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The ceiling of Mr. Stark's lab had to be one of Peter’s favorite places to be. Sure, the holographic displays and crazy gadgets were impressive, but the ceiling? It was like his own personal section of a place that was otherwise considered Mr. Stark’s domain.
As Peter scuttled up the wall, a cup of ice water in hand, Mr. Stark’s voice drifted across the room with a deep sigh. "You're gonna spill it, underoos. Calling it now."
"I won’t spill it," Peter protested, settling cross-legged on the ceiling, the glass barely held in his grasp. "Spidey reflexes, remember?"
Mr. Stark raised an eyebrow, not convinced. “Right. Spidey reflexes,” he muttered. "More like Spidey recklessness."
Peter carefully adjusted his grip, trying to find the perfect angle to sip. The cup teetered, and when he finally tilted it towards his mouth, a mishap occurred. Ice cascaded down, followed by water spilling over the rim and dousing Peter’s face, seeping into his hair and splashing onto the gleaming tiles below.
“Shoot!” he yelped, flipping mid-air to right himself. As he landed, the cup slipped from his fingers and rolled into a puddle. He swiped his wet bangs off of his forehead and grinned sheepishly. “Man, that was cold.”
“Uh huh.” Mr. Stark swiveled in his chair, arms crossed, his eyes narrowing slightly. "And there it is. Remember when I said this exact thing would happen?"
“Sorry.” Peter winced. “It’s not that bad, though. It’s just water! I can clean it up.”
Mr. Stark didn't appear all that reassured. “I think I just lost my will to live a little. My lab is being ruined by an undisciplined child with a gravity-defying drinking problem.”
Peter laughed, already crossing the room towards the cabinet that held a plethora of clean towels. “It was one time! Don’t be so dramatic!”
Except it wasn’t just one time. A few days later Peter sat on the kitchen ceiling, with a chilled can of soda in hand. He popped the tab, careful to keep the can upright. Mr. Stark strolled into the room and groaned, rubbing his forehead.
“You’re gonna drop that,” he warned the edge of skepticism in his voice.
Peter grinned and lifted the can to his mouth. After a few successful swallows, he smiled. No spills. No problems. It was fine. “Didn’t drop it.”
Mr. Stark hummed skeptically. Peter took another drink. Then he reached out to set the can down beside him, but his brain didn’t register the fact that he was several feet up. The moment he let go, gravity did its thing. The can hit the counter with a loud clang, ricocheted off the edge, and tumbled onto the floor. Soda sprayed everywhere, splattering across the kitchen tiles, coating the walls, and pooling in sticky rivulets.
“Oops” Peter grinned sheepishly.
Mr. Stark sighed dramatically, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. “Called it again.”
He glanced at Mr. Stark, feeling a bit helpless. “Sorry. I’ll clean it up.” He dropped down, and grabbed a napkin, trying in vain to dab up some of the soda. It was no use. The bubbly liquid was spreading too fast, and the sugar was making everything sticky.
“Yeah, kiddo, I think you might need more than a napkin for this,” Mr. Stark said, gesturing to the sprawling soda puddle.
Peter nodded and, with a sense of resignation, headed to the cleaning closet. He grabbed towels and cleaning spray and returned to the mess, scrubbing away at the sticky liquid.
Mr. Stark crossed his arms, watching Peter’s efforts with an exasperated look. "You're lucky the tiles are easy to clean. If this were my carpet, I'd replace your web fluid with silly string."
Peter grinned at the exaggerated threat. "No way. You wouldn’t do that."
“You’re right. I wouldn’t." Mr. Stark smirked. "I’d sell all your gadgets to the local college.”
Peter rolled his eyes and finished wiping down the tiles. Once he had it all put away, Mr. Stark ruffled his hair.
“Good job, kid. Now, what have we learned?”
Peter sighed. “Don’t drink soda upside down?”
“And?” Mr. Stark asked, eyebrow raised.
Peter groaned. “I’ll stick to the floor from now on.”
“Good call,” Mr. Stark said with a smirk, tapping Peter’s shoulder as he walked past him. “Your gadgets might just live to see the next project, after all.”
A few days later, Peter wandered into the penthouse, thirsty after a long patrol. He opened the fridge, grabbed a half-gallon of bright red fruit punch, and poured it into a cup. His mouth watered, encouraging him to take a few large gulps. He sighed contentedly and poured a refill before heading toward the wall.
The moment he took a seat on the ceiling, Mr. Stark’s voice echoed across the room. “Peter, I’m not kidding. One more spill and you’re officially banned from drinking anything. Ever.”
Peter scoffed, the cup halfway to his mouth. "It’s fine, Mr. Stark."
The distraction was all it took. The cup tipped just a little too far. Fruit punch splashed across his face, splashing up his nose. He tried to correct it, but it was too late. The liquid gushed onto the carpet, creating a glaring red stain that Mr. Stark would never let him forget.
“Really?” Mr. Stark snapped, spinning around to face him. His gaze was sharp but there was a small sparkle of amusement in his eyes. Peter tried to latch onto that. “That’s it. We’re done with this. No more cups for you.”
Peter opened his mouth to apologize, but the words didn’t come. He just watched helplessly as the fruit punch soaked into the carpet. “I didn’t mean to–”
“Yeah, yeah. No excuses,” Mr. Stark interrupted, shaking his head. "Whatever you say, Spidey. But I’m fixing this once and for all."
Peter blinked, anxiety swirling in his gut. “Fixing what?”
“You’ll see,” Mr. Stark grinned. He pointed to the cleaning supply closet. “I’m positive I’ll need a professional to clean up this– crime scene. But– let’s see how you handle it first. Grab the carpet steamer and see how it goes. Meanwhile, I’ll be in the lab sorting a few things out.”
Peter sighed and got to work. However, an hour, half a bottle of soap, and three passes with the carpet cleaner later, all he’d managed was to turn the red stain into a pale pink. He was about to start again when Mr. Stark walked in carrying a small box.
“Here.” Mr. Stark thrust the box into Peter’s hands.
Peter furrowed his brows. “What is this?”
“The answer to all your problems– which then become my problems,” Mr. Stark said, unfazed.
Peter opened the box and stared at the contents. “A sippy cup?”
“No.” Mr. Stark shook his head. “It’s a cup with a spout.” He twirled it in his fingers with exaggerated flair. “It’s spill-proof. No more messes.”
Peter stared at it. “Yeah. That’s a sippy cup.”
Clearly offended, Mr. Stark scoffed. “This is not a sippy cup, kid. Sippy cups are plastic monstrosities with cartoon characters. This is an advanced, spill-resistant hydration device, built for extreme circumstances. It has a spout and—” He grinned, flipping it over. “—a suction bottom so you can’t knock it over.”
“A suction bottom?” Peter eyed it skeptically. “It’s still a sippy cup, Mr. Stark.”
“It’s not a sippy cup,” Mr. Stark insisted. “Sippy cups don’t have Stark Tech. This is the future of extreme drinking.”
Peter stared at him blankly. “The future of extreme drinking. Really? That’s what you’re calling it?”
“Of course,” Mr. Stark flourished a hand. “No matter where you are or what you’re doing, you’ll never spill again. No ruined carpets, no wet hair, just you, your cup, and your delightful non-spillage moments.”
Peter looked at the cup, unimpressed. As far as he was concerned, it was still a sippy cup. “Right. Sure, Mr. Stark.”
The next day, Peter sat on the lab ceiling sipping lemonade from the absurdly practical cup. The spout was strange, but, annoyingly, it worked. No spills. No messes. Mr. Stark’s smug grin reflected his satisfaction.
“It works great, huh?” Mr. Stark asked, barely containing his glee.
“Yeah,” Peter grumbled, crossing his arms. “It’s fine.”
“I knew you’d come around,” Mr. Stark grinned. He pulled out a draw and gestured inside. “I’ve got more in different colors, too. Just in case you get bored of blue.”
Peter scoffed. “Really? You’ve got more? That’s–”
“Practical,” Mr. Stark cut in with a wide grin. “I’m all about practicality.”
“Yeah, sure. Practical,” Peter muttered. He sighed defeatedly and sipped his lemonade, finally accepting his fate– and the new cup.