Chapter Text
Perhaps Peter could be a bit rash, but he was a strong believer of the idea that irrational action results in irrational reaction or whatever Newton said. Therefore he feels extremely justified in his exclamation of-
“Go fuck yourself Stark!”
Of course, Peter was raised in a traditionally Italian home, and his hostility was not unprovoked because he wasn’t completely uncivil. (He couldn’t imagine the sort of lecture he would receive had May heard his foul mouth.)
Tony Stark, billionaire playboy philanthropist, seemingly decided that he needed a fourth descriptor: mentor.
Peter Parker wasn’t perfect. In fact, he was far from it. He was imperfect enough for his parents to decide to go on a little vacation. (Without him of course, because who wants to bring a whiny little kid to a trip? Not like he was their flesh and blood or anything.) He was imperfect enough that they never came back. (Apparently he wasn’t the only imperfection, New York was too imperfect a home and so they moved somewhere west. Oklahoma or whatever. Is that west?) He was imperfect enough that his asthma and near blindness were a constant topic during the teasing (ridicule) his classmates liked to barrage him with.
Those weren’t his only physical shortcomings unfortunately. Post-puberty left him about 130 pounds sopping wet, 5’5 on a good day, and scrawny enough to be tackled by a 10-year-old and stay down.
Then the incident occurred, and suddenly he was spared imperfections. Perfect sight, lean muscle, and the ability to run for hours without a single wheeze. He also had some weird openings on his wrist and the sudden ability to stick to walls like a plunger, but he chose to ignore those details. Regardless, he was pushed just that much towards something better, something he couldn’t name. About a week after the incident, once the violent fever and acid-trip hallucinations wore off, he said as much to Ben, whose response was something both humbling and grounding.
(“Perfection is impossible, kid. I love you the way you are; if you were perfect, you wouldn’t be Peter. Perfection is imperfect and you’re an imperfect perfection to me.” Peter scrunched his nose and huffed. Perfect imperfection makes no sense! Why can’t he be flawless? Ben glanced over to the passenger seat and turned on his blinker. Smirking, he ruffled Peter’s overgrown hair and said something Peter tuned out.)
He was still short and awkward and gangly, but he was getting there. And then Ben was shot.
For a period of which Peter can’t remember, it could’ve been a month or a decade for all he knew, he was in some sort of haze. Everywhere he looked, he was surrounded by his faults and flaws. Too selfish to stop the robber, too slow to stop the bleeding, too stupid to say goodbye. Not even May could pull him out of his stupor, and soon she was deemed unfit for custody. There wasn’t enough income and she was a woman nearing middle age with nothing more than a high school diploma. Peter doesn’t remember much of this either. He can’t remember if he blocked it out or simply wasn’t conscious enough to comprehend until he was standing at the front steps of some house at the edge of Brooklyn with a trash bag of his life’s belongings. That was enough to snap him out of his funk.
May tried, of course, but Peter didn’t make it any easier. He was volatile. He was either completely nonverbal or snapping at every sibling at his group foster home. The court used that against her, claiming that his aggression was a result of inadequate care. Peter doesn’t know what happened after that. He was too imperfect to pay attention.
He was switched homes often from the years between age thirteen and fifteen, and he was unlucky enough to be placed in some of the notoriously bad ones. He learned to keep silent, fighting caused unnecessary fallout. His siblings, roommates, whatever enjoyed to steer clear of him, never interacting with him. He was given a rep as the quiet kid, the one who won’t do anything out of the ordinary but won’t snitch if you do. He enjoyed the reputation, it kept things peaceful. That was until it didn’t, when one kid at the Ramirez home got the idea that silence was subordination. He was no longer ignored, but the contact went unappreciated.
Peter doesn’t think about the Ramirezes.
He started sneaking out when he felt too close to the other kids at night and phantom hands seemed to try to reach for his collar and arm and-
He wandered the streets, always heading for Queens no matter how far his place was from it. He liked to see the sights, observe the behaviors of other night-dwellers on the streets, and look past the windows and the half-closed curtains that lay behind them to peer at the families behind them. It was a reminder that he wasn’t the only person alive and everyone has their own problems. It made him feel small, less constricted. The smaller you are, the harder you are to grasp. His size was imperfect. Too small to be an adult and too big to not be.
Occasionally, Peter would bear witness to petty crime, a mugging here and a carjacking there. It was hard to ignore the itch to help, not when Ben was killed for his indifference. He would use his abilities to help others out of tough situations, though he was careful with his use of them. Too much strength and he would break bones. Too frantic a shove and he would find himself stuck to an alley wall. When he would hear the distressed wail of a woman cornered in an alley by men whistling at a sliver of skin, eyeing the flesh like starving dogs, he would forget to pull his punches
It snowballed from there. Soon he was Spider-Man, a teenager in a glorified onesie. He didn’t care for appearances or titles. He was just there to help out the little guy.
It was also a welcome distraction from his home life. He was an aid, someone to count on. It made him more than the victim of unfortunate circumstances and he could almost ignore the sting of unimportance that slapped him in the face every time he took off the mask and slid into the room shared with perhaps too many other kids.
No matter how much Peter feigned disinterest in pretty much everything around him, there was still the remnants of a boy who loved science and loved his heroes more than anything. If pre-incident-Peter could see him now, he would be speechless at post-incident-Peter’s idiocy while meeting the Tony Stark on the clock.
Peter heard the whirring of motors before he saw it, and lord was he thankful for the mask because without it, he was sure his jaw would be in the alleyway eleven stories down from the rooftop he was on as Iron Man landed smoothly in front of him.
Now, Peter Parker was a silent person. He could be mistaken for mute if he didn’t respond to questions in the classroom or inquiries of his social workers. Spider-Man on the other hand compensated for Peter’s quiet demeanor. Peter theorizes it’s the freedom of anonymity.
“Oh my god? Iron Man? Please don’t kill me dude, I’m too young to die and I don’t know what I did but whatever it is I’m really sorry about it because I’ve quite literally never seen you in person before and I’ve messed up pretty big-time before- like accidentally t-boned a truck because I didn’t see it coming and I’m too stubborn to let something like a tiny little truck move me from the middle of the street even if I was technically jaywalking, which is totally illegal so I should probably shut up but when I’m nervous I ramble and what was I saying? Oh yeah, I’m really sorry Mr. Iron Man Sir because I’m sure whatever-”
“Christ on a cracker kid, they weren’t wrong when they said you never shut up, were they?”
“There’s no way I’m talking to you right now Sir Iron Man. You’re big leagues and I’m just a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. You should, like, totally be saving the world and kicking alien ass or something. Why are you looking at me like that? It’s freaking me out. I need to shut up, probably. I’m actually quite positive you have to tell me something but I’m a nervous rambler if I haven’t said yet and oh my god I’m literally spouting word vomit right now and every thought I’ve ever thunk is, like, leaking out of my ears right now please shut me up.”
The Iron Man just stood there in what was likely disbelief and severe annoyance and oh my god the faceplate is coming off!
“Greetings, Spider-Boy.” And there goes his self-esteem. Low blow. “ I’m Tony Stark if you haven’t gathered by now.” Iron Man, or Tony Stark, Peter supposes, now that the suit is disappearing into a wristband which is so cool… raises a hand that appears to be there for Peter to shake. “This is usually the part where you fawn over me and shake my hand so I can feel your ridiculously sweaty fingies. Of course, it would be appreciated if they weren’t coated in your spider-juices.” Peter’s ears burn at the comment but he quickly shakes it away with a reminder that his suit is too thick for nervous sweat to soak through. He grasps Tony Stark!’s hand and shakes it perhaps too aggressively. Who could blame him for forgetting to harness in his honestly ridiculous amount of strength when shaking hands with his childhood hero.
“I, like, honestly have no idea what to say. No idea. Please say something Mr. Stark because if you let me wallow in my thoughts right now I might seriously implode.”
“You know, I didn’t expect such an up-and-coming vigilante to be pre-pubescent. I get that you guys are getting younger and younger but it’s seriously a concern. Do your mommy and daddy let their ten year old roam New York at 2am on a school night?”
“Jokes on you, my mommy and daddy are dead,” to me at least, and Stark poorly concealed a grimace,” and I am not pre-pubescent. I’m pubescent. Actually, I’m post-pubescent. Very grown. I have a beard and everything. That’s why I’m called Spider-Man.” Does he ever shut up?
“Tell that to your body, kid. You’re barely tall enough to ride the Coney Island coasters, and your voice sounds high enough for you to get a job voicing Peppa Pig, though your accent would probably throw that down the drain. Didn’t expect a kid from Queens to have such a thick Queens accent. My bad.”
Wow. Not only did his idol tell him his voice was pitched to the frequency of a little girl on a kids show, but he insulted his accent. Peter prided himself on his clarity. He didn’t think he had an accent, but to be fair, the only time he spoke more than single words was during patrol and he spent too much time trying not to be shanked to worry about the way he pronounced water.
“Thanks a lot Mr. Stark! Total confidence-booster, I feel like a million bucks. Once you’re done nitpicking every identifiable trait from under this hunk of nylon, feel free to tell me why you’re here.” Stark raised his eyebrows, likely not used to such a straightforward response but if Peter has only one chance to meet his hero, he’s gonna let it fly free.
“I like to keep an eye on the activity, meet the newcomers and whatnot. Seems like you’re doing good work here kiddo, so I’m willing to turn a blind eye to the fact that you’re so obviously under eighteen. Keep up the good work, stay to this side of the town, and try not to get in the way of the big dogs. Stick to the small fry, it’s very Robin Hood-esque, very cozy. Stay safe, don’t die, try not to build even more tragedy for your backstory monologue, less is more and it’s all very cliche. I’ll be in touch. Or not. Is that alright with you? Perfect.” And with that, the suit reappeared and Iron Man departed, leaving Peter in shock and indignation.