take his mind off the hunger. Plus, he was cold. Maybe exercise would warm him up.

Swinging over the city, he could forget about himself. He could stop being ‘ Peter Parker: homeless, orphan, alone’ and be ‘Spider-Man: strong, hero, savior’. There was something relaxing about that. The chill seeping into his bones was dulled by the adrenaline of running and jumping and fighting.

Peter dropped from the last web, allowing himself to hang before he threw out another with a quick fwip and caught himself. He was soon far from the apartment, pain lagging behind him. He was free. 

Eyes sweeping over the city, his gaze caught on a TV blaring brightly in a living room across the street, visible through half-open blinds thanks to his enhanced senses. Curiosity piqued, he honed in on the box, watching the news play; he could hear what they were saying if he blocked out the other sounds around him and…

“-the Avengers have saved the day once again! New York’s very own heroes made an appearance on Tuesday when flying robots wreaked havoc across the city streets. We go now to Mary-”

He clenched his jaw, a bitter taste blooming in his throat. Heroes, huh? Peter scoffed internally, before catching himself and cursing quietly - he thought he was over that. He knew, logically, that it wasn’t their fault. He had to save himself, and he had done; anything else was a childish daydream, long since abandoned.

And yet, the resentment still lingered on those days where logic seemed so difficult to grasp, where coherent thought was overruled by pure rage and emotional turmoil - it was hard to completely shed, when he’d spent so many days wishing for fanciful scenarios where the Avengers swooped in and saved him.

It wasn’t fair; he knew that. It’s not like they knew he even existed, or any of the horrors that occurred on a day-to-day basis to people like him, sitting up in their ivory tower. Still, he could hardly fault them for not fulfilling the escapist fantasies he’d clung to when all other hope had been stripped from him, when cruelty reigned over his reality and pain became his only thought- 

Peter gasped deep, fighting for air as he felt yet another blow rain down upon him - as consistent as the downpour outside. His arms were cradling his head, trying desperately to block the worst of the kicks. He let out a strangled whimper, curling tighter, as his foster mother chucked a nearly-empty bottle of whisky at the wall near his head and sneered down at the small boy as he flinched, glass shards going flying.

“What’s wron’ with you, boy? Stop bein’ a pussy, stand ‘p.” She screeched slurred words at the shuddering mess that was Peter Parker. When he didn’t respond, she sent another kick into his stomach, winding him harshly, “D’you even know- d’you know how expensive you are? You’re not even worth th’ check I get for you.” 

Her only reply came in the form of another whimper and a ragged cough from the limp child on the floor. “Worthless brat…” she muttered, turning and stumbling away into the hallway. The only light brightening the dark room now was the light creeping under the door.

Once she was gone, Peter lowered his arms and pushed himself up into a sitting position, wrapping his arms around his torso as he winced at the ache that produced. He sat in silence, cold creeping into the room through the one cracked window.

No tears fell, no sobs wracked his body. Peter had cried enough tears for this life. He didn’t see the need to cry anymore. Tears were a cry for help, for bringing warm, reassuring embraces and mugs of hot cocoa. They told the people you loved that you were struggling and needed help.

Peter didn’t have anyone.

He was alone, and as the deafening silence echoed in his ears, he realised that was more true than he’d ever known. It was a moment of clarity; the dust had settled, the clouds had parted, and now he could see reality for what it was.

No one was coming to save him. No one would crash through the wall and whisk him away. They wouldn’t hold him and say it was alright. And if they did, it would be a lie. Nothing would ever be alright again. The world thrived on family and friends and other people.

And Peter Benjamin Parker was inarguably, unequivocally, alone.

In that small, dark, cold room, Peter lost the final bit of child-like hope he’d held out. The last spark was extinguished and faded to black ash. This life was over. He was done. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

He packed a bag.

Peter huffed, shaking his head to clear his mind. No. He was done with misplaced, aimless blame; the Avengers were heroes and - even if they hadn’t saved him - he’d managed to help himself, in the end. After all, wasn't it really his fault-? The faint noises of panicked talking in a back alley, ( thankfully ) drew his attention away from the too-familiar train of thought.

His head perked up, quickly shooting out a web to swing himself in that direction. After a few moments, he spotted what seemed to be a mugging. Two large people in black hoodies were cornering a young man in a business suit, who seemed quite afraid.

“I- I don’t have much on me, I swear!” the man cried, stumbling over his words out of fear.

“Then give us what you’ve got, man. Make this easy.” came a gruff voice.

At that, Peter lowered himself down, hanging upside-down on a web from a metal bar, and cleared his throat when he was right behind the larger mugger. “Hey, dude. That’s not very nice, you gotta get a job to earn money, yeah?”

Startled, the mugger turned, revealing a scruffy face who promptly turned the knife he held on Peter, “What the-”

Peter webbed Knife Guy’s weapon, frowning to bring a lecturing tone into his voice, “Now, now. Haven’t you heard? Those things can hurt people!”

Knife Guy’s accomplice whipped around, and she sneered at Peter, revealing a handgun, “Oh look. It’s the guy who runs around in his pyjamas. Why don’t you run on home to momma before I hurt you?”

Peter bristled slightly at the comment - twisting around to swing out of the way and land on the dumpster behind her as she fired her gun a couple of times - shooting a web to try and bind Gun’s hand to her hoodie, only missing as she quickly pulled it out.

He groaned slightly, and jumped forward, kicking Knife Guy against the wall and swiftly shooting out a few webs to keep him there.

“Really? A gun?” Peter scoffed, “How original.”

The sight of guns still made him slightly jumpy, but he’d had to get over the worst of it in order to be Spider-Man. He couldn’t have a full-on panic attack every time a bad guy pulled out a glock.

‘Gun’ shrugged and fired again, making Peter shoot out a web to pull himself up and out of the way. A confined alley wasn’t the ideal place to fight, but he’d gotten used to it. A moment more and he’d successfully kicked the gun from her hands, webbing her feet to the ground before securing her to the wall.

He sighed, picking up the gun with a look of distaste and swiftly webbing it up out of reach from the criminals before turning to Business Suit Guy.

“You alright?” Peter asked, looking at where the young man had hidden in a corner behind the dumpster, terrified but unable to run.

Shakily, he lifted himself to his feet and took in the scene, nodding.

“Wonderful. Think you could do me a favor and call the cops, let them know? Make sure to include that I webbed them up so they know the time window.” After a nod from the man, Peter turned to leave.

“Uh- wait-” Peter turned, giving him a questioning look (well, under the mask he was), ”Thank you, Spider-Man. I really appreciate it.”

Peter swallowed down bile as he noted how similar the man looked to Uncle Ben, and smiled slightly, “No problem. Be careful out there.” With that, he shot out a web and swung over the rooftops.

A few hours later, Peter found himself quite a while away from his usual territory; following the sounds of crime and screaming meant he never really stuck to a pre-planned route, except on quiet days. As it turned out - in contrast to the morning - it was not a quiet evening. Apparently, the criminals had decided that this Thursday afternoon was the perfect time to, well, be criminals.

As he landed on a nearby rooftop, Peter looked around, scouting his surroundings. With a sickening feeling in his stomach, he realised he recognised the part of town. It was near his last foster home.

After the day he was having, - bad memories dredged up left and right - he wasn’t too keen to invite more thoughts like those into his mind. But when had his mind ever done what he wanted?

Peter was walking down the main street, lined with shops, shivering from the cold. He didn’t have a proper winter jacket, hadn’t had one since he was put in foster care - shoved from shitty home to shitty home.

With a duffle bag slung over one shoulder, hood up, he pushed through the crowds. Swearing under his breath at the amount of people around, he took a break to duck into a small dip in the walls between shops, catching his breath. He looked around, properly taking in his surroundings for the first time, and realised, with a sickening jolt, that it was only a few days before Christmas. 

It was his first Christmas alone.

He was headed into the New Year with nothing but a small bag of ragged clothes and a whole lot of new trauma. Wonderful.

Peter shook his head harshly, cursing at the vivid recollection of the day. He really didn’t need this right now. He stood from his perch, stretching out and realising that all that illuminated his surroundings were the bright streetlights buzzing below, and the golden glow seeping from the windows nearby.

He took a look at his watch, realising it was much later than he’d thought, and sighed. He’d gotten caught up in his thoughts, and stopping crime, and now he had to swing halfway across the city late at night, on a nearly empty stomach. Nice going, genius.

Of course, Peter regularly stayed out late as Spider-Man. However, he’d made a habit of slowly rounding down his day by staying closer to the apartment when it was getting late. That way he could quickly get back and rest, or deal with any injuries that might arise while on patrol.

Now, he could either swing for a full hour or so - inevitably getting delayed by crime on the way - or he could pull a long shift. Sure, he was tired. But if New York didn’t sleep, that meant crime didn’t. And if crime didn’t, that meant Spider-Man wouldn’t. After all, why not stay out tonight, since he was already so far away?

After mentally reasoning with himself, Peter let a small grin creep onto his face as he swung out into the night.

*

Several hours (and quite a few bruises) later, Peter was not quite so sure about his decision; it had already been a long day, and now he’d spent even more hours dealing with the more serious crimes that always popped up late at night (or, well, very early in the morning).

He was practically dead on his feet. Currently, he was leaning against a raised platform on a random rooftop, miles from the apartment, and wondering whether he should’ve thought this through a bit more. Still, after having prevented the crimes he had, he couldn’t find it in himself to regret his decision.

If even one more person was a little safer because of him, it was all worth it.

Peter pushed himself to stand properly, swinging to the roof a couple streets away that he knew had a small sheltered area he could hide from the cold in. Landing on gravel and wincing at the push and pull on his injuries, Peter huddled up under the metal slats covered in wood, and curled as far into himself as he could.

He shuddered as a cold wind flowed into the small space, chilling him to his bones. Having said that, it was warmer here than just outside; some of the heat from inside seemed to leak out and provided some small comfort. So, an improvement.

Closing his eyes, Peter tried to keep his mind off the cold, the hunger, the loneliness. He focused on happy memories, ignoring how empty he’d inevitably feel in the cold light of day.

Shouting. 

Crashing.

The smell of alcohol and sweat. Wind knocked from aching lungs. Lying, huddled in a pile of blood and tears on the floor.

Gunshot. Hot and cold. Dying. Fading.

Metal screeching on metal. Screaming. Sound cut off.

Crying. Aching loneliness. So very alone. Everyone, dead. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault-

Peter jolted awake, breathing heavily as he forced heavy eyelids open to the unwelcome sight of the late morning sun. He pushed himself up from the ground, sitting on lukewarm concrete. It’s okay, he reassured himself, it was just a nightmare .

He swallowed down bile as a lump formed in his throat.

But it wasn’t just a dream, was it? Because it’s all true. They died, and it’s your fault. Your fault. Your-

Cutting off the thought, Peter forced himself to focus on the noises of the city around him. Cars driving through streets with not much traffic. Early morning joggers. Pigeons cooing across the road. He stood, stretching with a groan as he felt the familiar aches and pains that came from sleeping on concrete.

There was only one way to get rid of the early morning thoughts - the random strings of irritating sentences and guilt-ridden accusations that he knew, logically, came from his own mind, but that felt more like an invasion. They forced their way in and spoke endlessly until he got up and moved and did something.

And that something would be a quick patrol on his way to the apartment.

Shaking his head to clear his mind of the last of the thoughts, he stepped from the shelter and jumped off the rooftop; he allowed himself to fall for one blissful moment, wind streaking past his ears- and then he cast a web and caught himself, pulling up and letting go once again, shooting another web at the apex of his jump.

It did the job, quickly ridding him of any unwanted thoughts (well, now he could at least ignore them). Peter was used to this, after all; he barely had any nightmare-less nights these days, which partially contributed to his general lack of sleep. Anyway, he knew how to deal with them.

…well, mostly.

Some days were still bad. There were days where he listened to the thoughts for longer than he wanted. Days where they were too loud to be drowned out, or he was too tired - or injured - to swing across the city to get rid of them. Those days, he lay on the apartment’s rotting wooden floorboards - or whatever rooftop he’d camped out on - and listened numbly as tears pricked absentmindedly at his eyes.

And then there were the worst days. The days where he not only listened, but believed them, at least on some level. Those times, he’d curl up in a tight ball, wracked with tearless sobs, disgusted with himself. They’re right , he’d think, venom dripping from each word in his mind, You’re a curse. You ruin everything and everyone you touch. It’d be better if you didn’t exist-

But today was not a bad day.

Luckily, today, the thoughts poured away like sand through his fingers; washed away by the tides. And so, he let them go. He took a deep breath of city air as buildings rushed past and blurred. Soon enough, Peter was back at the apartment, sliding through the window and skidding to a stop on the dusty floor.

Huffing contentedly, he pulled off the mask and grabbed a water bottle, chugging it greedily. He hadn’t drank much last night - having not taken enough for as long a patrol as it ended up being. Silently, Peter chastised himself. He thought he’d learned his lesson on one of the many nights his tongue had ended feeling like sandpaper, but apparently not.

Despite the voice in his mind telling him not to, Peter pulled open the floorboard and grabbed a snack bar, eating it before he could change his mind.

He couldn’t be effective as Spider-Man if he was starving, he told himself, half-pretending he wasn’t already malnourished and on the verge of starvation. That was one of the big downsides of being his type of enhanced, as well as homeless: the metabolism. He needed about three times as much food as the average person, but had access to a third as much.

That resulted in a lot of hunger pains, and a slowly decreasing weight.

Peter took a glance at the few bits of canned food, the water bottles, and the bag of chips he’d managed to find, (unopened! Crazy what people threw out, when they weren’t worried about starving.) and sighed. The tiny ‘salary’ from Mr Pilmore was nowhere near enough. Looks like it’s time to pull out my photography skills , he chuckled dryly as he grabbed an old, falling-apart camera, and pulled his mask back on.

A few hours later, Peter was a few polaroids lighter and $60 heavier. Which was great, that was food for another week or two, if he stuck to buying things in bulk and cans. Sure, he got sick of the lingering taste of metal pretty quick, but it was the cheapest thing possible, and at least it was somewhat healthy.

Sure, it felt pretty weird, taking pictures of himself (Spider-Man) and then selling them to some newspaper journalist from the Daily Bugle , whose favorite pastime seemed to be slandering said vigilante. But, hey! It was easy money, and he wasn’t really hurting anyway if he was aiding in his own slander.

To be honest, he wasn’t sure why Jameson was so set on presenting Spider-Man as a “dangerous menace”, (his words, not Peter’s) but the obsession got Peter a good chunk of money every once in a while, so he wasn’t about to complain.

Still, he didn’t really take advantage of it, it felt off, and Peter wasn’t super happy to see the newest article calling him out and saying he should be locked away. But, for now, it had paid for his lunch for the foreseeable future, (Peter didn’t have the luxury to plan beyond a few weeks, he was too busy staying alive) and he was content.

The day was going alright, so far; Peter was wandering the streets in his civilian clothing, hood up, looking for any possible sales or job offers he could take advantage of, when his spidey-sense started screaming. Of course, he’d jinxed it.

Sighing, Peter focused his senses on the surrounding area, no longer tuning out the chatter of the city, eyes scanning the crowds for any potential threats. Suddenly, he froze. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted someone he’d seen often, though nowadays more in his nightmare.

The sounds of the crowd began to fade and muddle together, heartbeat growing loud in his ears as the all-too-familiar fear began crawling up his throat. He knew this fear; he was acquainted with it quite well.

It was the fear of hearing the door slam a tad too loud as an atmosphere of irritation filled the house. It was curling up on the furthest corner of the bed, hoping they’d just go to sleep, or pass out drunk. It was cold nights and colder sweats listening to the growing sound of footsteps approaching the door. And it was gasping for air, defenceless, and looking at the person who’s supposed to protect you .

Except they were never going to. 

Because the moment he stepped foot in whatever house or ratty apartment he was set to stay in next, he knew. He could smell the scent of day-old beer subtly lining their clothes, could feel the way their handshakes and ‘comforting’ squeezes to his shoulder were cold and uncaring. Nothing like the warm, kind, caring feeling of his Aunt or Uncle. Not like the hazy, golden outline of long-forgotten memories surrounding his parents.

Peter could feel his heart pound louder and faster with every passing moment and it hurt - because why was he still afraid?

He was Spider-Man. Strong. Powerful. Protector. He helped people, saved them from people like them .

And yet, as Peter twisted on his heel and speed-walked in the other direction, - using all his self control not to break into a full out sprint, as if somehow that would alert them, and they’d know, they’d know - as he felt his breath quicken and his heart pound in his ears, as if he could feel his very blood vibrate with it, he didn’t feel like Spider-Man.

He felt lost, and alone.

He felt small and defenceless and broken.

He wasn’t Spider-Man. He wasn’t strong, or powerful or brave. He didn’t fight the bad guys.

He was Peter Parker. And Peter Parker ran.

He ran when his parents died, hiding in a wardrobe amongst piles of fallen clothes that were all so very foreign because none of them were his . Because his home wasn’t his home anymore and the closest he could get was cradling a dress or shirt in hopes of smelling a familiar perfume or cologne - holding them close even long after the scents faded.

He ran when his Uncle died, pushing away the grief and burying himself in layers of falsehood and fake nonchalance even as his smiles lost their luster and the world flew by in blurred monochrome.

He ran when his Aunt died, locking away his heart and using Spider-Man as an escape - only to become himself in the dead of night as he tried to outrun the haunting thoughts that chased him across the rooftops when none but the moon and stars could witness his cowardice.

When the pain got too much to bear, Peter would turn on his heel and run the other way.

And so he ran.

The world muted as wind whipped his hair across his skin, dust particles cutting his face as he shoved past people and skidded to turn corners as fast as possible. He had no thoughts but to escape , to sprint and forget that anything existed beyond the ground pounding beneath his feet and his heartbeat echoing in his ears, panicked breaths hitching and struggling as his lungs burned from lack of air.

He wasn’t sure how long it’d been before he became aware of his surroundings once more, but he found himself standing on the sidewalk in an empty street, heart beating out of his chest. Holding himself up against a wall, he slid into an alley as he felt bile rise; he forced himself to stand as he retched a stream of stomach acid and the pitiful amount of food he’d eaten recently.

Throat burning with an awful acidic taste, he pushed himself to the opposite wall before he collapsed - soundless, tearless sobs wracking his body as he wrapped his arms tightly around his middle.

A new wave of panic swept over him without explanation, and his stomach tightened rigidly. His breaths began to quicken once again. His eyes searched the alley desperately for something, something -

Five things you can see.

The dark, dark alley. His own, shivering hands, gripping at fabric for comfort like a coward- No, no! Focus. A puddle of sick, sitting across from him, taunting his weakness- Focus. The blue sky, tinged with gray. A pigeon, sitting on the rooftop above, cooing gently.

Four things you can feel.

Cold, seeping into his bones from the concrete. The burning on his tongue, reminding him of- Stay on task. Shivers coursing through his body. Fabric bunching under his hands.

Three things you can hear.

His pounding heartbeat, loud in his ears. People laughing, a few blocks away. Water, flowing through pipes.

Two things you can smell.

Vomit, strong and nearly overpowering. Car fumes - seeped into every corner of the city.

One thing you can taste.

Stomach acid, rancid and biting on his tongue.

The only thing he could taste right now.

A shudder ran across his skin at the thought of the event, guilt and shame following suit. Now that the panic had subsided, he was left with a hollowness that those emotions had come to fill. Peter cursed under his breath. He was weak. So very weak.

Ashamed, he closed his eyes tight. He thought he’d become stronger, overall. Even when he wasn’t Spider-Man. He thought some of the bravery would have bled over into Peter Parker. Thought that fighting crimes as a vigilante-slash-superhero would help him. Most of all, Peter thought he wasn’t scared anymore.

Sure, he’d had nightmares, - in fact, he could barely remember the last time he slept properly, with no interruption - but he’d stopped breaking down at the sight of a gun. He’d stopped wincing at every raised voice. He’d gotten better.

He was wrong, so it seems.

As always , Peter thought bitterly, the smell of bile and half-digested food wafted towards him, and he groaned, pushing himself to his feet. He pulled out a water bottle from his backpack, taking a swig and clearing the worst of the taste.

Stepping from the alley, he glanced around before pulling up his hood, (which had fallen down at some point, much to his dismay) and taking quick steps towards the nearby park, hoping the fresh air would clear his mind.

A few minutes later, and he’d stepped across the threshold - the gray-blue hues of the city quickly drowned out by bright greens. It was one of the larger parks in the area, and Peter was grateful for its existence; walking through nature had always calmed him.

He took a deep breath, walking further in and letting his feet guide him to the usual spot. Soon enough, Peter stood beneath the large bows of a towering oak tree, and quickly climbed up into its branches, taking a seat near the top.

Webbing his bag to the trunk with the web shooters practically permanently on his wrists, he looked out over the cityscape, taking in the feel of a chill breeze on his skin. He closed his eyes gently, allowing the feel of the tree gently rocking in the wind to bring him comfort.

Here, he could relax. Here, he wasn’t Peter Parker, or Spider-Man, or an orphan, or a runaway, or a starving, tired, homeless, kid. Here, sitting amongst the birds that sang out a sweet cacophony of sounds, feeling the rough bark through his clothes, he wasn’t any of those.

Up among the leaves, he was nothing. And he could deal with that.

*

Another day, another predicament over food. Peter’s stash was replenished now, thanks to the pictures, but he still didn’t like to diminish his supply. Who knew when he’d be fired by Mr Pilmore, - replaced by someone he could pay even less, someone whose life didn’t depend on the money - or Jameson would get over his weird vendetta and stop paying for the pictures?

Or what if he desperately needed something for his web shooters, or something else Spider-Man related, and he didn’t have the money for it? Parker luck could strike at any moment, and Peter couldn’t risk being left stranded, with no backup cash, just to take the edge of his hunger pains.

He could deal with the pain, after all. It’d become background noise, at this point - sort of like how the constant conversations in a crowd had, once he’d gained some control over his powers and enhanced senses. Peter’s life was an amalgamation of pain and cruel hope that was stripped away a moment after it was given. Pain was normal; it was expected. 

So Peter sighed, replacing the floorboards and drinking some water to take the edge off. Maybe some patrolling would get his mind off it.

Sure, he knew - logically - that it would just make it worse, all that exercise and adrenaline coursing through his veins. But it felt good and, in the moment, it helped him forget. That was all Peter could ask for, at this point. Just getting through, one day at a time. He’d deal with long-term problems when he could see himself living past the short-term.

For now, Spider-Man.

Peter pulled on the suit, anticipating the rush of adrenaline as he soared above the rooftops. He grinned; patrols were the highlights of his days.

A few hours later, and Peter let out a low hum. His legs dangling over the edge of the rooftop he was currently perched on.

It'd been another quiet day. Sure, he liked it once in a while, but it got boring quick. Especially when he’d been counting on preventing crime to keep his mind off other topics.

He knew he should be glad, (people weren’t being hurt!) but he couldn’t help but shake the feeling of wariness itching in the back of his mind. Maybe they were getting hurt, he was just too far away. Or maybe it was the prelude to something terrible and dangerous.

Silence usually meant something big and bad was brewing on the horizon, after all. It was like how people say animals are always the first to know of a disaster. Well, petty criminals tended to be the first to see big crime coming. If only Peter had that ability.

He was sighing again, pushing himself lazily to his feet as he decided to try another part of the city when, suddenly, he felt his spider-sense (as he'd dubbed it) buzz urgently. He twisted around, hearing heavy footsteps. Wait. Was that-

Captain America stepped onto the rooftop across from him, and Peter had to scramble to avoid falling back down at the shock. Steve Rogers was right in front of him, in his superhero suit.

"Uhhhh-" Peter said eloquently, looking around.

A somewhat stern look crossed the Captain’s face, "Hi, Spider-Man. That is your name, isn't it?"

Peter just nodded mutely, wondering silently if he'd hit his head swinging over here.

"I’ll get right into this,” the Captain continued, “I’d like you to come with me to the Tower.”

Gulping down a wave of panic that rose at the idea of going to Avengers Tower, Peter sheepishly rubbed the nape of his neck, "As great as that sounds, Captain Rogers, sir, I'm gonna have to decline. Secret identity and all."

The ghost of a smile dropped off the Captain's face in an instant, causing Peter to wince and step back slightly, "That’s not going to work, Spider-Man. It was fine when you were small-time - helping old ladies and fighting the occasional mugger, but now we need to ensure you’re not a threat of some sort."

Peter moved further backwards as the man took off his large, deadly shield and stepped forward a bit, "You’re in the big leagues now, and we need to know we can trust you. Make sure you're not planning to turn around and cause trouble. You understand me, son?"

Peter's mouth went dry, pure terror rising sharply as he cursed under his breath. He should’ve listened to that feeling, should’ve gone back to the apartment. Now he was being cornered by an Avenger, demanding him to basically announce his identity. After that, it would only be a matter of time before CPS got involved. And then it was back into the system. Not happening.

 "Yeahhhh," he dragged out, glancing behind him, "thanks for the invitation and all, but I uh, well my identity's pretty important to me, and I'm not in a rush to show anyone what's under the mask." he looked back down to the streets once again, gauging the right time to run, before sliding his foot near the edge of the roof, "I'll see you around, though."

The hard look that crossed the Captain's face in that moment made Peter hesitate for a moment, fear gnawing at his gut like a rabid animal. Suddenly, he dropped into a low stance as his spidey-sense screamed at him to DUCK , reaching up and grabbing a dart aimed for his neck.

He looked at the small projectile, then back at Steve - now quite surprised - with a look of shock and fear, "You're trying to tranq me?" he asked incredulously.

Not waiting for an answer, he leaped forward as another dart came flying for him. The shield came flying towards him at the same time, causing Peter to swiftly jump and twist out of the way, flinging out a web at the Captain's shield, pinning it to a wall as he front-flipped over him. ”Come now and we can forget about this resistance.” The Captain said, harsh tone audible, "No hard feelings, Spider-Man." 

" 'No hard feelings?'" Peter asked, just as incredulous, as he dodged a flurry of darts, and spotted the source, - Hawkeye - throwing a web to block up the device he'd been using to shoot them, "Know the meaning of 'no', Cap? Cuz you don't seem to be taking it well."

The Captain frowned, "I wanted to do this the easy way, son. You chose this."

Peter forced out a chuckle as he dodged a punch from the super soldier, shooting out another web to stick one of the Captain’s feet to the ground, "Ever think of talking for more than thirty seconds before resorting to force? Or, maybe, I dunno, building up some trust?"

At that, Hawkeye shot out a projectile that was definitely not a sleeping dart, and Peter barely had time to start moving before an arrow sliced a shallow-ish trench in his arm. He hissed in pain, and gripped it tightly, blood beginning to pour from the wound. At least it was his non-dominant one.

Shooting a glare at Hawkeye and pinning him with a web, he landed lightly, on the other side of the roof from the Captain, swiftly shooting out a few more webs to lock him in place.

He looked back, full of anger, pain and irritation - as well as a touch of regret, "I guess I'm not worth that." The words were more to himself than anyone else - the meaning would be lost on them, after all - but he said them with all the venom he could muster.

Without waiting for a response, Peter flung out a web and swung out over the city.

*

Peter was pretty tired, when he pulled off his mask and ripped a length of fabric from an old, tattered t-shirt. He'd taken the roundabout way back to his 'apartment', keeping an eye out for any other Avengers in the mood to jump him. That also meant he'd spent double the time getting back, and now his arm was kind of numb.

A year ago, the wound would already be healing, fat and sinew knitting itself together. Now, though, he was always too hungry, too tired, for things to heal fast. Sure, they healed faster than the average person, but nowhere near before - back when he hadn’t worried too much about rationing, more focused on satiating the growing, unending hunger.

He’d blown through his money soon enough, and learnt a valuable lesson: constant, slight hunger is better than painful, aching starvation.He couldn’t remember a single day he hadn’t been hungry, since he got his powers. He grabbed a bottle of water and poured some onto a clean(ish) rag, trying to combat any infection caused by the bigger bits of debris and dust now in his arm - wincing at the discomfort.

Peter was pissed.

Today was not a good day.

His childhood hero had attacked him after a single rejection, and then Hawkeye shot him.

Hissing at the sudden pain from his arm - exacerbated by his rising anger - Peter shoved the bottle back on the table and pulled open his stash, grabbing a roll of duct tape and the (very bare) first-aid kit he’d found a while back. There was enough clean bandage in it to roll around his arm and stick down with the tape, trying to use as little as possible to conserve his supplies.

As the adrenaline wore off, he groaned at a newfound wave of pain. All he wanted was to curl up in a ball, wrap a lot of blankets around himself, and go to sleep. But he couldn’t; he needed to think; the Avengers had somehow heard of Spider-Man, seen what he did (helping out the little guy) and decided that he was a possible threat that could turn evil any day.

And he had no idea how the hell that misconception had occurred. Spider-Man would never hurt anyone innocent. Hell, he barely hurt the bad guys - just wrapped them up as a gift for the NYPD.

The more he thought about it, the more his gut clenched in anger, his hands balling into fists. All he wanted to do was help people. Be of some use. He dealt with the things that, sure, weren’t exactly world-ending , but they mattered. Maybe they weren’t massive, flying, alien spaceships - but they were the things that could wreck a single, precious life.

That was the thing. They weren’t literally world-ending, but they sure as hell could be, for a single person. Peter knew that from experience.

A single engine error had stolen his parents. A single bullet took his Uncle. One bad driver, and Peter was left stranded. He was talking to May, she was coming home. Lost and alone. His world had ended the moment that truck crashed.

She was on the bus. He heard the crash; the screeching of metal against metal. A sharp intake of breath. And then, silence. One mistake, and he’d been tossed into the wind, at the mercy of the tides. Thrown from foster home to foster home, left to fend for himself. Bottles breaking. Glass shattering. Fear. Pain, pain, pain. 

Peter suddenly became hyper-aware of his oncoming panic attack, breath quickened and heart rate speeding before he even knew it. His vision clouded a misty red. The Avengers didn’t care about the damage they did, the lives they destroyed. They didn’t care about the struggles people faced day-to-day, trying to survive, while they lounged in the Tower and preached being saviours.

He didn’t register the impact - didn’t realise he’d slammed his fists onto the stone counter in the run-down kitchen area - until it splintered under the force; lightning-esque cracks spreading out from the small crater his fists lay in.

They didn’t stay there for long, a sharp, aching pain spreading from his arm ensuring that. He sucked in a sudden breath through clenched teeth, and half-collapsed, half-lowered himself to the floor. He sat there for a moment - anger brewing - before it dissipated, leaving just as fast as it appeared. Peter let out a choked laugh at the absurdity of it all.

The great protectors had attacked a 16-year-old homeless kid, just trying to put some good back into a world that had abandoned him.

Some part of Peter knew it wasn’t fair to pin that on them. He knew, logically, they were people too - fallible and exhaustible. They didn’t know he was 16, (and it’d stay that way, if he had anything to say about it) didn’t know, for whatever reason, that he wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. They couldn’t work nonstop, and they couldn’t prevent every bad thing from ever happening. Still, logic wasn’t coming easily to him right now; not when they’d just cornered and shot him.

Then, the mist faded. He sighed.

As much as he’d like to hold a grudge, he couldn’t convince himself to be so very unfair. Though his hero-worship had since died out, he still had respect for the heroes. After all, he himself, even before he had become a vigilante, had discovered the hopeless feeling of being unable to save someone. It was only amplified now by the knowledge that he could prevent it.

But Peter knew there were people he’d failed, people who’d died or been mugged or worse, before he could reach them. If he ever did.

So, no, he couldn’t hold onto the irrational anger any longer - despite the strange comfort it provided. He let out a huff of resignation, hoping he could remedy the whole Avengers-kinda-sorta-hate-me thing soon. After a few minutes, he pushed himself to his feet with his one good arm, stomach growling in protest. Right. Food. That’s something he should probably deal with.

Despite his controlling mindset over conserving his stash, Peter knew he needed to eat, in order to help his body heal. That was indisputable. And so he reluctantly pulled out the camping stove, and began to heat up a can of some sort of edible soup-slash-mush. Good enough.

He tracked the jumping flames with tired eyes, mulling over the day’s events. Parker Luck had to have a limit, right? It couldn’t do too many unfortunate things in a row. He let out a dry laugh at that thought, thinking over his life. Ok, maybe don’t rely on that.

The pain had faded slightly as the days progressed, but it still flared when he put too much pressure on the arm. Still, Peter needed food; and for food, he needed money. And for money, he needed to work.

Peter may have been attacked a few days prior - and still nursing his wound - but Mr Pilmore didn’t know that, didn’t need to know that. Plus, Peter doubted he’d care, even if he knew.

So, he showed up on time for his job the next day, on time. He was polite, (overly so, as the man practically demanded) he worked quickly and quietly, snuck away a few protein bars, and collected his tiny salary. He didn’t mention the aching pain in his arm every time he lifted a particularly tricky box that required both arms; didn’t cry out when he jostled into a wall, hitting his arm and feeling a bright flash of pain as he grit his teeth.

Grabbing the money and stuffing it in his hoodie pocket, Peter decided to buy some first-aid supplies. It was time to check on the stashes he’d neglected more recently. He'd developed a habit of hiding stores of essentials around the city, in case he needed them.

After all, who knows when you’ll get shot, halfway across the city? Not Spider-Man.

It was a safer bet to scatter supplies in nooks and crannies of areas he frequented, rather than place all his eggs in one basket. They’d saved his life already, on more than one occasion. A stray bullet left untouched for a few too many hours could pose a major problem; even with his healing hindered by exhaustion and hunger, a thin layer of skin growing over the hole would invite a whole world of pain.

Peter learned that the hard way.

As it turned out, cutting into your arm to get to a bullet that had - quite stubbornly - stayed stuck in your flesh was extremely painful. He should’ve guessed that, really. But he supposed the shock and post-shooting delirium had clouded his logic.

But Peter knew, now. And so, he stocked up on the cheapest supplies he could find, and swung around the city - checking stashes, replenishing or moving those that had been destroyed, or stolen, or used up. The whole task took a good chunk of the afternoon, but left Peter feeling much more secure. It also took a good chunk of his web-fluid, and he huffed irritatedly as he noticed how low he was. His back-ups were nearly empty, too. He needed to stock up. Which meant he needed a lab.

Which meant sneaking back into Midtown High, and using the labs there.

In the early days, when he’d figured out the formula, he’d been able to make it during Chemistry class. That ended soon, along with his attendance, once things got too risky; once the police were finally alerted to his homelessness, and staked out the school.

In more recent times, he’d needed to get into the school with the crowds of schoolkids - blending in - and snake his way up to his old class, make the fluid, and get out. He couldn’t synthesise it in the apartment or outside the school, it was too dangerous to transport the supplies. Plus, he could get caught much easier that way.

So, Peter stood at the steps of his old STEM school, and took a deep breath. Pulling his hoodie further down over his face, he pushed into the doors and blended into the crowds of teenagers, all wandering the halls. It was the very beginning of break, perfect timing.

Manoeuvring his way towards the stairs, he froze as he spotted a familiar face; Ned Leeds was standing by his locker, next to Peter’s old one, and pulling out his books. Peter felt the all-too-familiar feeling of guilt filling his throat, clawing up the sides.

He wanted to go and say hi, of course he did.

It would be all too easy to walk over, wrap him in a hug, and set it all right. Apologise, properly. Not just a note scribbled on torn paper. But it wasn’t the start that was the hard part; it was what would inevitably follow. It was the lies he and Ned alike would be forced to tell, the endangerment from having loved ones. It was the CPS involvement, the foster homes… the abuse.

Ned wouldn’t understand, not really. How could he? His parents were strict, sure. But he’d never felt the fear that came, so very naturally, to Peter. The wracking sobs and tears at small things, the panic attacks that felt like the world was crushing in around him.

And so, Peter swallowed his words, pushed back the guilt, and lowered his head, fast-walking up to the chemistry labs. Every step was forced. Every breath laboured as he bit his tongue to avoid the disaster that would follow.

Pushing open the door to the lab, Peter collapsed against it as it shut. He squeezed away tears and pushed down bile, focusing on controlling his breathing.

He was making the right choice.

…right?

*

Peter’s arm stung as he knocked it against a wall, cursing under his breath. Despite the urge to curl up and sleep until the pain just went away , he did his work, stocked his stashes, made the fluid, took care of himself (well, to some extent).

And now, despite the constant ache, he needed to be Spider-Man. He couldn’t take long breaks, not if he wanted the people of Queens to be safe. Spider-Man not only stopped crimes first-hand, but he scared off potential evil-doers, which lowered crime rates and made people a lot safer. Fear was handy, in Peter’s business; the vigilante business, that is.

For the next week or so, while he was recovering, he’d need to appear sporadically; so criminals couldn’t anticipate his absence, but he could still rest. There was no relaxation on his days off, of course, just planning and scrounging and rationing. Still, it was better than nothing.

That’s why, just a few days after the attack, he was swinging over the city in his skin-tight suit. He tried to keep weight off the bad arm, somewhat unsuccessfully, as he fought and swung. This left his right arm aching, but it was better than putting more strain on it. He winced at every hit and jostle to it, gritting his teeth and thinking of the people in danger - people who needed him, and he pressed on.

That’s also why, on that first day back on patrol, he found himself in quite the predicament. Peter was taking a moment to rest on a nearby rooftop when his spidey-sense buzzed harshly, matching the approaching sound. It was one he’d heard before, on the news. He grimaced, silently apologising to his injury for the inevitable pain it’d be put through, which would set back his recovery for a while.

He spun, leaning against a metal container, and put on his best display of indifference as Tony Freaking Stark landed on the concrete, in his Iron Man suit, and stepped forward.

“Heyyy, Iron Man...” he edged closer to the side, itching to leave before this got serious, eyes glancing around for any signs of other Avengers, “listen, as much as I’d love to stay around and get, y’know, shot , my arm really wouldn’t appreciate it.”

The metal suit held up its arms in a show of non-violence as the face plate snapped back revealing - yup, absolutely terrifying and exhilarating - Tony Stark’s face, “Hi, Spidey,” he began, “My bad about my friends, they tend to get pretty jumpy. Clint says sorry, by the way.”

“Yeah,” Peter drew out the word, frowning as his eyes narrowed in disbelief, “forgive me if I don’t take that at face value.”

Tony nodded, and his suit opened with a pshh of air, stepping out, “I don’t blame you, Underoos.” (“Under-what?”) “But I’m being serious. Here’s the thing: I’m a busy guy, so I’ll cut to the chase. We found some dead bodies covered in webs, plus you stopped a speeding truck, and Steve got antsy. Drew his own conclusions. Don’t worry,” he added quickly, “we know it wasn’t you, he just didn’t wait for the coroner’s report.”

Nodding slowly, Peter let his guard down slightly as his spidey-sense didn’t alert him of any nearby threats, “Ok, then.” he crossed his arms, wincing slightly at the motion as it tugged at the wound, “Why’re you here then? Why come find me?”

“Well, although Cap went about it the complete wrong way,” he sighed at that, “I would like to say that the invite is open anytime; drop by the Tower sometime, meet the team. I know you have no reason to trust us,” he added the last part at Peter’s obvious suspicion, “but I’d like to be able to, at some point. You’re strong, and flexible, and people trust you - mostly. You’d be great to work with.”

Peter looked Tony up and down, noting the distinct lack of threats or weapons, “Maybe I will.” he said shortly. He shot out a web from his uninjured wrist before continuing, “Next time, try building some trust before shooting someone, huh?”

With that, he dropped one foot off the edge and let himself fall until the web caught him with a hard tug and he swung in an upwards arc. His logic and instincts were at war in his gut; one trusted the hero’s open stance and calm demeanor, the other screaming insecurities and warnings of betrayal - though it was hard to tell which was which anymore, or even which should be trusted over the other.

The logic said they could’ve brought the whole team to take Spider-Man in - but it also said that would bring unwanted attention and create tension. His instincts could read dishonesty in shifting movements and heartbeats, but they also raised his hackles at the thought of trusting someone - especially after the earlier incident.

Peter let the dust-riddled air fill his lungs and whip past him, numbing the pain in his arm with a cold that seeped through the suit’s material.

It was familiar, painful, and far easier than searching for answers that wouldn’t appear. And, above all, it felt right . 

Chapter Text

Despite the nice chat with Tony goddamn Stark, (Peter still wasn’t quite over that, he’d always admired the man for his genius) Peter’s reality was mostly unchanged. After all, talking to a billionaire once didn’t mean he wasn’t struggling to survive.

Still, it was nice to know he didn’t have to worry about the Avengers hunting him down or something - though Peter wasn’t quite sure how far he could trust Tony’s words. He was, after all, a complete stranger; no matter how many of the man’s papers he’d read, or how many conferences he’d watched, Peter had only spoken to him once.

And that was when Tony was apologising for his friends attacking and then shooting Peter. Well, Spider-Man.

Either way, Tony really hadn’t given Peter any solid reasons to trust him, and Peter knew the consequences of giving trust too easily or too quickly. It was something that, not unlike the whole skin-growing-over-a-bullet-in-his-side thing, he’d learned the hard way.

It was a lesson branded into his skin through broken glass and bruised ribs, through hard fists and stifled whimpers at 3am. It wasn’t one he was willing to drop so easily, just because Tony Stark waved his hand and said some magic words. No way.

Shaking his head briefly, Peter focused on the task at hand - which was, admittedly, not all that important.

Currently, Peter was threading some new details onto his suit in an effort to hide the most recent gashes. He’d had limited success, but that was ok. Peter was used to working with what he could, and dealing with the issues he couldn’t patch up.

He knew the press had some theories (with varying levels of insanity and accuracy) about his constantly shifting suit design, but he wasn’t too bothered. As long as people could recognise him as Spider-Man, that was all that mattered.

His suit wasn’t built with protection in mind, in the first place. It was made to protect his identity, be recognisable - giving peace of mind to the good guys, and a general sense of unease to the bad ones - and not interfere with his work. And it was effective.

To victims and officers: the blue and red meant freedom, safety and assistance. To criminals and lowlives: it meant to beware, to run and hide and hope you could get away in time.

Peter didn’t quite understand the level of fear he seemed to command from some criminals; he never killed, and barely hurt beyond small wounds that would heal with relative ease. He shrugged it off though, taking it as the fear of being caught and thrown into jail.

There wasn’t enough time in the day to care, let alone worry , about the thoughts running through the minds of the people he locked up. He’d learnt long ago there was little logic to be found there.

The ironic thing was that Peter, in truth, had far too much free time. Without school, a day job or a solid routine, he generally spent his days alternating between the library, patrolling, walking aimlessly, or repairing the damage dealt to him by criminals.

He tried to keep his hands busy, hoping it would distract his mind, to varying levels of success. Sometimes, all it took was an old electronic that could do with some restoration to clear away the thoughts, lapsing into a focused silence for hours.

Other times, though, it was as if there were crowds of people living in his mind. They would shout and scream and cry and pound on his skull. Thoughts would race around, as if thrown by a hurricane. And with all that came the memories. Because sometimes, the people in his mind were criminals, or victims he’d failed to save - at least from the worst of the crime - and that Peter could deal with, mostly.

It was the memories of his (ex) loved ones that haunted him most in those moments. Images of his parents’ plane crashing from the sky, or his Uncle Ben bleeding out in his arms, or Aunt May’s voice cutting off as metal crushed her under its weight. It was the foreboding nightmares of Ned or MJ, life fading from their eyes.

As if they were a premonition of things to come; empty, soulless eyes screaming it’s your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault-

Right now, to Peter’s irritated dismay, was one of those times.

Curling up against a heating unit on some apartment building halfway across the city, he shuddered at each silent utterance of the words, as if their mere repetition would make it true. Or, worse, the thought that it was already true, but he was in denial, plagued his mind as a shiver ran down his spine.

Damnit , Peter spat out, venom directed to himself, to his own, torturous mind, god-fucking-damnit. How useless. A vigilante who can’t even get over himself to help people. Fucking perfect.

Sometimes, if the voices were loud enough and the guilt heavy enough, - clawing its way up his dry throat - he’d start to believe them. It was hard not to, after all, when it was all he could hear. Even with his superhearing, the rest of the world seemed muffled in comparison to the images and sounds his mind readily supplied.

Worst of all, Peter couldn’t run from this. He couldn’t escape his own mind, or find comfort away from it. He was stuck, listening to the mindless parroting of those words, above all else.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. 

And so - despite the logic in his mind, despite the echoing reassurances from the people he’d once been close to - he couldn’t help but believe. With that, came a crashing wave of guilt and overwhelming nausea.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

He swallowed down bile that rose far too quickly, and groaned as he heard a disturbance close by. No matter what, Spider-Man had to go on. His own issues and mistakes couldn’t cause others to suffer, not anymore. He wouldn’t let it happen.

Your fault. Your fault. 

Therefore, Peter pushed himself up from the cold stone and warm-tinged air, and dropped off the side of the building, shooting out a web to swing himself to the fight. The wind whipped by his ears, but all he could hear was a constant ringing, and those two words.

Your fault.

*

When Peter spotted the Avengers fighting in downtown Queens later that day, the words were still humming in the back of his mind, but he pushed them down like he did with all other background noise, swung into the battle.

He kicked a floating bot out of the sky, sending it crashing towards the pavement - caught by a web and lowered slowly before it could damage the concrete below. Peter twisted through the air and landed on the side of the building.

Can’t let it hurt people. If it hurts someone it’s your fault, your fault, your fault-

“Hey, Spidey, decide to join us?” Tony asked as he fired repulsor rounds at the bots, Peter preventing them from hitting the buildings with his webs.

“Looked like you could use some help,” Peter shrugged, then smirked, “plus, this is Queens, it’s my turf. Gotta make sure it’s safe.”

Your responsibility. Otherwise it’s your fault, your fault, your fault.

“‘ Turf’ ?” Tony’s tone was laced with amusement.

Peter rolled his eyes, “It’s a vigilante thing. Keeps us from bothering each other, keeps more of the city protected.” he paused to jump onto a bot, rip off the plating, and web its lifeless husk against a lamppost, “Works fine.”

If it happens outside your area, it’s not your fault. But it is your fault, in the end. Because you could’ve helped. Your fault. Your fault.

Feeling his spider-sense spike, he whipped around just as a bot flying towards him was impaled by an arrow. Peter looked at the source of it, seeing a still slightly guilt-ridden Clint looking up and nodded shortly. Peter returned it, and went back to his routine with the webs and bots.

Tony hummed slightly, “Fair enough.”

Smirking, Peter took out a few more bots, but focused more on webbing up any ones the Avengers took down and sent flying without much thought to the collateral damage they could cause.

He still avoided the rest of them, mostly, staying closer to Iron Man when he could, and ignoring Captain America’s attempts at speaking to him. Peter winced as he didn’t manage to catch a bot in time, and it crashed with a small explosion on the concrete below, scorching it.

It irked Peter, that the so-called heroes of the city (and really, the world) seemed not to understand the concept of responsibility, or blame, when it came to the destruction they caused. Sure, they saved people, but they could minimise their damage a lot further with not too much effort.

As the fight wound down to an end, Peter decided to mention that. He sat, perched, next to Tony as the man surveyed the area for remaining bots, faceplate obscuring his face.

“Y’know,” Peter began, “you guys could really tone it down with the whole unhinged destruction thing.”

The Iron Man faceplate whirred open,  apparently content that all the bots were incapacitated, and he shot Peter a sideways glance, “What?”

“I’m just saying,” Peter continued, ignoring the obvious irritation lacing Tony’s voice, pushing himself lightly to his feet and walking carefully along the very edge of the building, “you never seem to consider that, with a little bit of effort, you could seriously lower the amount of property damage you cause - without ruining your effectivity, of course.” he added the last part on as he did a little flip and began walking back the other way.

Tony turned to look at him now, a look of annoyance on his face, “We save the city from dangerous threats every other week, and you’re worried about property damage?” he sounded incredulous. Peter supposed he was, he doubted many people questioned Tony Stark - let alone Iron Man.

Luckily, Peter was not your average person. He’d struggled to survive for long enough that he knew how fundamentally that sort of property damage could do to a family.

It meant more bills, if it wasn’t quite covered by insurance. It meant losing precious things, whether they be worth anything monetarily, or sentimentally. It meant cutting back on food, and trips to the cinema, and staying out later to work a second job. It meant struggling with all that, on top of the possible grief of dead loved ones. 

Peter supposed Tony didn’t realise that, what with his masses of wealth. It was likely the man was somewhat disconnected from the reality of the people living around him. Oh well, time for Peter to enlighten him, then.

Making a vague gesture across the city, Peter paused his pacing to look at Tony, “I knew this kid. His family, they lived over there, a few dozen blocks away. There was this big fight, and the usual amount of casualties and damage,” he sighed slightly at the memory.

“I doubt you remember it much. For them, it was world-ending. For you, it must’ve been just another day. Just another successful mission. See, the eldest kid died in the attack - not your fault, I know - and they were already struggling with money. She’d picked up some extra jobs to help out with bills and stuff. Nice girl, always looking out for people. So they were grieving, of course. But that wasn’t the worst part.” he paused, wincing.

“During the battle, their home was wrecked. But they didn’t have the money to find another place, or to pay off the interest on the loans they’d had to take out. They’d only managed to afford the place because they were friends with the landlord. But he died, too.”

Peter scoured the cityscape, remembering the boy he’d met in a foster home, all that time ago, and wondered if he was better off than he’d been back then, still wracked with grief and rage and trauma.

“The mom fucked off to who knows where, and the dad fell in with the wrong crowd, got addicted to some bad shit. The kids were whisked off, into the system. And yeah, you might think that’s good - kids survived, at least, right?” he let out a dry, humorless laugh, “But I think it’s no secret there are some fucked up people out there, fostering delicate kids. Kids who’ve seen and lived through far too much.

“He never blamed you guys, as far as I know. I think he blamed himself, on some level, for not helping more, or not being able to stop things from going the way they did.

“The thing is, Stark, that might just be concrete and support beams to you; but to them, it’s home. Possibly the only one they have. Just…” Peter trailed off, eyes finding Tony’s as he spoke, “think about that, next time. Before you try to shift the blame, completely.”

Before you deny that it isn’t your fault , his mind supplied harshly, but he shook away the thought with a quick jerk of the head. It was too cruel to dwell on.

Without allowing himself to read the emotion swirling in Tony’s face, Peter gave a small, two-fingered salute, and jumped off the building in a backflip, swinging himself across the city.

His mind was mostly quiet, now, at least. The words had decided to stop tormenting him for a bit, now replaced with the bitter memories of the boy he’d lived with, if only for a few weeks. They’d bonded, over the trauma and guilt they both carried, and Peter hoped the boy’d be proud of him for saying that to Tony Stark himself.

Once that house was gone, the rest of his friend’s life had fallen away as well; like knocking out the keystone support. And all he was left with was empty, lifeless hope, slowly diminishing in the daylight. Peter could understand that.

And so, with a quick drop and feeling of weightlessness, Peter flung himself into the city. Today, he was filled with newfound determination at the thought of his friend. He was Spider-Man, and Spider-Man could protect people; he could prevent them from suffering similar fates to himself and all those other kids in foster care. Or, at least, could minimise their suffering that night. That was something, right?

Remember the small things, he assured himself. That’s what friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man did. He looked after the little guy, took care of the problems the bigger heroes didn’t have time to handle. Not world-ending, but life-ending. Family-ending. World-ending on a non-literal scale, when everything comes crashing down around you and you feel hopelessly lost, drowning in a sea of apathetic faces and paperwork.

Peter knew what it felt like to have your world destroyed.

He also knew what it was like to be seen as just another statistic, to be looked at as another problem to be dealt with. Which is why he never treated anyone else with anything less than respect and decency – except for the worst of the worst scum, the ones who did the world-ending and didn’t even blink.

Even then, though, Spider-Man didn’t kill, didn’t torture. He was a beacon of light. He showed that you could do good, without causing unnecessary harm and adding more blood into the pool.

That had a tendency to get him in trouble, but it was a small price to pay for what it brought into the world. But it was easy to think that, starting out a night of patrol with a fresh mind and plenty of energy. It was much more frustrating at the end of it, when he had to deal with the after-effects of rarely causing more harm than necessary.

Peter groaned, dropping his head into his hands as he inspected the damage done to his Spider-Man suit. It was a disaster. There were massive chunks of fabric missing in several places, and long rips riding up and down the sides. He groaned again, louder, flopping into his pile of blankets - as if announcing his frustrations to the world would remedy the situation in some way.

It did not.

Instead when, a few minutes later, he stood up and looked at the suit once again, it just seemed even worse, somehow. This wasn’t a quick-fix situation. This was a ‘I really need a whole new suit and fast’ sort of thing. Except, one glaring flaw in that plan. He didn’t have the money or resources for that.

He sighed begrudgingly as he pulled up the floorboards and got out his sewing kit and some stray bits of fabric. That would have to do for now, at least until he got a big payday with some sort of job, or he found another spandex-like suit lying in a dumpster, conveniently his size.

Yeah, not something to hedge his bets on happening again.

That wasn’t even the end of it, though. Alongside the damage to his suit, Peter’d had to use a crap ton of medical supplies from multiple of his stashes during the patrol that day, as well as some of the main stuff in the apartment.

So now he was aching, in pain from what had caused the gashes in his suit in the first place, having to sew up the wreckage of his suit, hungry as hell, and severely lacking to fix any of his problems - at least properly. He grabbed a few protein bars in between sewing different rips, figuring he could really do with eating after the day he’d had.

This was one of the times he really envied the Avengers. Sure, he was jealous of them a lot of the time, most people were. But right now, he envied the almost bottomless well of money and comfort provided to them by one Tony Stark.

He doubted the Avengers had to choose between patching up their suits and eating, or spent nights digging out bullets in an abandoned apartment complex, shivering from shock and cold. Speaking of the cold, it was really beginning to set in. The apartment was providing very little protection these days, and his heap of blankets really didn’t do much.

Peter was well aware that his living situation was far from ideal, and even more aware that it really couldn’t last into the winter. Last year had been alright, since he’d at least been warm, even if he was hungry. This year, he was both cold and ravenous. Not a great combination.

Suddenly feeling the cold set into his bones, Peter shivered violently and rushed over to his make-shift sleeping area, pulling the blankets close. He really wasn’t looking forward to the winter. He just prayed it didn’t snow.

*

It was a few weeks later, while Peter was unboxing the stock for Mr Pilmore, that he saw the results of his rooftop conversation with Tony. Namely, in the form of a press conference playing at a slight buzz on the TV sticking out from the top corner behind the cash register. Honing in on the low noise coming from the pixelated screen, he smiled slightly at what he heard.

“Mr Stark!” said, presumably, a reporter in the crowd, “What made you want to implement this strategy?”

“I had quite the wake up call, recently, from a young man,” Tony’s unmistakable voice began, “he reminded me that the after-effects of a battle aren’t just limited to deaths, or property damage. They manifest in ways that can destroy a family. And that matters.

“So, since I certainly have the money and the means for it, I thought ‘Hey! Why not make more of a difference, in the ways that matter.’ And thus was born the Stark Program for Damage Reconstructions. Fitting, I think.” He flashed a smile to the camera that Peter spotted out of the corner of his eye as he let the voices fade into background noise.

SPDR… SPIDER… Spider-Man , Peter thought, shaking his head with a small smile as he got back to work, guy loves his acronyms.

After a bit of research at the local library, he found that SPDR’s aim was to help people affected by the battles get back on their feet after extreme loss - be it property or person - by setting up shelters and a variety of other things. Basically, Peter concluded, it’ll try to stop those things happening again.

It was a bittersweet feeling, knowing that far fewer people would have to suffer the same fate as his friend. It was good, and yet… Peter couldn’t help but wonder if this couldn’t have been done years ago? If it was really that simple, how was it ever overlooked? He knew Tony donated plenty of money to rebuilding efforts, he supposed the man had just never spared the human side enough of a glance. And that, that was fucked.

But Peter knew, better than most, not to look a gift-horse in the mouth. It was happening now, and that’s what mattered. So, he sighed, and tried to focus on that, instead.

He was also reminded of Tony’s strange words in the few battles he’d helped the Avengers out with, and smirked slightly as he realised what the man had meant. He’d said something along the lines of asking if Peter (well, Spidey) liked acronyms, and having taken what he said to heart.

Peter had fought alongside the team several times now - though he still, quite pointedly, avoided the Captain and Hawkeye. He hadn’t exactly given the pair a chance to apologise, but he got the feeling they were sorry. He was starting to warm up to the idea of it not all being a massive trap, seeing as none of them had attempted to jump him at any point. There hadn’t been many more extended conversations, most interactions consisting of a few, short quips.

So, Peter was pleasantly surprised at Tony having really listened to him. Maybe he’d been paying too much attention to the media’s slander about the billionaire – he scolded himself at that, he should really know better.

Pushing himself back from the desk as the computer turned off, the chair squeaking slightly against the floor, Peter stood, pulling his hood up from when it’d fallen to his shoulders. He was tired, and hungry, and in the mood to read. He’d always liked reading, and his friendship with MJ had only encouraged the habit.

He didn’t stick to one category, though, unlike how MJ tended to mainly read classics. One day, he’d be soaking in tales of dragons and knights and heroic deeds; the next, it’d be a scientific text published by some famous doctor of some sort.

Most of his favorites in that area - and the one he found himself pausing at as his fingers traced along the shelves - were by one Dr Bruce Banner. He was amazing, with his 7 PhDs and many, many scientific journals filled with theory after theory.

Proven, disproven, neither, it didn’t matter. They were always fascinating to pour over for hours, often until he was kicked out at closing time. He knew most people loved Dr Banner for the Hulk, but Peter was pretty indifferent to it. The Hulk was cool, sure, but Bruce Banner? He was on another level.

Peter rarely found mistakes in Dr Banner’s works, too – unlike some of the others whose work he read consistently. It’s not like he was criticising them; the things some of these scientists were studying or trying to prove were extremely advanced, even for their fields - and mistakes were expected, in their pursuits.

It was the people who could accept their mistake, fix it, and move on that impressed Peter. And Dr Banner was one of them. In fact, Peter himself had emailed the man once (under the pseudonym Dr Parker Richardson ) with one of these rare errors that he’d found in the man’s most recent work on Green Energy Alternatives.

He’d expected some push back, to be honest - if he even got a reply, that is. Instead, what he got was a sincere ‘thank you’, and a request to discuss things with him - as well as to credit him.

Of course, Peter had to decline - he couldn’t exactly say he was some 14-year-old kid from Queens reading in his spare time to procrastinate a history project. Still, he appreciated it and his respect for the man only grew. 

In fact, Peter kept infrequent contact with the Bruce Banner, occasionally giving his input for an idea or project. He didn’t want to overstep, or sound overconfident or cocky, but Dr Banner assured him that he appreciated it all (and who was Peter to argue with that?).

So, when Peter decided to spend a good chunk of his day huddled in a beanbag chair in the library reading over some of Dr Banner’s work - he decided to send off an email with a suggestion to improve the efficiency of a power source he was working on; signing it, of course, Dr Parker Richardson .

Peter felt somewhat guilty over lying about the Dr title, seeing as Dr Banner had earned his, but he’d wanted to be considered, not instantly ignored. Plus, it was too late to say anything now.

Leaning back in the chair as he, once again, turned off the computer, Peter stretched out his back and checked the time. Close to closing for the library. He sighed, soaking in the warmth for a moment before pulling his hoodie close around himself and stepping out into the cold. His breath visible as it puffed out in icy clouds, he was instantly hit by a blast of cool air.

He shivered, and began fast walking down the streets in the general direction of the apartment. So far, too busy with work and sewing up holes in his suit, he hadn’t patrolled (well, unless you counted staying out until 3am the previous night, only to lay down for a few hours of fitful sleep) so he’d go out once he got back.

Peter sped up his pace, anxious to get out again - this time as Spider-Man. He didn’t like to miss a night.

As full as his thoughts were with his vigilante-ism, Peter barely noticed as he wandered out into the more busy part of town, until he was suddenly in a crowd. Surrounded on all sides, he was quickly swept up in the tide of people, causing his heart rate to spike dangerously.

Peter didn’t like being in large crowds like this. They overloaded his senses with talking and heartbeats and constant flicks of his spidey-sense.

So, it was no surprise when he walked face-first into a larger man - his sense only having a moment to screech before it happened. With no warning and no time to catch his balance, Peter found himself crashing to the floor, concrete seeping the cold into him and inducing a full-body shiver, as a sharp bite of pain shot through him.

He winced, not making a move to stand up yet. There was no point, he needed a second to collect his thoughts anyway, and it wasn’t like he could get much colder-

“You alright, son?”

The voice broke through after a couple beats of thinking, and Peter’s head snapped up from looking at shoes, to the man he’d just bumped into. It’d taken a minute for him to realise he was being spoken to. The man was tall, broad, and wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, ( at night? In autumn-slash-winter? ) with blonde hair and an oddly familiar voice and…

Holy shit.

Holy. Shit.

It was Captain America.

Peter ran into Captain America , only a short while after the man had attacked his vigilante persona. What were the odds? Well, with Parker Luck TM , quite likely, Peter mused. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t considered it before. Maybe because it was fucking insane .

After a few moments, Peter quickly realised he’d just been staring blankly at the Captain - who now wore quite a worried expression on his face, and had a hand out to help Peter up.

“I, uh,” Peter began, as eloquent as always, “yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

Ignoring the extended hand, he jumped up and brushed himself off, pulling his hood back up. He really wished it’d stop falling down; it was quite inconvenient.

Steve had a skeptical look on his face, and let his hand swing back down, “Are you sure about that? You seem kind of… off.”

Before Peter could respond, a passerby knocked roughly into his shoulder, causing him to stumble back a bit - he hadn’t been paying attention. Steve stepped forward and steered him to the edge of the crowd, “Seriously, kid, did you hit your head? I’m sorry about knocking into you.”

To his credit, Steve did look concerned. Peter waved it off, “I’m alright, Mr Rogers.”

Steve stiffened for a second, then smiled sheepishly, “My disguise is that bad, huh?”

Peter grinned a tad, “Well, you are wearing a cap and sunglasses when the sky is practically black,” he gestured around to the fading light, “and you’re a pretty recognisable guy. It’s hard to forget what Captain America looks like.” - especially when he’s attacked you , he added silently in his mind.

Sighing good-naturedly, Steve looked Peter up and down, and quirked an eyebrow as Peter’s stomach growled, as if on cue. Peter cursed his back luck, not for the first time today.

“Care for a sandwich? On me.” Steve asked, smirking.

“No, I uh, thanks but I- I’m uh fine,” Peter stammered out, thrown off by the sudden suggestion.

Steve laughed slightly, “C’mon, kid. You sound hungry enough, take it as an apology for knocking into you - and a thanks for not immediately selling me out to the media.”

Peter paused for a moment, then decided to take him up on it. As an apology for the attack , he rationalised in his mind, ignoring the gnawing hunger in his stomach. He’d barely eaten today, and had been only planning to have something small later; some of the little money he kept in his stashes around the city had been stolen, which meant more rationing. “Sure.”

…which is how Peter found himself sitting in a small, cozy cafe, waiting for Captain America to grab their food. He was decidedly not freaking out, and definitely not regretting accepting Steve’s offer. Still, he was here now; he may as well get some free food out of it.

Breaking the rambling reassurances in Peter’s mind, Steve sat down across from him at the booth table, and placed a sandwich in front of Peter, and drink in front of each of them. Peter was somewhat relieved for the small (to him) amount of food at the moment, as he wasn’t sure he could stomach much after how little he’d been eating for the better part of a year.

“There you go, son.” Steve set his head on propped, interlocked hands, and looked at Peter, “So, what’s your name?”

“Parker,” Peter replied, barely missing a beat. It worked, when Peter needed a fake name for something small; Parker was a normal enough name for a teen like him to have, and he didn’t have to remember anything too strange or disconnected from himself.

Plus, it felt better than choosing some random name. He’d used ‘Ben’ once, but soon regretted it. The name dredged up a lot of unpleasant guilt and grief-riddled, nostalgic memories. He’d ended up retching bile behind a dumpster, and swore not to use it again.

Steve hummed, “Good name.”

“Thanks. And you’re Steve Rogers.” Peter replied simply, taking a bite out of the sandwich and revelling in the taste. It’d been a hot minute since he’d had fresh food, the kind of stuff not from a can. It made sense, logically, to use canned food; after all, he couldn’t exactly hide a fresh lettuce under the floorboards. Still, that didn’t mean Peter couldn’t miss it. 

A slight smile quirked the man’s lips upwards, “That I am. You don’t seem too hung up on that.”

Peter shrugged noncommittally, “You’re a guy with superpowers, it’s not too rare around here anymore. I grew up with that sort of thing.” And it was true. For the majority of his childhood, there had been superheroes, and the Avengers. It wasn’t like sci-fi – not something far away, just… adjacent, to normal life.

Although, the main reason Peter wasn’t phased wasn’t due to that, it was because of the underlying distrust he still held towards Steve, as well as his hero-worship having been peeled away when it was no longer helpful. Peter was a vigilante now, after all, a hero in his own right. He saved people and fought bad guys, it wasn’t something crazy and unobtainable; he wasn’t about to put the Avengers on too much of a pedestal.

Steve nodded thoughtfully, “It’s a nice change, to be honest. People are constantly freaking out over meeting me, or judging me and yelling. It’s refreshing to meet someone who just… isn’t bothered.”

Feeling slightly guilty now, for sitting there and holding a silent judgement the whole time, Peter berated himself as he swallowed bread roughly, giving a vague nod. Steve was a person, he reminded himself, and people made mistakes. He’d made mistakes. Peter could move past this.

“You were hungry, then.” Steve said, not accusingly, as he titled his head to the empty plate.

Peter flushed slightly, and took a sip of the hot chocolate Steve had bought him, not answering.

Steve chuckled, then noticed Peter’s hoodie and paused slightly, gesturing vaguely, “You like Spidey?”

Looking down, Peter was met with the large, cartoon figure of his alter-ego. He hadn’t gotten it purposefully, it’d been one of the last ones at the donation bin, and the only one that fit properly. He shrugged once again. He liked being Spider-Man, so that was close enough, he supposed.

Still, he wondered why Steve cared. “I guess. Seems like a good guy, helps people.” he paused, then decided to test his luck, “Why, you don’t?”

Bristling slightly, Steve shook his head, “No, no. You’re right, he’s a good guy.” (that made Peter smile a bit into his drink) “He’s good to work with, too. I’d like to do it more, but he doesn’t really trust us. For good reason, too. I was an asshole when I first met him, frankly.”

“Language,” Peter murmured softly, with a grin. It was a bit risky - seeing as the joke was mostly between the Avengers - but it wasn’t exactly a secret, either.

Steve just rolled his eyes a bit, “Yeah, yeah, kid,” he took a sip of his coffee, “anyway, he’s got reasons not to trust us, plus probably a tragic backstory to add to the distrust.” At Peter’s inquisitive look, he shrugged, “Most heroes do.” Peter tried to hide his smile at the word ‘hero’ with a sip of his drink. Despite the whole trying-to-capture him thing, Captain America was his childhood hero, and it was pretty nice to hear his hero call him a hero, even if indirectly.

“So,” Peter spoke carefully, “you’ve tried to apologise?”

Confirming his suspicions, Steve sighed, “Yeah, but he hasn’t exactly given me a chance to. Again, my fault. I just wish I hadn’t acted like I did; I’m trying to work on some things, and jumping to conclusions is one of them. But it doesn’t matter, because I hurt him and that doesn’t just get erased.”

Peter just hummed slightly, in an understanding manner, not sure what to say. There was silence for a second,  “Sorry to dump that on you, kid.”

“No problem, you helped me with an issue of mine with this chat, too,” Peter responded, truthfully. He’d been worried about Steve the whole time, in the back of his mind, and it was reassuring to hear it from this perspective. There was no way it was all a trap either, because if the Avengers knew he was Spider-Man, they’d have a plethora of ways to capture him. Including lacing his food with something, and he hadn’t tasted anything off.

Steve stared at Peter for a minute before he spoke, “You sure you’re alright, kid?”

Peter tilted his head slightly, then huffed, “I thought we established that already?”

“Yeah, well,” Steve responded with a disbelieving noise, and a raise of an eyebrow as he stood, downing what was left of his drink, “Nice to meet you, Parker. Give me a call if you need some help.” he added the last part as he scribbled a number down on a napkin, and handed it to Peter.

Nodding slightly, Peter took another sip, “You too.” He didn’t say anything about the number, but he’d be chucking that as soon as he got out of here. That was an unnecessary chance, and not one he was willing to take.

He stayed seated for a minute longer as Steve walked away, and enjoyed the warmth of the cafe, mulling over some things in his mind as the chatter around him buzzed as a pleasant background noise.

*

That night, Peter swung across near the outskirts of the city, next to the harbor, and sat on the edge of a building, leaning back on tired arms. Steve’s words had been playing in his mind for hours after, and it made him consider a lot of things.

For one, the man had seemed extremely genuine, and Peter wasn’t sure how to deal with that. Captain America had admitted to being an asshole, jumping to conclusions (he wasn’t quite sure where that fit in, but he assumed it had something to do with Steve thinking he was a possible danger) and that he wanted a chance to apologise and do better.

That broke Peter’s mind. He wasn’t used to people - especially adults, especially adults in positions of power - recognising their mistakes and wanting to do better for him . And now two of them had, one after the other.

Peter was used to people disregarding his opinion, and shutting anything he said down solely based on his age and lack of ‘power’. Power, for his foster parents, had meant legal; the ability to get a job and live alone and generally be an ass. For teachers, it was detentions and class rules and confiscating phones. Not that Peter had a phone since May died, but that was beside the point.

For the life of him, Peter couldn’t tell which was supposed to be normal. Did usually people apologise and admit their mistakes, and he’d just had his perception warped by years of abuse? Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe Ben and May had been exceptions and the Avengers were just on a different level of responsibility.

Either way, it didn’t matter. In the end, people would lie and refuse to admit their wrongdoings and hide from their mistakes. And yet, Peter couldn’t deny that some part of him still hung onto the hope that people could be good . Truly, without fear or exception, good . Otherwise, why would he still be Spider-Man?

He couldn’t answer that. His mind didn’t make sense, anyway. There was no point digging too deep. In the end, Peter followed his heart and the values set out by the people who raised him. That was all he could do, really. He punctuated the end of those thoughts by dropping onto his back, and placed his hands behind his head, interlinking them. Then, he set his eyes on the darkness above.

The more Peter stared at the night sky, the more stars appeared from the dark; they clawed through the smog-covered, coal-esque canvas hanging high above and placed themselves in a beautiful array of light. Tracing patterns and shifting blankets of fog, he was glad the night was fairly cloudless.

It was rare to see so many stars anywhere near New York, but Peter had found a place, a section of sky that seemed to contain more stars than anywhere else. He wondered how such a place could exist, so independent from the struggles and problems below.

There, in the sky, there were no criminals. No bad guys hurting for fun or pleasure. No foster parents with superiority complexes. No planes and guns and trucks to crash and fall and burn, ripping away the stars in Peter’s life. Because that’s what the people he’d lost had been; beautiful, bright stars - burning with an intensity so very far away, and now out of reach.

Or maybe Peter was the star. Not in a romanticised, poetic way – but like a raging fire, burning in the sky, one among many. Maybe he was a star in the way you feel when you first find out they’re not magical at all: just gas, reacting in empty space. And maybe that’s why the people around him - everything good and proper and kind - would be set alight and burnt to a crisp, with nothing but ashes remaining behind.

Maybe he was the destruction, the curse. And they (his parents, Aunt May, Uncle Ben, Ned, MJ) were just yet more innocent victims, caught up in the cruel tides of the world.

If that were true, Peter only wished he could prevent anyone else from getting close, and burning up like paper thrown into the fire on a cold winter day. He wasn’t worth it. If only he could convince the people he cared about that it was true - those that were left, anyway. His parents were long gone, and so were Ben and May. They’d learnt the hard way that being around Peter was a death sentence.

He’d managed, at least, to get away from Ned and MJ before they learned in a similar fashion. That’s not to say he didn’t hurt them at all; he was sure his nightmares and panic attacks had to be exhausting. Ned could only deal with so many late-night phone calls before he got tired of Peter, surely. He’d never said that, fine.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have been thinking it. And no matter how many times Ned assured him it was alright, he could never quite squash the intense waves of guilt when he saw how tired his friend was the next day.

So, he started to lower the frequency of his calls, and, soon, he’d stopped telling Ned altogether. He’d been worried, suspecting what Peter was doing, but Peter lied and said he just wasn’t getting them as much anymore. The look of relief on Ned’s face was enough to make Peter stay firm in his decision.

He could deal with a few nightmares, surely. Sitting in the corner of his room and trying to silence the sobs wracking his body, trying to get in a proper breath and ignore the feeling of being crushed was hard, but he could manage that. As long as Ned didn’t have to. As long as he was alright.

MJ was generally the one to deal with his panic attacks. She knew, somehow, when he’d slip out of class or Academic Decathlon practice, what was going on.

He’d be panicking, feeling as if the world itself was closing in on him, was falling down, and suddenly he’d be kneeling on that shop floor, holding Ben’s dead body. Again. And the choruses of voices would be screaming that it was his fault his fault his fault- and then he’d feel a grounding hand on his shoulder, and a gentle voice bringing him back to reality.

Peter didn’t know how she knew exactly how to help, but she did. And then, he learnt to hide it. Much like with Ned, Peter wasn’t a fan of burdening MJ like that, either. The glances full of worry and compassion were too much. They brought guilt rushing back like a bucket of ice water, and he couldn’t deal with that.

So he’d go somewhere she wouldn’t find him, or just leave the school entirely. Eventually, she stopped looking. Some deep part of him wished she’d keep trying. It was the same part that wanted to curl up and hold on tight . The same part that wanted to call Ned at 3am when he felt like he was drowning and everything was cold and dark and muffled.

He caught that part of his mind and stuffed it in a box, deep in the back of his head - buried under his racing thoughts. He placed it next to Ben’s box, and his parents’, and eventually May’s, and then all the people in the homes who never seemed to think he was doing enough. He hid it all and locked it tight and refused to let them open.

Sometimes, bits would seep through the cracks of their boxes and soak into his mind. Those were the days when the guilt was at its worst, and the noises in his mind turned into screeching voices yelling that it was his fault and he could’ve done something and he was weak and wrong and so many other things. They echoed the voices of his foster parents and twisted the voices of his family.

They’d gotten worse, after May died. Much, much worse. Because now he was alone. And lost. And the darkness was much more vast and so much more dangerous and a thousand times more lonely.

The night sky, though, didn’t echo any of those sentiments. The great expanse of blackness wasn’t all-consuming or terrifying. It was a familiar comfort, etched with memories of star gazing and camping and laying under the sky. He could trace between the stars he and May had made new constellations between; his young mind full of creativity and love and hope . And yet, even then, he’d known grief all too well.

He knew the grief of seeing his parents for the last time, and being told they were never coming back. He knew the grief of hearing stifled sobs through the walls late at night, because he hadn’t just lost parents - May and Ben had lost family. He knew the frustration of never having enough money, especially after Ben died.

Grief had never been an emotion Peter was unfamiliar with. It was family, in a way. It was comfort and warmth and pain. It was the hot pain of coming in from the cold, the bittersweet feeling of watching someone grow away from you and be happy.

Peter had been laying there, lost in thought, for so long that he barely noticed as the heat was pulled from his body and vanished into the stone below him. He didn’t really mind, anyway. It felt nice; the growing sense of numbness spreading through his body and sending gentle shivers down his spine.

He knew, logically, that he should get up. But in the cold, refreshing night air – he couldn’t bring himself to care. Maybe, if he let himself slip into the comforting cold darkness, he wouldn’t hurt anyone else. That would be nice.

No more grief, or mourning, or running, or hiding, or starving. There would just be a comfortable silence and then nothing. Or maybe there would be something – but it would be better than this.

Peter’s eyes slid shut as yet another shiver ran through his body and he fell into a fitful sleep – it could barely be classified as sleep , the few hours of unconsciousness he managed every night or two, but it was something, at least. He didn’t collapse from exhaustion, to his credit.

Despite his thoughts, Peter soon found himself waking. A full-body ache shuddered down his body and he let out a hacking cough. Ok. Maybe sleeping on a cold, stone rooftop with little-to-no ability to thermoregulate and a mosaic of half-healed injuries wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had.

He sat up slowly, blinking heavily at the sudden invasion of light; his mask’s eyes provided some protection from the brightness, but it was hard to truly dull his eyesight without compromising his ability to fight. Peter wasn’t about to lower his effectiveness as a vigilante just for a bit of extra comfort.

He thought about adding a more complex system to his eyes in order to help with the problem, but he couldn’t risk it breaking halfway through a battle. After all, any of the bits of tech Peter made were created from old machines and the like, scrounged from dumps and thrown out behind stores.

That was how he’d created his web shooters, as well as the minuscule movements of his mask’s eyes copying his own. They didn’t do much (once again, that could be a hazard) but they mimicked a small amount, and that was enough for him. There was no real advantage behind that upgrade, but it made Peter smile - plus, it helped convey his emotions. 

Peter had learnt, during his times observing people’s behaviors to know what to say and do in order to appease them, that the eyes truly were a ‘window to the soul’.

If someone was lying, they were likely to twitch their eyes to look somewhere else - he could also hear their heartbeats pick up a bit - and there were huge differences in what people said, depending on their facial expressions, all led by the eyes. So, he thought it was important to put that belief - that knowledge - into his suit, and he did.

It seemed like it was early morning, and checking his watch confirmed that. He’d slept for a few hours and, though they were far from restless, the cold numbness appeared to have dulled his nightmares from out-right horrific down to somewhat disturbing. Still, Peter thought as he stretched out and shook the sleep from his pained limbs, not really worth it.

He was tired. Not in the ‘I haven’t slept in ages’ type, he’d just woken up. No, Peter was tired in the sort of way that weighs you down and sits in your bones, gripping on and never giving your mind the peace of a proper sleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept the proper amount of time. The length of time that rids you of the bone-deep exhaustion and lets you wake up to a gentle sun shining on your face.

He supposed it must’ve been back when May was alive. Although he’d had nightmares then - about Ben, mostly - it wasn’t as bad as after she died. After that came the perpetual insomnia which settled, eventually, into a constant tired buzz and fleeting hours of sleep.

Dropping off the edge, (Peter didn’t really leap off buildings anymore, not unless he was in a rush. The novelty had worn off long ago, and now he just wanted to get on with it) he shot out a web and began his commute back to the apartment.

The wind whipped as his skin, biting through the fabric of his suit and being extremely unhelpful in the matter of the extreme cold settled in his bones, sitting not-so-comfortably beside the tiredness. He shuddered midair, causing him to clip the brick wall of a building and hiss at the pain as he flipped once and then caught himself with another web. That was definitely going to bruise.

Peter supposed he shouldn’t be irritated, not anymore. Gone were the days of looking in the mirror (a cracked one he’d found in a dump, and that now sat in the dark bathroom of the apartment) and being shocked by the lattice of temporary bruises and wounds sitting alongside not-so-temporary scars.

That was the thing about his super healing. Injuries knitted themselves up fast enough, but they usually also left behind a nasty scar; a reminder of each failure to dodge, permanently marring his skin.

Even the ones that might not scar a normal person scarred him - if he didn’t eat or sleep for long enough, and his healing halted its normal pace, slowing to a crawl still higher than the usual person, but much lower than his usual. That was when they stayed, stubbornly littering his skin. Not small things, not bruises, but the ones that really should’ve disappeared, melting into his body and letting him forget.

Well, gone were the days of looking in a mirror at all, really - unless to inspect a new wound, and then it was a small, handheld one. Peter had decided many months ago that he’d rather not gaze at the skin where so many bad memories were ingrained. And yet, the mirror sat in his bathroom, taunting him with images of his slowly diminishing body whenever it caught his eye.

For some reason, Peter didn’t bother to remove it from the apartment. Maybe to torment himself, purposefully, on the days he listened to the voices and thought himself a terrible person. For whatever purpose, it stayed.

The injuries from the foster homes were long gone, mostly – evidenced only by a few of the smaller scars. They were the least visible physically, but left the most of a mental mark. Peter barely had nightmares about his fights, though they did pop up sometimes, but his foster homes never faded from his mind’s eye. No matter what.

They were also evidenced in psychological ways; shown by how he flinched if you moved too fast, or how the scent of beer could send him into a frenzy of panic, or how certain words and actions made him tense and freeze out of nowhere.

Peter swung himself onto the back of a train passing by, and dropped himself to lay down, sticking himself to the surface for stability. Today, he wasn’t glad for the coolness of the metal; it bit him harshly and provoked more shivers from his already cold body. The sun had barely warmed it at all, weak as it was at this time of year.

His mind drifted from one thought to another, barely coherent - and barely aware of how non-coherent and muddled they were. Too tired, he thought, though he wasn’t sure what he was referring to.

Jolted, out-of-order memories brought him to a rooftop near the apartment as winded himself, knocking painfully into the wall. Peter’s stomach took that moment to stab out and remind him of his hunger. He groaned, half-sighed, and lay there for a few minutes before reaching down to a nearby stash of food and pulling off his mask, obscured enough in the quiet area to be hidden - though not lucid enough to care about the risk. 

Grabbing a can of something - baked beans, maybe? He wasn’t sure - and a spoon, he ate it cold and gross. He didn’t really care. Not until his stomach began to protest at the food, and his body at the cold. Peter felt the familiar sensation of bile rising as he pulled himself over to a corner and threw up the meagre contents of his guts.

Only when he had retched the last of the stomach acid that was presenting itself did he feel somewhat more aware. Slinging out a web, he dropped down and slid in through the open window to the apartment. Cursing the waste of food, he grabbed a water bottle and walked into the bathroom to clear his mouth of the horrid taste. He really needed to stop throwing up. It wasn’t a fun habit.

He swallowed a gulp of ice-cold water and shivered. Then he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and resisted the urge to be sick again.

Greasy, uneven hair fell too-long for his liking, curling past his ears. Dark circles rested comfortably under his eyes, radiating exhaustion. He could make out the sides of his ribs, pointed and painfully poking his skin out. His lips were tinged with a slight blue, and he shivered at the reminder of the cold, as if it’d been reactivated. Peter’s face wasn’t free of scars, and they made him wince at the memories of how he’d obtained them. Facial injuries were always some of the worst.

He supposed those were why Steve had seemed so concerned, and given him the number. Peter had a tendency to forget that his scars existed, due to his aforementioned aversion to mirrors, but it explained the man’s worry. It wasn’t exactly normal for teens to be walking around with a face littered with injuries. And though Peter really wasn’t a normal teen, there was no way for Steve to know that; hence the fretting

The more Peter dwelled on the image in front of him, the more rage built inexplicably in his gut. Perhaps anger at his circumstances, or the people who’d brought him to this point. Maybe frustration at how many bad people the world seemed to contain - or irritation at the people who ignored it.

His hands balled into fists and, before he knew it, he’d sent his fist into the mirror, expanding the pre-existing cracks in a fraction of a second and sending glass splintering to the floor.

Rage was familiar, too. Unlike grief, it wasn’t warm, or bittersweet, or comforting. It was pure, intense, hatred. At the world, at people, at himself. It was the burning fury at how cruel and unfair the world could be - and had been, to Peter. It manifested in fits of blind, misdirected anger at whatever person or object was nearest.

And it left him empty, hollowed out, apathetic to the world around him. There was no satisfaction in the rage he felt, or the damage he caused because of it. Only a low, droning ache filling his bones - alongside the cold and grief and other things, as well. Things he could name, those he couldn’t, and many more he didn’t want to.

He slumped down, onto the floor covered with shards of glass. He didn’t care, as they dug into his skin and the cold tiles invited a new chill alongside them. Peter shivered slightly, and closed his eyes, head tipped back and leaning against the wall, mask still clutched in one hand. The rage dissipated, soaking into the tiles and slipping into the concrete below.

Letting out a shuddering sigh, he allowed the familiar, echoing silence to ring through his mind as the chill permeated and travelled through his veins like blood.

Chapter Text

Peter was very quickly regretting his late-night Spider-Man venture into the city. Patrol had been calm for the majority of the afternoon, so he decided to stay out a while longer - which had been his mistake, looking back on it.

While fighting some people trying to rob a store, he’d had to save a child who got caught in the crossfire - and the bullet hit him, in turn. It was now buried in his side, though it was nothing major, not having nicked anything important. In fact, it was more of a nuisance than anything, having gotten stuck in his flesh and stubbornly stayed there.

What was even worse was that he’d had to use the medkit in his nearest stash a few too many times recently, and so it was running extremely low - it was basically empty. Not ideal for a gunshot wound. So, he was left with limited options; he could bleed out (not ideal - despite what his tired mind might say), attempt to swing halfway across the city to the apartment, tough it out on a roof, or…

He sighed. Deeply. He hoped he wouldn’t regret this decision, but it was the closest place, and their relationship had improved recently…

*

Peter stumbled in through the window - that, thankfully, opened automatically as he neared it - and barely caught himself against the wall with a minute groan; blood loss tended to dull his more spidery abilities, like his uncanny balance, much to his annoyance. Rounding a corner, he glanced over to see the Avengers having what appeared to be a movie night, with The Breakfast Club currently playing on a large flat screen.

Surveying the scene, he noted Clint sitting sideways on an armchair, Natasha perched on the arm of one of the couches, Steve (the man had insisted on Peter not always calling him ‘Rogers’, though he’d ignored that request externally - it was a tad too close for comfort) and Bucky splayed out on it, Tony and Rhodey on the other.

Tony seemed to recover the fastest from the group’s state, as most of them seemed to have tensed into battle-ready positions, which was to be expected from a group of superheroes and spies, honestly.

Peter held up a hand in acknowledgement, not all that phased in the face of their obvious incredulity - though none of them seemed overly opposed to his presence; it was more surprise, which was fair. He'd been quite up-front about his hesitation to come to the Tower, deflecting very pointedly every time someone brought it up in one of their fights.

“Oh, hey, Spider-Man,” Tony said, voice subtly forced into a nonchalant tone as he looked at Peter in concern, “finally decide to drop by?”

Grunting back what could be vaguely interpreted as a greeting, Peter then proceeded to stumble into - and subsequently collide with - the kitchen counter, groaning at the spike of pain it sent through him. He ignored the growing tension in the air as he strolled over to the drawers in a less-than-graceful fashion, near collapsing on the counter as he roughly pulled open the drawer, causing silverware to clang against the sides. 

He grunted in irritation, not finding anything sharp enough to function for its purpose without being unnecessarily painful. Instead, he glanced around, making a triumphant sound as he grasped a clean cutting knife.

Peter pulled a rip in his suit's side slightly wider and dug into a bleeding wound as he bit down, gritting his teeth; gunshots hurt like hell, and getting the bullets out was a thousand times worse, but it was far better than the alternative (namely, leaving it and allowing it to become infected, only to end up lying on the floor in a fever-induced hallucination. Yeah. Not fun).

"What the fuck, Spidey?" Tony cried, and Peter rolled his eyes as the man jumped over the back of the couch and swiftly walked up to the kitchen. Peter discarded the knife on the counter, holding the dislodged bullet triumphantly in one hand.

The various superheroes echoed this sentiment, Steve vaulting over the couch - much like Tony - and marching over to the vague edge of the kitchen, the distinction between the rooms made difficult by the open-plan home. 

“It’s fine, it just got kinda stuck in the edge of my skin. Nothing serious,'' Peter shrugged, placing the bullet on the counter and turning his gaze to the older man - who, judging by his lightening pallor - had managed to identify the object. “You got any med kits? I ran out of the stuff I carry on me.”

Tony shook himself slightly and walked over to another cabinet, pulling out a small medkit and placing it on the counter next to Peter, who nodded his gratitude (Aunt May didn’t raise a brat, he could remember his manners) and proceeded to wipe out the gaping hole with an anti-bac wipe and some fluid that he hissed at as it washed dirt and grime out of his wound. 

“Shit, dude. You got shot? ” Clint asked, from where most of the team were now gathered by Steve.

"It's all good, birdbrain," he announced in a light-hearted jokey tone, wiping away the steadily decreasing blood and holding a small square bandage patch and some medical tape, "I've got it covered. Just needed some simple first-aid. It was a routine thing, really-" Peter cut himself off as he ripped a strip of medical tape with his teeth and began to stick the bandage down.

Tony crossed the distance in a couple of steps and pressed a hand to the bandage, earning another hiss from Peter as the pain spiked into agony for a moment, and held the suit's fabric open for him, "This is not all good, kid. And it certainly better not be routine."

The thought appeared to make Tony sick, and Peter wondered what the hell the team thought Spider-Man did every night; did they really think he stuck to kittens in trees and old ladies crossing the street?

Despite the mask, Peter’s exasperation seemed to be conveyed - if Tony’s equally frustrated look was anything to go by. Peter swiftly stuck down the other three sides of the fabric and then proceeded to duck away from the older man's touch.

It was one of the only times Peter allowed himself to be touched; injuries, and in battle. Basically, anything that involved aiding his crime-fighting in one way or another - and the team knew that.

He’d made it very obvious that affectionate nudges were completely off-limits, earning them a glare if they were lucky, and a right-hook to the jaw if they were not (Steve had found that out the hard way, "Taking one for the team", Tony said, jokingly, when he thought Peter couldn’t hear). They wouldn’t want to find out what would happen if they tried to hug him.

It was one of the few things Peter had allowed them to learn about himself in the short time working together - alongside his tendency for jokes, quips, and snarky comments in the midst of battle, of course.

"It's fine ," Peter insisted, making a dismissive gesture with his hand while his other grabbed an apple from the bowl, lifting his mask above his mouth - just enough to eat, "It'll heal soon anyway." 

"Tony's right, son." Steve spoke up, the others leaning on the back of the couches and watching the interaction from the connected living-room area, "You've got to be more careful."

Peter rolled his eyes, swiftly searching his mind for a way to avert the attention from his more… reckless behaviors, “Says the guy who threw his shield at me.”

Steve froze, and Peter knew he’d succeeded - even if it felt a bit underhanded, “I’m really so-”

Holding up a hand, Peter cut him off, “It’s all good, Cap. Water under the bridge and all that jazz. Just don’t do it again.”

Steve hesitated, but gave a slow nod, “Still. You should really get proper medical attention.”

" Geez , you guys are so over-the-top. If I'd known this is how it would go, I would've just used an old t-shirt instead." He scowled, dropping the apple-core into the bin and glaring at Steve, pulling the mask back over his mouth fully

He was beginning to regret his choice of venue, and wondering whether he should’ve just swung back to the apartment - then promptly remembered just how cold it was, and decided the trouble was definitely worth it. "And can everyone stop calling me 'kid'? It's getting on my nerves."

Tony frowned further, "A t-shirt? For a bullet wound? Nuh uh, Underoos. No way." He waggled a finger in mock-lecture fashion.

Peter raised an eyebrow, the mask twitching slightly, “Not sure if that one’s better or worse.”

"Kid-" he cut himself off when Peter made a full-body 'What did I just say?'  gesture, causing Tony to smirk. "What? I can't exactly call you 'Spider-Man' all the time, can I? Even 'Spidey' gets overused way too easily. My nicknames are kinda limited by the frankly minuscule list of information I have on you."

The older man broke off for a moment, giving Peter an amused, knowing look, "unless you'd like to expand that list by, oh I don't know, telling us your name?"

He just snorted, hiding behind flippancy to smother the discomfort the mere suggestion brought, “Nice try, Tin Man.”

Tony shrugged amusedly, holding his hands up in defeat, “It was worth a shot.”

"So, you staying for movie night then, Spidey?" Steve asked, slight smile playing at the edge of his lips.

Peter hesitated for a moment, regretful to leave the warmth and comfort of the Tower (not to mention the easy rapport, it’d been so long since he chatted to people like this), "I'd love to, Cap, but I've gotta get home. I'm exhausted ."

"Why not stay the night at the tower? Tones has plenty of spare rooms." Rhodey cut in, smiling kindly at the kid from his seat at the counter.

"Yeah," Steve spoke up, "I don't exactly like the idea of you swinging across the city with a fresh bullet wound in your side, anyways."

Clint leaned over, sticking an arm out, "He speaks for us all, Spidey!"

Tony smiled, "Don’t worry, the bedrooms don’t have cameras or anything." he paused, “Well, they do, but they’re only activated in emergencies where FRIDAY deems the person in danger - like from an attack.”

Peter paused, weighing his options in his mind; swing halfway across the city to a dark apartment with no heating, or stay and watch movies with a group of superheroes.

It was a testament to his self-control that he considered the options for more than a moment. Then, with a particularly harsh aching throb from his wound, Peter smirked not-so reluctantly, "How can I argue with that?"

"Pretty easily, if previous examples are anything to go by," Natasha finally spoke, a small, kind smile finding its way onto her face.

They all laughed at that. Clint turned back to the TV, and then looked over at Peter, "Choose our new movie for us, Oh Guest of Honor?"

Rolling his eyes, Peter smiled slightly, "Star Wars?"

Tony groaned, mock-distress covering his expression, "I'm very quickly regretting this." he declared.

Chuckling, Rhodey got FRIDAY to put on one of the Star Wars movies, and soon the atmosphere had quickly reverted into the comfortable feeling from before, people chatting and joking softly as they returned to their seats.

Bucky had a nearly-finished bowl of popcorn that seemed quite out of place next to the supersoldier, Clint was sitting in a complex, contorted position that Peter thought he should try out some time, and Natasha was the most relaxed Peter had ever imagined the Black Widow could be.

Peter sat himself next to Tony, on the side nearest the elevator, and leaned on the armrest - he noticed an analyzing glance from a few people but, luckily, they seemed to get the message not to comment on his chosen spot; it’d only been a few weeks since the attack, and it was somewhat of a miracle he was around them at all.

Still, there was something strangely comforting about the atmosphere - which he definitely wasn’t going to dwell on, in favor of not spiraling down a pit of paranoia and self-imposed isolation.

A movie and a warm drink later, Peter became extremely aware of his drifting consciousness. And, after a too close for comfort call where he'd dozed off for a moment, it was time to retreat into a room where the possibility of being de-masked would fall drastically.

Sure, he trusted the Avengers, to a certain extent - far more than he had a few weeks back, anyway. His chat with Steve was enlightening, and after fighting with them a few times, he was warming up to them.

Still. You could never be sure with people. One second, they'd be kind and wonderful and loving, and the next... well let's just say Peter had a few too many experiences with the next second. Enough to know never to let your guard down.

And so, he'd much prefer to be in the relative safety of a bedroom, as opposed to sleepy and not-quite lucid in a room with spies and supersoldiers trained in interrogation and reading people. He'd never been the best liar, and he wasn't a huge fan of his chances.

With his Parker Luck™, he wasn't sure he wouldn't accidentally let everything slip. One wrong question and it'd be all "Oh yeah, I'm Peter Parker. Two-time orphan and homeless 16 year-old superhero. Also I used to be a total Avengers fanboy. Had the pyjamas and everything."

Not only would that be mortifying for a plethora of reasons, but who knew what they'd do if they knew he was a minor. Sure, they knew he was young, they called him 'kid', after all. But they definitely thought he was early twenties, not a teenager.

So yeah, he was quite relieved when Tony seemed to catch on to his fast-fading ability to stay awake, and took pity on him. "Alright, kiddo. Time for sleep, I think. You're gonna need a good rest if that wound is gonna heal up fast."

Pushing himself to his feet, and wincing at the sharp pain that followed, Peter wandered off down the hallway, following Tony’s instructions to find the third door on his left for the guest bedroom. He looked at the door and, when he couldn’t see any obvious lock, cursed softly. “Where’s the goddamn lock…” he muttered.

“Hello, Spidey,” came a soft, kind disembodied voice from the ceiling, “could I be of any assistance?”

Peter startled slightly, looking around before remembering that Tony had an AI running through the tower (because of course he did). She had, it seemed, turned down the lights and her own volume in anticipation of Peter's enhanced senses. The Avengers didn't know tons about his abilities, but they knew he healed pretty fast, was pretty damn strong, and had some better-than-normal senses.

"Uh, hey, FRIDAY,” he paused, “Could you do me a favor? Lock the door and don't let anyone in. Not even Stark."

After a moment, FRIDAY responded, "Of course. However, in the case of an emergency, I would be required to allow access."

Peter groaned, moments away from sleep, "Only in an absolute emergency, yeah?"

"Of course." she repeated kindly.

"Awesome.." he murmured, drifting off to sleep as FRIDAY turned off the lights.

"Sleep well, Spidey."

He walked and barely had time to marvel at the soft quality of the mattress as he collapsed onto it, tugging off his mask. Sleep swiftly stole his consciousness from him, wrapping him in a warm embrace. After one too many nights on the cold streets, his body seemed to revel in the opportunity to relax on a proper bed - at least, judging by the lack of intrusive thoughts and replaying of horrible memories.

Peter slept the best he had in a while.

Enveloped by warm sheets, (though he'd failed to actually climb under them last night) he hadn't even had a single dream, let alone a nightmare. If not for the distinct feeling of dried blood and sweat sticking his suit to his skin, he'd be in heaven. Having said that, those were a problem, and he'd rather not stew in them for much longer.

Dragging himself from bed with a passing glance to the time - 2am, he'd stumbled to bed around midnight - he took a quick shower before throwing on some comfy nearby trousers without much thought, his brain very much still sleep-addled despite the water pouring down on his face. Reveling in the warmth and feeling of cleanliness, he stumbled back to bed and fell back to sleep for a while longer.

Officially waking up around 10am, Peter stood up and stretched. He walked over to the large curtains and pulled them back slightly, allowing golden light to spill in across the room, bathing his body in warmth. Catching his reflection in the full-length mirror by the bed, he winced involuntarily.

He’d caught his reflection in the now-shattered mirror in the bathroom at the apartment, but this was different. Staring at himself in the cold light of day brought a different kind of disgust to his lips.

As it turned out, a little over half a year of living on the streets did a lot to a growing teenager - even if most of that time was spent as a crime-fighting vigilante... maybe especially if most of that time was spent as a crime-fighting vigilante. His hair was longer than he'd thought, - he'd need to cut it soon - a rough mess that he was sure had been crazy greasy before last night's shower. He looked gaunt, cheeks shallow and eyes bulging too much from big eye sockets.

It was pretty much all he’d glimpsed before - except exacerbated by the light and his lucidity. Plus, this time his shirt had been discarded after the shower and he could see the scars covering his chest like a personal battlefield. His thin, wiry frame hid most of his strength, though maybe not as much as he thought, seeing as though his strength and overall abilities had already been suffering from the lack of proper nutrition and rest.

He was starving. The apple last night had barely done anything for his ravenous hunger. In fact, it had nowhere near made a dent. He hadn't eaten properly in days (one of the reasons he'd chosen to come to the Avengers' Tower, including, of course, the bullet wound. He'd decided a dirty warehouse wasn't the best place to DIY treat a hole in his side) and he hoped there was something he could eat in the kitchen to take the edge off.

Peter knew he couldn't carry on like this. Spider-Man was suffering. And, if Spider-Man was suffering, the people were suffering from his failings. And he couldn't let that happen. ' With great power comes great responsibility' the phrase drifted into his mind, bringing with it a variety of unpleasant thoughts and memories. Ben, dying in his arms. May's voice cutting off. The funerals. The aftermath. The foster homes-

He shook his head, clearing the thoughts. One day at a time, Peter.

Grabbing a nearby t-shirt, Peter ripped his gaze from the mirror; his body was like a car wreck, you just couldn’t look away.

Thankfully for the mask, no one had to know how much of a bad state Peter looked. Speaking of... how was he going to play this off? Surely he couldn't waltz into the dining room in baggy sweatpants, a t-shirt he now saw had Ironman emblazoned across the front, (classic Tony Stark) and his Spider-Man mask? That would be extremely awkward. Especially if he ate and had to lift the mask halfway up his face.

Still, he couldn't exactly go out in his ripped, bloodied Spider-Man suit? On the other hand, he wasn't really ready to reveal his identity, no matter how nice they'd been the night before. At least, not until he was 18 and able to legally get a job and live alone without being thrust back into the system. So, mask-with-no-suit it was. Groaning, he walked over to the discarded suit, sitting on the dresser.

At that moment, FRIDAY piped up, "Spidey, Boss left a package outside your door earlier. I recommend you take a look."

Peter furrowed his eyebrows, walking over to the door, "Thanks, FRIDAY."

Taking a moment to listen out, focusing his hearing on the hallway outside his room to make sure the coast was clear, he opened the door a crack, grabbed a medium-sized, flexible package wrapped in brown paper with string as a bow, and promptly shut the door again. Quickly unwrapping it, he sighed, and then allowed a small smile to creep onto his face.

*

Steve was standing at the stove, making a truck-load of pancakes for the team's Sunday morning breakfast, when Peter walked in - prompting Clint to splutter and laugh loudly through a mouthful of cereal. Steve turned, and froze, an amused smile crossing his face.

The team was hanging around in the kitchen, Tony leaning on the counter with his third coffee of the day, Natasha standing in the doorway and making conversation, the rest of them in various stages of eating breakfast around the large kitchen island. It was intriguing to see the Earth’s Mightiest Defenders in such a… domestic state, and a tad endearing.

Most of them had now spotted the sight that had elicited such a reaction from Clint, which was, much to the boy’s chagrin, Peter’s attire. He was wearing sweatpants, an oversized hoodie with the hood up and covering most of his features, including a blue and red masquerade-type mask peeking out from under and hid his eyes with a thin film of black.

"Yeah, yeah," Peter groaned, slumping onto a chair (promptly wincing and placing a hand on his wounded side at the pain the fast movement caused) and propping his head up with one hand, leaning on the counter.

There were a series of amused chuckles and looks exchanged as Tony walked around the counter, smirking, "What's the problem, Underoos? Don't like my gift?"

Peter rolled his eyes, aware of how much younger he must appear in casual wear, and let out a small puff of air, "Some fashion sense you've got."

Tony let his mouth drop open, holding a hand over his heart in a gesture of mock grief, " Spidey! I'm hurt, truly. I picked it out just for you!"

" You can talk, kid," Rhodey grinned, "with that multi-colored onesie you run around in."

Through a decent amount of practice, Peter managed to communicate that he was raising an exasperated, amused eyebrow, then pointed at Rhodey, "Now that's too far, damn it!"

"Language." Steve said, at the same time as Natasha and Clint echoed it, mockingly. He shot them a look and an eye roll.

"What's wrong? Never heard of swearing, Cap? Well fuck ," Peter mockingly emphasised the expletive, smirking, "what if Captain America thinks I'm a dickhead! Whatever shall I do?"

"You kiss your mother with that mouth, kid?" Clint scoffed.

There was a momentary pause in which Peter contemplated his response. "Not anymore, no," he replied, dryly, "it'd be kind of odd to kiss a corpse."

The team froze, exchanging glances, before Steve broke the silence by stepping from the stove to cuff Clint over the back of the head, "Sorry about him, and the whole.. dead mom thing." he said clumsily, before wincing at the exasperated look Tony sent him. What? Steve mouthed, making an exaggerated motion as he went back to his task - all of which Peter saw and quirked an amused eyebrow at.

"It's fine," Peter waved it off, "long time ago, I'm over it." And if that wasn’t a massive lie, he wasn’t sure what qualified; the pain of losing parents hadn’t really faded, and it’d been over a decade. Tony gave a doubtful look, but didn't say anything - and he sighed internally in relief. He really didn’t want to get into that right now. Or ever, really.

A moment later, Peter caught Tony’s glance down as the man caught sight of his hands, and winced as Tony’s eyes widened fractionally. Peter balled his hands protectively - not wanting to draw attention to his discomfort, but also not willing to let anyone scrutinize his rough, obviously calloused (and littered sporadically with scars) hands.

Turning from the stove as he cut the heat and breaking the awkward silence, Steve walked over with a large serving plate piled high with pancakes and waffles, "Alright, alright - who wants breakfast?"

There were a few whoops from Clint as he pushed aside the cereal bowl and grabbed a large, fluffy pancake, "Thanks Steve!"

They quickly dropped into an obviously practiced, comfortable routine as people took their seats and ate their fill. Bucky turned a questioning gaze to Peter, "Not hungry, kid?"

A few of the others turned to see, having noticed this as well.

"Yeah, Spidey - you're recovering from a bullet wound, you need to eat." Tony gave him a pointed look.

The words broke Peter out of his mind, where he was, as usual overthinking everything. "I just- I mean, I'm alright, I can-" he began, stumbling over his words and cutting himself off several times, "I just feel bad, like I've already intruded on movie night and stayed over and stuff and you're all eating and seriously I'm fine-"

This time, Tony cut in before he could spiral further into that rant, "Hey, hey kid. It's chill. You're not a burden or anything, just have a bite. Take it as part of the apology for the incident before, Cap cooked, after all.”

Peter paused, eyes fixed on where his hands were fidgeting with a stray thread, giving his head a sharp, almost imperceptible shake to clear his mind, before looking up - he hadn’t eaten anything this nice in… far too long.

He wasn’t going to let insecurities and paranoia ruin this chance for him - besides, who knew when he could eat a proper meal next? Best to make the best of what he could; his resolve to avoid the Avengers may be wavering, but this wasn’t about to become a regular occurrence, as long as he could help it.

"Alright.. yeah, I'm pretty hungry," he admitted, sheepishly.

He scarfed down a couple plain pancakes in a far too short period of time; a voice in the back of his mind said that was a terrible idea, but he’d forgotten how nice a home cooked meal could be - he’d begun craving even Aunt May’s borderline inedible, half-burned recipes (mostly out of nostalgia), so this? It was too good to be true, and some animalistic instinct in him was screaming to eat now, while you still can!

He blushed with embarrassment as the others amusedly commented on it. ("It's not gonna run away from you, kid. Try to chew before inhaling them." Tony smirked. )

After that, he slowed down and managed to significantly reduce the chances of him choking on the breakfast; he didn’t want to give the impression that he hadn’t really eaten properly in months - well, it was true, but he didn’t want the Avengers knowing that.

Despite the speed, Peter found himself eating a lacking quantity of the food - it really wasn’t much, even for the average person and especially not for his enhanced metabolism, but his stomach was twisting with unease already, and he didn’t want to push his luck.

After a while, once absolutely everything had been eaten and the day was well and truly in swing, a few of the others began to leave, having various things they needed to do. Standing up, Peter walked over with a pile of plates, helping Steve load the dishwasher and clean the surfaces despite the older man's protests.

"Let me help, Captain, it's the least I can do." He said earnestly, thinking of Ben and May and their little apartment, of dishes and soap bubbles and laughter - trying to keep the pain out of his voice. 

Still, Steve seemed to pick up on something, judging by the slightly strained smile he returned - Peter was just grateful the older man didn’t comment. "Alright,” he conceded, “I appreciate the help."

The clearing of a throat nearby drew Peter’s attention away, and he noted, with some level of concern, the nervous beating of a heart. “Could I, uh, steal Spidey for a sec, Steve?” Clint asked, unsure.

Steve smiled, seemingly picking up on something, “Of course.”

Peter gave a quick nod and followed Clint out into the hall, meeting his hesitant, yet determined gaze. He tilted his head in question, prompting Clint to clear his throat again. “Oh, right. Yeah. I just wanted to say, well,” he paused, biting his lip in a nervous gesture, “I really am sorry about the way our first meeting went, I was a reckless idiot, and, uh, yeah.”

There was silence for a moment. “Oh? You’re saying you don’t shoot everyone you meet for the first time?” Peter asked, trying, albeit weakly, for a nonchalant joke - he really hadn’t been expecting this.

Clint grinned, somewhat shaky. “Yeah, believe it or not, it doesn’t make the best first impression.”

“You sure it’s not a habit?” Peter smirked, “You know, the first step in recovery is admitting you have a problem.”

The archer chuckled. “Hey! I can stop whenever I want.” Peter raised an eyebrow. “I can, I swear!” Clint schooled his expression into something more serious. “But, really, I was hoping we could start over?”

Peter considered it for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I can’t just forget what happened, it’s not how stuff works,” Clint’s face fell at the perceived rejection, “ but ,” he continued, “we can move forward, past it?”

Clint nodded, smiling. “That sounds good.” His smile turned into a smirk. “And, hey, maybe one day I can get you in the training room and we can test out your agility? I was impressed, man, not many people can dodge my shots.”

“Trying to shoot at me again already, Hawkeye?” Peter teased.

“Damn, you caught me!” Clint held up his hands in surrender, then broke and laughed. “So,” he began, “we good?”

“Yeah,” Peter nodded, “yeah, we’re good.”

A short while later, one everything had been cleaned away and Peter returned, it was only Steve and Peter left in the kitchen. The supersoldier smiled kindly at Peter and clapped him on the shoulder, who winced as he flinched automatically and noticed the falter in Steve’s smile. Once again, he was glad the man let it pass by.

“Hey, Spidey?” Steve asked tentatively. Peter hummed questioningly, and turned his gaze up to the man. “I know you said we’re all good, but I want to properly apologise. It was wrong of me and I jumped to stupid conclusions with far too little evidence. I can’t afford to make those sorts of mistakes, it’s on me. I get that you can’t completely trust me, but I hope you can trust the rest of the team, eventually - they’re good people.”

Peter waited a moment, weighing up the different interactions he’d had with Steve and the rest of the team - glittering eyes and warm laughs, mistakes and recompense - and, when he spoke, he knew the small smile was obvious in his voice.

“Really, don’t worry about it. Everyone makes mistakes, even supersoldiers who run around saving the world every other day. I meant it when I said I’m over it. Besides,” he turned away, “it was something you said that made me decide to give trusting you guys a try, after everything that happened.”

He walked out, leaving a slightly bemused Steve watching him with a determined, uncertain, but overall hopeful expression.

*

After only a moment of wondering what he should do next - Peter couldn't exactly go out and fight crime in pyjamas - FRIDAY piped up, "Boss requests your presence in his workshop, Spidey. He says to bring the suit too."

Peter, extremely curious, nodded and grabbed the suit from the guest room before walking into the elevator, “Alright. Take me to him then, I guess?”

There was no response, other than the elevator whirring into action and the numbers above the door beginning to decrease. He was on floor 92 - the Avengers floor, he noticed - and the numbers decreased only for a minute or so, before settling on level 90.

It’d make sense, he supposed, for Tony to want his workshop to be close by. He wondered, absent-mindedly, as the doors rolled open, what floor 91 was, if 93 was Tony’s penthouse and 92 was the Avengers floor.

The thought was quickly wiped from his mind as loud music blasted out into the elevator from the workshop, causing Peter to close his eyes and shove hands over his ears in pain. The noise-level in there was no joke.

FRIDAY must’ve said something, because soon the music dimmed and he was able to tentatively remove his hands from his ears, opening his eyes one at a time. Without the onslaught of sound, Peter was able to take a step into the workshop and look around.

It wasn’t sleek and metal and pristine, like some people assumed a billionaire inventor’s workshop would be; instead,  it was all concrete and stone and exposed metal, surfaces covered with half-finished projects and floating, holographic notes.

To an outsider, it may have seemed unorganized - but Peter knew better. The workspace of a passionate inventor (and a genius, no less) was bound to be messy, but in a controlled chaos sort of way. It was the way that Peter’s desk was always strewn with papers and bits of dumpster tech that made May scold him to clean up, even though he knew where everything was.

'Organizing' it would leave him floundering to find anything at all. Not that Peter was calling himself a genius, he thought himself far from it. But the passionate inventor part? Yeah. He could relate to that.

His gaze fell on Tony, sitting across the room in a spinnable desk chair. The man gestured him over without looking - and Peter began walking over - before taking his gaze from the desk and letting his gaze land on Peter, “Sorry about the noise.”

Peter shrugged, “It’s fine. FRIDAY said you asked to see me?”

Tony nodded, and pushed his chair back, standing up, “Yeah. So, I saw your whole hole-laden onesie setup and figured it’s not on purpose, right?”

He responded with slightly narrowed eyes, “Not all of us are billionaires, Stark.”

The older man raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment on the jab, “‘Stark’, is it? Call me Tony, Underoos.”

Setting his suit down on one of the tables, Peter just hummed noncommittally. Tony waved it off and pulled up a schematic, “Well, I knew you probably wouldn’t want me to just design you a new suit and shove it at you,” Peter’s mouth twitched slightly, amused at the accuracy. He probably would’ve thrown it back at Tony and insulted him. Or something. “-but I can’t have you running around in ripped spandex and keep my conscience clean, Underoos. So I thought up a basic design and figured you could let me know what you think? It’s pretty great so far, if I do say so myself.”

Peter smirked, realising Tony thought Peter would let him design the suit practically on his own - he had no idea how wrong he was. He settled for a simple, “Let me see.”

Tony pushed the hologram through the air towards him, and Peter began skimming through, humming slightly and making adjustments as he got used to the system. After a few minutes, he copied Tony’s movements and pushed the hologram back towards the man.

He watched with immense enjoyment, relishing in the surprised looks on Tony’s face. There were a few more minutes of silence until he’d finished looking through Peter’s notes. Tony turned to face him, impressed written all over his face, “Kid, you didn’t tell me you were smart- I mean, there are things I never would’ve thought of and- hold on. What about space for whatever makes you stick?”

Raising his eyebrows, - much like with the suit, it was easy to read his expressions, even with his face obscured - Peter looked around and placed his palm down against a wrench, lifting it back up without holding onto the wrench, “Tah dah,” he said, displaying only hint of enthusiasm despite his growing excitement, “sticky.” He let the wrench fall the short distance back onto the desk.

“... fair enough.” Tony shook his head slightly, then laughed a bit and narrowed his eyes, “Wait- do those webs come out of you, too?”

Peter guffawed, looking slightly disgusted at the concept, “No no no, I synthesized them in a lab. I have these, my web shooters,” he held up his wrists where the metal bands sat, displaying them, “they, well, shoot out my webs.” he brought his middle and ring finger down, sending a web to attach to the ceiling, then gave it a tug, “Pretty self explanatory.”

Tony looked even more shocked, if that were possible, “You made those yourself? And managed to near-recreate spiderwebs and improve upon their tensile strength to hold a human swinging at high velocity? Color me impressed, kid.”

Shooting Tony a smirk, Peter paused, conflicting emotions flitting over his face, “The more important question is you thought the webs came out of me?”  

“Alright, alright, Spider-Boy,” Tony snorted, “why don’t you show me how smart you are?”

Peter smirked, then tapped a hologram to begin using it, “Game on, old man.”

They worked side-by-side for hours, improving each other's designs and poking fun at stupid mistakes. It was nice to chat to someone who could keep up with him, and really understand what he meant. For all her listening, Aunt May had never really grasped most of what he was saying. Still, he’d appreciated it, of course - and missed it, now more than ever.

By the time they were finished, it was nearly past lunchtime. Despite what Peter had been thinking, they ended up designing a whole new suit for him - it was beyond imagination. Never would Peter have thought he’d work with Tony Stark for hours at time, chatting and joking all the while, while talking at a thousand miles an hour over exciting scientific ideas.

It was a million miles disconnected from his day-to-day of swinging around the city in rags, and only talking to criminals - and the occasional civilian. But it was a nice change, definitely. Peter was inventing with one of his childhood heroes. Tony was amazing to him, first as a genius, and then as Iron Man. It was a big plus that he’d stopped producing weapons and focused on saving the world from destruction.

Ned would freak. out. if he knew what his best friend was up to right now. The thought made guilt well up and a lump rise to his throat, though, so he quickly pushed it down alongside the side-effects. No time for that, right now. He’d done what he had to and there was no point in regrets. He thought he’d learned that long ago.

But before they could properly skip the meal, FRIDAY chimed in, “Boss? Agent Romanov says to, quote, ‘Get your ass up here and eat before I make you. ’”

Tony gave Peter a sideways look, then took a moment, and sighed, clapping his hands with finality, “Looks like we’re having lunch with the team, Spidey.”

Peter laughed, standing up and shrugging, brushing off the dust, “Lunch with the Avengers; how could I resist?”

Echoing the laugh, Tony stood up as well, “Tell them we’re coming up, FRI.” They walked over to the elevator, and Tony got FRIDAY to take them to the Avengers’ shared floor. “We should be able to finish making the suit after lunch, if you ignore Clint’s pleas to play video games with him.” 

That made him hold back a sigh of relief. He wouldn’t be able to get into the apartment, or somewhere else to sleep, without it. The bottom levels of the complex were inaccessible, and alleyways were nowhere near safe. He settled for a chuckle, sarcasm dripping from his next words, “I think I can resist.”

Tony laughed, and stepped out as the doors opened to the Avengers’ floor - where they’d been last night and this morning. He walked over to the counter, Peter following.

Steve raised an eyebrow,  “Look who decided to join us. You can’t already be giving Spidey your bad habits, Tony.”

“I have plenty of bad habits of my own, thanks, Cap.” Peter replied with a smirk.

That earned him a groan, “Really? The nickname thing too?”

Peter chuckled, sitting down, “What can I say? I’m receptive to good ideas.”

Soon enough, everyone was grabbing lunch, and Peter joined in. They fell into a comfortable hum of chatter that felt familiar, even having rarely talked to them outside of battle. At one point - Clint was bickering with Tony over a prank, Steve staring amusedly with a look of disapproval, Natasha observing quietly with a smirk, Bucky raising one eyebrow. They were laughing, joking, and chatting comfortably.

It felt like a big, if somewhat dysfunctional, family. And that hurt; the last time Peter could remember having anything like a family was with May - and even that hadn’t been the same since Ben died.

He remembered her bad cooking, (Ben had always been the good cook of the two) Thai takeout and ruffled hair. His mind filled with images of May comforting him after a nightmare. May pressing a kiss into his hair after a good test result. May hugging him sidelong as they watched a film on the couch. Ben ruffling his hair and him batting the hand away playfully. Ben making pasta on Tuesdays. Ben pulling May into a tight hug after a long shift- 

Peter had to shake his head sharply to clear his mind. He couldn’t be thinking about that right now; not when that meant tears more often than not. Well, not really tears. More like sobs racking his body. The tears always just pricked at his eyes, taunting him, never falling. He felt as though he had none left to cry.

He choked down a chunk of the sandwich in front of him, and suddenly didn’t feel too hungry. He hadn’t had this much food in a long while and - even though he’d held back at breakfast - it felt like it would come back to bite him if he didn’t stop now. It was a shame, too, because Peter never knew when his next meal would come. Still, if he hung out with Avengers a bit more, maybe there would be more of this?

It wasn’t just the food and safety and warmth and- Alright. Those things were really nice. But it was the sense of community that really made Peter ache for more of this. More meals with jokes rather than wolfing down limited food alone. More workshop sessions rather than building from dumpster scraps and hoping it wouldn’t hurt too much if the metal scraped him. More… family. But that made Peter remember all the previous family. All dead.

If Peter really was the curse, the fire, the plague killing everyone he loved- well, he couldn’t let that happen to the Avengers. They were good people, and he was more than grateful for everything so far. Maybe it would be alright if he just stayed on the fringes of it all? Yeah. He could deal with that. He’d still join in on some group meals and a few workshop sessions here and there, but nothing massive. Nothing that’d get them too attached.

“God, you really scared me with how you stumbled in last night. You know that, Spidey?” Tony’s voice cut through his thoughts and Peter whipped his head up, cracking into a sly smile.

“I can just patch it up myself, if you’d prefer,” he began, purposefully taunting, “I’m sure I’ve got some mostly-clean rags somewhere…”

"Threaten that again and I'll rethink my whole 'secret tracker' idea." Tony cut in, smirking slightly but also looking a tad worried.

Peter grinned. He knew Tony had added a strictly-for-emergencies tracker to the suit. He’d been mad at first, sure. But if he was that worried, then why not indulge him a little? Plus, he’d checked and it really was for emergencies only . It’d only activate if he were in mortal danger. Still, he’d play around for a bit.

"You scrapped that idea cuz I'm too smart, remember? I'd find any tracker you could make in half the time it took you to plant it," he paused, a mischievous glint behind the masquerade mask, "and reprogram it to send you to Florida, just for fun."

He caught the slight smile Tony made at that, and rolled his eyes, "And yes, Mr Ironman, I did find the emergency one," he smirked as he caught Tony’s slightly worried expression, ”but I think if you're worried enough to risk my trust, I may as well go for it. Plus, I'm less likely to die with the Avengers alerted to my imminent demise."

“Glad you agree, kid.” Tony seemed relieved.

Gotta keep him on his toes , Peter thought amusedly. He pointed slightly at the older man, “But do that again and I’ll paint the Avengers logo bright pink.” The threat was empty and joking, and Tony laughed.

“Alright, alright,” he held up hands in defeat, “you can’t blame me for being worried, though.”

Steve nodded, smiling slightly, “Gotta agree with Tony there, you’re extremely reckless.”

“No need to gang up on me!” Peter yelped in fake-annoyance, causing the rest of them to laugh. It really was nice. Peter wouldn’t be opposed to a bit more of this in his life. Plus, superheroes are much less likely to die from stray muggers and car crashes, right? But maybe more likely from alien invasions, though maybe those cancelled out. Then again…

Peter let the thought trail off, focusing on the here and now - as usual. No time or energy to wonder or worry or fantasize about the future. The only time that mattered was right then, sitting at the kitchen counter, and enjoying the warm, friendly atmosphere.

*

The next day, Peter wandered into the library once again, a bit after noon. He checked his email as ‘Dr Richardson’, and smiled when he saw there had been a response soon after his own. Peter didn’t drop by the library often enough to answer promptly, but Dr Banner didn’t seem to mind.

The email consisted of Dr Banner praising him for his brilliant suggestion and - once again - asking to meet in order to discuss the theories, as well as for more information so he could credit Dr Richardson properly. Peter frowned, and replied - as always - that he could post it without credit.

Dr Banner always rejected that idea, opting instead to incorporate the ideas for the sake of the ‘great improvements’ they could make, but holding off on publishing the new work without first being able to credit Peter. Well, Dr Richardson.

It wasn’t that Peter didn’t want credit, or to meet Dr Banner face-to-face. In fact, he was quite disappointed the Doctor hadn’t been at the tower. He didn’t expect to see the Hulk, considering the damage that always followed, (plus, he was neutral about the Hulk. Didn’t hate him, but he was no Bruce Banner) but he’d hoped to catch a glimpse of Dr Banner.

Still, he couldn't reveal himself to be a homeless kid emailing from a public library. It just wouldn’t work out. And so, he repeated his insistence for no credit, and shut down the computer with a sigh.

He’d just gotten back from a long, late-night-into-early-morning patrol before managing a few hours of restless sleep - so he was in no state to be Spider-Man again, yet. Mr Pilmore didn’t need him back for another short while… so library day it was.

Except, for today, he opted to catch up on the news using the public computers, rather than curl up and read. It was hard to stay up-to-date on all the happenings when you’re homeless, (especially since dates meant really nothing to him anymore, except when he could get money) and focusing more on where your next meal is coming from rather than what ‘scandal’ a celebrity got into the other night on their yacht.

Skimming through articles on Spider-Man that ranged from ‘Hero with a Heart of Gold’ to ‘Dangerous Menace’, he looked over some more details of the SPDR project, and read a few updates on various schemes framed around homelessness. Peter liked to keep up with them, see if they’d affect him somehow - and avoid them if they mentioned CPS or the authorities.

(He wasn’t about to go back into the system without a fight, not after avoiding them for a solid ten months.) He also checked if there were still posts regarding himself, and found that, luckily, they seemed to have given up- for the most part.

Of course, if the cops ran his info through the system they’d find him still marked as MISSING - but he could easily avoid them. Annoyingly, Peter couldn’t just hack in and change his status to something else; that’d cause a knock-on effect that would be far too complex to deal with. So this was the best he could do.

Tentatively, he searched Peter Benjamin Parker into the search bar, hand hovering over the button for a minute before he pressed enter. Pages popped up - some related to him, some not - mostly police reports about a missing person, plus some general CPS ones. Luckily, they seemed to have given up on him a while ago. He felt a pang of sorrow for the people who’d needed people to keep looking… but swallowed it down and allowed himself to feel grateful for it.

He froze as he spotted an instagram post from way back, soon after he’d run away, asking people if they’d seen him. It was Ned’s. Hesitantly, he clicked on the account. He’d tried to avoid it, but when it was so close… he couldn’t resist.

The account had lots of posts from a year or more ago, mostly of Ned and himself, but after that it seemed to go quiet- and then there was the missing post. There were a few, more recent, optimistic posts - but it was still bare compared to before.

Peter’s heart ached at the pain he’d caused his best friend, but he couldn’t do much about it. He’d done what he had to, and he wasn’t about to drag Ned into it too. He thought for a moment, and then - very slowly - logged on to his instagram account.

Instantly, he was greeted by a symbol indicating hundreds of notifications. He swallowed down a breath with a dry throat and clicked on his messages. There were ones from people he kind of knew, and those he really didn’t. And then, there were dozens and dozens from Ned. He scrolled through, and his heart cracked further with each one. 

They started frantic, wondering where he was and asking if he’d come back soon. Then, they slowly became longer and more grief-stricken. Just hoping he was ok. Telling him what happened at school. Hoping he was alive. Ranting about Star Wars. Wishing he’d say something, anything. The last one was sent a few weeks ago, and finished in a way that made him click out as fast as he could.

I’ll wait forever, man. Don’t doubt my ability to hang on till the last moment.

He checked out a few others, swallowing down the lump in his throat, they were all similar: hoping he was alright in generic ways. There was only one from MJ, sent a few months ago. 

You better be alive, ok?

Peter’s heart shattered. He signed out and clicked the computer off in less than 4 seconds, heaving a breath as he stumbled out into the street and collapsed in a nearby alley. Black spots overtook his vision, air coming in ragged breaths.

He pulled his knees to his chest and shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes until colors began to dance in the darkness. It felt as though a weight was shoved, hard , into his chest. Like his heart had really shattered and fallen to the bottom of his chest, shards stabbing into his sides.

After a few minutes of thoughts racing - and yet nothing sticking long enough to actually be considered thinking - he pushed his chin to rest on his knees and wrapped his arms around his legs, pulling them in tight. He’d been avoiding the consequences for so many months, as if they wouldn’t be real if he just didn’t face the truth. But there it was, clear as day, the damage he was doing to his friends. Even without being there, he was hurting them. Burning them up. 

His only source of hope was the lack of messages from Ned for a few weeks. Maybe he was finally moving on? The thought made Peter’s chest ache and pinpricks sting heart - which caused yet another wave of guilt to wash over him. Peter was the one who'd left Ned behind. He had no right to feel grief-stricken over this.

It was the goal, right? What I've been hoping for? He asked his mind in desperation.

And yet, now that it was happening, it felt as if someone had stabbed him. The idea of Ned forgetting him, one day, of becoming a faded memory - hurt . That was the knife twisting deeper. Peter pushed himself around, pulling up his hood and climbing up the wall. He didn't care that he wasn't in his suit, or the danger it could bring. He just needed to get away, and quick. If he couldn’t escape his thoughts, he’d drown them out with something else.

Scrambling onto the rooftop, Peter began leaping from one building to the next, scraping his hands harshly at each rough landing. The already fast wind flew by faster, biting harshly at any exposed skin.

Concrete and paving stones. Bricks and shingles. He ran and jumped as fast as he could, with no real destination in mind. He took a leap across a wide gap and gritted his teeth as he fell short and pushed his barely-together shoes against the brick, pulling himself up and collapsing on the gravel. He winced as it cut into him through worn fabric and the threadbare elbows of his hoodie.

Rolling over onto his back, Peter stared at the sky and let the cold wind burn his bare fingers. It was more gray than blue, now - the sun a glaring white. Thick silver autumn clouds had replaced wispy white summer-time ones. He laughed dryly as the sunlight was blocked out, ridding him of the tiny bit of warmth it had provided.

He gripped handfuls of the sharp pebbles, barely wincing as one bit too deeply and sent a thin river of blood rolling down his palm. He opened his grasp and dropped his head to the side, watching as the red line trickled to the ground and stained the rocks into rubies that shimmered weakly before fading as the blood dried.

I really am broken, huh? He chuckled again at that, feeling somewhat hysterical over the whole thing. He wondered idly if he’d crossed some sort of line once his self-preservation had gone out the window. Sure, he still dodged attacks - injuries were more hassle than they were worth - but at some point he’d stopped caring as much. Peter threw himself into battles with less hesitation, went out as Spider-Man more often, and overall gave less of a shit when he was hurt. 

Another thought for my future therapist, he thought, with a hint of amusement. He’d need to be filthy rich to pay for someone to listen to all his problems - and there were a hell of a lot of them. Peter didn’t know if he’d ever reach that point, though. He really wasn't sure what his whole plan was.

He'd run away to escape the cruel homes he'd been placed in, (courtesy of his Parker Luck, no doubt; none of them had been remotely kind) thinking it'd be better on the streets. And he'd been right, too. Being homeless was a step up from daily beatings, hands down.

Well, at least the only people who hurt him were criminals - not the people he'd trusted to protect him. Then again, there was the Avengers incident… but he was over that. They’d done a lot less harm than others had, and a damn bit more good. 

He ate a similar amount to some of the homes, could be Spider-Man without worrying about curfews, had no homework… Yeah, ok, maybe that last one was a bit tame (and he’d liked school, anyway). The point was: he was better off on his own.

But Peter wondered, at the times he allowed himself to think of the future, what would really happen once he turned 18. He wouldn’t just magically get a job, or an apartment, or any sort of funds; he wasn’t even sure if his family had left much, if anything, for him in their wills. He never thought to ask about his parents, and then, well, CPS didn’t really care to share that sort of thing with him.

So maybe he’d turn 18 on the streets, and nothing would change. What then? People aren’t too keen to give jobs to homeless kids, let alone homeless adults. Peter pushed that train of thought aside. One day at a time, he reminded himself.

This was one of the reasons he tried not to dwell on anything other than the present; both the past and the future were glum, and one of them was set in stone. He’d only have a future if he survived past the present, anyway.

*

Peter swung around a lamppost with a cry of excitement, flipping once before landing lightly on a tall tree at the outskirts of his most-frequented park and settling down on one of the thicker branches near the top. He perched carefully and stuck to the trunk with one hand. 

He grinned. The new suit was something else; light and even less constricting than the spandex, but sturdy and offering far more protection due to the tiny alloys threaded through it. His suit’s wide, white eyes moved more in line with his own - but still didn’t blink, that would be a hazard. The new web shooters could be attached to the suit material at the wrists, or detached to wear in civilian clothes. Peter didn’t like being without them, after all.

After taking it for a spin that day, he was even more impressed than when he’d first seen it finished. He’d even gotten some compliments from people he’d saved, as well as random people on the streets. More so from the latter, due to general shock incurred from, well, crime. It was a stark (Peter laughed at his own word choice) difference from just a few days prior, when he’d been swinging around in what was practically rags.

Not only did it keep him safer, it was a huge morale boost, too. Knowing he looked sleek and put-together did wonders for his confidence - and sent criminals’ confidence to the gutters. There was also the added factor of knowing the Avengers were not only on his side, but actively wanted him to hang out and work with them more often. Things were looking a lot better than they had been in months.

His new-found connection with the Avengers - and, subsequently, billionaire Tony Stark - also meant no more sneaking into Midtown to steal the supplies for his web fluid. As thick as the man could be, Tony had caught on to his lack of supplies, and offered his workshop as a place for Peter to create what he needed.

It was a big weight off his chest - not only from the guilt of stealing, but from inevitably seeing Ned and MJ in the school. There had been a few too many close calls with that, and he wasn’t about to risk making a mistake and stirring up their lives yet again. Especially not after checking his messages; if they were moving on, Peter couldn’t screw that up now. He couldn’t be that selfish. He’d made his choices, and now he had to stick to them.

Flinging himself from the branch, Peter smirked into the wind as he caught himself with a web. The feeling truly was unparalleled. He swung through the streets and, before long, a scream from afar caught his attention. His head perked as he listened for the direction, and shot off after it.

A few moments later, he found himself gazing down into an alley. (Why did so much crime always happen in alleys? The city really needed to look into that.) Once he’d surveyed the scene - a mugging, as usual - he jumped down and put some pep into his tone as he spoke.

“You guys really need to get a better routine, this is getting old,” he quipped, thinking of how very common alley robberies seemed to be.

The mugger didn’t look very amused, instead twisting his head to lazily threaten Peter with a rusty knife, grunting out some words, “Get out of here, weirdo.”

Peter rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion, hoping the suit would display that emotion well enough, “Now, now, don’t be rude.” he cocked his head to the side and quickly disarmed the man with a well-placed kick that sent the knife skidding into the darkness. He took a better look at the mugger, and softened slightly.

He looked young, not much older than Peter himself, and quite malnourished. Tired eyes with a familiar look in them stared back - eyes that said he’d seen far, far too much at his young age. Peter knew those eyes; he saw them whenever he looked in a mirror.

“Don’t call the cops,” the harsh voice cut through his thoughts, and Peter looked at the would-be mugger.

“Oh?” Peter raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“I just- I need some food,” the boy’s voice was anguished, “I haven’t eaten in days, man.”

Sighing, Peter pulled out some emergency cash. He offered it to the boy, “Go on. Try not to resort to violence next time, eh?”

The boy nodded vigorously, eyes wide, “Y-yes sir.”

“Alright, go on then. If you cause trouble again I won’t go so easy, alright?” Peter warned.

He nodded again, before fast-walking out.

Peter grabbed the knife and stored it with his emergency supplies; he’d dispose of it at a later date. He’d confiscated quite a few weapons in his time, and usually handed them off to the police as evidence - but not this one. This one, he’d chuck somewhere it couldn’t be used to cause harm.

Examining it slightly, he couldn’t see any signs of dried blood, which solidified his decision. The ‘mugger’ wouldn’t try that again, Peter knew the look in his eyes at the end - he’d just been desperate.

He’d become a lot more lenient on petty crimes ever since becoming homeless and understanding the daily struggle to survive. So what if a few starving kids didn’t get thrown into juvie? It wouldn’t hurt anyone. Plus, he kept notes on them and went through with his warnings if they didn’t listen. He may be kind, but he wouldn’t risk other people’s safety that far.

Looking around, it seemed the civilian had run out before Peter could get a proper look. Whatever, they were probably fine if they could run off like that - and he didn’t blame them for being skeptical after just nearly being robbed. He wasn’t a vigilante for the gratitude, after all.

That was something people always seemed to wonder: why put yourself in danger like that, every day?. Of course it was thrilling, but that wasn’t it. It filled up his time, but that could’ve been resolved in a number of ways. It wasn’t the fame (and certainly not the fortune, he scoffed to himself) or any sort of public adoration. It was something his Uncle had said, mainly.

‘ With great power comes great responsibility.’

Those words played a huge part, and fueled Peter on the days where it was hard to keep going. But, mainly, he just couldn’t stand by and watch as other people were hurt - not if he could prevent it. 

Chapter Text

Peter walked into the cemetery a week or so after getting his new suit, holding flowers he’d found discarded around stalls in a marketplace. He stepped up the path with a heavy feeling in his heart, eyes gliding over the familiar controlled-chaos of the somewhat overgrown plots. Ben and May shared a headstone opposite Richard and Mary’s on the small stone path.

He placed the flowers down as memories flooded his mind. He remembered the days they died, he could never forget. They were clear and painful; stamped onto his mind like a brand.

His parents were first, of course. They were heading on some sort of business trip when the plane crashed - no survivors. That headline still blared in his mind, 'TRAGIC PLANE CRASH - NO SURVIVORS', stamped in bright red across some newspaper.

Even at 6 years old, Peter could tell something was off. His parents had promised they’d only be away for a week or so, pressed kisses into his hair and left him with his Aunt and Uncle. He’d stayed with them before, and it was like an adventure every time - he’d lie on his small bed in the tiny apartment and stare up at the cheap glow-in-the-dark stars he’d convinced them to buy at a car sale. Peter would trace patterns and smile, their soft lights guiding him to sleep.

The details were blurry, since he was so young, but he remembered the phone call; it was something he could never forget. He was sitting on the floor, watching TV, when the phone rang loudly. May had picked up, spoken quietly, and broken down into tears. Ben came rushing through and pulled her close, taking the phone from her. He’d frozen, muttered something into the phone, and held May tight. Peter remembered seeing tears glisten in his Uncle’s eyes, and knowing something was wrong. Ben left Peter with a trusted neighbour for a few hours, and when they came back it was all different.

He’d learnt, years later, that it’d been the police, asking them to identify the bodies they’d recovered. And, just like that, Richard and Mary Parker were officially dead. 

On the day, he’d stared at Ben’s tear-stained cheeks and quietly asked what was happening. They’d sat down on the couch, pulled him into a hug, and explained that his parents wouldn’t be coming back - they couldn’t. He’d hugged them back, a confused feeling in his heart, and hoped his warmth could clear away their pain.

That night, Peter lay in his bed and stared up at the stars. Then, he wandered over to the window and stared at the real ones. He wondered if his parents were stars, now. If that’s why they had to go. He’d fallen asleep with a hand on the cool glass and tears slipping down his face. Peter didn’t quite understand, but he cried anyway. He cried because they were sad, and because one thing was clear: it was just him, May and Ben left now.

They took Peter in and never let him feel unloved. They hadn't wanted kids, but they adored Peter like their own. He wasn't just their nephew; he was the last living reminder of their dead family, as well as the most precious child they'd ever known. They helped Peter start to heal, to learn to trust and care and love again.

His Aunt and Uncle held him when he'd wake up, late at night, crying from a nightmare. They taught him to tie his laces properly, to say please and thank you, to do the right thing and be a good person.

The thought constricted Peter’s heart as he stood in the cold, hoodie pulled over his head. Was he honoring their memories, really? Was he doing all he could to be the great person they’d wanted him to be? Ben died for him, and Peter couldn’t afford to be anything less than worthy of that. He sucked in a sharp intake of breath, cold air stinging his lungs.

It was late at night, and Peter had wandered out of the apartment to clear his mind. Ben followed him, and they ended up in an argument about responsibility.

"With great power comes-"  his Uncle started, a stern look in his eyes.

"Great responsibility, yeah yeah. I've heard it before, Ben." Peter remarked offhandedly, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“You’ve heard it, sure. But do you listen ?” Ben asked, in a serious tone.

Peter rolled his eyes and quickened his pace, irritated. 

They walked past a small convenience store right as a man burst out of the doors with a bag slung over his shoulder. He hadn't seen the gun until Ben pushed himself in front of Peter and-

A gunshot rang through Peter's ears. The man ran off. Ben slumped down, onto the cold concrete pavement. Peter slid down next to him, grasping desperately at his Uncle's shirt, where a bright red stain slowly began to spread. Ben looked up at Peter for a moment, eyes locking with his and shining with a strong emotion he couldn’t quite place, and then went limp.

He vaguely remembered an ambulance, the sound of sirens. The only thing he could feel was the quickly-cooling blood wetting his skin. Ben’s blood. There were officers, a blanket, a police station- and then May. She’d pulled him close, like all those years ago, and sobbed into his neck. It was as though she was worried he’d disappear too, if she let go. It was ironic now, when May was gone and Peter was still alive - but nowhere near funny.

The sky began to lighten and Peter lay in his bed, mind blank except for the ringing of the gun playing on repeat. The once-glowing stars were dark against the ceiling, barely emitting a faint glow.

Eventually, he’d gotten out of bed and pulled himself together - for May’s sake, if nothing else. She’d just lost her husband and had to pick up extra shifts to look after herself and her nephew with an ever-growing teenage appetite. Peter tried to get some sort of job, but she always refused. He’d still gotten one, despite her complaints, but never told her directly. If a few extra bills slipped into her wallet every so often, who had to know?

Peter felt the gnawing in his chest grow as he shuddered a shaky sigh into the gentle breeze. It all felt so long ago; his parents, Uncle Ben, Aunt May. And yet, it all still hurt. Sure, his parents’ had turned into more of a dull background ache - one that stabbed when he saw happy families and Mother’s or Father’s day cards, sure. But dull nonetheless. Ben’s death was more painful, due to his better grasp on the concept of mortality, as well as it being less than two years ago. It didn’t help, either, that he felt a staggering amount of guilt over it.

It was one of the things Peter’s mind liked to torture him with: what if it’d gone different? What if he hadn’t gone out, or had gone back once Ben followed? If he’d only done something different, maybe he’d still be alive.

Then there was May.

On Peter’s fifthteenth birthday, he’d been walking home when May called. He’d picked up with a grin - she’d said she’d be on a long shift today, so even a call would be nice.

“Hi May! How’s work?”

There was a small laugh over the phone and a smile that seeped into her tone, “It’s alright, honey. You know how sorry I was about having work? Well, don’t worry! I managed to get the rest of the day off.”

Peter felt a sense of warmth fill him swiftly. He understood about work, even if he was somewhat disappointed, “Really? That’s awesome!”

“I’m on the bus now, once I get home I figured we could order Thai and watch a movie? I bought some ice cream the other day, now we can eat it together.”

With an overdramatic groan, Peter faked a jokey annoyance despite his overflowing joy at the turn of events, “Damn, now I have to share the ice cream?”

She laughed again, a beautiful, lilting sound. He loved making her laugh - it felt as though the sun itself was shining down on him, “Yeah, yeah. Don’t make me regret this, mister.” She copied his teasing tone, and he giggled, “I’ll see you soon, alright? I-”

May’s voice was cut off mid-sentence by a loud crash and the sound of contorting metal.

“May? May!” Peter felt his heart quicken as he began to sprint towards the bus route she took to get home, “Are you alright? May, please answer me!” He ignored as his breath began to come in sharp spikes and his vision blurred - whether with tears or dust or something else, he didn’t know. Slowing as he reached a large crowd, Peter pulled out his asthma pump and used it to prevent an attack.

Pushing through the people, he saw a bus, side crumpled in by a large delivery truck. His eyes widened and the world began to numb around him. Peter remembered the police, and being told he didn’t need to identify the body - May’s ID was secure around her neck. He remembered the world seeming dull, cotton stuffing his head.

His world hung still for a moment, suspended in time. He’d felt frozen, lost and alone; there was no one left. And then it was thrown back into motion all too suddenly. There was paperwork and meetings with CPS workers, then came foster home after foster home and nothing seemed quite real.

Not until the first slap.

Peter had lurched out of his week-long state of shock to the taste of iron as blood poured into his mouth. And then there was no escaping; he was chained to this painful reality with no way out. There was no more Midtown, no more Thai food or warm hugs filled with understanding. Just school after school in a never-ending cycle, and cold loneliness in dark rooms. The world was gray-scaled and he couldn’t imagine color ever returning.

And then he’d left. He decided life was only worth living if he could find a way to make it worth living; he wasn’t going to find that in his foster home, being beaten down every day.

Peter shuddered involuntarily at the memories as he attempted to shove them deep down, into the back of his mind.

The pavements were lit only by buzzing streetlights and bright shop interiors, light spilling out onto the concrete and the crowds. A lonely Christmas had been hell. New Years was even worse.

Peter was leaning against the cold stone of a skyscraper as he heard the chanting begin as crowds of people counted down to midnight. It seemed so idiotic, from where he sat. What did a ‘new year’ really mean, other than more suffering? The world had spun around a ball of gas for another 365¼ rotations. Wonderful. That wouldn’t get food in his stomach.

He stood, and walked out onto the busy, traffic-clogged street. Maybe people would be more generous during the celebration. 

It’d only been a few days later, a short while into the new year, when he’d been bitten. He’d entered a competition (forging his details via hacking the company’s shockingly bad defences) and managed to get a tour of OsCorp. What could Peter say? He’s a science nerd at heart. While looking over a wall celebrating the company’s best scientists, he saw his own parents’ names and froze. Before he knew it, he’d been left behind and ended up, somehow - Parker Luck™ - being bitten by some sort of spider.

Agony was the only way to describe the next few days. Not wanting to go to a hospital and risk CPS, he rode out the sickness in an abandoned storage unit - shivering and throwing up bile. And then… well, then he’d gotten his abilities, and being homeless became much easier and a lot harder all at the same time. It didn’t take long to become Spider-Man, and finding the spandex suit a short while later was even better.

He wondered if Ben would be proud, if he was doing the whole “Great Responsibility” thing right. Peter stood in the silence for another moment, before turning to walk away. One of the only times he allowed himself to dwell on the past was visiting their graves, and he tried to limit those visits. It was too painful otherwise, too tempting to envelop himself in the memories and just forget. He hadn’t even spoken a single word, like he used to - back when he’d talk to the graves and pretend they could hear him.

There was no point now, all that could bring was more pain; a stinging reminder of all he’d lost.

Shaking his head, he stepped down the path. Back to the present, as always; just focus on the here and now. It was somewhat of a motto for him by now.

*

Swinging through the city was freeing, truly. It’d been a few days since the cemetery and the low, grief-stricken mood that hung overhead like a heavy fog was beginning to lift. It was another reason Peter tried not to visit too often - the dark atmosphere that inevitably followed could last for days, or even weeks. It wasn’t worth the risk to his efficiency as Spider-Man. Nothing was.

He switched directions at the end of the street and perched on top of a building, scanning the streets and alleys for trouble with all his senses. He could hear the heartbeats of the civilians walking within a block and listened closely for signs of distress followed by some sort of commotion. He jumped and swung a while longer, enjoying the gentle wind - it wasn’t too cold today, luckily. His head snapped around as the sound of screeching brakes filled his head, eyes focusing in on a bus about to crash into another car where it had stopped, all too suddenly.

Letting go of the web, he shot out another and pulled it taut as he launched himself into the road. Digging in his heels right before the impact, he braced as about 10 tonnes of metal slammed into his waiting hands. Skidding backward a few feet, he winced at the force and the loud noises in his ears. Super hearing was detrimental when it came to this part of vigilante-ism.

It took only a few seconds for the bus to come to a stop with his help, and there was a strange silence hanging in the air for a moment- before noise erupted once more. There was yelling and chatter all around him, and he was sure people were recording, but all he focused on was checking everyone on and around the bus was ok.

Quickly heading around to the bus’ doors, he stood by as they swung open and people crowded out. He kept an eye out for any serious injuries, but luckily there didn’t seem to be anything beyond scrapes. People would have called 911 by now, which was useful. Peter stepped into the bus and up to the driver, assisting them in their shock and getting out to sit on the curve. A small child tugged on his suit, and he dropped down slightly, to level his eyes with hers.

“You’re Spider-Man!” she said in awe.

He chuckled, “That’s me, are you alright?”

She nodded profusely, “Yeah! I saw you on the news, I wanna be a hero too!”

“Well you’re already very brave,” he smiled in a bittersweet fashion, “that’s really important.”

She grinned widely, “Are you super brave then?”

Only hesitating for a moment as images of himself cowering in dark alleys filled his mind, he tilted his head, “I try to be.” He patted her hair and pulled himself from the memories, “Alright, little bug. Can you show me where your parents are? Or whoever is looking after you?”

Turning, she pointed out a man standing a short while away on his phone, “That’s my daddy.”

Feeling a tug at his heart, he swallowed down the lump in his throat, “Could you go over to him? I need to make sure everyone else is ok.”

“Ok, Spidey-Man!” she grinned, giving him a quick hug, and then skipped over to her dad.

Pushing his emotions out of the way for now, Peter jogged over to the nearby cars, checking on the people there and helping people in shock get out to get some fresh air and clear their minds. Once he was sure everyone was alright, he turned to the crowds, gave a quick two-fingered salute, and swung off.

A block or so away, he landed on a rooftop and leaned his head back against the brick, letting the sharp pain of the small impact ground him. He really wasn’t up for this, not so soon after visiting the cemetary. Not after the harsh reminder that he was well and truly alone. The sight of the little girl and her dad made him ache with longing for his own family.

The pain that had been exemplified by his visit to the cemetery began to spill over from the box he’d shoved it into. Memories began to flood his mind - but not like before, not ones of loss and heartbreak. Instead, Peter found himself trapped in the rose-tinted past; the days full of love and belonging. There was a reason he tried to stay in the present, a reason that stretched beyond mere survival or worry for the future.

Nostalgia, a truly bittersweet thing. It dug deep into Peter’s mind and filled him with a deep desire for the past, the days where everything was alright because he had his family by his side. Days before Spider-Man or foster homes or starvation in old, abandoned buildings. When being late to school or forgetting homework or dodging self-centered bullies were his main concerns. Once he was trapped by that yearning… it was hard to claw his way out - especially when his present was so much more painful.

His eyes snapped open - he’d barely even registered they were closed - and landed on an electronic billboard across the street. 3:02pm . Shit. He was screwed. Mr Pilmore was rarely happy, even less so when Peter was a bit late and even less so when Peter was more than half an hour late. Scrambling to stand, he swung out across the city in an attempt to change and arrive at his ‘job’ as soon as he could.

The journey seemed far longer than it should, straining his arms to quicken his pace. He pulled on the clothes over his suit, shoving the mask and gloves (he’d had made them detachable, so he could wear the suit under normal clothes when needed) into his pockets hastily and sprinting to the store.

It was a good 15 minutes later when Peter ran up to the door, slightly out of breath (which, from an enhanced person like himself, was a lot).

“I’m really so sorry, sir! I just lost track of the time and-”

“Save it, kid.” came Mr Pilmore’s gruff voice, coated in irritation. Damnit . “You’re not worth the trouble, I can find someone who actually values it enough to be on time.”

Peter’s heart sank, “No, please, sir! I really need this job, I just-”

“If you needed it that badly, you should’ve thought of that before being an hour late.” His tone left no room for arguments.

“I-”

“Out. Now. Before I call the cops, you ungrateful rat.”

Peter turned and pushed out through the glass door, breath picking up as a blast of cool air whipped into him. His heart began to pound, his mind racing as he mentally cataloged his supplies and how long he had. He’d been paid just last week, but that hadn’t lasted long. Then there were the pictures, but Jameson had been paying less and less - something about having other, cheaper options.

His food cache wasn't too low, but it wasn't great either. Peter had been counting on today’s pay to stock up with the discount sale going on at the supermarket nearby. He’d have to dig into his reserves now - and his rationing would have to be stricter. Just enough to keep him from starving (even though that was happening already, technically) and nothing more. 

Skidding to a stop, Peter realised he was a good few miles away from the store; he wasn’t sure when he’d started running, but now he dropped his pace to a fast walk. He couldn’t afford to waste precious energy on running - outside of being Spider-Man, of course. Energy meant food and food meant money. Money he couldn’t replace.

He swore under his breath. How could he have been so stupid? Mr Pilmore was an ass, but he was right . Peter needed that job - and he blew it. Spider-Man was no excuse. He’d been zoning out for long enough to have been on time. It was his stupid reminicing, his irritating emotions that always seemed to get in the way.

Sudden rage building high, Peter turned on his heel and swiftly sent a forceful punch into the wall of a nearby, run-down building. He cursed again, leaning his forehead against the wall, as a shot of pain ran through him. Looking down at his hand, he saw his knuckles were embedded with brick and blood. Wonderful. At least there was no one around- he’d run far enough into the shittier part of town that it was pretty abandoned.

Still, he pulled up his hood and walked off, in no particular direction except away from here. Anxiety rose in his chest as he cursed his idiocy - how could he have not controlled himself? He was a hero for god’s sake! Well, that’s what people said. With every passing day, Peter was less and less sure whether he was really a hero or just a nuisance. A menace, like the Daily Bugle said.

Pushing the thought from his mind, he took a deep breath. As long as he was helping people, as long as he could save one more person that would’ve died… well then, it’d be worth it. Even so, he really needed to get a handle on this anger. It was so new to him. He’d never been a particularly rageful guy before, when he had some sort of family and comfortable normalcy.

He was never comfortable anymore. Rage bubbled beneath the surface far too often, accompanied by grief and guilt. What a wonderful cocktail of emotions , he commented dryly. He was still managing to hold back the white-hot anger when fighting crime, for the most part. And if a few of the worst scum got a bit more roughed up than usual, well who could blame him?

*

Peter swung into the midst of the Avengers’ most recent battle around noon. He was feeling more exhausted than usual, but at least the hunger pains had dulled. It wasn’t that he’d found a more reliable food source; on the contrary, he’d had to cut back an immense amount ever since he was fired. It was more that, before, Peter had eaten just enough to appease his stomach - and that seemed to leave him with a constant, stabbing pain.

Now, it was more of a dull throb, a background hum to be ignored like all the others. Like the footsteps and heartbeats and breaths all around when he was walking down the street. Or the rushing of water through pipes in the walls. He’d had this before, when he’d gone hungry for a bit too long, but he’d forgotten how nice it felt - in comparison to spiking pains, at least. At the same time, he chose the piercing pain last time, and he would when possible now, as well. It wasn’t that he preferred it, but more that it kept him alert. The thrumming pain was numbing and more distracting with its sudden intense aches. So, for Spider-Man and the people, he chose the former.

Shaking away those thoughts, he plastered on a grin as he webbed a couple of the small half-meter wax-like creatures attacking the Avengers.

“Hi Cap!” He called out, swallowing some lingering nausea from the recent lack of food. He swung by the man - who was currently fighting off a horde of the Wax Goblins (as named by Peter, at that moment).

Steve slammed one of the Goblins into the ground with his shield, “Spidey, good to have you here - we could use the help.”

Peter saluted jokingly, before webbing up some of the ones attacking Steve and continuing on to scope out the situation. After staying at the Tower a few weeks prior, his relationship with the Avengers had improved. He hadn’t spent the night again, but he’d dropped by a couple of times and joined in on the fights he saw. The latter was rarer, seeing as they mostly focused on world-ending or large-scale events, but if there was a bigger-than-usual threat to the city, they’d help out.

He still didn’t trust them, and his relationship with Steve was strained due to the man’s uptight nature and hesitance over the whole secret identity thing. Still, they worked well enough in battle, and Peter could tell Steve was holding himself back after what had been aptly dubbed ‘the Incident’ on the rooftop.

Flicking on his comm, Peter heard the Avengers’ commands fill his head - he winced briefly, vision blurring slightly from discomfort and exhaustion, and turning down the volume with the controls on his arm before speaking up, “Hey guys! How’s it going?”

“Not great, Underoos,” came the voice of Tony, in his Iron Man suit, through the comms, “you see that big ol’ thing hanging up there?” Peter looked up, and noticed a hive-like thing made of the wax substance, about the size of a car - which was dripping what then turned into the Goblins, but not seeming to diminish at all, “We need to disable the tech enabling this all, but it's inside the hive and we’re having trouble getting in.”

“I could swing up there, try to take a look?” Peter offered, webbing five more Goblins to a lamppost.

There was a momentary silence, and Peter rolled his eyes. He assumed they were talking on the comms frequency he didn’t have access to - and although he understood, it was still irritating.

It was Steve that broke the silence, “Alright, sure. Be careful though, and try not to touch this stuff. It can give you a pretty nasty burn.”

“I’ll say…” Clint muttered through the comms, earning a short laugh from Tony.

“On it, Cap!” Peter said, putting on a cheery tone as he shook away a small wave of nausea, not quite paying attention to the chaos of the comms. He launched himself into the air with a double front flip and a short whoop as he landed on a building near the hive, walking around, he inspected for any signs of the tech or any entrances. He narrowed his eyes, catching notice of a small glint of metal poking through, “Ah hah!” he cried out, punching the air, “I think I can see the machine-thingy.” He inspected it further, then muttered, “ I might be able to reach it, if I just…”

He shot out a web, creating a non-sticky web-zipline across the gap between buildings, and walked out onto it, grinning as it held properly. He reached out a hand towards the metal, as an urgent voice suddenly broke through the comm, “What- don’t touch it!”

Punching out the metal box, Peter’s first thought was Hell yeah!

The second was, Wait, what did Cap say about burns?

Hissing loudly, Peter stumbled backwards and slipped off the web as his hand received a sudden, intense pain. Blinking it away as his vision darkened slightly, his third thought was, Oh shit, I’m falling.

His comms were filled with sounds of concern and panic, and he knocked his arm limply, turning them off. Promptly shooting out a web, Peter’s direction switched harshly and he went skidding into the back of an alleyway, the impact knocking his air from his lungs. His vision was riddled with patches of slowly fading black as he coughed harshly. He lay there for a minute, before pushing himself to a sitting position and taking deep, shaky breaths. Peter hissed as his injured hand brushed the dirty concrete, and his eyes widened at the sight of it.

The suit material was mainly gone, with some of it basically melted into his hand. The hand itself wasn’t great, either - red and raw, leaking blood from some scratches, parts of the skin completely gone. He winced and curled it close to his chest, swearing under his breath slightly. Why hadn’t he paid attention to what the Captain was saying? He’d warned Peter about the burns, and yet he’d been too distracted by his newfound style of constant discomfort to take it in. This wasn't good, Spider-Man couldn’t suffer from his situation - that meant people got hurt.

Pushing off the ground with his one good arm, Peter leaned on the wall and waited a moment for his vision to clear before half-stumbling out to the edge of the alley.

“Spider-Man!”

Peter turned his head to look as Steve jogged up to him. He waved weakly with his good hand, leaning against the wall with his shoulder and still holding his injured hand close, somewhat hidden from view.

“What the hell? Did you not hear what I said?” Steve demanded, tone angry but laced with concern. That was something Peter was starting to understand, too. The man wasn’t too uptight, he’d just grown up in a place where emotions weren’t really expressed in a healthy manner, and his worry often manifested in brash actions and harsh tones.

“Sorry,” Peter tried for a weak smile, hoping it would come across in his tone, “I didn’t really process it properly - heat of the moment and all.”

“I get that, but you can’t just rush into danger like that! Are you-” Steve’s eyes softened as his gaze shifted to Peter’s injured hand, who tried to hide it more behind his other arm, “ Shit , how bad is it?”

Peter rolled his eyes, “It’s nothing, Cap, really. Just a little burn is all.”

Tony landed then, and he marched up, faceplate sliding down, “Lemme see.” He said, giving Peter a pointed look and grasping his arm, earning a soft hiss. He inspected the damage, gave Steve a sideways look and spoke, “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

Huffing, Peter pulled his arm away and cradled the hand slightly, “Seriously, it’s fine.”

Tony gave him a hard look, “You’re coming back to the Tower to get that looked at.”

“Nah,” he said, drawing out the word, “I think I’ll decline.”

“Stand without the wall, and we’ll let it go.” Steve challenged, and Tony gave an approving nod.

Ignoring the wave of nausea, Peter stubbornly pushed himself slightly from the wall, took a step and- collapsed. Luckily, Steve was there to catch him, Peter wincing as his hand brushed the fabric.

“That’s it. You’re coming with us, kid.” Tony announced, stepping forward and picking Peter up in a princess carry.

Peter wiggled, protesting, “Hey, hey! I can at least just swing there!”

Tony raised an eyebrow, “No way, Underoos. You’re not messing up that hand any more before the Doc can take a look at it.”

Giving up, Peter rolled his eyes, “Fine, whatever.”

“Plus,” Tony added as his faceplate closed once again, “you won’t wanna miss the party.”

Before Peter could ask anything, they were up in the air and headed to Avengers Tower. He just settled in, enjoying the view - it was higher than most of what he managed when web swinging, except for the few times he’d launch himself off skyscrapers and just fall . It was peaceful, falling. He’d feel the wind whipping past and the slight pain of dust scraping past and the weightlessness of falling, and then he’d shoot out a web and pull himself into a high arc, way above the cityscape. This was different, not as freeing, but kind of calming - if you ignored the constant aching in his stomach and the itching of his injured hand.

It wasn’t healing anywhere near his usual pace, thanks to his metabolism being linked to his healing, and his general lack of food. If he were at his peak, the worst of the injury would be healed - though he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing, seeing how much dirt and dust had settled into it already. Enhanced healing didn’t guarantee no infections, and his immune system couldn’t fight off everything.

After a short journey through the sky, they landed on a helipad and Tony carried him into the building. Peter protested still being carried, but gave up when Tony gave him a hard look and tightened his grip. Soon, they were walking into the medbay and Peter was deposited onto an empty bed in a large room with many other beds around.

“Emergency treatment area,” Tony explained, when Peter looked confused (he was a billionaire after all, Peter would expect private rooms or something), “for when we’ve just got back from a fight and need to be patched up without something more permanent.”

Clint walked in a few minutes later, and raised an eyebrow at the kid, “You too?” He held up an arm with a nasty gash and a slight burn. Peter held up his own hand in response, earning a wince from Clint, “Geez, that’s way worse. It’s gotta sting.”

Peter just shrugged, “I’ve had worse.”

Ignoring the worried look from the now de-suited Tony standing nearby, Peter turned his attention to the doctor who fast-walked into the room, “Any major injuries?” She asked Tony, who shook his head in response, listing off a few minor wounds from the team.

She turned to Peter, and smiled slightly, “Ah, Spider-Man. I’m Dr Athen. I’ve heard quite a bit about you, what’s wrong?” He held up his hand, and her eyes widened slightly as she rushed over, “That doesn’t look good. Enhanced healing?”

He nodded, hesitating in his answer, before deciding on a half-truth, “Yeah, but it uh- it’s not really up to par recently. It kinda relies on how much I’ve eaten and my metabolism is pretty hard to satisfy.” 

Tony looked over at him, alarmed, “You’ve gotta keep up with your metabolism, kid. It can get pretty ugly if it’s enhanced and not sated.”

Peter rolled his eyes, “Like I’m sure I’ve said before, Stark. Not all of us are billionaires, and food can rack up quite the bill if you need to eat as much as I do.”

“We should get you some of the bars we’ve made for Steve and Bucky, they help people with enhanced metabolisms not have to eat as often.” Dr Athen looked him up and down questioningly, a tint of disbelief in her eyes, “Frankly, you don’t look like you’re eating even as much as the average person. I’d like to weigh you-”

Holding up his non-injured hand to stop her, Peter spoke with frustration coating his tone, “Yeah, I’m good, Doc. Can we just do something about my hand? Stark made me come here for that, and I’m good with leaving it at that.”

“Ok, ok,” Dr Athen conceded, “let’s take a look.”

A short while and some medical care later, Tony pointed Peter in the direction of the room he’d used the last time and suggested a shower, as well as letting him quickly repair the suit. Peter agreed, not too begrudgingly - he hadn’t had a proper shower since the last time he was here, and he could feel the grime and flecks of dried blood covering his skin.

He covered his injured hand with a protective glove, washing the edges of skin visible in the sink (the bandages were pretty water-proof), and enjoyed a nice, long, warm shower. Avoiding the mirrors, Peter walked out to find some clothes on the bed. To his relief, the long shower had allowed Tony enough time to fix the suit, and Peter slipped it on under the clothes. He smirked at the large hoodie and masquerade mask from last time as he pulled them on, shoving his Spider-Man mask and gloves in the pocket.

Walking out into the hallway, Peter realised he didn’t know where the Avengers were gathered. He tentatively called out, “FRIDAY?”

“Yes, Spidey?” The AI responded kindly.

“Where are the team?”

“They are currently having a gathering on this floor. Would you like me to lead you there?”

Peter smiled, thanked her, and followed her directions through the hallways, reaching a room with the door wide open - the sound of laughter and the smell of food and drink pouring out. He tensed slightly at the smell of alcohol, but shook it off, despite the low buzz his spidey-sense settled into. He was fine with drunks on the street, usually, so why was it bothering him now? Maybe it was the lack of the Spider-Man mask, which made him feel much more vulnerable. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the room.

It wasn’t too big of a room, music playing through speakers at a modest volume, snack foods and drinks covering the counters. A few large sofas sat facing a massive TV, and there was a foosball table. At his entrance, Tony turned around, “Heya, Spidey! Glad you could join us! How’s the hand doing?”

A few of the others turned to face him, and Peter stepped further into the room, “It’s… fine. So this is what you meant by party, huh?”

“Yup!” Tony crossed the distance and slung an arm around Peter, who fought the urge to flinch at the sudden contact, before shrugging it away.

“No touch.” Peter reminded, before surveying the room again.

“Sorry, sorry,” Tony waved off, pointing to the counter, “care for a beer?”

Peter gave a disapproving look at the alcohol, “Nah, I don’t drink.”

“Smart kid,” Tony smirked, taking a sip of his own drink, “I don’t either, not anymore. This is just coke. Want some?”

Peter hesitated slightly, before nodding, “Sure.”

Tony walked off to grab a cup, and Steve walked over, “Hey. How’s the hand?”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Peter shrugged instead, holding up the hand covered in bandages, “Fine.”

“So, we’re still doing the mask thing, really?” Steve prompted, with a hint of irritation.

“Yup.” Peter responded simply, popping the ‘p’. The comments from Steve over his identity really annoyed him at this point. He much preferred Tony, who seemed to accept the secrecy despite his obvious curiosity and joking comments, or Bucky, who just ignored it entirely. Clint was far too remorseful over their first meeting to risk jeopardizing the trust they’d now built up, and Natasha just kind of… stared, knowingly. Rhodey was rarely around, so Peter didn’t know how the man felt over it. He understood Steve’s worry and protectiveness over the team, but that didn’t mean Peter had to like it.

Tony walked back with a cup of coke, and Peter welcomed the distraction, excusing himself to step over towards the counter. Then, his spidey-sense screamed at that moment, turning from a soft buzz to a blaring alarm in an instant. Before he could react, he felt a hand on his shoulder and smelt warm breath tinted with the familiar scent of alcohol.

He froze, body going numb and cold, apart from the spot where the hand rested - which felt like it was on fire . The hair on the back of his neck stood up and his breathing quickened, memories of dark nights and angry people flashing across his vision. Smash. He could hear the bottle breaking. Whump. He could feel the kicks in his now-aching side. Cough. He could smell the metal-tinted scent of blood as he coughed it up, lungs screaming for air. The world seemed to dull around him, sounding echo-y and numb, as if it were behind a wall of glass. 

It had only been a moment, in which Clint placed a hand on Peter's shoulder and smirked, "Hey Spidey, nice work out there-" before Peter sent him flying several feet back as he scrambled backwards himself, flinching away from Steve as he bumped into him, and scurrying away from the whole group. His breathing was fast and shallow, cold sweat enveloping him.

The room fell silent for a moment.

"Kid? You good?"

Tony's voice broke through the cotton-like numbness and brought Peter back to reality. He swallowed roughly, throat dry as the same thought ran through his head over and over. Get out. Get out. Get out. Get out. Get out. Get out. It was a second before Peter realised Tony expected him to respond. "Y-yeah," he lied, clearing his throat to rid his voice of the unevenness and panic, nodding quickly and slowly backing towards the slightly-open window, "All good. I just need to- uh- do something. I forgot about it." 

Clint sounded devastated, "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to freak you out."

Peter forced a fake smile to bring the lightness into his tone, "It's alright, just kinda jumpy after today. Anyways, I've got that, uh- thing. I'll see you guys soon."

"Spidey- wait!"

The voice was cut off as Peter leapt across the room and dove out the window which opened at his approach, allowing himself to feel a moment of weightlessness before throwing out a web to catch himself on a nearby building. Free. It felt so nice to be out, swinging above the city streets - even if he'd have to find somewhere to sleep tonight, being too far from his usual warehouse and not even considering going back to the Tower after that display.

He paused for a moment on a nearby rooftop, pulling off the masquerade mask and shoving on his suit mask, pushing it into his pocket. The aching in his hands reminded him to pull on his suit gloves, which quickly attached to the rest of the suit, much like the mask.

Blinking away the memories, he stared up at the sky as he swung, tracing patterns between them. Peter tried to calm his breathing, focusing on burning the light of the stars and moon into his eyes, as if they could erase the images plaguing his mind. His spidey-sense had receded into a hum, itching at the back of his neck.

A sudden spike in pain sent him crashing onto a roof as he grabbed the web with his injured hand - bulky with bandages beneath the suit. He cursed, the pain bringing him back to reality and clearing the fog that had descended over his mind, suddenly aware of the pulsating ache in his hand.

Groaning, he twisted to lay on his back, resting his injured hand on his chest and staring dejectedly at the sky. He was grateful for the hoodie and sweatpants giving him some sort of warmth on the cold near-winter night. Shivering at the chill in the air, he rolled his eyes before closing them.

Things had been going well, recently. And then… well, evidently the universe had realised its mistake and swiftly went back to making his life hell; and between the memories, flashbacks, injuries, firing… it was succeeding.

Eyes fluttering open for a moment, he sighed. At least the stars were nice tonight, right?

*

The Avengers stood in stunned silence for a moment, Clint’s mouth slightly agape with guilt and words he couldn’t quite say.

Tony broke the silence, as usual, “Shit.”

Clint groaned, dropping his head into his hands, “You can say that again.” He leaned onto the back of the couch, “Damnit, how did I forget? He was starting to warm up to us and I went and ruined it.”

“It’s not your fault, you couldn’t have known.” Steve started, before Tony cut him off.

“Couldn’t he? I’m not blaming you, Clint - I messed up on that front earlier too. But the guy’s only asked a couple things of us; no unnecessary touch, and not to probe about his identity. Which,” Tony turned to look at Steve accusingly, “you haven’t exactly been honoring.”

Steve huffed, “And we’re supposed to just accept that? Put our hands in the life of someone we don’t even know the name of?”

“He’s obviously got trust issues, Cap!” Tony exclaimed, throwing up his hands in frustration, “And, judging by that reaction, a hell of a lot of trauma, too. Which was to be expected, seeing as he swings around in spandex getting stabbed.”

“He’s also got enough reason not to trust us,” Natasha added, clenching her jaw, “we can’t expect him to open up easily.”

“Exactly! These things take time, Steve.” Tony rubbed his face, “More than usual, from whatever stuff he’d been through, from being attacked as an introduction, and even more from us ignoring his boundaries!”

Steve shook his head slightly, looking defeated, “I know, I’m sorry. It’s just… hard to turn it off. It worries me, you guys are like family.”

Tony softened slightly, “I get it, really I do. But the way to get him on our side and build up trust is slowly , not with probing where he doesn’t want us to.”

“I’m gonna go to bed.” Clint said quietly, standing up, “It’s been a long day.”

Bucky, who’d remained quiet but tense, nodded in agreement and walked over to Steve, placing his human hand on Steve’s arm comfortingly.

“Right.” Steve said, nodding slowly, “Sure. Yeah.”

They all began to disperse, and Tony was the first to leave, lingering by the door for a moment and addressing everyone, “We better hope we haven’t screwed up too bad.”

*

Peter spent the first week of winter avoiding the Avengers entirely. It wasn’t too hard, seeing as they weren’t out much anyways - but it still put him on edge. He didn’t want to deal with the inevitable questions and repercussions of his reaction and consequent exit. Anyway, he really didn’t have the energy to think about it all too hard, with his supplies quickly dwindling.

The job, as badly as it had paid, had been one of his only sources of money, and the other one wasn’t going so well. It seemed Jameson had found someone else who got relatively good pictures of Spider-Man, for a lower price. Probably some student who saw it as a hobby, rather than the last thing keeping them afloat. He knew they couldn’t understand, couldn’t know what they’d unintentionally contributed to - namely, his diminishing health - but it was still irritating.

He’d still managed to sell a few pictures, for a much lower price than usual - it wasn't much, but it was something, and Peter would take all he could get at this point. He didn’t have a choice in that department, it was that or starve (properly starve, not the slow burn he’d been doing for the past 10 or so months).

This accumulated in him spending more time in the library, hiding from the early-winter chill in between the pages of a book, or scrolling through the news on a computer. There was a new scheme being proposed that gave him a flicker of hope for a moment, something to do with helping the homeless population, but it was quickly extinguished with the words CPS . Peter had enough of an experience with the organization to avoid anything related to it, in anticipation of being forced back into the system. He could always escape again, of course, but it was risky, and he’d rather not face another foster home.

His patrols became more structured around the timings of the library as the chill grew stronger, dreading the nights even more than usual. Now they were not only almost sleepless, - with a few hours of nightmare-riddled rest - but a deep cold hung around them too, digging into him with harsh winds that rattled the shaky windows of the apartment and made him flinch in the dead of night.

Peter’s days were slowly stained with flashbacks and bittersweet memories, and it was becoming harder and harder to hold out from the temptation of losing himself in nostalgia. He was annoyed at the timing of the whole alcohol freakout, as it only made the flashbacks more solid and real, the lingering touch on his shoulder becoming a bottle slamming down on his back.

Still, when, a week or so after jumping out of the Tower, he saw the Avengers fighting some new Big-Bad threat, he didn’t spare more than a thought about the awkwardness before swinging in to clear civilians from the danger. Reluctantly, he flicked his comm on, saying nothing as he herded the people away from the fight; it’d be helpful in his efforts to know what was going on, and civilians came first. Always.

“Spider-Man,” Tony said over the comm, probably alerted somehow, and obviously surprised at his appearance, “we didn’t expect to see you here.”

Peter rolled his eyes, “Innocents come before personal feelings, Stark.” The mere implication that he’d put his own, selfish desires over the lives of others made him sick. Or maybe that was the hunger pains talking.

“Right. Of course.” Tony sounded somewhat ashamed.

There was a short silence as Peter swung over the fight and scouted around for people in bad situations. Civilians had an irritating tendency not to evacuate from imminent danger - or, worse, to run straight into it. He couldn’t be too annoyed, though; stress and panic did strange things to the mind.

“In that case,” came Clint’s voice, “we’ve got some civvies over here, they can’t get out of their building.”

“On it!” Peter forced a cheery tone through gritted teeth, swinging in the direction of the archer.

“...for what it’s worth, I’m really sorry-” Clint started, sounding truly apologetic.

Peter cut him off before he could finish that thought, making his voice even more positive, “All good in the hood, Hawk!” It was somewhat true. Peter didn’t blame Clint, though he was irritated by the constant ignoring of his requests. Still, it wouldn’t be helpful to hold grudges like that, especially when Tony was not only fixing his suit, but letting him make web fluid, all for free.

He swung across to the building, scanning the windows and making out the figures of a few people in the third story. Peter lowered them to safety with webs, directing them away from the danger, and then moved on to the next group. He continued like that for a while, ignoring the semi-constant chatter in the comms, and rolling his eyes in the periods of silence in which he knew they were discussing him in their private comm channel.

It was rich, them preaching trust and understanding while having not-so-secret conversations about him when he was right there . Especially Steve, with all his self-righteous talk about Peter’s identity. Steve didn’t have people he needed to hide or shield - not that Peter really did, anymore, now his secret identity was to stay intimidating and prevent being dragged off by CPS.

By the time he was done, the fight was wrapping up and he perched on a rooftop for a moment, surveying the scene before shooting out a web to leave.

“Well, this has been fun but I’m gonna dip. You’ve all got this covered, right?” Peter chirped into the comms, continuing the fake smile to force his tone up-beat, though he knew the irritation would be conveyed as well. Without waiting for an answer, He clicked off the comm and swung out into the city towards the apartment. It’d been a long day, and he really needed some sort of food - the hunger pangs were worse than usual today. Maybe it was the stress.

Hitching a ride on a train, he shuddered at the metal - no longer even tinted with the afterimage of warmth. Just cold, harsh, biting metal with uneven ridges and dips. He quickly made it to the apartment and skidded in through the window, as always. Pulling off the mask, he opened the floorboard and took in the measly stash sitting under the wood. He sighed heavily, looking over the three cans of soup and few snack foods, grabbing a protein bar to take the edge off.

Eating it in seconds, Peter tried to appease his stomach with water. It must’ve been catching on to this trick, though, because it seemed to be working less and less these days. Or maybe he was just getting too hungry for water to do anything to satiate it. Either way, he was running out of ways to lessen the pain, and with the worst of winter fast approaching… Peter wasn’t liking his odds. 

Not even bothering to take the suit off, Peter pulled on the clothes he’d ended up keeping from the Tower. They seemed to do nothing about the biting chill seeping into the entire building, but it was better than nothing. And that seemed to be another of his mantras these days.

With a harsh shiver, Peter decided he needed to get warm, just for a bit. Despite not blaming him, being around Clint after the memories the man had unwittingly dredged up was leaving Peter slightly nauseous. And this time it had barely anything to do with the lack of food or rest. Pulling off the suit’s gloves, he shoved them and the mask in his hoodie pockets and lowered himself to street level through the window with a web.

The library would still be open, it was only a bit past midday - and the heating would be on, too. The imagined heat warming him slightly, Peter swiftly made his way out of the run-down area he resided in and to the nearby library. It wasn’t the one he, Ned and MJ used to hang out in - that one was near Midtown, a good hour or so of swinging away - but it had become familiar over the months, and provided some comfort on the worst days.

Plus, the librarians recognised him by now, and seemed to understand that he wasn’t a delinquent of some kind - they probably thought he was just shy, which wasn’t too far off the mark, honestly. Peter had never been a hugely outgoing person, and preferred to keep his friend group small. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t social, he loved the company of others, it was just hard to make new connections with his constant state of being a ball of anxiety and nerves.

It was nice, not to be glared at like so many people he passed on the streets - all judging him at a single glance, probably thinking he was a junkie looking for a quick fix. Peter hadn’t delved into that side of street living, and he wasn’t planning to. Even without his enhanced metabolism, which would probably negate most alcohol and possibly the tamer drugs, he wasn’t planning on letting down May and Ben, who made him promise not to get entangled with all that. Even now, after their deaths, he was trying his best to honor his commitments to them, and make them proud.

Pushing the door open into the warmth of the library, Peter let out a contented sigh. He waved slightly at the librarian sitting at the main desk, and walked over to the computers; he’d check his emails, respond if there was anything from Dr Banner, then read something happy. Maybe wrapping himself in the fantastical worlds of fiction or the arguably more fantastical scientific works of one Dr Bruce Banner would stave off his other problems.

It was escapism at its finest, and he was well aware of it - careful not to let it bleed too far into reality. He couldn’t take his mind off the real people counting on him. He couldn’t fail them like that. So, no matter how tempting it was, he’d always push away the solace he found in nostalgia and fiction alike, letting the harsh sting of reality ground him like his stabbing hunger pains.

Despite this, Peter allowed himself the small relief of dipping into them occasionally, much like taking the edge off with a protein bar. It was more than he deserved, probably - but he couldn’t help himself sometimes. He was a curse, he knew that. But maybe, just maybe, if he looked after people and stopped bad things - he could be worth something.

He couldn’t help but hope, surrounded by the warmth that chased away the lingering winter chill, it was hard not to feel a tinge of optimism. Sure, he’d lost his job, freaked out and probably scared off the Avengers - but he could get through this, right? Peter had been through worse. At least he was in control of his life, not some state-assigned carer.

He took a deep breath. With the comforting scent of books and old ink, he could feel somewhat ok.

Chapter Text

Peter sat, perched on the edge of a building and scanning the cityscape and blinking the fatigue from his eyes when his wrist vibrated with a sudden urgency. His eyes narrowed, and he recognised the symbol lighting up next to his web shooters; the Avengers emergency call. Their last interaction had been strained at best, so he wasn’t too keen to deal with them - let alone Steve’s jabs about his identity.

Plus, he wasn’t doing any better in the food department - and that was really dragging down his mood. That wasn’t even taking into account the less than 3 hours of sleep in the last 48 hours. Sighing, he flicked the answer button on his wrist.

“Hiya!” He forced an upbeat tone, “What’s up?”

“Hey, Spidey,” came Steve’s voice, “I know things are kind of tense right now, but we could do with your help. Could you come to the Tower?”

Rolling his eyes, Peter forced the frustration out of his voice, “Of course, Cap. I’ll be there in ten!”

Clicking off the comm with a bit more force than necessary, he took a deep breath. Time to put aside his own issues; if they were asking for his help, it must be serious. Dropping off the building, he took a bit longer of a route than was strictly needed, giving himself time to clear his mind. At least today wasn’t too cold, though the winter chill was fast overtaking any lingering warmth and sinking deep into his bones. Still, the biting winds helped focus his thoughts.

He swung up to the side of the building, giving a two-fingered salute as FRIDAY opened a window for him to jump through.

“Thanks, FRIDAY.” He muttered, looking around, “Do you know where I’m supposed to go?”

“No problem, Spidey,” her voice spilled out from the ceiling with a soft underlying buzz presumably outside of the range of normal people’s hearing, “They are in the briefing room. I can lead you there.”

Following her directions, Peter wandered through the halls until he found himself at a metal door with tense voices creeping out. He took another deep breath, and pushed through. There was a large table which the Avengers sat around, and now turned to look at him, pausing their conversation.

“Spider-Man.” Clint greeted, looking slightly worried.

“Hi Clint,” Peter said with a forced smile, trying to convey that he didn’t blame the man. He really didn’t want to deal with that whole conversation right now, “So, what’s so crucial you had to send for lil’ old me?” Tony gestured to a seat, but Peter ignored it and leaned against the wall - preferring being able to leave at any moment, and feeling somewhat antsy. As if in response to his nerves, his spidey-sense settled into a low buzz at the back of his mind.

Tony sighed, but didn’t push further, “We’ve got news of a serious threat, one that could cause some serious damage.”

“We thought you should be here for the briefing, since you’d help either way,” Steve spoke up, giving a somewhat pointed look.

Peter smirked, tenseness creeping into his tone, “You know me, Cap. Always looking out for the little guy.”

“Yeah, you do.” Clint spoke with a good deal of sincerity and fondness, and Peter couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed at him at all anymore - his regret was obvious, even though he couldn’t have known how Peter would react.

He gave a small, genuine smile - expressed through his tone due to the mask, “Thanks man.”

Clint’s eyes brightened slightly, seeming to get the message of forgiveness and understanding, conveying it with a small nod.

Steve went on to explain the issue - some sort of threat by an organization that claimed to be able to bomb the city and cause a lot of damage. They were taking it seriously because said organization had caused a fair share of deaths in the past; apparently they wanted money or something, this time - alongside access to advanced Stark tech. Obviously, they couldn’t comply. So, the Avengers (and Peter, it seemed) had to be on high alert for any signs of an imminent attack.

“So,” Tony added, “we’d like to be in a bit more contact with you, Spidey. You vigilantes hear more about these sorts of things, right?”

Peter nodded in confirmation - it wasn’t uncommon to be alerted to suspicious criminal activity on his patrols, or through other vigilantes he ran into. “Yeah, I have some contacts I could ask to keep an eye out.”

Steve gave him a questioning look, “And they can be trusted?”

Shooting an annoyed look back, Peter sighed, “Yes, Cap. As much as you can trust people who run around, beat up criminals and stop illegal smuggling rings.” At Steve’s unconvinced look, he rolled his eyes, “Which is what I do, if you remember.”

“And we trust you now, do we?” Steve shot back.

“Steve-” Bucky tried to say, but Peter cut him off with a sharp laugh.

“No, no. Cap’s right.” He pushed himself off the wall, “He’s been quite obvious where he stands, so I’ll follow suit.” Peter gave up on his fake smile, voice dropping all warmth as he crossed his arms against his chest, “I cooperate because I know it’ll help save the most people. But don’t mistake that as trust , not for a moment.” Slight venom crept into his tone, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Steve scoffed, “Don’t start with me about trust, Spider-Man. We don’t even know what you look like.” He said the name with disdain, and it brought some rage bubbling up in Peter’s chest. He shifted slightly to swallow it down.

“And tell me, Captain ,” Peter shot back, speaking the title with the same irritation and dismissal as Steve had, “how many people will knowing my eye color save? How will knowing a different name stop you from being stabbed?” A memory flashed behind Peter’s eyes, of Ben bleeding out, hot and cold and limp in his arms. Knowing Peter’s name had done nothing for his Uncle.

“It would mean we can trust you!” Steve half-yelled, throwing his arms up in frustration.

“If that’s what you think trust is, Rogers,” Peter spoke with a steely tone, “then forgive me for not adhering to those beliefs.”

“For god’s sake!” Steve shoved his chair back from the table, standing swiftly and causing Peter to flinch violently - his heart speeding suddenly. The whole group froze, a tense silence stretching between them.

“I’m leaving.” Peter huffed, muttering, “Call me when you need help with the actual threat. Otherwise, I’ll pass on any future bonding sessions, fun as this was.” His voice dripped with sarcasm and irritation - tinted with agitation. He stepped towards the door, grabbing the handle-

“Lock it, FRI.” Tony finally spoke, and Peter could hear the locking mechanism shift into place right as he tried to turn the handle.

Peter still tried to force it open, but it barely moved. He groaned and gestured at the door, “I was kinda trying to do a bit of a dramatic exit, man.”

“My bad.” Tony said dryly, not sounding at all regretful, “But we need to talk about this.”

Frustration bubbling over, Peter let out a choked - somewhat maniacal - laugh, leaning against the door and slamming a fist into it harshly, “ Fucking hell, Stark.” He spoke in between chuckles, and spun on his heel, “Open this goddamn door before I make you.”

Natasha stood and placed herself between Peter and Tony, the whole team now standing, narrowing her eyes, “Threats, really, Spidey?”

Peter threw up his arms, then cradled his head slightly with another laugh, “You threatened me the moment you tried to lock me in this fucking -” he punctuated the word by slamming a fist against the door again, locking his gaze on the team, “room.”

“No threats, bud. We just need to talk this out, healthy communication is key, you know?” Tony said, attempting to keep his tone light as he lifted his hands in a placating motion that just enraged Peter more.

“As much as I hate to agree with him,” Steve sighed, rubbing his face, “Tony’s right.”

Tony let out a slight guffaw as the others voiced their agreement. Rage grew higher in Peter’s throat. They call him here, yell at him, and then insist he play nice and stand around to be insulted? No way.

“ Fuck this.” Peter spun around and walked over to the windows that covered the entire side of the room, posing one arm above a panel of them.

Tony scoffed, “Those are properly reinforced, kid. It would even be hard for Steve to break one-”

His words were cut off by a harsh noise as Peter swung his first hard into the glass, which fractured and shattered into a million pieces. He flexed the now-bleeding hand, testing it as pain radiated through it. “Huh.” he said, matter-of-factly, “Well look at that.”

The team were on high-alert now, Natasha’s hand hovering over a knife in her belt, Bucky placing one hand on Steve’s tense shoulder. There was a short, tense silence that seemed to drag out for far longer than it did.

“Come on, Underoos.” Tony finally spoke, jaw set, looking simultaneously irritated and shocked, “We can still talk this out - and your hand looks hurt, we can get it looked at.”

Peter gave him a blank, unamused look and responded by reaching over and flicking the next window over, sending spiraling cracks running over it. “Don’t look so annoyed, Stark. I’m sure you have more than enough money to fix a few windows.” The too-familiar rage clouded Peter’s mind, filling his voice with unadulterated spite.

He turned, leaping out the gap and allowing himself to fall as the protests from behind him were lost to the wind. He waited a while longer than usual before throwing out a web and pulling himself into a tall arc above the buildings. Peter’s hand ached in protest, but he shrugged it off and forced himself to swing out across the city.

Spider-Man would answer the Avengers’ call to action when it endangered civilians, sure. But he was done with anything beyond that; it had been a nice dream, for a bit. He’d let himself enjoy the jokes and comradery, but they’d pushed too far - and he was done. I’m alone. Peter reminded himself, not in a sad way, but as a fact. An inevitability of his life.

*

“God damnit , Steve!” Tony yelled, pinching the bridge of his nose, “What the hell was that?”

“How can you expect me to trust him? It’s been over a month since the Incident, and he hasn’t done as much as tell us his name!” Steve argued back, frustrated.

“We talked about this.” Tony retorted, coldly, “I thought we were on the same page. We said we’d be patient, and what do you do?” The question hung in the air for a moment, not meant to be answered, before he continued, “You try to force him to talk!”

“Blind trust only goes so far, Tony.” Steve tried, his regret bleeding through into his tone, “I can’t put the team’s lives in the hands of just anyone!”

“He’s not ‘just anyone’, Steve.” Clint cut in, looking downtrodden, “He’s some poor, smart, kid - probably not even in his late twenties - who’s trying to do some good.”

“I know- I just…” Steve sighed, looking defeated.

Natasha raised an eyebrow, walking towards the door, “Let’s hope his desire to help people outweighs his irritation at the constant confrontations with us.”

*

Peter hummed lowly, hanging his legs off the edge of a building. Once he’d cooled off, he was feeling a lot less justified about the whole situation; after all, they’d invited him into their home and he’d barely told them anything about himself. Part of Peter understood Steve’s desire to protect his family, as well - even if his methods tended to be somewhat bull-headed.

Would I be alright leaving my family’s safety in the hands of someone who wouldn’t even tell me their name? He wondered. When he came to the conclusion that no, he wouldn’t - that only helped him feel guilty about it all. That didn’t mean he wasn’t annoyed at Steve’s way of handling things - but, Peter admitted to himself, his short temper may be attributed somewhat to the general lack of food in the past few weeks.

He sighed, dropping off the edge and slinging out a web to get to the apartment when a familiar sound made him shoot out another web and change his direction quick . He knew that sound by now, he’d heard it a thousand times before. It was the signal to forget about his own inner turmoil and move on. To push it all deep, deep down until it was buried beyond where he could reach with absent-minded thought. To be Spider-Man. Peter Parker could wait.

Webbing up petty criminals and letting himself fall just long enough to catch himself before he hit the ground left no space for thinking over his own issues; and that’s how Peter liked it. With the wind beating mercilessly against the suit material, he could focus on the split-second

calculations needed to prevent himself from crashing into buildings with some of his more ambitious mid-air stunts. And sure, maybe he used a bit more force than usual, or happened to drive his fist into concrete rather than a person a few times. But it was fine. He was running from his problems, he knew that. It was his Peter Parker Strategy to combat situations arising from his Parker Luck™.

But, as always, he couldn’t run forever. There was bound to be a lull in criminal activity at some point - and with his hunger pains only growing, he couldn’t keep swinging forever, either. So, he found himself perched on the edge of a rooftop - aching, gnawing hunger stabbing at his stomach and exhaustion threatening his every move. The frustration dwelling in the pits of his chest weren’t helping with that, either. He’d been at the tail end of a patrol that ended up stretching from one day to the next when he was called to the Tower. He’d tried to get some rest but gave up after a particularly bad nightmare in the early hours of the morning.

And now he was facing the consequences. Peter barely got any sleep nowadays - minus the hours spent in restless unconsciousness due to particularly severe injuries - but even then, going several days with no sleep at all was uncommon. Knowing there was some sort of crazed organization threatening a mass bombing of the city was only aiding his weary demeanor. It was basically the only thing stopping him from curling up in an alley and sleeping for all eternity. Still, he quipped and joked with the criminals as usual; he didn’t want to worry their victims with uncharacteristic silence, no matter how strong the urge to never speak again was at that particular moment.

He was Spider-Man. And Spider-Man was strong and brave, he faced the wrong-doings in the world head-on and protected the innocent. That was another of the things Peter had found himself repeating - that he was Spider-Man. Sometimes it felt like there was a clear separation between the two; Spider-Man was everything good, and Peter Parker was so very messed up. He could never live up to his alter-ego, and it was a harsh reminder every time the universe decided to punish him in some way.

Other days, the line between his two selves blurred and muddied with pain. There were times he couldn’t be sure where Spider-Man ended and Peter Parker began. What was the point of such a distinction when he was writhing in a pool of his own blood?

Shaking his head, Peter sighed. He wasn’t just hungry, at this point; he was ravenous. He hadn’t gone back to the apartment since late the previous night and most of his stashes around the city were running out of the precious amounts of food they’d contained in the first place - thanks to his dwindling supply. He’d managed to stay hydrated, thanks to the water he kept in the pouches on his suit. Those were one of the things that stayed from the old design - being homeless had taught Peter to have his essentials on him at all times, just in case.

Taking a long gulp of water, he blinked away the black specks gathering at the edges of his vision - a telltale sign of general exhaustion. Groaning, he dropped his head into his hands and closed his eyes tightly, watching the shifting darkness. After a minute, Peter tentatively lifted his head and cracked open his eyes, only to huff sharply when the problem hadn’t magically solved itself; the dark spots were still there.

Whatever. Peter could deal with this, it was nothing. Standing far too quickly, he groaned again at the wave of nausea washing over him as he stumbled backwards a step or two. His vision was swimming, and he shook his head harshly to try and clear it - with, unsurprisingly, no success. He winced as the clouds shifted above, sending a beam of light into his eyes. How could it be so chilly and yet so bright? It didn’t seem fair, having the worst of both worlds. Not only was the cold becoming his constant companion, but the sun seemed determined to blind him any time he stepped outside.

Even the few hours of dwindling sunlight the city received every day were too much - and frankly, the sun was just a painful reminder of heat at this point. It was getting pretty depressing, not feeling the seeping warmth pouring down from the sky like a waterfall. There was a term for it, wasn’t there? ‘Seasonal depression’ or something? Either way, it sucked.

Winter didn’t used to be so bad, when there was the promise of a warm home and kind eyes to get back to at the end of a long day. When he was younger, the dying leaves were a symbol of Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year - celebrations full of joy.

Now, Peter could see them for what they truly seemed to be; futile attempts to distract from the slow, freezing death of the world around them. Still, it worked.

Wrapping themselves in family, friends, food, fireplaces and all those other lovely ‘f’ words - it blocked out the cruel truths punctuated by dead leaves and frozen lakes. It meant snow wasn’t a sign of hypothermia and wracking shivers, it was snow-people and snow-dogs, igloos, snowball fights, snow-days staying home from school, snowflakes with their unique and wonderful patterns.

Peter didn’t have any of those, not anymore; they were all stripped away and so he was left with death, cold, and pain. Thanksgiving was laughable, because what was there left for him to be thankful for? Christmas was a dull, aching reminder of all he’d lost. A New Year meant his suffering continued on and on, marked only by a meaningless date on throwaway calendars.

Startling slightly at the sound of a car horn far below, he suddenly became aware that he was currently sitting on the roof, leaning on a slight incline. He wasn’t sure when his legs had given out, but he wasn’t about to argue with his body’s decision.The hard concrete was seeming more and more welcoming by the second, and his vision was being consumed by a blurred darkness.

Well, he thought as his mind faded to nothing, shit.

Rubble. Weight.

Blood. Glass. Death.

Hot. Cold. Stabbing, sharp pains.

Drowning, water filling his lungs. He couldn’t breathe-

Peter woke with a start, gasping a sharp breath of air. He could vaguely remember the nightmare, sweat-slicked skin and speeding heart rate proof of it, but it was fading quickly - and he wasn’t crazy interested in remembering the details. He dropped back to lying down from where he’d sat up, groaning at the impact.

He lay there for a moment longer, hazy mind struggling to gain its bearings - before feeling the buzz on his wrist and lifting his hand to his face; the Avengers. He huffed with frustration, letting his hand fall back to his chest. They could suck it, Peter was way too tired for this-

Wait.

Wasn’t there that bomb threat?

Swearing under his breath, Peter forced himself up into a sitting position - ignoring the protests of his sleep-addled mind. From there, he swiftly hoisted himself to stand, swaying for a moment before flicking a command on the wrist and clearing his throat.

“‘Sup?” Peter croaked, wincing at how worn-out he sounded as he struggled to think.

There was a brief silence, before the comm crackled to life, “Spidey! I’ve been trying to reach you.” It was Tony, and his voice was strained with effort.

Peter opted for ignoring the obvious, underlying question about his lack of response, instead settling for evading, as usual - forcing his tone to be upbeat.. “Well, you’ve got me now! What’s the sitch, Tin Man?” 

“They set off one of the bombs downtown. We need your help.”

Firing out a web, Peter began to gain momentum, voice hardening. They needed him. Civilians needed him. “Where?”

“Sending you the location now.”

Tapping a few buttons, Peter nodded as he read off his destination, “Got it. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

There was a grunt and a curse, “Make that ten?”

“You got it, Sparkles.” Peter could almost hear the eyeroll over the comms at that ridiculous nickname, before it fell silent.

Flipping through the air, Peter shot out webs as he swung as fast as he could across the city, arms burning with effort. As he neared the destination, a thousand sounds filled his ears - screaming, crashing, shooting, crying. He grit his teeth, trying to somehow, somehow speed himself up. He swore. If only he hadn’t passed out, he could’ve got here sooner; could’ve helped more people.

Pushing that thought away, he felt his mouth go dry at the scene in front of him as he flipped over one more row of buildings. There was a massive crater, and the buildings around were half-decimated, fires raging as masses of those damned bots he’d fought with the Avengers all those weeks ago soared above the wreckage. Scanning the area with his eyes, he quickly flicked his comm to life.

“I’m here.”

“Good to have you here, Spidey.” Steve’s voice came over the comms, hard and cold.

Peter rolled his eyes, clenching his jaw, “Yeah. Let’s not, huh? More important matters here.”

Silence for a moment, “No, I didn’t mean-” a sigh, a pause, “Nevermind. We’ve mostly evacuated the area, but there’s a few civilians still trapped in some of the buildings. We’ve marked them, can you-”

“Got it, Cap.” Peter cut him off, searching around for the telltale marks the team left to signal trapped civilians when there was no other immediate option - subtle enough to mean nothing to outsiders, but enough to see if you knew. Wasting no time, he began the process of emptying the buildings of innocents, occasionally webbing a bot or two. He let himself be slightly more destructive than usual - for his frustration, and because there wasn’t much more to destroy here - knocking bots into the ground and chucking them against each other.

Once he’d cleared all the civilians he could find, he checked in with the team. Tony’s suit had sensors that could check for life signs. “Done. Stark, can you check and see if I’ve missed anyone with your fancy tech?”

“Yeah, give me a sec.”

Peter took a minute to destroy a half dozen bots, slamming them into the crater below and impaling them on spiking metal poles.

“All clear.” Peter sighed with relief at Tony’s words. Good - the civilians were safe.

“Can you head over to section 3? Clint could use some backup.” Came Steve’s crackling voice - his comm unit must’ve taken a hit or two.

“Roger that, Rogers!” Peter chuckled as he swung over to help out the archer.

He worked surprisingly well in tandem with the Avengers. The team itself fought like a well-oiled machine, and his addition should’ve been a wrench in the system - but it wasn’t. Peter blended into the team’s fighting style, acting as backup for whenever a particular sector was getting overwhelmed. Still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t running out of energy, and fast. He’d relied mostly on adrenaline to get here and help the civilians, but that peaked a long time ago and he was beginning to crash.

Not surprisingly, he had a lot more energy when it came to saving innocents than self-preservation. It was easy to push through the fatigue if someone else’s life was on the line, it was a whole other matter if it was his own life. Maybe Peter should be more shocked by those thoughts, but it wasn’t exactly a surprise. He’d always been one to put other people before himself - even strangers.

It was one of the many reasons Ben’s death had hurt so badly. Not to say it wasn’t enough that someone had died, or that that someone had been his Uncle/father-figure, or that he’d bled out in Peter’s arms…

Ok. Maybe there were a lot of reasons for his death to affect Peter as harshly as it did. Nevertheless, one of those could definitely be attributed to his selfless nature, and tendency to place other people’s lives above his own. Ben had sacrificed himself for Peter. Not the other way around - and that messed with Peter’s head for a long time. It’d taken a long conversation-slash-argument with May to stop the worst of the guilt and self-blame. And yet, some part of him still said that he should’ve been the one bleeding out in the street, not Ben.

(“Don’t you dare say that! Ben loved you, and he wanted you safe. He never would have let you die that day, no matter the cost.” May had choked out through tears, rocking Peter back and forth in her arms.)

Once Peter got his powers, it’d only gotten worse - especially with no May or Ned or even MJ around to tell him it wasn’t his fault. Sure, he hadn’t had them around the time of the mugging, and yet - and yet - some part of him still said he could’ve done something. Why hadn’t he gotten his abilities earlier? How was that fair, to only be able to save people once everyone he loved was dead? No matter how many people he saved, Peter could never save Ben, or May, or his parents. They were dead and gone.

He always swallowed down those thoughts like acid, a tidal wave of guilt in their wake. It was unfair to those he spent his days helping to say that, to even think it. That would be implying that they were somehow worth less than his family, and they weren’t. It was just Peter being selfish (or so he told himself).

That all being said, - despite how glad he was to be helping, and how comfortably easy it’d been to slip into fighting beside the Avengers - he was still overwhelmed with relief when he heard a triumphant voice through the comms signalling that the main fight was over.

“I’ve taken out the tech. No more bots, but we need to destroy the ones already released.” Natasha said, calmly, but with a hint of satisfaction. Wonderful. Now all that was left was to deal with the dregs, which shouldn’t be too hard.

His Parker Luck™ must’ve heard that Peter wasn’t in an absolutely horrific, soul-crushing situation at that particular moment, and taken that as a challenge, because his spidey-sense screamed with a sudden urgency, hair standing up on the back of his neck. His head snapped around to see a building crashing down in front of him; no time to move, to swing, to do anything but feel a deep pang of regret.

And then there was darkness.

Not like the black spots that played at the edges of his vision, or the all-consuming abyss that hid in unconsciousness. This darkness was interspersed with flashes of light and colors as he clenched his jaw hard and closed his eyes with ferocity.

The weight of the building fell down onto him; crushing him; pushing him towards the ground. He groaned in a badly-concealed whimper as his back slammed against metal, pinned in a highly dangerous position. He opened his eyes with a wince - he hadn’t been knocked unconscious, which was good. However, that meant he felt everything , which was… not so good.

Wow, Parker . He snarked at himself, Wonderful observation.

Peter gritted his teeth, tasting metallic blood seeping through his mouth and causing him to let out a strangled cough. The loud ringing in his ears began to subside as the dust settled, spider-sense at a low - yet urgent - buzz. His hands were pretty much free, that was good. His legs, however, were firmly trapped, along with his torso. Still, if his arms were free he could get himself out of this. Bright sides and all.

The sound of chatter bit through the silence to fill his right ear and he groaned, lifting one hand to wipe debris from his eye, and freezing as he realised his mask had been torn off. He glanced around in anguish, spotting it just out of reach - buried among the rubble. Then he remembered what had caused his irritation, and focused on the voices in his ear, glad for the emergency comm unit - even though it gave a low whine the entire time.

“Spidey are you alright?”

“Spider-Man, come in-”

“Answer us, kid.”

“What happened?”

“I’m going in-”

“Structure isn’t safe-”

“Building collapsed. Spidey’s in there.”

He huffed in annoyance at the explosion of sound, before freezing once more.

Wait-

Did someone say they were coming in?

“Can you guys shut up for a second?” Peter ground out through clenched teeth, wincing at the fresh wave of pain the action caused. He looked around, surveying the destruction around him.

They fell into silence for a moment, before a singular voice came through, “How’re you holding up, Underoos?” Stark.

A pained groan escaped as something shifted on top of him, applying pressure to a handful of the many wounds he could feel littering his body. Great, a plethora of new scars to add to the canvas. Just fantastic.

“Yeah,” he forced out, lying (quite literally) through his teeth, hearing the fakeness of the upbeat tone as clearly as he was sure the team would, “I’m fine. This is nothing, I’ve dealt with far worse. Walk in the park, really.”

There was an outburst of arguments before he hissed at them to be quiet once again, one voice cutting through again.

“Not happening, bud. You’re trapped under what, 10 tonnes? You need help.”

Peter clenched his teeth tighter, forcing venom into his tone and fighting the urge to accept help, “You come in here and I’ll kill you myself, Stark.”

Silence.

“I can get myself out of this,” he continued, “just focus on destroying the thingies.”

Another pause.

They were probably discussing it on the private channel, and the thought filled him with irritation.

“Alright, Spidey,” came Steve’s voice, coated with worry and hesitant acceptance, “You’ve got five minutes, and then we’re getting you out.”

Peter grunted his reluctant approval through a mouthful of blood and dust, before flicking weakly at the comm to turn it off - silencing the whine that had slowly grown louder and louder - and focusing on the situation at hand. Steve’s concern only amplified Peter’s previous guilt over his brash tone and reactions to the man wanting his team - his family - safe. He shook the thought away. Five minutes. He had to make the most of it.

Tears pricked at his eyes, but he knew the threat was empty - he hadn’t truly cried in so long. That didn’t mean he wasn’t terrified, though. Still, nothing would be worse than the Avengers bursting in and seeing him, maskless. Not only would they lose any lingering respect they had for him, but they’d send him off with CPS, too. They didn’t understand. He swallowed a lump in his throat as images pushed to the surface of his mind.

There were bottles lying in the corner. He swallowed blood while bracing for the next strike; shuddering violently in the cold, surrounded by broken glass. Angry voices pierced the veil of fog clouding his mind, shouting to stand up. Screaming a thousand conflicting demands. Blood was pouring onto the ground, too hot, draining Ben’s warmth, leaving him so very cold. His Uncle was so very heavy in his arms, sinking into the concrete. Light faded from his eyes, going dark and glassy and staring somewhere into the distance. Heavy stones were sitting on his chest, pushing him down, pinning him into the dirt. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, couldn’t ask for help- he was being crushed down down down into the ground with the weight on top of him. And oh god he really couldn’t breathe he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t -

Peter sucked in a deep, painful breath of cold air that stung his lungs, pushing down the memories. Not the time , he reminded himself. He took another breath to ground himself. A third to prepare for the strain. And he pushed . The metal strained under his grip, as he struggled to force it away, debris showering down and causing him to flinch roughly and nearly let go when a brick crashed near his head. He ignored it, biting down harder as he clenched his teeth.

For what felt like an eternity, but must’ve been a minute or two, since no one came crashing through the wall, he struggled with the remains of the building. Finally, finally, he shoved it off and to the side, swiftly turning to retch his guts onto the concrete. Nothing but bile came up, courtesy of his recent lack of food, and it stung all the more for it.

Sounds were muffled and the light streaming through cracks in the concrete stung his eyes viciously.

Pulling himself up, Peter wiped his mouth harshly, grasped his mask from the dust and tugged it on, switching on his main comm - which, thankfully, had no background distortion. “No need for rescue,” he breathed, “All under control. I told you.”

There were a few - probably challenging - responses to that, but he tuned them out and lay back against the semi-collapsed wall, pulling his mask up over his mouth and nose as he gulped for air. Maybe putting it back on right after such a lack of air hadn’t been a great idea, but he’d been more focused on telling the team not to come in - without dealing with the whining of the emergency comm. He’d need to get that fixed.

After a few minutes, Peter pulled himself to his feet, hearing the sounds of the battle receding. A pang of guilt shot through him at having missed the last of the combat, but Natasha had gotten the main tech and it was just a few bots, right? Plus, he had had a building dropped on him so surely it was excusable. If that wasn’t a valid excuse, he wasn’t sure what would be.

Slinging out a web to pull himself up and out, he swung painfully onto the battlefield. Debris and bits of broken bot were strewn about, the Avengers gathered in a large open area. As he approached, he saw a few of them turned to him in wide-eyed alarm, and figured he must look worse than he thought. Figures, a building had just collapsed on him.

He lifted a hand in a lazy greeting, and stumbled forward slightly, only to be caught by the Iron Man suit grasping his arm tightly. Peter quickly tugged his arm away with a hiss of pain and discomfort at the touch, opting for leaning on a nearby wall.

“You look like crap.” Tony said dryly.

Peter shot Tony a patented ‘well no shit’ look and rolled his eyes, the mask barely copying the movement with how beat up it was. “Hi to you too, Tin Man.” He quipped, wincing painfully as he accidentally shifted his weight onto an area with more injuries. The rest of the team walked over to the pair when it became obvious Peter wasn’t about to move.

“How the- did you just lift a building off yourself?” Clint asked, wide-eyed and worried.

“Yeah, no big.” Peter shrugged, with a weak smile.

“That’s like… at least 10 tonnes…” Clint muttered breathlessly.

“And, pray tell,” Tony began, “why weren’t we allowed to help you with that?”

Shifting slightly in discomfort, Peter shrugged again, “I had it handled.”

Natasha looked him up and down, eyes narrowing, “Your mask came off, didn’t it?” It was more a statement than a question, and the hard tone confirmed that.

Rolling his eyes, Peter winced slightly at one of his injuries stretching, “Well, maybe but it was fine-”

“It’s not fine !” Steve exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air in frustration, “You could’ve died, if the rubble shifted in the wrong way. Is your identity worth more than your life?”

Peter snorted, which was enough of an answer to elicit worried looks from the team. He groaned, holding his hands up placatingly, “Seriously, it’s alright. Everything worked out, I’m just a little beat up-”

“ ‘A little beat up’ ?” Steve cut him off again, incredulous, gesturing at Peter’s form, “You had ten tonnes of concrete and metal dropped on you - you can barely stand without assistance!”

“Kid…” Tony said, worry lacing his tone, hoping desperately for a certain answer to his next questions, “You don’t really mean that, right? You’d choose your life over your revealing your identity?”

Furrowing his brow, Peter frowned as irritation bubbled up and a familiar rage began to form. He tried to swallow it down, in vain. “Does it matter?”

Tony’s eyes went wide, and he rubbed his face roughly in his hand, Iron Man suit standing empty nearby, “What- yes, of course it matters. I- fucking hell kid, you need some serious therapy.” He muttered the second part more to himself, but it still lit a spark of annoyance in Peter.

“Well fucking wonderful for you, Stark.” He snarled, rage building steadily, “You can just throw money at any problem and make it go away, force a thousand NDAs and buy a hundred top-of-the-line therapists to try out.”

“That’s enough.” Natasha cut in, stepping forward in a way that made Peter flinch - too exhausted to care about trying to repress the involuntary movement. She stopped, staying where she was, “Come on, паук. You know you’re not being fair. Come back to the Tower, we’ll get you looked at by Dr Cho and we can talk this out.”

Peter gave a dry laugh, “I think I’m good. The Captain over there has made it plenty clear he wants to do more than just ‘talk it out’.”

Steve sighed harshly, “Is that really where we’re at, kid? Still? Jesus- what’s with the obsession over a secret identity?”

“Steve…” Tony warned, voice warning but still holding an underlying note of hurt from Peter’s comments.

“No.” Steve barked out, shaking his head, “This has gone too far. I can’t put my life- your lives in the hands of someone who won’t even tell us his name-”

“ Peter .” he spits out, tone bitter and venomous, “My fucking name is Peter . Are you happy now?”

No one spoke.

They stared for a moment, silent… until Peter lapsed into a short, painful coughing fit.

“Kid-” Tony started forward, but froze in place when Peter held up a hand in warning.

“Don’t you fucking touch me, yeah? Don’t come near me or I will break you goddamn arm and trust me when I say I can because I’ve done it before.” He chuckled lowly, surveying the confused, worried and hurt faces of the team. Except Natasha, she looked blank as usual, though with a tint of concern.

Without any warning, Peter took a couple of steps, launching himself off the wall and flipping over the group, shooting out a web and pulling himself into an arc - ignoring the stabbing pains and the voices of protest behind him. His mind was clouded with pain, his entire body screaming at him to stop, to lie down and rest and never stand up again. Still, he shot out web after web in a numb haze, pulling himself across the city.

His mind was simultaneously completely silent- and thundering with a thousand thoughts and even more regrets. Peter swore under his breath, words lost to the cold air. He told them his name. He told them his name for fuck’s sake. Cursing himself for allowing the rage to take over once again, he groaned as a particularly sharp turn tugged at his injuries.

There were no trains running, something about problems with the rails. Instead, he continued to swing, struggling not to become dead weight with the black spots gathering in the edges of his vision. Every swing tugged at his arms, aching and stinging. Eventually, he was close enough to swing towards the usual window of the apartment, looking forward to rest after patching himself up, and about to jump in when-

He shot out another web, pulling hard to stop his motion, swerving away from the entrance and crashing onto the nearby rooftop. He let out a choked cough as he went skidding into a wall, wind knocked from his lungs with the impact.

Struggling for breath, he curled into himself, trying to regain his composure - his entire body ached, his injuries giving constant, stabbing pains like pins and needles. He winced at the pain a full-body shudder brought, blinking black spots out of his vision. After a minute of writhing in pain on the rough concrete, he pushed himself up to a sitting position, and then to standing with a groan - leaning on the wall for support.

Staggering over to the edge of the roof, he plead under his breath - clenching his eyes shut for a long moment. Please , he thought, with conviction and force, Please don’t let it be true. Please, it’s all I have. Not today. Not tonight. Cautiously, he opened his eyes, feeling as though the air had been stolen from his lungs again, feeling the aches and stabs of his injuries pulsate. The window was boarded up with thick wooden planks - and, sitting in the front, was a large sign with the word ‘CONDEMNED’ in massive, bold red letters.

He flinched - the word echoing in his mind, the damning red tearing him from the present. He wasn’t Spider-Man anymore. He was little 6-year-old Peter Parker, staring at the glaring words printed across the newspaper - the words ‘TRAGIC PLANE CRASH - NO SURVIVORS’ pulling the rug out from under him and tossing him into a deep, endless pit. And then he was falling; falling for so long he forgot what it was like to have solid ground beneath his feet. Any time he got some purchase, found a ledge to rest on- it would fracture and crumble and break like glass, debris lacerating his skin as it fell alongside him.

When May died, he thought he’d hit rock bottom. Thought he’d finally finished the long fall down and could just lay in misery for a while - maybe that was all he deserved. To lay, broken and bleeding, at the bottom of an everlasting chasm. And maybe that didn’t make sense. Peter was smart, he knew there couldn’t be a limit to the limitless; but he’d hoped there was, somehow - if only to stop his descent.

Today, he’d found out how wrong he was. The rock beneath him cracked and crumbled and he was falling all over again - but now he was drowning, too. Every breath was shaky and torturous as water filled his lungs, weight dragging him further down, down, down into the depths. And now the light was gone, too - the small bit of sunlight that had filtered down from the top was lost to the dark waters; swallowed along with him. 

Suddenly pulled back to reality with a harsh impact as his legs gave way and he collapsed to the cold, hard concrete, Peter tried to take a breath - but clawed at his throat when no air would enter. He couldn’t breath. He couldn’t breath. It was as if he really were drowning in that endless void, water forcing itself into his lungs-

He slammed a fist against his chest, ignoring the screams of protest from his already wrecked body, trying to pull air in with fervor. He choked out a deep breath and instantly fell into a coughing fit, doubling over in pain. He drew his legs tight to his chest, taking long, shaky breaths and blinking black from his vision once again.

After what felt like an eternity, Peter could breathe again - as weak as it may be. Groaning with frustration, he shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes until bright colors danced across the black. What was he going to do now? It was hard enough to find the apartment, and he’d known there was a time limit on that.

Just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse… rain drops began to fall on his suit, darkening the material in small circles across his shoulders. “ Fucking wonderful .” He muttered in a venomous tone, pushing himself to stand and begin to pace - ignoring the wave of nausea crashing down on him and feeling oddly reminiscent of the building. Shaking his head to clear it, he tried to make a plan of action.

The apartment was inaccessible, and had probably begun to be cleared out, based on the equipment sitting outside by the street. Peter couldn’t risk going in, in case they’d set up cameras or already found his stash. So, the main food store and first-aid things were off-limits - that left his stashes around the city to patch himself up and get a bit of energy for his healing factor. Then came the issue of the Avengers.

He groaned, dropping his head into his hands and stopping his walking for a moment, before continuing to pace. He had to avoid them, at all costs. They were bound to be angry, he’d threatened them! Peter couldn’t risk them pushing further for his identity, now that they knew his name. He told them his name. He huffed in frustration as the thought resurfaced; how could he have made such an idiotic move? God damn it.

Whatever, focus on the present, Parker. Peter scolded himself, shaking his head in irritation, First, medkit. Then, food and water. Finally, shelter. The rest can wait till morning.

Repeating the words as he swung across the city like a lifeline ( Medkit. Food & water. Shelter. Medkit. Food & water. Shelter. ), he tried to ignore the urge to wince at every tug of an injury or flinch at every loud noise. He fought the shivers that gradually worsened as the rain blundered on and on in what seemed like an endless barrage of icy water soaking through his suit and seeping cold into his bones.

Grabbing a stash from where it was webbed up in an alley, he poured out the contents and began organizing them to see what he needed to use; he needed to be frugal, now more than ever. As he was about to start cleaning some of his worse wounds from where he sat, taking cover in a small patio-like area on a rooftop, his head perked up at the sounds of a struggle. Jumping to his feet and ignoring the protests of his injuries, Peter honed in on the noise and peered down the alley where they originated from.

A young woman was being surrounded by several people with various weapons - a baseball bat, a knife, maybe more? He couldn’t quite tell yet - and she already looked pretty beat up, a large purple bruise spreading over her face; there probably more Peter couldn’t see yet. Eyes narrowing, he jumped down with no hesitation.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not nice to gang up on people?” He asked, keeping his tone light as he webbed a knife out of one of the attackers’ hands and tutted.

“What the hell, man?” One of them cried out, obviously irritated. The others echoed the sentiment. “Stay out of this.”

“No can do, buckaroo!” Peter called out, flipping over them and placing himself between them and the woman - kicking one of them into the wall as he did.

There was a yell of surprise, and soon they were all coming at him. Revising his plan mid-leap, Peter focused on moving down the alley slightly, to draw their attention away from their victim. He webbed one of them up after knocking them prone, and used the wall as a launch-pad to backflip away from another attack, twisting in the air to grasp the baseball bat (which he could now see had half-dried blood coating the end). He snapped it over his knee, chucking it into the shadows of the alley.

“Really, a baseball bat?” He quipped - ignoring the shooting pain that erupted as he aggravated his wounds, “You ever consider sports as a career path? It’s much more respectable than mugging.”

He yelped as one of them got the best of his hazy mind, courtesy of the pain, and slashed a knife along his arm. Swiftly punching the weapon away and webbing up the attacker, he frowned, wagging his finger like a disappointed parent. “Now now,” he lectured, pushing one of the last of them into the wall and webbing them to the ground, “That’s no way to thank someone for advice.”

Satisfied that they were secured to the wall, Peter turned his attention to the woman they’d been attacking. She was slumped against a dumpster, shivering and flinching at the slightest sound. Her eyes flicked up to him and she pushed herself further into the corner in desperation.

“Hey, it’s alright,” he held up his hands in what he hoped was a reassuring way, “I’m Spider-Man. You’re pretty banged up, can I take a look?”

She hesitated, before nodding slowly. Surveying her, he winced at the blood pouring from her arm and a gash in her forehead. He gestured to the roof above, “I’m gonna grab some first-aid stuff I have up there, ok? I want to clean some of the worst of those injuries.”

Taking her silent acceptance as an answer, he swung up to the rooftop, gathering his supplies. Jumping back down, he looked around for a moment. “Damn, ok. Do you have a phone? I want to call 9-1-1 to get them the police and you an ambulance.”

Shakily, she pulled out a sleek phone and handed it to Peter, who quickly accessed the emergency call function. Dialing 911, he placed it on the damp floor next to her and put it on speaker.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” came a crackly voice through the phone.

He provided the address, as he knew was the most crucial part, before continuing to the details, “I’ve got a young woman here, around mid-twenties, she was attacked by a group of people and she’s bleeding pretty bad. I need the police for the attackers, who were web-  incapacited by Spider-Man, and an ambulance for her. I had a first aid kit on hand so I’m cleaning the worst of her wounds, but it’s not looking great, she has a head injury.”

“We will dispatch officers and an ambulance to your location. Keep her talking. Do you know if she has a concussion?”

Grabbing the phone off the floor, he used the torch function to take a look at her eyes, “Doesn’t look like it.” He placed it back down, and turned to the woman, “Heya, what’s your name?”

She squinted slightly, her voice rough and ragged when she responded, “Joan.”

“Alright, Joan,” he began preparing to clean her wounds, “this is gonna sting a little.” He wiped away the worst of the blood from her face, before beginning to clean the wound on her forehead. She winced, but said nothing - and Peter was glad to see it wasn’t anything too deep. “So, Joan. How old are you?” He needed to keep her talking.

“Twenty-three.” She said softly, “It’s my birthday on Saturday.”

“Happy early birthday!” Peter smiled, moving on to the injury on her arm, cutting apart the fabric of her shirt with small scissors to properly treat it, “You got any plans?”

“Gonna hang out with some friends… and Hayley.” She gave a goofy grin and Peter returned it.

“You got a crush on Hayley?” He teased, as he cleared the blood from her arm.

She flushed slightly, “She’s real nice.”

“Units are two minutes out.” Came the phone voice, “Can you describe her injuries?”

“Minor head injury, like I said - plus a pretty bad gash on her arm, some bruising on her face and arms, not sure about anywhere else. She seems a bit out of it, but lucid enough to talk and remember her name and birthday.”

The phone operator hummed their approval, and Peter heard them type things into the system. Not long after, he heard the sounds of sirens approaching - which he was extremely thankful for. An ambulance drove up, a couple police cars right behind. Peter waved over the paramedics, “Right here. This is Joan, I’ve cleaned out the worst of it but I’m not sure if anything else is wrong.”

One of them nodded at him, seemingly not too phased about the whole Spider-Man thing - then again, it was New York. “Thank you - we got the details on the way over, good job.”

He gave a slight salute in response, “No prob, Doc. I’ll be on my way then.”

The paramedic frowned at him as the others tended to the woman, “You look hurt. I know you’re a superhero and all, but surely you still need medical care.”

Peter froze slightly, shooting out a web, “Nope! All good. Take care of her!” He was swinging away before they could protest further. The alley had been somewhat shielded from the rain, but as soon as he left the water poured down once more, seeming to have worsened in the time he’d dealt with the situation. He shivered harshly as a missed web sent him crashing onto a nearby rooftop.

This time, he didn’t try to stand. He lay in a heap on the concrete and felt as the cold seeped deeper and deeper into his body. His aching wounds were hot, too hot - as if they’d been activated by the shock and rain, adrenaline fading as it was replaced with pain. The freezing cold and boiling heat battled across his skin with blinding agony.

He didn’t have the time or energy to care. Peter could disappear right then, at that very moment, and he wouldn't care. He curled further into himself, nails digging into his hands in tight fists. And what would it matter, anyway? His parents were dead, his Aunt and Uncle too. His friends would have moved on by now -  because of course they had. Who would wait anywhere near this long for Peter Parker? No one. He could crumble to dust or ash and the world would keep spinning without faltering once.

Maybe Spider-Man would be missed, for a while. The people would wonder where he’d gone and the Avengers would pause for a second to ask the same thing; but they’d move on. A new vigilante would pop up and soon Spider-Man would be a thing of the past, fading into fleeting memories and blurry pictures taken in the midst of a crisis. A few people would tell stories of being rescued by him - but they, too, would forget and move on. Maybe, just maybe , he could be at peace.

Hadn’t he earned it? With all the good he’d done - he’d saved enough lives, right? The world would keep turning and people would move on and he’d become memories and blurry photos but that would be ok. Peter could handle being a footnote in someone else’s story - a sentence or two in his friends’ lives, preserved in sharp black ink on off-white paper, sitting on a shelf in some library. That was enough, for him. It was more than he deserved.

Because he must have done something wrong for the universe to hate him to this extent, always taking everyone he loved and leaving him with nothing but hollow, tearless sobs in the dark. He knew bad things happened to good people, but he wasn’t a good person, was he? Something in the back of his mind said he was. If he wasn’t, then what had Ben died for? If Peter was a bad person, then his Uncle - his kind, caring, loving Uncle - had died for nothing. Worse- he’d died for someone unworthy. So he had to be good. No, not just good. The best.

A sudden spasm set off a fresh round of pain coursing through his body, tearing him from the past to the situation at hand; the Avengers. They were the best of humanity, right? Sure, they made mistakes, but they were superheroes . They saved people. Peter was… useless, in comparison to them. The thought set off a cascade of volatile emotions that ripped through his body with more force than ever - and the small voice in the back of his mind certainly wasn’t helping with that.

You’re no hero. It hissed viciously, words ringing through his mind. You idiot. You’ve ruined everything. You killed Ben, you killed May, you pushed your friends away and now the Avengers hate you too. 

He took a deep, shaky breath of the cold night air and tried to ground himself. But despite the cold, hard, biting concrete beneath him - Peter couldn’t feel further from reality. He couldn’t register the cold prickling his skin or the numbness spreading across his extremities.

And why shouldn’t they? It continued, cold and cruel and sinking deep into Peter’s mind. You’re worthless. No-one wants you. You’re no hero. How many people have you watched die? How many people have you failed? It’s all your fault .

And there it was. Those two words ringing through his mind, again and again.

Your fault . Your fault .

He should’ve known it wouldn’t be gone for long.

Your fault . Your fault . 

It lay in wait, always, always waiting for a moment of weakness

Your fault . Your fault . 

Waiting for a crack in his façade. A split-second of hesitation.

Your fault . Your fault . 

And then it’d come seeping back in, just like the cold.

Your fault . Your fault . 

Spilling through the cracks, sinking its claws into his skin.

Your fault . Your fault . 

Repeating like a rhythm being drummed out on the cold stone by the chilling rain

Your fault . Your fault . 

Infectious and painful and venomous and yet so, so very calming. Somehow. 

Your fault . Your fault . 

The constant presence lulled him into a twisted sense of comfort that rang through his mind with the words. The rain beat down and he turned onto his back, letting it soak into his suit. His exhaustion and guilt turned to white-hot rage as he yelled out into the dark, “I know , ok? I know it’s my fault!”

The echoing in Peter’s mind froze, cut off. No longer could he hear the non-stop utterance of those words. Just silence. Silence, with those words sitting in the midst of it all. The sinking, aching comfort surrounding the words like a fog that lay heavy around him. Low and aching, high and stabbing, like his hunger pains. They weren’t being echoed back to him in the distorted voice of his mind. They were his words, his voice.

My fault.

Chapter Text

It was hard enough already to survive on the streets. It was even harder if you were a teen running from CPS. From there, it compounded; it was exponential.

Adding ‘enhanced metabolism’ to the mix was heavily detrimental; Peter could barely scrounge up enough food that would keep a normal teenager sated most weeks. His own enhancements were eating him from the inside out, and he was acutely aware of that - thanks not only to the endless hunger pains, but also the small glimpses of his body in windows and mirrors. Ribs sticking too far beyond t-shirts, sunken midsection, too-prominent cheekbones; he learned, somewhere along the way, to wear baggy clothes and hoodies with the hood firmly up.

Throw in a cup of selfless vigilante with some sort of complex that compelled him to believe that anyone he couldn’t save - whether it be a missed mugging while he was getting precious hours of sleep, or a sudden car crash across town - was somehow his fault… well, it’s safe to say Peter was on the upper end of the curve. His existence was sitting somewhere between ‘impossible’ and ‘hanging by a thread’.

And now, he was actively avoiding the Avengers . How was he supposed to steer clear of New York’s personal superheroes while also saving as many people as he could?

Peter’s inner turmoil was becoming harder to ignore by the day - especially since he knew how it would end. Because when it came to choosing between other people’s safety or his own? It was obvious. And when it came to people’s safety or his personal comfort? It was a no-brainer. So it would end, at some point. It had to. He’d end up dead, or worse. He really didn’t want to think about what worse entailed.

Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t procrastinate until the last possible second; he’d done it enough times with school assignments, what was so different now?

Everything , something in him screamed, everything is different! This is life or death. This is real life, get it together.

What does it matter if you’re not alright, as long as everyone else is? Something else hissed softly, You’re worthless, and you know it.

He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it wasn’t the best decision - listening to voices in his head. Most people didn’t have those. But, as addled as his mind was with lack of sleep and nutrition, he couldn’t find it in himself to be logical. It was as if he were detached from himself; he could watch from afar as he ran around on his daily routine, - which now consisted solely of patrol and curling up on rooftops - but nothing more.

Sometimes, with a particularly sharp stab of pain, the fog would lift and his mind would clear for a moment - just long enough for him to become highly aware of how wrecked his body had become - and then he’d be shoved back into the haze with the same lurching force.

He couldn’t keep this up for long, he knew that. Even in his state, Peter definitely knew that. After all, Parker Luck wasn’t a thing for no reason - it was bound to strike again, soon. And this prolonged struggle wasn’t that, no way. Parker Luck was sharp and sudden, not drawn out. The aftereffects, sure - they never faded. But the events themselves were short.

Like Ben’s death. No matter how long Peter felt like he’d been sitting on the cold, hard ground - he knew it wasn’t more than half an hour. Not long at all, in the grand scheme of things, even if it felt like one of the longest moments of his life. It felt wrong to call that incident ‘Parker Luck’, as horrific and serious as it was. But there was a part of him that found the concept of his entire family dying being chalked up to ‘bad luck’ morbidly funny. And that was how he got through the worst of the pain; humor.

Quipping and laughing at the world as it burned - that’s how Peter Parker would find his end. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Or, more aptly, couldn’t see it ending any differently.

See, his mantras were all flawed in some way, and that was the problem with ‘focus on the present’. It left no room for seeing beyond his current struggle, as endless as it seemed, to the light at the end of the tunnel. ‘Focus on the present’ meant ignore the deep darkness in the tunnel behind you , but it also meant ignore the sparks of light in front of you - sideline hope.

And that was a dangerous thing to do. What was a world devoid of hope if not perpetual suffering? When there was no hope, it meant nothing could get better. It meant there was no crawling out of the pit, only falling deeper and deeper - and if you somehow found you were closer to the surface than before, well then it must not be real. It meant, if they ever flickered out of view, joy and warmth were gone.

Peter could feel their absence, sitting hard and hollow in his heart. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been blissfully happy, lost in joy. The concept was so foreign to him by now that it was almost alien.

So, sure, he spent a while avoiding the Avengers. So what? Did it matter that part of the reason he’d acted so rashly was because he was afraid? Terrified of losing anyone else. Petrified at opening his heart back up to joy and warmth, since he’d been sitting for so long in the freezing cold of his grief.

This constant overthinking accumulated during a patrol, when the fog on his mind was a tad too thick and his movements a bit too sluggish. He made a mistake, didn’t quite notice the tell-tale buzzing of his sixth-sense at his nape - mistaking it for some other injury - until the knife was implanted firmly in his torso. The fog lifted for an instant, before descending again and being reinforced by pain. He let out a cry of pure anguish and knocked the attacker clean out, barely webbing them up before swinging up to the nearby rooftop.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Peter knew he should leave the knife in for now - something about bleeding and shock - but he wasn’t quite able to reach past the haze to grasp the true meaning of it. And so he gripped it tightly, and ripped it from his flesh, gasping breathlessly at the agonizing pain rippling across his body like lightning.

That, again, gave him a moment of clarity - but it didn’t last long, only enough to curse his own stupidity - before he was stuck, once again, in the fog of his mind. It was as if he were stuck in a swamp, every thought slowed by mud.

“Fuck. ” He managed to growl out through clenched teeth, white-hot pain causing spots to appear across his vision. Blinking them away, he somehow managed to reach one of his nearby stashes as blood soaked his suit and poured down his side in a slick, hot waterfall. Grasping at supplies, he managed to take an already-threaded needle and stab it into his side, beginning to sew it together like fabric - cursing all the while.

Once more, there was a warning in the back of his mind; something about cleaning wounds, and his advanced healing, and stitches. It was too complex a concept for his pain-addled brain to grasp.

He managed to get out of his suit, pulling on sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, as well as sneakers weakly prevented from falling to tatters with duct-tape and glue. He kept his web shooters, as usual, and webbed it in a secluded part of an alley. He’d been trying to hold back on using the webs now that he’d need to sneak into Midtown to replenish it and with winter holidays fast approaching that avenue would be inaccessible soon, too - but the suit was important enough to use the webs on, it was the safest way to store it.

Wincing as a passerby knocked into his shoulder, twisting the wound on his stomach, Peter stumbled into the wall of a nearby building and used it to stay upright. He huffed, irritated by people’s general lack of awareness and manners. Still, what did he expect from New York? He chuckled at his own joke, before remembering he was in public and that would probably look creepy.

It was official, his mind was fucked up from so much pain. The culmination of months of near-starvation and lack of sleep was being nearly unable to form a coherent sentence in his mind, let alone out loud. He fumbled in his pocket for a few dollar bills, sighing as he realised he needed to buy pain meds - although there was that itch, again, in the back of his head, telling him something about an enhanced metabolism.

That was starting to get annoying, the whole ‘bit of information he couldn’t quite grasp, just out of reach’ thing. Hopefully painkillers would help. He walked, dead on his feet, into a drug store - the bright lights overwhelming his senses after having stepped in from the light of the setting sun, before the lampposts snapped on to illuminate the pavements. Blinking slightly, he wandered over to the section he vaguely thought might have what he needed.

Stumbling over to the counter, he grunted out what he thought somewhat resembled a greeting, and placed the bottle of pills on the surface. Peter waited, moderately aware of the odd look the clerk was giving him - disapproval, maybe? Or disgust? Concern? It was hard to distinguish emotions at that moment - before shoving the little cash he had onto the counter. It must’ve been enough, because they handed back the pills and some change.

He muttered a weak thank you, shoving the change into his pockets and walking out, into the cool evening air. In the time it took for Peter to buy what he needed, the sun had already set and bright street lamps clicked on, bathing the roads in bright white light. He squinted at the adjustment, eyes relaxing as he left the blaring fluorescent lights illuminating the store. Stumbling towards an alley, he collapsed against the wall - only partially hidden from view, but he wasn’t lucid enough to care - and lowered himself to the ground, ignoring how the damp stone soaked water into his clothes.

Shivering harshly, he winced, the movement tugging at his wound. He struggled with the cap of the pill bottle for a few minutes before pouring a few into his hand and downing them dry. It was hard without the assistance of water lubricating their descent, sticking to his throat in a way that made him gag, but he managed to deal with it. He shifted to try and alleviate the discomfort spreading across his body as the cold stone made him stiffen instinctively, but with no luck.

After sitting in the damp dark for possibly an hour or so - the concept of time wasn’t quite registering at the moment, as clouded as his mind was - he groaned as his side throbbed and the stitches pulled. The pills weren’t doing anything. That thought popped up again, in the back of his mind, about enhanced metabolisms - but it was fleeting, and disappeared as soon as it had formed.

Peter drifted on the edges of a restless sleep for a while, darkness blotting the edges of his vision and then blinking away. Pain was the only constant in his ever-shifting, hazy mind. It was the only thing grounding him, assuring him of reality and life. There were words, flitting in and out of existence, but nothing solid enough to form a full thought.

He wondered, idly, on the edge of consciousness, whether he was dying. He wondered if that was a bad thing; some part of him said it was supposed to be, but he wasn’t quite sure. That nagging feeling, the same one that had been there with the stitching and painkillers, that said it should be. It was hard to agree, though - as the darkness took him into its embrace, haze strengthened by the drugs.

*

Tony hadn’t been sleeping well for the last few weeks - not that it wasn’t a regular occurrence, but it was always irritating. Rest alluded him as he spent days locked in his workshop, with a cup of coffee and some new tech he was designing in his half-aware state. Still, he’d gotten used to the feeling, and was able to work with really no problem. Usually, he spent these days - or weeks - alone, with Pepper coming once in a while to scold him and try to trick him into resting. It didn’t really work.

This particular time, though, Bruce was joining him in his endeavors. He’d just returned from a series of scientific conferences taking place over the course of a few months, and he was itching with new ideas - despite his exhaustion. So, the two insomniacs worked their way into the depths of the night and the beginnings of the next morning. Their current focus was centered around Cobra, the organization whose bombs had caused such destruction lately. There has only been one large-scale attack so far, but it left everyone on edge.

“Hey Brucie?” Tony asked, not looking up from his current project.

Bruce hummed a questioning sound to say he was listening.

“Mind getting me another cup?” Tony gestured to his empty coffee mug, with a half-dozen others scattered around the work space, “I ran out and I’m really close to figuring out this problem.”

Bruce picked up the coffee pot, angling it to pour into the cup - only the dregs slipping out, “Sorry, Tony. We’re all out.” he muttered, squinting at the latest problem with his work. With a sudden groan, he pushed his chair back from the desk with a huff, standing. “That’s it, I’m done with this.”

Tony grinned and lifted an eyebrow, “Aww, giving up so soon, Brucie Bear?”

Bruce rolled his eyes at the nickname, “No, but I need more coffee if I’m going to finish this. Come on.”

Sighing, Tony stood up after a moment, grabbing a stray jacket off a chair and pulling it on over his AC/DC t-shirt, “Sure, why not? I could use a quick break, clear my mind.”

Bruce hummed in agreement, pushing out of the workshop and walking into the elevator, Tony right behind. “Common floor, FRI.” Tony said into the air, the elevator doors closing behind him and beginning to ascend as a response.

A few moments later, the doors opened to reveal a space filled with couches. They stepped out, and walked over to the connected kitchen, Tony flicking a button on the fancy coffee machine.

Bruce just sighed, and checked his phone. 3.12am. Not too bad, that meant they’d pulled a couple all-nighters, sure - but they’d gone for longer before. That was one of the things the pair bonded over, aside from being geniuses, their general lack of a healthy sleep schedule and tendencies to tinker into the early hours of the morning. At some point it’d become a bit of a ritual to have the long, definitely unhealthy, lab sessions together - it was nice, having someone there with you.

Unlocking his phone, Bruce checked his email and frowned. Tony glanced over with a grin. “Expecting a message from someone special, Brucie Bear?”

“No, Tony.” Rolling his eyes, Bruce turned off his phone, “But there is this guy. Total genius, emailed me a few times about some mistakes and improvements about my work. Usually he takes a while to respond, but never this long. It’s been over a week.”

Tony gave him an interested look. “Huh. What’d you say his name was?”

Bruce nodded, “Dr Parker Richardson. I looked him up though, no luck. It’s like he doesn’t exist - the closest matches I found have degrees completely outside my field. He refuses to ask for credit, too, so I can’t post some of my most recent research.”

Tony hummed. “Oh, weird.” Considering he had a database on people of potential interest to keep an eye on them, it was odd that someone who could impress Bruce (because he truly was a genius, no matter how much Tony liked to tease him) would slip through the cracks. “I mean, why not use the research, anyway? The guy clearly doesn’t care.”

“It’s about the principle, Tony.” Bruce fixed him with a stern look. “Dr Richardson’s suggestions could be huge, and it doesn’t feel right. I don’t post work without credit. Besides,” he frowned somewhat, “I’d rather not leave myself open for potential legal troubles if he tries to claim plagiarism, or if he’s gotten it from someone else.”

“Fair.” Tony yielded. “Want me to take a look? I can have FRIDAY try to track him down, or check to make sure it’s not plagiarized.”

“I’m not sure.” Bruce frowned. “He must have a reason, right? It feels wrong.” He paused. “But definitely run for evidence of foul play, just in case.”

Shrugging, Tony picked a couple mugs out of the cupboard, “Alright, I’ll just do that. Let me know if you change your mind, though. I’d like to meet the guy who can impress the great Bruce Banner .” He spoke the name with faux reverence, exaggerating the effect as he smirked.

Bruce raised his eyebrows, “You’re impossible.”

“You know you love me.” He teased, grinning as Bruce sighed. 

“Seriously,” Bruce shot Tony a pointed look, “don’t look him up, I want to try on my own.” Tony tried to interrupt, a mock offended expression painted on, but Bruce held up a hand. “No, I don’t want to hear it. I know what you’re like, you don’t know when to take ‘no’ as an answer when it comes to this sort of thing.”

“Brucie Bear!” He gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “You wound me, what do you think of me?”

“I think you’re the man who once hacked into the Pentagon just to prove he could.” Bruce said flatly.

“To be fair,” Tony countered, grabbing the coffee pot as it dinged to alert it was ready and pouring it out, “I was only 13 at the time. I can’t be held accountable for mini-Tony’s actions.”

“ That, ” Bruce shot back, “is exactly why I’m saying this.”

“Fine, fine.” He conceded with a sigh. “But I’m getting better!” At Bruce’s disbelieving look, Tony continued, “No, really! I held back from tracking this one guy, even when I could’ve looked into his secret identity.”

“Oh?” Bruce asked, intrigued, then narrowed his eyes. “This better not be some supervillain you’re talking about.”

“What? No!” Tony exclaimed, passing Bruce a cup of coffee with a scandalized look. “Brucie, I wouldn’t!” Cue another pointed look from Bruce. “Fine, okay. Maybe I would. But! ” He added quickly, before Bruce could jump to any conclusions. “He’s not a bad guy. You know that vigilante who’s been all over the news? Well ,” he grinned, taking a sip of the piping-hot drink as Bruce nodded an affirmative to the question, “let me tell you all about Spider-Man.”

*

Peter winced as his consciousness returned and a flood of activity washed over him; loud voices and noises reverberated through his bones, a thousand mixing smells suffocated him, every inch of his body cried with protest at any movement. He steadied his breathing - trying to make it seem like he was still asleep - and focused in on the nearest voices.

“-money -stuff-”

At least his mind felt clearer, now, than it had before. He cursed his past, half-lucid self for his stupidity. First of all, the stitching; he’d tried that before, months ago, and quickly learnt it was a terrible idea, leading to a late night of digging into his own skin to pull out infected thread. Then, he wasted what little money he had on painkillers that wouldn’t even work with his metabolism, and took far more pills than he should have. He resisted the urge to groan out of frustration, putting all effort into listening.

“gun- quickly- grab-”

He froze, limbs locking stiffly. Did they just say gun ? Big red flag right there. Waiting a few moments to regain his composure, he focused his hearing on heartbeats. A group of them nearby, a few others scattered in the near-distance. He wrenched his eyes open and looked around with narrowed vision, careful not to show obvious signs of consciousness. There were people standing over him, one of them suddenly reaching into his pocket and grabbing the bottle of pills and small wad of cash stuffed deep in there. Peter tensed, not wanting to alert them to his consciousness just yet. The hand was retracted, and he jumped into action.

Pushing himself to his feet in a swift movement, he ignored the wave of dizziness and scanned the small area. There were four or so teenagers/young adults in the group, and they stilled as he came to life. One of them yelped, pulling out a gun and pointing it at Peter, who locked eyes with the man.

“Listen, kid.” Gun Man snarled, regaining his composure, “Give us anything else ya got, hear me?”

Peter raised his hands, taking it slowly for now to gauge the severity of the situation, “You took all I have, man.”

Gun Man seemed to accept that, but one of the others - wearing a puffy jacket - frowned, “Nah - I see those watch-thingies, give ‘em here.”

Clenching his jaw, Peter shook his head gently, “They’re just random bracelets, nothing valuable. I swear.”

“He’s lying.” Puffy Jacket spat, pulling a knife from her jeans, “Hand them over.”

Peter sighed, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, before locking eyes with Puffy Jacket, voice firm, “No.”

The group shouted various objections, and Gun Man adjusted his aim back on Peter from where it had strayed slightly. “You have five seconds, kid. Or else I shoot.” He threatened, tone furious.

After a beat, Peter took a fast step, lunging to the wall and planting his foot, before pushing off it and spring-boarding to the opposite wall. He ignored the confused and panicked cries of the muggers, repeating the action - and dodging a bullet or two - until he reached the edge of the room. He scrambled up for a moment, but the delay gave Gun Man a chance to shoot (and a mostly still target) and he took it, Peter crying out as a bullet embedded itself in his leg.

He ignored the pain, pulling himself up onto the roof. Heart pounding, he ducked behind a small structure, giving himself time to catch his breath. He wasn’t worn out, but the pain in his side was growing with every movement and certainly not helping the panic attack brewing on the horizon. There was also the not-so-small matter of the bullet in his leg. After a minute or so, he ran across the rooftops to where he’d left his suit, hissing painfully as every step put pressure on the bullet wound, and thanking his past self for at least keeping the web shooters. He pulled on the suit, swinging a few miles away for good measure before collapsing to sit on the cold stone.

He was feeling better, more lucid - but it was fading quickly. He didn’t think it’d get to where he’d been before - barely able to think logically - but it wasn’t great. Still, he was aware enough to know what had just happened. He’d been robbed, and it could’ve been a lot worse; he could’ve died. There’d only been around $40 in his pocket, but it was pretty much all he had left - and now it was gone.

Sucking in a painful breath, he tried to force himself to face reality; New York was just too expensive. He’d known that before, of course - but he didn’t want to leave the city.

New York was where he’d been born. It was where May and Ben raised him, where he went to school and ate ice cream and hugged the people he loved. He may have been homeless, but New York was his home. That train of thought  threatened to plunge him into the depths of nostalgia- but he couldn’t afford that luxury right now.

So he focused on the current situation. He needed food, water, and shelter. And, though it pained him, he’d need to leave the city - and soon. He just hoped the people of New York could forgive him. He hoped they wouldn’t be too angry. Overall, Peter hoped his family would understand.

And then the world went black.

Broken glass.

Hot blood, seeping into his skin.

Pain, so much pain.

Rubble. Gunfire. Heat.

Cold, too cold. Warmth seeping from his body.

Suffocating-

He woke up with a jolt, mind filling with how much pain he was in. The wounds on his side and leg were radiating pure agony in fresh waves at every small movement - and the mosaic of other, smaller injuries weren’t providing much relief, either. His body seemed to be focusing on the futile act of trying to heal the stab wound, and so the small cuts and bruises littering his body weren’t healing like usual, his healing factor focusing on the most critical injury.

He suddenly became aware that the world was too loud. There were the distinct yet muddled sounds of absolute chaos nearby, causing him to snap his eyes open. Vibrations shook distantly, and jostled his wounds painfully. He pushed himself up to sit too quickly, letting out a sharp hiss at the pain that motion incurred. Shaking his head to clear his mind, Peter used the structures around him to stumble to his feet, glancing around. It was well into the day now, and he must’ve gotten nearly 12 hours of restless sleep, which meant he must’ve been extremely exhausted. A normal night’s sleep ranged from 3-5 hours, after all.

Paying attention to his hearing, he tried to focus on the commotion and whatever danger was terrorizing the city today. He could just ignore it, the Avengers were bound to be nearby. But then again, they only really dealt with world-shattering threats, and what if this didn’t constitute as important enough? If he was going to leave, then Peter decided he owed it to the people of New York to help them one last time. 

Ignoring the searing pain rippling across his body, he shot out a web - wincing at the force - and swung out over the streets towards the fight. Every movement was agony, twisting some injury in a newly painful way, and it was so slow and yet far too fast. He didn’t push himself to go too fast, in fear of passing out mid-swing, but he was determined not to let his injuries cost someone their life.

He’d slept in the mask - which not only meant he felt as though he was getting half the air as usual, thanks to his limited breathing throughout the night, but also that he was very, very cold. The suit provided little to no protection from the elements, and his lack of thermoregulation meant that sleeping in it left him open to the freezing cold. Peter cursed himself for not thinking of adding a function in for that while working with Tony - but he hadn’t really added much at all, really. He hadn’t wanted to lean on the man for help too much. He regretted it now, with the wind biting at him through the thin material (more substantial protection than his old costume, but still not enough).

With a final flip, Peter landed on a rooftop and ducked behind the cover provided by a large metal box presumably holding fuse switches and the like. The destruction in front of him was on a similar scale to the last fight with the Avengers; a gaping crater in the middle of the street, fire and panic everywhere. There was one major difference, though - rather than dozens of small bots, there was one massive, devastatingly dangerous bot shooting at the Avengers as they tried to fight it off.

Frowning, he wondered why they hadn’t called him if the situation was this bad - were they that angry? Surely they wouldn’t risk people’s lives over a disagreement? Confusion filled his mind, before he realized, in a haze, that the Avengers signal on his wrist had been buzzing and hissing the entire time. Huh. He must’ve been more out of it than he thought. Still, he didn’t answer, instead flicking the whole system linking him to the team off with a click of his wrist.

A hurricane of thoughts stormed through Peter’s mind, indecision freezing him to the spot he was crouched. He had to help, what if people were in danger? He couldn’t let anyone die just because he didn’t want to face the Avengers. Still, he couldn’t quite bring himself to intervene yet - not until it was absolutely necessary. He groaned, slumping against the cool metal and placing his forehead on it in an attempt to soothe the pounding headache and dizzying nausea - but to no avail. His vision was swimming and all that kept him standing was the stinging reminder of his wounds.

Terrified screaming cut through his thoughts and the haze, prompting Peter to quickly survey the battlefield and lock his gaze on the source of it. A civilian was standing on the edge of the fight, exits blocked off by debris, clutching her sobbing child close to her chest. His breath hitched, eyes darting around to see whether any of the Avengers had noticed; Peter let out a relieved sigh as he saw Steve running towards them- and then his heart skipped a beat.

The bot’s attention had been captured by the woman’s scream, and it was holding a large slab of rock above its head, posed to throw it. In an instant, the bot chucked the slab - and Peter didn’t hesitate.

Jumping off the roof - adrenaline coursing through his veins and heart pounding in his ears - he shot out a web, using it to pull himself faster, accelerating his descent. He was running more on instinct than anything else as he landed in front of the cowering mother and child, holding out his hands and bracing. He staggered slightly at the force of his own weight on the bullet wound, but didn’t have much time to register it before the slab was slammed into him a split second later.

Teeth clenched, Peter let out a strangled cry at the force of the impact - he thought it might’ve been worse than the building, but then again he was delirious with pain. Skidding back a few steps as the rock forced him closer and closer to the civilians behind him. He dug his heels into the ground, refusing to let the debris strike its target.

It felt as though his body were ripping itself apart, blood pouring down his skin and soaking into the suit as not-so-old wounds reopened and new injuries were formed by flying debris. He just hoped he was covering the mother and child decently enough to guard them from the spray of sharp rock, metal and glass showering down from the slab of concrete, dislodged by the sudden jolt in movement.

Eventually - though it felt like far too long, for Peter - he felt the force of the rock shift from backwards to downwards, gravity taking hold as his strength failed slightly and it crashed to the ground in a cloud of dust. His arms dropped to his sides, and he couldn’t prevent his legs from buckling beneath him, barely holding out one hand to fall into a one-kneed stance on the ground. His vision blurred harshly with a painful haze, adrenaline beginning to siphon from his body and seep into the ground.

Then came the sound of a ragged sob behind him, and he took a deep breath, pushing himself to his feet and turning around.

“Are-” Peter choked on his own words, coughing harshly for a moment, “Are you okay?” He managed to force out the question, trying to channel strength and security through his tone.

The mother looked up from where she was gripping her child close, eyes teary and frightened, “Y-yes. Thank you, so much.” Her voice broke on the final word, and she pressed a rough kiss into her child’s hair, trembling.

Peter opted to ignore the gratitude, feeling undeserving when he’d hesitated for so long in the first place, instead focusing on the next course of action. “Let’s get you two to safety.” He glanced around, seeing Steve standing a short distance away, expression unreadable through the haze of his vision. After a moment, he seemed to shake himself out of his hesitation, and ran over towards Peter and the civilians. “Captain America is coming over, he can get you safe, alright?”

She nodded slowly, stroking her child’s hair, before looking back up at Peter once more, voice quiet but steadier, “Thank you.”

With a short, stitled salute, Peter shot out a web at one of the opposing buildings, feeling the pain anew as he soared off the ground- and then he was jolted harshly, flying through the air and impacting hard against the building, winded. He blinked away white spots from his vision as he processed what had happened; the bot grabbed his web and threw him into the nearest building. Damnit, can’t a guy catch a break? He thought, as he began to fall.

Panicking, he managed to shoot out another web to slow his descent, hitting the wrecked street with a thud. He choked on dust as he struggled for a breath, wheezing with effort. His head tilted to the side, watching numbly as the bot turned its attention towards the Iron Man - who was flying near the ‘head’ of it and blasting shot after shot from his repulsors.

His pain was growing exponentially - each new injury irritating old ones and bringing a blinding, white-hot shudder that clouded his vision for a moment with every movement. It was only getting worse, and Peter was struggling to tune it out. Pain had become a constant for him, sure - but never to this extent. Never the overwhelming, suffocating, sickeningly overpowering sensation sending full-body shudders through his body.

As much as his body ached, and as much as he wanted to give in, to lose consciousness right here, - maybe permanently - Peter fought the darkness. He couldn’t, not now. He clenched his eyes tight, balling his hands into fists and focused on the pain that caused. His entire body was a cacophony of pain, but if he focused on that one pain, he could stay aware. What if the Avengers found him? What if they decided to take him to the Medbay, and took off his mask? 

They could reveal him to the world at any point. They could hang it over his head and blackmail him. They could put him back in the system and take away his ability to be Spider-Man. They could pawn him off to the government to inspect his DNA. With every new thought of what could occur, he spiraled further away from the logical answers and deeper into the deep pit of ‘what if’s, straying from reality.

Peter took a deep breath, wincing at the sharp pain that was brought from not only his side - but his entire body, and tried to collect his thoughts.

Facts, Parker . He thought, harshly, Focus on the facts.

The Avengers were superheroes, in the end. Surely they wouldn’t reveal his identity to the world? That didn’t seem like a very hero-y thing to do, let alone the whole ‘experimentation’ thing. Still, that didn’t mean they wouldn't notify CPS out of some sense of responsibility. It’d happened plenty of times before, well-meaning, unknowing people who just wanted the best - they just didn’t understand. It seemed likely that superheroes like the Avengers would have those sorts of morals as well, and might think it was for the best to put him back in the system.

Plus, he wasn’t exactly keen to leave himself vulnerable to attacks from the bot, or the debris scattered across the battlefield. So, he fought against the lulling calm of sleep - reminding himself of how restless and horrible it would be.

His mind was wrenched from the spiral of thoughts as he heard a clanging thud , his eyes flicking open in time to watch the bot hit the Iron Man suit with an impact that made Peter wince. The suit began to freefall, and Peter pushed himself up slightly, ignoring the screams of protest from his body as he did so. He squinted his eyes, focusing on his aim. He had one chance at this. He couldn’t mess up.

A web shot out with sudden ferocity, causing Peter to brace against the recoil, and hit the Iron Man suit, catching his fall as he was pinned against a building. Not ideal, but better than crashing to the ground, at least. He groaned as the bot’s attention was brought back to him, pushing himself to his feet and leaning against the building. A new wave of determination washing over him as adrenaline coursed through his veins once more. Peter was pretty sure it wasn’t great to run on chemicals and pain, but it was all he had. He steeled his resolve; if he was going to die, it would be protecting this city. His city.

Peter pulled a couple of web fluid canisters from his pouches, grimacing at the state of them. Only one was sufficiently intact, the rest crushed, and he was surprised any had survived. He switched it out with the canister in his web shooter that was running lower, frowning at the low level of the other one. Oh well, he’d make do - as usual.

Shooting a web at the bot, Peter flung himself towards it, using a series of webs to throw it off and prevent a repeat of last time. A thousand witty quips ran through his mind, but he was barely - by some miracle - managing to attack, and he had no energy for speaking. Landing on the bot’s arm, he swiftly stuck on and clung to the cold metal - just as a crackling sound came through the comm.

“Spider-Man! What are you doing?” Steve’s voice cut through the ringing and static pouring through the comm, “Get down from there, you’re going to get yourself killed!”

Laughing weakly, Peter flipped onto the underside of the arm to avoid a piece of flying debris. Maybe he would die, oh well. He clenched his teeth, crawled towards the nape of its ‘neck’; that seemed like where a control device should be.

Clint swore under his breath, barely picked up by the comm, before speaking again, “Alright, fine. There’s something in its chest, Spidey. If you get that offline, it’ll stop.”

“Clint!” Steve reprimanded, sounding alarmed.

“Look, the kid’s obviously not getting off anytime soon. Maybe he can stop this thing.” There was  a grunt, and an impact through Clint’s comm, “Plus, we’re not doing too hot.”

Steve muttered something, but a jostle and scrape against metal made his comm give out a high-pitched whine before falling silent. Peter switched trajectories, crawling onto the ‘chest’ of the bot in search of a way to stop it, gritting his teeth against the all-consuming, agonizing pain wracking his body.

Shooting out a web, he flipped across the final distance to land squarely on the bot’s chest. Clutching tight to the bot, he ignored the shooting pain as the jagged metal sliced his palms, slick blood coating his forearms and dripping down in staining drops. Clenching his jaw, Peter ran his hands over the bot until he found a panel that had been soldered on - bingo. With a deep breath, he punched at the raised edges of the metal, ripping away the panel as cracks formed. Soon, he was left with a mess of exposed wires and a glowing rock - which he grabbed without hesitation, letting out a loud hiss as it sent a harsh shock rippling through his body.

Pushing through the renewed pain, he pulled the rock from its place, letting it drop to the ground far, far below. He let out a sigh of relief as the bot froze mid-swing, and creaked loudly, bringing writhing pain to Peter’s ears. He shot out a web wildly, pulling himself anywhere, just away from the bot. Away from the metal. Away from the sharp pain threatening to deafen him.

He flew through the air a short distance away, skidding against harsh concrete that bit against exposed flesh. Coughing weakly as his lungs expelled all air, he struggled to breathe - settling on sharp, wheezing gasps that slowed into low, weak breaths.

Darkness crept into the corners of his vision, all adrenaline vanishing in an instant as a full-body shudder set off a cascade of pain from his various injuries. It grew, faster and faster, exponentially, as Peter’s mind began to drift.

Oh, he thought, half-lucid as the darkness overtook his sight and his body went limp with exhaustion. It was a calm, cooling thought that flooded over his mind as his warmth seeped out in a steadily growing pool of blood beneath him - wondering once more, and just as flippantly as the last time, if this was death.

*

Peter’s first thought - as he regained consciousness - was that it was not, in fact, death. It should’ve been concerning how that realization brought no relief, more of a statement of fact than anything else. He wasn’t dead. He had vague recollections of waking up at various intervals during his rest, and he was definitely not dead.

His second thought was less of a coherent concept, and more of a general sense of panic brought on by his unfamiliar surroundings. There was no hard concrete beneath his body, just soft material and fluffy pillows. God , it’d been so long since he lay on a proper bed. That meant someone had found him, taken him elsewhere - where? He wasn’t sure yet.

Even through closed eyelids, he could tell it was far too bright - wherever he was. It wasn’t natural sunlight, either; it was blaring, fluorescent lights that made him bite back an expression of distaste in favor of maintaining his facade of sleep. It was somewhat quiet, but he could hear muffled voices and sounds bleeding through the walls, ceiling and floor - which meant he was in a multi-story building.

The next realization only enhanced the panic he’d been feeling. He wasn’t in pain . He couldn’t quite tell what that meant, just yet - but he knew it was bad. He focused on taking gentle, steady breaths - but failed, breathing hitching, as he felt the distinct lack of fabric covering his face. Oh fuck. That meant they’d seen his face. They knew who he was. That’s right; they knew about his healing, since they used painkillers that worked . Which meant they definitely knew he was enhanced, if not Spider-Man.

Peter became aware of the heart monitor beeping steadily when it sped up in unison with his spike of panic. He tried to calm his breathing, but gave up when he heard footsteps fast approaching as someone entered the room. Forcing his eyes open into slits, he tried to blink away the white spots brought on by the sudden onslaught of bright, artificial lighting. He pushed himself up, pressing into the headrest of the bed, as he stared in the direction of the footsteps defensively. His irritation rose at how they’d managed to get this close without him noticing - he hadn’t even heard the door , for fuck’s sake.

“Woah, it’s alright,” came a gentle, worried voice, “You’re safe, it’s ok.”

Ignoring the calming tone, he groaned in frustration at his inability to see - trying desperately to painfully open his eyes. The person seemed to notice his struggle, as she spoke again; something about dimming the lights, which Peter didn’t quite pick up on in his panic.

The lights dimmed moments later, allowing him to open them cautiously, and properly see the scene in front of him. He was in some sort of medical ward, on one of those wheel-beds he’d seen in shows. There was a woman - probably a doctor - standing a meter or so away, hands raised carefully as if to show she was unarmed, wearing a white lab coat and holding a clipboard.

He narrowed his eyes at her, moving further back on the bed and wincing at the rush of pain and dizziness that caused, blurring his vision and tugging at the IV in his arm.

“Oh- no, don’t move, you’ll hurt yourself.” She spoke again, staying a small distance away, “I’m Dr Helen Cho. It’s good to see you awake, you’ve been out for nearly a whole day.”

Humming a noncommittal response that told her he was listening, Peter settled down slightly into the bed. It’d been a while since he’d been unconscious that long, but he certainly felt more rested and - with how messed up his sleep schedule (if you could even call it that) was, it was no surprise he’d needed it. His head was still slightly foggy, and he was focusing on trying to rearrange his thoughts into coherent sentences.

He lifted a hand to his side, feeling the shifting of a bandage over his stab wound. He assumed they’d taken out his misguided stitching - opting instead for covering it. Dr Cho seemed to notice, because she nodded slowly before explaining, “We have a type of thread for people with healing factors, it’ll basically dissolve. So no need to worry about it healing inside you.”

Peter’s eyes widened slightly, considering all the possibilities of how they’d created something like that - his scientifically-geared mind was racing. He reached instinctively for his web shooters, freezing as he noticed their absence. Luckily, he managed to hide his panic - he’d had enough practice at that. This is fine . He persuaded himself. He could get them back later; maybe if he asked, they’d give them to him - even if they took out the web fluid, that would be ok. He just needed the familiar, grounding weight on his wrists.

His mouth went dry as he noticed the gown was sleeveless, displaying the many scars littering his arms from so many battles - he crossed his arms, holding them tight as if to hide them from view. Suddenly aware of the room’s cool temperature, he shivered.

Dr Cho smiled gently, a touch of concern entering her gaze, “Would you like a sweater?”

Hesitating for a moment, he decided to relent, giving a short nod.

Her smile faltered, “Can you not speak- does it hurt?”

Peter shook his head, deciding to trust her somewhat - she was being extremely considerate and kind, and his Aunt had drilled manners into him very staunchly. “No, ma'am. Just… on edge.” He chose his words with caution.

“Of course.” She gave a small smile, picking up a plain black zip-up hoodie from the cupboard nearby and handing it to him. He pulled it on carefully, letting Dr Cho help him with snaking the IV up the sleeve. Then she stepped back again, pulling up a chair but not too close to the bed, “Could I ask you a few questions?”

He sighed; it seemed like this was going to be semi-permanent, and he didn’t really have the energy to fight it. “Sure.”

“What’s your name?”

He hesitated for a moment, before thinking it through and realizing they could probably use some sort of facial recognition to look him up - if they hadn’t already. The questions seemed like they were going to be more of a formality or a way of checking his mental state than anything else. “Peter.”

She raised an eyebrow, probably noting the pointed lack of a surname, but took it in stride, her tone extremely gentle for the next question, “Ok, Peter. Your arms… those scars aren’t self-inflicted, are they?” Her eyebrows bunched in concern.

“No,” he shook his head, self-consciously pulling his sleeves down with a small, morbid chuckle. He got injured enough already without adding to it himself, “Just a lot of fights.”

She nodded, still looking worried, before continuing on, noting things down on her clipboard as she went, “What’s the date?”

He thought for a moment, “Sometime in early December, I think.” At her worried look, he chuckled slightly, “Don’t worry, Doc, I wouldn’t have known before, either. I generally have more important things to worry about than the exact date.”

He vehemently ignored the sad look that settled into Dr Cho’s expression, “And how are you feeling?”

He shrugged, “Alright. Not much pain.” And it was the truth. The more he thought about it, he realised this was the first time he hadn’t been in pain from one injury or another in months. Sure, he was still hungry - but that was background noise.

“Not much ? The pain meds should’ve kicked in by now, are they not working?” She questioned.

“I’m pretty hungry, but that’s normal.” Peter explained it in a nonchalant tone, but caught the look of concern that flitted across her face. 

She asked a few more mundane questions, before nodding, “Good, doesn’t seem like you have any memory loss.”

Peter hummed slightly in agreement, turning to trace patterns on the ceiling with his eyes. There were a thousand thoughts raging like a storm in his mind - and though it was annoying, he was glad for the confirmation that the fog was beginning to lift. He needed to be able to think, properly, if he was going to figure out how to get himself out of here.

A small beep sounded from a contraption on Dr Cho’s waist, and she cursed softly under her breath. “Sorry, I’m needed elsewhere for a moment. Will you be alright? I won’t be too long.”

“No prob, Doc.” He smiled, somewhat forced - though he was glad at the chance to be alone. He needed to think.

She nodded, looking only slightly skeptical, and walked out the door. The door clicked shut with a tiny noise, and he rolled his eyes - that’s why he hadn’t heard it earlier. That was… annoying. As soon as she was gone, he tensed again - not having realised he’d relaxed during the conversation. It had been comforting, and Dr Cho reminded him of Aunt May, in a way. That thought brought a pang of bitterness along with it, and so he pushed it to the side. He had more important things to worry about. Like the whole secret-identity-reveal thing.

Someone knew he was Spider-Man. Someone knew that Spider-Man was a homeless teenager. Well, shit.

His breath hitched, heart speeding up again - even as he fought to calm it; panic wouldn’t be helpful right now. Mind racing, he pulled his legs tight to his chest, taking ragged breaths. So, no job, no home, no money, and his identity had been revealed. Just… wonderful. Peter tried to comfort himself with sarcasm, trying desperately to claw some sort of humor from the situation, but to no avail - his heart was speeding as he thought through what this all truly meant.

He sighed breathily. No help there, then. His usual coping mechanism was failing pretty spectacularly - and he was spiraling pretty bad, which was understandable given his current situation. A choked laugh escaped his now-aching lungs as he dropped backwards, leaning his head on the wall behind him. Parker luck, huh? He thought, biting his bottom lip with nerves, What a curse that is.

Despite his more logical side - the one that insisted there could be no such thing as ‘Parker Luck’ or a curse causing his misfortune, just plain old chance - Peter couldn’t help but believe it, somewhere in the back of his mind. Once the thought had been planted, it was woven tightly into his brain, reinforced by every horrible event he overcame. It’d been easier to ignore, back when he still had May. But months of solitude and self-loathing made it simple for the notion to embed itself into his every waking moment.

You’re a curse, Peter . The voice hissed, and Peter chuckled harshly at its return - inevitable as it had been, You hurt everyone around you. It’s your fault, remember?

My fault.

Peter hadn’t had much time to consider his so-called revelation, with how clouded his mind had been in the meantime - but now he was lucid and it cut deep. It shouldn’t have been so impactful, really. He knew the ‘voice’ was just his own. It was him; his self-hatred manifesting and echoing in his mind until it seemed like another entity entirely, but him nonetheless. The venomous tone and constant self-deprecation all came from his own perception of himself.

With a few deep breaths, he eventually managed to calm his nerves, pushing aside his thoughts. Seriously, Parker , he scolded, You’re not helping. We’re on a time crunch, focus! Right. He needed to think, needed to formulate some sort of plan.

There was no hiding his identity as Spider-Man, it was far too late for that. There was no escaping, either - at least not yet. The room he was in now was fairly big, about the size of the living room in his old house in Queens, but the window sitting on the opposite wall was too small. Even if he could get through it, he didn’t have his web shooters-

Shit. He didn’t have his web shooters. He rubbed his wrists, trying to calm the panic rising once more in his throat. Focus, Parker. Focus. Remember, you can get them back later.

For now, he’d have to deal with it. Swallowing down his panic, Peter closed his eyes for an extended moment, taking a deep breath, getting his mind back on track. So, that’s a no-go for the window, and there was no way he was leaving without his web shooters - it would be far too hard to replace them soon enough - so that would delay his escape, as well.

He stood from the bed, sucking in a sharp breath at the pressure on his leg. Oh yeah, the bullet wound. Still, he had to deal with the pain; if he wasn’t going to escape from this room, then he’d need to leave, and find another exit. As much as he’d like to stick around, get some rest and maybe some food, he wasn’t about to risk it. He couldn’t trust that they - whoever they were - would keep him wherever he was, and not pawn him off to CPS or some other government organization. He couldn’t stay here, couldn’t be around when they decided to drop by and check on him.

Peter just hoped, desperately, that they hadn’t alerted the government or the Avengers or something about him - specifically, about Spider-Man. If it came to that, he needed a contingency plan. Something that meant he could escape not this building, but the entire city. He’d been thinking about that before, the only difference was that people in power would know he was Spider-Man, so he couldn’t just set up shop in another city and start anew as his vigilante alter ego.

His throat felt dry at the thought of not being Spider-Man anymore, heart speeding even as he fought to calm it. But maybe he wouldn’t need to stop being a vigilante altogether? As much as it pained Peter, he’d much rather change his branding than stop altogether. He’d need to get rid of the webs, too - which was annoying, but, again, better than nothing. He pushed that thought to the side - it was a last-ditch effort if everything went to hell. Maybe they’d just let him go? It was a nice thought, but unlikely. Still, a homeless-teenage-vigilante could dream. He shook away the inner turmoil - time to focus.

First off… He walked around to the other side of the heart monitor, finding a switch to disable it - hopefully without alerting anyone. He held his breath for a moment, listening for any signs of company, before he was relatively sure he hadn’t set off a silent alarm. A moment later, he squeezed the tube in his arm, braced, and pulled it swiftly out. He winced, clenching his teeth to distract from the sensation. He was 99% sure that wasn’t the right way to remove an IV, but he didn’t exactly have time to look it up - not to mention a phone. He added to himself, rubbing the sore spot on his arm.

Walking over to a nearby cabinet, he found a roll of bandages, and wrapped some around where the IV had been - just in case. Nearby, he found a pile of clothes - and settled on some plain, comfy sweatpants and a t-shirt. They’d taken his suit, and his only clothes were in an alley somewhere, so he didn’t feel too bad using some of their clothes. Swallowing down the raging anxiety, he stepped over to the door - careful to walk quietly - and pulled it open cautiously. It was as quiet as before, and he was much more glad for it this time.

He waited a moment - blinking away the spots from the much brighter hallway as his eyes adjusted, before stepping out, closing the door gently behind himself to avoid it slamming shut and drawing attention - and scanned the area. It was a long, blank hallway - lights buzzing only slightly, like an itch in the back of Peter’s mind. He wasn’t sure if it was better or worse than the usual, obnoxious noises lights tended to make - not that anyone would notice, unless they were enhanced. Still, it meant wherever he was, it was expensive. High-class. Even without the fancy lights, everything about the place screamed rich ; from the sleek interior design to the soft sheets to the top-of-the-line medical tech.

At the intersection, he pressed himself to the wall and peeked around the corner - tension that had built dissipating as he saw it was empty. He could hear a few heartbeats relatively nearby, but it was still hard to pinpoint exactly where - drugs still not letting that last bit of clarity through. Much like the lights, Peter wasn’t sure where it was better or worse. It was like being suspended in the middle, standing on the knife edge of uncertainty; it certainly didn’t help that his spidey-sense was buzzing alongside the lights and heartbeats, ever present and anxious. What an amazing power . He thought, sarcastically. Weaponized anxiety.

That was what he referred to his spidey-sense as, semi-affectionately, sometimes. Whether it was weaponized towards his enemies or himself… he wasn’t sure - but it helped in battle, and he’d definitely be dead a hundred times over without it. It was just something he dealt with - like the constant background noise, and the always too-bright lights. It was there, and it wasn’t going away any time soon, so he might as well learn to deal with it.

Approaching the end of the hallway, he turned the corner and froze; there was an elevator in front of him, which he really wasn’t sure he wanted to enter - small, confined space easily entered and all. As he tried to focus his hearing to listen for nearby people, his spidey-sense spiked. There were people behind him, approaching from the direction he’d just come. They were sure to see him if they passed by, and that was a situation he was definitely trying to avoid, thank you very much.

With the footsteps and voices close by - he felt his heart begin to speed. He had to make a choice now or else- Fuck it. Taking a deep breath, relying on the intuition he trusted about half the time, he clicked the call button several times in quick succession - feeling anxiety build as the footsteps neared.

He half-stumbled into the metal box as soon as the doors opened, harshly shoving his thumb into the ‘close doors’ button. To his relief, they shut a moment later. He sighed, leaning against the cool wall to calm himself down - but tensed as he felt the elevator roll seamlessly into action. Damnit . Had someone called it to their floor? What could he do?

The numbers above the door flicked up, and Peter’s heart raced at a similar speed. He glanced around the space furtively; it was small, but bigger than a normal elevator by a lot - which made sense for a fancy place. It also seemed somewhat familiar, but he brushed that thought off for now. He jumped at the small ding of the elevator arriving at the desired floor, cursing himself for taking too long trapped in thought.

Maybe he could hide in the corner? No - they’d see him when the doors opened anyway. He could dash out straight past them? Maybe, but there was always a chance of being stopped. He-

His thoughts were cut off as the doors slid open, and he braced against the wall - freezing instinctively. They revealed the room beyond, and Peter’s mind stopped working.

“Well,” he said, eyes widening somewhat comically at the sight in front of him, “shit.”

Chapter Text

“Well,” Peter said, eyes widening at the sight in front of him, “shit.”

The elevator remained still, and he stood - somewhat breathless from stress and anxiety - against the metal wall. Five sets of eyes were trained on him, a heavy silence lingering over the room. It seemed to be some sort of communal area, with several couches and armchairs littered around a coffee table, poised to face a large TV that took up most of the opposing wall. 

What caused him to freeze, though, wasn’t the obvious luxury or even the amount of people. It was who those people were.

The Avengers were sitting and standing in various different positions, obviously having been in the middle of a discussion when the elevator opened. Though it couldn’t have been too important or serious, seeing how most of them were draped over the couches. They were on high alert now, of course, but Peter could imagine the slight adjustments that would make them look utterly relaxed. Some of them had visible bandages - the most notable being Tony, whose every bit of visible skin had some poking out from under his t-shirt and jeans. Peter remembered him being smacked by the bot, so it made sense; he was glad to have caught the man, knowing he’d been saved some pain.

No one spoke for a few, tense moments - Peter sure as hell wasn’t about to. He was desperately trying to figure out how to get out of this situation, eyes flitting from one point to another as he scanned his escape routes. This caused a few of the team - specifically the ex-spies - to shift slightly, eyes narrowing as they tracked his movements.

“FRIDAY?” Tony finally called out, not breaking eye-contact, “Why did you bring a kid up here?”

They didn’t realise he was Spider-Man - that was good. They hadn’t looked under his mask while he was out - so then only Dr Cho had seen if, possibly a few other medical staff. Maybe he could play it off. Maybe he could pretend to have no idea. Maybe-

“You asked me to direct Spider-Man to you, should he awaken, Boss.” FRIDAY said, with her usual calm tone.

There was another too-long second of silence, as shock coated the features of every person in the room. Peter winced, any chance of lying about his vigilante status vanishing into thin air.

“Spider-Man?” Steve repeated, voice tinged with incredulity, “You sure you’re not malfunctioning, FRIDAY?” Tony shot him an annoyed look at the suggestion that his AI was flawed, and Peter scowled, but hoped that maybe he could use that - say there was a mistake or something-

“No, Captain . I am perfectly functional.” The AI responded, tone tinged with an attitude that made Peter smirk despite himself - though he quickly smothered it. Tony raised an eyebrow expectantly at Peter. He waited a moment, thinking over his options - but his spidey-sense peaked before he could make a choice, and he jumped to the right, narrowly dodging an apple that’d been thrown at him. He stared at the spot it’d hit on the elevator wall, wide-eyed, for a moment - before frowning and looking back out at the room.

He crossed his arms petulantly, looking at Clint - who’d thrown the offending fruit - with an irritated glare. “Rude.” Peter sighed, stepping forward into the room to gain a better view of his surroundings. FRIDAY would prevent him from leaving via the elevator, so he’d need another route, anyway.

“He can’t be Spider-Man.” Tony said, tone still doubtful - but more as if he were in denial, not utterly unconvinced of the possibility, “He’s a kid. Like an actual kid. Not just relative to me.”

Peter stared at him with a raised eyebrow, “Wow. The genius: Tony Stark, everyone.” He said drily, gesturing in faux dramatics at the man before leaning on the nearby wall and re-crossing his arms. The group mainly remained frozen, but a few of them smirked, and Peter took it as a win. He then quickly cursed himself for somewhat confirming his alter ego.

“It has to be him, though.” Clint said, looking vaguely horrified at the prospect, “FRIDAY said so, and he dodged way too fast.”

“But it can’t be, he-”

“ He ,” Peter cut Steve off with an irritated glare, “is right here, thank you very much. So how about you stop talking about me like that, huh?” Another short silence descended upon the room like a thick rug, making Peter bite back a sigh. This was getting old, real quick. He rubbed his wrists nervously, missing the comforting weight of his web shooters like never before.

“So…” Tony ventured, “you are Spider-Man?”

Words died in Peter’s throat as he struggled for what to say. Should he just come clean, here and now? He supposed it was useless to lie, or avoid it - there were several trained spies in the room, for one. They were also unlikely to just let him go, no questions asked; he didn’t particularly want to find out what happened if they found out he’d lied to them.

Broken glass, digging deep into his skin.

Lungs burning at every breath of cold air.

Ribs, bruised and aching.

Blood, dripping down his face-

He shook his head in a violent, jerking motion to clear his mind - pausing slightly as he realised everyone was watching him with more concern than before. “I uhh..” he stuttered, mind struggling to claw back to reality. He was sure he was supposed to say something, but he couldn’t really think of what- “Yeah.”

Peter froze once more - cursing himself as the thoughts came crashing back and oh god I just admitted to being Spider-Man. Well. There went plausible deniability, or any chance at lying. “I mean-” he stammered out, quickly, “No?”

The word came out as more of a question than anything else, and it was obvious, even to himself, that it was nowhere near believable. The looks on the Avengers’ faces were evidence for that - shock and disbelief lining their features. Damn his stupid flashbacks, always getting in the way.

“Uh huh.” Tony drew the word out, giving him a questioning look.

He waited a moment, then - when it was obvious no one was buying it - sighed and threw his arms up, “Screw it. I’m way too tired for this.” He pushed himself off the wall lightly, and wandered over to the lone armchair, flopping down with an air of exhaustion, one leg rested on the other casually. Despite the hours he’d been unconscious between the fight and Medbay, he barely felt rested; just a dull tiredness. “Hi. I’m Spider-Man, aka Peter. Which you already knew.” He added the last part as an after-thought, then frowned slightly, furrowing his brow, “I did tell you that, right? That wasn’t just a hallucination? ‘Cause it’d be kinda awkward if I hadn’t. But I also took a shit ton of pills recently, so…” He half-shrugged.

There was another silence - Peter was getting sick of them - as the confirmation began to sink in. He watched Steve’s face pale, and rolled his eyes. Peter was convinced the only reason the man didn’t pass out at the mention of drugs was the way he’d said it more to himself than anyone else.

Steve sounded horrified as he spoke, “Oh god, you’re Spider-Man.”

“More like Spider- boy, by the looks of it.” Tony said with a smirk and tinge of incredulity. The comment filled Peter with a mix of emotions - from gratitude that someone seemed to be moving past the shock phase, to irritation at his implications.

“Oh god.” Steve repeated, half-muttering, “I attacked a child. I threw my shield at a child.” Bucky just grimaced, patting his friend’s shoulder supportively; and it was Clint’s turn to wince, turning slightly pale.

Peter pushed his nails into the heels of his hands, feeling the dent form as he snapped, “For fuck’s sake- I’m not a goddamn child . Can you all, I dunno, move past your shock and get on with this already?”

They were really starting to get on his nerves. He’d been living on the streets for close to a year now, and even before then… it’d been a while since he’d truly been a child. The cruelty of the world forced him to grow up fast, or suffer the consequences. So he had.

He tried to be the best child he could when Ben and May took him in, not wanting to be a burden. He’d held back from his desires when money got tight, never telling them he knew. He hid the anguish he felt when he could finally grasp the concept of his parents’ deaths. He bottled up his grief when Ben died - being strong for May when she was struggling not to fall apart. He dealt with the abuse for months before breaking and running away. He fought for the little guy daily, tearing himself apart bit by bit as he struggled to hold himself together.

So, no. Peter didn’t consider himself a child; not anymore. And he despised being referred to as such. ‘Kid’ wasn’t too bad of a nickname, mainly because they’d thought he was in college - but so help him if they tried to treat him like a child. Unclenching one fist, he leaned it on the plush armrest, massaging his forehead; he could feel a headache forming at the base of his skull.

Natasha raised an eyebrow, “You’ve certainly got Spider-Man’s temper.”

“Ha-ha.” Peter gave her a pointed look, and rolled his eyes, “Forgive me for not being completely amicable when being interrogated by so-called teammates .” His voice dripped sarcasm, and he couldn’t care less whether he pissed them off, at this point. Her comment had cut deep.

The rage bubbling inside him was painful, eating away at him like his insatiable hunger - sitting and biding its time, pressure growing until it exploded in a flash of anger. He’d end up punching a wall (or mirror, or really anything nearby) and it’d burn brighter than anything else inside him for one extended moment- and then it’d vanish, and Peter was left dealing with the consequences. The rage would start building again, and the cycle began anew.

But Peter had been hurt enough to know how to hide it - so he shoved down the irritation he felt at her words, letting it fester and build in the pits of his stomach. His favored tactic to cover up the pain was to deflect, deflect, deflect - with a dash of humor, of course.

The wince Steve gave at Peter’s own comment told him he’d succeeded. “I’m sorry, I-”

Peter cut Steve off again, holding up a hand to stop him in his tracks; he was finding it was quite enjoyable - as well as a way to relieve a small part of the anger building inside. “Chill, Cap.” He snickered, “Get it? Chill? ” He waved it off and continued, “I’m not really one for heart-to-hearts. Let’s just call it even, and move on. I mean, you bought me that sandwich, remember?”

Steve looked confused for a moment, before realization dawned with the ghost of a smile, “‘Parker’, huh?”

“Peter Parker, at your service.” Peter shrugged, a small smirk playing on his lips as he explained, “It’s my surname. Close enough - and it’s easy to remember if I need something quick.”

“Hold on,” Clint cut in, “Back up a bit. You bought him a sandwich, when ?”

“I bumped into him, quite literally - I felt bad, and we chatted at a cafe for a while.” Steve shrugged, then gave a half-entertained, half-exasperated smile, “And I talked about how bad I felt for attacking Spider-Man.”

Peter nodded, smiling amusedly, “It was one of the reasons I decided to give you guys another shot.” The smile dropped at the memory of the following events, and he looked around the room for a clock of some sort, “What’s the time?”

“It is currently 5:27pm, Mr Parker.” FRIDAY’s voice rang out from the ceiling.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise - it’d been late morning when the fight took place, by his estimation; so he’d been out for a while. “Well,” he started, clapping his hands together, “as lovely as this has been, I should head out.” It wasn’t a lie, - though Peter didn’t have anywhere to be - he just wasn’t really in the mood to be interrogated further. And if he could avoid the whole ‘homeless’ thing altogether… well, that would be ideal.

Tony gave him an unconvinced look, “Yeah, that’s not happening, kid. You’re really hurt; you need to rest, recover.”

“I heal fast.” He insisted, rubbing his wrist nervously.

“Still no, Pete.” Tony rebutted, tone clear he wasn’t giving in. Peter’s eyes darted around the room for escape routes - though his lack of web shooters limited them greatly. Sure, maybe he could scale the side of the building; but the chances of that going terribly were far greater than anything else. The winds this high up were intense, and, besides that, Tony was Iron Man. He could just send a suit out to get Peter, if he really wanted to.

Peter rolled his eyes, “What, you gonna lock me up here? That’s kidnapping.” He urged, though his voice was tired and held no real conviction.

Tony snorted, “Give me your pare- dad’s number. I’ll let him know what’s going on.” He caught himself mid-word, probably remembering Peter’s casual comment over his mom being, well, dead.

He leaned back, sinking deeper into the comfortable material of the armchair as he sighed, staring at the ceiling. He really wasn’t getting out of this, was he? He settled on a small hum and an “I’m good.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion, son.” Steve spoke up, tone hard but not harsh. Then he frowned, eyebrows furrowing, “He does know you’re Spider-Man, right?”

Peter bit out a laugh, cutting it off too late to prevent it altogether. Yeah sure, he thought, as long as you believe in the afterlife . He stayed silent, instead - watching the worried looks on the team’s faces.

“Geez, kid.” Tony sighed, rubbing his face, “Alright. FRI?”

Peter startled slightly, freezing as he realised what had been asked. He had to stop FRIDAY before she answered-

“Richard Parker is deceased, Boss.” FRIDAY said, her tone matter-of-fact and yet, inexplicably, gentle.

Tony paused, mouth slightly open - and another of those silences settled over the room, this one somehow more awkward than any that had preceded it.

Peter dug his nails into his hands again, relishing in the sting of pain as he kept his eyes trained resolutely on the ceiling. He didn’t want to see the piteous expressions on the Avengers’ faces. He hated pity; it felt so condescending, and it was always too little, too late. He’d seen that look on the faces of passing adults when he crashed on a park bench, pitying the poor homeless boy . Peter refused to be reduced to that. He was Spider-Man. He was strong.

He sighed, settling back into the couch and preparing himself for the inevitable fallout. He let the irritation bubble and boil away, replaced by a numb resignation as he unclenched his fists.

“I-” Tony started, then cleared his throat, “Then, next of kin, FRIDAY?”

Peter closed his eyes, huffing out another sigh. Tony had just wandered into a minefield, and he had no idea how bad it was. He held out a hand, cutting off the AI before she could speak, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll answer that for ya,” he said, forcing his voice into a very obviously fake upbeat tone, “None of those, either.”

“Ah.” Tony said, eloquently.

As they lapsed into yet another silence, Peter was thinking of how much he wanted to throttle someone - just so they’d start talking again. Luckily, before he resorted to violence, Tony spoke again.

“Whatever,” he sighed, “just get me the number of Peter Parker’s guardian.”

Groaning, Peter rubbed his forehead, as FRIDAY spoke. “The last listed guardian was removed from Mr Parker’s current records just over seven months ago, four months after he went missing.”

Peter opened his eyes, looking around at the speechless people in front of him. He gave weak jazz hands as he said, in a tired voice, “Surprise.” He drew out the word, giving a momentary fake smile before dropping it and scanning the team’s faces - they seemed… unprepared, to say the least.

“Missing, huh?” Clint asked, a tint of understanding in his tone.

“Yeah.” Peter sighed, “Not so much ‘missing’ as ‘ran away’ , but that would give the foster home a bad rep - so ‘missing’ it is.”

“So,” Tony said, eyebrow raised - seemingly having broken out of his daze, “you’re homeless?”

Shooting Tony a look at the blunt tone, Peter nodded, “That pretty much sums it up.” He suddenly wasn’t feeling very chatty, no surprise there. “Still, I’d rather get a good spot before they’re all taken, so…” he trailed off, waiting.

Bucky furrowed his brow, finally speaking, “We’re not leaving you out on the streets, it’s freezing.”

“Call CPS and I’ll make sure you need another replacement limb.” Peter snarled, shooting him a vicious look.

Steve looked vaguely worried, though Bucky just raised an eyebrow and looked somewhat amused, tapping the fingers of his metal arm for a moment. Tony barked out a laugh. “Alright, kid.” he chuckled, shaking his head, “Stay here, then.”

Peter blinked, staring blankly at Tony for a moment before responding with a confused, “I uh- what?”

Tony smirked, “I said, stay here. At the Tower.”

“Yeah, I- I heard.” Peter twitched his head, clearing his mind, “I just- are you sure?”

“That’s why I offered, isn’t it?” Tony quirked an eyebrow, “We can figure out the permanent stuff later. For now, there’s plenty of spare rooms.”

Peter gave him a skeptical look, trying to puzzle out what was happening. Stay at Stark Tower? Avengers Tower? And they wouldn’t call CPS? That was too good to be true, and he was well-acquainted with those scenarios; the worst foster homes always seemed too perfect, in the beginning. Parker Luck liked to lay in wait, hiding in the shadows until Peter’s guard slipped for a moment - and then it would strike. Still, he wasn’t about to turn down a warm bed and some proper meals, even if he didn’t know how long it would last.

 “Alright…” He nodded, slowly, drawing out his words cautiously, “Then, can I go sleep? As much as I’ve enjoyed our little interrogation, I’m tired.”

Pushing himself off the couch he was perched on, Tony smiled kindly, “Of course. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”

The rest of the group seemed content with that, a couple of them wandering off to the kitchen area, while Clint just shrugged and turned on the TV, shooting Peter a small grin. Peter returned it, though much more wearily, and stood - only to stumble and fall back onto the armchair as a sharp sting of pain shot through his leg. He winced. The bullet wound, damn. He’d forgotten about that. 

Tony looked alarmed and stepped over, giving him a sympathetic look, “Your leg, huh?”

Peter snorted, “Yeah. Got shot last night - muggers.”

With a small shake of his head, Tony extended a hand, which Peter eyed warily for a moment before using it to pull himself up - letting go as soon as he was on his own two feet. His legs failed again for a moment, and Tony reached out to stabilise him. Peter flinched slightly and batted the hand away, determined to walk by himself.

He really didn’t like sudden touch. It hadn’t always been like that, and Peter hated the slew of foster parents all the more for ruining one more thing. He used to be extremely touchy-feely with his friends and family, especially Aunt May - but that all changed when gentle head pats became rough hands fisting his hair and tugging him to better strike him. Lingering hugs full of unspoken affection became threatening arms slung around his shoulders, warning him to never speak the truth and reminding him of the consequences if he did.

To be honest, Peter was extremely touch-deprived at this point. It’d been nearly a year and a half since May died, and just as long since he’d felt real, proper, familial love. Ned wasn’t averse to hugs, or the occasional cuddle - they were secure enough in their friendship to not care - but it wasn’t the same. There was a specific comfort, a specific security and sense of safety that came from being wrapped in the arms of May, or Ben, or - he supposed, though he had no real reference point - his parents.

Tony raised his hands in surrender, though he stayed nearby as he led Peter down the halls; close enough to catch him if he fell, but far enough to not accidentally touch him. Peter appreciated the effort, it calmed the buzzing of his spidey-sense - though it was always humming at a low volume when he was alone around adults, especially ones in positions of power. Tony Stark was definitely powerful, and strong, too. He was Iron Man, for fuck’s sake. He could kill in less than a second. He could pay people off, hide evidence-

Peter felt his breath catch in his throat, and closed his eyes for a moment, taking a steadying breath. He wasn’t about to go down that road, he wasn’t going to let the crippling anxiety win, and he wasn’t going to have a panic attack in front of Tony goddamn Stark. He was fine. Get it together, Parker . He scolded.

They paused at a door, and Tony gestured, pushing it open to reveal a guest bedroom. “Here you go, kid.” The lights faded on, and he stepped into the room, Peter close behind. “The bathroom’s through that door, there should be clothes in the wardrobe. Your bandages are waterproof, by the way, if you wanted to shower. You set?”

Smiling slightly, Peter took in the room. It was rather plain, with a light gray and pastel blue color theme - but fancy as hell. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks.” He said, wandering over to the bed and sitting down on the edge. It was soft and cushy and wonderful . He thought it might’ve been the same room as the last time he stayed over but - in all honesty - he’d been far too tired and star-struck to properly appreciate or take any of it in.

Tony gave a short nod in return, before leaving and shutting the door behind him with a soft click. Peter slumped back onto the bed, legs still hanging off the side, and shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes. Well. This was… a development. He removed his hands and searched the room with his gaze, settling on watching dust dance in the sunbeams and wondering what the hell was going on.

His entire life had shattered within a year and a half, and every time he tried to pick up the pieces he got cut; he’d learned his lesson. The Avengers hadn’t mentioned his future living arrangements, but he was sure it was coming soon - he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. It felt like that was his entire existence; waiting for something to go wrong, the moment after anything good dared to happen. Parker Luck lying in wait.

Sighing, he rubbed his wrists. Maybe he could get a meal or two - hell, it didn’t even have to be hot, as long as it was food - before he had to leave. Because whether it be to escape CPS, or if they just plain kicked him out - Peter was sure he’d be gone soon. Nothing good came from staying in one place for too long, and he didn’t want to find out what happened when he overstayed his welcome.

He wasn’t sure why the Avengers had brought him here. He was pretty sure they weren’t his biggest fans (thanks to the few interactions they’d had, and how abrasive he’d been in every one - especially the most recent few) why not let him sort himself out? Though, he had destroyed the robot and helped those civilians - they probably felt indebted. And they were heroes, after all. They couldn’t leave someone bleeding out like that. But then again… they hadn’t had to let him stay. They could’ve just let him go.

Well, Tony invited him to stay. He didn’t know how the other Avengers felt about it all. They probably felt too guilty to let a teenager go back onto the streets - which, he supposed, was about what most people would feel. He echoed those words again in his mind, purposefully ignoring the thoughts fighting in the back of his mind - ignoring the logical arguments his brain proposed regarding the various other ways they could’ve helped him, pretending they weren’t being far kinder than they had to be. He was firmly and comfortably in denial, thank-you-very-much.

With a groan, he hopped up off the bed - wincing at the pain in his leg - and wandered over to the bathroom. He felt grimy, dusty and disgusting; it was high time for a shower. He pointedly avoided the mirror as he stripped down and stepped into the shower, turning it on and revelling in the water pressure. He was almost glad for the many bandages coating his skin and hiding his numerous scars-

He froze, water thundering in his ears. Someone had treated his wounds. They’d undressed him. They’d seen his scars - beyond just Dr Cho, who knew how many people had laid their eyes on the battlefield of healed injuries on his skin? Peter fought back a panic attack, focusing on the sound of the water and taking steady breaths as he braced against the shower wall. He turned up the water warmth, clenching his jaw at the painful heat and pressing his head against the cool tiles, enjoying the stark contrast in heat.

The water burned against his pained skin as dirt fell from his hair, washing down the drain in a swirl of dull colors; browns and grays and some red, sparking through the rest. He hissed as the water hit a particularly achey spot, but smirked coldly, enjoying the grounding reminder of reality.

Peter had been determined to present a put-together, relaxed front - though he’d probably come across as stand-offish, but that couldn’t be helped. It was hard to completely hide his apprehension, and it'd inevitably end up manifesting in snappy, snarky comments. Usually, from there the atmosphere would become exponentially tense, and spiral into anger. The thought made him wince with the phantom feelings of fists clenching his hair and glass embedding itself in his skin - causing Peter to full-body shudder to rid himself of the memories.

The Avengers were good people, if a little misguided at times. They protected the world for god’s sake! The Avengers weren’t like… them . Peter tried to reason with his mind, to no avail. Because even if the logical side of him knew that, his heart still twisted slightly in vicious anticipation. It was hard to shed old habits, especially when he hadn’t had a chance to make better memories with people in positions of power since his less savory interactions with his many foster parents.

The team had been the first adults he’d properly interacted with - excluding Mr Pilmore, but interactions with him usually consisted of a series of insults - since leaving his foster home. And they were certainly the first somewhat positive one since May died. Even then, there had been plenty of anger and outbursts - as well as the initial attack - so his overall interactions hadn’t been too positive…

But they hadn’t hurt him earlier. They hadn’t even been angry . They were just confused, concerned, and ashamed . That was a revelation that made Peter pause, pushing his hand through wet hair. They seemed more angry at themselves than anything else - it was… strange. He wasn’t used to this. He shook off the thought, too tired to think it through properly.

Washing off quickly, he stepped out and dried off his hair - inspecting his bandages which, somehow, seemed mostly alright. There was a bit of blood seeping through here and there, but otherwise fine. He walked into the adjoining bedroom, searching through the drawers for some clothes - settling on another pair of sweatpants (which seemed to be the only type of trousers in the room), but not bothering with a shirt for now.

He froze as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, cursing silently. It looked like he’d gotten a hundred times worse since he was last here - bones more prominent and eyes more sunken in deep eyebags. That was probably why they offered him a place. It was pity .  He snarled, pulling his gaze away from the mirror and tugging on the clothes before flopping onto the bed and staring at the ceiling. They’d seen the poor homeless teen and felt bad. 

Tensing, he threw an arm over his eyes and tried to suppress the rage uncurling in his stomach; now was not the time for that. He wrestled down the anger that seemed to always sit there nowadays, simmering and waiting to lash out if it built too far. Once he’d been successful in quashing it, the familiar, ever-present exhaustion was setting in. He yawned, eyes fluttering shut, as he slept on a proper bed for the second time in close to a year.

Water soaked into his suit, pulling him deep into the depths of the river. His lungs burned as he struggled against his instinct to breathe in. His eyes stung at the murky water, dust particles irritating them. He thrashed helplessly, a long strip of soaked fabric weighing him down and trapping his limbs.

Something impacted against his ribs, and he gasped as the air was forced out of him- promptly replaced by dirty, disgusting water. It was filling his lungs, replacing the air as he struggled to concentrate, trying desperately not to ingest any more water.

His vision was covered by a thick haze and oh god he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t think he-

Peter gasped a deep breath, feeling a sudden harsh impact as he hit hard ground. He floundered for a moment, feeling air sting his lungs, before kicking off the sheets that had become entangled with his flailing limbs. He breathed deeply, scrambling away into the corner of the room and blinking rapidly. Black spots crowded the edges of his vision and he steadied his breaths further in order to rid himself of them.

He was fine. He wasn’t in a river, trapped under water and a large water-logged banner - struggling aimlessly for breath as he- 

Ok. That wasn’t helping.

With another deep breath, he fought off the memories and focused on grounding himself. He spread his hands against the floor, feeling the cool wood. It was cold, and hard, and real . He shifted his gaze to the stream of moonlight falling through the half-curtained window. He closed his eyes, taking in the smell of cold night air slipping through the cracks and honing in on the sounds of traffic far below.

After a few minutes, he pushed himself to his feet with unsteady hands - rubbing his wrists and really wishing he had his web shooters. Even if he couldn’t go out as Spider-Man right now, he would still feel a lot better with the familiar weight. He pushed that thought down alongside the memories, and wandered into the bathroom to rid himself of the stickiness in his mouth that came from his dehydration.

He made the mistake of looking into the mirror as he walked into the room, and winced. He really wished they didn’t have so many mirrors in this place; it was starting to get on his nerves. Ignoring his reflection, he wrinkled his nose at the mint toothpaste sitting beside the new toothbrush, and settled for washing his mouth out with plain water from the sink. Peter learnt about his body’s newfound aversion to mint shortly after the bite - he’d had to bin the toothpaste he’d taken with him, which sucked; but he hated the consequences more. His throat had been swollen and painful for a full day.

Laying on the  - now bare - bed, he stared at the ceiling. He raised his hand above his head, locking his elbow in place and examining the scars littering that patch of skin. Honestly, his scars didn’t bother him all that much; it was the reactions of other people that left him uncomfortable. Usually, people assumed he was some sort of delinquent which, well, fair enough. He was aware he didn’t look all that friendly, but that was courtesy to his rough living arrangements, and tough overall life. And it wasn’t like he’d asked his spider powers to preserve his wounds so well.

Sighing, he dropped his hand down onto his chest - ignoring the hollow thump it made - and began slowly tracing the rough patches of scarred skin on his torso. The Avengers hadn’t mentioned the scars yet; but, to be fair, the worst of them were hidden with long sleeves. His hands were rough and calloused, and sure, they were littered with scars - but they weren’t that visible, unless you were staring for too long or looking for them specifically.

His face was, luckily, not too scarred. There were a few small ones here and there, and a slightly bigger one hidden by the mop of hair on his forehead - but overall, not too bad. Peter was always more careful with letting sharp objects near his face, not only for the obvious reasons, but also out of fear of the material ripping and revealing his identity. He was not very keen on that concept - it was why the mask clipped onto the suit in various places: to make it harder to remove.

Lost in thought, he barely noticed the approaching footsteps, or the knock at the door. He stared blankly for a minute before-

“Peter?” the now worried voice called, “I’m coming in, alright?”

Peter’s heart missed a beat, stumbling up and towards the drawers to tug on a shirt as he responded, “Uh- wait, no-” He called out, a tad too loudly, before cringing at the volume and pulling a hoodie on for good measure “I mean, uh- yeah one sec-” Quickly walking over to the door, he opened it in a swift motion, probably looking quite disheveled, “Hey.”

Steve stood outside the door, looking somewhat amused with a tint of concern, and raised an eyebrow, “Hi. Everything alright?”

“Yeah- yup.” Peter cut himself off unnecessarily, before taking a moment to gather his thoughts and stop stumbling over his words, “All good here. What’s up?”

With a small tilt of his head, Steve smirked, but didn’t comment beyond that, “We’re having a team dinner in 10, thought you’d like to join us.”

Peter looked at him skeptically, but sighed as a wave of hunger pains washed over him; the pain meds must be wearing off. He didn’t know if he’d be able to eat if he declined, and he was hungry as all hell. He settled for a shrug and a nonchalant tone that he hoped masked his anxiety. “Sure.” He’d fallen a bit out of practice at faking his emotions ever since he ran away - it’d been extremely helpful at dealing with foster parents, but he was rusty after a bit under a year without them. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

Steve nodded, and gave him a smile, “Alright. See you in a bit.”

Returning the nod, Peter quickly shut the door and collapsed back onto the bed, groaning. That was far too stressful - which did not bode well for the dinner. Still, food is food. He sighed into the pillow, letting his eyes flutter shut for a moment as he steadied his heart with deep breaths. After a moment, he reluctantly pushed himself from the comfort of the bed and sat on the edge, glancing over at the clock on the bedside table before closing his eyes again. 7:52pm .

So, he’d slept for a bit over an hour - not too bad, even with the nightmares. He was vaguely aware of having multiple, though the drowning one stood out brightly, which was nothing unusual. It was more odd if he only had one, though he rarely remembered the details of many of them - they were confusing, as dreams tend to be.

Stalling, he sat on the bed for a while longer, waiting until the last moment before standing slowly and walking out of the room. He wandered down the short hall, following FRIDAY’s directions to the dining room - located through an archway just off of the kitchen-living room area. Lingering in the entrance for a moment, Peter surveyed the room, taking note of the positions of the windows - several big ones, like the rest of the floor; exits - only one, which he was standing in; and people - most of them sitting around a large table, only Steve and Bucky weren’t there.

Tony gave Peter a small smile, to which he nodded shortly. His eyes scanned across Natasha and Clint, and landed on-

“Holy shit.” Peter said, somewhat breathless. His mind went blank as he locked his gaze on the man who stood in the doorway, none other than Bruce Banner-

Bruce looked up from where he’d been on his phone, with a small, confused smile. He clicked the off button, and gave a small wave, “Hi.”

“Hi. I’m uh. I’m Peter-Man- I mean- shit -” He stumbled over his words, scratching the back of his neck anxiously. He cleared his throat quickly and leveled his voice before speaking again, “I’m Spider-Man. AKA Peter Parker.” His well-trained mask of indifference struggled to hold back the tide of pure joy and excitement at seeing the Bruce Banner. He opened and shut his mouth a couple of times as Bruce smiled amusedly- and then he was speaking, words spilling out before he could even process it.

“You’re Bruce Banner . As in 7 PhDs Bruce Banner. I’ve read almost all your work, especially the stuff on Renewable Energy. It’s revolutionary . You’re revolutionary. I can’t believe- I mean, I’ve been reading your work for years and I never thought I’d be able to see you. Well, except maybe at some sort of convention - but then like on a panel, not face-to-face. Well, that would technically be face-to-face, but you know what I mean- you’re right there and I- uh. I mean-” Peter trailed off from his rant, face flushing red as he noticed the team around him smirking amusedly, and Bruce staring at him with a shaken - but happy - expression. Peter ducked his head, fiddling with the ends of the hoodie sleeves in an effort to hide his humiliation.

“Well.” Tony said, grin obvious in his tone as he patted Bruce on the back jokingly, “Seems you’ve got yourself a fan, Brucie. That’s the most we’ve gotten him to talk this whole time” 

Bruce laughed slightly, “That’s… new. Most people get excited about the Hulk, not the scientist.”

Peter looked up, still slightly flushed, “Well, the Hulk’s cool and all - but you’re Bruce Banner . That’s…” he cut himself off, trying to find the right word, “different. You’re a genius.” It was true, too; Peter had always admired Bruce and his work. The Hulk was impressive, and he hoped he’d get along with the guy if they crossed paths, but he was no Bruce Banner.

Tony frowned, speaking playfully, “Wait a second, I’m a genius. Where was my fanboy rant?”

Rolling his eyes, Peter groaned slightly at the description of himself, “Shove it, Stark.” He meant it to be harsh, but there was no bite behind the words. The majority of his irritation and anger was currently focused inwards, after his outburst.

Damnit . He thought he’d gotten better at holding back the incessant ramblings he had a habit of letting spill; it was always one of the first things punished, back in the homes - before they got lazy enough to stop bothering with the excuses, anyway. Eventually, they didn’t need any real reason , they just took out their frustration on Peter like he was their very own personal punching bag. With a barely-concealed shudder, Peter shoved those thoughts down - swallowing them like bile.

“Well,” came Steve’s amused voice from just behind Peter, causing him to flinch slightly - very much not concealed, thanks to being caught off guard when he was already on the verge of a flashback. Luckily, no one seemed to notice; or, if they did, they didn’t comment. He turned around swiftly, to see Steve and Bucky standing in the archway, holding several trays of fresh lasagna. “I think that’s the most we’ve heard you talk, outside of battle quips.” Steve walked past him with a smirk, placing the food down on the table.

“Don’t get used to it, Cap.” Peter grumbled, taking the seat nearest to the door - placing himself in a way to give easy access for an escape, across from Tony and next to Steve. He was surrounded by highly dangerous supersoldiers, spies, and all-around superheroes, after all; it couldn’t hurt to have an escape plan. 

"Awww," Clint grinned delightedly, "I thought it was cute!"

"Don't baby me - oh my god that's so embarrassing, I'm being babied by Hawkeye." Peter muttered into his hands as he covered his face, earning a few chuckles from the team.

Once the team was fully seated at the table, Steve began serving out the food. He plated a normal-sized amount of food for Peter, who didn’t comment. He wasn’t about to complain over more food than he’d eaten in a long time, not to mention the quality - this wasn’t cold soup out of a can or month-old protein bars; this was a warm, home cooked meal. Plus, he was so stressed he wasn’t sure how much he could eat.

Tony, however, held out a hand to pause Steve before he placed the plate back down, “Hold on. Cho sent me back the lab work, you’ve got an enhanced metabolism - right, kid?” He gave Peter a questioning look, and he squirmed slightly.

“I mean… yeah, but I’m not that hungry.” Peter said, nervously, rubbing his wrists and playing with the edges of his hoodie, “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” 

Steve shot a quick, worried look, before piling far more food onto Peter’s plate before he could protest. “I know how bad it can get, Peter. You need to eat properly.”

He shrugged, but accepted the plate without complaint. Irritatingly, the various ‘manners’ instilled into him by the foster homes seemed to loom, stronger than ever. Whether it was the environment, the stress, the lack of a mask, or something else; Peter wasn’t sure. He just knew every movement he made was powered by a deep anxiety running through his veins - which wasn’t ideal.

“How good’s your metabolism?” Tony continued, “‘Cause Cap and Bucky here have them too.”

He thought for a moment - it was hard to know exactly how enhanced it was, seeing as he’d never had the money to satisfy it, but he had some rough estimates. “I don’t know the exact numbers, I haven’t really been able to test it.” He conceded, deciding to opt for the truth, “But I’d say about three or four times the average person, probably.”

Bucky gave a low whistle, “Sounds like it could rival us.” He nudged Steve, who hummed in partial agreement.

The team began to eat, and he mainly tuned out the conversation, focusing on forcing down mouthful after mouthful of food. He was sure it must taste amazing - which was a shame, seeing as it all felt like cardboard in his mouth, nerves piled too high to relax and enjoy the meal.

“So, Peter.” The voice cut through the fog, and Peter flinched slightly, startled out of his daze, looking up to meet the curious eyes of Tony.

He fought down the urge to be overly polite, struggling to maintain his flippant demeanor - settling for a confirmative, questioning hum.

“Tell us about yourself, kid.” Tony encouraged, leaning back in his chair.

“Uh,” Peter suddenly noticed the many pairs of eyes trained on him - causing him to sink deeper into his chair and concentrate on not bending the cutlery clutched in one tense hand. “There’s not much to know.” He shrugged, hoping they’d let it go.

Not-so big surprise; they didn’t.

“Come on,” Bruce smiled, “You like science, yeah? What field?”

“Mostly biomedical stuff,” Peter answered reluctantly, biting his tongue to prevent the stream-of-consciousness rambling popping into his mind, “I always preferred Chemistry in school - but Biology was good, too.”

“Where d’you go to school?” Steve asked, with an intrigued look.

“Midtown Tech.” Peter bit his bottom lip anxiously. Yet, despite his nerves, he was enjoying the first proper conversation he’d had as himself - and not Spider-Man - in a year. He’d missed it.

“Smart kid. ” Tony commented, raising an eyebrow, “Well, I knew that anyway. Still, that’s a pretty fancy school. Did you have good grades?”

Peter shrugged again, “Yeah, I guess. I got in on a scholarship, so my grades had to be great to keep me there.” He frowned at the memory of overdue bills and rich kids flaunting their wealth.

Tony chuckled, and the rest of the team had fond smiles. Peter stopped listening to the conversation once again as they lapsed into another topic of discussion. Grateful for the shift in discussion, he tuned out the voices and their heartbeats into background noise, staring at his half-full plate. He was starting to feel nauseous; most likely from a mix of food and stress.

He noticed a few concerned glances, probably stemming from his - to them - uncharacteristic quiet timidness. That was the thing; as Spider-Man, he was self-assured and strong. The mask gave him a sense of anonymity and a surge of confidence unlike any other. Without it? Well, then he was just Peter Parker; a kid who couldn’t defend himself, who lay in a heap with insults hurled at him from behind a bottle.

A sudden lurching of his stomach and rising of bile in his throat made him pause, clutching the now bent fork. He pushed the chair back from the table, rising in a fluid motion - all eyes flicked to him in an instant, questioning and worried. He held back a gag, and speed-walked from the room as fast as he could without upsetting his stomach too badly. Grateful for the nearby communal bathroom (he wasn’t sure he could last the distance to the one in his room), he stumbled over to the toilet and braced against it, expelling the half-digested contents of his stomach.

Vaguely, and accompanied by a slight prick of his spidey sense, he was aware of someone entering the room and standing nearby. He ignored them, sinking into the cold tiles for relief and sagging against the wall as the vomiting reduced to retching and then nothing, apart from the occasional sharp tug in his guts. He clenched his eyes shut, feeling empty and tired, and let his head hit the wall with a distantly painful thud.

“Damn, kid.” Clint commented after a moment, “You alright?”

Peter managed a pointed look through half-lidded eyes, before nodding weakly. Thankfully, Clint seemed to get the hint - waiting a while before speaking again.

“You should go to Medbay, make sure it’s nothing serious.” Clint said, prompting Peter to open his eyes with a small groan, “I know, I know.” He continued, raising his hands in mock defense, “But we need to be careful, you’re pretty banged up.”

Rolling his eyes, Peter hoisted himself to his feet - ignoring Clint’s extended hand - and walked out into the living room, which was empty, apart from Bruce. He looked over at the pair, and stepped over to them. “I’ll take him over. You can get back to dinner.” Bruce addressed Clint, who nodded and left with a small smile. Bruce turned to Peter, “Alright, let’s get you to Medbay.”

Reluctantly, Peter agreed silently, walking over to the elevator. He was glad to find that Bruce accepted his silence easily, only speaking to FRIDAY but otherwise happy to walk quietly; he wasn’t sure he could deal with another conversation right now.

They walked into the room Peter had woken up in earlier, to Dr Cho standing with a somewhat amused, somewhat stern, somewhat worried look on her face. “Hi, Peter.” She said with a smirk. He nodded in response, adamantly ignoring his earlier antics of fleeing from the Medbay the moment Dr Cho left. “Why don’t you take a seat on the bed? I’d like to check a few things.”

He zoned out as Dr Banner and Dr Cho looked over his chart, discussing various things - only to be snapped back into reality as they addressed him, taking his blood pressure and doing a few other basic tests. They weighed him, and Dr Cho looked infinitely more concerned.

“So, Peter.” She said, once all the procedures were concluded, “You’re extremely underweight, and yet your enhancements seem to be maintaining your muscle mass. It seems your stomach has shrunk, and the sudden influx of food was too overwhelming. I’d like to put you on a diet to slowly increase your calorie intake.”

Peter nodded, “Alright.” It made sense, having an enhanced metabolism and yet eating far less than even a normal person, that he’d suffer some sort of consequences. He was honestly surprised he’d made it as far as he had - it was probably thanks to his enhancements, which meant they were, as usual, both the source and solution to his problems. Irritating, to say the least.

She asked a few questions pertaining to his habits ( “How much do you eat on a normal day?” “Uh… like a can of soup, maybe?” Cue Bruce’s worried and disapproving look, followed by an even more intense one when Peter admitted to his 6-15 hour patrols ) in order to understand what his body was used to and adjust his diet plan accordingly.

“I’d also like you to take it easy.” Dr Cho continued, “Your body is under a lot of stress, and it needs time to rest and heal. You should get as much sleep as you can.”

He raised an eyebrow, resisting the urge to laugh, settling for a noncommittal hum; which apparently wasn’t the best choice.

Bruce furrowed his brow, “Peter, how much sleep do you get, on average?”

“I dunno.” Peter shrugged, then sighed as Bruce shot him an unconvinced look. “Two or three hours, maybe?” He kept the injury-induced periods of unconsciousness unspoken - not wanting to deal with their reactions surrounding his apathy over his own safety. He was fine. Everything was fine. …probably. “So, Doc.” He cut Bruce off as the man opened his mouth to speak, “Am I free to go?”

Dr Cho nodded, “Yes. I’ll send your meal plan up when it’s ready.”

They exchanged pleasantries (just because Peter was defensive didn’t mean he wasn’t the polite young man his Aunt raised him to be, damnit! Plus, he had no reason to harbor any sort of ill will towards Dr Cho - despite the whole unmasking thing which, she’d explained, had been necessary due to his sustained head trauma) and Peter swiftly walked out of the room.

As he was walking to the elevator - maintaining enough of a distance from Bruce so as to not address the man’s concerns - he had a realization that made him pause for a moment, frowning. A long-term diet plan suggested he’d be staying at the Tower, or somewhere they could keep an eye on him. He went over that thought for a while in his mind, walking out into the living room in a daze. It was a confusing situation, and his nerves were far too fried to think over it properly - he needed sleep, but hated the inevitable nightmares that would haunt it.

He still wasn’t sure what the long-term plan was for himself, whether they’d kick him out or try to convince him to stay in foster care. The kicking out seemed much less likely by the second, and he wondered whether they could ensure he was in a good foster home - whether they’d care enough to check, or just pretend. Still, he wasn’t about to drop himself back into the system; he survived for almost a full year on his own, and he wasn’t going to let the Avengers ruin that with some self-righteous bullshit.

The sudden screaming of his spidey-sense caused Peter to flinch violently, tearing him away from his thoughts, twisting away from what he could now see was Steve’s hand. He’d been trying to place it on Peter’s shoulder, presumably in a comforting way - and he knew that, logically. The man’s eyes held a look of deep concern - only exacerbated by Peter’s reaction; one that alerted Peter to his racing heartbeat. Still, his heart was pounding fast and loud in his ears. He snapped his head up, locking eyes with Steve.

“I thought ,” Peter hissed, tone venomous and sharp, “we’d established that you don’t fucking touch me, unless you don’t mind me breaking something.” He ignored the worried looks on the team’s faces as he continued, anger building in him. His nerves dissipated in the face of his rage, coiling and spiking sharply inside him. “Just because you brought me here - and don’t forget that. I wouldn’t have come here if I had a choice - doesn’t mean we’re all buddy-buddy, got it? I’m just as strong out of the suit as I am in it.”

“I-” Steve withdrew his hand towards himself, looking sheepish as concern etched its way into all his features. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking-” 

Peter turned on his heel, clenching his teeth, the atmosphere thick and tense, before sending Steve another glare. “And you decided the best thing to do was touch me ? When that’s one of the only things I say not to do?” He snarled, giving a short, humorless laugh.

Without another word, he stalked from the room, heading for the elevator. He needed fresh air, and fast. His breath was speeding, his vision hazy and tired. He vaguely noted himself asking FRIDAY to take him to the roof, leaning hard against the cool wall, before he was stumbling out into the biting night air.

He wandered over to the edge of the building, sitting lightly on the edge and leaning forward ever so slightly - not as precarious as usual, thanks to the absence of his web shooters, but somewhat dangerously anyway. He enjoyed the safety his webs brought him, but the anticipation was wonderful as well. Every time he jumped off a building as Spider-Man and wondered, for a split second, if that would be the time his web shooters failed him, if he’d plummet down to his death - it was exhilarating.

Some people might say that was a worrying thought, but he didn’t really care. This was similar, feeling the air ruffle his hair, the stickiness of his palms the only thing preventing him from falling from a particularly hard gust of wind. It was safer, and yet so much more dangerous. His webs were a liability and a safety net, all wrapped up into one ball of unpredictability. He never purposely sabotaged them - he kept them in as good a condition as he could, given the circumstances - but there was always that chance. The itching notion at the back of his mind that he could keep falling.

The night sky and cold wind instantly cooled his rage, leaving him with a slick feeling of regret and sickening anticipation. Would they get mad? Were they done with him, after he’d been so rude? They’d given him shelter, food, water, patience and he’d thrown it in their faces. Damnit, Parker . He thought, clenching his eyes shut, his own distorted voice harsh in his mind, Have you learnt nothing?

Peter always wondered how he sounded to other people. Was it similar to how he sounded in his own mind, or maybe it was more like the one that rang in his ears each time he spoke. He hummed lowly, allowing himself to feel each vibration without inhibition - seeming so very loud and strong despite how quiet he knew it must be, logically. It had been one of the first things he learnt to tune out as background noise, alongside heartbeats and the sounds of organs and blood, when he gained his enhanced senses. They were also some of the first things he focused on to ground himself when needed - as well as the cold. If his enhancements were going to cause him trouble, he may as well take advantage of them when he could.

It was irritatingly hard to tell, with no other reference point in his mind. He chuckled slightly at how insane his thoughts must sound at that moment, enjoying the vibrations that brought - still, distracting himself with inane commentary helped calm himself down until he could process the situation rationally.

Unsurprisingly to Peter, his tactic worked. He took a deep breath of cold air, letting a shiver run over his skin and soothe the aching emptiness of his gut. Then, satisfied that the rage had stopped bubbling so close to the surface of his skin, he groaned and threw his head back, opening his eyes to stare at the sky. The tapestry of stars was much more subdued so far into the city (in comparison to the docks) but the longer he stared, the more pinpricks seemed to materialize amongst the black. He watched the lights appear, tracing patterns between them as galaxies appeared before him.

A small ding and the sound of an approaching heartbeat made him sigh, reluctantly preparing for whatever conversation this was going to be; at least they weren’t all cornering him at once. He waited a moment, letting them step forward, out of the elevator - and focused on the rhythm of their breathing and heartbeat, which seemed to spike slightly as they approached. Tony , he concluded, satisfied with his appraisal when the man spoke.

“Peter?” Tony’s voice was wary and uncertain, making an effort to move somewhat slowly towards Peter.

Peter gave a short hum - he wasn’t sure if Tony could hear it, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care - and shifted his weight slightly on his hands, closing his eyes. The rapid switches from paranoid to snappy to nervous to, now, numb apathy left him emotionally drained.

He pondered over it in his mind, wondering how far it was tied into the double identity he was struggling to balance; he’d never had to worry about it before. He was stretching himself thin - trying to be both the over-confident, snarky Spider-Man who swung around without a care and timid, small Peter Parker who did as he was told and blended into the background.

How long will it take for me to snap? He asked himself, without a hint of care or emotion.

“Peter?” Tony asked again, concern bleeding into his tone, “Are you alright? You’re kinda close to that edge, kid.” He gave a weak, worried chuckle.

Sighing, Peter opened his eyes and glanced over his shoulder at Tony, “All good here, no worries.” He unstuck one hand from the rooftop and waved it slightly at the man, who tensed at the now even more precarious position, “Spider powers, remember?” He hummed questioningly, thinking as replaced his hand on the stone, “Oh, wait. I didn’t explain them to you, did I? Huh.”

Seeming to take Peter’s speaking as a good sign, Tony walked over and sat down next to him - though a decent distance away, and in a much more secure position. They sat in a somewhat awkward silence for a few minutes before Tony broke it by speaking.

“So.” He started, looking at Peter, “That was something, huh?”

Peter shrugged, looking out over the cityscape. He could feel the leftover rage bubbling uncertainly in his stomach; but in a detached, uncaring sort of way - he always preferred this numbness to the stormy emotions tearing through his mind at other times. It was calming.

He could see Tony still watching him, out of the corner of his eye - and sighed internally. “I warned you.” He said, plainly.

“Yeah, you did, didn’t you?” Tony winced, sucking in a sharp breath, “Sorry about that. Steve feels like shit about it.” A beat of silence. “Clint, too. He’s still beating himself up over the night of the party.”

Lifting one eyebrow in amusement, Peter turned slightly to look at Tony, “Are you trying to guilt trip me or something? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be the other way around.”

Tony barked out a laugh, clicking his fingers as if he’d been caught in a devious plan, “Damn, you saw right through my master plan.”

Peter chuckled slightly, sounding hollow and empty to his ears despite his attempts to make it somewhat realistic. “Sorry to burst your bubble.”

They lapsed into another, more comfortable silence - staring out over the city and watching as lights flickered on and off in the windows. Peter leaned forward, allowing himself to perch on the very edge of the roof and enjoying the small shiver of thrill it brought. He felt a slight prickle of his spidey sense - alerting him that he was being watched - and he shot a sideways glance at Tony, who gave him a skeptical look in return.

“You sure you’re good there, kid?” Tony asked, watching Peter’s precarious balance. Peter knew, of course, that he was safe - but it must seem a lot more dangerous from an outside perspective.

He gave another dry laugh, no longer caring how fake it sounded. “No, no I’m not.” He said, staring out over the horizon, “But that’s not a new development.”

Tony stared at him a moment longer, seeming to mull over his words before speaking. “Yeah, me neither.” And there was something in his voice that made Peter pause; raw and real, and yet monotone. It pulled him back to reality, his next breath seeming much sharper and more aware, suddenly present in the moment. He felt a comforting spark in his chest that gained a quick shudder at the familiar and yet so unfamiliar feeling.

Peter tilted his head with a short, considering hum - before freezing as he recognised the emotion building in his chest. It wasn’t anguish, or guilt, or pain, or rage; it was hope. The realization both chilled and warmed him to his core.

Chapter Text

Peter lay in bed, staring at the dark ceiling and watching patterns swirl in the dark. Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, he watched the swimming colors, chasing them with his eyes as they flitted out of reach. He sighed deeply, rolling onto his side and reading the glowing blue numbers on the alarm clock. 4:57am . Only four minutes had passed since he last checked, and he cursed time for working in the normal, consecutive way it did.

He grunted, pushing the sheets off himself to get rid of the suffocating heat. He’d ended up thinking for a while after the rooftop chat with Tony - once the man left - before returning to his room. For a while, he’d paced along all sides of the room (ceiling and walls included) before giving in and trying for some rest. He’d ended up getting a couple hours of restless, nightmare-filled sleep ( green eyes, glinting with unbridled rage, glaring down as yet another blow rained down, connecting with his sore ribs, stealing his breath- ) before waking an hour or so ago; he’d been lying in bed since. He just couldn’t get back to sleep; not with flashbacks and memories taunting him at the edges of his vision, threatening him with yet more nightmares.

Every time he closed his eyes and relaxed, the noises he’d managed to tune out as background noise would flare up with a vengeance. Now the sounds flooded his head - heartbeats in nearby buildings, car alarms a few blocks away, traffic outside the Tower… it rang and bounced inside his mind. He’d gotten better at dealing with it, over time, but stress made it hard to focus, hard to ignore. So he lay, flinching at any sudden sounds, and cursing what he was finding out was a very much not soundproofed room - or maybe it was, just not enough for his senses.

Still, he’d had a mini nap before dinner, and he was unconscious before that, and then he’d managed a few hours once more (which was somewhat of a miracle for him) - not too bad by his standards. In fact, the 9 or so hours he’d slept in the last 24 hours were the most he’d slept in a while; it was probably partially thanks to whatever meds they’d had him on. Peter wasn’t all too shocked at his predicament anyway; sleep stopped coming easy ever since Ben.

It was much more surprising that he’d managed to lay in bed for as long as he had without going crazy. It was the first day in a long time that he hadn’t gone patrolling (not counting the times he was unconscious for days on end or delirious from pain) and the pent-up energy wasn’t helping his situation. Finally, he concluded there was no way he was getting any more rest - he needed something to do.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Peter pulled on his previously discarded hoodie - there was no way he was leaving his room without his skin covered up - and carefully, quietly, left his room. He padded to the kitchen in comfy socks, glad his stickiness worked through fabrics of reasonable thickness - only to freeze in the doorway when his hearing picked up a heartbeat. There was a sliver of light falling into the hallway, and he focused his hearing for a moment, listening closely to decipher who it was in the adjacent room.

He’d learnt, pretty early on, that most people had a specific sound - their hearts and breathing giving away their identity. Tony was an easy one, his glowing blue arc reactor giving off a hum alongside the unique rhythmic beating of his heart. Natasha always sounded overly calm, giving away nothing. The others he hadn’t quite pinned down yet - but he knew he would, with time. It made him feel safer, knowing who was nearby without visual or verbal confirmation; it meant he was more secure, more able to plan an escape - or a battle strategy - if needed. This heartbeat wasn’t one he could put a face to yet, but it wasn’t him , he knew that much. It wasn’t green eyes and anger haunting his dreams - and that was enough.

He hesitated for a moment, before stepping over the threshold into the room; scanning it with his eyes for the inhabitant. His gaze landed on Bucky, standing at the kitchen counter with a glass of water and staring blankly. The man’s head snapped up, eyes locking onto Peter - who stilled, hand twitching in preparation to run - before giving an appraising look and turning away. Peter let out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding, and cautiously got himself a cup from the cupboard, filling it with cool water and enjoying the calming sensation as it traveled down his throat with a shiver.

A few moments passed, before Bucky gave a small smile - Peter faltered, tilting his head slightly in surprise; as far as he knew, Bucky seemed pretty cold and closed-off. They’d barely interacted, but it had always been in short nods or quick requests for back-up - otherwise, Bucky was a pretty quiet guy. After a beat, Peter returned the smile tentatively. There was something about the older man that put him somewhat at ease - despite the voice in the back of his mind screaming that he was in danger, but that was active around pretty much anyone and everyone. His spidey sense, which was much more reliable, had remained at the same low hum.

“Late night, or early riser?” Bucky asked, startling Peter out of his thoughts.

He blinked a couple times, his mind ticking as it processed the question. “Couldn’t sleep.” He said, not bothering with a lie.

Peter was worried, for a moment, that he’d ask for an elaboration - but Bucky just nodded in understanding. Despite (or maybe because of) Bucky obviously not expecting anything further, Peter decided to do the opposite. “I got bored of staring at the ceiling, figured the kitchen would be a change of scenery.” He shrugged, placing down his now mostly empty glass.

Bucky thought for a moment, before gesturing towards the elevator with his head, “I was going to go workout, give myself something to do. Want to join me?”

Surprised at the invitation, Peter furrowed his brow, before giving another small smile, “Alright, I’ve got too much energy.”

With a short nod, Bucky walked over to the elevator. Peter followed, and they remained in a comfortable silence as the numbers ticked down to Floor 91. (Huh, so that’s what that floor was.) It was different to the quiet lapses in conversation with Bruce or Tony - as it was filled with a mutual, unspoken, understanding he couldn’t quite put into words. The doors slid open with a ding , and dimmed lights flickered on at their presence; it revealed a large open space with treadmills, weights, punching bags… pretty much anything the Avengers’ might need for working out or training.

Bucky strode out towards the punching bags, grabbing a roll of bandages to bind his human hand. Peter watched momentarily, eyes flickering over every inch of the room and making notes of the safest spaces, before wandering over to the treadmills. They were larger than the average one, bulky and yet still sleek - with straps and safety options.

Upon further inspection, he could see they went up to speeds far faster than any normal person could run - which made the safety precautions reasonable. To his irritation (and amusement) the highest speed was nowhere near his own, but he might be able to strain himself somewhat if ran for long enough. A short hey from Bucky had Peter looking over and catching the water bottle thrown at him. He smiled in appreciation, and placed it into the holder on the machine. He stepped on, wishing he’d worn a long sleeved shirt so he could take off his hoodie, and slowly increased the speed to 40mph - the limit.

The rhythmic sounds of Bucky’s punching, his own light footfalls, and both of their heartbeats, allowed Peter to zone out quickly, thoughts going elsewhere. He let the steady noises wash over him, blocking out the sounds that had been plaguing his mind all night. With each of Bucky’s sharp breaths, the sounds of the traffic below seemed more distant; with each of his swings, the car alarms faded out of his immediate attention. They were still there - as always - and a bit more annoying than usual, but it was a definite improvement.

Eventually, even the tormenting thoughts and memories disappeared into the shadows looming nearby - leaving Peter in as close as he could get to blissful silence, both in his mind and the world around him, for once. All thoughts of him dissipated. (Peter knew his name, of course he did. But it didn’t feel right to name the monster that haunted his nightmare, the one that had appeared in smoke and fire and pain while he slept.) His mind was blissfully empty, save for a few stray thoughts flitting about the corners - only registering each step, placing one foot in front of the other. It wasn’t the same as web-swinging, nothing was. Still, that wasn’t an option at the moment, and running was nice, too.

He’d used to hate any sort of physical activity - but that was more due to his asthma having a habit of acting up if he was pushed too far, rather than an inherent dislike. After the spider bite, he’d found comfort in exerting himself to his limits - which he suspected would be much harder if he weren’t perpetually starving and exhausted. A thought flickered into existence momentarily, hoping he’d have a chance to test his abilities properly while at the Tower; but then it was extinguished when it turned into a reminder of the short timeframe he was bound to be here for, twisting his gut tight. He wanted his mind blank. He wasn’t letting insecurities ruin this.

A sharp sound caused him to blink rapidly, returning to reality with a short curse, and looking over to where Bucky had landed a particularly hard hit on a punching bag. Based on the surroundings, it seemed he’d used the weights, and a few other basic machines, before returning to the punching bags. Peter glanced down at the display on the treadmill, eyes widening slightly when he realised 2 hours had passed, and he’d run about 80 miles, give or take a few.

Slowing the machine to a stop over the course of a few minutes, he stepped off - stumbling only slightly at the change in motion. It was still dimly lit, and he was glad for it. He took a sip from the slowly depleting water bottle, taking another look around the room. Bucky turned, giving a slightly questioning head tilt and a gesture to come closer - Peter tilted his own head in response, wandering over to the man.

“You done?” Bucky asked, words short but not stiff, in his gruff tone.

He shrugged, stretching his arms out in front of him as he thought for a moment, settling on, “Got bored, not tired though.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie - the sudden return to reality had broken his haze and brought back the darker thoughts lurking at the edges of his mind, as well as a good amount of boredom. Running wasn’t all that fun when not done across rooftops, in his opinion. And he really wasn’t tired, at least not more than usual - and he was used to the continuous haze of fatigue that lined his days. He looked over at a raised section of the room, covered with a large mat.

“What’s that for?” He wondered aloud, walking over to take a closer look.

Bucky appeared beside him, and Peter was glad he managed to repress a flinch, “Sparring ring.” Peter smirked at Bucky, who raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Peter…”

“Cmon, Barnes.” Peter goaded, “It’ll be fun. Don’t be lame.”

The older man rolled his eyes, but stepped onto the mat. “Alright then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Peter chuckled, positioning himself a couple meters away from Bucky and dropping into a fighting stance. Bucky moved into a stance of his own, and then stood for a moment - still. Peter took the lull to calm his mind, reminding himself of the differences between him and Bucky. Where blonde hair and green eyes loomed as afterimages of his nightmare, brown hair and blue eyes watched from across the mat. Where a human fist had been, one that connected with his body and sent waves of pain through him, there was a metal arm. Peter closed his eyes for a moment, clearing his mind.

Then, Peter jumped forward, aiming a kick at Bucky’s stomach. Bucky went to grab Peter’s leg, but he twisted midair, landing a hit on Bucky’s side. The older man barely reacted to the blow, striking out to punch at Peter - who barely managed to dodge, flipping backwards at the last second. After his initial attack, Peter was placed firmly on the defence as he struggled to dodge Bucky’s strikes, relying on the sharp spikes of his spidey sense. Peter managed to find an opportunity to attack, aiming a fist at Bucky’s chest - when Bucky grabbed him, using the momentum to flip him onto his back. With an arm against Peter’s neck, Bucky smirked, and then stood. He held out an arm to Peter, who huffed and rolled his eyes - but grinned slyly and took the extended hand to pull himself up.

“Not bad, kid.” Bucky conceded, speaking in a gruff voice tinged with warmth; neither of the pair were out of breath, thanks to their enhancements. “You’ve got some good instincts, but a severe lack of basic techniques - and that’s your main downfall.”

“Makes sense.” Peter nodded, shrugging slightly, “I never took lessons or anything, my asthma was always too bad for that sort of thing. Gone now, but still.”

Shaking his head, Bucky smiled slightly. “You really are just like Steve.” He muttered, before speaking more loudly. “Well then. I can teach you the basics, if you’d like?” He offered.

Peter grinned. “Sounds good.”

By the time the pair were interrupted, an hour or so later, Bucky had walked Peter through a few basic fighting techniques - impressed by the boy’s ability to quickly pick up on what he was taught. Peter was breathing slightly heavier than usual, which was a feat in itself thanks to his extreme stamina. It was a decent hour of the morning when FRIDAY’s voice rang out from the ceiling.

“Sergeant Barnes, the Captain wanted me to inform you that he is making breakfast - but he will not save you any if you take too long.”

Bucky rolled his eyes affectionately. “Yeah right.” He turned to Peter, smirking slightly, “He always says that, but never follows through.” Peter chuckled, and Bucky directed his next words to FRIDAY. “Tell him we’ll be right there.”

“Thanks, Barnes.” Peter nodded at the man, walking past him to the elevator. Bucky raised an eyebrow with a half-smile, but didn’t comment.

A quick elevator ride later, and the pair found themselves back at the Avengers’ common floor. Immediately, Peter noted the scent of breakfast food permeating the air, and the sound of three steady heartbeats in the kitchen - one of which, he assumed, was Steve. They walked over to the kitchen, where Steve was stood over the stove, Bruce was nursing a cup of coffee, and Natasha was leaning against the wall, now watching as Bucky and Peter approached. Bucky gave a short nod, before walking over to the coffee machine to grab a cup.

“Hey Peter,” Bruce greeted, with a smile, “Did you sleep well?”

Peter glanced at him, surveying the scene for a moment before dropping into one of the seats at the counter. He shrugged, remembering Bruce’s worried expressions at the mentions of his somewhat erratic sleeping habits. “'s fine.”

Bruce looked at him calculatingly, raising a disbelieving eyebrow. “Were you training with Bucky?”

“Kinda.” Peter made a bland expression, aiming for a ‘ take the hint, we’re not talking about this’ attitude - he knew Bruce was staying on the topic of his sleep, and he really wasn’t interested. “I ran for a while, then he gave me some pointers on basic fighting stuff.” 

Thankfully, Bruce picked up on Peter’s unwillingness to go into detail, dropped the subject with just another pointed look in his direction. Steve turned from the stove, depositing a plate piled high with pancakes onto the counter. “I hope you’re not too tired, son. It’s a team training day and we were hoping you would join.”

Ripping his gaze away from the mouth-watering food Steve was now transferring from the stove to the kitchen counter, Peter blinked a couple times. Huh. The Avengers wanted him to take part in their training session. Were they trying to learn more about his abilities? He was surprised they’d want some sixteen year-old fledgeling (in comparison to them - though he’d been at it for almost a year at this point) vigilante to train with them. Would he get in the way? A few moments passed, and he blinked again - clearing the thoughts as he clocked the looks of mild concern on the others’ faces. “Nah, I’m good.” He said, plainly, with a half-shrug, “It was a bit of a warm-up, I guess.”

Bucky chuckled slightly, tone light-hearted and jokey when he spoke, “Damn, kid. Way to bruise my ego.”

Peter raised an eyebrow with a wry smile, “I thought Stark was the cocky one.”

It was at that moment that Clint walked into the room - though Peter had been listening as the heartbeat approached from down the hall for a while - with an entertained grin, “We making fun of Tony? Great, I have tons of material. Like that time he-”

“Clint.” Steve cut in with a stern, though amused, tone, “If you’re rude, you make your own breakfast. You know the deal.”

Clint groaned dramatically, leaning on the countertop, “No, not that! I’ll do anything, please!”

“ Any way.” Bruce said, rolling his eyes at Clint’s antics, “Are you sure you’re not too tired? You can join in another time.”

Peter waved it off, suddenly aware of his intense hunger - the pains that had dulled and faded into the background as usual returning with a fierce vengeance. “Nah. Some food wouldn’t hurt, though.”

Steve smiled warmly, taking a seat at the counter next to him. “Sounds good, Dr Cho hasn’t quite finished your meal plan, but she outlined how much food you can eat for the next couple days.” Peter noted the casual mention of his prolonged stay with an internal wariness, but made no reference to his unease externally.

Clint and Natasha took their seats at the counter, as they all - bar Peter, who Steve set out a small plate of food for - began taking their share from the dishes. They voiced their appreciation to Steve, and began settling into a comfortable conversation consisting mainly of small-talk. He gathered that Steve was up early every day because of his morning run, while Bruce and Clint had woken earlier than usual for breakfast and the training session. He wondered whether Tony didn’t join in, or if he’d appear later, in the gym. 

Peter listened in only slightly, mainly opting for ignoring them and focusing on his food, but vaguely staying aware as the topics shifted from one thing to another - allowing it to flow over him in a familiar, long forgotten way. One he remembered from days long gone, when he’d be too tired to speak, and he’d let the warmth of his loved ones’ voices comfort him. Luckily, no one seemed too keen to push Peter to speak after last night’s incident; something he took full advantage of, not saying a single word.

Eventually, once they’d finished eating and cleaned up, they began to disperse. Bruce turned to Peter with a smile. “We’re meeting in the gym in an hour, alright?” Peter nodded in response, and Bruce walked off down the hall to, presumably, his room.

As he was about to leave, his spidey sense buzzed slightly, and he turned to where Steve was standing, just as the man spoke. “Hey, Peter?” He looked somewhat startled at Peter’s precognition, but shook it off quickly. “Could we talk, for a moment?”

Peter hesitated, but settled for an internal sigh. “Yeah, sure.” Steve seemed ansty, though glad that he had agreed.

“I just wanted to say that I really am sorry.” He put up a hand as Peter went to protest. “No, I know what you said, but this sort of thing needs to be addressed, it’s not right. I should’ve been more mindful of your boundaries - both in the suit and out of it. Everyone here has things we avoid or are aware of, it’s a side effect of the job, and there’s no real excuse.”

For a moment, Peter was silent. He was somewhat stunned by Steve’s easy admittance of guilt and generally apologetic demeanor; he seemed genuinely distraught over his actions, and it was ripping down Peter’s preconceptions about the man. The thought reminded him of Bucky, and he wondered how many of the other Avengers he’d misjudged or misunderstood - for one, he somewhat thought Natasha hated him, on some level. Was she just naturally like that, and he’d jumped to conclusions? What about Tony? Peter looked up to the man, sure - but he was turning out a lot more kind and human than he’d thought.

He scoffed internally, scolding himself for his preconceptions - once more irritated that he’d let the media worm its way into his mind. He really should know better, given the Bugle’s own slander towards Spider-Man. Then, he shook himself out of his daze to give Steve a small, tentative smile. He tripped over words in his mind, before settling for something simple and true; relying on Steve to understand the underlying message. “I appreciate it.”

With a matching, small smile, Steve turned and walked down the hall - briefly pausing to look back at Peter with a “See you at training.” before turning the corner out of sight.

Peter stood for a moment, before sighing lightly into the empty room and heading for his own quarters. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad, after all, staying at the Tower; no matter how short-lived that stay may be. They weren’t holding his actions against him, or ordering him around, or treating him like an incompetent child - which was more than could be said for most adults he’d had the displeasure to be under the care of for the past year and a half.

He paused slightly in his stride at the thought, before regaining his balance just as swiftly and continuing onwards. Was he really under the Avengers’ care ? That implied… familiarity. Family. Trust. Love. If not that then, at the very least, responsibility. Though, thinking about it more, did it really imply any of those things? He’d been under the ‘care’ of plenty of people in foster care, and they sure as hell held a very different idea of what that meant; they seemed to think it was an excuse to use him however they pleased.

And it wasn’t like Peter hadn’t known they were abusive, hadn’t recognised the signs - they were pretty fucking obvious signs, basically impossible to miss, seeing as they’d tended to prefer physical abuse over emotional manipulation - he’d just never had anyone to go to about it; he’d never even met his social worker. He was just another kid in the system, shackled with a bad reputation thanks to his first foster parents’ lies, and who would believe him?

So he’d known he was in a bad place, but there hadn’t been much he could do about it - so they’d used him, and he’d let it happen, however unwilling he was. It wasn’t like a short, underfed, weak, asthmatic kid could survive for long on the streets - he’d known that, when he’d left. But he hadn’t had much choice, at that point. He’d figured dying on the streets, at least in part of his own volition, would be better than waiting for them to go one strike too far and die by their hands. ‘Them’ being whatever foster home he was victim to at that particular time, seeing as he’d gone through seven in the short five months he was in the system. Though, to be fair, a few of those had been placements only lasting a few days, maybe a week or two. Still just as bad - always, always bad.

He reached the door to his room, (he was reluctantly referring to it as his room solely because it was easier to think than the room he was currently staying in for some amount of time ) grateful for the distraction and end to his previous train of thought - one that was bound to eventually go down a dark route he didn’t particularly want to visit at the moment. Or ever. He ignored the persuasive call of collapsing onto the bed and wallowing in his inner turmoil in favor of grabbing some new clothes - despite the lack of sweat, he felt grungy staying in the garments he’d worn for a solid 12 hours at this point - and going for another shower. He’d decided he was going to make the most of his access to hot water, for however long it lasted.

Pointedly ignoring the mirror, he stepped into the shower and relished the heat soaking into his own perpetually chill skin; he could practically feel it warming his blood. Then, he pulled on the long-sleeve, plain gray shirt and black sweatpants, wandering over to flop onto the bed. He ignored the sensation of his damp hair transferring water droplets into the pillowcase, glancing at the clock before closing his eyes and stretching his arms out in front of him; he still had another 30 minutes or so before he should be at the gym. He considered, briefly, not going - but shot that down in favor of getting to know the team a bit better, and deconstructing some more of his unfair assumptions about them.

Anyway, what was the harm? It wasn’t like they were going to hand him over to some government facility, no matter what the more paranoid parts of his mind hissed insistently; so he couldn’t really see a problem in showing them and/or explaining to them his abilities in more detail. Even if he was kicked out sooner rather than later, it would help them work better when they cooperated if he built up some trust and showed them what he could do. And maybe they’d see his capabilities and it’d rid them of whatever sentiment remained over him being an inexperienced kid - because he knew they must harbor such thoughts, even if they’d been considerate enough not to voice them, so far.

His eyes opened, flickering back over to the high-tech clock on the bedside table; he’d been itching for a closer look ever since he laid eyes on it - specifically on its inner workings. He knew it was a bad idea ( No shit, breaking a powerful billionaire’s things? Playing with fire there, bud. He groaned, internally) and yet… and yet- It was in his nature to find tech - mostly through dumpster diving, even before, with Ben and May, they hadn’t had the money to waste otherwise - and take it apart.

Sighing, he rubbed his wrists in an effort to restrain his growing curiosity - instead flicking his gaze over the room again in vain, as he’d already studied every part of it in his hours of sleeplessness. It was as bare as you’d expect a guest room to be, and that meant utterly boring; with nothing to capture his interest, he was quickly growing restless. As earlier established, his lack of patrolling certainly wasn’t helping. In a swift movement, he sat up, flipped, and landed on the ceiling. He lay flat against it, then - sticking only through his hands and feet - began a set of push-ups. It was better than nothing, and maybe it’d help pass the time; the rhythmic motions tended to distract his mind from going to more self-deprecating places, at least.

*

Sure enough, after several sets of push-ups, sit-ups, and the like, (suppressing thoughts of green eyes and rough hands) 30 minutes passed without issue - his mind relatively silent, for once. He found himself riding the elevator down to the Floor 91, if slightly later than the time he’d been told. Though, he was somewhat glad for the delay - he really wasn’t in a rush for them to think he was too eager about the whole scenario; no matter what they said, he wasn’t going to trust them that easily.

Walking into the training area, he looked around in the bright light of day, wall-length windows allowing the sun to illuminate every inch of the room without the need for artificial lighting. Everything was as it had been a few hours before, save for the superheroes dotted around, in various stages of warming up or working out. Natasha was bench-lifting an impressive weight, Steve was attacking a punching bag, Bucky was running, Clint was stretching, and Bruce was discussing something with Steve - taking notes as the man changed his stance.

Peter shifted on the spot for a moment, pulling down the sleeve of his shirt to calm his jittery nerves, before heading over to a corner of the room and beginning to stretch. He clicked out his joints, relishing in the feeling as he folded his limbs with contortionist fluidity - earning a surprised chuckle from a short distance away.

“Wow, kid.” Clint remarked, “You’ve gotta be seriously flexible, it hurts just looking at you.”

“Even I can’t bend that far.” Natasha commented, with a sly smile.

Rolling his eyes, Peter smirked and righted himself to stand, “Spider stuff.”

“He’s right,” Bruce said, with a scientific glint in his eyes, “That’s remarkable. I’d love to take a look and see the cause later, if you don’t mind? You must have some fundamental differences in your body to achieve that level of flexibility. Have you always been able to do that?”

Peter shrugged, silently ecstatic at being the cause of his idol’s excitement but biting his lip to contain it. “Ever since the bite, yeah.” He wandered over to the weights, examining the limit - far below his own, but impressive for any normal person.

“The bite?” Steve questioned, curiously. He’d stopped punching now, and way unwrapping the protective bandages from around his hands.

“Oh yeah.” Peter chuckled, realizing he hadn’t actually told them how he’d gotten his enhanced abilities. He settled his hand on the heaviest dumbbell available. “I went on a trip to OsCorp, got bit by some sorta spider. It must’ve been genetically enhanced, or radioactive, or something - ‘cause I got really sick for like a week, and then boom !” He paused, sticking his palm to the weight and lifting his hand, showcasing the dumbbell latched onto his hand with no grip whatsoever. He turned to face the others. “Enhanced.”

“What the…” Clint trailed off, stunned. “I thought it was the suit.”

Peter snickered, placing the weight back onto the rack.

Bucky frowned, raising an eyebrow, “The webs, are they you too? Because that’s…” Clint made a face, agreeing with Bucky’s apprehension.

“As interesting as biological webbing would be…” Bruce concurred, looking torn.

“What? No!” Peter shuddered for dramatic effect, “Why does everyone think that? Stark asked me the same question.” He rolled his eyes. “As convenient as that would be, no. I have to make them with chemicals and stuff.” He quickly recognised the way Bruce’s eyes lit up with scientific fascination, and assured the man he could take a look later.

Bruce smiled, somewhat sheepishly. “Thanks, I have a lot of questions. Have you shown Tony yet? I’m sure he’d be interested.”

Peter shook his head. Despite having spent several hours in the workshop with Tony, Peter had been apprehensive to reveal too much at the time. Now, however, he didn’t see the point in being too secretive - it’d be beneficial to get a couple of genius scientists to look at his work.

“Speaking of.” Clint glanced over at the door, sighing without any real malice. “He’s impossible. Late, again .”

Peter raised an eyebrow questioningly, “Does he train with you guys?”

With a fond eye roll, Bruce shook his head amusedly. “Sometimes. But he tends to get cooped up in his workshop, even more so than me with my lab. Plus, he and I need to be fairly in shape, but nothing like the rest of the team.”

Peter hummed in understanding; it made sense, he supposed. Tony’s suit must do most of the physical heavy lifting - and the Hulk hardly relied on Bruce’s own strength; though Peter doubted you could do what the Avengers did without some level of combat training and stamina. He wondered what Tony was working on that had him so distracted - and it made him itch with the urge to create… which he promptly ignored.

“Huh.” Peter said, pondering the implications of the two super soldiers needing to work out to maintain their physique. “D’you need to exercise to maintain your strength? ‘Cause I don’t.” He pointed the question at Bucky and Steve; swallowing down the shrieking, distrustful protests of the voice in his mind hissing at him not to reveal anything with a sharp shake of his head.

“Not really.” Steve explained, “We need to stay decently healthy to be the strongest we can, but there’s a baseline our abilities have never really dipped beneath, no matter how we’re doing physically.”

Peter thought about the past year and how he’d never really been healthy , let alone in shape in the time period of being Spider-Man - but decided to omit that little tidbit. “Sounds similar. I’m sure I’d be stronger if I were healthier, but my senses are always dialed up to 11, no matter what. Plus the stickiness.” He continued talking, just to spite the growing screams in his mind - all enraged at how honest he was being, how much he was telling the team. “My healing factor seems to be tied in with my metabolism, from what I’ve seen.”

Steve and Bruce muttered agreements, presumably meaning the super soldiers’ healing factors worked in a similar way.

“So.” Clint said, slowly. “You have enhanced speed, strength and senses, a super fast metabolism, ‘stickiness’ ,” he added air quotes for the word, “a crazy healing factor… am I missing anything? I mean, surely that’s not all .” He spoke the last part in a tone dripping with sarcasm.

He smirked at the opportunity. “I have a sort of sixth sense, too. It alerts me when there’s danger and stuff. I call it my ‘Spidey Sense’” 

“ Spidey Sense.” Clint scoffed lightheartedly, shaking his head and walking over to a rope contraption hanging from the tall ceiling. “Nope, I’m out.”

“I’m with Clint.” Steve remarked, with a laugh, “What does that even mean?”

Peter rolled his eyes, “You know when you can hear a really quiet buzzing noise? It’s like that, but in the back of your mind. And sometimes it’s like a sudden, loud, shouting pain. Like you know those emergency sirens?” The team nodded, and he thought for a moment. “Except not like either of those, at all - but I can’t think of anything that explains it better.”

The team groaned, smiling at the absurdity of his explanation. “Great job, kid. I can definitely picture it now.” Natasha noted dryly, face blank and comment obviously sarcastic as she turned back to her own workout.

It caused Peter to chuckle but he ignored the comment in favor of voicing a thought he’d been having for a while. “Come to think of it, I think it’s broken or something - ‘cause it hasn’t shut up for, like, months.”

“What do you mean?” Bruce asked, brows furrowing.

“Well, at the start it only did anything when there was immediate danger, but now it’s on basically 24/7.” Peter explained, before shrugging and walking over to the punching bags, “Oh well, it still works well enough.”

He’d been managing to tune the voice ( my own voice and my own thoughts , Peter reminded himself) out for the time being - mostly too delirious with pain to form coherent thoughts long enough to chastise himself too badly. Now, however, it was back with full force; the anxiety of being so open about his abilities left him feeling vulnerable and weak. He hated it. After close to a year of being so very secretive, trusting no one… it would be an understatement to say it was hard to adjust.

Pushing away those emotions, he turned to Bruce and Steve - who were still standing by the punching bags, Bruce lost in thought, brows still furrowed with worry and scientific consideration. Steve turned to him, “Make sure you use the blue ones, they’re for enhanced people - the red ones are normal.” Then he walked away, towards Bucky and the treadmills.

Peter gave a grateful smile at Steve’s retreating form, and walked over to one of the punching bags, dropping into a stance. A moment away from punching, however, Bruce snapped out of his thought and cut him off with a panicked, “Wait!” To which Peter tilted his head questioningly. “You need to wrap your hands.” Bruce explained, handing him a roll of bandages.

“Ah, yeah.” Peter nodded slowly, looking at them with confusion - he’d never actually used a punching bag before, not a proper one. And then, when he’d been training for Spider-Man, he didn’t use any protection for his fists. “Of course…” he trailed off, wondering if he could figure it out on his own. 

Bruce seemed to pick up on his uncertainty, holding out a hand for the roll. “I can show you, if you’d like?” He asked. Peter nodded again, relieved this time. Bruce set about showing him how to properly wrap his hands to protect them, ensuring Peter could repeat each action before moving on. When they were finished, he flexed his fingers - analyzing the fluidity and how they felt against his skin; he could still stick through them on the areas that were covered, of course.

Attacking the punching bag in a methodical manner was soothing, in an odd way. He practiced the basic stances Bucky had gone over with him, adjusting his posture at the memories of his teaching. It was also an exercise on holding back - though most things were, after the bite. Exerting just enough strength was important in his non-lethal methods, when he was aiming to maim as little as possible (though he did use a little more strength on the worst of the worst). Limiting the input of his senses, and controlling their effects on him was crucial - if he wanted to avoid a sensory overload. Every moment of every day, Peter was holding the reins back, pushing down the most extreme parts of his enhancements in order to function.

This build up of tension may have been partially responsible for his next actions; that, alongside his previous night’s phantom, still haunting him in the daylight. Pent up energy, alongside a safe environment and a release for his strength… they were bound to cause a commotion. When, out of nowhere, a memory flitted across his mind - one that made his chest tight and his breathing hitch - one that contained green eyes and spiteful words - they all added up to a combination that sent the punching bag flying across the room, crashing into the opposite wall and splitting open. He froze, staring slack-jawed at the sack, now leaking a small, grain-like substance.

“Shit.” He said, breaking the silence that had fallen over the room following the impact. “ Shit .” He repeated, mind racing to apologies and explanations and oh god he’d messed up that meant- it always meant- “I- I’m really sorry. I don’t- I didn’t mean to.” He tore his gaze from the scene in front of him, daring a glance over to the rest of the team. They were bound to be angry. They were sure to be horrifically enraged. They were… they were… amused? Impressed, even?

Clint whistled, long and low, in an impressed tone; Steve looked generally surprised as he looked over at the broken bag; Bucky and Natasha spared a glance with unreadable expressions, though tinged with something akin to pride; and Bruce was watching Peter with worried eyes, analyzing his freak out. At that reminder, Peter snapped back to the present - burying his fear deep down, and plastering a sheepish facade over the top. “Uh… whoops?” He chuckled, looking over at the wreckage once more before turning back to the team, finding himself hyper-aware of everyone’s places in the space as he positioned himself in a way that ensured few view of the room. 

Steve grinned. “Don’t worry about it, kid. A lot of us have broken one before.”

“In Clint’s case, several.” Natasha remarked, smirking and sending a sly look to the man in question - who managed an indignant cry of ‘Hey!’ before promptly being quieted to grumbling by a pointed look from Natasha.

Peter rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, then pulled it down in fear of it lifting his shirt, settling for rubbing his wrists instead. “Yeah, my bad though. Sorry.” He laughed weakly, gaining a slightly more worried look from Steve.

“No problem, Pete.” Bruce said, with a reassuring smile. “It does make me wonder how strong you are, though.”

“Well,” He thought for a moment, recalling the various times he’d been forced to exert as much strength as possible - rubble, pressing down on his lungs, stealing his breath, so very heavy - while trying not to think too deeply about it, not wanting to relive them. “I’d say 10 tons is my normal max, but adrenaline and all that jazz can push it to 15, maybe 20 if I’m lucky.”

“That’s…” Clint said, blinking slowly, “insane.”

Peter shrugged. “I guess. I’m kinda used to it by now.”

“Once we’ve tested your limits, we can adjust the equipment as needed.” Bruce added, “Speaking of, you tried the treadmill earlier, right? How was that?”

“Pretty slow.” He replied, unravelling the wrappings from his hands, “Even at the highest speed, it was like jogging.”

“Are you sure you used the right one?” Steve asked, skeptically - causing Peter to roll his eyes.

“I used your super-fast one, yeah. 40mph?” He rubbed the stinging knuckles of his right fist, the one that had landed the final blow, “Piece of cake. You should up your cardio, Cap.” He added a jaunty smile, chipper tone forced and fake - and he was grateful no one had seemed to notice, or at least (if they had) hadn’t bothered to say anything. He was still shaken up by the incident, but hiding his problems wasn’t anything new.

“You’re something else, kid.” Steve chuckled, shaking his head - as Clint quaked with restrained laughter, leaning against the side of the treadmill. Something mischievous flashed in Steve’s eyes, and he smirked. “But speed doesn’t mean you could beat me.”

Tapping his chin, Peter feigned thinking deeply for a moment. “Oh? How about that time I webbed you up, ya know - when you were tryna incapacitate me and I escaped ?”

Steve winced - mostly lightheartedly, though there was a trace of guilt still lurking at the edges. “That was a fluke, and you said it yourself - you didn’t beat me, you ran away.”

Peter suppressed a flinch as the words echoed in his mind, but in his voice ( Ran away. That’s all you’re good for, Parker; running. Run you coward, you ungrateful brat. I can do far worse than- ) and he pushed them down, swallowing the lump in his throat with a (mostly) faux wounded chuckle; he hoped they couldn’t tell he was actually hurt by the comment. “Don’t be a sore loser, Rogers.”

Clint grinned roguishly. “There’s a simple way to settle this, guys.” He stepped forward and gestured to the sparring ring.

Steve smiled and placed his hands on his hips. “I’m up for it.”

“It should be alright,” Bruce conceded, “if you’re careful. You’ve healed quite a bit, but take it easy. Nothing too strenuous.”

Peter, however, hesitated. Fighting Steve when he’d been forced to - when it was his freedom on the line - was one thing; willingly placing himself in that situation was another. Without his web shooters or suit, he felt exposed. He didn’t feel like Spider-Man, he felt like Peter Parker. And he’d had plenty of experience being beaten up as Peter - whether it be bullies, or self-centered foster parents. He couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t freak out, have a flashback and spiral into a panic attack. He couldn’t let that happen. He-

Realizing he’d stayed silent for a moment too long, as worry crept into Steve’s expression, he shrugged away the torrent of thoughts and plastered another layer to his facade with a cocky grin, shaking away thoughts of green eyes and cold malice. “Sure, sounds fun.”

Steve took his place in the sparring ring, opposite to Peter, and quickly made his expression blank and prepared, shifting his stance to prepare. Peter suppressed a shudder at the sudden lack of emotion and smirked to hide his trepidation, falling into his own stance. They stared for a moment, waiting - before Clint spoke. “Ready?” They nodded. “Alright. You may begin!”

Peter’s spidey-sense spiked the moment the spar began, and he leapt back a couple spaces as Steve launched himself at where he’d stood just moments prior. Peter blinked, then set his jaw and pushed himself up, leaping and twisting through the air until he landed behind the larger man. Steve turned swiftly, blocking a blow Peter aimed at his midsection, and replying with a kick of his own at Peter’s legs - which he jumped to avoid, catching the subsequent hit before it could impact his ribs. He grabbed Steve’s extended arm and used it to flip around, landing a weak blow to the man’s side. They twisted and traded blows for a short while, time blurring in a flurry of attacks as they shifted from defense to offense and back again.

And then, the light shifted; blue eyes shone green as Steve reared back his fist for a strike, and Peter’s breath hitched. They stared at him, cutting into his soul with pure malevolence and anger - the same eyes he’d ducked his head to avoid, trying in vain to avoid the inevitable consequences of his existence in the same proximity as him . He’d wondered, before, if those eyes had once shone with childlike innocence and curiosity; he considered whether they’d always been so dull and hateful, or if the years of alcohol and spite had fogged their bright emerald shine.

It never seemed right when horrible people had beautiful eyes - the so-called ‘doors to the soul’ should reflect the person inside, he thought. So his eyes, the color of decaying moss, had seemed suitable. Some of the others - the way their eyes shone with life and splendor - had made him sick. They didn’t deserve that majesty. The stunning wondrous colors that shimmered in the light as they screamed profanities, contrasting with the pain the person inside inflicted on the world around them.

So the light shifted - the clouds moved outside and it filtered in differently than the moment prior, causing illusory color shifts in the eyes of the man in front of him. It lasted only a moment - less than that, probably - but it was enough. The wounds that had scabbed over the past year were torn open with vigorous fear, and his mind raced in that instant; more thoughts crossing his mind in a split-second than should be possible, all equally incoherent and confusing. But then, one voice could be heard, separate from the others - ringing clear and true, as it always did. It hissed at him with savage ferocity, terrified and strong. It screamed at him as it clawed above the rest and demanded to be not just heard - but listened to. Obeyed.

No. No no no. It proclaimed, words more like a command than a suggestion or observation. No. No. Not again. No. It repeated, shrill and deafening, drowning out the world around him. No no not again not again no not again no. No. Echoing and pinging around his head. You can’t let it happen again. You’re not weak anymore. This time, it’ll be on you. You don’t have an excuse anymore. If you let it happen again, it’s your fault.

The achingly familiar phrase snapped him from the momentary haze, teeth clenching as he struck his foot out at its target, making contact and hitting its mark with the resounding crack of skin against skin through a thin layer of fabric. Peter watched absently, through fearful eyes, as the figure he’d struck stumbled backwards - trying and failing to keep its balance before tripping and falling to the ground, stunned. There was another moment, this one laced with a deep silence - when Peter was trapped in a different haze; one void of rational thought, and any emotion other than fear. One word played over and over in his mind. Run. Run Run Run Run Run Run Run Run Run -

He shifted his focus to his own heart, focusing in on the sounds it made in an attempt to ground himself - to no avail. It was beating fast and irregular, echoing his mind’s sentiments of fear and panic. A shocked chuckle sounded to his right, and he snapped his head to tilt slightly in that direction, searching for another sound to latch onto. A steady, sure heartbeat pumped out a regular beat and served as a metronome to mark the seconds as they passed - to assure himself that time hadn’t frozen, and everything was fine. He held onto it like a lifeline, like he was drowning and it was the only thing that could save him.

The man ( Steve , he reminded himself - not him ) who he’d kicked, regained the focused look in his eyes, one that made Peter lose track of the heartbeat for a moment, scrambling to find it again. Peter steadied one trembling hand as he raised it to indicate Steve to wait, to stop; he dug his fingernails into the palm of the other. Steve paused, though he pushed himself to his feet, with a worried look. Peter cursed internally, and - inch by inch - forced his expression to relax into an easygoing smile, slowly reminding the rest of his body to relax, allowing the tension to dissipate. 

He looked up, and tried to avoid the gazes of the trained spies of the room (namely, Natasha, Bucky and Clint - which he then realised was most of the room, and promptly contorted his muscles into something more convincing, trying to subtly only maintain eye contact with Bruce or Steve) as he set a sheepish smile on his face and looked at Steve. “Damn, I’m really sorry. Are you alright? I didn’t mean to- I mean, I know you know I didn’t mean to, but still- Plus, you’re Captain America, of course you’re okay! Not that it’s not okay to not be okay - because it is - but, I mean it’d take more than that to keep you down. Still, I hope it didn’t hurt too bad, did it hurt? I-” He hoped his nervous rambling sounded realistic, comparatively to the ones they’d heard before; the words felt dry and fake on his tongue, robotic and practiced, despite being word vomit from the endless stream of consciousness in his mind.

“I’m fine, son.” Steve said, expression melting into a relieved smile that made Peter glad he had so much practice at hiding his inner turmoil from others. “Are you, though? You seemed kind of shaken up there, for a moment.”

Peter ignored the stutter in his breathy laugh as he made a dismissive gesture, “I’m good, all good! Just.. tired, is all. I zoned out a bit and reacted on instinct, which is my bad, sorry again!” His voice was like one too many sodas, late at night - artificial and fake and far, far too sweet for his liking. The faux cheer grated on his nerves and screeched in his ears like nails on a chalkboard. The group looked doubtful, but - before anything else could be said - Peter was saved by the elevator’s small ding as Tony walked out into the room. He scanned the area, raising an eyebrow when his gaze landed on Peter in the sparring ring, Steve a few meters away, and the rest gathered in a vague semi-circle nearby.

“What’s going on here?” Tony asked, analyzing the scene - a small smile twitching at his lips as he put the scene together. “Sparring, huh?”

“Steve and Peter duked it out.” Clint explained, grinning. “Steve got his ass kicked.”

Peter rolled his eyes at the exaggeration, at the same time as Steve made an incredulous noise. “It was pretty even, and we didn’t even properly finish.” Peter said, evenly.

“What I’m hearing,” Tony drew out the words with a growing leer, “is Steve got beat up by a 12-year-old.”

“ Enhanced 12-year-old.” Bucky amended, with a small smile. Natasha nudged him light-heartedly.

Steve placed his hands on his hips, “He didn’t beat me up!”

“I’m not twelve!” Peter added, in a faux (everything was fake, right now. He was barely hanging on by a thread, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hide it all) exasperated tone, “I’m sixteen .”

“Uh huh.” Tony said, looking Peter up and down. “Sure thing, kid.”

“It was quite the show.” Bruce commented, concern ghosting through his tone over the amusement.

Tony must have picked up on the underlying worry, as his smile faltered and he raised one eyebrow. Still, he replaced the look with a smirk, “Still, bug boy can hold his own against Capsicle, huh? Impressive stuff, kid.”

“Spiders aren’t bugs, Stark. They’re arachnids.” Peter said, crossing his arms petulantly to hide the fear-induced shaking still lingering in his extremities. It had the added benefit of preventing his nervous habits from taking hold; the urge to fidget with his hands was growing by the second. 

“Same difference.” Tony waved it off, walking further into the room. “I actually wanted to steal you away for sciencey things. But if you’d rather hang around up here…”

Peter lit up - only having to fake some of his enthusiasm in order to bring it to his usual amount. This was Tony Stark, after all, and tinkering with him in his workshop was no joke, no matter how shaken up he was feeling - and took the opportunity without hesitation. “Awesome! Let’s go.” He said the second part with slightly more resolution, walking quickly past Tony and into the open elevator.

Tony gave him a calculating, bemused look, before shrugging and following him in. “Good enough for me.”

“Hey, you can’t just steal him like that!” Clint protested, “And it’s supposed to be a team training day, Tony!”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.” Tony said, with a cocky grin, adamantly ignoring the second part of the statement. “FRIDAY, take us to my workshop.” The doors shut on Clint’s shouts, and Tony chuckled before turning to Peter. “You good, kid?”

Peter rolled his eyes, “I’m fine. Workshop, yeah? Less feelings, more science?”

Tony shook his head amusedly and ruffled Peter’s hair, ignoring the way he tried to bat away the hand. “Sounds like my kind of thing.”

They arrived at the workshop, and Tony strode out into the space as Peter trailed behind. He’d been here once before, but the novelty hadn’t quite worn off yet; this was the workspace of a genius, after all. Peter rubbed at his wrists anxiously and cursed the lack of web shooters for the hundredth time since he’d woken up in the Medbay. 

“What’d you do with my web shooters?” Peter asked, bluntly - frankly too tired of the hollow fear his empty wrists brought him to care about seeming rude.

Tony glanced over at him from the workbench he was leaning over. “Your… oh. Your bracelet web thingies. Right.” He turned - giving Peter a long, searching look - before sighing. “There’s no way you’ll stop being Spider-Man, huh?”

Peter stilled at the implication, breathing catching momentarily in his throat. He narrowed his eyes at Tony. He hadn’t considered that they might try to make him stop; the thought terrified him far more than green-eyes specters lurking in the dark, or any sort of earthly pain. Spider-Man was all he had, at this point. He’d fight tooth and nail to keep being him. He wouldn’t let them take Spider-Man away. He couldn’t. “Hell no. And don’t even think of-”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tony waved it off, dismissively, “Don’t worry, kid. Frankly, I’m not the one who’s most worried about that.” He gave Peter another look, before shrugging. “Oh well. Here, catch.”

He chucked a couple of things at Peter - which he caught without faltering, and then looked down to see they were his web shooters. He sighed with relief, swiftly strapping them on - and feeling infinitely better with their grounding weight on his wrists. “Glad we’re on the same page.” He gave Tony a half-smile, still wary.

“To be honest, I’m glad.” Tony said with a smirk, “I have quite a few ideas for your suit.”

Peter relaxed, his half-smile turning into a content grin. “So do I. First of all; a heater.”

“A heater?” Tony questioned, unsure. “I mean, it’s nice to be warm and all but…”

“A heater.” Peter repeated, with a sense of finality. “I can’t thermoregulate properly,” he explained, at the confused look on Tony’s face, “I can’t really heat myself up, and I get cold really easily. I think it’s a spider thing.” He shrugged. “And shivering and stuff doesn’t really seem to do much. Same with cooling down - I rarely sweat,” except when it comes to nightmares “and when I do, it doesn’t really help. So; heater.”

Tony nodded with a half shrug, visibly running through the numbers in his head as he thought of how to best implement it into the design. “Fair enough.” He moved on to the next suggestion, the next idea.

As they settled into a comfortable rhythm - working on holographic blueprints and making snarky comments over each other’s work here and there - Peter allowed himself to relax, his thrumming nerves calming somewhat. He was feeling slightly more comfortable around the man after their chat, though still very wary. His spidey sense was relatively quiet, apart from the incessant hum (which had only worsened after the incidents in the gym) and he eventually stopped keeping an eye on Tony at every moment. It felt safe; at least, as safe as he’d felt in recent times. Still, it was enough - green eyes and phantom pains fading into the background for another time.

Chapter Text

Spending time in the workshop with Tony was just as thrilling as it had been the first time; though, now, he was there as Peter Parker, not Spider-Man - something that added an extra layer of incredulity to the whole situation. They planned his new suit, Tony adding ideas with his usual eccentricity, Peter making snarky comments and laughing at Tony’s amused reactions. He calmed further as they joked and bounced ideas off each other, bristling slightly less whenever the man stepped too close - no longer having to suppress a flinch each time they were in close proximity. Tony’s kind comments (namely, praising Peter and calling him a genius) warmed his heart and made him bashful in a way he thought had been lost to time.

He worked on a few web shooter designs, and Tony showed him the newest updates to Clint’s hearing aids - which were extremely impressive, of course, having been designed by Tony Stark himself. Peter found himself drawn to the bots; Dum-E and U giving the impression of a presence, as lively as they seemed, without the pressure and unease, the constant undercurrent of fear. He managed not to freak out again - much to his relief - constant panic giving way to friendly banter and banishing his lingering unease.

It was entertaining and stimulating in a way he’d missed while on the streets - even the last time they worked in the workshop, he’d been more reserved; the removal of his mask and secret identity now allowing for a more open environment. It wasn’t as though Peter was completely relaxed, remaining alert and aware of all possible threats - but that was his natural state, at this point. It was hard to envision a time when the hairs on the back of his neck didn’t stand on end at the faint sounds of approaching footsteps, or when the implication of touch didn’t make him tense and shudder with discomfort.

And yet, after a late lunch and a pleasant dinner, (all following the now complete meal plan from Dr Cho, and luckily avoiding upsetting his stomach) he couldn’t help but let his guard down, if only slightly - even if it went against all the instincts he’d acquired over the last year and a half. There was something about the team’s easy-going nature - about their kind words and the simple way they skirted around topics Peter didn’t want to breach - that gave him a sense of comfort, one so foreign and yet so familiar. He was, ironically, becoming so intimately acquainted with the emotion that he wondered whether he should give it a name - or if it had one already, for that matter.

Was there a word, for having been so intimately acquainted with a feeling, only to then have it ripped away and lost, and then to feel a strange sense of deja vu when it was recovered once more? He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure if he was making sense, even to himself; but it was in his nature to ramble, to put words to the stream of consciousness in his mind - and now (after he’d quelled that desire following one too many angry people telling him to shut up or else ) he had nowhere to direct them, other than inwardly. So he went on long tirades in the safety of his mind, in a place that no one could punish him for speaking out of turn - or whatever they decided ‘out of turn’ meant, on that particular day, at that particular moment.

And yet - when he slipped, when he spoke for too long with too much enthusiasm, when he had to snap his mouth shut with a sharp click to cut off the words - the team never berated him. They never so much as made snide comments over his habit (other than a few remarks about him being excitable, and those were spoken with too much fondness to be interpreted as anything other than jokes). It was odd, and confusing, and didn’t line up with what he’d drilled into himself to survive.

But it was also… nice. It was comfortable and joyous, and it reminded him of Aunt May or Uncle Ben. They’d always listened to his ramblings, even if they couldn’t pay him their complete attention at the time. They laughed and smiled kindly, never wavering in their enjoyment of his excitement. May had been distraught, in fact, when Peter had gone quiet - after Ben died. He’d felt the hot blood and seen the life drain, and the world dulled around him. His mind was oddly empty and yet so, so full. He hadn’t spoken more than a few words for weeks - until May had broken down and practically begged him to talk to her; at which point he’d snapped out of his stupor and grieved alongside her, not apart from her.

Suffice to say, it’d been a long while since people had tolerated his ramblings - let alone enjoyed them, lips twitching upwards in a small smile as he became immersed in the task at hand.

*

Hot blood pooled around him, trickling in rivulets down his face. His body ached and burned distantly, as though in another realm, another reality from him. He was frozen in fear - fear of what? He didn’t know. But he was terrified. He had to run. He had to escape. He had to-

Peter woke, once again, in a cold sweat. He focused on his breathing, steadying his pounding heartbeat and shoving aside the images plaguing his restless mind. He couldn’t tell whether his latest nightmares were a result of his time as Spider-Man, or his time in the foster homes - but he wasn’t sure it mattered; both brought paralyzing fear and had him waking up with the phantom feeling of something striking his body, as he struggled to orient himself. Despite the months of constant nightmares, nothing could soften their blows. Sure, he could recover faster now - could swallow down the anguish and move on with his day - but the terror still loomed over him, prompting him into spending days watching for figures lurking in the shadows.

Sighing, he pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes, before bringing his hands up to grab his hair in frustration. He hated the hold these memories had on him, their ability to leave him breathless and confused - trapped, helplessly, in the past. Because that’s what they were; the past. He’d escaped. He’d lifted the rubble; he’d surfaced from the river; he’d been moved from, or ran from, the homes; he’d-

His breath hitched in his throat - and he shook his head in a sharp, jerky motion. He’d just escaped the memories, just about calmed his heart; he didn’t need another trip down traumatic-memory-lane. That never ended in anything other than long, harsh panic attacks and rude awakenings - and it definitely wasn’t something he wanted to engage in while in Avengers Tower. He was determined to hide any debilitating fear for as long as possible, and (being as stubborn as he was) he would be holding out for a while. 

The point was: he was free. The rubble and river and them - they couldn’t control him now.

Except they did.

It was something that irritated Peter to no end; the idea that they could still hold such power over him, could still steal his breath and bring out cold, animalistic fear - it was beyond annoying. It was pure, raging anguish and rage. He was free . He shouldn’t be trapped by them. They shouldn’t hold him down any longer, biting into his skin like cold iron cuffs and preventing him from moving forward.

So he resolved not to let them.

He broke the chains, and hid the shackles - even as he carried their weight with him every day.

He ignored the memories, shoved them deep, deep down inside… until they manifested only in his nightmares, as fiendish ghouls and snarling monsters that leered and taunted him, scraping sharp nails over broken skin.

Shoving off the thick duvet, Peter roughly maneuvered himself off the bed and grabbed a new set of clothes (a long sleeve shirt and sweatpants, again) before heading to the bathroom. He ignored the mirror, tugged off his clothes, and turned on a hot, steady spray of water - relishing in the heat burns as his skin tinged pink. He scrubbed away the thoughts and memories, the lingering vestiges of the nightmares, with a strong-smelling lemon body wash that overwhelmed his senses and left him on edge. Still, being alert was better than being trapped in the fear that clung from the remainder of his dreams. He hated strong scents, but it was better than nothing. It was better than the stench of fear sweat.

Cursing - not for the first time, and certainly not for the last - his body’s irritating tendency to sweat due to his raging emotions, and not to cool himself down. Usually, it was fear; nightmares ran rampant in his mind, and he had enough traumatic memories for a lifetime - more, probably. Today, though, he wondered whether it was fear… or anger. He could feel the coiling creature shift in his stomach, writhing with rage at foggy memories pieced together in his unconscious state. If he dug deep, he felt sure he’d be able to find the source - to find the thing, the person, that made him so spiteful. A familiar image flashed across his mind and-

He abruptly shut off the shower, revelling in the wave of cold air that stung at his skin and cleared his mind. The shower had been short enough that the bathroom was still relatively cool, not yet fogged and humid, and he enjoyed the stark contrast. He pulled on his new clothes and scowled at the mint toothpaste - settling for water and the toothbrush sitting in its holder to rid himself of the worst of his morning breath - while steadfastly ignoring the mirror and the image it held; he’d had a stressful morning already, he didn’t need a fresh round of self-hatred.

With a groan, he ran a hand through his damp hair, before toweling it mostly dry. What a wonderful start to the day , he thought dryly, wondering, even as he spoke, how much of it was sarcasm and how much of it was true. Sure, nightmares and self-deprecation weren’t an ideal thing to wake up to - but they were nothing new. If you weighed out an average day from the last year and compared it to this one… you’d find the only difference was now Peter could wake on a comfortable bed, take a shower, change his clothes (something so many people took for granted, but felt like such a unique commodity after so long wearing the same ones over and over), and breathe .

So, maybe it wasn’t a great day so far - but it sure as hell beat his usual day-to-day, and it’d only just begun. That was, frankly, as optimistic as he could hope to be - the most optimistic, in fact, that he’d found himself being in far too long. He supposed it should be a sad realization (and maybe it was, from an outsider’s perspective) but, to him, it was lined with a tentative and gentle hope. And when you were as used to the rough, vicious brutality of life as Peter was: that was enough.

With a deep breath, he rolled his eyes at his own internal monologue, and wandered back into the bedroom, flopping onto the bed with a weary huff of air. He dropped his head to the side, stray strands of hair falling across his vision as he read the glowing numbers; it was, unsurprisingly, the early hours of the morning. It seemed not even fancy mattresses and high thread-count sheets could counter his insomnia - which wasn’t too shocking. Some small part of him had hoped it would help, had hoped he could sleep through the night and avoid the terrors lurking in the dark; but that part of him had obviously forgotten about his Parker Luck.

A sudden wave of restlessness urged him to stand once more, pulling on a hoodie before heading to the door and walking out into the hall in near-silence. He cautiously made his way to the kitchen, listening and catching the sounds of two heartbeats in the room. One, he could identify as Bucky’s, with a quick mental comparison to the night prior; the other… he frowned. It was one of the ones he’d learnt quickly. With a quick internal assurance that it was fine , he would be fine - he stepped into the kitchen and, sure enough, Bucky and Natasha were standing at the counter.

Bucky looked over, expression softening, as Natasha looked him up and down in a calculating fashion. She was vaguely grasping a mug as it rested on the marble surface, small puffs of warm steam rising in tendrils above it. Once she’d finished her quick appraisal - one that made Peter shift on the spot and tap one of his web shooters to reassure himself of their presence - she gave him a kind look that caused him to falter momentarily, blinking. His reaction seemed to amuse her, a small smile ghosting at her lips while she brought the mug to her mouth and took a sip.

Peter shook off the confusion, forcing down hesitation as he grabbed an apple from the bowl of fruit and leaned against the wall. He stared at it for a moment, before turning his gaze to the other two and absent-mindedly rubbing it clean against the shirt material covering his chest. It was insanely annoying, how his mind ached to ask for permission to take the food; it was why he’d only eaten at meals, so far - why he’d waited until they expressly said the food was for him. But he pushed it aside, taking a vicious bite and inwardly cursing the people who’d drilled the need into him, smirking with conviction as he tasted the sweet flesh of the fruit.

Natasha gave him another entertained look, and he flushed somewhat - embarrassed by how such a small, mundane thing could mean so much to him. But she just nodded slightly, in understanding, and placed the mug back onto the counter with a soft clink .

“So.” She began, “What brings you here at this time of night?”

“Technically, it’s early morning.” Peter replied, without hesitation, coming out harsher than he’d meant; the events of the previous day were still fresh in his mind, and he didn’t particularly want to recap them.

“Is that so?” She commented, lip twitching upwards in a way that only fueled the growing irritation in his gut. He narrowed his eyes, knowing his anger was misplaced and irrational - but unable to curb it so easily, which only made him more frustrated; he hated feeling not in control of his own actions. Instead of returning his glare or his annoyance, however, Natasha just raised an eyebrow, and looked at Bucky, then back at Peter. “I like you, kid.” She declared, then sipped her drink again and stood. “Hot chocolate?”

Now that threw him off. The Black Widow was sitting in the kitchen in sweatpants and a t-shirt, offering him hot chocolate as they neared the witching hour. He blinked, again - and Bucky chuckled slightly. “Uh.” He said, elegantly - the boiling rage slowing to a simmer before dissipating entirely. “Sure?”

He thought for a moment, before sending her a quick, uneasy smile; something in his nightmares had evidently caused the coiling anger in him to be so very volatile this day, and he was glad she’d been able to diffuse the situation as easily as she did. It did throw him off, the sudden switch in emotion - but the exhaustion stemming from that was preferable to the rage, any day. He really did hate being angry.

“So?” She prompted, heating some milk on the stove.

Peter sighed. “I should ask you the same thing.” He muttered, all the fight drained from him.

“Easy. I trained myself not to need much sleep, Bucky has nightmares.” Bucky nodded briefly. Natasha poured a cup into a mug, taking the lid off the cocoa mix and dropping several spoonfuls in. “Your turn.”

With an unimpressed, though startled, look - Peter took another bite of the apple. “Nightmares. Insomnia. Both. Neither. I don’t know.” He sighed, again. He felt like he was doing quite a bit of that, recently. He rubbed his face roughly, briefly obscuring his vision before looking at her once more - and seeing her gaze, trained on him. “Does it matter?”

She watched him for a moment longer, before looking away and stirring the contents of the mug. She shrugged. “Possibly not.” She conceded, covering the short distance between them and handing him the mug. He took it in his free hand, noting the warmth emanating from it with contentment. He thought, briefly, that she’d let it go - but then she spoke again. “But most things do. So, nightmares?” Peter shot her a less than impressed look, and she sat back down with another half-shrug.

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head with amusement - and his arm caught the minimal light, sending a spark of white light across the walls. Peter’s mind raced at the brilliance of the prosthetic; he yearned to understand it, to see how it worked, how it connected and wired and-

He tore his gaze away, pulling his focus off it before he drew attention to his staring. Lifting the mug, he took a sip of the beverage; it tasted hot (he relished the burning sensation on his tongue) and kind (if a drink could taste kind, then this one did) and reminded him, in a bittersweet fashion, of home. His mind wandered to late winter nights, May coming off the late shift and walking into the apartment exhausted - only to see Peter sitting at the counter with mugs of hot chocolate and a gentle smile. She’d return a tired smile, and sink into the seat. They’d talk for a short while, then slink off to bed with a few exchanged words that outcompeted the drinks with their sweetness.

Even if it was a commodity - something they didn’t need, an unnecessary expense - they had an unspoken agreement; it was something that tied them to Ben, and that was all the reason they needed for it to show up in the cupboards, again and again. With another sip, he remembered the night Ben died - how his Uncle had offered him the drink, reaching out where Peter was slipping out of reach. Only, this time, Peter had been standoffish and rude. He’d scoffed some bullshit about being too old, ignoring the sadness in his Uncle’s eyes with a pang of guilt. Later, he’d gone out for a walk and then-

A gunshot. The smell of gunpowder, lingering in the air. Ben, cold and lifeless, heat dissipating by the second. Hot, sticky blood, clinging to his clothes and his skin. Uncle Ben was dead and it was all his fault-

Peter took a ragged breath, placing the mug down before he gripped too tight and shattered it. Suddenly, it didn’t taste so sweet; it tasted of blood and sweat and tears and regret. It wasn’t bittersweet. It was bitter. The milk seemed to curdle on his tongue, turning sour and thick - an uncomfortable sensation filling his mouth. There was a lingering tang of coppery, iron-y blood that he knew, logically, was just in his mind - but it was so pungent . So real . It tasted the same as it had smelt, creeping onto his taste buds in the form of a scent, when Ben died - so tangible, even 10 months after the fact. It tasted like nights spent as Spider-Man, when he wasn’t so inclined to pull punches, or on the days he wasn’t particularly worried about his own safety. It tasted like days in his foster homes, when they drove their fists into his body and left him crying in a pile on the floor. It tasted-

He took another bite of the apple, desperate for the taste of chocolate and death to retreat from his mouth. But he bit too fast - too urgently - and the faint whiff of blood tinged his mouth-

And that was it. 

The memories came flooding back. His nightmares rushed into his mind, no longer content at playing around the edges. The apple felt dry and tasteless as he choked down the bite, sharp edges scratching at his throat, his mind screaming that it was no longer safe. He glared at the offending fruit for a moment, trying to calm his speeding heartbeat - before another thought raced across his mind and his breath hitched, grip tightening around the apple. He felt it begin to compress, juice dribbling down his hand - his previous attempt at preventing this sort of scenario ruined, though he was glad it wasn’t a mug. He sauntered over to the bin with as much nonchalance as he could muster, chucking the broken mess into it.

His hand felt sticky from the apple, white noise ringing in his mind. His vision blurred. He blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Everything was still hazy, trapped behind a layer of glaze.

A realization brought whatever calm he’d been managing to maintain to a screeching halt.

He must not have escaped.

He couldn’t breathe.

He was still there .

They were going to hurt him.

His breath hitched, and his heart sped.

Reaching blindly, Peter gripped the marble countertop where it jutted out slightly over the cabinets, some part of him distantly willing the cool sensation to ground him - but to no avail.

He couldn’t breathe.

No- he was wrong. He wasn’t with any of them .

He was trapped under the rubble.

Or he was in the river.

He couldn’t breathe.

“-ter!”

He would never escape.

He was alone, and trapped, and no one would ever find him.

“Kid- I- -eter!”

His lungs were filling with water, and he was sinking, fast .

He couldn’t breathe .

“-isten- kid-”

He was vaguely aware of voices, distant and muffled.

It didn’t matter.

He was going to die.

“-you’re ok, Peter. It’s ok. You’re safe-”

A different voice. 

They were lying.

No one was coming.

He was dying, he couldn’t breathe and god-  

He was alone.

“-feel the tiles, alright? Try and feel the cold tiles for me, Peter.”

The voice filtered in again, slightly more clear than before. He balled his hands into fists, clenching tight and trying to focus in on it. Something in him said he needed to listen.

But it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered.

Because he was alone.

He couldn’t breathe.

He was alone.

So, very alone.

“-talking to you right now. It’s 2:57am. You’re in the kitchen. Your name is Peter Parker. You’re 16 years old. The tiles are cold, can you feel them? Focus in on my voice, Peter-”

The voice came into focus for a moment, but slipped away just as fast. Still, it was coherent, this time. He could hear it, he could listen. His breath hitched, and the phantom sensation of water crowded his throat.

He couldn’t breathe.

So what was the harm?

He clenched his eyes shut even tighter (when had he closed them?) and focused on feeling the tiles beneath him. They were cool, and smooth. He traced the indents between them, allowing the feeling to ground him.

“-that’s good, Peter. Good job. Listen to my voice. Try and take some deep breaths for me, alright? Can you match my breathing?”

He flailed internally, trying to distinguish the person’s breathing from the cacophony of noise ringing in his ears. Instead, he landed on a steady heartbeat - and clung. He focused on it and it alone, forcing the rest to fade into the background, and tried to match it to his own.

Ba-bump.

He wasn’t in the river. He could feel air on his skin. There was no water in his lungs.

Ba-bump.

He wasn’t under the rubble. There was no dust and debris clogging his throat.

Ba-bump.

He wasn’t back with them . He’d escaped. He was free of them.

Ba-bump.

His own heart matched up with the person’s for a moment, and he was vaguely aware of them keeping up an endless stream of chatter and reassurances. White noise.

Ba-bump.

His breathing hitched again and-

Ba-bump.

He could breathe.

Air filled his lungs, entering so rapidly that he choked on the inhale and sent himself into a coughing fit. Doubling over from his position sitting on the floor (when did he end up on the floor? He wasn’t sure, but his knees were drawn up to his chest and his hands were gripping tightly at the back of his neck - he was distantly aware of a sharp pain as he loosened them), he eventually evened out his breathing once more, blinking a couple times to clear the white spots that had gathered. He groaned, and reluctantly lifted his gaze from the floor tiles to the two presences he could feel next to him.

Natasha was kneeling next to him, not too far away, while Bucky was leaning on the counter across from him, watching with a worried expression. Peter groaned again, dropping his head into his hands and unfolding his legs from where they had been tucked - with painful strength - against his chest.

“You back with us, kid?” Bucky asked, tentatively.

Peter hummed an affirmative, keeping one leg propped up, and the other spread out in front of him. He leaned into the counter behind him, feeling highly aware of the dips and bumps digging into his back.

“Good.” Bucky said, with a resolute assurance that confused Peter briefly - before he decided he was too exhausted to care.

He sat in silence for a moment, eyes closed, until he thought he could walk properly again. “Well, as fun as it was to humiliate myself in front of two of the Avengers,” Peter said, opening his eyes and hauling himself to unsteady feet. He braced himself against the countertop for a moment. “I’m gonna head back to my room and wallow in regret.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, standing in a fluid movement. “You didn’t humiliate yourself, Peter. Panic attacks are common here, it comes with the job.”

That made Peter pause, for a moment, standing a few meters from the doorway. “Oh.” He breathed, quietly. It made sense, he supposed, that superheroes who battled life-ending ( world -ending) threats on a day-to-day basis would be scarred from it all; still, it was hard to reconcile the image they portrayed to the world for the real one.

He should’ve expected it, really. But the media was always so hesitant to show their heroes - whether they be real or fake ones - as anything but infallible, that reality became warped. Bad mental health wasn’t something people wanted to imagine their heroes having, despite the cruel reality of the situation. So they had to push through it, move on, find ways to cope - because they couldn’t let anyone down. It was sure as hell Peter’s mindset as Spider-Man - he always, always put the safety of others over any facet of himself, whether it be mental or physical; the innocents came first. 

If asked, he was sure a therapist would say he should express this - any of it - to them. But Peter wasn’t much for speaking, not about the things that really mattered. He could talk for hours, and never truly say anything of value - never let on to how broken and empty he felt at times. So, instead, he settled for meaningless words to fill the silence. “Huh. Who’d have guessed? The real world isn’t sunshine and rainbows; people die, bad guys win, and good guys get PTSD. Crazy.”

Peter took another step towards the door, continuing on his trajectory out of the room; despite the little revelation, he wasn’t crazy about sticking around - not with the aftereffects of the panic attack still lingering on the outskirts of his mind.

“You’re welcome to join us.” Bucky said, casually - only causing Peter to falter somewhat in his step, which was better than completely humiliating himself by tripping over rhim own feet when he supposedly had enhanced reflexes. “We’re here most nights.”

“Yeah. Right.” Peter replied quietly, before disappearing down the hall to his bedroom. Yeah, right. He repeated in his mind - far more sardonically than aloud.

He wasn’t about to hang out with ex-spies in the kitchen of the Avengers Tower during the early hours of the morning. No way.

*

Peter stepped into the elevator with a sigh, asking FRIDAY to take him to the common floor. He was burnt-out after a long day in the training room, and yet bursting with unused energy, seeing as he still hadn’t gone out as Spider-Man. Every inch of skin itched to swing above the streets, but the team were worried about him first healing properly, and gaining some weight, before he resumed his vigilante work - and so he swallowed down the sensation by sheer force of will.

He stepped out onto the common floor, where Natasha promptly shoved a snack into his hands - a habit that had formed once Natasha caught onto his habit of forgetting to eat which, alongside his enhanced metabolism and meal plan, was apparently unhealthy enough to require intervention. She’d learnt a bit too much about him in the past few days (which, was to be expected - she was a spy, after all) and it was, in all honesty, making him antsy.

Despite his (internal) protests, it had become somewhat of a routine over the next few days to join Bucky and Natasha in the dark nights; he’d wake up from whatever nightmare had decided to lurk that night - or give up on sleep altogether, tired of staring at the ceiling - and go to the kitchen. Usually both of the pair were there - Natasha had been doing some recon the night Peter found Bucky alone - though, sometimes, one of them would appear later on. Natasha would make hot chocolate, which Peter eventually managed to stomach; sometimes they’d talk idly (not about anything that mattered, just trivial things), other times they’d sit in relative silence and watch the minutes tick by.

Then, the team would appear sometime around 9am - Tony and Bruce often much later than that - and they’d congregate in the space for a while. They’d break off to do whatever they needed to that day, and Peter would spend his day on the training floor, or reading a book on the StarkPad Tony had shoved into his arms on the third day. He’d tried to refuse, of course, but Tony wouldn’t take no for an answer - so Peter conceded, silently glad for something to do. (Even if that something consisted of, far too often, falling down deep ravines of depressing articles about his old school, or ones attacking Spider-Man’s actions).

It all gave him some semblance of normality - and it felt warm, in that same, long-forgotten way as when he joked with Tony or chatted with the team at meals. The ache in his chest was prominent in those moments, but worth the reprieve from his thoughts and the all-encompassing feeling of hopelessness they brought. It also meant, much to Peter’s chagrin, that the team had begun picking up on some of his behaviors - such as the whole food thing with Natasha, or Bruce’s constant worried glances whenever the topic of sleep was brought up.

Peter gave Natasha a two-fingered salute, going to his room down the hall to shower - and promptly dropping the protein bar in the drawer which had become his new stash; it was a habit he’d developed on the streets, having to horde his food and supplies to ensure his own survival, and not one he was planning on dropping soon, not when his situation was so unsure. With the scalding water washing away the non-existent sweat and grime he could feel gripping his body (today was a hyper-sensitive senses day, which was never fun - his spidey-sense had been on the fritz the whole time) and staining his skin pink under the heat, he could relax somewhat.

Despite his unwillingness to eat the snackfood Natasha had handed him, he was actually hungry - he’d just had enough time training himself to ignore the hunger pains that going a bit without was nothing worse than usual - and so, with a deep breath, he promptly exited his room to join the team for dinner. He’d been avoiding them for the past couple of days, not wanting to deal with the tumultuous emotions brewing inside, and, instead, satiating his hunger with cold leftovers a few hours after the fact.

Today, though. Today, he could do it. He wandered down the hall, pulling his shirt sleeves to ensure they were sufficiently trapped under his web shooters to prevent them from riding up at all (one cautious glance from Clint when they’d slipped slightly further up his arms than comfortable, thanks to their oversized nature, was enough to ensure that precaution). Stepping into the hall, he followed the sounds of heartbeats and talking until he reached the living room, where the team were laying on various pieces of furniture (minus Tony, which, he was learning, was normal). He quirked an eyebrow, wondering what they were planning to do for dinner, seeing as it was nearly time.

Steve turned as Peter stepped over the threshold, and grinned, “Peter. Just in time, we were about to ask FRIDAY to get you.”

Peter cocked his head questioningly. “Oh?”

“Yeah, it’s movie night.” Bruce said, with a smile. “We were wondering if you wanted to join us, we’re getting takeout."

He hummed in consideration for a moment. “Alright then, what’re we watching?”

Clint groaned dramatically. “It’s Tony ’s turn to choose, but he’s not even here.” He leaned back in the armchair he was splayed over, looking at Peter upside down. “C’mon, Steve!” He whined. “Let me-”

“No.” Steve interjected, giving him a stern, amused look. “We’re not sitting through whatever torture you decide on two weeks in a row.”

Clint huffed at that, muttering something about how unfair Steve was being. Natasha rolled her eyes, swatting his head from her seat. “Drama queen.” She stated, simply - earning another objecting huff.”

“Am not.” He pouted, earning a Look (a capital L look that left no room for disagreement) that made him shut up with a scowl.

Peter couldn’t help but crack a smile at the scene - and it brought up a sudden, ice cold feeling of longing. He shoved it down, forcing his expression back into a smirk from where it’d fallen. “How very domestic .” He commented, amusedly.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Come here, kid.” He gestured to the other empty couch - his own being taken up by him, Steve and Bruce - with one hand. “Get comfortable.”

With slight hesitation, Peter walked over and planted himself in the corner of the couch, pushed up against the armrest, and as far from the others as possible. If they noticed the choice (though most of them were chatting amongst themselves) no one said anything - something Peter had picked up on being normal with them, which he was very much grateful for. His spidey-sense flared quietly for a moment, and he flicked his hand up to catch a takeout menu, blinking and furrowing his brow, before turning to Clint with an unimpressed look. “Really, Barton?”

Clint groaned. “What’s with the names, kid?” He moaned, dramatically. It was obviously a joke - that was given away by the slight smile playing on Clint’s lips - and yet, it still made him anxious. The reality was, he was still trying to maintain some form of distance between them and himself. It was stupid, but the use of their first names seemed too… serious, casual.

He opted for rolling his eyes and looking at the menu, instead. He froze. It was Thai food . Of course it was. Of course it had to be the food linked with his beloved dead aunt. The universe couldn’t help torturing him, could it? With a silent curse, he fought to maintain his unbothered expression as he eyed the options. He longed for the familiar taste to ground him, to bring him back to happier times of curling up on the couch and watching crap TV after a long day and a failed attempt at cooking dinner.

Once they’d finished ordering - through FRIDAY, of course - Steve sighed. “FRIDAY? Where’s Tony?”

“Boss is currently in his workshop, Captain.” FRIDAY responded, without delay.

Clint groaned, and Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Tell him to get up here before I make him.” She said, conversationally.

There was a slight pause, presumably from relaying the message, and then, “Boss says he’ll be right up.” FRIDAY spoke, causing Bruce to chuckle.

A minute or so later, the elevator doors opened to reveal a frazzled-looking Tony, shirt oil-stained and hair messy. “I’m here, I’m here.” He grumbled, good-naturedly. “You don’t have to sic the superspy on me.” Natasha shot him a look, punctuated with a warning smile that made him raise his hands placatingly. “ Any way, what’re we eating?”

“Thai. And it’s your turn to pick the first movie.” Bucky replied, stretching out further across the sofa and into Steve’s space - who just shook his head fondly and reciprocated the action.

Tony dropped down onto the same couch as Peter, a few feet away. “Awesome, I trust you ordered for me.” He grinned, then seemed to process Peter’s presence. “Underoos! Good to have you joining us.” Peter gave him a smile, and settled further into the couch, untensing slightly. “Well then, FRIDAY? Be a dear and play the Lion King, would you?” The lights lowered at Tony’s command, just as the massive screen in front of them lit up with the opening scene to the movie. Peter looked at him strangely, before accepting it as one of the man’s eccentric traits. Tony noticed the look, and shrugged with a smile. “What? It’s a good movie.”

Peter half watched the movie, half spent the time lost in his thoughts and piles of nostalgia that were only exacerbated by the arrival of the Thai food. The coffee table (which became larger as new sections unfurled at Tony’s command, because of course the genius mechanic has a robotically expandable coffee table for takeout-movie nights) was piled high with dishes, bowls of popcorn scattered around as well.

He grabbed a larb salad, ignoring the painful memories that came with it ( “Larb you, honey!” “Larb you too, May!” He called, stumbling out of the house to race to school. He was late, and tomorrow was his birthday- ) with intense determination, glad his pained expression was hidden by the dark, even if he could make out almost every detail in the room with his enhanced sight. 

Speaking of enhanced senses, he suddenly flicked his head up, staring at the elevator - where an unfamiliar heartbeat was going up further than he’d heard for anyone other than the Avengers; who were currently all present for movie night.

“Peter?” Clint asked, seeming to notice the sudden shift in attention. “What’s up?”

After a momentary silence, he answered with a question of his own - not breaking eye contact with the elevator doors as it clicked higher and higher. “Who has access to this floor?”

“Uhh..” Clint furrowed his brow, thinking. “The team, of course, and..”

“Rhodey and Pepper,” Tony said, once it became clear Clint wasn’t completely sure, “Plus Happy, sometimes. Anyone else can come up here, too, if we allow it.”

Natasha tilted her head, studying Peter’s expression for a moment. “Someone’s coming up?”

“You can hear it?” Clint asked, tone incredulous and tinged with something like amazement. 

“Even I have a hard time hearing it.” Steve added, agreeing with the sentiment as he glanced over his shoulder towards Peter.

Peter gave an absent minded nod as the near-silent mechanisms in the elevator ground to a stop at… this floor. His hackles raised, and he narrowed his eyes. He could hear the small ding inside, muffled by the metal, as the doors slid open seamlessly to reveal a woman with long blonde hair, dressed in business attire. Her high heels clicked along the floor as she stepped out - the sound both pleasing and strange to Peter’s enhanced ears. 

She looked up from her phone with a smile as the lights brightened somewhat. “Hey guys,” she said, obviously tired and yet upbeat, “Oh, is it movie night already?"

“Yeah, you’re just in time!” Clint smiled, gesturing at the screen, where cub Simba was currently being poked and prodded by Timon and Pumba in the middle of nowhere. “We’re just into the first movie.”

“Good to see you, Pepper!” Steve added, mouth splitting into a grin. “It’s been too long.”

Natasha nodded fondly. “That it has, how was the conference?” The elevator doors slid shut, and Peter vaguely noted it whirring back down.

“Oh, you know,” The woman - Pepper - waved her hand in a casually dismissive gesture. “Same old, same old. Managed to cinch the Kyon deal, which will be great for our green energy division. They-” She paused as her eyes landed on Peter, and she gave him a skeptical look, gaze locked on him as she spoke. “Tony?”

“Yes?” The man in question asked, voice innocent.

“Why is there a child on the Avengers floor?” Pepper spoke slowly, with purpose, as if trying to restrain her annoyance at the team’s antics.

“Huh?” Clint tilted his head in mock confusion, then looked at Peter, jumping slightly - faux startled. “Geez, that’s freaky! Didn’t even notice him.”

Peter’s mind took that moment to process the names he’d been told. “Wait- Pepper ? As in, Pepper Potts ? CEO of Stark Industries? The Pepper Potts?” Pepper’s lips lifted back into a smile, fond - though still unsure. “Damnit, you guys have gotta start warning me before you introduce me to absolute icons .” Steve chuckled, Bucky smirking beside him and bumping his shoulder in a friendly manner.

Rolling her eyes warmly, Pepper pointed at Peter. “I like him. Still ,” she added, cutting off Tony’s victorious grin as she turned her finger to point at him, instead - in a much more accusatory manner. “Who’s going to explain why there’s a child here? Did you steal a child?”

“I’m not a child .” Peter said, with the hint of a snarl, familiar irritation clawing slightly at his gut. He managed to restrain the swelling anger with a tight smile and the lingering excitement over meeting another idol of his (and MJ looked up to her, as well - a thought that made his chest ache with longing).

Pepper’s eyes softened. “Sorry…?” She trailed off, question unasked but hanging in the air.

“Peter.” He offered, forcing the annoyance to simmer down into the depths of his torso - once more cursing the trigger-happy temper developed, no doubt, as some sort of twisted coping mechanism.

“Peter.” Pepper repeated, confirming. “So, Tony. Care to explain?"

He visibly froze in panic, standing quickly. “Pepper. Sweetheart. Love of my life-” The team looked as unamused as she did, in that moment - fond exasperation seeping through as they watched what was, likely, a regular occurrence.

“Save it.” Pepper bit back, with no real anger. Something hard glinted in her eyes, and she turned to properly face Tony. “Let’s go have a talk, shall we?” She asked, voice sweet but leaving no room for argument. Peter couldn’t help but snicker (and bask in awe, simultaneously) at the sight of the infamous Pepper Potts at work, with her ice-cold glares and fierce control of any situation; it was nice to know that stretched beyond the professional world.

Tony slumped, gulping. “Actually, I’m kind of-”

“Tony.” She intoned.

“Right. Talk. On it, let’s go.” He spun round on his heel, and Pepper joined him in the elevator once more, throwing an apologetic smile over her shoulder as she left, doors sliding shut on the scene.

After a moment, Clint whistled - long and low. “Welp. He’s screwed.” He declared, clapping his hands together with finality. “Think we can still stay in the tower once he’s dead?” Natasha rolled her eyes and flicked his ear in lieu of response.

Despite the obviously joking tone, the whole situation preyed on Peter’s insecurities in a manner he really wasn’t comfortable with. Because of course he was an issue. Of course he was causing trouble just by existing; he always did. He chuckled obediently at Clint’s antics, the sound feeling hollow and broken in his chest. He’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop for the past few days, so why did it hurt so badly now that it was? He hadn’t let himself get used to it, right? Hadn’t allowed himself to open up, to become attached to the team?

But he had. It was a startling realization; one akin to pouring ice water over his head on a hot summer day. He cursed his own weakness - had he not learned a thing ? Everything good was temporary, and by allowing himself to hope, he’d only prolonged the inevitable pain. He’d forgotten one of the most important rules: expect nothing, and it won’t hurt when nothing is what you get. And yet, it was a lie. Because everything always hurt, and there was never a chance to avoid it. Still, he could minimize it - could limit the hope and joy so the empty ache of their absence wouldn’t feel so insurmountable.

Apparently, he’d become too caught up in his own thoughts - as the elevator dinged once more, revealing a sheepish Tony, Pepper nowhere in sight. “She’s unpacking, then she’ll join us in a minute.”

Steve looked over at him. “You didn’t tell her, huh?”

Tony groaned, flopping down onto the couch. “Nope.” He said, upbeat tone laced with exhaustion as he popped the ‘p’. “It… uh, slipped my mind.”

“You didn’t tell your fiancée that you practically adopted a kid?” Clint asked - and Peter bristled at the word, an irrational feeling of fierce defensiveness overcoming him. He swallowed harshly, trying to clear his mind. Tony groaned again, not responding, as Clint snickered. He waved a hand, and the lights dimmed as the film started up again. Ten or so minutes later, Pepper came down and took a seat on the other side of Tony - giving him a disapproving glare before leaning into his side. Tony shifted closer to Peter to make space, giving a questioning look to ensure he wasn’t too close (which, to be honest, warmed his heart) before shooting Peter a look of relief that made him smirk teasingly, earning him an amused eye roll and a tentatively playful nudge.

Bucky looked over as they adjusted their positions. “It’s great to have you back, Pep.” The other team members made various sounds of agreement.

“Great to be back, Buck.” She responded with a smile, before shifting her gaze. “So, Peter. Tony tells me you’re staying at the tower?”

The crashing thoughts in his mind urged him to snap back, something scalding and rude that would prevent her from bridging the distance between them - but he couldn’t; she was, in all honesty, far more terrifying than the fears clouding his brain. So, instead, he just gave another smile - this one slightly stronger, but just as fake as the last. “Uh, yeah. For now, yeah.” He stubbornly ignored the way Tony’s brow furrowed at his wording, pretending he definitely couldn’t see the crinkled skin in the dark light.

“I hope these guys have been good to you?” She prompted, scanning her eyes around the room somewhat. The movie’s sound quietened slightly thanks to FRIDAY (presumably noticing their attention currently aimed elsewhere) now more background noise than anything else.

Peter smirked wickedly. “I mean, the first meeting was pretty… rough.” He paused slightly, a small, intentional emphasis being placed on the word. “But it’s been chill since.” He said, innocently - catching the eyes of both Clint and Steve, who looked, in a word, petrified.

“What happened the first time?” Pepper asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Oh, you know,” Peter continued, casually, “Cap and Barton tried to bring me in.”

“Is that so?” She raised an eyebrow, turning to pin the pair to their seats with her glare. They shifted uncomfortably as Peter bit back a laugh. “I’ll have to speak with them later.” Tony gave him an impressed look, cracking a smile at his actions - and probably glad to have the spotlight shifted off him. Although all of them had neglected to tell Pepper about this, it was obvious the responsibility fell to Tony, as her fiancé, and so he was shouldering that part of the blame.

“Wonderful.” Peter smiled, ignoring the pleading glances from Clint and Steve. “It really is great to meet you, Ms Potts.”

“Please,” she gave a warm smile, “Call me Pepper.”

His heart constricted slightly, mind wandering to MJ and how she’d love to hear about this - before promptly remembering he couldn’t tell her. He kept his voice steady, looking back at the screen to hide the conflicted expression he was sure to be making. “Alright, Pepper.”

Tony threw up his arm, the other one draped around Pepper’s shoulders. “Really? I’ve been trying to get him to call me anything except ‘Stark’ for months, and he's onto ‘Pepper’ from the first five minutes?”

Peter shot Pepper a mischievous smile that implied his actions were anything but unintentional - hopefully covering the reality of it; Pepper reminded him of May, and he could never find it in himself to deny her of something. Tony - he was a larger risk. Peter had found himself drawn to the man, enjoying his company in the workshop, laughing at his witty comments, watching as he interacted fondly with his bots… it was becoming harder and harder to remain distant, and the last thing he wanted to do was get involved, only to have it all ripped away, again .

The movie played on, and his eyelids became heavier; he blinked, and the end credits were playing. With a confused shake of his head, he quickly became aware that he’d shifted positions in his brief lapse into unconsciousness. He frowned, then tilted his head to see-

He stilled, locking eyes with a slyly grinning Tony, before quickly and borderline frantically scrambling back against the armrest. Peter looked around, and saw several of the others watching with fond smiles - damnit, had he really fallen asleep on Tony’s shoulder? That was ridiculously embarrassing. He flushed, remembering the sense of safety he’d woken up with, similar to the times he’d curled up with May or Ned and fallen asleep in the middle of a movie marathon. He really needed to keep that tendency in mind.

“S- sorry.” He mumbled, averting his gaze to the lines of white text on a black screen, hundreds of names scrolling down it.

Tony chuckled, giving a small half-shrug. “I didn’t mind, kid.”

“What’s up next?” Clint asked, grabbing a handful of popcorn. Peter was glad from the redirection of the subject, not wanting to dwell on that whole… situation any longer.

Bruce looked over at him, “Peter, have any suggestions?”

He thought for half a second, before cracking a smile. “Star Wars.” He stated, definitively - feeling especially nostalgic.

“Star Wars?” Tony repeated, looking over at Peter inquisitively.

Peter rolled his eyes and pointed accusingly at the man. “It’s a masterpiece, Stark. Don’t slander the good name of Star Wars.” He paused. “Well, other than the sequels. Those are trash.”

“I don’t think I’ve actually seen those.” Bucky looked thoughtful, and Steve nodded in agreement.

Gasping dramatically, Peter clenched one hand over his chest where his heart would be. “Blasphemy! You must be introduced to their majesty at once!”

The group chuckled, and Tony raised an eyebrow. “You heard him, FRI. Star Wars, skip the sequels.” The screen blipped black, then started up on the film, the familiar tune building and blaring in a comforting manner. Peter settled back into the couch, feeling tired once more as the adrenaline from his embarrassment faded - though still fighting to remain somewhat tense, determined not to let himself repeat the incident. He really didn’t need to end up drooling all over Tony Stark’s shirt.

He sighed, watching as the scenes began to play out. Clint and Tony complained at the characters’ decisions, throwing popcorn at the screen with snarky comments, and Peter joined in when he had the energy and focus to do so, otherwise content to simply laugh - which seemed to egg them on further. Pepper, Bruce and Steve looked on with matching expressions of exasperated fondness that suggested this was a regular occurrence, while Natasha and Bucky stayed mostly neutral, sometimes cutting in with quick-witted jabs. The popcorn slowly depleted as the film wore on, though Peter wasn’t hungry (plus he was still sticking to his meal plan, no matter how useless he thought it’d be in the long run). He felt, for the first time in a long while, sated.

Still, he smiled sadly as memories of binging the films with Ned and, occasionally, MJ, flashed across his mind at every too-familiar joke or source of an inside joke. He grew more tired, and his mind’s defenses wavered, allowing the thoughts to flood in at full-force. His dry eyes prickled at the phantom sounds of laughter and warmth as he crossed his arms, tightening his grip out of frustration. Why couldn’t he just enjoy this moment? Why was it so hard to accept reality and move on? Why-

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Tony watching him with a worried expression, and forced himself to take a deep breath, pushing the thoughts to the side. Live in the now, worry about the rest later. He shot Tony what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and looked back at the screen, feeling even more drowsy with the sudden surge and disappearance of such a harsh blend of emotion.

He vaguely noted time passing in choppier intervals, the movie’s scene order making less sense as he missed longer sections with too-long blinks. Rubbing his eyes, he yawned quietly. He was distantly aware of a warmth close to him, a rough hand absent-mindedly carding through his curls - an action that would’ve put him on high-alert at any other time, but somehow felt comforting and safe at the moment.

It must be May, he concluded blearily, despite how that thought seemed… off. That unique sense of security he was coated in was pretty much exclusive to her - and, even if her hand was bigger and more calloused than he remembered, it felt nice, regardless of the difference. He hummed happily, unconsciously leaning into the touch, unsure of why he felt so very touch-starved - he hugged May all the time, plus Ned, so why did it feel like this sort of proximity was so very foreign? He opted to ignore the thought, far too tired to linger on it further.

At some point, he felt the touch shift and he muttered unhappily at the sudden influx of cold air as the warmth moved from his side. Someone said something or other, but he ignored them. Couldn’t they see he was trying to sleep? Then, he felt arms carefully wrap around him and he burrowed back into the heat, causing vibrations like quiet laughter to emanate off the person. The comforting scent of motor oil and coffee blanketed him, and he gripped a hand into the shirt out of instinct. There was movement, and soft sheets, and then he found himself burying into the squishy surface (a bed?) with another content hum. His fingers caught on the shirt of the person nearby, and he held on for a moment, before allowing his hand to fall down beside him.

He was aware, in the back of his mind, that he was failing in some way. Something in the back of his mind was warning him, saying his resolve was failing; but, in the warmth and comfort of his current situation, he couldn’t find it in himself to care about what that meant.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Peter had bad scar days; not that they changed or worsened in any way, but that they inspired a sense of self-loathing so deep it threatened to consume him. 

On those days, he’d cover up every inch of skin he could - wearing medical masks and pulling his hoodie down low, gloves fastened tightly - and avoid any sort of reflection. If it was particularly bad, he wouldn’t leave the apartment; he’d curl up in a ball and resist the urge to trace every mark, knowing he’d relive them if he did so.

He’d awoken, unsurprisingly, from a nightmare - though it wasn’t as bad as they had a tendency to be, for whatever reason ( motor oil and coffee, warm safety ). Still, that didn’t mean it didn’t absolutely suck ; it just meant it took slightly less time than usual to calm himself down and get back to reality. Then, he’d remembered his actions (falling asleep momentarily on Tony’s shoulder) and felt completely embarrassed. To top it off, he was in his bed, and he didn’t remember moving from the couch, which meant… ( arms, warmth, a steady heartbeat ) he’d been carried. Like a child .

With a groan, he’d thrown off the duvet and gone to the door to the bathroom, not wanting to be alone to dwell on the situation any further, but wanting to shower and rid himself of the acrid scent of sweat first - only to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the sink, standing under the weak starlight creeping in from the window. He’d frozen, shirt clenched in one hand, and known .

One glance at the tapestry of scars, and he knew; the bile rising in his throat was indicator enough. It was almost laughable, in the end - that seeing his own bare skin could bring such utter repulsion . At least, it would be amusing, were it not so devastating. He’d never exactly been a poster child for self confidence, sure - but he wondered, sometimes, where the self-hatred had come from. Once he’d noticed it, it’d already dug its roots into his heart and lay claim to him; he didn’t know how to get rid of it, didn’t know if he could .

He’d left the bathroom immediately (knowing there was no way he would be removing any more clothing at the moment - not when that meant exposing more skin) and slumped down into a corner, staring at his shaking hands where they were silhouetted by the dull light. Then, he’d torn his gaze from them - unable to even look at the small ones there - and leaned his head back against the wall, shaking with what could be either suppressed sobs or laughter; he wasn’t sure.

It wasn’t like he was ashamed of them, (ok, well - some of them were a different story in that respect) but each scar reminded him of his weakness; his inability to protect himself - or, worse, someone else. The thought carved into his mind, and he fought to ignore it. The bad scar days weren’t that bad. He could handle it. And then he caught a glimpse of the hand he’d draped across his eyes. He lifted it away jerkily, only to have his sleeve fall slightly down his arm, revealing a scar that fit exactly what he’d been torturing himself over.

Running down his wrist, and slightly onto his forearm, was a jagged section of rough skin. He shuddered, unable to tear his eyes from the sight. It was so small, so seemingly insignificant that it made him physically nauseous. He curled further into himself on his spot on the floor, trying to hold back bile as the memories came flooding to the surface.

A man was cradling a child close to his chest, soothing the distraught toddler. There was a gun and a store and the pavement reminded him of Uncle Ben and he couldn’t move- and then there was a gunshot. He cried out, a strangled, horrific noise- but it was too late. Never fast enough. Never strong enough-

His eyes flickered to another wound-

Falling- she’d jumped, and she was falling and he couldn’t catch her and she was going to die. He was too late, too slow- never fast enough. Never good enough. He didn’t even know her but he couldn’t just let her die-

-and another.

Screeching cars. Crunching bones. The smell of blood and metal intertwining in the air, leaving him unsure of what was the coppery scent of death and what was the twisting, creaking wreck. And they were dead. A body lay, limp and lifeless-

-and then another.

The smell of burnt flesh crept into his nose, and what was worse than the screaming, the pleading- was the silence. The whimpers that faded into nothing. He turned a corner to see a charred body, surrounded by a wall of flames-

He gagged at the memory, breath hitching, and slammed his arm down beside him - tugging his shirt down with intense ferocity. He tried to calm his racing heart, bracing his head between his knees and gulping for breath.

So; maybe bad scar days weren’t great. But he could deal with it! He didn’t need help. He didn’t. He’d managed by himself for long enough, and he’d developed a system; ride it out. Sure, people would probably say it wasn’t the healthiest coping mechanism - but he didn’t have a choice. He didn’t have the luxury to do otherwise; it wasn’t like he could afford a therapist.

But then a knock sounded at his door, and he was ripped from his delusion - reminded that he could no longer hide away for the entire day with no one noticing. He chuckled, humorless and weak, licked his dry lips, and listened to the heartbeat. Natasha . He glanced over at the clock. 4:57am . Ah, he must’ve been sitting there for longer than he’d realised; he was never this late - it was edging on Steve’s running time, rather than assassin-hot chocolate-bonding-time. Another knock, and a voice.

“Peter?” Natasha asked, soft but loud enough to be heard. “Are you alright? FRIDAY said you’re awake.”

Hm. So that solved that mystery (why she’d come, since he could’ve been sleeping otherwise - and, that being rare as it was, he doubted she’d interrupt readily). He blinked, realizing he had yet to answer, and cleared his throat - trying to keep his tone steady. “I’m fine.” Welp, failed there. His voice was ragged and his tone hard, for no apparent reason (to her). Still, he wasn’t about to offer up anything more without prompting.

“You sure?” She said, after a moment, doubt obvious in her voice. “Can I come in?”

“No.” He bit out, voice low. “I’m fine. Just go away .” He waited a moment, taking a few deep breaths - before speaking again, softer than before. “FRIDAY? Lock the door. Don’t let anyone in unless I say so.”

“As you wish.” FRIDAY sounded reluctant, but he ignored it. “However-”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved it off, knowing what she was going to say. “Emergency access, Stark, et cetera, et cetera.” He heard a conversation outside the door (which he ignored, too tired to care), and then listened to the defeated sigh that let him know FRIDAY had relayed the message.

“Alright.” Natasha said, voice strange and muffled by the door,  “I’ll leave you alone, but I’m coming back later.”

With another huffed laugh, just as dry and humorless as the last, he listened as her footsteps receded down the hall. Alone. How could he forget that he was alone? In the end, no matter what, he was well and truly alone . He chuckled, stilted and short, growing until they were bordering on manic gasps of air, shoulders shaking with the force of it. Dropping his head into his hands, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until colors danced in the darkness beneath his eyelids. He was hyper-aware of every scar on them as he roughly palmed at his face, feeling raised parts of skin marked by old injuries catch against each other irritatingly.

He let his hands fall to his sides, one leg drawn up to his chest and the other stretched in front of him as he stared at the ceiling, laughing painfully. It was harder than usual to see the point to anything, on these sorts of days. He remembered being an optimist, once; his friends had smiled fondly and shook their heads at his bright-eyed hope; May ruffled his hair with a small upwards tilt to her lips, telling him never to lose that quality - that too many people lost faith in the world, and positivity was direly needed.

It made him wonder what she’d think of him now, broken as he was; shattered into a thousand pieces and constantly distrustful. He should’ve known better, really - unfaltering optimism was a byproduct of being shielded from the world, and it’d begun to fade since he was young. And yet, he’d clung to it for so very long - even when Ben died. Some sliver of it survived when May died, too, somehow . But now? It was gone. Burnt to a crisp and stamped out beneath his foot with no hope of being rekindled.

What other parts of him were gone or irreparably damaged? He wondered, with a hint of bitterness. Did it even matter anymore? Hadn’t Peter Parker died long ago, leaving behind an empty husk whose only purpose was to be Spider-Man, to save people? But if that was so, why did these people seem to care about Peter and not Spider-Man? They hadn’t even made him go out on patrol or help them out on a mission yet; in fact, they’d done the opposite. Nearly a week with no sign of his suit being finished, or any promises over when he could begin again.

His mind went blissfully blank, suddenly clearing of all his many thoughts. Instead, he became focused on his surroundings; the sounds of traffic down below thundered into his ears, barely muted by the distance or the tonnes of steel and stone between him and them. It was comforting and terrifying and everything and nothing all at once. His thoughts washed over him alongside the sensations as he sat, unbothered by either one. He rubbed the material of his sweatpants between two fingers absently, feeling the threads connecting together in a criss crossing pattern that wove together to form the fabric.

Some time had passed when he heard yet another knock on his door (he’d, yet again, failed to hear them approaching - and wasn’t that a lovely thought, that he was allowing people to sneak up on him). It was the sound of bone, veiled by flesh and skin, impacting with dense wood; he could feel the faint vibrations through the floor, reverberating through his head in a manner far louder than it had any business being. It was a unique sound, as most tend to be; differing based on the type of wood, the grain, the positioning; it was an odd comfort, to be able to distinguish so much from so little. Well, what others would describe as little information - to him, it was a perfect cacophony of inputs that led him swiftly to one conclusion or another.

He could easily tell this person was different from the last. He tilted his head reflexively, ear turned slightly to the door despite being able to hear just as well either way - a remnant of his non-enhanced days - and took a moment to pinpoint the person’s heartbeat. Dr Banner . Huh. He wondered what the Hulk’s heart would sound like, what his breathing and internal processes and the symphony his being could create, simply by existing; the world was full of these hidden songs, ones that mapped out a person’s self and placed them apart from another. Their heartbeat, their hesitation, the slight hitching of a breath at different moments; it was all very telling.

“Hey, Peter?” Bruce’s voice cut through the silence, confirming Peter’s suspicions. He was getting good at differentiating their heartbeats - that was good, at least. “You planning on coming out? We’re kind of worried out here.”

Peter could’ve scoffed (had he not been so drained and empty). Worried? Why would they care ? They barely even knew him; he was some random vigilante who happened to be a kid whom they took upon themselves to feed and clothe for… he didn’t know how long this arrangement would last - until they didn’t feel quite so bad over kicking him out? Until he wasn’t wasting away, and they wouldn’t have to deal with the guilt of him keeling over the second he left? That’s all it boiled down to, in the end, wasn’t it? Guilt, self-righteousness and hero complexes. Well, he conceded, they were superheroes after all, it’d be strange if they didn’t have hero complexes. Still, the point stands, he thought petulantly, though remaining somewhat detached from himself.

“Peter?” The voice came again, prompting him to speak. Ah, yes. Right. Speech. That was a thing he should probably figure out. A response of some sort? Something to get them to leave him alone?

“‘m fine, Dr Banner,” he forced out, jaw stilted and awkward - hoping that wasn’t conveyed through his voice. “Just… tired.” He finished the short sentence lamely, too sapped to weave an elaborate lie. “Gonna stay here, today. All’s good, no worries.” He was shooting for casual and upbeat and, he was painfully aware, missing by a mile. Hopefully, though, Bruce wouldn’t call him out on it.

“... Uhuh .” No such luck, then. Bruce’s tone was disbelieving and laced with concern. “Sorry, Peter, you can’t stay in there all day. Come on, we saved you some breakfast.” That prompted Peter to glance over at the clock. 11:09am . Huh.

Time passed in such odd ways; an hour in a particularly boring class used to feel like a lifetime, while six of them had flitted by in an instant - shrouded in whirling thoughts. Time had started feeling a lot less linear, ever since school no longer outlined his weeks; on the streets, it didn’t tend to matter whether it was a Tuesday or a Friday, unless he was remembering which places were safe to scavenge from on that particular day. Even so, he never worried too much - the days blended together and he couldn’t find it within himself to care.

Hours were much the same; what did it matter whether he ate for the first time that day at 4am or 2pm? It never had, when he was caring for himself. Now, it was all schedules and regimens - and it was hard to adjust to, after a year of following the vague guidelines of his day. Sure, sometimes he’d need to arrive on time to work - but, other than that, why worry?

“Peter?” The voice brought him from his thoughts once more, and he sighed. They obviously weren’t giving up - for whatever reason - so there wasn’t much point in resisting. He supposed he should probably be hungry, too. He glanced down at his torso, tilting his head as if to confirm his hunger, and rubbed a weary hand over his face.

“Yeah,” Peter said, just loud enough to be heard from outside the door, “yeah, I’m coming. Give me a sec.” He vaguely registered an affirmative sound as he pushed himself up, leaning on the wall for support as his legs stretched and ached their complaints at how they’d cramped. He ambled over to the dresser, grabbing an oversized hoodie and tugging it on harshly, pulling the hood low over his eyes and the sleeves over his hands - covering as much skin as possible without raising further questions (such as, why the hell are you wearing gloves/a mask/sunglasses inside? ) that he really wasn’t in the mood to answer. Hell, he wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, let alone answer any irritating questions - but he knew refusing to leave would only bring more of that, so, into the fire it was.

Still, he found himself desperately missing the supply of gloves, medical masks, and other such paraphernalia he’d had at the apartment for these days - whether they were so he didn’t have to see his own skin, or if he had to go outside (like for his ‘job’, he’d learnt his lesson the first time he skipped work on a day like this, and had very nearly been ‘fired’ - not that it mattered now, of course; he’d pushed too far, been late one too many times, fucked up again-).

He pushed the thoughts back - not gone, but shifting on the edges of his mind - and slowly walked over to the door, pulling it open and reluctantly stepping out. He locked eyes with Bruce for a moment, then winced uncomfortably and looked away, tugging the hood a tad lower. Instead, Peter offered a small half-wave, half-salute and a sad excuse for an attempt at a smile - one that turned out more as a grimace - before giving up and allowing his face to settle into apathy at the world and badly-concealed hatred at himself. He knew his eyes were expressive, he just hoped (if anyone caught a glimpse under the hood) they’d assume the disgust was aimed elsewhere - like at them, instead - seeing as his distaste for others tended to be obvious, at times.

That, too, wasn’t entirely true. He used to really like people - he enjoyed their company, liked talking and laughing with loved ones; it was his newfound (or not so, seeing as it was over a year in the making) distrust that hampered his joy at speaking to people, especially strangers and acquaintances. Which is all the Avengers were, really - people he knew in some respect, and happened to have worked with a few times. Nothing more. He steadfastly ignored how it seemed like he was trying to convince himself of that fact, opting to take it at surface level.

Bruce frowned at him - not in an annoyed fashion, but with concern, instead. It was a look Peter was starting to familiarize himself with again, after so long without it truly being directed at him; not the random homeless kid, not the bleeding vigilante, but Peter Parker. And it was, as so many things were seeming to be nowadays, bittersweet - tinged with the remnants of an old life full of love and care, tainted by the pity-filled eyes of passersby and the seemingly endless days where he didn’t seem to matter to anyone.

“How’re you feeling?” Bruce asked, as they began to walk down the hall towards the kitchen - Peter’s enhanced hearing picking up the sounds of people in that area. Peter shrugged in response, resisting the urge to tug at the hood once again. Bruce raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, and Peter didn’t miss the way his gaze quickly dropped and raised again, glancing over him in an analyzing manner that made Peter suppress a shudder. Then, the calculating look in Bruce’s eyes softened as he pinpointed… something.

They walked in silence for another moment, nearing the threshold when Bruce stopped. “I just wanted to say,” Bruce started, obviously trying to formulate the right words. Peter controlled his breathing, trying to prevent a skeptical sigh from escaping his lips as he waited out the awkward pause. “I know how it is, to not want to see yourself,” (well, color Peter shocked - not that he had the energy nor emotional capacity to show it at the moment) “and it’s tough. I won’t pretend to know all the nuances of your situation, but I’m here - we’re all here - if you need to talk. We’re a team.” ( Except me , Peter thought, matter-of-factly, but with no lack of bitterness.) “That’s what we do. We’re all a bit messed up.”

Peter stood for a moment, collecting his thoughts and preparing for an onslaught of hyper-active superheroes who seemed far too insistent on getting involved with his issues, for whatever reason. He tried to ignore the warmth Bruce’s words brought, tried not to dwell on how and when he started feeling assured by these people’s presence and kind words. Then he nodded, still not meeting Bruce’s eyes, and tried to string together a sentence in his mind. It wasn’t worth the effort, though - not at these empty promises - so he settled on very few words in a curt tone, though unable to stop the light gratitude at the sentiment from slipping through. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Bruce looked unconvinced, but Peter stepped past him before he could say anything more, walking into the connected kitchen-living room area. He made to ignore the kitchen altogether - a vast hollow feeling making the thought of eating feel nauseating - but relented at Bruce’s pointed look, rolling his eyes and grabbing an apple. Taking a bite, he made a ‘ you happy now?’ expression at the man, who responded with a dissatisfied look and a sigh - but otherwise didn’t say anything. Once more, Peter tried to quash the warmth rising in his throat at the small gesture - this was made easier by the sickeningly sweet juice the apple bled into his mouth and the bile that momentarily threatened his throat, causing him to scowl in annoyance. Still, he swiftly finished the apple in a few more bites under Bruce’s watchful eye, and discarded what was left into the trash with little ceremony once the older man had turned to walk into the living area, satisfied enough by that.

Stepping over to the tap, Peter washed out his mouth with water, running his tongue over his teeth and mouth with growing irritation - he really wished the only toothpaste in his room wasn’t mint . Even living on the streets he’d sometimes managed to acquire dental hygiene products - including non-mint toothpaste - and had rationed them in order to make them last longer. He’d always hated the taste and feel of an unclean mouth, and that had only intensified after the spider bite; his enhanced senses weren’t limited only to sight and hearing, after all - he could feel every bit of food stuck in his mouth in extreme detail, and taste his meals for a long while after.

“Hey, Peter!” A call came from the connected living room area. Said teen sighed, shifting his gaze over to the source of the sound to see Steve, Bucky, Natasha, and now Bruce, sitting on the various couches and chairs, working on various things. Natasha was sharpening a frankly terrifying set of knives; Steve was drawing in a small sketchbook, Bucky appearing to be his muse, judging by his sly grin; Bruce was staring intently down at a StarkPad and writing notes. However, all but Bruce had now turned to look at Peter, Steve being the one to speak. “Glad you’re finally joining us,” he continued, wearing a grin filled with utter sincerity, no malice in sight - earning a wince from Peter at the unknowing jab, and a sharp kick from Natasha. “Hey- ow!” Steve yelped, looking over at Natasha in confusion, only for her to glare just as sharply.

“Ignore this idiot,” Natasha gestured at Steve. “You feeling alright?” She tilted her head slightly, narrowing her eyes somewhat in a rare display of emotion - concern. Peter ignored the urge to roll his eyes and groan. Loudly. He was already getting sick of that question, and he had a feeling he was going to be hearing it a lot more in the coming hours - but he didn’t have the energy to throw together a facade that could pass as anywhere near believable, so he’d have to grin and bear it.

“Peachy keen, spider queen,” he drawled, trying to inject upbeat optimism into his tone - and failing miserably, ending with a strange combination of monotonous enthusiasm. To hell with it . He growled, internally. They wanted to drag him out on one of these days? They could deal with the consequences; maybe they’d finally get sick of him and demand he leave - surely he’d outstayed his welcome already? No matter. He dropped the pretenses, uncaring of the social niceties he’d been taught to conform to.

Steve gave him a doubtful look with a furrowed brow, and Peter couldn’t resist the urge to reach up and tug his hood slightly - though it couldn’t go down any further, it reassured him to know it was still firmly in place. It was stupid and illogical, he knew; his face was (somehow, thankfully ) one of the least scarred regions of his body, and they’d already seen it many times - and yet, right now, their curious glances would feel like judgemental glares through slitted eyes. He knew that all too well, and he wasn’t up to dealing with his own constant anxieties and insecurities at the moment. The clothes were like a barrier, a shield protecting him from watchful eyes and knowing looks.

“Come, sit with us,” Natasha offered softly, gesturing to the sitting area. Peter sighed internally and made his way over, sitting on a lone armchair - as removed as he could be from the others. Natasha raised an eyebrow at the action, but said nothing, turning back to sharpening her knives.

Bruce looked over at Peter and gestured for him to come closer - which, with a raised eyebrow, he did. He stood and headed over to the armchair Bruce was on and cocked his head questioningly. “You like science, right?” Bruce asked. Peter nodded. “Could you take a look at this? I’ve been having some trouble with a part of the formula.”

“And you’re asking me? ” Peter said, with no lack of disbelief. “Dr Banner, you have seven PhDs. I’m a sixteen-year-old dropout.” His tone was flat and doubtful.

“Tony says you’re smart, and if he’s saying it, you must be seriously impressive. Borderline genius, from what I've heard.” Bruce explained, matter-of-factly. “I don’t care about your age, or your background in education - smart is smart. Now take a look.”

Peter shrugged and complied, stepping around and taking the Starkpad, narrowing his eyes at the formula on the screen, where Bruce pointed out the issue he was having. It happened to link into one of the last works of Bruce’s that he’d read at the library, and he quickly found the problem - one he’d been planning on emailing Bruce about as Dr Richardson, in fact. He circled it, made a few notes, and handed the StarkPad back. “There was an error, yeah, but if you change the entire section you can achieve what you’re trying to a lot easier. That whole part just adds unnecessary difficulties.”

He walked back over to the other armchair, stomach churning, as Bruce looked down at his corrections. This was one of his biggest idols; Peter couldn’t forgive himself if he messed something up, or embarrassed himself in front of him. Still, he maintained his devil-may-care attitude as he stretched out on the comfortable material of the armchair.

“Wow, Peter,” Bruce said, after a minute. “Wow, this is… Tony was right about you. You’re crazy smart.” Peter felt a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth, satisfied that he hadn’t made a fool of himself. “I’d love to steal you to work together in my labs sometimes, if that’s something you’re interested in.”

Despite himself, Peter felt his tension bleed out slightly; he was alright. He was around people, talking to them, and nothing bad was happening. Everything was fine. He was finding it hard to keep his resolve and remain stubborn. He sighed internally. “That would be awesome, Dr Banner.” Bruce smiled and nodded, before turning back to his work.

Peter settled back into the armchair, unsure of what to do other than think - and he really didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts at the moment; even if he wasn’t physically alone, the point still stood. So, he turned to Steve. If they were going to drag him out of his room, he could at least bother them to keep busy. “Whatcha drawing?”

Steve looked up from his page, and smiled. “Buck’s being my inspiration today.” Bucky grinned and nodded, “He used to do it all the time back home, so it’s a bit of nostalgia.” Peter’s heart stung painfully at the thought of nostalgia, still feeling the aftereffects of movie night and the intense desire for the past it had sparked.

Instead of voicing any of that, he nodded. “Cool. Can I see?” Steve showed him the page, currently covered with a half-finished drawing of Bucky, the light captured expertly as it fell across his face, highlighting his eye, and glinted off his metal arm. Peter felt his smile grow. “That’s awesome. I have this friend, she always loves drawing people in their ‘times of crisis’.” He shook his head fondly. “She pretends to be cold, but really she-” He froze mid sentence, heart suddenly constricted in a vice as memories flooded his mind - warm and cozy and filled with longing. His face fell, and he leaned back in his seat, his voice going flat. “Anyway… yeah.”

The sad smile on Steve’s face - echoed by Bucky - was a tad too understanding for Peter’s taste, so he turned away and tugged his hood down from where it had started to move. Steve seemed like he was about to speak, and Peter shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

Luckily for him, Peter was saved from the awkward atmosphere by the elevator doors opening with a ding, and then- “Clint!” The sound of Tony yelling reverberated through the room, drawing everyone’s attention. Peter startled only mildly, having heard the approach of the elevator, and Tony with it. Peter glanced upwards in amusement at the area of the vents in which he’d heard rustling and Clint’s heartbeat in for the past few minutes, wondering what the hell he’d done to piss off Tony this time. Peter had noticed a friendly rivalry (and been told of past prank wars - now banned by Pepper after a particularly disastrous incident involving shaving cream and glitter) between the two, poking fun at each other almost as often as at other people.

Peter’s mouth split into a smirk as he caught sight of Tony, covered in stray bits of a foamy substance dripping down an AC/DC shirt, clinging to his frayed jeans and littering his hair. Natasha smirked similarly, while Bucky snorted loudly. Bruce looked up once, laughed shortly, and looked away, shaking his head. Steve sighed, though he was clearly entertained - a small smile playing on his lips. “What’d he do this time?”

Tony gestured furiously up and down himself. “‘ What did he do? ’ You ask? ‘What. did. he. do? ’ Oh, he only stole his own work-in-progress arrows and filled them with a childish concoction before firing them at me and my workshop from the vents !” He punctuated his sentence by flinging his arms out as he gesticulated his statements. “I’m going to kill him,” he ground out through gritted teeth - though it was clear that the situation wasn’t serious.

“Serves you right,” Bucky commented, with a wry grin. “Shouldn’t have left them where Clint could get a hold of them.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow as Tony spluttered. “Bucky’s right,” she said, lips tilting upwards in a half-smile. “I thought you learned your lesson last time? Clint-proof your workshop.”

Peter noted a muffled snicker from the vents, and looked over at Bucky - whom he knew had heard the same thing he had, with his own enhanced hearing. A mischievous smile spread across the man’s face, and he spoke his next words with purpose, like reciting a line in a play. “I second that. You really need to child-proof your workshop.”

There was another, slightly louder, noise from the vent - and the cover popped off, Clint’s head hanging down with an irritated scowl plastered across it. “Hey! What about Peter over there? He’s a literal child!”

Narrowing his eyes, Peter crossed his arms across his chest and shot a venomous look he knew was diminished by the hood shielding his face. “Care to repeat that, Barton ?” He asked, daringly.

Clint turned to Peter, staring blankly for a moment. “Uhhh..” he said, eloquently, then, apparently, decided it was the best course of action to double down. “I mean, it’s true! You’re a minor, and you were totally adorable last night. Like a little baby koala!” He beamed happily, and Bucky snorted.

Peter’s eyes went wide, and he quickly began sifting through his memories for whatever Clint was referring to - Ah . He’d fallen asleep on Tony’s shoulder briefly - still, that wasn’t much, what else… He flushed, tugging his sleeves down further. Right. The vague memories of comfort, the whole waking up in a different room thing… he’d been carried, and he always had a tendency to get cuddly when he was tired. He made a noise of protest in his throat, shooting Clint what was meant as a withering glare, but only encouraged a gleeful, impish smile.

“It’s true, kid,” Tony said, with an amused smirk, the irritation at Clint momentarily forgotten as they teamed up to embarrass Peter. “You have a hell of a grip, even when you’re half-asleep.” Peter flushed further at the realization that it was Tony, of all people, who’d carry him. Most of his hero worship was gone, sure, but it was still Tony Stark ; the billionaire genius superhero. It was hard not to admire him in some way, and even more so when he’d spent a good 10 years of his life borderline idolizing the guy - that sort of thing didn’t just disappear without a trace. The point was, the whole situation was mortifying.

With a groan, Peter tilted his head back in distress. “That didn’t happen, you have no proof.” He pointed accusingly at Tony, then swiftly reached up to tug his hood back into place in a way he hoped was subtle (but probably wasn’t, judging by the look on Natasha’s face - though she was able to discern things more easily than the others, so maybe it was). He narrowed his eyes. “Liar.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, seeming to take that as a challenge. “FRIDAY?” He asked, casually. Peter froze as he remembered the cameras in the Tower. “Could you play the footage of-”

“Nope!” Peter interrupted, holding his arms out and waving his hands frantically to stop him. “No, it’s fine - I believe you! No need for proof!” At the glint of mischief in Tony’s eyes, he opted for a different strategy. “You came for Barton, right? He took the unfinished arrows or something, didn’t he?” As Tony shifted his accusatory gaze to Clint, Peter let out a sigh of relief at having saved himself the embarrassment of watching himself cling to Tony Stark .

“Barton…” Tony growled, crossing his arms. “You can’t distract me that easily. Arrows. Now.” He extended one hand, palm up, the other remaining at his chest.

“Hmmm,” Clint pretended to think, tapping his chin with the fletching of one of his arrows. Then, a sly smile spread over his face. “Nah, I think I’m good.” He notched an arrow to his bow in a swift movement, letting it fly in almost the same instant. It cut through the air and struck the wall near Tony, exploding in foam that splattered over his form. Clint chuckled maniacally, notching another arrow, but not letting go just yet.

Steve chuckled slightly, obviously containing some of his amusement, as Bucky began to full-out laugh beside him. Natasha, on the other hand, simply raised an eyebrow at Clint. “Any of that gets on me and you’re dead, Clint.” She punctuated her sentence with a sharp flick down the blade of the knife she was sharpening, before placing it gently in a protected pouch with the others. At the same time, Bruce shook his head fondly at the antics, clicking off his StarkPad - both him and Natasha probably anticipating the chaos that was about to break out.

“What even is that stuff?” Steve asked, perplexed and staring intently at the substance.

Clint giggled. “You know those baking soda volcanoes? It’s that stuff!” 

“You mean the ones 7th graders make for their science fairs?” Natasha asked, unimpressed but obviously enjoying herself.

“See? Child .” Bucky stated, spreading his arms in an ‘ I told you so ’ gesture. The others reacted accordingly, with entertained looks and indignant sounds from the team and Clint respectively. Peter, on the other hand, frowned. Alarm bells were ringing in his head, and his spidey sense had jumped to a shrill noise in the back of his mind, hairs on his neck standing on end. He couldn’t tell what had set it off, but he was feeling - all of a sudden - extremely jumpy and on edge.

Clint scowled, and fired another arrow - this one landing next to Bucky and spraying both him and Steve with the foam. Steve spluttered incoherently as Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Oh it’s on .” He grinned, showing his teeth, then glanced over at Tony. “Let’s get him.”

Tony smiled and nodded, pulling out his phone from his pocket. “Hell yeah.” He began flicking through something on it, but Peter wasn’t paying attention. He was too busy trying to figure out why the hell his spidey sense was reacting so harshly. Was it an attack? A malfunction in the tech? A faulty response to the joking battle about to take place? Above him, Clint notched a third arrow to his bow, aiming for near Bucky - who had stood and was now close to Peter himself.

His spidey sense screamed as the piece dropped into place. Baking soda. Volcanoes. Vinegar. Vinegar kills spiders . His mind supplied, too late. After the mint incident, he’d done some research into what was harmful to spiders, and he’d quickly made note of vinegar - seeing as it didn’t just hurt or scare away arachnids, it killed them. Who knew what it could do to him? He was glad for his foresight in the months that followed, because he never knew how many things contained it. He’d had one incident where a bit had gotten on him and it was horrible ; he never wanted to go through that again.

“ Wait! ” He called out, throwing an arm out in a reflexive defensive action - just as Clint let go of the arrow. “Holy shit -” There was no time to dodge, nowhere to hide; so, instead, he braced against the arm of the couch, turning his head and wincing. A moment later, a wave of foam crashed into him and, when some of it made contact with his left hand, he screamed . The pain was unbelievable - it felt burning hot and ice cold at the same time, like it was eating into his skin. He registered, with an odd sense of detachment, that it was beginning to soak into his hoodie and through to his shirt and no he couldn’t let that happen it would bring pain pain so much pain-

Without more than a moment’s thought, he tugged the hoodie off himself, choking back a yelp as it made contact with his injured hand (why was it always that hand ?) and then, as he felt the substance had already soaked somewhat into his shirt, pulled that off as well. He shuddered, stumbling away from the foam and the clothes and the pain pain pain -

“Fucking hell, Peter - what’s wrong?” Peter’s eyes snapped up to see Bucky staring worriedly. His eyes flitted around the room - Tony was pale, hand held still over the screen of his phone; Natasha was sitting up straight, alert, with a worried look in her eyes; the others in similar states of concern and panic. Then, his eyes landed on Clint - who looked horrified. But then, Peter followed his gaze not to his hand but-

Oh shit. “Shit. Shit shit shit. Shit.” He bit out, the self-deprecating thoughts returning in full force when he glanced down at his torso - his bare torso, which was now displaying his many scars for all to see. Clint, in particular, was staring at one on his arm - the one left by the arrow during the incident those months prior. He pulled his arms in instinctively, trying to cover his chest - only to wince and hiss at the jolt of pain, tugging his  injured left hand away again. “Fucking vinegar.” He swore, before making to fast-walk to his room. A hand reached out and grasped his upper arm, causing him to snarl and rip it out of the grip. “Don’t fucking touch me.” He hissed at Bucky, who recoiled with an apologetic look in his eyes and something about medical care - which Peter promptly ignored. Then, he swiftly turned on his heel and stalked down the hall, thoughts whirling dangerously with self-hatred and memories - first, the same as before;

A man cradling a child close to his chest-  

He couldn’t catch her and she was going to die. He was too late, too slow- 

Screeching cars. Crunching bones-

A charred body, surrounded by a wall of flames-

And then, as his gaze involuntarily flitted over the canvas of his skin, others;

A circular scar near his hip, from a pipe in a collapsed building. Heavy rubble, pushing down on his lungs-

An ugly gash that must’ve been a gaping wound at the time. His web shooter malfunctioned and he was swinging, flailing, crashing -

He gripped the doorknob to his room tightly, and then hissed in pain; he’d used the wrong hand. He scowled, and used his other hand, ignoring the way the metal contorted slightly with the force, walking in and slamming the door roughly behind him. With the aching, stinging pain of his hand, he had little choice but to head to the bathroom and hope there was some form of medical supplies he could utilize. He stepped onto the cool tiles, feeling their lack of heat through his socks, and began the task of carefully washing the injury with cold water, hissing and wincing at every sharp twinge of pain.

Opening the cupboard doors under the skin, his scowl deepened at the distinct lack of any sort of first-aid kit. Still, he had experience dealing with wounds and no proper supplies - he could get through it. He walked out into the bedroom and grabbed the roll of bandages he’d been using for the punching bagsr; he gently wrapped his hand with them, though tight enough to avoid unnecessary movement that was sure to cause pain, and then walked back into the bathroom. He gulped down water from the tap, trying to rid his senses of the foul odor of the vinegar concoction.

Looking up, he caught a glimpse of his bare chest in the mirror and stilled. Damnit. Damnit . He felt his hands balling into fists, the pain this caused his injury feeling muted behind the deep self-hatred currently consuming his mind. The nails on his good hand began to dip into his palm, and he let out a shuddery breath, not breaking eye contact with his self in the mirror. The thoughts began to bubble up again, alongside the deep-seated anger curling around his gut.

Failure. Coward. 

He shook his head once, sharply - more of a jerking motion than anything - as he attempted to clear his mind, but to no avail.

Weak. Disappointment.

His eyes stung, feeling dry and yet plagued with phantom tears that never rose far enough to fall.  

Worthless. Useless.

Damn it all to hell! He’d already been having a bad day, and then the Avengers saw his goddamn scars; now, what? He was wallowing in self-pity?

Scum. Idiot.

No. Self- hatred . Was that any better? He doubted it, somehow.

Repulsive.

The word clawed above all the others, and his mind clouded with irritation at himself. Why was he so useless? So weak and repulsive? The thoughts swirled stronger and stronger until-

Crack .

Glass splintered his fist, tendrils of cracks splaying out from where he’d struck it; the mirror remained intact for one shivering, shining moment and then - it shattered. Shards of glass rained down on his arm, leaving small cuts across his skin, rivulets of blood streaming down and dripping into the sink - staining the white tile crimson. He watched for a moment, breathing harsh and fast as he stared at the place his reflection had been, only moments prior. Then he shifted his gaze to the sink, watching the blood intermingle with the water droplets clinging to the edges of the bowl and rushing down the drain.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d stood there, seething with misplaced anger until it, too, disappeared alongside blood and water. Eventually, he began to move - slow but steady, despite everything. He took a pair of tweezers (one of the only things he’d found in the ensuite) and plucked out each piece of glass embedded in his skin, barely flinching as he did so. Emotions were replaced with a growing sense of hollow apathy that would, perhaps, have frightened him - had it not been for his current inability to feel being the cause of said fear itself; it was a bit of a paradox, in all honesty. He managed to wash the cuts and bandage his hand, along with some of his forearm; they’d be gone soon enough, but he didn’t want to watch as the inevitable scars formed.

Eventually, he moved back into the bedroom, shivering against the slight cold of the air on his bare torso as he sat on the edge of the bed, not bothering to put another shirt on yet - the effort it would take seemed too tiresome. Time passed as he stared blankly at his bandaged appendages - his left hand burning from the vinegar, his right arm itching as the skin knitted itself back together. He assumed there would be more scars than usual, seeing as his healing factor was focused mainly on the burn; another annoying quality of his abilities. Vaguely, he registered a soft knock and then, when he didn’t answer, the gentle sound of the door opening. Ah, right - he’d forgotten to lock it. Oh well, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

“Паук?” The person - Natasha - asked tentatively. It threw him off somewhat, the caring lilt to her voice, far too raw and real than what he’d come to expect from her. In turn, he looked up at her, face blank though his mind was racing; empty and hollow, yet overflowing and loud.

“...Widow.” He acknowledged, mouth dry and words feeling wrong, each letter too large and obtrusive for his tongue. His jaw felt like it did when it was too cold; it took far too much effort to sound out a word, and they tasted bitter. He felt the bed dip as she lowered herself to sit beside him, though far enough not to be intrusive.

She gently reached for his left hand, looking at the bandaging and then at him. “Did you disinfect it?” He shook his head, and she hummed noncommittally. She reached for the tucked end of the bandage slowly, broadcasting her actions so he could retreat or deny if he wanted to - something he was distantly grateful for as she began unraveling. Once she’d taken it all off, apologizing quietly as it peeled where injury met cloth, she opened a small medkit he hadn’t registered she’d brought with her, and began to clean the wound. He hissed at the pain, but made no move to stop her - the sound more an involuntary reaction than a declaration of discomfort or a request to halt, and she seemed to understand that.

Once she’d finished, and rebandaged it with fresh cloth, she tilted her head inquisitively at his other arm - or, more specifically, the bandages on it. “Is that just to make it symmetrical, or some sort of fashion statement or…?” She questioned softly, a small smile quirking the edge of her lips up.

Peter chuckled, but it was hollow and short. His gaze drifted over to the bathroom door as he willed the words into existence. “The bathroom mirror…” He trailed off, staring down at his arms and blinking. “I kinda, uh, punched it.” The word lilted up at the end, making it sound like somewhat of a question, and he winced as he remembered that he’d destroyed the property of a guy who was housing him out of his own free will. “Shit, I broke Stark’s stuff.” He cursed, hands beginning to tremble slightly as he dropped his head into it. Memories entered his mind; the most recent times he’d been living in someone’s house and broke something, even though it had been far more of an accident than this time, it had been… bad. Worse than bad. He’d ended up with bruised ribs and a few new scars - and that had even been before he scarred so very easily.

He only noticed he was struggling to breathe properly when Natasha gently placed a hand on his back, between his shoulder blades (though it was more of a half-hover, giving him space and time to move away) - his breath hitched, and she made to remove it, only for him to relax back into it, closing his eyes tightly as the touch grounded him. As much as touch made him antsy and fearful, he longed for it. Natasha made soft, soothing noises and breathed loud and purposefully - before he knew it, his own breathing had slowed and deepened to match hers, their heartbeats syncing every once in a while; his was still much faster than hers, but it wasn’t racing any longer.

“It’s alright,” she said, so confident that he found himself hard-pressed to disagree. “He’s a literal billionaire, a mirror is nothing to him.” Peter took a deep, shuddery breath, trying hard to agree but finding himself in an odd mid-space between accepting and rejecting her words. She seemed to pick up on that, and continued her reassurances. “Clint breaks at least three things a week, and Tony himself wastes more money on what he breaks out of frustration than should be humanly possible.” He was still anxious, because it was different and they were friends and he was just some random burden and-

“Can I see that one, too?” Her words cut through the fog that had begun to descend, and he blinked a couple times, following her gaze to his injured right arm before nodding slowly. She removed her hand from his back and began undoing his (much more disorganized than the other side due to his inability to properly use his left hand to assist) bandaging. He watched intently as his skin was revealed - unable to look away, like watching a car crash - littered with small new scars, white lines raised above the rest and indicating their recent creation. Natasha, to her credit, didn’t seem too phased, instead searching for those that hadn’t yet healed to disinfect and cover them in bandaids. She found tiny shards of glass that he’d missed and had been being pressed into his skin by the bandages, removing them quickly, and treated those as well.

After a while of this, his left hand was bandaged neat and tight while his right arm was an expanse of skin interspersed with bandaids, a thin bandage wrapped dexterously to cover and bind his knuckles, where the worst of the damage had been. Peter flexed his hands, hissing slightly when he strained the left too far. He stared at his arms blankly, before registering that he should probably express his gratitude somehow ( come on, manners!). “Thanks,” he said, after what was probably a too-long silence, but she took it in stride and gave a small smile.

“It’s no problem,” she said, words sounding truthful, rather than just a formality. “We’re all broken here, remember?” The words cut close to his heart with their accuracy; because he was broken, wasn’t he? Irreversibly, undeniably so - and he would be so forever. Yet, that thought didn’t have the effect he would’ve expected; he wasn’t distraught, or angry, or even numb. He felt… aware. Like he’d acknowledged something that’d been lurking, unseen and ignored, for far too long - something he should have paid attention to and accepted by now.

“Yeah.” Peter croaked, unable to articulate the depth of that statement - still far too delayed in his response than should be acceptable, Natasha didn’t so much as bat an eyelid. The weight beside him shifted, and then lifted. She must be leaving , he thought - and the idea made his heart twist uncomfortably, but he didn’t try to stop her; he didn’t have the right . And yet, moments later, he lifted his gaze to the movement in front of him, and she was still there. He blinked, and registered her holding out a shirt, which he then took and pulled on robotically.

She sat down again, resuming her position next to him, waiting a moment before speaking - and, when she did, her voice was quiet and her tone unexpectant, so he might ignore the inquiry if he so wished. “It’s the scars, isn’t it?” The lilt up at the end suggested a question, but they both knew it was more of a statement of fact than anything else. “They bother you.” This time, she didn’t bother to drape it in pretenses - instead framing it for what it was; the truth. He nodded absently, tracing the raised edges of skin under his long sleeves. Another silence - but they weren’t annoying with Natasha as they had been with the entire team; instead, they were comforting, allowing time and space to end a topic if he desired to.

“I have a lot of scars, too,” Natasha offered, watching his face - probably to check whether this was the best approach to take, or if he’d be offended at her shifting it to herself. Seeming to conclude that he didn’t mind (which he didn’t, he was glad for the companionship in his pain), she continued, turning her gaze to her own clothed arms. “I used to hate them, hate myself because of them. I thought they meant I wasn’t perfect, that I would be thrown away because of them.” She took a centering breath, closing her eyes gently. “It took me a long time to realize that wasn’t true, and sometimes it still feels like it is. But they all help me, Clint especially. We give each other the support we need.” She looked at him, the look in her eyes soft and caring.

He didn’t respond initially, instead dropping his gaze to his arm, where his finger was tracing one of his longer scars. He pushed away the thoughts screaming at him that it was all temporary; that he should protect himself; that he was only harming himself by tricking himself into thinking they cared. So what if it was true? He would take what he could get in the here and now, and deal with the rest later. Pausing, he looked back at her and, when he spoke, it was quiet, gentle and unsure but with an undercurrent of strength which mirrored his own physical self; seeming small and weak, but - in reality - stronger than people could imagine. “Alright.”

*

Peter trailed behind Natasha as she walked out into the living space, categorizing the position of each person in his mind as they came into view. They were lounging around on the couches, in similar positions to a few hours prior, except Clint and Tony were there too, and the foam had been completely cleaned away and the atmosphere was notably more tense. It seemed they were attempting to focus on various tasks, but failing miserably (Bruce was staring blankly at the StarkPad, and didn’t seem to have noticed that the screen had fallen asleep).

“I thought we were having a Mario Kart tournament?” Natasha said, crossing her arms and cutting through the silence. The team turned to look at her, relaxing visibly when they saw Peter. 

Luckily, they seemed to pick up on the undercurrent of ‘don’t ask, not right now’ in her words, and didn’t question him; instead, Clint grinned widely - though it was tainted with guilt - and held up a couple of controllers. “Hell yeah! I’ll beat you all,” he declared, getting FRIDAY to turn on the TV and set up the game.

Rolling his eyes, Tony chucked his phone (which he’d been staring at blankly) onto the table and grabbed a controller. “Yeah, right . Over my dead body.” He turned to look at Peter with an easygoing smile, holding one of the controllers up in the air as a suggestion. “Care to join me in destroying Barton?”

With a tentative smile, Peter laughed somewhat - not quite as strained and hollow as he’d expected on a day like today - and walked over, plucking it out of Tony’s hand. “Oh, you’re both going down.”

Tony pressed a hand to his chest in mock betrayal. “ Damn , kid. Throw my hospitality back in my face, will ya?” Peter tensed slightly, but fought to ignore it. He couldn’t freak out over a stupid joke , damnit. “It’s on .”

Peter managed another chuckle, jumping over the back of the couch and settling himself down on the seat - ignoring the surprised, glad expressions when he didn’t place himself in the furthest seat possible, instead opting to sit on the end, in relative proximity to Tony. “Spider reflexes.” He smirked, looking over at the pair, and Bucky, who’d grabbed another controller. “Plus, you’re all old - can’t be that hard to beat you.” That gained several gasps and exclamations of faux anger, as well as small smiles he spied in his peripheral from Natasha and Bruce.

After a few games - in which the winners shifted, but Peter mostly remained victorious - Natasha planted herself on the back of the couch behind Tony, grabbing his controller and declaring that she was taking his place and going to wreck them all. Tony, wisely, didn’t protest - instead opting to engage via attempted sabotage (aimed purely at Clint). Then - after being destroyed by her in several games - Clint dragged Bruce in to play, and Peter gave up his controller, content to watch. He walked over to the kitchen to grab some water, and found his gaze drifting to the raised areas where the bandaids were visible from under his shirt. With a sigh, he took a sip from his glass, reveling in the feeling of the cold liquid trickling down his throat.

“Hey, kid,” came a gentle voice, and Peter turned to see Tony standing nearby with the ghost of a smile on his lips. “How’re you holding up?”

Peter shrugged. “I heal fast.” He knew, of course, that Tony was really referring to his freaking out over his scars - but he didn’t really feel like tainting this moment by talking about it.

Tony, thankfully, gave a knowing nod and followed suit. “That’s good. Speaking of, what happened back there?”

“Vinegar kills spiders.” Peter said, in lieu of an extended explanation.

Tony’s eyes widened. “Shit, Pete.” Despite himself, Peter smiled somewhat at the new nickname. “Anything else like that?”

He shrugged again. “Other than mint, I don’t know. And mint isn’t as bad, but it still sucks.”

The older man nodded, then slowed. “Peter…” He began, raising an eyebrow. “There’s only mint toothpaste in your room, have you..?” He paused at the look on Peter’s face, and sighed. “Alright, no problem. I’ll get you something else. And tell me about these sorts of things, in future.”

Peter furrowed his brow at the casual nature of the offer - one that insinuated him having a place here, a future here - but pushed aside the feeling. “Thanks, Stark. You’re not so bad for a billionaire.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “You’re such a little scoundrel, you know that?” He reached to ruffle Peter’s hair, then froze and retracted the hand, making as though he’d been stretching. Peter chuckled slightly at the attempt, but smiled at the intent.

In response, he nudged Tony’s shoulder as he walked back into the living room. “Yeah, I know.” He ignored the urge to lean into the warmth, to be close to the man and find comfort in having another person nearby - something he’d learnt to suppress. The warmth bubbling in his own chest was a welcome difference from the usual burning cold anger, and left him feeling lighter than he had been in a while. Maybe this whole thing wasn’t so bad, after all.

Chapter Text

December 23rd. The day his life had changed, twelve months prior; whether for the better (as Peter himself would say) or for the worse (as others were sure to think), it was inarguable that he’d been left to pick up the shattered pieces of his life for the third time in a year. Only, this time, it had been him who’d destroyed it in the first place - and he had no regrets.

Well, he had some regrets - a lot of them, in fact. But none of those centered around the moment he’d decided to leave the hell his life had become and take hold of his own fate, even if that meant sleeping on the streets. Some might say he’d traded one hell for another, but Peter knew better. At least on the streets he wasn’t being consistently used as a punching bag for assholes claiming to be ‘looking out’ or ‘caring for’ him; on his own, there was no need for such pretenses. So, two days before Christmas (not that holidays truly meant anything, not anymore - not when the people he’d celebrate with were dead or halfway across the city) he’d done just that, packed his meagre belongings into a ragged, worn duffle bag, pulled on his least stained clothes, and left.

Climbing from the depths wasn’t the grand affair people might’ve thought, and he’d spent his first days - as well as Christmas Day itself - curled up in dark alleyways, brick dust scattering over his clothes and ragged stone digging into his skin as shivers wracked his thin frame. Then the spider bite happened, and his days were suddenly looking better; sure, he was still homeless, still lacking food and proper shelter, as well as gaining what seemed like an insatiable hunger, but… well.

Now, he could spend his days actually helping people, making sure they, at least, could spend another holiday with their loved ones. And he thought that was worth it. He felt worth something, for the first time in a while - he felt like he wasn’t just a ‘waste of space’ like so many people had told him in the previous months. Because he was Spider-Man, and people liked Spider-Man. They needed him. And that? That was all Peter needed. Or, at least, he convinced himself it was all he needed.

Recently, though? Surrounded by unwavering warmth and kindness and honest-to-god concern for his well being? He was starting to see past his own denial, the walls he’d built up around himself for survival being torn down meticulously, one by one. Which was, in a word, terrifying. Because, if they tore down his defences, and then kicked him out? He wasn’t sure he could survive. They were his safety net, his webs to catch him when he fell, his parachute to deploy and stop him from crashing into the ground.

And he desperately needed a parachute; he was plummeting through the air at a thousand miles an hour and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The weightless feeling in his gut could only last so long before the ground rushed up at him and he wasn’t flying anymore - he was falling. The only difference between the two, after all, was that falling had a more… permanent destination. One that was fast approaching, as far as Peter was aware.

So when he woke up in the early hours of December 23rd, plagued by specially tailored nightmares surrounding the night he’d left ( fighting for air- rain pounding on the window- crashing near his head- glass shards embedding in his hair and skin- ) he wasn’t feeling particularly optimistic about the whole thing. Seeing the date blaring loudly at him, etched in the bright blue of the clock, was a wake-up call in more ways than one. What the hell was he doing? What was he thinking, staying with the Avengers for as long as he had, getting used to comfort he couldn’t afford to rely on? Sure, it’d been over a week and they hadn’t kicked him out yet, but it should be coming soon enough - and Peter wasn’t one to sit idly by and let others dictate his life, not anymore.

First things first, though; Spider-Man. After officially the longest break he’d ever taken from his vigilante persona since he began, Peter was feeling antsy, itching to swing around the city and deal with the crime that had inevitably popped up in his absence. People were beginning to worry, too; after a year of a certain web-slinging hero patrolling as daily as possible, theories were ramping up - had Spider-Man given up the mantle? Was he injured? Kidnapped? Dead? Abducted by aliens? And Peter was also, predictably, eager to put an end to those trains of thought. He’d spent a fair amount of time in the workshop with Tony working on the schematics for his new suit and playing around with new web formulas but, so far, with no sign of an actual, physical suit.

Peter was still mulling it all over once the sun had beyond risen; he walked back out to the kitchen with damp hair (having retreated to shower and think after a good few hours of sitting in the kitchen with Bucky and Natasha, and then breakfast) still thinking about it - until he saw Clint and his mind went blank. “What…” Peter started to speak, trailed off, and then sighed in tired acceptance.

Clint looked over and grinned at him from his perch on the back of the couch, where he was attempting to hang tinsel on one of the pillars nearby. “Hi Peter!” He waved with the hand that had been supporting his position, then promptly lost his balance and tripped himself up as he attempted to steady himself by grasping out at Bucky, who was standing close by with an amused expression - and who quickly dodged the hand, sending Clint sprawling to the floor.

Peter winced in sympathy, chuckling and shaking his head. “I find it hard to believe he’s a trained, experienced spy at times like these.”

“Hey!” Clint protested, jumping back up to his feet to glare at Bucky, then swiftly switch targets to Peter at the soldier's withering glare. “I’ll have you know I’m a master spy, thank you very much! I’m cool.” He smirked and took what was probably supposed to be a cool stance, but was dampened by the various strings of tinsel and other decorations draped across and attached to his body - presumably for safekeeping while he was putting up other decor.

“ Sure you are.” Peter rolled his eyes, glancing over at Bucky and giving him an (affectionate) ‘can you believe this idiot’ look, which he reciprocated with a snort.

“ Nat .” Clint whined, dragging out the word and stumbling over to the armchair she was sitting on - curled up with her feet pressed against the armrest, and reading a book - to lean on it dramatically. “They’re bullying me.”

Natasha kept a perfectly unentertained look, though Peter could see the small smile dancing across her lips and the spark of amusement in her eyes. She pulled her book closer to her chest as he encroached on her space, allowing her to more easily look over at Clint. “Move.” She said, simply.

Clint whined again, but obliged and turned to the other two, narrowing his eyes playfully. “You two,” he declared, pointing at them, “are dead to me.”

“Uh huh.” Bucky intoned, crossing his arms. “Is that so? I guess I can’t help you with the decorations anymore, then.”

“You were barely helping before!” Clint complained, before turning his gaze to Peter with a look that screamed mischief . “You know…” he started, causing Peter to turn his head slightly and look sideways through skeptical eyes, “it’s really hard to reach the highest parts for the tinsel.”

Peter shook his head firmly. “No. Nu uh. Not happening. I’m not a party trick, Barton.”

This elicited a loud groan from Clint, and a subsequent chuckle from Bucky. “Come on , Spidey! We won’t get them up in time for Christmas otherwise.”

“Why didn’t you just do it earlier this month?” Peter asked, thinking back to when he, May and Ben would decorate in early December - always small, since they couldn’t afford anything bigger, but they didn’t mind - and leave them up until the first few days of the New Year before putting them back into storage. They’d thought it was a waste of both time and money to only decorate for a day or so, and Peter agreed; plus, the holiday atmosphere always lifted their spirits during the dark nights and dwindling sunlight.

“We’ve been swamped by the bots and bombs for the past few months.” Bucky explained, “It’s been hard to focus on anything else with the paperwork, having to assemble so often, the fights… We’ve been too busy to bother with decorating, but we like to do it ourselves rather than hire anyone, so it just hasn’t been done yet.”

Almost instantly, Peter felt a pang of guilt; they’d been busy already, and then they had to deal with his bursts of anger on the field, and now him living with them? That couldn’t be helpful with all their stress. He thought back to the past days, and noted how the team seemed almost perpetually busy with one thing or another during the day - no doubt to do with the bots.

“Oh, hell no.” Clint interrupted Peter’s thoughts as he stepped closer. “I know that look, kid. None of this is your fault, and you can’t go blaming yourself for any of it.”

Peter worried his bottom lip between his teeth unconsciously. “But-”

“Nope. Not your fault, but you’re helping with decorating regardless.” Clint declared, shoving a pile of tinsel into Peter’s arms. “Come on, I really can’t get up into the corners, and Bucky refuses to let me climb on his shoulders, so it’s spider powers to the rescue.”

Peter chuckled and gave in, letting Clint steer him over to the Christmas tree, and climbed the wall to place the star on top. Under his instruction, Peter strung up lines of tinsel and fabric snowflakes connected with string around the room, steadily creating a festive atmosphere. Steve entered a while into the decorating session, giving a bemused look around the room before shrugging and joining Bucky on hanging baubles in front of the glittering fairy lights wrapped around the trunk and inner branches of the massive pine tree. Clint got FRIDAY to put on Christmas music - which led to a light-hearted argument about the best Christmas songs - and soon they were all laughing at his attempts to sing along, Steve joining in with his own (surprisingly good) singing voice. Bruce was roped in a while later, having appeared for a coffee and been dragged over by Clint to help, and simply shook his head amusedly as he gave in.

Despite the ache in his heart - the one reminding him of past Christmases in a tiny apartment in Queens, Uncle Ben singing with a deep voice and twirling a giggling Aunt May around the living room while Peter watched and laughed - Peter found himself with genuine smiles throughout the day. Every so often his chest would twinge painfully with guilt and longing, but he managed to swallow it down and pretend everything was fine. Which it wasn’t, of course, but he wasn’t about to express that. The lingering emotions attached to December 23rd didn’t help, either; he couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was moments away from crashing down and bringing him with it, back to reality - where homeless kids like him spent days like these curled in piles of blankets and cardboard, trying to retain any heat possible and ride out the winter.

“Where’s Stark?” Peter asked, several hours in, as he attached reindeer decals above a doorway. He hadn’t seen Tony all day which, although not unusual- as he’d noticed the man disappear for extended periods of time, only to return sleep-deprived and frazzled - was noteworthy, seeing as the whole team had gathered, minus him.

“Probably holed up in his workshop again,” Steve said, with an exasperatedly fond sigh. “He likes to make us gifts himself, rather than get anything store-bought.”

“We try to do the same for him,” Bruce added, “since there’s really no point in buying him anything if he could just get it for himself anyway.”

“Huh.” That made sense, Peter supposed; if someone spent their life surrounded by anything money could buy, hand-made things would probably be a lot more meaningful. Well, to Peter, they already were. Growing up without much money had taught him the value of a gift given with thought and love, rather than one that was economically worth more - though that also meant he was extremely grateful for any gift that did cost actual money.

“Hey Clint, catch,” Bucky said casually, before chucking a fragile ornament said man’s way - causing him to fumble with the ones he was already holding. Peter chuckled as they devolved into chaos - Steve trying to contain them while Bruce looked on and stayed out of the way.

*

“Agent Barton? I was asked to notify you when Laura and the mini agents arrived.” FRIDAY spoke, disrupting the semi-organised chaos, part-way into the afternoon.

Instantly, Clint perked up, grinning. “Are they on their way up?”

“Yes, they are currently in the elevator,” the AI replied.

Peter gave a skeptical look. “Who…?”

“Oh!” Clint smacked his forehead with his palm, “Right, I forgot to tell you - my wife and our kids are coming for Christmas. Usually I stay at the farm for the holidays, but it’s been so busy this year that we decided they’d come and visit.”

“You… have kids?” Peter asked - though, after a moment’s consideration, it made sense; Clint had been kind and cautious in his approach, offering small shows of support and being careful not to overwhelm Peter in any way - he seemed like a father. Plus, there were the times he’d excuse himself early from dinner or a movie night after a glance at his phone, presumably to talk to his family. “Makes sense,” Peter said with a shrug, as opposed to voicing his thought process.

Clint smiled, “Thanks. I can’t wait for you to meet them, it’ll be great!”

Peter frowned slightly, before rectifying it with a small, forced smile. Sure, he liked children, they were fun, innocent and carefree, but this was… a lot. He wasn’t sure how normal he could act around other people; it’d been a long time since he’d interacted with kids. As if on cue, the elevator doors slid open. Peter dropped down from the wall in a smooth motion, watching warily as two children (looking to be about 9 and 7 years old respectively, the boy older) tumbled out and ran over to Clint, who beamed happily and groaned dramatically at the impact, tugging them into a large hug even as he staggered backwards with mock-struggle. “Dang, you two are so big , you nearly knocked me over!”

The kids giggled, and Peter smiled with a bittersweet tinge at the familial scene, before looking over at the elevator, where a woman - Laura, presumably - was smiling fondly as she stepped out. Clint locked eyes with her and returned the smile, grin turning more gentle as she walked over, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Hey there superhero, keeping the city safe for us?”

“You betcha,” Clint replied with a dopey smile, ruffling the kids’ hair and earning himself some indignant squeaks as they pulled away and moved to fix it. He took the opening to pull Laura into a hug, while the kids turned to see the others and smile.

“Auntie Nat!” Lila cried, as Natasha closed her book and looked at them with a fond smile.

“Hi kids, have you been causing trouble?” She asked, standing and pulling Lila into a hug, placing the child on her hip. Lila nodded vigorously, and Natasha smiled approvingly. “Very good, дорогая.”

Peter chuckled, once again feeling a sharp pain in his chest - and finding himself longing for a hug from his Aunt or Uncle, just one more time. He shook himself out of the thought, and looked over to see Laura greeting the others, before her gaze landed on him. “Oh hello,” she said, with an inquisitive, cautious smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t think Clint mentioned your name.”

“This is Peter,” Clint replied, motioning at the teen. “Peter, this is my wife Laura.”

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Peter nodded. Bucky raised an eyebrow at that, but Peter just rolled his eyes - Aunt May taught him to be polite, and he was going to respect that.

“And- who’re you?” Laura asked, not unkindly. Peter froze, mouth slightly open, as he struggled to find a response; what was he supposed to say? ‘Hey, I’m a homeless kid they picked up off the streets and I’ve been freeloading for a week. Oh and also I’m a superpowered vigilante.’? Hell no.

Luckily (or, unluckily) Clint responded for him. “He’s- Tony’s kid.” The words came out in somewhat of a rush, and Peter turned to look at Clint, blinking slowly.

Laura, to her credit, only seemed slightly phased by the revelation. “I didn’t know Tony had a son.”

“He’s not biological,” Clint explained, shooting a quick glare at a smirking Natasha and then Bucky, who was trying to stifle his laughter behind his hand. “Peter’s- uh- adopted. Recent development.”

“I see.” Laura smiled, somewhat disbelievingly, but went along with it. “Well, it’s nice to meet you too, Peter.” She walked over and enveloped him in a hug. Peter froze momentarily, catching Clint’s eye - who looked worried, halfway through an aborted gesture to stop her - before forcing himself to relax into the embrace. Laura stepped back after a moment (leaving him feeling distressingly cold and alone after the moment of contact, which- wow, was he really that touch deprived?) placing her hands on his shoulders and looking at him appraisingly. “When was your last haircut?”

“Uhh.” Peter blinked a couple of times, unconsciously reaching up to tug at a loop of too-long hair. “I’m not sure.” The truth was, he’d cut it a few months back with a semi-blunt knife - though it was more hacking away chunks to prevent it from getting in the way - but he doubted that’s what she meant, and he wasn’t going to admit it was over a year and a half prior. She hummed slightly, but let it go, stepping away to greet the others.

Peter breathed a sigh of relief. While Clint and his kids finished up some of the decorations, Natasha made hot chocolate and tea for the various others now lounging around on the couches and talking idly. Peter placed himself on the edge of the living room, leaning against the archway near the elevator and watching the scene in front of him; it seemed too perfect to ruin with his presence, somehow - though most things did in recent times. The elevator doors slid open again a short while later, and Peter glanced back to see Tony - stained with stray oil spots across his clothes, holding a StarkPad in his hands - walking out. Peter turned his attention back to the living room, inclining his head slightly in greeting.

“Hey kid,” Tony said, making Peter pause and look to the side, where Tony was now standing next to him. There was something in his tone - not quite alarming, but off, somehow - that made Peter raise an inquisitive eyebrow. “What?” Tony asked. Peter gave him an expectant look, and Tony shook his head, chuckling. “You’ve already got my tells down, huh?”

Peter shrugged, glancing across the living room to the large floor-to-ceiling windows where the sky was gradually fading to black, a beautiful sunset pouring over the horizon, before looking back to Tony. “What is it?”

“Ah, well.” Tony scratched his head, patting the side of the StarkPad with one hand, “Can you come over here for a minute?” He moved to walk into the hall, and Peter frowned, but followed. Once they were just out of view of the living room, standing in the dimly lit hallway (dim for mood lighting purposes, of course) Tony turned to face him with a somewhat troubled expression.

“Well?” Peter asked again.

“See, the thing is..” Tony sighed, then gestured at the StarkPad, “I looked you up.”

It was short, just a few words, but that sentence was enough for Peter’s calm facade to falter - just for a moment, before he restored it, but falter all the same. Anger and annoyance bubbled in his gut, clawing at the edges and pleading to be unleashed on the world. He gathered himself again, trying and failing to keep the icy edge from his tone. “I see,” he replied, just as short, and far more curt. 

His reaction seemed to throw Tony off for a moment, giving Peter a look up and down, before returning to his point. “You’ve been in a lot of foster homes.” There was something in his voice - something he couldn’t quite decipher - but Peter couldn’t hear it over the sudden roar of blood and irritation in his ears.

“That’s true,” Peter returned, refusing to say anything further before Tony elaborated on whatever the hell he was getting at. Which, if it was what Peter suspected, would be much less than ideal.

“And you’ve got quite the record,” Tony continued, though seeming wary of Peter’s two-word answers. He held up the Stark Pad he had in one hand, reading off a list. “Ranging from disobedience… to assault.” 

Peter tensed, holding back a hysterical chuckle and grinding his teeth for a moment before responding. “Uh huh,” he muttered, noncommittally.

Tony dropped the calm expression he was wearing for one that Peter didn’t know how to read through the red haze clouding his vision - it wasn’t quite the anger he expected to see echoed back at him, and that threw him off. “Is that all you have to say?” 

Peter scoffed, venom creeping into his words. “What more is there? I know what my record says, and I’ve had it held over my head before. You don’t scare me.”

Frowning, Tony tilted his head, clicking off the device. “Scare you? I..” he shook his head, confusion clearing from his features to a stern look. “Listen, kid.” Peter narrowed his eyes at the name, no longer endearing - now a reminder of the power imbalance between them; something that made him infinitely more uncomfortable. “I wanted to talk about this, and-”

“No, Stark.” Chuckling darkly, Peter clenched one hand into a fist - nails biting into his skin as he looked at the floor. He dragged his gaze up to look Tony in the eyes and stretched his mouth into a scornful smirk. “You know what? I’m done.” His words dripped with venom, and he pushed past Tony, suddenly wanting nothing more than to be far away from these people; they were just like everyone else.

“Wait, Peter!” Tony called after Peter as his walk turned into a run down the hall towards the window at the end, which opened as he approached.

He ignored the cry, frustration rising high as he jumped out into the cold evening air; he fell for a moment, suspended in the feeling of being alive before shooting out a web - glad for his habit of never taking them off - and bracing for the familiar, harsh sensation of the line going taut. It came, burning his muscles somewhat as he tugged himself into an arc, moving with vicious determination. This is what he got for allowing himself to feel comfortable, for ever trusting that someone would listen to him, would believe him, would care about him. He should’ve remembered; those all died along with Aunt May.

The wind whipped across his face, reminding him of his lack of protection against it as he swung without his suit, or even shoes - but he couldn’t bring himself to care. It was the dimly lit time between dusk and when the streetlights would be clicking on in their methodical manner, so it was unlikely he would be seen, hidden by shadow as he was. Anyway, he was taking back ways and avoiding the areas with most people on his way to… he wasn’t sure where, but he was letting his rage guide him as it burned inside, the only thing heating him from the cold.

His anger was mostly directed not at the team - but at himself . He’d known it was temporary, he’d known the comfort and kindness, the warmth, provided by his place in the Tower would be fleeting- and yet… some part of him had yearned to lean into it all, to allow himself to soak in the warmth and reciprocate the joy. It was a part of himself he thought he’d successfully extinguished but was instead, evidently, lying in wait for the right moment to pounce. And look at where that’d gotten him; alone, again - but this time without his suit, supplies, or even shoes. All he had were the clothes on his back and a sense of betrayal and hollow pain in his chest.

By the time he’d arrived at his destination, he was unfazed to recognise it as the cemetery his family were buried in - it was a place of bittersweet comfort, despite his very irregular visits usually consisting of silence and longing. He swung over the fence, gate long since padlocked and betraying the late nature of his visit, and dropped lightly onto the path, pulling at the edges of his sleeves on his wrists as he padded down the stone. It didn’t take long to reach the plots he was aiming for, pushing his hands into his pockets as he gazed down at the graves of his Aunt and Uncle; his parents couldn’t help him now, he needed to talk to - or rather, at - the people who’d known him the closest to the person he was now.

“Hey…” He said softly, wincing at the thought of pouring out all his anxieties, and took a deep breath. Taking a seat on the path, he picked at bits of grass that poked through the tiles, averting his eyes from the graves themselves. “So,” he started, then stopped and sighed, looking back up at the graves. He reached over, gently brushing away the remains of flowers he’d previously placed on their headstones - dead petals, and other debris that hadn’t blown off or otherwise disappeared, now scattering onto the grass. The plots were fairly small; they’d both been cremated, since it was cheaper than the alternative, and they’d been low on money. They’d at least had a small service for Ben - May, on the other hand… well, she’d been little more than chucked in the hole she’d reserved before she died. It was all a blur, numbing grief interspersed with CPS and flashes of emotion.

Fucking CPS. Fucking foster homes. He thought bitterly. They just had to ruin the one good thing I had, huh? No matter how temporary it was, he’d been enjoying his stay at the Tower - and it’d been cut short by however many days (or even weeks) due to his stupid, stupid Parker Luck. Of course Tony hadn’t questioned the reports - he’d seen the scars, he knew Peter was a vigilante, not to mention the months Peter had been rude as hell to him; Tony probably thought he was a reckless deviant, just like the records said. No one ever questioned the reports - why should they? Why believe the word (not that they ever bothered to properly ask him what happened) of a troubled foster kid over that of the people willing to take him in? It wasn’t worth the effort. He wasn’t worth the effort, evidently.

He groaned, staring down at where his clothes had hitched up, moonlight catching on the rough edges of scar tissue visible. With a grimace, he let his anger turn from a boil, to a simmer, to nothing - instead, he was left with an all-consuming sense of emptiness. What was he going to do now? Find a new place, he supposed; he’d need a new suit, too - not that he could exactly go to Tony for that, so he’d need to find one elsewhere. He needed new clothes, some sort of jacket, food, and a lot more. Mentally, he tried to remember whether he’d stored any substantial amount of money in his stashes (the answer was no, of course, and he knew that - but it was like searching for your keys; you look in the drawer five times, just in case you happened to miss it the first four. He’d never have kept anything of actual importance out in the open, where it could, hypothetically, be found at any point - that was the whole idea of the apartment, but that was gone now, and he’d been too preoccupied by his pain at the time to try and get anything out when he saw it’d been closed. Stupid pain-addled brain).

Peter leant his head back - stretching out his neck as he dropped his weight onto his arms behind him - and stared at the sky. The cemetery was darker than most areas of the city, with its usual lighting little more than what was necessary to guide the way - and even that was turned off since, technically, no one was supposed to be there. That wasn’t stopping Peter, though. He heaved a sigh, searching the smog-coated canvas for stars and streaks of light while the city behind him slowly came to life, shifting from the odd dead-zone into a bustling existence as lights flickered on and cast long shadows down the streets.

He titled his head at the sound of Iron Man jets nearing him, and shook his head slightly - he hadn’t expected anyone to come after him, what did they want? Surely a billionaire wouldn’t fault him for taking the clothes he’d been given to use? Other than that, he didn’t even have his own Spider-Man suit, let alone anything of Tony’s. He gave up on trying to figure it out after a moment, settling for waiting as the Iron Man suit approached, landing on the small stone path a few meters away. Without looking away from the sky, Peter gave a small tilt of his head to gesture that he’d heard the arrival. He listened as the suit opened, and the sound of shoes on stone rang out in the quiet surroundings.

Then, the sound paused and the slight rustling of fabric replaced it. Tony cleared his throat before speaking, voice low and gentle despite the lighthearted implications of his words. “You’re a hard person to find when you want to be, kid. I’ll give you that.” Peter shrugged; he wasn’t exactly trying to do anything of the sort, he just didn’t bother mentioning where he was going - other than ‘away’. “Well,” Tony tried again, when it became clear Peter wasn’t going to give away anything else, before letting silence reign between them.

With a roll of his head, Peter dropped his head to the side, looking over at Tony. He was standing a foot or so away from his Iron Man suit, still wearing the same thing as he’d been when Peter left… a few hours ago? He wasn’t sure how much time had passed - enough for the world to darken sufficiently that any normal person would have trouble seeing, at least. Still, the moon was bright and high in the sky - illuminating the edges of everything in a silver light and casting deep shadows - so Tony could probably vaguely make out what was happening. 

“These your parents?” Tony asked, finally settling on something to say and inclining his head awkwardly towards the graves in front of Peter.

He snorted - somewhat humorless - shaking his head and splaying out his hand in an over-dramatic gesture at the same graves as Tony. “These? Nah, these are my Aunt and Uncle.” He jutted a thumb out over his finger, towards the graves behind him. “Those are my parents.”

“Ah,” Tony said - probably hit by the reminder of how very tragic Peter’s life must seem. Peter rolled his eyes at the notion; sure, it wasn’t ideal, but he wouldn’t trade his family for anything - though he couldn’t deny it’d be nice if they were around. Tony shuffled on the spot for a moment, before sighing and rubbing a hand down his face. “Look, I need to talk to you about the records and-” He cut himself off, holding up a hand at Peter to halt him as he went to speak. “No, just- just let me speak, alright?”

Peter shrugged, watching Tony as he looked out over the scenery, searching for his words; it wasn’t often the eccentric billionaire was left struggling to speak. Though, that was as far as the media was concerned and, if Peter had learnt anything during his stay at the Tower, it was that the media was not only widely inaccurate for the sake of drama - but that media personas were a very real thing and they masked the real people beneath. Maybe Tony Stark wasn’t always the intricate weaver of words he seemed to be; after all, that would be exhausting to maintain 24/7.

“I didn’t- I wasn’t accusing you of anything,” Tony settled on, startling Peter somewhat as he furrowed his brows. What was he trying to do then, if not warn him off his so-called ‘bad behavior’? The only other times his records were brought up were when his newest foster placement was threatening him with various forms of punishment if he ever acted up. “The whole thing just felt… off, you know? What they said about you in the reports, how they described you - it was nothing like the kid I’ve seen.”

Blinking rapidly, Peter tilted his head with confusion - so what? What did that matter? It never had before; they’d always accused him of putting on an ‘act’, always, always trusting the file over their actual interactions with him. It was… interesting, to say the least, to have someone actually listen and not take the reports as gospel. Still, what did that change? It wasn’t as if he was going to be staying long in the first place - why would Tony be looking into him, other than to make sure he wouldn’t be causing trouble. “Why were you even looking in the first place?” He asked, suddenly feeling an intense desire for an explanation.

Tony laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wow, Pete. You really don’t hold back, huh?” Peter looked at him expectantly, and Tony sighed, stepping forward hesitantly, then stopping. He was closer now, but still at a reasonable distance. “To be honest? I was looking into fostering you.”

And, with those six words, Peter’s world froze. A rapid flood of emotion raging into his mind; on one hand, ‘fostering’ wasn’t exactly a word he associated with joy - or little more than pain, really. On the other hand, the past week really had been a dream compared to the past year and a half - to live that way all the time, not worrying about the end… it seemed impossible. He couldn’t align his thoughts with reality, feeling more like he was in a strange hallucination than his real life. Clenching one hand into a fist, he dug his nails in for a familiar bite of grounding pain to reaffirm the truth of his situation - still, he felt the need to check what the hell was going on. Peter searched for the right words in his mind, eyes flicking left and right for a moment before settling on stuttering; “I… what?” Very clear and explanatory, Peter. Nice job. He berated himself internally with a sigh.

“Well, you’ve made it pretty clear what you think of the system, but I’m not about to let a selfless, enhanced, teenage vigilante live on the streets.” He chuckled somewhat. “I’m not quite as heartless as the media says.”

“Oh.” Peter breathed out. Right. Of course. It came back to superhero responsibility, not… he paused. What was he expecting? It made sense, it was what had been keeping him at the Tower for as long as he’d been there, as far as he was concerned. And the Tower was warm, comfortable, and full of life; this was good. This meant food and shelter; no more cold nights lying in abandoned buildings. So why did it feel like his heart was in a vice, constricting harshly at every breath?

“No, wait, I-” Tony groaned, stepping closer again. “I didn’t mean- fuck , I’m bad at this feelings stuff. That’s not why, you know? I’m not doing this because I have to, or anything - I mean, I’m Tony goddamn Stark, no one can make me do something if I don’t want to.” Peter gave Tony a bemused look, and he huffed out a laugh. “Right, right. Not the point. What I meant was, well, you’ve grown on me, kid. On all of us. You’re like,” he gestured wildly at Peter, “some weird type of fungus. Or mold. And none of us want to see you struggling like you were, and since we like having you around, well…” He clasped his hands together. “It seemed like the best option.”

Peter sat in silence for a while, mind feeling like it was full of cotton wool and static; the team liked him? They wanted him around? It seemed almost as impossible as the initial suggestion; people hadn’t wanted him - Peter Parker, not Spider-Man, or the foster kid bringing in some money and doing chores around the house - since… well. Since his life went to hell.

“You gonna say anything, kid?” Tony asked, nervously. Peter’s eyes snapped up to him from the stone, swimming with unanswered, unasked questions. There were a million things he wanted to - needed to - ask, clarify. The largest one, though was:

“Why?” Peter stared with those wide eyes narrowed, searching for any sign of an answer.

“Why?” Tony repeated back at him, gaining a nod. “Why do people do anything, kid? You’re a good person, you deserve better, and we care about you - I care about you - so we want to make things better for you.”

Peter dropped his head back again, staring at the sky, tracing patterns with his eyes; he had no idea what was going on, what this all meant, how much of it was true, but… he wanted it to be true. Even if he didn’t know how long it would last, or what the hell was going on with his future, he wanted this. He let the silence lie for a moment before responding, with a quiet, “Ok.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter could see Tony smiling gently before he closed the final distance between them, tentatively sitting down beside Peter on the path, leaving a small space - which, sure, was considerate, but Peter didn’t want that space. He wanted to feel Tony’s warmth, and be comforted; he wanted to be selfish and take that kindness. He wasn't sure it would all feel real if he didn’t. Which- well, he was already agreeing to one selfish thing today, surely another one wouldn’t matter? Cautiously, he shifted and pressed his shoulder into Tony’s side, faltering slightly when the man tensed, ready to move away - but he quickly relaxed into the touch, raising a hand to tousle Peter’s hair. Peter leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. Still, Peter could feel Tony’s hesitation - could feel there was something he was wanting to ask. He sighed internally and opened his eyes, looking at the man, question in his gaze.

“What?” Tony asked, tilting his head.

“Just ask,” Peter prompted. “Whatever you’re wanting to ask, just do it.”

Tony shook his head with fond exasperation. “Damn, kid. You really can read me too well.” He waited another moment before speaking again. “Presuming you didn’t actually do all that stuff in your record, why is it there? It seems pretty detailed.”

Ah. Peter cursed his inability to leave well enough alone, now having to deal with the consequences. He hummed noncommittally, before sighing again. “Well, it did happen, just not quite the way they framed it. Less me attacking them and being a little shit, more… me being used as a human punching bag.” He spoke matter-of-factly, not infusing any of his own emotions - other than some venom he couldn’t restrain seeping into the words - into his voice as he spoke. Still, it didn’t seem to help, judging by the way Tony froze up. “It took away my chances of telling anyone what was going on, since I had such a bad record. Made it easier to get away with things.”

“Shit, Pete.” Tony breathed, looking at Peter with not - thank god - pity, but concern and anger; anger he could tell wasn’t directed at Peter himself. “You’ve been through far too much, you know that?”

Peter chuckled humorlessly. “Oh trust me, I know. It’s my Parker Luck.”

Tony quirked his head to the side amusedly. “Your what?”

He cracked a smile at the incredulous tinge to Tony’s expression. “Parker Luck,” he explained. “It’s what my Uncle Ben used to call it. He said it meant that anything that could go wrong, would go wrong.” Peter glanced over at the grave of said man. “Isn’t that right, Ben?” He chuckled again, slightly more genuine and less dark. “And, I mean, he was right.” He began ticking events off on his fingers as he spoke. “Parents died, Uncle died, Aunt died, bullying, abusive foster homes, then homelessness, which just caps it all off with a nice bow,” he ended, sarcastically.

“Wait, ‘ homes ’? As in, multiple?” Tony interrupted, alarmed.

“Yeah, all seven of them, in one way or another.” Peter just nodded and shrugged.

“Jesus Christ…” Tony muttered, gently looping an arm around Peter’s shoulders. “The world really owes you a break, huh, kid?”

Peter laughed once more, leaning into the touch with less hesitation than before, though it still lingered - out of habit, more than anything. “Probably.”

They lapsed into silence, but Tony seemed to be pondering something, and soon broke it. “Hey, kid?” Peter hummed an affirmative. “If the world’s been so shit to you, how d’you still manage to do what you do; fight crime, stand up for the little guy, all of that?” It was a fair question, of course. Other people in Peter’s place may have used their newfound abilities to their own advantage, or at least ignored them, instead of risking their lives day after day for random people. Still, it wasn’t something Peter’d had to contemplate for long before deciding to help where he could.

“I get what you mean. It’s not exactly profitable, and I end up hurt more often than not. But…” He paused to collect his thoughts. “Well, it was partially just for something to do, you know? Without Spider-Man, my days just consisted of sitting in some cold back alley or abandoned building and trying not to think about how cold and hungry I was.” He winced at the thought of the first few weeks without his vigilante alter ego, and how mind-numbingly boring they were. “But, mainly, it was ‘cause I just couldn’t keep going, knowing I could be helping people, but wasn’t. It’s like…” He searched for the right words, thinking about what his Uncle had said, but opting for something else, instead. Sure, ‘with great power comes great responsibility’ was his foundation, but he’d built on that, and it didn’t quite encapsulate what he was trying to express. The thoughts of his Uncle brought back memories of his death and- “When… 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 didn’t respond for a while, though Peter could feel his tense several times as he spoke. “You’re a good kid, you know that? Probably too good for your own good.” He seemed slightly too pleased with his phrasing, and Peter laughed, somewhat dark, but didn’t deny it - at least not verbally. Inside, he still wasn’t sure he deserved any of this; hell, he wasn’t sure he was a good person - but he wasn’t about to fight about it with Tony Stark. They sat for another minute, enjoying the warmth and company, before Peter shivered with sudden intensity; with the adrenaline gone - anger worn off, confusion and fear no longer powering him - he was left feeling cold. Tony barely hesitated before tugging him in closer, rubbing a hand over Peter’s upper arm to warm him. “Come on,” he said, smiling gently, “let’s go home.”

The word ‘home’ said so casually brought back a warmth in his chest, and he smiled gently as Tony stood and reached down a hand for him to take. Despite being perfectly able to get himself up, Peter took it and revelled in the calloused warmth before letting go once on his feet. He turned to walk down the path, but paused when he saw Tony lingering by the graves - inclining his head, he gave a questioning look. “Go ahead a bit, I’m just gonna talk to your folks. Have to make sure you haven’t been feeding them lies, after all.”

Peter chuckled disbelievingly, but accepted the excuse as he sauntered down the path and past the Iron Man suit stood frozen on the path. Still, he couldn’t help but listen in - making the decision after a slight hesitation. “-and you did a great job raising him. He’s a good person, you know? Of course you do, you knew him way before I did.” A pause. “I’ll look after him, alright? You can rest easy, ‘cause your kid’s in safe hands now.” Another pause. “Well, Pepper’s safe hands, I-” Peter stopped listening, feeling suddenly like he’d intruded on a private moment. His vision blurred slightly and-

Oh, wow. He hadn’t cried - had barely even teared up - in so long, he’d forgotten what it felt like; all the walls he’d built between himself and those particular emotions were crumbling, and the tears he’d felt prick his eyes for so long finally welled up. He coughed out a watery laugh, rubbing at his eyes with his hand and marvelling at how it came away wet with the physical manifestation of his fear, sadness, and joy.

Hearing footsteps approach, he swiftly switched to his sleeve to wipe frantically at his eyes, then plastered on a lopsided smile as he turned around, still several meters from Tony and - thanks to the dark - too far for the tears to be seen; he wasn’t sure he was ready for that. Not yet, at least. “Hey, old man!” He called out, tauntingly. “Race you back to the Tower!” Without waiting for a response, he shot out a web to a nearby pole, using it to sling himself into the air and gain enough momentum to swing.

Still, he heard the indignant cry of ‘Hey! I’m not- What- cheater!’ behind him and smiled wide, laughing through tears and enjoying the feeling of the wind drying his cheeks as he moved. Maybe they weren’t going to be ok, not entirely, not at first; but he felt like they would be, with time.

*

That night, after the children had been sent to bed and movies were playing in the background, Peter tentatively rested his head on Tony’s shoulder - purposefully, this time - and pretended not to notice the sly smiles and exchanging of money from whatever bet they’d placed (Natasha won, of course). He wondered whether he should feel annoyed that they were betting on him, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care; if anything, it was endearing - another quirk of the people he was beginning to admit (only to himself) that he cared about.

He dozed on the couch, then slept - still not perfectly, but better than he had done in a while. Christmas Eve arrived with early morning hot chocolate and a burning sunrise on the horizon, welcomed with gentle smiles and tentative stability. Soon, the whole group was gathered in the living room - including Tony and Pepper (who’d been busy with the company despite being back in New York) included - and chatting. The elevator doors slid open to reveal Colonel Rhodes, who was immediately greeted by a grinning Tony enveloping him in a hug. “Platypus!” He exclaimed, obviously overjoyed, “I thought you couldn’t make it ‘till tomorrow, what’s the haps? Did’ya finally quit?”

Rhodey laughed and shook his head fondly. “Wow, so many things to address. First off, hiya Tones. Second, did you seriously just say ‘what’s the haps?” He made a face, pulling back from the hug to look judgmentally into Tony’s eyes.

Tony waved it off, “Alright, alright. Not my best, I admit - I stand by it, though.”

With a chuckle, Rhodey patted Tony’s shoulder, who disentangled the hug and threw an arm over Rhodey’s shoulder as they walked into the room. “No, I didn’t quit, Tony. I finished early and decided to swing by and surprise you. Speaking of…” He looked over at Peter with a knowing smirk. “Nice to see you again, kid. And nice to properly meet you.”

Peter smiled and rolled his eyes, “Right back at ya.”

“Hey, everyone’s here! You know what this means?” Clint asked, with a mischievous grin that made his kids groan. “Games! Video games, card games, board games, all the games!”

With that, the rest of the day passed in a blur of a variety of games (mostly led by Clint, but also by other members of the group) and jokes, ending - much like the day prior - in a movie marathon that the Barton kids had to abandon halfway through to go to bed, much to their dismay. Peter allowed himself to relax again, though he sat next to Natasha, not Tony - who was bracketed by Rhodey and Pepper, and was looking quite content. To his surprise, she tugged him closer and rested his head in her lap, playing with his hair and pretending it was all perfectly normal. Peter smiled, huffed a soft laugh, and went along with it - more than happy with the outcome.

He greeted Christmas Day in a similar way to the day prior, padding down the hall with damp hair in the early hours as he joined Bucky, Natasha and… Steve(?) in the kitchen. He regarded the addition with curiosity, but shrugged it off as he sat at the counter, Natasha starting up the machine to get him a cup of hot cocoa. Hot Christmas cocoa. He supposed most - if not all - members of the team must get at least semi-regular nightmares; they probably just preferred to deal with them in their own ways, a hypothesis that was tested at least partially correct when he asked Steve and was told he usually got his frustrations out in the gym (specifically, on the punching bags) but had decided to join them. Tony probably tinkers, instead, Peter pondered, if he ever actually gets any sleep. Same with Bruce, and Clint… archery, maybe? 

Shrugging it off, he greeted each new arrival as the sun rose, until most of the current inhabitants were gathered in the kitchen, with Steve having gone on and returned from his morning run and now starting on a large breakfast for the group. Peter opted to help him, frying and flipping omelet after omelet before settling down to eat his share - still not as much as he probably needed, but the meal plan was slowly but surely increasing his intake. Tony joined them partway through, looking suitably frazzled and apparently having at least gone to bed the night prior.

After breakfast had been eaten and cleared away, they moved on to presents in the living room. Peter wasn’t expecting any, and having a gift shoved into his hands by Natasha threw him off somewhat, but he managed to take it in stride. “Here,” Natasha said, leaving no room for argument. “Take it.”

Peter blinked, before looking down at the wrapped box. “Thanks,” he said quietly, glancing at her as she mirrored his own gentle smile; luckily, the others were too preoccupied with their own gifts and gift-giving to pay any attention to him. The present inside came into view, and he bit his lip in a futile effort to contain the massive grin that spread across his face at the sight of the camera he’d mentioned in passing a few nights prior, alongside a photo album to store pictures in. He turned to Natasha, speechless. “I- thank you, seriously.”

Her expression softened, and she gently nudged his shoulder with her own. “No problem, паук. I can’t wait to see them.”

He nodded, ducking his head to hide his smile. “I, uh-” he flushed, “I didn’t really get you anything, sorry.”

She shook her head, chuckling. “No need. Next year, right?”

The implication of Peter still being there the following holiday season didn’t escape him, and he doubted it was unintentional. “Yeah,” he agreed, “next year.” He wasn’t sure how stable the future was at the moment, but it didn’t feel world-shattering to agree.

Soon, Clint shoved into his space and pushed a gift of his own (a Spider-Man plushie, which earned him what should have been a withering glare from Peter, but was probably dampened by his inability to smother his smile, if the look on Clint’s face was anything to go by) followed by Bruce (science books, all written by notable, high-profile scientists - plus one by Tony, which was sufficient teasing material for all sides) as well as Steve (notebooks, ones for drawing and for writing, because he insisted that both art and writing things down helped deal with tough emotions) and, finally, Bucky (though it was more a verbal promise to teach him some more combat and self-defence moves, which Peter was ecstatic about).

Suffice to say, by the end, Peter was feeling suitably overwhelmed and more optimistic than he had in a long while. They all echoed sentiments similar to Natasha’s about his own lack of gifts to give, warming his heart with the certainty that he’d be there in for the indefinite future. He spent the day snapping candid shots of the group as they messed around with their new gifts, played games, and all-around enjoyed each other’s company; by the end of the day, he had enough to fill the first several pages of his photo album with warm memories.

Rhodey had to leave in order to have time to visit his own family before he had to go back to work - though not before making his fair share of comments about Tony and Peter, as well as insisting he be called ‘Uncle Rhodey’, to which Peter rolled his eyes, but then obliged when the man was leaving. He smiled at the genuine joy that lit up the man’s face at the title, shaking his head at the antics and noting how similar he and Tony were, in some aspects.

They sat at the large dining room table for a Christmas feast (ordered in and made by Pepper-approved chefs, since they all spent the day hanging out together rather than working on the meal) and then moved into the living room once again for a Christmas movie marathon, where Peter resumed his position by Tony and curled somewhat into the man’s side, breathing in the comforting smell of motor oil and coffee with a hand carding through his curls absent-mindedly.

He awoke, hours later, in his own bed - presumably having been carried there once again (which was less embarrassing than the first time, but still slightly mortifying) - not from a nightmare, per se, but still a less-than pleasant dream. He pulled on a hoodie and padded down the hall through an empty kitchen - it was far too early for even Bucky or Natasha - and headed to the elevator, taking it up to the roof. He closed his eyes at the gust of cool night air before wandering over to near the edge, close to where he’d been last time, and gazing up at the sky. It was similar to a couple nights prior, the moon still bright - though slightly less so; it was obviously waning, a few more slivers missing from the full circle.

The cityscape glittered in the near-distance, and the sounds of life from far below echoed up, bouncing off the walls of buildings not so far away. Streetlights illuminated the pavements and dripped into the streets, where cars shone to guide their own way through the city - bustling in its own right, despite the early hour. The gentle wind (though it could never be too gentle, this far up) ruffled his hair in a phantom recreation of Tony’s hands from earlier; he smiled softly at the memory, allowing himself to enjoy the thought without the plaguing ones about the uncertainty of it all. As if on cue, the elevator dinged open behind him, and he could make out the sound of Tony’s heartbeat as he approached.

“Geez, kid,” he chuckled, “You’ve gotta stop hanging out on rooftops in the dead of night, you’re gonna give me a heart attack. Plus, it’s crazy cold up here.” Despite his complaints, Tony walked over and sat next to Peter - an echo of the first night, though this time he was much closer.

“Ah, right,” Peter said, the ghost of a smile playing on his face - not that he wasn’t happy, just that he was too tired to feel anything too strongly, other than a sense of serenity. “Wouldn’t want to mess with your old man heart.”

“Excuse me,” Tony gaped in mock offense, placing a hand to his chest. “I’ll have you know I have a heart condition.” He reached over with one hand to muss up Peter’s hair, which Peter promptly knocked away in faux protest with a chuckle.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a while - the wind creating quiet background noise alongside the city below - before Tony spoke again. “So, what gives?”

Peter hummed noncommittally, shrugging. “I… don’t know.” He admitted. “Everything just seems… good.” He thought back over the past week for a moment before continuing. “I guess I’ve just been waiting for the other shoe to drop for a while and it’s hard to believe that it’s not going to.”

“I see.” Tony replied, looking out over the cityscape.

He sighed, rubbing his one hand over his face. “I know, it’s kinda stupid, but-”

“It makes perfect sense, kid,” Tony reassured, reaching out again, this time to place a reassuring hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You’ve spent so long in suspense and chaos that, now things are settling down, it’s tough to figure out where you fit in.”

“Yeah,” Peter breathed, glad for the words to express his thoughts. “Yeah, exactly that. I mean, it’s not even just this past week - it’s months , a whole year , basically, maybe more, I dunno when it really started.” He threw his arms up in frustration. “It’s been building up for so long, and there’s not even a proper ending! It’s like being on a rollercoaster and waiting for the drop- only for it never to come. It’s so anticlimactic.”

Tony chuckled, a deep sound that reverberated through the stone and made Peter smile, laughing slightly manically along with him. “Damn, Pete. Thanks for that - I’m ‘anticlimactic’, huh?”

Peter jostled Tony’s shoulder with his own, rolling his eyes. “You know that’s not what I meant, come on. Don’t be so difficult.”

“Oh, I’m difficult now, am I?” Tony asked with faux irritation, raising an eyebrow and turning to look at Peter, who groaned.

“ Tony ,” he whined, drawing out the name - only to stop when he saw said man looking at him with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Fine, fine.” Tony huffed, though he was grinning widely. “The thing is, kid, with life, you never know whether the ride’s over, or if there’s another hill right around the corner.” He shrugged, looking back out at the city. “And that’s how it is. In reality, everyone’s just pretending to know what the hell is going to happen next, and no one really knows. The best thing you can do is just go with the flow.” He paused. “Wait, no. That’s a river, wrong metaphor. You just have to… roll with the punches? No. Wrong again. Maybe-”

“I got it, Tony,” Peter smiled, only slightly bittersweet, at his antics and the contents of what he’d said. “I just have to figure it out as I go, huh?” He leaned into Tony’s side, who reciprocated and replaced his hand from where it’d been gesticulating wildly, to Peter’s shoulder, squeezing slightly.

“Exactly. But you’re not alone, either,” Tony said, rough voice unusually soft and sounding rather fond. “We’re all figuring it out together, and that’s the fun of it.”

Peter hummed in acknowledgement, feeling more calm and content than he’d have thought would be possible - if asked not so long ago. Tucked into Tony’s side with the cool wind sending goosebumps up and down his skin, and the lights of the city sparkling in the background, things felt clear, like a fog had been lifted - one that hadn’t dissipated in a long time. He’d been plummeting from the sky for a long while, thinking that, maybe, falling wasn’t so bad - and maybe crashing wouldn’t be either; but, now that he had people to catch him, should he fall, he was sure learning to fly would be so much better.

Chapter Text

Peter walked down to Tony’s workshop the afternoon after Christmas day, following a message relayed by FRIDAY asking him to go. His nightmares hadn’t been too bad that night, though his rest was far from ideal, so he managed to retain some semblance of the light-hearted joy he’d felt with Tony the day prior; still, he was feeling rather content in a way that calmed his heart enough to not overthink why, exactly, he was being called to the workshop (well, he was still somewhat overthinking it - that was his whole thing, after all - but he managed to quash most of his anxieties during the small trip there).

With a deep breath, he stepped out of the elevator into the workshop, where the music quieted to a level he could withstand (Tony had quickly implemented a protocol to turn down his music when Peter was in the vicinity once he’d realised how painful it could be, much to Peter’s eternal relief). He looked around and spotted Tony partially bent over a workbench, elbow-deep in an Iron Man suit; the engineer glanced back without prompting, presumably noticing the distinct drop in his music’s volume, shooting Peter a smile.

“Hey, kiddo!” He made to say something else, but paused suddenly and swore, jerking his arm back slightly. “Shit- I mean, fuck- ah damn, don’t tell Steve I’m cursing around you, alright? I don’t need one of his patented speeches.” Tony narrowed his eyes and pointed at Peter, who giggled at his antics - only to swear and jolt again, turning his attention back to the machine in front of him. “Fu- frickety frack-” Peter snorted, mouthing ‘frickety frack’? to no one in particular. “Give me a sec, ‘kay Pete? I just need to finish up properly before it kills me- ah shit .” He lurched back another time, and Peter just shook his head fondly, wandering over to a nearby workbench and scanning his eyes over the various schematics and pieces of tech scattered around.

He trailed his fingers over some metal, mentally categorizing the uses of the tech he saw and pausing briefly to consider how he might fix or implement them into different designs. Those he didn’t quite recognise, he could flick up a holographic screen and look over a summary, nodding and widening his eyes at appropriate times; this was a genius’ workshop, after all - there was bound to be impressive tech. Even after several visits and working beside Tony multiple times, each time was as mind-blowing and incredible as the last - what could he say? Peter was a nerd at heart; he knew his eyes glittered the same way Bruce’s or Tony’s did when topics pertaining to science were brought up. At the thought of Bruce, he wondered whether the scientist would have time where Peter could work with him soon - Bruce had expressed an interest in it, and Peter was certainly buzzing with excitement over the mere prospect.

A short swear brought him out of his daydreams, and Peter swiftly jerked his head to look towards the source - only to snicker at the sight of Tony cradling one hand and insulting the machinery in a most colorful manner. “Ouch, you little shit! I’m so donating you to a community college.” As if on cue, Dum-E approached, aiming a fire extinguisher in Tony’s direction. The engineer’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare…” He warned, then yelped and jumped backwards when the bot fired the extinguisher at the workbench - only somewhat hitting the suit, while a large section of the floor was coated with the white powder… as well as part of Tony himself. “That’s it!” He declared, hitting Dum-E lightly on the claw. “I’m donating you , too.” The bot - somehow - managed to exude grief, and (how the hell was he doing that?) gave some sort of puppy eyes - despite a distinct lack of eyes - which caused Tony to roll his own set in an exasperated response. “Fine, fine. Good job, bud.” Dum-E seemed pleased, nudging his creator’s shoulder with his claw with a joyful beep before retreating away to join U, who bumped into Dum-E a couple times in response.

Tony turned with a sigh, startling harshly at the sight of Peter - who was making no attempt to hide his amusement as he snickered openly at the scene. “ Jesus , kid!” He placed a hand over where his heart would be, on his chest. “What did I say about giving me a heart attack?”

“That you’re old and frail and could keel over at any moment?” Peter asked, faux innocently, smothering a smirk to play up the act.

Groaning, Tony threw his head back to look at the ceiling before dropping his head to the side to look at Peter, pointing at him menacingly. “I resent that.” He sniffed dramatically, before breaking and chuckling somewhat - wherein Peter followed suit and laughed openly, dropping the pretense. “Alright, alright. I did actually ask you in here for something, not just to mess around and get made fun of by a squirt.” Peter smirked, while Tony walked over to another workbench, muttering. “Now where did I put it…? Ah hah!” He straightened up with sudden intensity, beaming at Peter and holding a package covered in brown paper. Tony strode over, covering the distance between them quickly. “Here you go!”

He pushed the package into Peter’s hands, who blinked a couple times and took it. “What…?” Peter looked down at the brown paper, then back up at Tony - who was watching expectantly.

“It’s your Christmas present.” He grinned, then waited a few seconds; when Peter didn’t move, he spoke again. “Well don’t just stand there, open it!” He prompted, gesturing at it. Peter complied, bemused, as he ripped away the paper. “It’s a day late, but I figured you wouldn’t want to open this in front of everyone. Secret identity and all that.” Tony waved a hand dismissively as he spoke, giving an air of nonchalance - though Peter could see the slight nerves in his expression.

Peter stared down at the folded bundle of red and blue fabric, feeling a wave of excitement bubble up. “Is this…?” He couldn’t quite finish the sentence, but - luckily - he didn’t have to. Tony nodded, waving a hand to bring up a hologram displaying a new and improved Spider-Man suit.

“I incorporated the things we’ve been working on, of course.” He explained, manipulating the image as he spoke to demonstrate. “There’s the heater, the spot for your web shooters… oh, the mask and gloves are detachable, of course.” Tony didn’t wait for a response before he gestured at another section of the workshop, walking over as Peter followed - dumbstruck. “Also, I figured I’d clear a workbench for you to work at.” Sure enough, there was a large, clear of tech (other than a few projects Peter had been idly tinkering with) space for Peter to inhabit. “At some point you’ll probably want your own lab, of course, but I figured, hey! It’s fun having the kid around, why not give him some proper space?” He turned to look at Peter face-on. “So? What d’you think?”

Peter blinked again, trying to wrap his head around the whirlwind of events; he had his new Spider-Man suit (which was awesome , and sure to have all kinds of advancements Tony hadn’t even mentioned yet), and a whole workspace for him to use in Tony Stark’s Private Workshop? All because Tony liked having him around? It was… incomprehensible, to say the least. He felt the fabric of the suit between his fingers gently, then set it down carefully on the workspace, leaning on the cold metal. A chuckle bubbled up through his chest as his mouth split into a grin that grew from tentative to genuine over the space of a few seconds. “I…” He tried, but found that the right words got stuck in his throat.

“Kid?” Tony frowned, worried. “I, uh- is it too much? Shit. I mean- crap. Should I-?” Before he could register what was happening, or rethink his actions, Peter threw his arms around Tony in a hug. Tony froze - and Peter, once he did realize, froze along with him. As he moved to step away and apologize, Tony reciprocated the action, enveloping him with strong arms. Peter stayed tense for a moment, before melting into it, surrounded by the scent of motor oil and coffee - plus, of course, fire extinguishing powder.

After a long moment, Peter stepped back (with extreme reluctance, though he didn’t show it), disentangling himself and flushing red; he looked away, embarrassed by the sudden show of affection. “Thanks, Tony.” He muttered the words more than spoke them, before attempting to brush off the powder that had transferred onto him with an exasperated sigh.

With a snort, Tony gave him a fond smile. “Anytime, Underoos.” Then, he snapped his fingers and brought up a hologram, turning to look at and interact with it as he spoke. “Right! I had an idea for your web shooter designs I wanted to run past you; what do you think of watches, or bracelets, that turn into them with a flick of your wrist or a certain movement?” Peter, still dazed, stared at Tony for a while longer with a gentle smile, taking in the look of his side profile as he spoke animatedly about his ideas. The spell was broken with a tentative, “Kid?”

Peter shook his head to clear his mind, and cleared his throat quickly. “Huh? Oh yeah, yeah that sounds great. But we’d need to consider the specific movement, make sure it’s not something I’d do accidentally, right? But also something that’s easy to do if I’m in a tough spot. Maybe a failsafe with voice activation?” Tony hummed as he considered the idea, firing back with several of his own. Peter allowed himself to watch Tony again, tracking his thoughts as new ideas formed, and his lips quirked up in a smile; he could get used to this.

*

“Boss?” FRIDAY’s voice rang out through the speakers, cutting through the - significantly quieter than what it would’ve inevitably been if Peter wasn’t present - music with her gentle intonation. “Dr Banner would like to remind you of your promise to look over his latest research.”

“Damn!” Tony slapped his forehead with an open palm. “Sorry Underoos, I totally forgot about that.” He paused. “Actually, though…” (Cue mischievous grin that made Peter raise an eyebrow in suspicion.) “What do you think of joining us, helping out?”

Peter blinked - several times, and in fast succession. “Are you seriously asking me if I’d like to work with Bruce Banner? Seven PhDs, leading scientist of our generation, certified genius , Bruce Banner?” He gave Tony an incredulous look. “Stark, I think I’ve made my interest in his work very clear - and so I ask; in which reality would I ever say no?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Well shit, kid. Seriously, am I not impressive?” He said, mock wounded, then made a cancelling gesture in the air. “Scratch that, I know I’m impressive. I’m a genius too, you know?”

“Well, yeah.” Peter conceded, giving a half-shrug. “But Bruce Banner .” He insisted, saying the name as if it explained absolutely everything.

Chuckling, Tony ruffled his hair. “You’re a rude little shit, you know that?” He pointed at Peter, before shaking his head with a fond smile and pulling up a few new holograms. “Tell Brucie to come down with whatever he needs, FRI.”

Once FRIDAY responded in the affirmative, it wasn’t long before there was a knock at the glass door, and the music quieted further. Peter turned to see Bruce walk into the room, carrying a few files with him - upon seeing Peter, Bruce smiled kindly, nodding somewhat in greeting. Tony smiled wide, striding across the room. “Brucie Bear!” He exclaimed, throwing an arm around Bruce’s shoulder and leading him towards the workbench. “So great of you to come.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I asked- you know what? Nevermind.” He sighed, supposedly exhausted with Tony’s shenanigans, but his smile betrayed him. “Good to see you, Peter. How’re you feeling?”

Peter smiled back. “Feeling pretty good, Doc. Never better than when I’m tinkering with some cool tech.” Tony released Bruce as they neared the desk space, flipping through one of the files he’d brought down and muttering about the use of physical paper when he’d provided StarkPads and literal holograms with free reign of use.

An understanding smile quirked Bruce’s lips, and he nodded, before looking somewhat more serious. “Sleeping any better recently?”

“What?” Tony looked up from the sheets, tilting his head and locking his eyes on Peter with a searching gaze. “What’s this about sleep?”

“It’s- uh- nothing, nothing at all.” Peter cursed his own inability to both keep his mouth shut, or lie convincingly. Sensing he wouldn’t be able to talk his way out, he opted for changing the subject. “So, why’d you come down, Dr Banner?” He smiled, definitely obviously forced, and earned himself a pair of skeptical looks.

Luckily, Tony let it go with a raise of his brow and a shrug. “Brucie here has been trying to sort out a problem with his work on Gamma Rays and he thinks it’s to do with the tech behind detecting them, so I’ve been trying to help out.” He sighed. “We’ve hit a bit of a standstill, though. Especially since he refuses to properly utilize the ideas that one genius scientist guy sent him.” At Bruce’s disapproving look, Tony made a gesture of reluctant acceptance. “I know, I know, credit and all that. It just sucks.”

Peter tilted his head. “‘Genius scientist guy’?” He asked, amused by the description, and tried to think of anyone he’d seen or heard of that could fit the mold (genius scientists affiliated with Bruce Banner and/or Tony Stark tended to be pretty big news).

“Yeah, he emailed me a while back.” Bruce said, causing a sort of dread and sheepishness to rise in Peter’s gut - though he couldn’t quite pinpoint why. “Dr Parker Richardson,” Ah . So that’s why. “Real smart guy, but he refuses to meet up and I can’t find him.” He sighed, resigned. “It’s a shame, he could be really helpful.”

“Uhh.” Peter debated his options internally, accompanied by a begrudging groan in his mind when he came to the conclusion of what he should do. “So, about that…”

“Hm?” Tony turned to him. “Have you heard of him?” Bruce’s eyes lit up at the thought.

“Kinda…” Peter cleared his throat and looked away. “ Sothat’skindasortameandIemailedyou .” He said, words all tied up as they stumbled over each other in his rush to speak.

“What was that, kiddo? You’ve really gotta slow it down there, not all of us have super senses.” Tony chuckled, and Peter flushed, fiddling with his shirt sleeve.

“I said I sent the emails. My dad’s name was Richard and Parker is an actual name and I read your work and stuff so I thought, well, why not?” His words were still fast as he spoke, and he glanced up through his eyelashes to see stunned faces. He sighed internally at his choices, and splayed his fingers in small jazzhands. “Surprise?”

Bruce blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. “ You wrote that?” Peter nodded, flushing further. “That’s…” Peter tensed, “ incredible .” Bruce breathed the word out, and Peter turned to meet his eyes, startled, to see that they were filled to the brim with scientific fascination. “Do you know how advanced that is? You’re a genius !”

“I’m- I wouldn’t say that …” Peter muttered, blushing furiously at the compliment, all traces of bravado gone in the face of genuine praise.

Tony shook his head, chuckling, and patted Peter’s back. “Geez, kiddo. I mean, I knew you were smart, but, wow. What’re the chances, huh? First Steve, then Bruce; I'd say it was fate - if I believed in that stuff.”

“That’s true, isn’t it?” Bruce chuckled. “Well, maybe not fate. Maybe more like one seriously incredible kid.” He smiled at Peter - who flushed further than he would’ve thought was possible.

“Let’s just, do some science.” Peter muttered, shy smile obvious in his tone.

Tony rolled his eyes and ruffled Peter’s hair, smaller hands batting his away playfully. “Alright, then, kiddo. ‘Science’ it is.”

The addition of Bruce didn’t mess up the flow Tony and Peter had fallen into, as some might imagine; instead, they all melded together into a steady machinery, anticipating requests and helping each other out as they worked on their own projects - Peter slightly freaking out the entire time, because this was any nerd’s fantasy , and he was no different in that aspect. They played music in the background, otherwise working in relative silence - except when they’d go on tangents about theories and ideas and wait, shit, don’t do that it’s gonna explode- and Peter was perfectly content to waste away the day in that one room; he could see why Tony sometimes didn’t leave for days at a time . 

“Hey, Pete?” Said man asked, several hours and multiple cups of coffee (purely for the elder of the three - Tony had learnt his lesson about giving Peter caffeine) later. Peter hummed questioningly in response from where he was hunched over a schematic of his web shooters’ designs. “So, I was thinking. Part of the reason I wanted to - want to - foster you,” Peter swore his heart skipped a beat whenever his residence at the Tower, or with Tony, was described as anywhere near permanent, “is school. You’re a smart kid, and you deserve a shot at a proper education. Well, you could probably get into any college on your own merit already, plus with my connections - but trust me, you don’t want to go young. It might seem cool, but it’s better to be with people your own age.”

Peter recalled that Tony himself had gone to MIT at 15 - which was insanely impressive - and frowned at the thought of his- (he paused. His… what , exactly? Foster father? Mentor? Father-figure-?) of Tony struggling through various scenarios due to his young age and early enrollment. He hastily cut off his own thoughts, humming thoughtfully. “Yeah, I get that.”

Bruce nodded. “I agree. It’d probably be better sooner rather than later, too, since you’ve already missed a year.” He paused, looking over at Peter apologetically. “Which,” he added hastily, “isn’t your fault, of course, but it’d be for the best to get you on track quickly, right?”

He waved off the concern. “No worries, I get what you mean. And, well, I, uh, guess so, yeah.” Peter replied, furrowing his brow. It wasn’t that he was opposed to the idea - in fact, he’d quite enjoyed school, despite it being relatively easy sometimes, and the bullying - it just wasn’t something he’d allowed himself to ever consider; one of the many things he’d buried to avoid the soul-crushing fate that was hope without basis. Well, he’d enjoyed school before he turned 16. Before May died.

After that, he’d been pulled out of Midtown and shoved into so many different schools during his time at the foster homes that he couldn’t even remember half their names - let alone the names of the people there. None of them had ever appealed the same way Midtown had; whether it was because of his grief, or the lack of challenge they brought in comparison to his old school, they were memories full of winding hallways and blank faces.

“You there, kid?” Tony’s voice cut through his ruminations.

“Hm?” He blinked several times, looking at his hands for a moment before clenching them to suppress their trembling, before shifting his gaze to Tony. “Oh, yeah. All good, just thinking about… stuff.” He finished lamely, cringing somewhat at the weak excuse.

Tony raised an eyebrow, but didn’t push. “I was asking whether you have any preferences on which school, or type of school.”

Immediately, Midtown Tech popped into mind - and Peter winced, again, at the whirlwind of emotional turmoil it brought. “I think…” He let his mind wander to Ned and MJ, to Flash, to worst case scenarios- “I need to think about it.”

“Alright.” Tony accepted, with a shrug. “Let me know, yeah?”

Peter nodded slowly. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat, fighting a frown. “I think I’m gonna… go do that.

Narrowing his eyes somewhat, Tony settled for ruffling Peter’s hair - and frowning slightly when Peter’s attempts to stop him were rather half-hearted. “Go on then, kiddo.”

Bruce looked up at him from where he’d turned back to his work. “Definitely join us again soon, Peter. Or feel free to drop by my lab, I’d love to steal you for a while!”

Tony made a scandalized noise. “Brucie Bear! Don’t try to steal Spider-genius,” Peter gave a dubious look at the nickname, “he’s my lab partner!”

“I thought I was your lab partner?” Bruce asked, mock offended.

Shaking his head at the playful squabbling, Peter turned to leave (very much wrapped up in his own head as he walked), restrapping his web shooters to his wrists from where he’d taken them off to demonstrate some of the mechanisms. “Oh, right. Wait a sec, kiddo.” Tony called out, before grabbing a small white box and looking over at Peter. “Catch.” He chucked the box at Peter, who stuck out a hand and caught it in a swift, fluid motion, using his stickiness to prevent any fumbling.

“Huh- woah!” Peter broke out of his thoughts to stare down at the box, bemused. “What…?” Tony nodded at him expectantly, and Peter just shook his head at the antics, opening the box to reveal… “What the- is this a Stark Phone?” His jaw hung open as he stared at the technology that cost, well, more than all of his possessions combined - and then some. “I can’t- this is so-” He stumbled over his words, searching for a way to reject it. “I can’t take this.” He finished, lamely.

“Sure you can, Pete.” Tony waved him off, watching with an amused smile, before turning back to his machinery. “Now go brood elsewhere, it’s not a good tinkering atmosphere.”

“I-” Peter started, only to be cut off by Tony restarting his work - obviously no longer interacting with the conversation. Peter turned to Bruce with large, pleading eyes.

Bruce chuckled, holding his hands up in surrender. “Trust me, Peter; it’s better if you just accept it.”

Peter sighed in slightly reluctant resignation. “Alright, sure.” He shrugged. “Thanks, Stark. I’m gonna go think, now.” He nodded his goodbyes and walked into the elevator, setting up the phone as a brief distraction from his thoughts - very brief, thanks to the impeccably fast Stark tech; he’d be impressed, if he wasn’t so annoyed at losing his reason to procrastinate actually important things. Things like, oh, possibly seeing the friends he ghosted for a whole year again ?

He soon arrived at his room, his phone in the middle of installing important apps (Youtube, games, Instagram, all the essentials) and dropped onto the bed with a sigh, carefully depositing the Spider-Man suit on the bedside table. He hesitantly entered his account information into Instagram before he paused, finger hovering over the sign-in button; it meant a real connection to his old life, a life he thought he’d abandoned - for better or for worse - so many months ago. With a wince, he pressed down and chucked it across the bed, dragging his hands down his face in resignation as he groaned.

Hands still covering his face, he split two fingers apart to glance through the gap at his phone; it had not yet exploded, interestingly enough (he kind of wished it would - then he could just forget about it all). He wondered why he was feeling so stressed - he’d had the option to reconnect for days now, once he was given the StarkPad; but he’d just used it to read, and it hadn’t felt like his , because he’d still thought he’d be leaving soon and there was no point getting attached to anything. But now…?

With a heaved sigh, Peter reached over and picked up his phone, unlocking it from where it had fallen asleep and slowly clicking on the messages section of the app- and promptly felt his heart stop .

Well, not literally; all those sorts of book cliches were highly illogical - if people’s hearts skipped beats over crushes and stopped at emotional shocks that often, there’d be heart attacks going on 24/7. So, his heart didn’t actually stop (trust him, he could hear it) but it sure felt like it. He could feel the blood drain from his face, could practically imagine how pale he looked, and he grimaced. Because he’d forgotten one, very important, thing when he’d checked his Instagram account all those weeks ago;

Read receipts were a thing .

Which meant Ned knew he’d seen the messages.

And, subsequently, he’d messaged again.

Once he’d gotten over the oh shit moment of initially seeing the new messages, he pondered whether it was really a bad thing; sure, it wasn’t ideal , but it wasn’t the end of the world, right? Ok, scratch that - he was totally still panicking. He’d disappeared and proceeded to ghost his friends in an attempt to avoid the uncomfortable questions and inevitable pain of losing them too. At least, this way, he’d been able to control when he lost them. Peter read and reread the message history a few times as he blankly wondered what he was going to do. There was the last one Peter had seen at the library, of course;

i'll wait forever, man. you know me, i'll hang on till the last moment.

And then, a few weeks later;

peter??

really? this is how i find out ur alive??? seriously dude?

A few days of silence.

please respond man

i hope ur ok

Another break, shorter this time.

i miss you

That one stung, for sure. The guilt that had been building for so long over how he’d cut contact from his friends was bubbling higher in his chest with every message - and the last one was painful, seeing his best and closest friend so distraught. There were a few messages from MJ, as well, in the time frame between some of Ned’s frantic ones - presumably after dealing with the aftermath for a while.

We know you read our messages, Peter. I can see the read receipts.

A break consisting of a few days.

Just message Ned once, let him know you’re okay. Please.

Peter cringed at that; he’d never known MJ to be that serious (well, over him. She was serious when it came to social issues and protesting and the like) - she was basically crying and begging him, in her standards. Well, maybe not, he could barely imagine her crying, let alone begging , over anything or anyone. Still, it was a lot. Peter knew he and Ned had practically been her only friends - and vice versa - but her icy demeanor made it hard to remember, at times. It shone through in the little things; how she’d sit slightly closer in the aftermath of Ben’s death, or the snarky remarks she’d quip at Flash to get him to back off, or how her drawings of them slowly morphed from crude ‘moments of crisis’ to more thoughtful, introspective pages full of lead and ink.

See, MJ’s sketchbook was full of chicken-scratch sketches she’d scribble down in amusement at people’s suffering (though never at times where it would be truly malicious, she would never go that far) and display with a smirk at her target - so many people got the impression she just wasn’t all that good at art. Peter knew better. He’d caught glimpses of more refined drawings, with long, smooth lines and carefully shaded details that made his breath hitch in his throat at the pure emotion they conveyed. He suspected her ‘crisis drawings’ were as, well, bad as they were for a few reasons; for one, it pissed people off further at their distress being captured in such an unrefined manner - secondly, she didn’t want to waste her time on the people those drawings were of.

His theories were subtly confirmed by the quirk of her lips and the sparkle of mischief in her eyes when Flash got heated over the quality of a drawing of him when Peter had shown him up in Academic Decathlon - as well as the slight improvement in quality when her drawings concerned someone she actually liked, such as Ned, Betty, or Peter himself. Those small realizations warmed him when they dawned, not that he’d ever dare mention it to MJ, lest he have to deal with the consequences (she was about as terrifying as a small Natasha, at times).

Ned was quite the opposite, always comfortable with expressing his affection and never deterred by MJ’s hard exterior or any mocking comments from more insecure teens. He and Peter were perfectly comfortable with hugs and cuddles, and they’d come to be a relaxing activity when his mind just wouldn’t shut up . Now was one of those moments, the thoughts swirling his mind in a fury of confusion and conflicted emotions, the room suddenly feeling far too tight for his liking and oh god the walls were closing in weren’t they? Was he trapped again? The debris, pushing down on his chest and stealing his breath and-

He wasn’t quite aware of when he’d tugged off his clothes and pulled the suit over his body - only slightly baggy until he pressed the spider emblem on the front and it tightened to his form - but he was suddenly pulling the mask over his head and choking out to FRIDAY to open a window now , before he had a full-on panic attack. The AI obliged, words muffled and muddled by his mind’s panic to a point where he couldn’t tell what she was saying, and he leapt out of the window with haste, shooting out a web from his web shooters and swinging out over the city with a steady rhythm.

A few minutes of swinging, and his mind had begun to clear; he changed his course from aimless wandering to the distant trees of a large, familiar park as he struggled to order his thoughts. He noticed, distantly, a few people cheering as he passed - but his mind was caught up in other things. Soon, he alighted on a semi-sturdy branch at the top of one of the highest trees he could find and perched, hidden amongst the canopy (well, somewhat hidden amongst the pine trees, seeing as most of the trees’ branches were bare of leaves by now).

Gripping the rough bark with nimble fingers, he became aware of the aching burn of his hands and hissed, unsticking one from the tree to inspect the damage. Ah, right. In his haste, he’d forgotten to wear the gloves to the suit (seeing as that would have needed him to detach and reattach his web shooters over the material) and his hands were, subsequently, fucked up. Angry red lines stained his skin from where the webbing had dug in from the strain of holding up his own weight at the speeds he could reach, and he winced at how sore they felt - which wasn’t a surprise, seeing as he frequently injured his hands, including the glass and vinegar recently. The smaller marks were already beginning to heal, itching slightly in the process, and it didn’t seem they would scar, as only small bits of skin had broken; it looked like a bad case of rope burn, really. He flexed his free hand, and held back a groan at the ache that shot through his muscles at the sensation, biting his lip slightly and shaking his head in disbelief at his own stupidity.

Looking around the scenery - but not taking off his mask, thanks to the tremors in his hands - he noted the HUD that was overlaid on his vision, detailing the current temperature and windspeed in small lettering, as well as a few other useful things, such as (once he took a moment to connect his web shooters properly into the suit) the status of his web fluid and how much was left. “Cool…” He muttered, wondering aloud whether he could change what was displayed.

“That is possible, if you so desire.” A feminine voice said, out of nowhere and seemingly all around him.

“Wha-” He stumbled slightly on the spot, glancing around wildly. “What the fuck ? Who said that?” He stuck out his free hand in a pose to shoot a web, scanning his surroundings for a person.

“I apologize, Mr Parker. I am an AI constructed by Tony Stark and implemented into your Spider-Man suit for your safety and convenience.” She said, voice lilting pleasantly. “It is nice to meet you.”

“Well, shit.” Peter relaxed, scratching his head and sitting back into a more comfortable position. “Nice to meetcha too, suit lady.” He replied, somewhat awkwardly, then paused and frowned. “Do you have, like, a name? ‘Cause ‘suit lady’ isn’t the most convenient.”

“I have a designation given by Tony Stark, but not one you might classify as a ‘name’.” She explained. “I am Delta-0228.”

“Huh.” He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, not a great name, hard to make a nickname out of that.” He thought for a moment. “D’you mind if I give you a name?”

“That would be acceptable.” Her wording made Peter chuckle - to anyone else, it would seem emotionless, but the underlying warmth in her artificial tone would be hard to fake, and he’d had plenty of practice with deciphering seemingly uncaring people (well, sort of people, in this case) such as MJ. The thought of her sent a lance of pain through his heart, reopening the fresh wounds and reminding him why he was there in the first place. He cleared his throat in an attempt to clear his mind, as well.

“How about…May?” He suggested the name, but almost immediately shook his head. “Wait, nope. No, that’s weird. Maybe… Michelle? Nope, still strange.” He groaned, running a hand over his masked face. “Alright. Maybe something generic, with no ties. Lily? Rose? Ivy? Wait, no. I’m just thinking about plants ‘cause I’m surrounded by them!” He finished the sentence with a dramatic sigh, dropping his head back to hit the trunk behind him. “We’ll work on that later.”

“Ok, Mr Parker.” The AI sounded amused, to which Peter rolled his eyes and tried to ignore the uncomfortable flare of pain at being called by his surname, of being reminded that he was the only Parker of his family line left alive-

“Just call me Peter.” He said, managing to maintain a level tone.

“Alright then, Peter.” She echoed the name, voice tinged with a fondness that made Peter pause and marvel at Tony’s ingenuity.

“Names are hard, y’know?” He complained. “‘Cause, like, I’m Peter Parker. But I’m also Spider-Man, and the difference between those two is massive. And names can mean so much . People hear the name ‘Captain America’ and they think about salvation and freedom and all that shit, they hear ‘the Avengers’ and wonder what world-ending catastrophe is threatening the world now.” He took in a deep breath, and sighed a long, tired sigh. “Take away a person’s name and there’s something missing, something important that frames an existence in a way we can understand.” He paused, remembering a conversation he’d had before that mirrored this one, and huffed out a laugh. “I knew this girl, in foster care. A bit older than me, but it seemed like so much more with how much she’d seen.

“It was in one of the first foster homes - third one, I think, but they’re a bit muddled now. She’d been through a hell of a lot more than me, and she was so damn strong, somehow. Shitty home life, y’know? She had a family, technically, but it wasn’t much of one, not really.” He closed his eyes, thinking back to the nights spent, curled in the dark and staring out the window at the starless sky, her sitting beside him. “Alcoholism, drug addiction, abuse, you name it. She’d dealt with it all, through her so-called ‘family’. So she never really referred to any of them as her family, or her mom or dad or anything, just by their names.

“It was a statement for her, I think. Like, she had so little power over her own life that she wanted to decide who her family was for herself.” Peter sucked in a shuddery breath. “And then there was me, and I’d had so much family and lost them all. Mom and Dad; Aunt and Uncle; Ned and his family were so close with us that we were practically family, too. MJ was getting there, but she didn’t really like to admit it.

“So I didn’t want any more, I’d decided. I couldn’t bring myself to get attached only to lose people again, so I told myself I didn’t need anyone.” He laughed, tinged bittersweet with hurt. “She wouldn’t listen to that bullshit, said I was her family now, whether I liked it or not. And I didn’t have it in myself to argue, ‘cause I really did want one, even after everything. I just felt like so much of a curse and-” He inhaled sharply, cutting himself off. “Anyway, she really helped me out. Helped me get through the bad times.

“She said names were important, that they carried weight and that you should never underestimate the importance of a name. Like last names. There were kids she’d known, since she’d been in foster care a long time, who’d been adopted or fostered and taken the family’s last name, right? And there were kids who were dropped back into the system even after it all, or who regretted losing their family’s name later on.

“But she knew how much my family meant to me, always told me to hold the name close to my heart. Not to change it for anyone, no matter what.” He grimaced at the thought - he could never give up being a Parker, not for anyone. “She wanted to change her last name as soon as she could, always swore up and down it was the first thing she’d do, once she turned 18. Said she didn’t want any links to them anymore, since they fucked her up so badly.” He took a deep breath, opening his eyes to look up at the sky, tracing slight shifts in the clouds as he watched them move.

“We got separated, of course.” He said, bitterly. “I still miss her, sometimes. But I miss a lot of them, made a bit of family with the kids in the homes after that, ‘cause of what she said.” He paused, hesitant, and spoke the next part more quietly. “I think she’s the reason I could accept the team at all, y’know? I don’t think I could’ve, if I’d convinced myself I was alright alone for so long.” They lapsed into silence, and Peter let it sit.

“What’s her name?” The suit AI asked, eventually.

“Karen.” He breathed it out, not remembering the last time he’d said it aloud.

“That is a lovely name.” She replied, a hint of sorrow in her tone. “Thank you for telling me that, Peter.”

“No problem, suit lady.” Peter chuckled lightly, before clicking his tongue.  “Hey, what about that? Karen? I mean, for your name. ‘Cause you’re here to help me out, yeah? That’s what she always did.”

“I would be honored to be named after someone so incredible.” The AI - Karen - said, with a genuine undertone of joy that made Peter smile.

“Cool. That’s settled, then.” He stretched against the bark, feeling the fabric shift under his movements. His mind was drifting to the people he’d met in foster care - not all bad, seeing as a lot of them were kids like him, all suffering similar problems. The first couple homes, he’d been dazed by grief and standoffish, refusing to get close to people; then came Karen (human Karen) breaking down his defences like it was nothing. Thanks to her, he’d made a few friends at his next foster homes, bonded through trauma and heartbreak. He’d never had many friends, and it wasn’t much different in the system.

And then… and then there was Ned and MJ. His friends - his only friends, for a long while - of over a decade and of a few years, respectively; he wasn’t sure he was ready to let them go. But, at the same time, he didn’t know if they’d even want to be his friends anymore - he’d put them through so much… surely they were tired of him? He winced at the thought. No. No, Ned wasn’t like that - he’d always been there for him, always . And MJ, for all her harsh declarations and tough exteriors, was kind at heart; despite their friendship not being as long as he and Ned’s, they trusted each other quite a bit, and they’d grown decently close.

But, then again, could that fix over a year of no contact? Once he went into foster care, he soon left their school - but they still texted regularly. Then, his phone had started being confiscated as he entered new homes. And then… well, after a few too many drinks, his foster carer at the time had destroyed it - and there was no way any of the places that kept him would ever replace it, so that was that. He’d talked to them on Instagram for a while, whenever he could go to the library, but it wasn’t the same; they talked less and less often, and they became alienated. How could they not? Peter was dealing with some horrible trauma at the time, and he just… couldn’t talk to them about it. He couldn’t .

They met up one or two times, but their schedules conflicted more often than not - and that was ignoring the ever-changing distance between them as Peter was carted around from one foster home to another. Plus, he sometimes cancelled if the bruises were too new and noticeable. He didn’t want them to know.

Once he ran away, he’d cut them off entirely. It wasn’t easy, oh hell no; they’d been his support system for so long - Ned had been his rock when Ben died and May was too overwhelmed under the weight of bills, responsibility, and her own grief, to support Peter as well. Ned hugged him while he cried, and comforted him after nightmares (until Peter stopped wanting to bother him and slowly started dealing with them on his own, instead).

A rustle in the branches not far away made him glance up, taking him from his thoughts - expecting to see a squirrel or large bird - only to lay eyes on Clint, carefully perched in a nearby tree, and grinning sheepishly at Peter. “Hey, bud,” he chuckled, readjusting his grip on the branches.

Peter furrowed his brow, raising an eyebrow as he took in the situation in front of him. “...Clint?” He asked, bemused.

“In the flesh!” Clint waved rapidly. “Thought you might like some company.”

“How…” Peter huffed out a startled laugh, smiling in his confusion. “How’d you know…? How’re you up…?” He shook his head in amused disbelief. “Just. What?”

“ Well ,” Clint drawled, drawing out the word, “Your old man was worried about you.” Peter started back at the phrasing in reference to Tony, before feeling a stab of guilt at having run from the Tower for the second time in as many days - it’d probably freaked Tony out, seeing as the last time the circumstances were… less than ideal. But it wasn’t Peter’s fault he felt more at ease when he was swinging, and free - he just needed some air. “Bruce had to talk him down from chasing after you right away, said to give you some time.”

“And you…?” Peter prompted, unsure as to how this related to Clint currently sitting in the tree next to him.

“I was in the vents, of course,” he smirked, and Peter rolled his eyes at the habit, “and I overheard them talking about it. I agreed with Bruce about giving you space, but after a few hours, well..” Clint trailed off, and Peter blinked in surprise, eyes flickering to the corner of his HUD currently displaying the time - and confirming that, yes, he had been gone for several hours now.

“Oh damn.” He said, chuckling slightly. “I didn’t even realize how long I was gone, woops.”

Clint gave him an appraising look, and leaned back into the tree. “So, what’s got you so caught up in your thoughts then, huh?”

“It’s stupid.” Peter said, after a moment’s delay.

“I bet it’s not.” Clint replied, not a hint of hesitation in his tone. “You don’t gotta talk about it, but I’m here if you want to.”

Peter shifted his seating in the tree with a sigh, contemplating his options for a few minutes, in which Clint stayed faithfully silent, demeanor giving off a distinct lack of pressure to talk about anything Peter didn’t want to. Eventually, he caved. “It’s my friends,” he admitted, averting his gaze to look out through the maze of branches, tracing the paths of small animals jumping across them, “Tony brought up school, and he asked if I had anywhere in mind. But I haven’t talked to my friends in over a year, and I just don’t know what to do.” He groaned as he spilled out the insecurities that had been building, like pressure against a dam, in his head. “I cut them off completely after a while, ‘cause I didn’t think I’d ever get a chance to talk to them again, but now…”

There were a few moments of silence before Clint spoke. “Damn, kid. That’s tough.” Peter shot him a look, and he shrugged in response. “What? It’s true. You’ve got it real rough, bud, and you’ve been through a hell of a lot. Stuff’s going real quick right now, too.” He chuckled, and Peter smiled slightly despite himself. “You’ve only been in the Tower,” (the ‘and off the streets’ went unsaid, but it hung heavy in the air between them) “for a few weeks, and now there’s all this talk about fostering and adoption and school,” he blew out a long breath, “it’s tough. I don’t blame you for being overwhelmed.”

“Wait.” Peter frowned, his brain latching onto one part in particular. “ Adoption? Who said anything about adoption?”

Clint gave him an amused look, and chuckled, shaking his head. “Have you seen how Stark is, around you? I’ve never known him to be this committed or attached to anything or anyone this quickly.” He paused, smiling gently. “He’s in this for the long haul, kid.”

Peter stared at him blankly for a moment, before shaking his head to clear his mind. “No, I don’t-” He took a deep breath. Sure, Tony had assured him that he cared and all, but a large part of Peter’s mind was still struggling to accept that. “There’s no way, Stark’s-” He paused at the look on Clint’s face. “What?”

“Back to ‘Stark’, huh?” He asked, vaguely amused. “That’s my thing, bud, get your own.” Clint scowled in mock annoyance, and Peter rolled his eyes.

“That’s just what I call him. And all of you, Barton .” Peter insisted.

“You called him Tony a minute ago,” Clint smirked, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

“Wha- I did not!” Peter squawked, spluttering and flushing somewhat.

“Actually, Peter,” Karen spoke up, “you did. I can play the voice file if you would like?” She sounded genuine and electronic, but Peter could swear she knew what she was doing.

“Karen? No!” He protested. “There’s an AI in my suit,” he explained, at Clint’s odd look, “I named her Karen.”

“Ah,” Clint nodded, clearly amused. “What’s up with the last name thing, anyway? Some kinda way to distance yourself? ‘Cause I do it for fun, but with you…” he looked at Peter appraisingly once again. “You seem more serious about it.”

Peter frowned and ducked his head. “It’s… I dunno.” He sighed, resigning himself to his fate. “It’s tough to trust people again, y’know? And it’s just one step too close for comfort. Makes things feel,” he searched for the right word, voice quieting when he said it, “permanent.”

Clint’s expression softened, speaking softly. “That’s because it is, Peter.” He smiled gently. “You’re allowed to get used to it, because we’re not going anywhere.” And, despite everything, despite the raging storm of emotions and insecurities and doubts in his mind, the tone with which Clint said those words - the certainty he infused in them - calmed his thoughts.

“Ok.” Peter conceded, after a moment. “I’ll, uh, see you back at the Tower?”

Luckily, Clint seemed to pick up on his need to be alone, and gave a reassuring nod, turning to go before remembering something. “Oh, right!” He fumbled for a pocket, and pulled out some red and blue fabric, chucking it at Peter. “Don’t want your hands to get more messed up.” With that, he swiftly climbed down and set off.

Peter caught the fabric, and, upon realizing they were his Spider-Man gloves, pulled them on, fastening his web shooters properly atop the suit. He shifted his gaze to the sky, closing his eyes and took a deep breath. “Karen?” He asked, quietly.

“Yes, Peter?” She replied, matching his lowered volume.

“Are you connected to my phone?” He hesitated, but took another breath and continued. “Like, my Instagram?”

“I am. Would you like me to send a message?” She questioned, and Peter smiled at her anticipation of his requests, this early on. Yup, Karen was the right name after all - she resembled her namesake quite well already.

“Yeah, to, uh, Ned.” He paused, smirking as he remembered the username. “Or, well, obi_wan_nedobi.” He chuckled, then cleared his throat. “Have it say: 'I’m sorry. Meet at the library to explain everything, bring MJ, tomorrow at 3?'” He waited a moment. “I think that’s it? Yeah, that’s the message. Send.”

“Message sent.” Karen confirmed, leaving Peter to breathe out a large sigh, tension leaving his body and being replaced by an odd, adrenaline-fueled exhaustion. After a minute, he dropped off the branch and shot out a web, swinging himself up as he headed back to the Tower; it felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and yet the anticipation made him nauseous.

*

Peter stood outside the Library at 2:30pm the following day, hood pulled low over his head out of habit more than anything, and took out his phone, staring - for what felt like the hundredth time - at Ned’s messages.

holy shit

yea of course, dude

ill see you tomorrow, yea?

you better not bail

im bringing MJ

He took a deep breath, clicking the device off and walking into the library he, Ned and MJ had always met up in to do projects, when none of their houses were available or they needed the space. Without as much as a glance anywhere else, Peter stalked over to the corner in the back where a low table sat, surrounded by bean bag chairs. Smiling weakly at the influx of memories the space provided, he sat down on one of them and tapped his fingers on the table, glancing around as he waited.

Fifteen minutes passed as he drummed out a rhythm on the wood, leg bouncing up and down as he scrolled listlessly, unseeing, through various social media platforms - and then the sound of footsteps approaching made him look up, hood falling back at the speed of the action, to see his two oldest friends freeze in their strides a few meters away. Peter stood abruptly, then swallowed, mouth dry, and raised a hand in a bad imitation of a wave, aborted midway through. “Hey, guys.” He said, finally, drawing out the first word in faux lightheartedness that fell flat, chuckling awkwardly after a moment of silence. “It’s, uh, been a while?” His voice lilted up at the end, giving the impression of a question.

Finally, Ned stepped forward once, twice, before closing the gap and encircling him in a tight hug, burying his face in the hoodie. “Peter…” he breathed out, disbelief clear in his tone. Peter stilled, tensing, before forcing himself to relax and return the embrace, tentatively smiling at the comforting familiarity of the action.

Eventually, Ned pulled away, and MJ walked over with purpose, spell broken as she began to move. “Hi-” Peter began, before cutting off and frowning as MJ punched his arm. “Ow!”

“ That ,” she gritted out, tone laced with several different intentions and feelings, “is for disappearing like that, you idiot.”

Peter huffed out a weak, sheepish chuckle. “Yeah, I’m really sorry about that. I’ll explain everything, I just-” He cut himself off, this time, voice choked with emotion. “I really missed you guys.”

“You better have!” Ned exclaimed, eyes watery. “A whole year , dude! Come on. Where have you even been?”

“Ah, yeah, right.” Peter scratched his neck, gesturing to the seats. “We should sit down, it’s a… long story.” MJ gave him a calculating look, but sat down on one side of the small table, Ned opposite her and Peter in the middle, facing them both. “So, you know my foster homes weren’t… great, right?” He’d never revealed the extent of what he’d dealt with, but he had a feeling MJ had suspected - even when their meetings became more infrequent and life tore them apart - and Ned knew something was wrong beyond the surface level, having known Peter for so long.

The look in MJ’s eyes confirmed she knew more than she’d ever voiced, and the hint of guilt in her expression said she, on some level, blamed herself. He still had no intention of telling them everything, but he owed them some sort of explanation; so he aimed for half-truths and watered down facts. “So David broke my phone, as you know,” they’d met up a few times and communicated a bit after the fact, using other methods. “And then, well, I, uh, ran away?” He winced as the words left his mouth - he was never the most tactful, but there wasn’t really an easy way to say that.

Ned’s eyes widened dramatically. “You what -?”

“I know, I know.” Peter said, with a placating gesture of surrender. “Not my best idea, but that was just over a year ago, and I’m good now.” Another half-truth; it was a year ago, and he was getting better, but he was nowhere near ‘good’, or even just ‘ok’. There was a long road ahead to reach that.

“I’m just glad you’re alright, man.” Ned smiled sadly, and Peter reached across the table to place a hand on his shoulder in firm comfort.

“It’s really good to see you guys.” Peter looked at them both, then cleared his throat to swallow down the lump that had formed. “Enough about me, for now. I want to know what’s been going on with you two.”

To his relief, the pair seemed to pick up on his need for a distraction - he’d missed that sense of connection, of knowing so instinctually the small things to do to make it better - and Ned started off on a tangent about school that eventually morphed into him and MJ explaining the changes to the Aca Dec team and how Flash was dragging them down. They spoke for hours about everything and nothing at all, Peter soaking in the comfort of finally speaking to them again after so very long with a dull ache in his heart.

He wondered how he ever could’ve given this up - this part of himself, the section of his heart that had been ripped out all those months ago and left a tear in his soul. He could’ve sat there and kept talking about nothing at all until the sun died, and he’d be perfectly content. Eventually, though, there was a lull in conversation, which MJ took as an opportunity to ask a question that had obviously been weighing on her the whole time.

“Earlier, you said you ran away. Then… where have you been living?” She seemed hesitant to ask, and her expression darkened after a moment as Peter hurried to steer the conversation away from that before they could come too close to the harsh truth.

“See, that’s the less believable part,” he chuckled nervously, “ever since a few weeks ago? Avengers Tower.” Peter hadn’t thought Ned’s eyes could get any bigger - but he was proven wrong within a few seconds. MJ looked skeptical but, after inspecting his expression for a moment, looked more shocked than Peter had ever seen her before. He stifled another laugh.

“Wha- what? Why ?” Ned squawked, leaning forward on the table. “Not that you’re not awesome,” he quickly added, making Peter smile fondly, “but, like, why ?”

“Have you, uh, heard of that vigilante, Spider-Man?” Peter prompted, cautiously.

“Well, yeah, of course.” Ned’s expression shifted to confusion. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Uh, well, that’s kinda… me.” He said, wincing at the awkwardness; Ned’s disbelief was clear on his face, though he was trying to hide it - MJ, on the other hand, was giving him a calculating look, seeming decidedly unconvinced. Peter rolled his eyes, looking around conspiratorially, before sticking his hand to a nearby book and lifting it above the table. “Believe me now?”

Ned’s eyes widened, realization setting in. “No way.” He breathed out the words, practically on the edge of hyperventilating.

Peter chuckled again at his reaction, dropping the book to the surface and glancing over at the (impressively calm) MJ. “Huh.” She said, nodding. “Well, cool.”

“Yeah, so I sorta moved in, mostly ‘cause of that.” He skirted around the truth of it, wincing internally at the lies of omission, but rationalizing them with not wanting to make them feel guilty - and not wanting to see any pity in their eyes; maybe one day he’d tell them, but not yet. He wasn’t ready for that.

“Do the webs-?” Ned began, in a conspiratorial stage-whisper.

“No, Ned.” Peter cut off, in amused irritation. “They don’t come out of me. I made them, plus my web shooters.” He hitched up his sleeve to display one of them, and considered for a moment before speaking again. “I do have some enhancements, though.”

“ Woah .” Ned slumped forward, amazed. Even MJ’s interest seemed piqued, as she tilted her head curiously to the side, listening to his answer. “How much of it is the suit? Like, is the suit sticky or are you-” He paused, realization dawning. “Holy shit.” He laughed. “Holy shit , Tony Stark made the new Spider-Man suit, didn’t he? I mean, there’s speculation and everything online, but-”

Peter spoke over him with a smile, ending his rambling. “Kind of. We designed it together, but he made the final product. And it’s all me, stickiness and all.” He rolled his eyes at the description, but he hadn’t found a better one to describe that particular enhancement.

MJ’s eyes narrowed. “Is Stark really an asshole, then, or is it just the media twisting things?” The question reminded him of why MJ was seriously impressive in such a multitude of ways; despite all the tabloids painting him as a horrible person, a selfish, arrogant playboy - and despite the world’s consensus that it was all true - she still recognised the truth behind the world of celebrities, and the fact you could never trust anything mass-printed. After all, they were after money first and foremost, not the truth.

He shook his head fondly. “Nah, he’s actually really nice. I mean, he seems really confident a lot, but he’s a genuine guy once you get past all the jokes and stuff.” MJ nodded approvingly - she’d never idolized anyone the way Peter or Ned had, but she’d admired the way Tony had managed to turn around his entire company and revolutionize green energy in a way never seen before. She didn’t see much of a point in hanging onto old grudges when someone was so obviously trying to change.

“I-” Peter began, only for his phone to chime in his pocket. With an apologetic smile, he pulled it out to see a text from Tony (who’d apparently entered his number already) reminding him to ‘get home’ - and the casual use of the word ‘home’ in reference to the Tower warmed his heart - before dinner. A glance at the time showed him it was almost 6:30, and he chuckled shortly upon seeing that. “Wow, time really does fly with you guys. I’d forgotten about that.” He stood up reluctantly. “I should head back, team dinner soon.” He looked over at Ned, who was frozen and staring at the phone. “Uh, what…?”

“ Dude .” Ned said, excitement in his tone. “That’s nothing like any phone on the market.”

Peter looked down at the phone, and, upon slightly closer inspection with Ned, they found that the Stark Phone was, in fact, not on the market - but rather one that Tony had, presumably, made personally. Peter whistled low. “That’s crazy cool. Ten-year-old me would be freaking out right now.”

“ Dude. ” Ned repeated, just as starstruck. “I’m freaking out now .”

“I can see that.” He said amusedly as they walked out of the building and stood on the sidewalk outside, before opening up the contacts list. “I’ve gotta go, but can I get your numbers?” Peter asked, somewhat tentatively, still unsure of where he stood with them. MJ promptly grabbed his phone and imputed her number, then handed it to Ned, who did the same.

“There. Now you don’t have an excuse to ghost us.” MJ said, eyebrow raised pointedly as she held the phone back out to him, to which Peter chuckled sheepishly and took the phone back, sliding it into his back pocket.

“It was good to see you, Em- Michelle.” He winced at the slip-up, unsure if he still had ‘MJ’ privileges, as she was very selective with who was allowed to call her by the nickname.

MJ just rolled her eyes, punching his shoulder again, though much lighter and more joke-y than before. “Call me MJ, ya doof.” She smiled fondly, wrapping him in a sudden hug. Peter blinked a few times, startled, before returning the embrace. “I’m still mad at you,” she clarified quietly in his ear, making him wince, “but it sounds like you’ve been through a lot, so I won’t push. Yet.”

He was struck speechless at just how well she could read him, mouth parting slightly and then tilting up in a gentle smile. “Thanks, MJ. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Probably get yourself killed.” She deadpanned, as she pulled back and stepped away. “See you soon, Parker.” Peter nodded his goodbye and saluted goofily as she turned around and left.

The warmth she’d disappeared with was quickly replaced by Ned’s, as he pulled Peter into another hug. “I missed you so damn much , Peter. You can’t do that to me again.”

“I know, Ned.” Peter said, the words bittersweet on his tongue. “I’m really sorry.”

Ned shook his head as he released the embrace, chuckling. “You apologize too much, man. Guess some things never change.” He held out a hand in offering, and Peter gladly reciprocated their handshake. Ned turned to leave, but paused and looked back. “Oh, right. How’re you even gonna stay at Avengers’ Tower, anyway? Like, legally, since there’s the whole secret identity thing.”

“Huh?” Peter asked, absentmindedly, taking a second to register the question in his head. “Oh, Stark’s fostering me.”

Ned’s eyes looked like they were going to bug out of his face at this point. “Tony Stark is what now?” Peter laughed, patting Ned on the back as he tried to wrap his mind around the reality that was now his best friend’s life.

*

“I was thinking about the whole school thing.” Peter said, working next to Tony in the workshop, music playing loud but bearable in the background, Dum-E and U beeping and occasionally passing oil-contaminated beverages to them.

“Oh?” Tony replied, a concentrated frown on his face as he adjusted the placement of a few small wires. “Got anywhere in mind, then?”

“Yeah. I do, actually.” A small smile quirked the edge of Peter’s lips, tinged with unease and a trace of hope. Things were changing fast, and he wasn’t sure what was going on most of the time anymore, but a desire he hadn’t dared entertain in months was relit from embers in his heart, flaring quietly in the dark. “Ever heard of Midtown Tech?”

Chapter Text

Huffing in irritation, Peter re-cuffed the bottom of his too-long plain gray sweatpants for the third time that day, leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen more out of habit than anything else; the spider bite gave him near-perfect balance, and it wasn’t hard to stay upright on one leg, but it still felt off, sometimes, to perform tasks like that without instinctually finding something to support his weight. Clint watched him and snickered, visibly amused by the display. “Hey there, short stuff.” He smirked, chucking an apple at Peter.

Catching the fruit with ease as he straightened back up, Peter shot Clint a glare with no real heat. “Dude. You’re, like, an inch taller than me.” He said, dryly, taking a pointed bite of the apple as he sat down on a stool at the breakfast bar. “If that.”

“Oh, please .” Clint scoffed good naturedly, “I’m far taller than you, kid.”

Peter dragged his gaze up and down Clint’s body very obviously, before making eye contact. “Whatever you say, Barton.” He drawled, purposefully monotone. Natasha smirked beside him, shrugging as if to say ‘what? He’s right’ when Clint sent her a betrayed glare.

Steve turned from the stove with a plate piled high with scrambled eggs, placing it on the counter. “Now, now.” He used his best ‘ I’m Captain America’ voice. “No need to fight, you’re both short.” Clint gaped at Steve, who was smirking as he walked back to the stove to turn it off, clasping a hand over his heart dramatically; Peter chuckled at the scene, serving himself some breakfast from the foods in front of him.

Tony chose that moment to stumble through the doorway, hair mussed and clothes oil-stained in a way that suggested he hadn’t slept much - if at all - the previous night. He grumbled a greeting in response to Steve’s chipper one and Clint’s teasing, quickly snatching up the coffee pot to pour himself a large, dark cup. Steve turned to watch Tony with an unimpressed, concerned look, shaking his head as said man sighed with content from the coffee. Peter tilted his head to the doorway as he heard someone approach just behind Tony, smiling as Pepper entered the room. “Morning,” he greeted warmly.

She returned the smile, walking over to Tony’s side as she responded. “Good morning, Peter, and the rest of you, too.” She then took the coffee cup from his hands, ignoring his weak protests, and took a sip.

“Pep, ” Tony whined, dragging out the word and making grabby hands at the mug, “I need it.”

Pepper merely raised an eyebrow at him. “Should’ve thought of that before you pulled another all-nighter, hm?” She rolled her eyes at the pout Tony responded with, taking another sip of the drink before pulling a face. “Why do you insist on drinking it black, Tony? I know you prefer it with milk and sugar.”

“ Pepper ,” he whined once more, elongating her name again as he gestured over at Clint and Peter, both of whom watched with matching amused expressions. “You can’t ruin my image!”

“What ‘image’ is he talking about?” Clint stage whispered to Peter, who stayed silent but smirked. “We all know he’s got that mad scientist vibe going on.”

Tony fixed Clint with a faux glare. “Stop corrupting the kid, Birdbrain.” He sighed as he gave up on the coffee Pepper had claimed and was now adding milk to, instead turning to grab another. “Plus, we all know Brucie’s the mad scientist here, I’m an engineer.”

“Same thing,” Clint waved it off with a shrug, barely dodging the orange Tony chucked at him - which then flew past and was swiftly caught by Natasha, using minimal effort.

Peter snickered, not bothering to hide it. “Taste of your own medicine, Barton.” He teased, narrowing his eyes as Clint reached for the fruit bowl again.

“Let’s refrain from using food as projectiles, shall we, boys?” Natasha asked, in a way that was very much not a question, as she casually replaced the orange in the bowl - somehow managing to make that very action intimidating (and, damn , Peter needed to get her to show him how to do that). Immediately, Clint backed down with a sheepish smile, Tony copying but with a grin bordering more on mock innocence poorly masking the true intent of mischief.

Pepper shook her head at the antics. “I swear, sometimes it’s like dealing with a bunch of children,” she inclined her cup at Natasha, “I’m glad you’re here to keep them in line.” Natasha saluted her with two fingers, the edge of her lips quirking upwards.

Peter chuckled, then frowned as the edge of his too-big long sleeve shirt dipped into his food; with a silent groan, he folded the material back - he yearned to hitch it up casually and push it completely out of the way, further up his arm, but he still had reservations over exposing his scars, despite the understanding nature of the team after the… vinegar incident. Natasha picked up on the movement - because of course she did - and raised an eyebrow ever so slightly in a speculative manner, as if analyzing the situation from several angles, before leaning back into her chair after, presumably, coming to a conclusion. “You need new clothes, паук.” She declared, gaining the attention of Pepper, who looked over with a pondering gaze, before fixing Tony with a stern look.

“You haven’t got him proper clothes?” She said, unamused but not surprised.

This time it was Tony’s turn to flash her a sheepish grin. “Guess it slipped my mind, Pep. I’ve been pretty busy with team upgrades, and paperwork, and then SI.”

“You mean busy tinkering in your workshop for days on end?” She deadpanned, not buying his excuses. He went to deny, but she simply smiled. “FRIDAY?” Pepper said, voice laced with honey and knowing. “When was the last time Tony worked on a Stark Industries-”

Tony paled, waving his hands in front of him in an aborted gesture. “Nevermind!” He laughed nervously, suddenly far more awake. “I get your point, very well made. You should definitely take him to get sorted out.”

“That’s what I thought.” Pepper said sternly, then chuckled somewhat, kissing Tony on the cheek before turning to Peter. “How about we head out in an hour or so? Would that be alright, sweetheart?”

Peter went to protest, but was cut off by a look from Tony, instead sighing with a shrug. “Sounds good to me.”

*

The wind whipped through Peter’s hair as they drove through the streets, comforting in its similarity to the sensation from his web swinging, music blaring from the speakers as Natasha swerved through traffic with a trained ease. They were in parts of the city he’d never really had reason to be in - other than as Spider-Man, occasionally - with how far it was from his apartment, or the school, and yet it was still so familiar; New York felt like a sort of home, and Peter enjoyed feeling the vibrations of the city’s life as if through a spider’s webbing.

He watched the buildings speed past in a blur, and sighed. The itch to don his vigilante alter ego was growing, but he just hadn’t had a proper chance since Tony had given him the new suit - reconnecting with his friends had taken up a lot of his time in the past few days and, alongside losing track of time in the workshop, it had slipped under the radar. Sure, he might’ve needed the rest, he’d concede that - but what about the people getting hurt while he wasn’t out there? People were dying and he was being selfish-

Shaking his head abruptly, Peter took a deep breath; he wasn’t going to go down that route at the moment - he could get back into Spider-Man soon, it would be alright. Steve shot him a concerned glance from the other side of the backseat, and Peter responded with a reassuring smile that he was pretty sure was more of a grimace. As if on cue, Natasha looked at him appraisingly in the rear-view mirror for a moment, before shifting her gaze back onto the road. Peter chuckled somewhat at the ridiculous overprotective attitudes of the team, steadfastly ignoring the warmth filling his heart at the thought.

Pulling into the parking lot of a large mall, Natasha swiftly found an opening and parked (he was pretty sure she used some sort of black magic or spy ability for that - everyone knew it was practically a rule of the universe to struggle to find a spot). As they got out, Steve quirked an eyebrow. “Why am I here again?”

“Because you secretly love coordinating outfits.” Natasha teased with a smirk, making Steve flush slightly and clear his throat.

“Besides,” Pepper added, innocent smile plastered on her face, “we need someone to hold our things.” She looped an arm around Peter’s shoulders, leading him into a clothing store (he frowned at the irritatingly bright fluorescent lights, squinting as his eyes adjusted) near the entrance with little-to-no hesitation before planting her hands on his back to steer him towards the right section. “Go nuts.” She said, with a smile.

Peter skeptically looked over the clothes, eyes landing on a t-shirt with a science pun of two atoms talking to each other ( ‘I think I lost an electron’ ‘Are you positive?’ ) - he snickered at the bad joke, but paused and put it back with a sad sigh. The keyword here was ‘t-shirt’, there was no way he was anywhere near comfortable enough to expose his arms - and the scars that littered them - to anyone, let alone a school full of judgemental teenagers. He already had plenty of reasons for people to stare at him, he really didn’t need to add more to that.

Natasha walked over, lips tilting up as she inspected the shirt as well, before seeing the expression on his face - which he tried and failed to cover with a nonchalant smile; she watched for a moment, eyes skittering over him, before nodding knowingly and grabbing a few shirts nearby. “Here,” she said, showing him a long sleeve, thin, plain shirt, “you can wear these underneath and still have those awful science t-shirts on top.”

That startled a genuine smile out of him, and he looked back at the t-shirt, biting his lip to suppress his emotions. “Thanks.” He said, managing not to get too choked up over something other people might see as small - but that meant so very much to him.

She nodded once, then pointed out another science pun t-shirt (a cartoon mole in a beaker with the phrase ‘6.022x10²³’ underneath) which he promptly snickered at. She smirked. “This is your style, huh? Such a nerd.”

That might’ve been rude coming from someone else, but Peter could hear the underlying fondness in her words, and instead just laughed and nodded in confirmation. “What can I say? It’s part of my charm.” He teased, prompting Natasha to reach over and ruffle his hair - broadcasting her actions beforehand to ensure he could dodge out of the way if he wanted. Peter batted it away playfully a moment later. “Hey! Don’t mess up my hair.” He frowned somewhat. “Well, more than it already is.”

Pepper walked over, followed by Steve holding a pile of clothes. “We should get you a haircut today, too.” She said, looking at the unruly curls.

Peter hummed in agreement, then narrowed his eyes at the many jackets, shirts and trousers draped over Steve’s arms. “Are those…?”

“All for you to try on, yup!” Pepper grinned, ushering him over to a changing room. “Go on, go on. I can’t wait to see how you look.”

A pleading look to Natasha got him nothing but a knowing smirk as she picked up another shirt and held it up for Pepper to see. “What about this one?” Peter groaned dramatically, but couldn’t hide the fond smile spreading across his face.

They ended up getting several shirts - long sleeve, as well as plenty of science pun t-shirts - from that store (and others) as well as trousers, socks, multiple pairs of shoes, and pretty much any clothes Peter could need, from the other stores they visited. After each one, Pepper would tell the attendants to send what they’d bought to the Tower, sans a few bags she handed to Steve to tide Peter over before they could arrive, and then promptly steer Peter in a new direction.

Pepper walked over to Peter as he tried on a jacket, resigned to his fate of pampering. She smiled, looking at him in the mirror. “It suits you.”

“I dunno,” Peter sighed, taking it off and wincing at the price tag, “I really think I have enough. I mean, they’re all so expensive, too.”

With a fond sigh, she shook her head. “Tony’s a literal billionaire, Peter. And I’m his responsible fiancée who makes sure he doesn’t make stupid decisions with his money. Don’t worry, I want to do this much, at least.” She pulled another jacket off the rack and nudged it onto his shoulders. “Plus, I’m the CEO of SI myself. So, really, it’s alright.”

Despite his words, Peter felt guilty at the sudden realization (one that he hadn’t quite had time to freak out over when he first met her) that Pepper was Tony’s fiancée . The soon-to-be wife of the man who was fostering - and possibly adopting, according to Clint, though that was far more doubtful in his mind - him; what if she didn’t want the responsibility of looking after him? What if-

“Stop that,” she swatted at his shoulder, “I can practically hear your thoughts going crazy, so talk to me about it before you come to equally crazy conclusions on your own.”

Peter smiled sheepishly, but complied with a sigh. “I just- you’re Stark’s fiancée, and I’m some kid he’s randomly decided to take in, and I know he’s impulsive. So it just makes me wonder whether he actually checked if you’re alright with this, and it’s fine if you’re not, of course - I just feel bad, and I don’t mean to be a hassle. Well, I mean, I know you wouldn’t do anything you don’t want, you’re Pepper Potts , for god’s sake, but still. I just, I don’t want to be a burden or impose or waste your time or anything, y’know? Like, I can handle myself, it’s fine, I don’t need-”

Pepper held up a hand to stop him, which he was silently thankful for. “Sweetheart,” she said, sadly, “you’re a lot like Tony, you know? But listen to me.” She made eye contact with him in the mirror. “I wouldn’t be doing this if I had a problem with the whole situation, alright? Sure, he didn’t tell me right away, but we talked it out and I’m on the same page with him on this. We care about you.” Peter let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, tears pricking his eyes. “Alright then.” She said, patting his shoulder and adding the jacket to the pile before steering him away. “That’s enough for now, let’s go get you a haircut, shall we?” Peter nodded shakily, not trusting his voice at the moment.

He stayed silent for a while longer, letting the whirlwind of thoughts in his head calm and subside as he absorbed that information and tried, desperately, to believe it was true. Pepper sent Steve and Natasha to go to the food court, talking to Peter one-on-one and accepting his silence when he needed it, taking him to a barber for his haircut. Sitting in the barber chair a short while later, he inspected his new haircut in the mirror, smiling at the neat trim and brown curls falling over his forehead in an ordered chaos. He reached up, ruffling a hand through the hair and dislodging strands that fluttered down around him. “What do you think?” Pepper asked, leaning against the back of the chair.

Peter smiled gently. “It’s perfect.”

“Come on,” she replied, ruffling his hair in a swift motion - causing Peter to barely restrain a flinch. “Let’s get some food before we head back.”

Nodding, Peter stood and followed her out of the store towards the food court, where Natasha and Steve were waiting. He cursed internally at his mishap, hating how his reflexes still made him tense in anticipation of a blow, despite how long it had been since the foster homes; he supposed it was due to the lack of positive interaction in those intervening months, but the logic of the situation didn’t stop him from cursing his reaction.

How was he still so weak, letting the memories control him? He was Spider-Man! He fought everything from petty thieves to supervillains on a near-daily basis - so why was it that authority figures freaked him out to such a degree? And she’d been so kind to him, especially today; it was practically an insult for his subconscious to still be afraid of her.

You’re weak. They don’t actually want you, anyway. His thoughts spat, and he faltered in his step, falling behind Pepper a bit.

“Stop it.” He hissed back under his breath, digging his nails into his palm, before shaking away the voice (as he’d taken to doing in recent days - ignoring his problems and all) and catching up again. His spidey sense spiked suddenly, and a man bumped his shoulder, muttering in irritation as he did so. Peter scowled, taking a deep breath to center himself.

But the voices around him were seeming louder and louder by the second, even as he fought to squash them back down into background noise - in vain, it seemed. All of a sudden, the semi-distant buzz of activity he’d been blocking out was pushed to the forefront of his mind; he could hear every heartbeat, every breath, every footstep, around him. He could hear the children giggling piercingly loud and the whirring machinery of the tech store; a high-pitched screech caused him to flinch away from the food court as people pushed metal chairs against polished tiles with no regard for caution. Warm bodies blocked him in on every side, clothing brushing uncomfortable against different fabrics, too many people in his direct vicinity.

He could feel his breathing begin to speed up and his steps falter, leading him to barely dodge people who didn’t seem to care who they barged past. The sickening fluorescent lights seemed to brighten further and pulse with life, making him horribly tired and yet on edge as if he were in the middle of a fight, spidey sense spiking at every slight change in his environment. He hissed, wordlessly this time, letting his eyes drop to half-lidded for a moment, only to open them swiftly when his spidey sense protested the loss of vision. He froze in his path, heartbeat pounding in his ears and marking the seconds that passed in a cacophony of chatter and pain.

A hand placed itself gently on his shoulder, and he pulled it away harshly - the touch feeling rough and overwhelming - groaning as someone yelled nearby. He vaguely became aware that he was moving, being steered elsewhere, and then he was through a door and the sounds were muffled, the lights dimmed. Sagging in relief, Peter drew his knees up to his chest (he wasn’t sure when he’d ended up on the floor, but he could feel cool stone at his back, grounding him) and pressed the palms of his hands onto his eyes, taking deep, ragged breaths.

In.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Hold.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

Out.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

Repeat.

Eventually, though he wasn’t sure how long had passed, he pulled his hands from his eyes with a shaky breath, sunspots dancing across his vision. He grimaced, looking up from the ground to see a concerned Natasha crouching nearby, Pepper and Steve slightly further away. “Hey,” he managed to grit out, before cringing at the volume, low though it was. At Natasha’s questioning look, he tried to figure out how to convey the source of his distress.

‘What do you mean?’ She signed, causing him to pause, and realize he’d, almost unconsciously, signed ‘loud’.

‘Senses dialed up to eleven,’ he explained, somewhat choppily - he hadn’t had a chance to use sign language properly with someone else, well, ever. ‘Too loud and bright in there.’

Natasha nodded knowingly, standing and walking over to Pepper as Peter dropped his head back down onto his knees with a soundless groan. A moment later, she nudged his arm and he looked up, hesitantly taking the sunglasses she offered and sliding them on - they barely made a difference, but it was better than nothing. ‘Thanks,’ he signed.

‘Ready to leave?’ She asked, and he shook his head.

‘Give me a few minutes.’ His head was still pounding, the acute feeling of his clothes against his skin was still far too harsh - and he regretted switching out the sweatpants and shirt for jeans, a black long sleeve, and a science joke t-shirt (well, no, he didn’t regret the t-shirt - frankly, it was hilarious. ‘Screw your lab safety, I want superpowers’ even made Natasha chuckle when she saw it) seeing as the material was more abrasive. Still, he’d been wearing grotty clothes for a good year now, he was used to unpleasant textures thanks to the dirt that engrained itself in every piece of fabric he owned, he could adjust.

A short while later, and he looked up, accepting Natasha’s helping hand to pull himself to his feet with a shaky smile. They traveled back to the Tower in relative silence, Peter doing his best to ignore the loud noises of the city (downsides of a topless car). Once they arrived, he was relatively stable, and decided to test his luck. “Sorry about that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “sensory overloads always suck.”

Steve frowned at him as they stepped into the elevator. “There’s no need to apologize, Peter.”

Natasha and Pepper joined them a moment later, the doors sliding shut as FRIDAY began taking them up. “Don’t worry about it, маленький паук. Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah,” Peter breathed out, “Yeah, I’m alright.”

Luckily, they allowed the rest of the ride to continue in a comfortable near-silence. He could hear - almost feel - the heartbeats of the people around him, and the mechanisms in the walls. Everything felt too much, as if his mind had been skinned raw and exposed to the elements, left to the whims of every breeze of the wind and particle of dust passing by.

The doors slid open as they reached the communal floor, revealing an anxious-looking Tony pacing back and forth, who promptly looked up at their arrival and strode over. “Kiddo! Are you alright? Pepper said something happened, you worried me.” He herded Peter over to the couch, handing him a glass of water and earning himself a weak attempt at a smile.

“I’m fine.” He insisted, again, then scratched his head and winced at the movement of fabric on his arms. “Well, mostly fine,” he amended, “still feeling a bit sensitive, it takes a while to get stuff back under control Just,” he sighed, taking a sip of the cool water and relishing in the feeling, “you know how my senses are enhanced? Well sometimes things get a bit… much.”

“I’ve gotten overwhelmed by loud noises before, but never to that extent.” Steve nodded, then chuckled, presumably at a thought. “I guess your senses are better than mine, huh?”

Peter huffed out a laugh, feeling some tension leave his body. “They’re pretty crazy, yeah. Most of the time I manage to kinda relegate stuff to background noise, y’know?” Steve nodded sympathetically as they stepped into the elevator. “But sometimes if I’m stressed or something I can lose my grip on it, and, well, you saw what happens.”

Pepper gave him a concerned look. “That was worrying, Peter, you seemed disconnected from reality. Is there anything that can help?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. I mean,” he tapped the sunglasses, “these didn’t even help too much, my senses are too good.” It was bittersweet - they were useful, but painful and detrimental at the same time. “I’ve just kinda learned to deal with it.”

Tony hummed thoughtfully. “I’ll look into it, kid. I’m sure I can do something, after all,” he grinned widely, standing up from where he’d sat beside Peter, “I am a genius.” Peter snorted, standing as well.

“Why don’t you show him his room?” Pepper suggested to Tony, smiling. “We’ll get something started for lunch, since we were interrupted.” Peter winced as he realized he’d ruined their lunch plans, but was cut off before he could say anything by Pepper pointing at him. “Nope,” she declared, “I told you before, I’ve spent enough time around Tony, I know that look. It’s the one he gets when he’s blaming himself over something that isn’t his fault.” She paused, voice softening. “It’s alright.”

Peter raised his hands in surrender and Tony chuckled, nudging him lightly. “No point fighting Pep, she always wins.” He stage whispered, shamelessly grinning and kidding her cheek when she raised an eyebrow at him. “Come on, kid. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Ominous.” Peter said, amused, earning another playful shove from Tony - he was glad his sensitivity was past its worse, since he enjoyed the casual touches.

Despite his words, Peter followed Tony, intrigued, into the elevator. “Penthouse, FRI.” Tony ordered, the elevator swiftly delivering them a few floors higher. Peter walked out, looking around in confusion. It has a different layout to the communal floor, but the dark wood blended well with the futuristic design in an oddly comforting way. “The team stays on the other floors, but this one is mine and Pep’s,” Tony explained, leading Peter down a hall, “and,” he smiled, pushing the door open and standing aside as he held it there for Peter to look in, “yours now, too. Let me know what you think.”

Peter blinked. Once, twice, three times. The whole room was decorated in a muted red and dark blue with gold accents, bookshelves lining one of the tall walls - with an empty section for Peter to add his own - and a small reading nook was inlaid half-way up, a short rope ladder hanging down to lead into the area, which was filled with cushions and blankets, as well as areas to place snacks and drinks. There was a large bunk bed in one corner - the bottom section a couch facing the TV and gaming setup - complete with an Iron Man duvet (which Peter refused to admit he’d owned, once upon a time) and a reading light on the wall.

He stepped in cautiously, looking around and taking a seat on the couch-bed with an overwhelmed smile - but a good kind of overwhelmed, nothing like the sensory overload. A desk sat in another corner of the room, large and sprawling with plenty of space, somewhat sectioned into an area for tinkering, an area for the computer sitting on the desktop, and an area for (presumably, since there were school supplies and a pencil holder) schoolwork. He leaned back and looked up, only to see ropes and various platforms along the top reaches of the walls and the ceilings.

Shelves were placed around the room as well, some of which already had various memorabilia (mostly Star Wars, but also things from other shows - he did like things beyond that one franchise, no matter what MJ sometimes claimed) and unopened Lego sets placed on them, matching the posters strewn around the walls. He stood again, walking around the room in a daze. He could see where the few belongings he’d accumulated while in the Tower - such as the Christmas gifts - had been placed around; the camera sitting on a low shelf; the notebooks and art supplies on the desk; the science books nestled in amongst the rest.

“Pete?” Tony asked, and Peter’s eyes snapped over to him. “You good? I hope it’s not too much.”

With a startled half-laugh, Peter shook his head. “No, no it’s,” he chuckled happily, “it’s fine. It’s more than fine, it’s amazing, I-” He paused, smile faltering as he caught sight of a picture frame, picking it up with cautious hands, and freezing at the photo inside. It was one he’d taken, years prior, of Ben and May sitting on a park bench, laughing as a dog nuzzled up against them. Peter smiled again, tinged with sadness, and replaced it, reaching for another on a different shelf; this one was all three of them, when he’d won first place at science fair. Ben was crouching down next to him, arm slung around Peter’s shoulders, and May was smiling fondly at the pair of them.

Peter put it back down, and moved to another. And another. And another. Ben and May’s wedding; Peter’s tenth birthday; Mary and Richard, holding Peter for the first time. There were so many - ones that had been at the apartment in Queens, plus ones that hadn’t. He clutched the frame he was holding, looking up, speechless, and gazed around the room again. This time, he noticed something else; the scuff marks on one of the Iron Man posters, the sun stained picture of their wedding, the worn feeling of some of the belongings - things he swore he’d had to leave behind. “Tony?” He asked, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer. “Did you…?”

Tony nodded slowly. “Yeah, I talked to a few people and got some stuff out of storage.” He walked into the room, looking at a picture of a younger Peter. “It was no problem, really. I thought you might prefer to have some things of your own, to help you feel more at home.” Home . The word lit a warm fire in Peter’s heart. Tony turned unsure eyes to him. “If, well, I hope that’s alright?”

“‘Alright’?” Peter scoffed, chuckling. “This is- I can’t even-” He gripped the frame, words failing him, and traced the faces of a joyful moment trapped in time. “I-” He stumbled over his words again, bit his lip, put the picture down, and walked over to Tony, engulfing him in a hug before he could rethink it. “ Thank you. ”

Wrapping his arms around Peter, Tony leaned into the hold. “No problem, kid.” A while passed before Peter pulled back, flushed and embarrassed. Tony chuckled fondly, ruffling his hair. “I’ll leave you to relax and explore for a while, it’s been quite a day, huh?” Peter nodded and Tony left, closing the door gently behind him. He stood for a moment, then walked over to the bookcase and climbed up the rope ladder, settling himself into the nook; the Spider-Man plushie from Clint was situated on the indented shelf next to a scientific book written by one Tony Stark, and Peter snorted, before taking it from the plush and beginning to read.

*

“Say cheese!” Peter called out, holding down the button on his camera before any of them had time to react. He pulled it away from his eye a moment later, grinning, and inspected the screen to see how they looked. “Got some pretty good ones here.” He commented with a mischievous grin.

“You little shit,” Tony said, shaking his head,

“Language,” Steve muttered, and Clint smirked at Natasha conspiratorially.

Tony seemed to completely ignore the interruption, used to and unperturbed by it. “If you made me look bad I’ll sue you, y’know?” He continued, pointing at Peter.

Peter laughed, dropping down to sit next to Natasha on the blanket. “Yeah, right. You’d have to pay for my lawyers anyway.”

Tony chuckled, reaching over to ruffle Peter’s hair. “You’re such a smartass.”

“Language,” Steve chided again, the word chorused by Natasha and Clint, both wearing - though much more obvious on Clint’s side - matching roguish grins. Steve just rolled his eyes, for all intents appearing exasperated - if not for the smile creeping onto his face.

With a sigh, Peter dropped onto his back, one hand holding the camera safely in place, and stared up at the sky; if someone had have told him, a few years ago (hell, any amount of time prior to a few weeks back) that he’d be having a picnic with the goddamn Avengers on top of Avengers Tower on a seemingly innocuous day, he’d probably have thought they were crazy. It was a fair call, alright? Superheroes don’t hang out with vigilantes in their spare time, let alone awkward teens.

Clint took that moment to reach over towards the donuts, and Tony smacked his hand. “No, bad Clint.” He reprimanded, narrowing his eyes. “One of those is mine,” he grabbed one of the donuts, leaving only one behind, “the other is the scary spy lady’s, so take it at your own risk.”

Natasha shot Clint a daring look, casually pulling out one of her knives and weaving it artfully between her fingers. The archer whined defeatedly, pouting as he pulled his arm away. “I know I say Bucky’s baking is to die for, but no way I’m risking Nat’s wrath.” He grumbled. “I’m pretty sure that’s worse than death.”

Bucky smiled smugly, earning a nudge from Steve and another fondly exasperated (and somewhat proud) smile. Peter chuckled, sitting up and pushing a plate holding a slice of pie towards Clint. “Here, have mine. I’m not really hungry anyway.”

Instantly, Clint brightened. “Thanks, Peter! I knew I was your favorite.” He grabbed the plate and held it close to his chest in a territorial manner, wolfing it down at lightning speed.

“In your dreams, Barton,” Tony said, raising an eyebrow, “I’m obviously the kid’s favorite.”

‘Asshole,” Clint signed one-handedly, the other busy holding his bounty safe. Peter chuckled, shaking his head, and Clint tilted his head. ‘You know ASL?’

Peter nodded. ‘A little bit, anyways.’ He struggled to remember the right sign for a moment, before reverting to speech. “I had a lot of free time when I didn’t have school or anything, so I picked up a few things that could be helpful.” He shrugged, then smirked, “I know most insults, at least.” He said, pointedly.

“This is great ,” Clint declared, an impish grin on his face, “we’re gonna have so much fun.” Peter laughed in response, lifting his camera and getting a few shots of the scene.

“Stop corrupting our маленький паук, Clint.” Natasha berated, gaining a faux-innocent smile from said archer.

Peter narrowed his eyes, “Hey! I looked that up, and I’m not little. I’m strong!”

He pouted as Natasha smirked. “Sure thing, паучок.”

“Wait! What does that mean?” He asked frantically, pulling out his phone. Natasha gave him a knowing look, and Clint snickered from behind his hand. “Traitor! I gave you my pie.”  Peter glared playfully at Clint, who promptly swallowed the last of the slice. Rolling his eyes, he glanced down at his phone to search up the meaning, only to see a message. “Damn,” he swore, standing up, “I forgot to call Ned.”

“Go ahead, kid.” Tony waved him off, stacking a few plates atop each other. “We’ll clear up here, go talk to your friend.”

“Thanks!” Peter said, walking away from the group and clicking the button to call; a few seconds passed and Ned’s face appeared on screen. “Sorry I’m late, dude. We were having a picnic.”

Ned gaped. “You were having a picnic with the Avengers ?” He asked, breathless as always.

“Yeah.” Peter smiled at the reaction (one he would’ve had, too, had he not been living with these people for several weeks). “It’s a pretty sunny day, and Bucky made pie, so…”

“The Winter Soldier makes pie ?” He questioned again, just as awestruck.

Peter walked down the stairs, ignoring the elevator seeing as he was going to the penthouse floor. “It’s just Bucky now, Ned. He doesn’t like being called that.”

“Oh, right, sorry. Still!” Ned insisted. “That’s, like, insane .”

“I know, you said that about twenty times the last time I called you.” Peter commented, amusedly.

“The point stands! You can’t expect me not to be excited, man,” he pointed out, “I mean, my best friend is a superhero, and basically an Avenger! That’s some fantasy-level shit, it’s not something you just get over.”

“Fair enough,” Peter conceded, flopping down onto the couch in his room, “I guess I’ve just had such a crazy year that it’s not too far of a step up.” That was a massive understatement. Sure, he’d fought supervillains and dozens of different regular villains, not to mention hundreds of simple criminals, but the one thing he hadn’t expected was what he had now; stability, warmth and, dare he say it, something like a family. Spider-Man, that he’d gotten over - superpowers? Meh. But unconditional love and support? That was the thing he was still struggling to get his head around (and the one that had occurred most recently). “Anyway, enough about that. What were you saying Flash did in Aca Dec?”

The way he and Ned could talk for hours on end without getting bored never ceased to somewhat amaze Peter; it spoke to the sort of comfort they found in each other’s presence that they could appreciate the content silences as much as the long rants, without becoming bored. It was something he’d missed, too - having spent months being told to be quiet, neither seen nor heard, hadn’t done wonders for his self-esteem, and he worried over whether people were bored of his ramblings far more than he had before his life went to shit. He was pretty sure Ned had caught on, at least slightly, that he was downplaying the struggles he’d dealt with since he disappeared off his best friend’s radar, but he didn’t push - and, for that, Peter was insanely grateful.

He wasn’t ready to face the truth of his year-and-a-half of hell in such a visceral way, or steady enough to deal with any sort of pity or guilt it might bring from his friends; he was just about healing, himself, and he definitely couldn’t stop anyone else from drowning alongside him, if they needed any sort of reassurance. In no way did he blame them - not at all - but telling someone else it was ok, when he couldn’t say those words and believe them himself? That was a tad too far.

As the call ended and he slipped his phone into his back pocket, he paused, gaze falling on the photo album Natasha had given him, now perched on his desk, flipping it open with curiosity. His breath hitched in his throat at the sight in front of him, and he fell back onto the desk chair, picking up the album as he did so; there, on the first page, was a collage of pictures (presumably from FRIDAY’s cameras) of him and the team. Peter looked through, smiling at the various memories, which spanned the first few pages of the album. There were also pictures of him, Tony, and the bots in the workshop, cuddled up on the couch during a movie, ruffling his hair…

He smiled. The pictures exuded a certain feeling of joy, of contentment and warmth. He looked into the frozen moments in time captured in ink, and he saw home. Not the place - that didn’t matter - but the people. They were home. They were, dare he think it, family. Flipping the page, he felt his mouth go dry. It was covered in pictures of scars - seemingly from various members of the team. He traced a finger over a lot, white line stretching down a leg, a small round hole on a shoulder, scars branching out from a glowing arc reactor, and so, so many more.

A small huff of laughter escaped him with a tentative smile, and he could feel tears pricking at his eyes. A note was written at the end, surrounded by all the pictures.

Peter,

Scars aren’t something to mark your failures or your

imperfections; they show people how strong you are,

to have gone through so much and come out on the

other side as good and kind as you are.

We all have scars, and they don’t make you any

lesser. Hell, even if they did, you’d still be a whole

lot better than anyone else.

You’re one of us, kid. Don’t forget that.

He sat in silence for a minute, speechless as he looked over the pages. He pulled out a small stack of photos from his pocket, ones he’d taken over the past few days, carding through them with a small smile. He began entering them into the album on the next fresh page, grouping them in different ways; some beautiful and moving, with eyes catching the light and people deep in thought; others practically radiating amusement. He picked up the last one; the first picture he’d taken with his new camera. It was of Tony, oil-stained and freshly caffeinated, scolding Dum-E as he approached, clutching a tennis ball and holding it out to his creator. The man was obviously trying to appear stern and annoyed, but the fond smile on his face said otherwise.

Yeah , Peter thought, as he attached the photo to his album, this is home .

*

“Peter?” FRIDAY called from the ceiling. “Boss has something to show you in the workshop.”

“Thanks, FRI.” Peter said, stretching with a sigh, and put down the tech he’d been tinkering with (he’d hit a snag anyway, and the change of scenery would be good to clear his mind. He pushed his chair back from the desk, enjoying the wheels, and stood, walking out of his new room - which he’d become somewhat familiarized with by now - to take a quick trip in the elevator. With a smile, he realized the intense anxiety that once would’ve accompanied a request like that was now dulled to a slight buzz of uncertainty beneath his skin - which, while not ideal, was about as calm as he ever thought he’d get, so he’d take it.

The music quieted somewhat as the doors slid open, and Peter sauntered out into the workshop, looking around with an amused smile at the mess that had accumulated since he’d last been there. He took a seat on the oil-stained couch, waiting to see how long it’d take before Tony noticed him, and felt a nudge on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Dum-E pushing a ball at him, and chuckled quietly, taking it from the bot as he recognized the request to play fetch. “Alright, alright.” He said, keeping his voice relatively low. “I’ll play with you.”

Dum-E beeped happily, U rolling over to echo the sentiment, and Peter shook his head fondly. He gently tossed the ball to an empty part of the lab, careful not to damage any of the tech, and watched the bots race to grab it first. As they did, he turned his attention to Tony, who was engrossed in his current project. He wondered whether it was the same one that’d had him cooped up in the workshop recently, having to be dragged out at regular intervals to eat, sleep, and generally remember the basic things human beings needed to function.

U let out a victorious trill as he gripped the ball in his claw, Dum-E sulking nearby. Peter couldn’t quite contain the laugh he let out at the sight, and Tony startled, dropping a wrench. “Ow- shit. ” He cursed, causing Peter to laugh again at the reaction. Tony turned, jumping somewhat at the sight of him. “Damnit, kid, what have I told you about scaring me like that?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter mocked good-naturedly, “heart condition, old man, et cetera, et cetera.”

Tony made a wounded noise, picking up the wrench and pointing it at Peter in an accusatory manner. “I liked you more when you were star struck with hero worship.”

Peter snorted. “I’ll have you know I was never star struck.”

“Exactly.” Tony proclaimed, smirking.

“Wha- hey!” Peter protested, then looked over as U nudged him with the ball again, and smiled. “Good job, buddy,” he praised, taking the ball from the claw, “ready to try again?” The bots beeped in the affirmative, and Peter threw the ball back across the room, prompting them to chase after it again. He looked up at Tony to see him wearing an affectionate smile. “So,” Peter said, “FRIDAY called me down?”

“Oh yeah!” Tony clapped his hands together, turning to his workbench and picking up a small, black box. “I’ve got a surprise. Catch!” He tossed it at Peter, who caught it one-handed, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at the action.

“Really?” He asked, to which Tony shrugged with a mischievous grin.

“Gotta keep you on your feet.” Tony responded - which, judging by his smile, was complete bullshit and code for ‘I’m messing with you ‘cause it’s fun’ (a look he’d become well acquainted with recently). Dum-E took that moment to roll over with the ball, and Tony pushed the bot away. “Go on, you big bucket of bolts. We’re busy.” The bot beeped sadly, and Tony stared at him. “Hmm, nope. Not working again, go away.”

Peter rolled his eyes, patting Dum-E as he passed by, then looked down at the box, turning it over in his hands for a moment. “Well, if this surprise is as good as the last one, I’m sure it’ll be great.” He smiled, momentarily disarming Tony with his honesty, and opened the box. Inside were two intricate devices that looked vaguely similar to hearing aids; he looked up at Tony, question clear in his eyes.

“You mentioned the whole ‘senses going crazy’ thing and I thought, well, surely I can help out with that somehow?” Tony walked over, gesticulating emphatically as he spoke. “So I thought, first of all, hearing - what if I could find a way to quieten down the things you hear, without making it harder to be Spider-Man? So that means making it something adjustable and non-permanent, and, well, voila!” He pointed to the tech in the box. “Thoughts?”

“That… sounds awesome.” He said, slowly, dragging his eyes up to look at Tony. “You didn’t have to-”

“I know, kid.” Tony said, gentle but firm. “But I wanted to. And you shouldn’t have to be in pain because of your abilities.” Peter startled, realizing that, well, it was true . If it was anyone else, he never would’ve accepted them saying it was ‘normal’ or ‘fine’ to be in a constant war for dominance with their own senses, having to focus in order not to be perpetually overwhelmed by the world around them; it was just so different, whenever anything was applied to himself. A therapist would probably say it was an unhealthy guilt complex, possibly mixed with some survivor’s guilt - then again, he didn’t have a therapist, so…

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he took out the aids under Tony’s waiting eye, attaching them with the older man’s help and securing them to his ears; they sat comfortably, and he soon could only register their presence if he focused on feeling them. “Do they feel fine, not uncomfortable or anything?” 

Peter shook his head. “No, I mean, I used to wear glasses so I’m used to having things on my ears anyway.”

“Glasses, huh?” Tony’s lips quirked up in a smile, as if imagining Peter with them. “Yup. I can see it, totally adorable.” Peter rolled his eyes in faux exasperation. “You don’t need them anymore?”

“Nah, spider bite fixed it.” He shrugged. “Fixed a lot, really; asthma, sight, a few allergies. Though, it gave me a few, too.”

“Huh,” Tony nodded as he considered the information, “We should really get Bruce to take a look at that DNA of yours, huh?” Peter hummed casually. “Alright, kid.” Tony said, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s give them a try, yeah? There’s an on switch on the right one, and a control so you can dial them up or down right below that.”

Hesitantly, Peter flicked the devices on, waiting a second before the sounds of the world swiftly faded around him; cars alarms and footsteps receded from his mind and, for the first time in what felt like so much longer than it had been, it was quiet. Peter blinked, barking out a surprised laugh with a wary smile, before taking a moment to concentrate and- yep. If he tried, he could hone in on Tony’s heartbeat and allow it to beat out a steady symphony of comforting background noise.

Tony watched in anticipation as Peter glanced around himself, adjusting to the silence that had descended upon him. “Well?” He asked, finally. “Do they work, is it good?”

“Yeah,” Peter said quietly, then shook his head and looked at Tony. “Yeah, it’s great. Everything’s so… quiet.”

With a victorious grin, Tony punched the air. “Hell yeah!” He turned back to the workbench for a moment, looking through the tech strewn across it. “Alright, I think there’s a few things we should look at and test, but a good first try, yeah?”

Absent-mindedly, Peter nodded. Everything was muted and dulled - but not in a worrying manner, not in a way that made life darker and less enjoyable. It was as if he’d been dealing with everyone and everything shouting in his ears with the intensity of a foghorn, and now it’d been lowered to a whisper. The relief was overwhelming, and Peter smiled at the palpable release of tension. It was amazing, wonderful, incredible - and yet…

You don’t deserve this.

The voice hissed in his mind and Peter froze, smile faltering. He’d managed to ignore the thoughts for a while, had been able to tune them out as he’d become used to doing over the months of solitude, when he was alone-

You’re still alone, you idiot .

Its words were insistent, venom staining its tone. He knew it was his voice, really - knew it was his subconscious, his intrusive thoughts - but he couldn’t ground himself to that reality when there was nothing to drown it out anymore.

You’re always alone, remember? No one really wants you, not after everything you’ve done .

Peter whimpered involuntarily, then bit his lip to restrain any other sounds from leaking out - he didn’t want Tony thinking he was weak, or crazy, or-

How many people have you failed to save? How many have died because of you? You don’t deserve this, they’re too good for you.

“Shut up .” He bit out, aiming for quiet but unable to completely silence himself under the cacophony of thoughts growing in his mind. Tony’s eyes were on him, concern etched in his features and it made Peter sick-

That’s right. You don’t deserve it. They have no idea what you’ve done. You’re tricking them, manipulating them, you filthy, dirty liar .

Pushing his back against the wall, Peter tried to ground himself through the contact - a futile effort that only made his legs falter and begin to give as he slid down the wall and onto the floor. This wasn’t right, Tony cared about him. They all just wanted to help , the concern made him warm and happy and-

That’s because you’re selfish.

Gritting his teeth, Peter reached up - feeling like he was forcing his hand through wet concrete - and clicked off the aids. The sounds of the world came flooding back in full force, crashing into him like a tsunami. Yet, despite the force and the discomfort it brought, the cacophony of sounds were comforting, in a painful way; they drowned out the voice and he inhaled a deep, ragged breath, looking up and smiling crookedly at Tony. “Well,” he said, voice unnervingly even in a way that didn’t fit his inner turmoil, “that was less than ideal.”

“What the hell was that?” Tony asked, his own voice distraught in the way Peter felt. “Did they hurt you, or malfunction in some way or-?”

Peter shook his head sharply. “No, no. They’re great, honestly. I, uh,” he dropped his head back against the wall, huffing out a humorless laugh, “I’m pretty fucked up, aren’t I?” It was meant to sound nonchalant - uncaring, in the way he did when he was hiding how broken he was - but it came out quiet and riddled with pain.

“Kid…” Tony breathed out, expression softening from intense concern and guilt, to a sad understanding. He crossed the distance, lowering himself down to sit beside Peter, arm gently brushing his as if worried to initiate contact. Peter held none of that hesitation, letting his head drop to the side to rest on Tony’s shoulder - who then lifted an arm and began carding through Peter’s hair. “What happened?”

“I’ve, uh,” Peter cut himself off - ripping open a wound and baring it to the world was a daunting task, but Tony wasn’t just ‘the world’; he wasn’t just anyone, he was… well, Peter wasn’t exactly sure what Tony was to him - but, apparently, it was close enough to reveal how truly fucked up he was and hope it didn’t drive him far away, “I’ve got some pretty loud thoughts.” He finished lamely, tapping his head as if to gesture to said thoughts.

Tony sighed, and Peter could almost hear the raised eyebrow when he spoke again. “That’s not gonna cut it, Underoos.” He resumed carding his hand through Peter’s hair where he’d stopped, and took a steadying breath. “You can talk to me, you know that, right?”

He shrugged, then groaned quietly. “Yeah, yeah I know,” he half-admitted, dragging a hand down his face. “I just, I get a lot of, well, I guess you’d call them intrusive thoughts?” He winced, but barreled on. “And usually I can kind of ignore them and push them away along with the rest of the background noise…”

“...but you got rid of the background noise and they were uncovered.” Tony finished for him, and Peter made a sound of assent. They sat in silence for a minute and Peter began to fidget, worrying over Tony’s reaction. “I think, kiddo,” he started, huffing out a chuckle, “you need therapy.” Before Peter could react - in the affirmative or not - Tony kept talking. “And I was always going to bring this up, I mean, the whole team has therapists. But these are some things you could use some professional help with.” He laughed again, this time more sincere. “God knows I’m not the right guy for the job - I can barely deal with how messed up I am most days.” Peter chuckled somewhat with him, and Tony moved his hand from Peter’s hair to his shoulder, squeezing in a reassuring manner. “But, jokes aside, if you ever do need to talk, I’m here, kid. We’re all here.”

The words echoed Natasha’s from the kitchen, and, this time, Peter felt more inclined to believe them. “Yeah,” he said, quietly, “I- yeah. Thanks.” He couldn’t put all that he wanted to say into words - not how much he appreciated the help, the hearing aids, the support, the room, the decorations, the warmth; not how he felt like he was drowning and those words were his lifeline - it all caught harshly in his throat, and he hoped against hope that Tony could hear the words that went unsaid, hanging in the air between them. A rough hand pulling him closer into a warm side, smelling of motor oil and coffee, and Peter was sure he’d been heard; loud and clear.

Chapter Text

Peter ran gentle fingers over the engraved phrases on the underside of his parents’ wedding rings as he sat, perched in his reading nook. They still brought a dull ache to his chest - a reminder of what he’d lost so long ago - and it wasn’t helped by the pointed lack of another set alongside them. The whirlwind of emotions and fast-paced foster care arrangements had left him unable to salvage either his Aunt’s, or his Uncle’s (which May had taken to wearing on a chain around her neck after his death) and, by the time he’d snapped out of his grief-induced haze, it’d been too late.

Keeping the rings he’d worn for so many years safe was more a matter of hiding them (at the foster homes, lest they be pawned off for some extra cash) and storing them somewhere no one else could reach, checking on them periodically (as Spider-Man, when wearing them could mean being destroyed by alien weapons or soaked in his own blood from minor criminals).

His parents’ golden wedding bands were a bittersweet reminder, forever tainted with regret when his thoughts, inevitably, shifted to that failure. And then another failure would be forced to the forefront of his mind, then another, and another, until he was left reeling in a deep trench of ‘what if’s; what if he’d gotten his abilities sooner? What if he’d saved Ben? What if he’d insisted May stay home, or had delayed her journey by a few more minutes? What if, what if, what if.

He knew, logically, that these were incredibly unhelpful thoughts - but they were addictive, in a way; like the sweet scent of nostalgia, that soon turned bitter with longing, they dragged him down and down until he could no longer escape - until he was drowning in his own failures and yearning for a past, or a future, that could never exist. Not anymore.

“Peter,” FRIDAY said, lilting accent breaking through the thick silence, “May I suggest you check the blue box on your desk?” He blinked a couple times at that, hesitating for a moment before nodding absentmindedly and gently dropping the chain the rings were on over his head - he’d put them away again soon, but he wanted the familiarity, for now. 

Jumping down in a fluid movement, he walked over to the desk, eyes searching its surface for what the AI was referring to, and pausing when he noticed a small, dark blue box. It was fairly light, and a beautifully soft texture - not to mention its physical beauty, though it was inconspicuous enough that it’d gone mostly unnoticed in the few days Peter had spent acclimatizing to his new room.

Unclasping the latch, his breath hitched at the sight. He faltered, placing his free hand flat on the desk to steady himself as he let out a shaky, fragile laugh. The sun streamed in through the window, catching on the silver wedding rings in the box and spraying white light across his skin. He took a deep breath, exhaling with a shudder, “FRIDAY?” He called out, quietly, “What… when, I-” he paused, searching for words that weren’t there, “why?”

“They were found alongside the rest of your belongings, Peter,” FRIDAY explained, volume lowered and a gentle note in her artificial voice, “I thought you might want to be notified, my apologies for the delay.”

“No,” Peter said, a small, sad smile creeping onto his face, “no, it’s- just. Thanks. Thank you, FRI. Seriously.”

“It is my pleasure,” FRIDAY responded, seeming to echo his own bittersweet relief.

Gently, he pried one of the rings out, grazing a thumb over the worn surface. He paused as he reached a larger blemish, and closed his eyes, clutching the ring in his hands and pressing the cold metal to his forehead; he needed to feel it, to be sure it was real. He thought of coffee mugs and convenience stores, of recounting tales explaining each of the damages to the wedding bands - of warm hugs and unconditional love, and of days after , where May had wandered around, silently gripping the thin metal like a lifeline.

Peter placed the ring on the table, unclasping the chain holding the golden bands before gently adding the two new rings on, smiling crookedly at the contrast of gold and silver; it was as if a gaping chasm in his chest had been filled, once he replaced them around his neck. He grasped them in one shaking hand, and dropped backwards onto the desk chair, letting out deep, shuddering breaths.

He traced the engraving on Ben’s ring, then May’s, thinking of the days he spent lying on the carpet in front of them, listening to their stories with childish awe. The phrase, split across the two loops of silver, was burned into his mind as though he were the metal itself.

“And, though time may pass…” “…you shall remain my heart, my soul.”

Letting the rings fall to his chest with a hollow impact, he walked over to the wardrobe and pulled out the Spider-Man suit, feeling the fire in him reignite at the sight of silver and gold hanging near his heart. It’d been too long; the city needed their resident vigilante and - to be honest - he did too. He needed to feel useful, to feel wanted in a substantial, quantifiable way that didn’t rely on gentle smiles and pure, intangible, trust.

Pulling on the suit was like coming home, tugging it gently over compact muscles and tightening it with a single tap. He hesitated momentarily in taking off the rings, the mere thought of distance making his chest ache dully in an imitation of the harsh pain their absence caused for so long - and he quickly reached up to run gentle fingers over the cool metal once more, reminding himself of their tangibility. But, with a forcibly steady breath, he lifted the chain over his head and hung it on a hook on the wall above his desk, mentally reminding himself to find a more reliable storage method.

He secured the mask over his head, waiting a moment as his senses adjusted before speaking. “Hey, FRI? Open the window for me, please.” Silently, the window slid open, and Peter nodded in thanks, allowing a small smile to tug at his lips as he took a running leap across the room, twisting and shooting out a web to utilize his momentum as he plastered himself to the outside of the Tower.

“It’s good to see you again, Peter,” Karen greeted, the HUD lighting up with wind speed, temperature, heart rate, and other useful information organized in a way he found easiest to check when needed.

“Feels great, Karen,” Peter responded, letting his hands unstick so he was standing horizontally on the side of the building, the wind running pleasantly off the material. “I was thinking I’d get a proper test-swing in this thing, fight some bad guys. What d’you say?”

“That sounds most intriguing,” she said, amusement creeping into her tone in a way much less human than FRIDAY, but nonetheless genuine. He supposed it must take time to evolve to that point. Then, in a swift movement, he dropped backwards off the side of the Tower, rolling his shoulders as he revelled in the feeling of falling, before shooting out a web and catching himself before he could get too low.

It feels like coming back to life, like taking a deep breath after drowning, like waking up and feeling - for once - like everything is okay. He’d gone out in the suit once before, of course, with the whole Ned-and-MJ debacle, but this was different; then, he was Peter Parker, and he was running from his problems as usual - now, he was Spider-Man. He was strong, smart, witty, necessary . He wasn’t running away from anything, he was sprinting head-first into danger and damn, did it feel good after several weeks without it.

A call notification - not unlike those on a phone - from Tony popped up on his screen a few minutes in, and Peter furrowed his brow, “Uh, answer, Karen.” A small symbol appeared in the corner, marking the time the call was lasting.  “‘Sup, Mr S?”

“Ah, Underoos,” Tony said, “FRIDAY said you were heading out to do Spider-Man stuff, but I wanted to chat first, lay out some ground rules to make sure you’re getting enough sleep, yadda yadda.”

Peter groaned internally. “Makes sense, I guess. Lay it on me.”

Tony sounded somewhat bemused at the turn of phrase, and Peter smirked. “Well, you don’t have school at the moment, so I’d say midnight is an acceptable curfew, yeah?”

He frowned, realizing how much his schedule was truly going to change, now that he would have actual obligations outside of Spider-Man and the occasional mostly freelance job. He quickly wiped the micro-expression off his face, sighing. “Sure, guess that makes sense.”

Seeming to falter for a moment at Peter’s delayed and somewhat tight response, there were a few seconds of tense silence before Tony spoke again. “And you’ll be getting proper medical attention, too. No more wandering into the kitchen and digging out bullets with butter knives.” He audibly shuddered at the memory, and Peter chuckled.

“What, can your heart not handle the strain? I’ll be fine,” he teased, absentmindedly placing a hand over the scar that had resulted from that particular wound. Tony gave a pointed, doubtful hum. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Medical stuff, curfew, don’t forget my packed lunch. Can I get to fighting bad guys now?”

Tony sighed deeply. “Alright. Go be a hero, and don’t get yourself killed.”

“Aye aye, captain!'' Peter smirked, then paused as a thought occurred to him. He narrowed his eyes, “And no watching me or whatever through the suit, that’s just weird.”  He cut off the call over Tony’s spluttering reply, chuckling into the wind as he flipped through the air.

It was easy enough to fall back into perching on rooftops, swinging through the streets, listening for signs of distress, hitching rides on trains across the city, throwing out quips to unsuspecting ne'er-do-wells before wrapping them in webs and notifying the police (which was far easier, with Karen to help), and everything else that came with the gig. It never stopped feeling as freeing as it had that first time, though the fear had dulled significantly - which most people would agree was a good thing, but most people also agreed that a healthy level of wariness (if not fear) was useful, too. Sometimes, Peter wondered whether he’d lost that, as well.

He shook off the thought and swung off towards a back-alley mugging, quickly taking down two armed men and ensuring the safety of their victim; it was quick, efficient, and familiar. It was everything he’d been craving, and the semi-permanent smile on his face reflected that - it was times like those that he was glad for the expressionless mask, he wasn’t sure how people would react if they knew that, some days, Spider-Man was barely containing laughter as he fought ruthless villains and ran into burning buildings. Not well, he supposed.

The sky began to darken in the early hours of the evening - courtesy of the winter with its seemingly eternal icy grip on the city - and his suit’s heater kicked in as the temperature started to fall. Peter stretched out, legs hanging off the edge of a building as he shivered somewhat, and then smiled as warmth slowly leached into his body and warmed him to his core. It took a while for Karen to get the hang of it, but soon she could more or less tell when and how to adjust the temperature with little to no input from Peter himself - which was a relief, since he didn’t exactly love being overheated to the point of wanting to scratch his skin off when he was trying to not get stabbed.

It seemed to be a decently busy night, and he wasn’t sure whether that was - at least in part - due to Spider-Man’s recent absence (and didn’t that just bring a whole load of guilt), if the exclamations and chants of “Spidey’s back!” were any indication. It warmed his heart, knowing that he was truly needed, truly making a difference. Still, there didn’t seem to be anything major, so he mainly spent the early hours of the night walking people home from bars and preventing muggings - not that he was complaining.

The world seemed so much clearer as his alter ego; there was no wondering whether he was good enough, or if people were getting tired of him, because everyone loved Spider-Man (and those who didn’t, well… they tended to either be criminals or attention-seeking media outlets, and he wasn’t particularly worried what those demographics thought of him). Vigilante or no, the police appreciated his help, and the people certainly did - he’d helped many people who’d then proceeded to freak out over being ‘saved by the one and only Spider-Man’ which, he wouldn’t lie, was flattering.

Eventually, the city seemed to reach a lull in criminal activity, and Peter took a minute to rest, and gather his thoughts. He sat on a billboard, looking down upon Times Square as people bustled back and forth in the dying light of the winter sun; snowflake decals had been more or less given way to splashes of color resembling fireworks - which made sense, seeing as it was the day before New Year’s Eve. The detailing of most of the decor was very corporate but, though more common with the smaller shops further out, some of it was almost breathtaking, leaving him in a state of mild awe at people’s dedication to the celebration. He’d seen the area like this before, of course, but there was a melancholy admiration that tinged his view, now, and it seemed to change the entire experience.

Back before, he, Ben, and May would huddle up on the couch and watch the ball drop on the TV, in preference to standing in the cold among the large swaths of people who’d gather to watch it in person. The first time he’d seen the event not on a screen (that he remembered) had been the previous year, and the bitterness he’d held had overwhelmed any appreciation as he’d heard - more than watched - the crowds scream themselves hoarse as the year ticked over, and Peter remained alone.

Peter scrunched his eyes closed, clenching his fists and focusing on the spike of pain to ground him. He scowled, and dropped off his perch, shooting out a web as he went in search of distraction- people to help . He adamantly corrected the phrasing in his mind; he just wanted to help, nothing less, nothing more.

When he found what he was looking for, and came out with a few more bruises and cuts than he reasonably should have, it occurred to him that he should have felt more concerned than he actually did. As it were, this had happened before - and the frequency had increased over the months of surviving on his own. Which was why, when a criminal Peter was trying to detain got in a punch that definitely should’ve been easy to dodge, he wasn’t too surprised at the realization that it was (on some level) intentional.

He couldn’t quite distinguish a proper boundary to tell when confidence and optimism twisted, turning into reckless abandon; it was like slowly increasing the temperature until, all of a sudden, he was in boiling water with no idea how it got that bad - but it was normal, too, and he wasn’t in a rush to leave. Because, even if he wouldn’t - couldn’t - admit it aloud, the heat felt nice. So maybe, somewhere along the line, he started to let his opponents get a few extra hits in when he wasn’t feeling particularly… positive towards himself. Maybe, on the anniversary of his loved ones’ deaths, he’d end up with hands stained with his own blood more often than not - but he was fine. He was coping, in his own way.

The rage sitting in his gut didn’t help much, either; it felt, at times, like a serpent coiled and ready to strike out at the smallest irritation. Convenience store muggers and drunk drivers, in particular, tended to get slightly harsher treatment than the rest - when it came to petty crimes, at least. Rapists, drug dealers, trafficking gangs, and the like were in a realm of their own, and the truly horrific ones always got his worst, of course; it was hard to hold back when faced with the harsh reality of rougher parts of New York past 9pm.

Even then, he always managed to maintain some semblance of control; it was necessary, when losing it would mean death and destruction to his targets in the blink of an eye. Nevertheless, he knew there were more than a few walls whose slow decay had been expedited somewhat by his sudden bouts of anger - ones that left his knuckles bloodied and brick dust embedded in his skin. People tended to forget just how strong Spider-Man was, since he had such a reputation for not causing injuries beyond the generally superficial - not even the Daily Bugle could argue with that (well, unless you counted the stories claiming the vigilante could be a secret serial killer of some sorts, but those were generally identifiable as crackpot theories at a glance).

Then there were the less obvious things, like getting Karen to keep him slightly cold - there was something about the biting wind that helped feed the burning frustration twisting around his innards - and then muting said AI to sit in relative silence, the sounds of the city washing over him. The unease and all-round irritation at the world built and built until he was running across rooftops, searching for something to fight, some acceptable outlet that others would label as ‘heroism’ without a second glance.

A scream - cut off by the (now, after so many months patrolling the city) unmistakable sound of a hand being forced over a mouth - pierced the night, and Peter was quick to shift his trajectory, scanning the darkened streets for the source. A group of large thugs seemed to be cornering a couple of pedestrians, one of whom was being manhandled roughly, a knife placed across her throat. Peter clenched his jaw; earlier that night, or on another day, he may have taken the time to stand back and analyze the situation before acting - but the anger writhing in his gut demanded an outlet, and the injustice of the situation was near unbearable. Damn these types of people for thinking they could take whatever they wanted by force, and damn the system for letting it happen. Because he knew the fault lay, at large, in the administration that facilitated this behavior.

Even though Peter stuck to his ‘no killing or major injuries’ rule, it didn’t mean he trusted the police, or the system in general - he wasn’t delusional enough to think it was a perfect (or even half-decent) one; his own stay in foster care had shown him that much. And yet, he feared straying beyond the limits he’d placed for himself. Who knew what would happen if he stopped holding back - and, more importantly, what would Ben and May say if they were still alive? Becoming judge, jury, and executioner was corruptive - it was something most people accepted without question - and he knew it would be a dangerous path to tread. However, some people made it harder than others to maintain his morals.

Knife Guy’s free hand lingered a moment too long, lowering in a leery manner - and the last of Peter’s restraint was gone. In an instant, he webbed the knife from the thug’s hand with a flick of his wrist, using his momentum to barrel into the goon standing closest to their victims with a force that sent them crashing to the floor and skidding several meters away. Peter narrowed his eyes as Knife Guy (who no longer had a knife) turned to face him with a snarl that quickly morphed into a grotesque smirk.

“Well, well. If it isn’t some masked freak .” He spat out the word, sneering. “Why don’t you run along and-” He went to continue, but was quickly silenced, his eyes widening almost comically as his words were cut off, a web plastering to his jaw. His hands reached up to claw at the substance, and Peter let a small, vicious smile grace his lips as he lifted an arm to block a blow from another of the attackers. He twisted his hand, the woman’s arm moving with it and eliciting a sickening crack and a howl of pain. Releasing the arm, Peter turned on the remaining three thugs - who were standing, frozen, a few feet away.

He stalked forward a few steps in a purposeful manner, the criminals stumbling back in response, and proceeded to take them out with a few well-placed attacks and webs, taking advantage of their shock and confusion. Once they seemed substantially indisposed, he turned to the cowering civilians, “Are you-”

A muffled yell rang out from behind him, and a thick silence hung in the air for a moment - before white-hot pain began to radiate from Peter’s shoulder blade, severing his train of thought. He hissed sharply, sucking in cold air through his teeth, before spinning around and webbing Knife Guy’s hands in an instant, stepping forward and knocking him out with a blow to the head. It seemed - distracted as he was by the red haze that descended as he fought - he’d forgotten to web the original guy up beyond his mouth, and the man had managed to regain his composure in time to rejoin the fight, much to Peter’s irritation.

“Damnit,” he gritted out through clenched teeth, bringing his hand up to grasp his injured shoulder, and wincing at the fresh wave of pain the action brought. He took a deep breath, then turned to the would-be victims, and forced the frustration out of his voice - no use frightening the already scared civilians further. “Are you alright?” He asked, focusing on keeping his tone steady and sure.

“I-” the man took a moment before he blinked out of his shock, turning to his friend, who nodded shakily in assurance, “Yes, we, we’re fine. Are you…?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Peter shrugged off the concern, instantly regretting it as he bit back a whimper at the rush of pain, the knife embedded in his back grating against his bones. “I’ve alerted the authorities already, think you can get home safe? Maybe call a taxi.” The pair agreed worriedly, and Peter ignored the pang of guilt that came from leaving the civilians there as he shot out a web with his uninjured hand, launching himself into the air and onto the side of a building. Despite his best efforts, the impact placed force on his wound, and he bit out a wounded noise, cradling the limb to his body.

“Peter,” Karen’s spoke, for the first time in several hours, and Peter grimaced, “I must-”

“Not now,” he forced out, climbing the building with slow, agonizing movements. There was something off about the injury - he knew how stab wounds were supposed to feel, and this was decidedly not it - but his mind was beginning to cloud over, and stringing together coherent sentences was becoming increasingly difficult.

“I’m afraid I-” she started, again, and Peter cursed under his breath as the knife shifted in his back.

“I said not now , Karen,” he spat out the words, gritting his teeth as he hoisted his uninjured arm over the top of the building, infinitely grateful to be able to adhere himself to the brick without needing the use of an arm - which would’ve made it an exponentially more painful experience.

“I apologize, Peter,” Karen said, not sounding at all apologetic, “but, as directed by the protocol ‘Spiders Don’t Have Nine Lives’ , I am required to report your current status to Tony.”

“What? No, I-” Peter hauled himself onto the concrete, moving to roll onto his back before remembering the weapon stuck there and pausing, his thoughts slow like molasses as he tried to think of the proper next steps. He opted to push himself onto his hands and knees, breathing heavy and ragged, the rage long since dissipated to make way for pain and irritation. “I’m fine. Don’t-”

“Connecting a call to Tony Stark.” Karen insisted, and Peter groaned as a call icon popped up on his HUD, reminiscent of the one from earlier.

“Peter?” Tony’s voice spoke in Peter’s ears, concern obvious in his tone, “Karen said you’re hurt, what’s wrong?” Peter went to deny it, only to be cut off. “And don’t say you’re not, I’ve got your vitals here.” Peter didn’t reply, swallowing heavily and shaking his head in an effort to clear his mind. The silence sat for a few moments, before Tony seemed to grow more agitated. “That’s it, I’m coming to get you. Stay there.”

Peter huffed out a laugh, internally scoffing something about not being able to move, even if he wanted to, before losing his train of thought and wincing. He tried to focus on the cold stone beneath his hands, attempting to ground himself to no avail. A thick layer of fog was creeping into his mind, and he wasn’t sure how long it had been before the sound of Iron Man’s repulsor jets were right beside him; Peter startled, pushing himself back onto his hands from where he’d begun resting on his forearms instead, and angled his head towards Tony, who was stepping out of the suit and dropped to his knees beside the younger boy.

“Hey, kiddo, that looks rough,” Tony said, voice decently shaky, “How’re you feeling?”

“I…” Peter blinked several times, and tried to force a coherent sentence through his throat. “‘S foggy. Like…” he searched for a comparison, mind coming up blank, “fog.”

Tony chuckled, though it sounded forced, “Nice one, bud.” He looked at the knife, and grimaced, “I don’t think it’d be a good idea to take it out now. Let’s get you back to the Tower, huh?” Peter blearily nodded, making a noise of assent, and blinked. 

He could’ve sworn it was just a moment, but then the Iron Man suit was crouched beside him, warning him something was going to hurt and- suddenly, he was being carefully arranged in the suit’s metal arms, causing him to shiver from the cold before his own suit adjusted for the difference. “Yeah, I’m sorry, Pete.” Tony muttered, voice slightly more mechanical through the speakers, but still conveying his concern and regret.

Peter blinked again, and then he was being carried through the night sky. He twitched involuntarily, and then groaned, low and long, at the pain it wrought on his injury. “Hurts,” he muttered.

“I know, kid. It’s gonna be alright.” Tony replied, voice quiet but audible, obviously distressed by the agony evident in Peter’s voice.

The short ride to the Tower passed in a hazy recollection of bright lights and shifting sceneries, the metallic cold making way for gentle warmth, and the smell of antiseptic. Peter felt himself be placed onto what must’ve been a gurney, and hissed at the pain. “Stark? I-I don’t,” he mumbled out, blinking away dark spots encroaching on his vision, “I don’t feel so good.” He attempted to keep his hold on his consciousness, but it slipped away like sand between his fingers, and the last thing he felt were strong, calloused hands carding through his hair, and a stern, shaken voice demanding he be ok.

*

When the world began to come back into view, Peter noted the steady beeping of a machine nearby, and the sounds of another heartbeat in the room. He lay still for a few moments, gathering his thoughts as he adjusted to his surroundings; he was lying on a bed, presumably in the Medbay, and was feeling generally numb - thank god for enhanced painkillers. Forcing his eyes open with some strain, he looked around the dark room, gaze landing on Tony, who was sitting in the dark beside the bed, the soft glow of a Stark Tablet illuminating his features.

“Mmm…” Peter groaned, trying to shift into a more upright position without much success. “Tony? What…”

Tony looked up in an instant, placing the tablet to the side and smiling gently, “Hey kiddo, don’t try to move, alright? You’re not in great shape.”

“‘M fine,” Peter murmured through a yawn, and Tony chuckled.

“Sure you are, bud.” His smile turned slightly pained. “Why don’t you humor me anyway, huh?”

“Hmmm,” he hummed, thoughts pushing through the sludge of his mind in an infuriatingly slow manner, “m’kay, if you say so. Don’t want… y’know, heart…”

“My heart condition?” Tony questioned, lips quirking upward in a more amused fashion as Peter mumbled an affirmative, “That’s right, kid, my heart’s fragile, so you can’t be scaring me like that.”

“‘Was fine, had worse,” Peter could feel his consciousness slipping again, but couldn’t quite remember why he should be staying awake in the first place.

Tony frowned. “Yeah, that’s not reassuring, Underoos. You’re making me go gray over here.”

“Already are,” he responded, almost on autopilot, eyes drifting closed, “old man.”

“Little shit,” Tony shook his head fondly, “You can’t be calling me old when a few low-level thugs managed to get you this bad.” His tone was light, but there was a concerned undertone Peter couldn’t quite pin down in his groggy state.

“Kinda let ‘em,” he admitted, wincing at the distant feeling he was saying too much.

“What,” the older man said, more than asked, freezing in place, “What do you mean, you let them?” But Peter was already beginning to drift, and the words barely managed to pierce his mind as he descended back into the dark.

The second time he regained consciousness, he was feeling a lot more alive than the first. The beeping of the monitor was as constant as ever, but there were two heartbeats in the room this time, and the light was visible through his eyelids. Peter lifted a heavy arm with much effort, laying it over his eyes with a displeased noise. He vaguely recollected hazy memories of waking up before, but they were more the distant suggestion of emotions and safety than anything coherent.

“FRIDAY, lights off,” Tony said - and Peter wondered how long he’d been out, and if the man had left his side - voice coated in a badly-concealed tension. The lighting in the room dimmed, the space behind his eyelids going dark, and he opened his eyes slowly; sunlight was streaming in through a large, floor-ceiling window, and the artificial addition of lighting was sorely unneeded, Peter thought. “Welcome back to the land of the living. How’re you feeling, kiddo?”

“I… numb. Still a bit floaty,” Peter admitted, honestly, “bit better though. I can think now.”

“So you remember waking up before?” Tony questioned, with a strange emotion Peter couldn’t quite place.

He shrugged. “Uh, kinda? I know it was dark, and you were here, but that’s pretty much it.” He paused, narrowing his eyes as his still-rebooting brain tried to figure out what was wrong with the older man. “What’s up? Why’re you pissed?”

Tony raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “First off, watch your language, kid,” he warned, though it was more of a weak attempt at a joke and he sighed, “And I’m not… angry. I just-” He ran a hand down his face, “We’ll deal with it later, alright? You just woke up.”

Peter gave him a begrudging look, and turned to the other person in the room. “Hey Doc,” he greeted, pushing himself up into a seated position with Tony’s help.

“Hi, Peter,” Bruce replied, “I’d say it’s good to see you, but I’d much prefer we keep our interactions outside the Medbay.”

“Well, I tried to say I could patch myself up, but Tony insisted, so,” he shrugged, choosing to purposefully misinterpret what he was saying. “What can you do?”

Bruce shook his head, conflicted between amusement and concern. “Well he’s right. I was talking more along the lines of not getting hurt in the first place.” 

“Ah,” Peter said, in faux realization, “no can do, Doc, sorry.”

“I thought as much,” he chuckled, writing something on his clipboard as he checked Peter’s vitals. “In that case, would you mind answering some basic questions?” Peter nodded, and they swiftly went through some basic queries on how he felt, what he remembered, and so on.

“There was something off about the injury, or the knife, wasn’t there?” Peter asked, during a lull in the questioning, and Bruce gained a pinched expression. “It didn’t feel like a normal stab wound.”

“Just going to ignore how you know what a ‘normal’ stabbing feels like,” Bruce said, seeming quite disturbed at the thought - mirroring Tony’s own offput expression. “But yes. We found traces of vinegar on the blade, most likely having been used to clean it. There was some old, dried blood on it, too, so that’s probably why.” Bruce seemed disgruntled at that. “Never mind that there are far better ways to get blood off metal.” He said, partially to himself.

Peter chuckled, “Good to know. Guess it was just bad luck, then.” Parker Luck™, he supplemented mentally. “Am I all clear now?”

Bruce nodded, “I’d like to change your bandages, but after that you should be fine. Just keep an eye on your shoulder until it’s healed. You’re lucky it wasn’t anything worse, Dr Cho is busy with her own research at the moment,” he narrowed his eyes at Tony, “and, as I keep reminding the team, I’m not that kind of doctor.”

Tony shrugged, nonplussed, and grinned widely at his friend, “Aw, Brucie Bear, you know you love us.” Bruce just rolled his eyes, and moved to inspect the bandages. Peter looked down at the bandages on his shoulder, and felt a cold horror grip him as he realized his torso was otherwise bare.

He shifted uncomfortably, gripping his upper arms and bringing them close to his chest, unable to resist glancing sideways at Tony, whose expression softened as he caught the movement, but otherwise stayed silent. Bruce unwrapped the slightly red-tinged fabric, revealing unblemished skin on his front - but Peter wasn’t naive enough to think he hadn’t gained a new scar from the experience; he’d just have to check it out later, a compulsive habit he maintained even though he hated seeing the damage.

“Let me know if you’d like to join me in my meditation sometimes,” Bruce muttered quietly, so only Peter could hear. “I find it helpful in keeping calm and redirecting my frustration.” He offered a small smile, and Peter returned it - although slightly pained. Once he seemed satisfied with the state of the injury, Bruce reapplied the bandages in a swift manner.

“There. I’ll have FRIDAY alert you in a few hours to let me check whether we can take them off entirely, it should be completely healed by then,” he gave Peter a stern look, “Now, I won’t insist you don’t do any exercise at all - I’ve been dealing with these stubborn idiots long enough to know that’s a pipe dream,” he gestured at Tony, who gave an expression of mock offense, “but at least take it easy, alright? You’ll just extend your recovery period otherwise.”

Peter chuckled. “I’ll do my best to stay out of trouble. Thanks, Doc.” Bruce rolled his eyes with a faint smile at the non-assurance, muttering something about ‘empty promises’ and ‘reckless teammates’ as he left. The room lapsed into silence once Bruce was gone, but Peter could feel Tony’s eyes on him, and he sighed. “What is it?”

“Hm?” Tony snapped out of his half-trance to look at him.

“You’ve been looking at me like that this whole time, and you said something was off but we’d deal with it ‘later’.” He explained, tiredly. “It’s later now, and I’d really rather get this over with. So, what’s got you all tense?”

Tony stared at him for a moment, searching for something, before letting out a deep breath and pinching the bridge of his nose. “You said something, the first time you woke up. It was… worrying.” Peter felt a pit grow in his gut as he tried to recollect the experience, to no avail.

Tony paused, averting his gaze, and Peter levelled him with an unamused look, urging him onwards. “I pointed out how muggers with no training shouldn’t have been able to get the drop on you easily, and you said you ‘let them’.” Tony looked at Peter, burning a hole in him with the intensity of his gaze.

“Ah.” Peter felt his mouth go dry, and he chewed on his lower lip, looking away. He’d never acknowledged… it aloud before, and to hear it laid out so plainly was startling, to say the least.

He’d been aware, of course, that it wasn’t the best coping mechanism to beat the shit out of people (and things) - or to let said people beat the shit out of him, either; but it’d been easy to ignore when there was no-one around to care whether he got a bit roughed up now and then (the type of ‘roughed up’ that left him groaning in pain on the cold, wooden floors for days on end).

Problems, in general, tended to be much easier to ignore when he was alone.

“I… yeah.” He shrugged.

“ ‘Yeah’ ? Pete, you can’t just-” Tony cut himself off with palpable self-control. “Talk to me, kid. What did you mean?”

Peter sighed deeply. “I just…” He caught sight of Tony’s expression, and he felt the anger begin to bubble up again; so much easier to summon so soon after the fact, when there had been no real release to it. “I don’t know, alright?” He snapped, “What does it matter, anyway? The bad guys got caught, no one found out about Spider-Man, what else do you want?”

Tony seemed lost, caught off guard by the sudden shift in the mood, and his searching eyes roamed over Peter’s face thoughtfully, the look in them tinged with pain. “Because I care about you, kid. And because I don’t give a shit about that stuff, I just want to know you’re okay.”

It was hard to maintain his misdirected anger when the target seemed so sincerely concerned, and Peter deflated. He averted his gaze, suddenly feeling completely exposed, and he crossed his arms against his chest once more. “Can I… have a shirt, or something?”

In his peripheral vision, he saw Tony nod, though he was obviously reluctant to let it go. “Yeah, of course.” He stood, walking over to a nearby cabinet, and returned with a t-shirt, to which Peter gave a skeptical look, but pulled on.

He tugged at the short sleeves self-consciously and Tony sighed. “Look, Pete. I know you have some issues with your scars, and I won’t force you into something you’re not comfortable with, but none of us would judge you, really,” he paused. “You’ve seen the pictures, yeah?” Peter nodded. “Then you know we all have them, me included.”

“I know, alright?” Peter gritted out through clenched teeth, the intensity startling Tony once more as his anger bubbled up, latching on to the closest issue. “It’s not that. I know you don’t care, I know you all have them. But it’s- it’s not-” he let out a harsh breath, struggling to find words. “Whenever I see them, I remember why I have them. I remember the people who died, the people I failed to save because I just wasn’t good enough -” his breath was hitching erratically as he spoke, and he dropped his head into his hands.

“Peter.” Tony said, tone firm, and Peter screwed his eyes shut at the tone, barely repressing a flinch - though the regret in Tony’s voice made him unsure whether he had been successful. “Fuck, sorry, kid.” He paused, and they fell into silence for another few moments. “It’s not your fault. You did the best you could, and, well, it sucks, but sometimes shit happens.”

Tony reached a hand out and placed it on Peter’s jaw, gently guiding his face to look him in the eye. “You can’t save them all, Pete. No one can.” He seemed pained, and regretful, and Peter realized it must be an issue Tony himself did - or had, in the past, struggled with. “But you save the ones you can, you mourn the ones you couldn’t, and then you move on. Because you can’t hold the weight of the world on your shoulders, bud.”

With a shuddering breath, Peter felt tears prick the back of his eyes. “But why couldn’t I even save May, or Ben? I watched Ben bleed out, and I- I can feel it sometimes, and, I just- why? Why does everyone I love have to die?” He felt so very small, and his voice cracked around the words.

At that, Tony pulled Peter into a fierce hug, holding him close with large, steady hands as he breathed shakily, struggling to hold it together. The silence lingered for longer, this time, and Peter was glad for the lack of empty platitudes and promises; Tony couldn’t say he’d never die, couldn’t even say it wouldn’t be soon - life of a superhero and all - without it being a lie, and Peter was tired of lies. So, when Tony began to speak, quiet words no more than a murmur into the silent room, Peter gripped the older man’s shirt and hoped to whatever deity there was that it wouldn’t be one.

 “I don’t know, kid.” Tony admitted, and he sounded almost as broken as Peter felt in that moment - like he wanted, desperately, to fix it all, to promise the impossible and prevent the inevitable; but he couldn’t, not without lying, and so he didn’t. Peter closed his eyes, turning his head to breathe in the scent of coffee and motor oil, and allowed that simple, raw truth to sit between them for a moment.

“I need you to know,” Tony began, hesitant to break the silence, vibrations echoing through him, “because I mentioned it before, but it doesn’t seem you quite got it.” He took a deep breath. “I want you , bud. Not Spider-Man, Peter Parker. He’s the reason we met you, sure, but he’s not the one we care about.”

In one fell swoop, Tony pinpointed the issue that had plagued Peter’s mind for so long - constantly looming over him like a shadow - and dismissed it as though it weren’t even worth considering in the first place. Peter nuzzled into the engineer’s neck (an action he was sure he’d be embarrassed about later, but couldn’t bring himself to care about the repercussions for at the moment) for comfort, “That’s… pretty hard to believe, not gonna lie,” he chuckled, brokenly, “but I’ll try.”

*

Soon after being discharged from the Medbay, Peter found himself being dragged by Bucky, who offered no more of an explanation than a gruff, “Come with me,” before leading him away into the elevator, and then down to the training floor. He raised an eyebrow as the supersoldier tossed a roll of bandages at him, and proceeded to wrap his flesh hand, prompting Peter to do the same, despite his skepticism.

“So,” Peter said, eventually breaking the silence, “what’s going on?”

Bucky looked up from his arm, finishing the wrapping and chucking the roll of bandages back to where it came from, and smirked. “I’m going to teach you to take your anger out in a way that doesn’t involve being a reckless idiot.”

Peter couldn’t help the bemused expression that came at that, but then it faltered as his words sank in. “Tony told you?” He asked, somewhat bitterly.

“No,” Bucky said, smile turning rueful, and he sounded firm enough that Peter didn’t doubt it, “let’s just say it’s not an unfamiliar experience.” Peter nodded in understanding, following him over to the sparring mats, dropping into a comfortable stance. Bucky’s smile regained some of its mischief as he did the same, then his gaze shifted to Peter’s shoulder, and he hesitated. “I’ll take it easy on you, focus on your lower body. I doubt Bruce would be very happy if I worsened your injury.”

“Then… what are these for?” He asked, lifting his bandaged arms quizzically.

Bucky paused, then shrugged, “Safety.”

Peter chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “You forgot, didn’t you.” It was a statement, not a question, and Bucky just rolled his eyes, not denying the accusation.

True to his word, Bucky focused his efforts on helping Peter improve his fighting tactics sans arms, - or sans one arm, sometimes - revealing a myriad of weaknesses Peter hadn’t really needed to consider beyond the tail-end of fights before, when he occasionally had a limb or two out of commission. Sometime during the fight, Natasha appeared and began to watch from the sidelines, occasionally adding in her own comments on Peter’s form. His arm still ached from all the movement, but it wasn’t beyond a level of discomfort Peter hadn’t dealt with on a day-to-day basis in the past; still, when a particularly hard turn caused him to wince as it tugged at the few stitches, he saw Natasha twitch.

“That’s enough,” she declared, and Bucky paused, looking Peter up and down, before nodding and stepping off the mat.

“Huh?” Peter furrowed his brow, rolling his shoulders to relieve some of the tension building up near his injury.

“You’re in pain,” Bucky said, plainly, giving him a look that dared him to argue.

Peter just hummed. “Eh, just kinda uncomfortable. I’m fine, nothing I haven’t-” he cut himself off before he could say anything that would only get him a series of worried looks, and sighed, stepping off the mat. “Alright, sure.”

Natasha held out a hand and stopped Bucky from taking off his bandages, some silent communication occurring before they took their places in the sparring ring opposite each other. “Watch.” Peter obliged, taking off the - ultimately unnecessary - fabric from his arms, and sat down on the side to observe. They focused on lower body combat in the beginning, but soon seemed to forget the objective as they became caught up in trying to catch the other off-guard. Peter chuckled to himself at the thought, watching their subtle expressions of enjoyment with amusement and warmth in his chest; the trust the two shared was obvious, and not something superheroes - let alone spies - often seemed to express.

He tilted his head as the elevator approached the floor, hearing the mechanisms slow in an indication that the training floor was, indeed, the destination. There was one heartbeat inside, easily recognisable at this point, and the man stepped out with heavy footsteps that only solidified their identity. “Hey Steve,” he called out, not bothering to turn around, and smirked at the surprised pause he heard behind him.

“Hey Peter, how’re you feeling?” Steve asked, and Peter turned to look at him as the man began wrapping his hands in bandages.

“Alright,” Peter replied, then gestured vaguely at the fight in front of him, “Having some fun watching them spar.”

Steve smiled, nodding in understanding, and walked over to the punching bags. “It really is something, huh?” Peter looked over at the pair again, and had to agree. It was beautiful, in a way, to watch the two styles of fighting mesh and clash in a variety of ways; he didn’t think he’d ever get bored of it. Steve sighed, prompting Peter to look over, question in his eyes, and Steve met his gaze. “Ah, it looks like Tony hasn’t gotten around to fixing the enhanced stand for the bags. There are the normal ones, but those break too easily.”

Peter stood, frowning at the reluctant acceptance on Steve’s face, and walked over. “I could hold it still for you?” He offered.

“Are you sure?” Steve asked, unsure, “Isn’t your shoulder…”

He shrugged. “I’ll hold it with my good arm, should be fine as long as you don’t go full strength, yeah?”

“Well then,” Steve said, smiling kindly as he hefted a large punching bag and attached it to a hook, “I’d appreciate it, thanks.” Peter nodded, placing himself in a way that his injured arm wouldn’t be taking the strain of the hits, and adjusted himself as the first few hits came, until he was mostly comfortable in taking the force. The vibrations jarred his injury somewhat, but it was healing well enough that it was more of a mild discomfort than anything. “I’d like to say,” Steve started hesitantly, after a while, “I know we’ve clashed a lot, on account of me being a bit paranoid and overprotective when it comes to the team. But you’re part of the team now, and I hope we can trust each other.”

There was a short silence, and then Peter smiled - a small, fragile thing. “Sure thing, Cap.” They lapsed back into their previous rhythm, this time with an understanding between them; there had been something strained until now - a result of Peter never allowing them to properly address their rocky beginnings - and the lack of it was almost palpable in the quiet room.

*

The team sat in the living room, sprawled across various couches and armchairs and generally - by the third or fourth one - ignoring the movie playing quietly in the background, in favor of chatting. Peter found himself tucked under Tony’s arm, warm and comfortable in the safety of his proximity, drifting on the edge of consciousness and occasionally joining in on the various conversations. Clint reached over from the armchair he was perched on, messing up Peter’s hair with a grin. “Hey kid, you still with us?”

Peter hummed in faux irritation, rolling his eyes, “Yeah, yeah. I’m not-” he yawned, “-tired.” Clint snickered at the terrible timing, and Peter swatted his hand away. “Shut up,” he grumbled, “I’ll have you know I’m wide awake.”

“Sure thing, bambino,” Tony chimed in, smirking down at him with a mischief matching Clint’s. “Think you can make it to midnight?”

Narrowing his eyes, Peter scowled. “Of course I can. I’m not even tired.” Tony just chuckled, unconvinced, and Peter huffed in response.

“Hey, it’s a few minutes ‘till midnight,” Bucky called out. “Show us Times Square, FRIDAY, if you would.”

“Of course, Sergeant Barnes,” FRIDAY responded, the screen shifting from the movie to a live feed of Times Square, where the ball was going to drop soon. It was bright and crowded, full of what could’ve been hundreds of people, all huddled together in the cold.

Steve smiled. “We used to go watch it whenever we could,” he reminisced. “It was different, of course, but just as magical.” Bucky nudged him, wrapping an arm around his friend’s shoulders for comfort. Peter knew they both missed their old lives, and the people in them - but he was glad to be part of why, as Steve had assured him, they enjoyed their new lives, too. It was always hard to leave something so close to your heart behind, even if it was for something ‘better’, and Peter could personally attest to that; he’d lost his parents, and gained Ben and May, then lost them, and gained the Avengers.

He didn’t love Ben and May any less than his parents (perhaps more, since he had far more memories surrounding them) but that didn’t stop him from missing the people who’d brought him into the world, especially on the days it was hard to ignore how the whole world seemed to expect them to exist - all the Mothers’ and Fathers’ days, all the Parent-Teacher conferences at school, they grated on his nerves. It was, in that same way, that he missed Ben and May, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be happy now; he wouldn’t say he loved the Avengers in that same way - not yet, at least - but he wasn’t averse to the idea.

The thought left him feeling somewhat shell-shocked, and he glanced around the room, a small smile gracing his lips at the sight. Yeah. He could definitely grow to love these people, he cared for them deeply already - it was hard not to, with how genuine and kind they were. His heart was full of hot chocolate and supportive glances, of glitter bombs and graphite, scientific rants and gentle smiles; coffee beans and motor oil - but there were still traces of burnt meals and stern advice, of sweet smiles and honeymoon lovesickness, all lingering around the edges.

They’d all left stains on his heart, and none of them were liable to fade anytime soon; the scene in front of him was bittersweet, in a way - he couldn’t ever have all his loved ones in a room, sharing gentle smiles and trading stories. But the bitter edge didn’t smother the sweetness, only highlighted why it was so important to treasure all that he had, while he still had it.

His heart was damaged, as well; indented with sharp metal, biting shards of glass, and soaked in spilt blood and alcohol. It was bruised, and always ached with longing of one kind of another. And he knew he’d get hurt again in the future, and some of those injuries would never heal, and sometimes he’d still lick his wounds alone, sure, but - in the end - he knew he’d have people around to pick up the pieces, and help him put himself back together again.

A chanting countdown on the TV - the volume now increased, as they reached midnight - broke Peter from his spell, and he joined in with the team as they all called out the numbers as one.

10!

‘TRAGIC PLANE CRASH - NO SURVIVORS’, in bright, blood red. A puddle of blood leaking out and soaking into his clothes, the light in Ben’s eyes dying on a cold street. A phone call, a crash site, blood strewn across the rocks, breath burning in his lungs. Death, death, so much death. Everyone always leaving, always dying.

9!

Rageful words, being spat down as blow after blow was rained down upon him; the imprint of boots on his stomach, belts on his back; glass smashing, alcohol sinking into his hair as he lay among the remains, cold air seeping in through the cracks of a drafty apartment building.

8!

Bleeding out on a rooftop, so far from any sort of shelter, all alone and unable to call anyone for help, not knowing whether he was going to make it; a stabbing pain in his side as his only company.

7!

Being scared, angry, trapped, and lashing out; shocked faces, a trickle of blood, a moment of pain, shattered glass with too many memories. Expressions full of pain, and grief, and concern .

6!

An opportunity wasted with panic, the understanding that followed; nights full of hot chocolate and treadmills, shopping malls and gentle hugs, mistakes and conversations.

5!

Swinging through the cold night air, feeling free for the first time in so long, feeling useful and necessary, the thrill that came from saving those in need.

4!

Reunions, missing pieces of the puzzle finally being slotted into place; longing sated, anxieties quieted by sarcastic comments and fond eye rolls.

3!

Cuddling close to Ben and May, the countdown in the background, hot chocolate clutched between warm hands, and feeling utterly content.

2!

Tinkering in the workshop, music playing loudly in the background, laughing at the bots; far too much coffee, and a few too many oil stains.

1!

The ball dropped, and he smiled. Tony squeezed his arm, resting his head atop Peter’s, and spoke quietly. “Happy New Year, Peter,” he said, voice knowing and kind, “Welcome to the family.”

The word sent warmth through his chest, and he nuzzled in closer; he’d always heard of the calm before the storm, and he’d experienced it plenty.

But , he thought, breathing in comfort, no one ever talks about the calm that follows , and how it’s so much better than the one before.

Chapter Text

Peter blinks blearily as he wakes, a gentle morning alarm pulling him from his - surprisingly restful - slumber and into the waking world. He checks the time, 6:30 , and stretches out his cramped muscles; he's managed about 4 hours of sleep, as usual, but he’s working on it. Healing takes time, as his therapist loves to say, and he’s trying his best to believe her - if only to regain some sliver of the enthusiastic hope and optimism he used to feel.

He inserts his - new and improved - hearing aids, turning them to a level that should drown out most excess noise, but leave enough to avoid a repeat of the first time; Tony found a way to adjust the sound difference in even smaller intervals, and Peter’s all the better for it. After a quick shower, he pulls on a blank t-shirt, and then a yellow hoodie with a science pun on the front ( a sketched ferris wheel of Fe atoms, with the words ‘Ferrous Wheel’ emblazoned below ). Because, yes, he is a nerd, and, yes, he might love science puns a tad too much, but he’ll never admit it. The color matches his favorite pair of sneakers - a warm, not too bright, yellow - and the simple ability to coordinate an outfit based on something like color has him getting overly emotional.

Shaking his head to clear his mind, he inserts a pair of the custom contact lenses - also designed by Tony - smiling briefly as the light around him dims and the world becomes infinitely easier to handle. He grabs his backpack - complete with a new pencil case, stationary, and anything else he might need - and heads out into the kitchen on the common floor at a reasonable hour, for once (staying up until the early morning had paid off, since he’d slept through the worst of his nerves) and greets Steve, whose damp hair indicates he probably just returned from his morning run. Natasha and Bucky are nowhere to be seen, but the memory of how they’d adjusted their usual routine so Peter could still join them in their late night/early morning sleeplessness (even with his new schedule) has a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Hey there, Pete,” Steve says, smiling as he loads a plate of breakfast food for Peter - because he’s an angel - and grabbing a pre-packed lunch from the fridge, which he slides across the counter, “how’re you feeling?” 

Peter shrugs in response, then sighs when it’s obvious that isn’t enough of an answer. “Fine,” he responds - though not unkindly, more like he’s trying to convince both himself and Steve. Luckily, the super soldier just shoots him a sympathetic look and places a reassuring hand on the younger boy’s shoulder - but not before clearly broadcasting his movements to give Peter time to duck away or refuse the contact. The action calms him, the knowledge that he has people looking out for him dousing the fire somewhat, and he leans into the brief touch for comfort before it’s gone a moment later, with a pat and a smile from Steve.

There’s a slight lump in his throat, and he’s bouncing his leg with anxiety, a sense of anticipation hanging over him; school’s always been a complicated ball of emotions, and the newest developments in his life have only seemed to add to that. He wonders, not for the first time, whether he’s made the wrong choice in going back to Midtown, rather than some random school where no one knows who he is, where he’s just the new kid, and not ‘Peter Parker, the boy whose uncle died, then disappeared six months later, and, wow, his clothes look so much more expensive now, wasn’t he poor before?’.

But he’s made his choice, and he’s ready (at least theoretically) to stand tall and face the world. Plus, he wouldn’t want to lose Ned and MJ - basically the only real friends he’s ever had, and the people who’ve stayed by him through thick and thin. He shovels Steve’s frankly delicious pancakes at high speed, downing orange juice at ridiculous speeds that gain him a pointed look - which he responds to with an eye roll, but does slow down. His nerves are frayed, and they’re getting the best of him, but he’s trying, really trying, to forcibly calm himself down; he thinks back to his last therapy session and takes a few drawn out deep breaths, grounding himself in reality.

Appearing at around quarter past 7, Tony is grease-stained and looks half-dead as he trudges over from the elevator - to which Peter raises an eyebrow. “Oh, damn,” he says, whistling low and long for added effect, “Tony Stark, awake before 10am? I didn’t realize hell froze over.” He bites down a grin as Tony ignores him entirely, grasping the steaming coffee Steve gestures to and downs it in a swift movement.

Only once he’s caffeinated does he turn back to Peter, a grouchy, mock-annoyed expression on his face. “I’ll have you know I never slept,” Tony replies, waving off the pointed look Steve shoots him. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll get to it later.”

“Either way, I rarely see you up here this early, what’s up?” Peter asks, curious. In the time he’s spent at the Tower, he’s learned there are a few unspoken rules; there are important ones, such as, ‘don’t leave Tony unsupervised nearby strange, possibly explosive, alien things’ and ‘interrupt Natasha while she’s reading at your own risk’, and then there are ones like ‘Steve is never, under any circumstances, to use the microwave unattended’ or ‘keep any and all glitter away from Clint if you want to keep your clothes not sparkly’, which he can’t quite figure out whether they are jokes or not. One of the biggest ones, however, is that Tony does not willingly join the living before, at least, 10am.

Tony shrugs, faux casual, as he refills his mug with more coffee. “It’s a stressful day, thought I’d check everything’s alright, see how you’re doing.”

And, wow, Peter’s struck dumb for a few seconds before he smiles - more genuine and soft this time - at Tony. “Thanks,” he says, voice quiet and gentle, then, after another moment, admits, “I’m nervous.”

“That’s fair, kid,” Tony responds, returning the smile with an edge of concern, “I won’t lie, it’ll be tough, but you’ve got this, yeah?” Peter nods once, then glances at the time, and Tony copies him, “We should get going,” he finishes the rest of his coffee, then places the mug on the counter.

“‘We’?” Peter asks, brow furrowing.

“Yeah,” Tony walks over to the elevator, briefly patting Peter on the back as he passes. “For today, at least, I thought I’d take you myself,” he pauses, turning as he stands, waiting, “I assume you have no complaints?” He asks, cocky smirk plastered on his face as he opens his arms slightly in a ‘what’s there not to like’ gesture. “Now c’mon, or we’ll be late.”

Shaking his head in bemusement, Peter grabs his backpack and shoves the lunch into it, thanking Steve as he leaves, and joins Tony as they head down to the garage. The doors slide open and he groans as he remembers quite how flashy every car is. “Oh, god,” he complains, “please tell me you have something at least somewhat inconspicuous.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “What kind of teen doesn’t want to show up to school in a super expensive car?” Peter fixes him with a stern, exasperated look, and he sighs. “Fine, fine!” He throws his arms in the air, “I think I have an Audi.” Peter rubs a hand down his face, but gives in, and soon they’re driving out onto the road towards Midtown Tech, music blaring, windows cracked, Tony with his signature sunglasses in place.

“Really?” Peter asks, staring at the shades with an unamused expression, though it’s hard to keep a straight face.

“Have to keep the brand going strong,” Tony flashes him a media smile and Peter snorts.

“Uh huh,” he replies, slowly, tone dry, as he pointedly stares at the well-worn, oil-stained shirt and sweats Tony’s wearing. “I can see that.”

Tony looks confused for a moment, the profile of his face showing his brows furrowing, and then he glances over and chuckles, swatting at Peter with one hand as the other stays on the steering wheel. “Brat.”

“Old man.” He holds it together for a moment longer, then cracks, smirking. They spend the rest of the journey in relative silence, sometimes singing along to whatever song is playing from FRIDAY’s specially curated Tony-and-Peter playlist (in reality, she’s labelled it ‘Irondad and Spiderson’, not that either of the pair will admit that).

Peter’s managed to calm down but, as the school comes into view, he begins fidgeting again, glancing in the mirror to check his hair and tapping his fingers against the back of his other hand in a rhythmic pattern. They reach the school and Peter takes a deep breath, reaching for the door - but then it locks. He turns to look at Tony, who’s watching him in concern, and tilts his head in question.

“Hey,” Tony says, gentle tone cutting through the tension in the air like butter, “it’ll be alright. You’re, well, you. High school is nothing.”

“Yeah, I’m, uh, Spider-Man. I can do this.” Peter says, weakly, not quite believing the words.

Tony shakes his head slowly. “No, bud. Spider-Man is nothing without Peter Parker; the kid who’s been through hell and come out stronger for it. You’re the heart of him, Pete.”

“Right,” Peter takes a deep, shaky breath, nodding. His therapist keeps saying it’s a bad habit, relegating the strength in himself to his alter ego; but it’s hard not to, when it’s a matter of a teenage boy versus a literal superhero. “Right,” he repeats.

Quickly enough that Peter doesn’t have time to react, Tony reaches out and ruffles his hair, mussing up the carefully constructed style, before leaning back, one arm on the steering wheel, and chuckles. “There we go,” he declares, ignoring Peter’s miffed expression, “much better.”

“Tony,” he complains, drawing out the word and pouting, “you messed it up.”

“Hm,” Tony hums, pretending to contemplate it, “Nah. You look adorable, kid.”

“I am not adorable!” Peter protests, trying to fix his hair.

Tony chuckles, nudging him, “Go on, bambino, you’re gonna be late.”

Peter takes another, more stable, deep breath, and nods decisively. “Alright. I’ll- wait. ” He narrows his eyes, “I looked that word up, and I’ll have you know I’m not a baby!” Tony laughs again, raising his eyebrows in an ‘are you sure?’ motion. Peter huffs, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Whatever, old man.” He ignores Tony’s disgruntled squawk, in the wake of his growing nerves. “I’ll, uh, see you after school, then?”

“Yeah, your friends are still coming over, right?” Peter makes a noise of assent, and Tony smiles. “Can’t wait to meet them. I have a meeting so I’ll get someone to come pick you up. Feel free to message me if you need to leave early, alright?”

“Cool, cool.” Peter opens the door a crack, the sounds of the many teens outside pouring in, and glances back, “See you.”

“Good luck, kid.” Tony says, and the words are very nearly lost as Peter pushes the door open and slips out, shutting it firmly behind himself before anyone can catch a glimpse of Tony Stark driving him to school; that’s far more attention than he needs, especially right now, with so many people looking at Peter Parker - the kid who disappeared, and now shows back up in nicer clothes, with an expensive car, and oh god so many eyes on him everyone is staring oh god oh god oh god-

“Dude!” He hears Ned’s voice and skims his gaze over the crowd until it falls on his friend, who’s currently speeding over to him. They automatically fall into their long, convoluted handshake, and Peter can’t help the grin that spreads over his face. “This is crazy, I can’t believe you’re back and- ohmygod did Mr Stark drive you here? That’s insane , man.” Ned begins to babble, and Peter lets it wash over him, a familiar comfort in a strangely alien place.

The halls are much as he remembers them, which isn’t surprising, seeing as he used the labs only a few months ago for his web fluid, but the sameness of it all feels odd - as though no time has passed, and nothing has changed. 

He’s sure the lights (combined with the sound, which he used to find overbearing even without the enhanced senses, and the pure stress of this day) have the potential to send him into a sensory overload. So he feels immensely grateful for the tech Tony designed for allowing him to weather it - though he does notice a few areas for improvement, and notes them in the back of his mind. The hot bodies and shrieking voices take a minute to adjust to, but Peter endures, a year of experience in blocking out the most unpleasant sensations aiding him greatly.

MJ meets up with them by their lockers, leaning against the wall and watching impassively - though there’s a hint of worry and protectiveness in her eyes. “‘Sup, nerds,” she greets, “ready to suffer through an hour of Ms Kaine’s history?”

Peter groans, closing his locker, “I forgot we have her this year. Is she just as bad as before?” Ned nods and pats his arm in consolation as Peter drops his head back, staring up at the ceiling. He’s starting a couple of weeks late, to allow time for the fostering paperwork and general arrangements of sorts; add to that a year (and a half, since the schools he’d been to in foster care could hardly hold up to Midtown’s standards) of no education, and even Peter would be left floundering at all the effort to catch up. It had been part of why he’d joined two weeks in, and not one - opting to spend the extra time making a dent in all the supplementary work he’d been set.

The bell goes, and Peter sighs. “I’ve got to go see Mr Morita, catch up later?” Then Peter’s off, heading to the Principal’s office with a promise to meet up with his friends at lunch and weaving through crowds of students as they pour into different classrooms, slowly depleting the halls until he’s standing in an empty corridor at the door to the office. He takes a deep breath, then knocks, and walks in when he hears a voice call for him to enter.

“Ah,” Mr Morita says, as he looks up from his paperwork, “Peter, it’s good to see you. Please, take a seat.” He gestures to one of the seats on the opposite side of the desk, and Peter obliges, dropping his bag to the floor by his feet. Mr Morita seems to hesitate for a moment as he chooses his next words. “I heard about your Aunt, and I wanted to offer my sincere condolences,” Peter ignores the icy stab of pain in his chest as he gives a small, strained smile, “I only met her a few times, but she seemed like a lovely woman.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, averting his eyes to the pot of pencils on the desk, then to the ceiling, staring at the light as though it could burn away the tears pricking at his eyes, “she…” his voice catches, using past-tense to talk about her is so new , because there’s something different about thinking about it, and actually vocalizing it - a luxury he hasn’t had for a long while, “was amazing. One of the best people I’ve ever known.” Mr Morita nods, a sympathetic expression in place, and Peter clears his throat, eager to move on. “So, you wanted to see me?”

“Yes, well. I understand that the last few years have been rather… turbulent.” Mr Morita picks his words with caution, as if Peter is made of glass - and he has to contain the growing irritation in his gut at the thought; Peter is not fragile . “You’ve always been one of our top students, and I’d hate to see such tragedies impact your future any more than they already have. We have plenty of resources if you ever feel you need extra support, whether it be tutoring or grief counseling.”

“Thanks.” Peter says, shortly, looking away again and focusing his gaze on a small ink spot on a piece of paperwork, staring intently. He’s never really enjoyed teachers pretending to care - but, somehow, genuine concern is worse; it feels a tad too close to pity, and he’s really not looking for that.

Mr Morita sighs - tired and tinged with regret - and picks up a pen, tapping it against the wooden surface. “Well then. Your teachers have been told to be lenient, but the specifics of your situation haven’t been disclosed, so that’s up to you. You’re no longer on a scholarship to keep your place,” (that conversation was one where Peter had to, begrudgingly, admit defeat - he’d always been proud of his scholarship, but his old one was gone and applying for a new one would take away a place from someone who needs it; someone who doesn't have Tony Stark funding them), “so there’s no risk of losing your spot at the school if your grades dip too low, though I would encourage you to do the best you can, of course.

“Other than that, you’ve got your timetable, yes?” Peter nods. “In that case, just know that my office is always open, should you need me. Good luck,” Mr Morita smiles at him and Peter stands, grabbing his bag as he walks over to the door, “oh, and Peter?”

“Yeah?” He glances back over his shoulder, furrowing his brow.

“It truly is a pleasure to have you back,” Mr Morita says, making Peter pause as he reaches for the door. He searches for an answer, settling for an incline of the head before stepping out of the room; he hadn’t interacted all that much with the Principal in the past, but the few times he did the man seemed like a pretty genuine person. He’d been understanding after Ben’s death, as well as around the anniversary of his parents’ deaths, and seen to it that Peter could stay at the school even as his grades began to decline.

Peter shakes away the thoughts and walks down the empty halls, listening to his echoing footsteps as he makes his way to his first lesson; not having to hide and slink around, ducking into corners at the sound of approaching footsteps, takes a bit of adjusting to - but he manages. Eventually he makes it to class, nodding at the teacher and making his way to the back of the room, pointedly ignoring the way his peers’ eyes linger on him.

Despite his best attempts to pay attention, Peter’s mind keeps wandering throughout the lesson, his eyes sliding over to stare out the window and imagine swinging through the streets… and then the teacher has moved on to another topic and Peter’s page is blank, apart from a single sentence and a couple of sporadic notes. He sighs, tapping a pattern on his knuckles as he averts his gaze back to the front of the room.

The day continues to pass at an agonizingly slow pace; months of vigilante-ing has, apparently, ruined his attention span for menial things like school - it certainly doesn’t help that he’s so far behind even his so-called ‘genius’ mind is struggling to keep up. Still, he manages to jot down a few key notes in each class, smiling gratefully when Ned promises to lend him his notes from the classes they share.

Ned, MJ and him all sit at the same old lunch table with a scratch mark that looks like the letter ‘Y’ and has - like most of the tables at the school - several crude phrases and drawings drawn and carved into it. He snickers at how something so small and ordinary can be so ingrained in his memory, and jokes with his friends as they discuss the newest classmates he’d missed joining the school. They never touch the actual subject of the year he was gone - and definitely not why he cut contact - and it’s less tense than he might’ve thought; it’s lucky, too, because he’s not ready to talk about it. Not yet.

Everything seems so… normal. Like Peter never left. Like there isn’t a massive rift between them, formed by months of isolation and unspoken trauma and a byproduct of the undeniable cruelty the world has proved itself capable of. It might be why when, shortly after lunch, the sudden reminder that this life isn’t all sunshine and rainbows either is so very jarring; just because he’s back at school, living a ‘normal’ life, doesn’t mean Parker Luck™ can’t strike at the worst possible time.

“Hey, Parker!” A familiar, mocking voice calls out. Ned looks extremely concerned, while MJ is just rolling her eyes, and none of them pause - though Peter’s spidey sense is humming louder, and an icy weight settles in his chest. “Oh, don’t be like that. We’re friends, aren’t we?” The phrasing is so innocuous - always carefully crafted, so it could be played off as friendly banter if needed - but the tone conveys more, and Peter sighs, ignoring him; responding never helps, a reaction is all they want. But, of course, the non-reaction doesn’t stop Flash, and his group moves in front of the trio, blocking off their path.

“Go away,” Ned tries, weakly. Flash glances at him, then turns back to Peter, completely ignoring the protest - and the dismissal brings the familiar anger writhing in his gut, which he quickly stamps down with all the self control he’s cultivated so far.

“I just want to know where you’ve been, Parker. I mean, you disappear for a whole year and then come back looking like that?” The look in Flash’s eyes is analytical, and Peter hates how it makes him feel, like he’s been cut open and his weakness is there for the world to see. “Did you go to juvie or something? ‘Cause, just look at your face. Bet you got beat up a ton, huh? You’ve always been weak, haven’t you, Parker.” And it’s not a question, it’s a statement of so-called ‘fact’ so hilariously incorrect that Peter almost wants to laugh - because he’s never been weak in heart or resolve, and now he’s strong physically, too.

Flash’s friends snicker, and several people in the hall are stopping to watch, their attention drawn to the visible scars littering Peter’s face and hands. He shifts uncomfortably, digging his nails into his palm. “Give it up, Flash,” Peter mutters, exhaustion clear in his voice, “I’m not looking to do this today, alright?”

“Wait, I’ve got it! You got a sugar daddy, didn’t you? There’s no way your aunt could afford that.” Flash sneers, stepping forward as his lackeys jeer him on with snickers and comments to back him up. “She’s always so busy, working too much to come to any of your little competitions. Bet she doesn’t care about you. Well, who would?”

The words don’t seem completely tailored to Peter, but he can’t bring himself to care, because he’s trying to keep his head above water, desperately fighting against the weight of soaking clothes as another wave crashes down on his head - but it’s so hard to keep himself afloat, and he’s trying so hard -

“Or did she finally get rid of you?” The words are laced with malice, taunting becoming more blatant - clumsy, even - and yet just as painful. “Poor little Penis Parker, so pathetic no one wants to bother sticking around to deal with you.” The boys around Flash are snickering, obviously amused, but Peter just freezes, because he feels so very alone all of a sudden - his parents, Ben, May, everyone, everyone gone - and his veins go ice cold.

And then he’s being dragged down beneath the surface, voices distant and muffled around him as water fills his ears and clouds his vision. He clenches his eyes shut - though he’s sure, in reality, he’s staring blankly - and, when they open again, he’s floating in a featureless void of water; his breathing is harsh and stilted, forcibly slow and steady in a pleading fashion.

Everywhere he looks is blue blue blue , and then, suddenly, he’s looking down at his hands and they’re stained red . A viscous pool of blood is spreading out beneath a body, soaking into his clothes and dying his skin with guilt and regret and a thousand other things; cold nights and warmth, stern advice and kind eyes. But he’s still floating, so all he can see is the red spreading across his shirt, his jeans, his arms, until he’s coated with it and he hitches in a shuddery breath.

The thought, the word, that comes to mind, is just that; floating. But, in reality, he’s drowning . The water is filling his lungs and burning as he tries to breathe and fails, oh so miserably. Because now it’s lungs heaving for another reason, and police cars sitting alongside twisted metal, contorted into angry shapes and splattered with the blood of so many people, but all Peter can think is how his world is burning and crumbling and drowning and disintegrating around him, because her blood is there, too.

And then there’s not even blood to mark the shift, and he’s truly alone. He’s lost in a world of bureaucracies that really couldn’t care less for his well being, who only cared about him when he was unborn, who shove him into the nearest empty house and proclaim it a home. And then the walls are stained red, but this time there’s gold too, shining and shimmering and reflecting off glass shards embedded into stone and wood and flesh; the gold is running into the cracks and the smell is so bitter and all it triggers is something in him saying to run .

But, again, that’s all somewhere else; in another place. In another time . Because right now he’s drowning and he can smell blood and liquor, see red, and feel burning pain; there’s no hope of escape, either, since he can’t tell which way is up because everything is shrouded in shadow and all he can think is I’m alone and they’re all dead and it’s my fault .

And then the thought is echoing above all else, rattling around and growing louder each time until it’s screaming in his ears and all he can hear is a mounting thrum of My Fault My Fault My Fault My Fault my fault my fault my fault my fault myfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfault-

A hand places itself on his shoulder, and it’s so warm and comforting, declaring safety, and there’s a voice alongside it, coming from someone else, that he feels his mind empty as a stream of light breaks through the blue with bright white brilliance. So he shudders out a breath, feeling the burning pain as he does, and blinks; and, suddenly, the hand on his arm is Ned’s, and MJ’s words are streaming into his thoughts like delayed, fractured audio.

“Hey, loser,” she says, and there’s a hint of fondness in there somewhere, along with concern - well hidden, sure, but Peter’s been living with Natasha for the last month, and he’s gotten better at reading people, “We still coming over to meet everyone and catch you up on the work?”

His mind stutters for a second, flickering memories dancing away before a coherent response can form. “I- yeah,” he manages, a small smile dragging at the corner of his lip at the thought of Ned’s inevitable fanboying over the Avengers (and MJ’s undoubtedly long list of questions for Pepper and Natasha, as such influential women), and he chuckles weakly. Then his thoughts move to Tony, and the upgrades they’re planning on starting on, and he blinks twice, shooting MJ a grateful look as he comes back to reality.

She just nods, before continuing to walk onward, and Peter’s smile is slightly more genuine at that. He shakes his head in amusement, and only just glances over his shoulder to see Flash being mocked by his ‘friends’ for being ignored by the people he was trying to make fun of; a lance of pity shoots through his chest, and he considers offering an olive branch to the other boy (not that he hasn’t done so before, many times). But, after so many months of battling supervillains and struggling to survive, highschool bullies pale in comparison.

Plus, it’s not like he can’t recognise someone else trying to stay above the water - even if they’ve chosen different ways to do so. Peter had grasped onto his usefulness as Spider-Man, wearing himself down with reckless abandon in hopes of fighting against the tides; if he didn’t have his alter ego, would he have tried to polish himself, instead? Would he have struggled, reaching for unattainable perfection - only to see another reach the goals he’d worked so hard for with minimal effort, and become bitter in the face of it?

Maybe not, but he can’t deny the inherent truth of it; drowning is terrifying, and sometimes he thinks he’d do anything to avoid it. So he turns away, falling into step beside his friends, grounding himself in their presences and basking in their light - the bright streaks that can guide him from the depths and keep him from drastic measures to escape the feeling of water rushing his lungs.

The rest of the day is a bit rougher around the edges, the lingering tension from the encounter with Flash never quite dissipating - but he refuses to let it ruin his first day back, so it’s not too bad, in the end. As frustrating and difficult it is to readjust to normal life, there’s an almost palpable relief; the past year had felt like a living nightmare, and the question of what, exactly, he would do once he turned 18 was always lingering.

It wasn’t like he was about to gain untold riches as soon as he became an adult - he knew there was no real money waiting for him, maybe a small amount his parents had managed to save and Ben and May had refused to use, but nothing substantial. He’d clung onto the milestone for some semblance of hope, and yet it had nothing much to offer. So now, with a chance at the path he’s always wanted to take, leading to college and a life beyond, there was an invisible, unspoken tension gone from his shoulders.

The bell rings and Peter practically jumps out of his seat, grinning at Ned - who seems impossibly excited - across the class as they both head to the main doors to meet up with MJ, who offers a small smile he quickly returns. He surveys the parking lot, and sighs with a shake of his head when he spots a less-than-inconspicuous forest green car, with one very conspicuous Hawkeye leaning against the door and blasting AC/DC (a habit probably formed from spending too much time with Tony).

Clint grins, waving them over, and Ned’s eyes widen dramatically. “Oh my god, dude,” he hisses at Peter, who chuckles at his friend’s reaction, “that’s Hawkeye . Hawkeye came to pick you up from school!”

“Yeah, man,” Peter says, glancing over at MJ - who, to her credit, doesn’t seem all that bothered about the literal superhero in front of her. He inspects the car, and raises an eyebrow, “Clint?”

“Mh-hm?” The man in question hums, turning down the music to hear properly.

“Did you… ‘borrow’ one of Tony’s cars again?” The AC/DC suddenly makes a lot more sense - very possibly a sort of pseudo-‘punishment’ for taking a vehicle without permission (though, there’s no way FRIDAY would allow it if it was truly banned, so Tony’s soft spot is showing).

Clint clears his throat. “What? No ,” he draws out the word, averting his gaze, “anyway! This everyone? Awesome. Let’s get home, little dude.”

Peter laughs, tossing his bag into the floor of the passenger seat. “Yeah, sure. He’ll rip you a new one later anyway.”

“Nice to meet you guys!” Clint says, very obviously changing the topic - though the upwards tug of his lips suggests he’s not actually worried, more of a playful anxiety. “I’m Clint.”

“ Woah ,” Ned breathes, the definition of starstruck.

“You shot Peter.” MJ states, monotone, crossing her arms. She waits a few seconds, then tilts her head to add, “With an arrow.”

“Uh-” Clint’s eyes widen, guilt flashing across them.

“Hey, hey!” Peter interjects, raising his hands in a placating motion - he’s really regretting being that honest with her; though, to be fair, MJ can be scary as hell when she tries, so he’d found it hard to say no. “It’s all cool, it was ages ago and we worked it out.”

“Hm.” She says, contemplative, turning her eyes to Peter, then back to Clint. Narrowing her eyes, she gives a sharp smile. “Hurt him again, and I’ll end you.” She holds his gaze for a few moments then, seemingly satisfied with whatever she sees in his eyes, slinks off to the car, settling into her seat.

They stand in silence, until Peter starts to chuckle. “Hey, man!” Clint protests. “Not funny, she’s terrifying. Like a mini Nat.” He shudders at the thought, earning another huff of laughter from Peter.

“Yeah, dude,” he says, shrugging as he opens the car door, “how d’you think I’m so good with Natasha?” He flashes a grin, then slides into the car, leaving Clint spluttering.

When Clint gets in, he turns to Peter. “By the way,” he says, hesitant, quiet, “you know I wouldn’t ever hurt you, right?”

Peter’s smile softens at the genuine concern in the archer’s eyes; he knows that if he said he felt threatened in any way, Clint would instantly change his behavior. And yet, he feels no need for that - he feels… safe. It’s something that had become foreign after May died, and it sparks a new warmth in his chest. “Yeah,” he says, voice sincere and gentle, “I know.”

Clint smiles and nods at the reassurance, then reaches over and claps a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Good.”

The car ride is fun, with Ned alternating between fanboy rambling and embarrassed, awed silences, and MJ cutting in with the occasional joke. Clint talks happily with the three of them, the music on not too loud in the background, and the drive back to the Tower passes by in a blur of friendly chatter and traffic lights. They end up stopping for some ice cream - which gets a semi-relaxed Ned in full freak-out mode again - but the detour doesn’t take long, and soon they’ve arrived back at the Tower and parked the car.

They head up in the private Avengers elevator, where Ned predictably freaks out over FRIDAY (“Holy shit! Who the hell-” “Welcome, Ned and Michelle. It is lovely to meet you.” “Oh, you’re cool. Call me MJ.”) and then Steve. MJ remains calm, as usual, though she does gain an extra spark in her eyes when she sees Natasha, and ends up having her sign a few of her books - as well as giving Steve a glare that conveys the same threat she told Clint.

Ned, once more, freaks out over Peter’s room, and Peter wonders whether he’ll overheat. In the end, though, neither of his friends treat him any differently for the change in his lifestyle (minus some enthusiastic questions, which Peter can’t really find it in himself to mind), which warms him in a rather comforting manner. It’ll take a while before they all adjust to how each other have changed over the past year or so, but there’s an assurance in the back of his mind that it’s just a matter of when, not if, they do.

Once the homework - and a portion of catch-up work for Peter - is done, they spend a while playing games before lapsing into a comfortable silence, interspersed with some chatter as the Star Wars movies play quietly in the background. A few of Ned’s questions teeter into a loaded territory when he asks about Spider-Man and his web fluid, leading to a rather tense conversation about Peter sneaking into the school - and being right there so many times; but there’s an undercurrent of understanding and patience, and he silently thanks his friends for being so damn wonderful and not pushing him.

He thinks he’ll probably tell them, one day; when he’s healed a bit more and the last year is more of a collection of scars to add to the tapestry than open wounds and festering skin. And they’ll fight, and cry, and regret so many of their choices - and then they’ll forgive and move forward. They won’t forget, not ever, but it’ll be a foundation, rather than a chasm between them. He thinks he’ll take them to the cemetery - like he did that first time after Ben died, or the few times on his parents’ anniversary - and they’ll sit around the broken shards of Peter’s family, talking about the new one they’re building together.

And maybe the wounds won’t ever heal, not completely, but he thinks he can deal with that, if it means he can carry his family with him wherever he goes, and whoever he’s with. For now, though, he lets his friends embrace him as they remember Ben and May, and days spent curled on the sofa with hot chocolate sitting on the coffee table and the scent of slightly burned popcorn wafting in from the kitchen. For now, they cry and lick their wounds as they bask in the memories of days long past - and, finally, amongst the warmth and comfort of his friends, the perpetually buzzing instincts and anxiety he developed since the spider bite are blissfully quiet.

His spidey sense returns once his friends are gone (one of the rules is that he has to finish his homework before he can don his alter ego) and he’s pulling on the Spider-Man suit for his first patrol since school started back up; it’s not the same, though. No longer a constant itching sense of insecurity and unease, it feels more like what it was supposed to be - a safety net, paranoia downgraded to weaponized anxiety.

It’s a different feeling, swinging through the skies after a long day at school - and it makes him laugh, because he never thought it could be more exhilarating than it already was, and yet, somehow, it is. Something about being a normal person throughout the day, about dealing with the slow-paced school day, makes it all the more worth it when he finally feels free , swinging high above the streets. He enjoys each arc into the air, revels in the feeling of momentary weightlessness, knowing it can’t last forever.

Yeah, Peter thinks, stretching out against the stone and staring up at the sky, today was a good day. The cars on the street below rev their motors and people chatter on their phones far below, functionally oblivious to the thousands of other lives humming in jagged unison around them; a single person can change the trajectory of another’s life without knowing, and it happens every other moment. A single second spent apologizing for knocking into someone is a second too late to meet the love of their life. It’s a second making them late for the bus that would’ve crashed. It’s everything and nothing, all at once.

Sometimes, people think they can pinpoint where the change began, and dub it a butterfly effect; but, the truth is, the butterfly doesn’t exist. Peter knows he probably wouldn’t have become Spider-Man if Ben hadn’t died - because then he wouldn’t have gone into the foster system when May died, and he wouldn’t have been in OsCorp in order to be bitten, and then… yeah. But, in reality, it’s a thousand other things that led him where he is now - it’s his parents’ deaths, it’s the hormones and late night walks and cracked pavements and so many dozens of innocuous things he can’t control.

And, as much as he wants to believe that all the adjustments he inflicts on people - all the lives he changes, seemingly for the better, or saves - are the best thing to do, well. He can’t know. But that doesn’t matter, in the end, because spending hours agonizing over the ‘right’ thing to do is pointless when he can’t control the outcome, in the end. He can’t know that saving a man being robbed at gunpoint will lead to a plane crash across the country - but he can know that someone’s life was changed, that misguided deeds weren’t rewarded.

Not too long into his patrol, while the sun is still creeping down the sky and not quite at the horizon yet, he saves a woman from being hit by a car. And, as he stands on the cooling concrete, she says something that echoes in his mind as he swings away; it was nothing new, not really - people call him a hero all the time - but something about it sticks with him. Maybe it’s the stress of returning to school, or maybe it’s that there was a bus in the collision course too, and all he can see is blood splattered across concrete. And all he can feel is a wheezing pain in his chest. And all he can hear is a phone call cutting off as metal screams against metal. Maybe it’s that he doesn’t feel like a hero, if he can’t even save those closest to him.

Once upon a time, had someone called Peter a hero, he might have believed it; when he first started out as Spider-Man, when his heart still had space for hope and tales of selfless acts of heroism, he might have listened. But now, as the woman’s words replay in his mind, over and over, he isn’t so sure. Because, well, what even is a hero? What gives him the right to claim that title as his own - popular opinion? What about all those who call him a ‘vigilante with no respect for the law’, or a ‘nuisance’ or ‘masked menace’ - do their words not matter too?

If, when he closes his eyes, all he can see are the faces of those he failed - then how can he be a hero? Has he ever been more than a delusional kid, swinging around in flimsy spandex with watercolor dreams? He can see the fantasies now; painted in hopeful colors with fragile strokes and spreading out around him like a spider web. But now the storm is approaching, and they’re washing away, stripping him of his fantasies and forcing him into reality.

Because the world has no place for his reverie - the world is built upon strong, steady strokes of gray and black, in paints that can withstand the floods. And now, it seems, the tide is coming in to wash it all away. No more heroes, or righteous battles; no more happy endings, or stories wrapped up in a neat bow. And yet…

And yet, Peter can’t quite bring himself to believe that all heroes are born of fantasies and delusion, because - though he might not be one himself - he’s seen living examples of them. And no hero could be painted from gray and black alone, so maybe the world isn’t as monochrome as he thought. Maybe heroes are more than pipe dreams; and, if they exist, then maybe he could be one.

He’s not sure when he got to the Tower, or when he sat on the edge of the helipad and took off his mask - but the stone under him is warm and the heat in his gut from swinging across the city has cooled off a while ago. He hears the elevator begin to whir distantly, and focuses in on the sound, adjusting the dial of his hearing aids so he can make out the heartbeat approaching; he smiles, then dampens the sound again. A moment later he can make out Tony’s footsteps as he walks across the stone.

“Hey kid,” he greets, and Peter can practically hear the way Tony saunters over before sitting down beside him.

“Hey Tony,” Peter replies, softly, and leans into the warmth of the engineer’s body.

“How was patrol?” Tony asks as he reciprocates Peter’s actions, shifting closer.

“Good, good,” and he’s being honest, but there’s an odd understone there - one that Tony seems to pick up on, if the slight frown and sideways glance is any indication. Peter sighs, and fidgets with the mask’s material in his hands. “I’m not- Y’know when- How-” he cuts himself off, taking a deep, frustrated breath to collect his thoughts. “A lot of people call Spider-Man a hero, right? I hear it all the time, when I’m swinging around, and there’s plenty of subreddits and stuff, but,” he stretches out an arm in front of him, spreading his fingers as if to caress the skyline.

“I just, I dunno.” He shrugs, arm dropping back to his lap, and averts his gaze to the street below.  “I don’t feel like one, a lot of the time. And I know you said we can’t save everyone and that’s something I’m coming to terms with and it’s not that, exactly, it’s just. I-” he trails off, and shrugs again. “And I just wanted to ask you ‘cause, like, you’re my hero,” Tony startles somewhat at that, and Peter looks up at him, “You know that, right?” The earnest tone seems to catch the older man off guard and, after a moment, he shakes his head slowly. “Well, you are.” He says, decisively, like there’s no argument to be had - because there isn’t.

“And it’s not just ‘cause you’re Iron Man, either. I used to love Tony Stark, as a kid-” he pauses, a smirk playing on his lips, “well, I guess you’d say I still am a kid. But, I mean, when I was younger. I thought you were really cool, and when you became a superhero it was even better. I was there, you know? At the Stark Expo with all the drones? I had this stupid plastic Iron Man mask and this big robot guy marched right up to me and I, like the stupid kid I was, stayed still and aimed my arm at it.” He blushes somewhat, ducking his head again. “And then you come along, all cool in your real metal armor and say-”

“‘Nice work, kid,’” Tony finishes for him, causing Peter to look up in surprise for an instant before looking away again.

“You remember that, huh?” He asks, sheepishly, and scratches the back of his neck in a nervous gesture.

Tony chuckles. “Sure do, kiddo. Damn, that was you?” Peter nods. “Look at you, being a hero even as a practical fetus.”

Peter laughs somewhat, but then furrows his brow, remembering the point of the conversation. “Right, well, yeah. So then there was Tony Stark, the genius, billionaire, playboy-” Tony groans at that, and Peter regains somewhat of a smirk, “-philanthropist. And he’s a superhero?” He pauses, then laughs again, but tinged with sadness this time. “You were amazing. Everything I wanted to be.” The reverence in his voice seems to give Tony pause, and his expression softens. “Even when Cap came back, and the Avengers formed, it was always you.”

“And then Ben died,” and, with those words, anything lighthearted is gone from Peter’s tone, “and May, and suddenly I was in the foster system and life seemed like a perpetual nightmare. I was all alone, and the world had never seemed so bleak.” He chuckles, dark and humorless. “There was a part of me that held onto some farfetched fantasy, one where the Avengers - but mainly you - would come and save me. You’d blast through the door and give some great, stupid, infuriatingly smart speech and I’d be safe.”

“It was- it was stupid, I know.” Tony looks like he’s about to protest, and Peter shoots him a look. “Don’t lie to me, it was never going to happen. It’s not what you guys do.” He sighed, deep and heavy. “And I never believed it, not really. It was just for when I was lying on the floor and there was glass in my hair and blood on my hands and I’d clench my eyes shut and think-” he cuts himself off with a shuddery breath, and Tony places a hand on his shoulder, the weight comforting and grounding. Peter shoots him a grateful look, then turns away again.

“The point is, I kinda, well, I kinda hated you after that. Not really, not in reality, I mean, I knew it wasn’t your fault, but I needed someone to blame and, well, you were a lot more tangible than some vague system or administration, I guess.” He shrugs, again. “But you were always my hero, even when I was telling myself I hated you. It’s, uh, it’s one of the reasons I became Spider-Man, really.” Tony gives him an inquisitive look, squeezing his shoulder in reassurance. “To look out for the little guy, y’know? It was kinda ‘cause of Ben and May, of course, ‘cause maybe, if there’d been a hero for the little guy back then, maybe they would still be-”

He sucks in a sharp breath, letting it go slowly. “But they’re not, and they’re gone. Still, with that, and the whole ‘being saved’ fantasy, well. I wanted to be that guy, y’know? I wanted to be able to stop that sort of thing, and make things better. But sometimes,” he pauses, grimacing for a moment and, when he continues, it’s quieter, more subdued, “sometimes, I wonder whether I’m really helping at all. Because I’m not a hero, Tony. I’m not like you, or Steve, or-” he cuts himself off. “I’m just… not.”

The silence sits, for a minute, and Peter lets his eyes skim over the cityscape as the sun drops lower in the sky. Then, Tony’s hand has moved to his hair, and he’s playing with the curls as Peter leans into the touch. “I don’t feel like much of a hero most days, either, kid,” he says, after a minute, “I mean, you know all about my history. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and a lot of people died because of them. So, yeah, sometimes people call me a hero and I can’t help but think they’re wrong.” He pauses, and Peter doesn’t interrupt, because he can tell that’s not all. “But knowing you, and kids like you, think I am? It means the world.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I didn’t save you.” Tony says, stopping Peter with a gesture when he goes to protest. “I know, I know. Not my fault, couldn’t have known, all that,” he waves it off. “But you deserved that much, Underoos. You got a shitty lot in life, and I wish I met you earlier so I could’ve made it easier. And, Spider-Man? He’s you. He’s a hero, and so many people would agree with me- do agree with me. You’ve saved so many lives, there are hundreds - if not thousands - of people who wouldn’t be alive today, if it weren’t for you.”

“And, well, the thing is, kid,” he says, “Spider-Man? Well, he might be a lot of people’s heroes, but he’s not mine.” Despite himself, Peter deflates - because, somewhere, deep down inside, he was hoping he was. But then Tony smiles, and pulls him closer. “You know who is my hero?” Peter shakes his head. “Peter Parker. The kid who just won’t stay down, no matter what the world throws at him.”

It’s stupid, and it’s cliche, and it’s ten types of cheesy and idiotic and Peter should probably make some snarky comment or laugh it off and yet- And yet, he just smiles, and chuckles, slightly watery, leaning into Tony’s side and dropping his head onto the engineer’s broad shoulder.

Every time he’d lose someone close to him, he’d think: this is it. This is when the world stops turning. It’s over. And, every time, the world would continue on - nary a stumble to indicate they’d ever even been there; the planet spun around the sun again, the moon orbited without fail, and Peter stood in the ashes of what had once been his life as it crumbled around him.

He marvels, sometimes, at how familiar people are with death - how they have to be, lest the system not function as it should. Someone dies, paperwork is filed, new employees are found, homes and belongings are repurposed and redistributed, the body is buried - or burned, or otherwise disposed of - and people grieve; rinse and repeat. A finely oiled machine that neatly bundles away the nasty emotional aspect, relegating it to the sidelines and pretending the world isn’t on fire.

Because it’s not, he supposes. Because the world can’t stop every time someone dies, or in the face of one person’s life collapsing. Even if everyone dies, even if the entire human race drops dead in an instant, the planet will keep turning. Or maybe the world is burning, after all; maybe everything is blazing red hot and no one can see it because there’s nothing not burning to compare it to. After all, if you’re born into a world on fire, and have never known it to be any different, how can you tell if anything is truly wrong?

He’s mixing his metaphors - he knows that - but life, he finds, is too complex to be confined to meager words, let alone a singular line of thought. He wishes, sometimes, that he could share his memories and emotions and experiences , rather than communicate through words; he thinks, maybe, the flames would recede somewhat, if it were possible. But it’s not, and it can’t be. There are so many things, he thinks, that are beyond words; suffocating, for one - whether it be drowning or choking on dust and debris - is impossible for him to explain coherently.

The sensation of rubble pressing down on his chest, compressing his airways and crushing his lungs even as they filled with particles of rock and dirt, is one such thought. His lungs burning like fire with exertion as he desperately tried to hold his breath - then water filling those same lungs, choking him and dousing the fire in a way so unlike relief it was almost laughable, the pressure dragging him deep into the murky waters as weeds entangled with flailing limbs until all hope had drained from him - is another.

Some days, those memories sit like boulders, chained to his ankles and trapping him amongst the muck as he sinks further and further. Other times, he can bury them deep within himself and pretend the threat of drowning isn't casting looming shadows upon the world around him, tinting each and every joyous moment with bitter anticipation for the fall to come. These days, though, he thinks it’s neither; they seem tangible, sure, but also distant and unthreatening in their disconnect, like he could blink and they might appear before him, closer than ever.

Perching on the rooftop, with the gentle winter sun low as tendrils of its dying light strokes across the cityscape, he closes his eyes against the soft warmth it exudes, and smiles. There’s a warmth at his side, as well, steady and comforting and smelling of aftershave and grease; the tinge of sweat and the slightest bit of metallic blood; popcorn and pizza; coffee beans and motor oil. The city around him hums with life in an easy symphony that spoke of the people all around, reminding him of those he seeks to protect; those he’s lost, and those he’s gained.

And now, as he inhales the cold evening breeze, Peter comes to a realization that he’s missed the feeling; because he’s been drowning for so many months, maybe years, that he’d forgotten what it was like to feel air filling his lungs. 

So he closes his eyes against the gentle light of the newly emerging stars, stark against a darkening sky, and watches those same constellations from the murky black above dance across his eyelids, painting stories in the dark. He basks in the warmth exuding from the comforting presence beside him, juxtaposing the wind that chills him down to his bones, sending oddly calming shivers down his spine.

He listens to the world turn around him in its particular brand of discordant harmony, the sounds washing over him with intense familiarity as he blends with his surroundings until his edges are blurred with those of the streetlights and alleyways and every heartbeat whose vibrations echo through the concrete and glass under his hands.

The rhythm rises and falls under his skin, hearts pumping at different rates across the city, only to synchronize in unison with a dozen others for a single moment - then falling back into their own unique patterns. He allows the chaos to thrum through his veins like his own blood, dancing in chaotic beauty against a star-speckled background.

And, for the first time in far too long, he breathes.