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Chapter Text

Peter Parker had a growing body; Spider-Manning kept his metabolism high, but he was also a growing teenager who by default had the appetite of a horse. May never insisted on giving him school lunches. He appreciated his aunt’s effort, but somehow even creating a sandwich proved a heated challenge. Since that one specific disaster involving peanut butter, jelly and the vacuum cleaner—don’t ask, May avoided cooking and just sent Peter to the cafeteria with a couple of bucks and a pat on the back.

That was how he ended up alone in the lunch line, waiting patiently to collect his daily dosage of three chicken nuggets made of mystery meat, sorry, soggy salad and enough mediocre pasta to feed a family of four. He never questioned the integrity of his meals, but it sustained him enough to make it through two more subjects without genuinely considering how edible chalk was.

Eventually, he’d collected his food, carried it carefully with precise placement of footsteps and his Spider sense on high alert. He knew that his sixth sense usually didn’t constitute to avoid Peter’s general clumsiness, but it was there to help.

Just as Peter had predicted, a faint buzzing on the nape of his neck warned him of an inching presence. He turned around, and the concentrated look he’d adopted fizzled into an eyeroll.

‘Princess,’ Harley narrowed his icy eyes, as if the pet name that had just rolled off his tongue was more of an insult. The cafeteria was like a war zone, No Man’s Land being the lunch line running straight through the space, where the blonde stood on one side and the brunette the other.

‘Sunshine,’ Peter scowled back, folding his arms over his chest.

‘Can’t afford food?’ The blonde looked him up and down, before grimacing at the cardboard chicken nuggets and soggy yellow fries on Peter’s tray.

The brown-eyed boy frowned. ‘At least I don’t abuse Tony’s funds.’

‘He’s a billionaire, he can spare a couple meals for us poor people.’

‘Doesn’t mean he has to,’ he scowled, giving the blonde a knowing look. ‘There are other things that he has to replace fairly often.’

A vision of his blown up, charred Spider-Man flickered in his mind. He repressed a snicker, imaging that was not on the list of things Harley had imagined.

Harley just shrugged nonchalantly, turning away from Peter in the dust for his group of friends, the other members of the varsity basketball team. They all reeked with superiority, as if they stood on top of the world. Honestly, it was a little appalling as Peter stood there with his bleak food and science pun t-shirt.

The blonde met the deep brown eyes of his girlfriend, Liz Allen, the captain of the Academic Decathlon team who’d slithered her way between two of Harley’s friends to meet the blonde in the middle. The whole relationship put Peter on edge, especially since he’d had a crush on the girl in sophomore year before ditching her at homecoming to stop her villain dad from stealing billions of dollars of superhero weapons. You know, complications.

‘Baby, you’ll love my treat tonight,’ Harley lulled, and the brown-eyed boy wished he’d taken his opportunity to leave a second earlier.

‘I can’t wait, my love,’ the girl smiled warmly, pressing a kiss to the blonde’s lips. Harley waved goodbye as she left, before turning on his heel again.

He wrinkled his nose. ‘What, don’t have any friends to go to?’

‘Our conversation didn’t finish,’ Peter quipped, narrowing his eyes. ‘And any longer you make me stand here, the worse it is for both of us.’

The blonde’s friends just stared down at him like he was a shrimp, waiting for him to continue.

‘Whatever,’ he huffed. ‘Mr Stark has a business meeting so he won’t be at the tower.’

‘You’d think he’d just text me himself,’ Harley huffed, staring at his feet. ‘That’s all you’ve gotta tell me?’

‘Yeah,’ Peter shook his head in disbelief. ‘Now move.’

‘Sure,’ the blonde retorted, and with a sharp sway of his arm as he shoved past, tipped the lunch tray up. The brunet yelped, let out a defeated sigh because of course, even if he’d tried to be careful, Parker Luck came to haunt him and ruin his day.

‘Go fuck yourself, Sunshine,’ Peter hissed, before swearing profusely as oily food ran down his shirt and dropped at his feet. The teenager didn’t respond, instead snickering with his friends like a lunatic.

Harley Keener-Stark was a textbook popular student. He was a senior who took all AP classes. He had cerulean blue eyes that charmed anyone that he met, messy blonde hair that wasn’t too long but also not at an awkward length like his mother had forced him in the barber’s seat and asked for whatever every other teenager boy had. He was captain of the basketball team and the eye candy for every cheerleader on the team. Turns out he was also ridiculously smart, and knew Tony motherfucking Stark personally.

Peter Parker, on the other hand, was a junior with a not so spotless reputation as a nerd and the social status of gum at the bottom of someone’s shoe. He was, however, the most intelligent student in the grade, and probably the whole school, but none of his classmates needed to know that. Some people swore he had muscles, but it could’ve just been some weird fantasy that he was a hot nerd from a romance novel. He seemed to reclude from the whole popularity scheme, often sticking to his equally nerdy trio and whoever was on the Academic Decathlon team. His only claim to fame was his association with Liz Allen, the captain of the team, his issues with Harley Keener-Stark and also that he too knew Tony Stark personally.

The school separated to stand behind one of the teens. Of course people were more drawn to Harley due to his “natural charm and charisma”, but it didn’t stop Peter from having his own band of followers who relished in his sudden attitude problem.

It was the most interesting part of the day, watching Tony Stark’s intern and son bicker and banter with no other care in the world.

The rumour had gone that Peter and Harley had been fond friends, once upon a time, until in the middle of an experiment, a beaker broke atop their bunsen burner and most-likely hazardous foam began to explode around the lab like a volcano.

Covering his hair, Peter began to shriek, eye peeling for the gas source as he dug through mountains of bubbles. Fire licked the floor, flames crackling and exploding in flickering sparks as he dodged the inferno. Ash flicked into the air, melting through the bubbles. He yelped, arms flailing before he covered his head in panic.

‘Don’t be such a princess, Parker!’ The blonde snapped, digging for the fire hydrant. ‘Stop stressing over your hair and help me!’

Sneering, Peter shoved him out of the way, making a beeline for the sparking flames. ‘Not all of us just radiate rainbows and sunshine, Keener! And I’m not just covering my hair, there’s things under it!’

‘Like what?’ Harley retorted maliciously, eyes sharp as his hands finally found the fire extinguisher. He turned it on, before promptly spraying the room recklessly. It passed by Peter, who inhaled half of it in an attempt to catch his breath. ‘Maybe if you weren’t being such a prissy asshole, this wouldn’t have happened!’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t be so careless and we wouldn’t be trapped in a fucking inferno!’ Peter exclaimed, coughing up foam with a venomous glare. ‘This is all your fault.’

Since then, they were at each other’s throats with probably machetes and the sharpest tongues they could possibly muster. They competed for the same science awards, the top marks in every class, and for Tony Stark’s attention like the billionaire had none to give.

Peter was the only student to get full marks in AP Chemistry on their last test, so Harley weaseled his way into the lab at the tower to mess up Spider-Man’s web fluid—something worked on by loser Peter the intern who was definitely not the ultra-cool super amazing Spider-Man. He turned it into an almost impenetrable, rigid ball of glue, because if the brunet could ace an AP test as a junior, he needed an extra challenge to keep his nosy ass out of other people’s business. Because of this, Peter used the defect solution to glue the blonde’s basketball to the ceiling.

Harley had asked Liz out a couple of weeks after homecoming, when Spider-Man had almost died fighting her evil father, so the brunet told Tony all about it and then held the longest grudge humanly possible. Then the other teen won a science award for his ridiculous basketball shooting robot and Peter was livid. The blonde even used his winner’s funds to host a watch party for the NBA finals at the billionaire’s tower, as if Tony couldn’t throw a basketball party himself.

Now Midtown High School of Science and Technology was supposed to be specifically for science and technology, but as every student was aiming for ivy leagues, they all were ridiculous over-achievers, wanting their credentials to rain high over everyone else’s. The theatre kids were in the decathlon. The football players were on the swim team. The basketball players were in the robotics club. Of course this meant Peter couldn’t just have a minute alone because every club he was in to avoid the blonde quite literally had Harley listed in the attendees list.

Even the school musical. For fuck’s sake.

AP English Language was one of many classes the two shared. Harley thought it was stupid that a junior could be in so many AP classes and Peter was pissed that the blonde had to share every interest of his.

‘Harley, spell conscientious,’ Mr Dell tested, and the boy pondered for a moment, leaning back in his chair before sitting up stiffly.

‘Um, c-o-n-s-c-i-e-n-c-i-o-u-s,’ he tried, and Peter let out a snicker, slapping a hand over his mouth.

‘That was w-r-o-n-g,’ the brunet choked on his own laughter. MJ gave him an amused look, one he took pride in knowing it was a rare occurrence.

‘Mr Parker, please remain silent,’ their teacher reprimanded with a scowl. Peter shrunk lower in his seat—as if he wasn’t already so low that he could just slip off—and avoided Harley’s amused expression. Even if he’d gotten the question wrong, they both knew the satisfaction of seeing the other shameful outweighed any objective wins between the two.

A few seats away, Harley had long gotten over the embarrassment of spelling “conscientious” wrong and was sharing a look of mirth with his friends. None of them quite understood the significance of seeing Peter get scolded like a five-year-old, but Peter was a know-it-all nerd with a mouth too big for his face.

Chapter Text

Usually Peter fell asleep quickly to the lullaby of New York’s shambolic symphony. After a day of avoiding getting either beaten up or berated by someone, the second his head would hit the pillow, he’d fall into a slumber. There was often the common case of being sleep-ridden as he sewed up his own skewered flesh, bullet holes and stab wounds, where he’d still roll into bed with gaping skin and wake up covered in dried blood.

But tonight, there was a disturbance.

It must’ve been Peter’s pillow. It was probably too hard. Too stable for his cotton-stuffed skull. It was some ridiculous memory foam, temperature-regulated cushion prototype that Mr Stark had created. Peter had been the first to insist on trying it, being someone who cherished his rare moments of sleep due to the severe lack of it. He couldn’t help it. Lab time took priority, followed by his regular patrols, followed by homework.

Or maybe it was the mattress. Again, temperature-regulated mattress prototype. It was too feathery—too much like a cloud sent from the heavens. There was always the risk that he could just fly away in his sleep like a bird, because again, that was a possibility.

Maybe the room was too bright. Even with the curtains drawn closed and his door locked shut, a sliver of moonlight peeked in from under the blinds and pooled at the floor. He struggled with heightened senses, so the darker it was, the more comfortable he was, swaddled in his comforter and drowning in blankets.

Or maybe it was the animalistic thudding in the next door room.

Sometimes Peter stayed over at the tower on weekends. May earned more money during overnight shifts so he urged her to take them when she could. It was also an opportunity for Peter and Tony to stay up in the lab. But earlier, Pepper had forced them both to bed with a stern look of admonishment and Peter knew better to defend himself against that. However, he couldn’t sleep. He imagined whether it was because he’d drank that sports drink before lunch and it was fucking up his system, or it was from the not-so-friendly banging next door, followed by an explicit cry that made him duck his head under his insulation of blankets. He mentally noted for Tony to thicken his walls, because there was only so much moaning he could take before he threw himself out of a window.

‘Oh, Harley!’

Bile rose in Peter’s throat. He debated whether the floor was a suitable place to puke. His headphones were on the kitchen bench, so far from the warmth of his bed and the furthest journey ever from his bed to the door to the hallway to the kitchen.

Another jolt in the room next door solidified Peter’s mental debate.

Giving up, he rolled out from his blanket burrito and stuck his fingers in his ears, eyes piercing through the dark for his hoodie. Familiar white letters stood out against their dark background, so he plucked it from the heap of clothes on his desk chair and slipped it on. The comforting scent of motor oil and heavy cologne greeted his senses like a pillow, before another obscene sound from next door removed him from his serenity.

There was a dim glow from the living room, faintly illuminating the hallway as he padded down, swaddled in a blanket and Tony’s alma mater hoodie. His feet tapped gently as he crept past Harley’s locked room, glaring at the door as if it had been the cause of his shitty sleep. Pain crept up his ribs, the remnants of a burn wound from patrol only hours earlier. Dragging himself into the light, his shoulders lowered like dead weights.

The kitchen and adjoined living room were both almost empty, the blinds drawn open to reveal the glittering horizon of Manhattan. Warm light flooded the room, despite the only visible lights being the pendants hanging above the kitchen island.

It appeared so domestic, like each piece of furniture wasn’t at least a couple thousand dollars individually.

Tony was slumped over a cup of black coffee at the kitchen bench, his head buried in a thick, colourful textbook. Bright diagrams scrawled across the pages, ones that did not replicate any sort of scientific model in any sense. Peter’s eyes drifted to the title, his jaw dropping slightly.

Key principles of basketball.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if Harley’s face was just painted on the wall,’ he noted bitterly, pointing at the book in the billionaire’s lap.

‘There is an artwork of Spider-Man hanging in the foyer, if you want me to put it there,’ Tony retorted with a snort, shutting the book loudly. Reaching for the murky, heavily caffeinated drink, Tony shook his head. He’d come close to a sip before a shuddering jolt from down the hall knocked them both out of their lethargic state.

‘Can’t you just…pretend to walk in?’ Peter tilted his head, eyebrows furrowed into exhaustion as he stole a sip of the man’s drink. ‘Catch them out on the act?’

‘Um, no thank you,’ Tony grimaced, stealing back his cup of coffee. ‘Why don’t you pretend to walk in?’

‘Because why the hell would I want to talk to either of them at 1am?’

‘Why would I?’

‘I dunno, you’re the pseudo-father figure—make something up.’

The billionaire shook his head, laughing quietly. Then he stood up and began to dig through the fridge.

‘Almond milk? Oh wait—don’t drink that, Nat will kill me if you drink it. Okay, I found it. Hot chocolate?’

‘With full cream milk and whipped cream, give me as much lactose as you can.’

Tony grinned, preparing the decadent drink as Peter sat, perched on the bar stood and flipping through the billionaire’s “Basketball For Dummies” book lazily. ‘I can’t believe you’d read this over…I dunno, quantum dynamics.’

‘Because I already know quantum dynamics, kid,’ Tony sighed, shaking the can of whipped cream before tipping it back, giving it a taste test. ‘Fu…fudge, I almost gave you the spiked stuff.’

Peter reached out towards the alcoholic whipped cream, but his hand was quickly swatted away. He recoiled miserably, disappearing further into his blanket-cape.

‘I don’t want to see you getting drunk on my watch,’ his mentor reprimanded, before dousing his own drink with the liqueur-tainted whipped cream.

The brunet dropped his head to the counter with a scowl. ‘Not fair that you get the good shit.’

‘I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,’ Tony rolled his eyes, picking up the drinks. ‘C’mon, Underoos, pick a movie, nothing star related.’

‘Not even—’

‘Not Star Wars, not Star Trek, nada.’

‘Fine, Negative Nancy, we’re watching a musical movie.’

Two hours and three hot chocolates later, Tony had lost his voice and had gotten enough cardio to keep him fit for the next week. He doubled over, heaving, as he attempted to catch his breath. Him and Peter had gotten a little too into putting on an impromptu Mean Girls Musical in their living room, and he’d found out that the kid was a little too good at singing. Plus, he managed to stay upright as the last song finished, merely cracking his neck and taking a sip of the now-cold drink sitting on the coffee table.

Tony decided that his sudden interest in musicals would stay between him and Peter, but that they were going to continue this ritual whenever Harley was getting a little too personal with other people. He was even more passionate about it when his kid promised he could be Heather Chandler.

‘Jesus, kid, you aren’t half bad,’ he panted, pressing his hands into his knees. ‘Maybe this is your calling.’

‘What, serenading supervillains?’ Peter snickered, patting the man on the back. ‘They don’t deserve this talent.’

‘Alright then Beyoncé, time for bed.’

The teenager groaned, but rubbed his eyes and threw his blanket over his shoulder without defiance. Exhaustion ached in his bones, the after effects of dancing his heart and soul out in a billionaire’s living room. A yawn slipped from his mouth, one that he feigned as a cough. Tony gave him a fatherly look of disbelief, before Peter sighed. He farewelled the billionaire with a lethargic hug, one where he practically melted onto his mentor like Tony was the mattress four rooms away.

He was groggy enough to hopefully fall asleep as soon as his head hit the ridiculously comfortable pillow.

He’d made his way back into the room, ignoring the thudding next door with a burning temper until his unbridled annoyance became too much. As someone who’d just summoned every inch of dramatic flair to perform as Cady Heron, his voice, a hundred decibels louder from his new-found theatrics, cut through the plaster.

‘Shut up, Keener,’ he snapped, pounding onto the wall with his fists. ‘Or I’ll burn your room with gasoline!’

There was a sudden silence, one that filled his heart with content. He snickered quietly at the Mean Girls reference, before climbing into bed, excited with his and Tony’s plan to learn the lyrics to every musical they could at the. He was already planning how he could be a great Veronica. The fuzzy, warmness from the hot chocolate remained like a hug, even if Peter’s tongue was laced with bitterness. Eventually, the moaning and banging faded to a minimum, and he could finally cosy up and shut his eyes.

-

Liz must’ve been still hiding in Harley’s room when the boy emerged into the kitchen. The room lit up in sunrays as light poured in from the windows, clear blue sky like a perfect backdrop as Mr Sunshine entered the room himself. His hair was unruly, cerulean eyes blinking as to rebuke the sun outside. Grey trackpants hung low around his waist, a worn-out t-shirt hanging from his frame.

‘We need thicker walls,’ he hissed, dropping his head into his hands.

‘I agree,’ Peter exclaimed from his spot next to the kitchen bench, proudly displaying a smug smile, ridden of all exhaustion. ‘Rough night, huh? It interrupted our karaoke.’

‘You heard…um…us?’ Harley flushed, his head hanging lower. Blonde curls spilled across his face, matted and tangled. He attempted to finger through them, tugging at knocks in desperacy.

‘Sure as hell,’ Tony rubbed his eyes, taking a sip from his millionth cup of coffee as he sat beside the brunet. ‘Even Peter’s pipes couldn’t drown it out. And he was pretty close.’

‘At least we didn’t sound like dying goats,’ Peter shrugged. He was midway through wolfing down his second bowl of cereal, a concoction between a sugary monstrosity and some extra-protein-extra-vitamin bullshit that tasted like dirt. Delicious.

‘Impressive,’ Harley rolled his eyes, fishing for a spoon. ‘Because that was what I was thinking when I could hear Tony giving Regina George a run for her money,’

‘Remind me whose house you live in.’

‘Apparently a broadway star’s,’ the blonde retorted with a snort, stealing the cereal box from Peter’s hands—a third round of Lucky Charms—and pouring it into his own bowl. The teen yelped, stretching over the counter in an attempt to grab it insistently from the jock’s hands.

‘You’re not supposed to eat that!’ Peter complained, pinching the bridge of his nose with an exaggerated sigh. ‘You're a student athlete and you don’t even eat like it.’

‘And you’re on your third bowl of diabetes, so I don’t think you have any room to talk.’

Tony rolled his eyes, standing up from the table with a deep sigh. ‘You know where I’ll be. Don’t be late to school.’

The two teenagers nodded in sync, although one did much livelier than the other.

‘And Harley?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Make sure that girlfriend of yours is fed. And that we know she’s here. She doesn’t have to hide,’ Tony admonished with a smug smile.

The boy’s face flushed again, shoulders hunched over his bowl as if he were to just melt into the ground. Snickering, Peter finally laid his hands on the cereal box again.

Chapter Text

Car rides to school were anything but silent, no matter how much Happy wished for it. Although he did enjoy the boys’ company once in a while, a part of him dreaded the ritual of having to take both Harley and Peter. Liz sat beside him, escaping the chaos in the backseat and no matter how nice Happy forced himself to be, it was irrevocably mortifying to have to make conversation with his boss’s son’s girlfriend as his last resort. Turning up his own choice of music was out of the question, because he was the responsible adult and had to pretend like he cared about the feelings of a teenager at seven-thirty in the morning.

‘Move over!’ Peter’s voice yelped from behind Happy’s head. There was an audible smack, one that the driver Head of Security didn’t even flinch from, but instead restraining an exhausted eyeroll. He’d long gotten over the backseat aggression, back when the two boys had to be physically separated to keep the peace.

‘There’s nowhere for me to go, you princess,’ Harley drawled, his voice thick with malice.

‘Don’t call me that, Keener,’ the other boy snapped back, followed by a peeved squawk unlike some sort of foreign bird.

Happy turned to Liz with an exhausted look and nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Welcome to my normal.’

‘They don’t give you a break, do they?’ The girl asked, tossing her phone awkwardly between her two hands. He wished Liz had only smiled and nodded, because now he was forced to reciprocate small talk and he hated small talk—especially with teenagers.

‘No,’ he responded, turning his head back to the windscreen. ‘And don’t make small talk. No one wants to listen to small talk.’

Pursing her lips, she folded her hands stiffly into her lap. Happy breathed a silent sigh of relief, content with the temporary solace in the midst of the wildfire that was the ride to school.

Peter wondered whether it was possible to sit any closer to Harley than he was now. They were so close that it was bordering on intimacy, which, ew. For some reason, Happy was going somewhere for the day that required seven bags in the boot of the car and three more stacked like a brick wall on the back seat. He’d also insisted that the front seat was Liz’s, so the girl didn’t have to be overtaken by disgusting, sweaty teenager angst—his words, not Peter’s, and Happy didn’t have to watch any canoodling through the rearview. Thus, the two boys had been squished into the back seat because they’d do anything but whatever Liz and Harley would. If that meant fighting, Peter was sure Happy would rather that. This meant that the teenager’s legs were squished between a duffel bag and Harley’s bulging thigh, struggling for even a mere inch of breathing room.

‘Can you move over?’ He hissed, poking the boy’s flexed muscle with a stiff finger. Harley only sniffed, eyes fixated on a shielded phone screen.

‘More?’

‘Do you want me to get out of the car and walk?’ The blonde pressed, nudging him back.

Peter yelped, covering his sides to avoid getting poked between his ribs. Then a scowl settled over his face as he hugged his bag closer to his chest. ‘Yeah, actually. Happy, leave him on the side of the road. That’s where he came from.’

Harley snarled, electric blue eyes sharp in defense. ‘Why doesn’t he kick you out instead?’

Happy grumbled audibly, earning an unsure smile from Liz up front. ‘I’m not listening to either of you,’ he responded tersely. ‘Neither of you pay me.’

‘I think I have five bucks in my bag—’ Peter offered quickly, digging through his battered schoolbag. Beside him, he felt Harley’s thigh clench up again. Anger? Annoyance? Pride?

Happy rolled his eyes, adjusting the rear mirror. ‘My point still stands. But if you both shut up, I might get Tony to take you to get ice cream after school or whatever you toddlers eat.’

‘He does that anyway,’ Harley raised an eyebrow. ‘Or at least, with me. I dunno if he does that with the kid who leeches off of his funds.’

‘You take that back!’ Peter scowled, shoving the boy. Something uncomfortable gnawed at his ribs like a pressed bruise, an uncanny reminder of his and May’s once, not so ideal financial situation. Thus, he fought fire with fire. ‘I’m not the one who showed up at the Avengers Tower with a suitcase and a dream.’

‘And look how the dream paid off?’ The blonde grinned smugly, baring perfect pearly whites. More proof that Tony had changed his life for the better.

‘I wasn’t kidding.’ Happy repeated his phrase bluntly, eyes narrow in the rearview mirror ‘Shut up.’

-

One of the worst places for Peter’s sensors was the hallway at peak hour in the morning. Not only was the room packed from top to bottom, but it was filled with rowdy kids barely an hour past their rising. He dodged both clubs to cliques, pinching his nose with his fingers as he swerved the football team post-morning practice. A gag threatened his throat as the abhorrent scent of lingering sweat swelled in his nose, bodily odors soaking through nylon like water.

MJ’s head was in a new book by the time he arrived at his locker, her back leaning against it in a nonverbal signal that she’d been waiting for him.

‘Missed me?’ He joked, prodding her with his finger. Her body was rigid, head turned to whatever open page she’d flipped to, like she wouldn’t acknowledge him like she did with the rest of their school. With an unimpressed scoff, she turned away, but her back still remained glued to the locker door.

‘You’re gonna have to move, like an inch.’

‘Does it look like I’m planning on moving?’ She responded, her voice unnervingly even, eyes fixated to her page.

‘Are you gonna be a pain or should I just leave you here?’

She returned no response, except for a slight quirk of her lip.

Peter threw his hands up, turning away with a less-hidden smirk. ‘Fine, I’ll go use yours, even though I’ve got prototype web fluid somewhere in here—’

MJ threw herself away with enough finesse to make his shoulders rise in sudden shock. ‘Do not put your grimy schoolbag in my locker, Parker.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘Don’t sass me,’ the girl rolled her eyes, although a sliver of pride was laced through her tongue. ‘Whatever. You're up to studying for the biology quiz at lunch?’

Peter nodded, dumping his schoolbag within its nest housing partially-dissolved web fluid and unfinished worksheets. ‘Always. Can’t have anyone beat my high score of full marks.’

‘Your obsession with beating Keener is mindboggling. You can’t go a second without mentioning him, Parker.’

The teenager scoffed, wrinkling his nose. ‘It’s because he’s worse than Flash, and a moving target. I need a goal. The goal just happens to be winning against Harley at any instance I can.’

‘Wrap it up, I’ve had enough,’ she faked a gag, dragging him forward.

The next few classes were the typical blur of science and maths, subjects he preferred later in the day when his mental capacity was lower and he could afford to get an hour of shuteye. Even with Harley and Liz’s frequent rendezvous, other factors too contributed to his lack of sleep. However, as usual, luck was as far as it could get from him. The one class he dreaded the most stared back at him with taunting letters that curled up in confronting comic sans. The one class that made a fifty pound weight drop in his gut.

Physical Education.

He dreaded Physical Education. It wasn’t because he was unfit or anything—because of the spider DNA, he was fitter than Olympic athletes. But, he couldn’t just flaunt it, given his lingering reputation of being a lanky nerd whose daily exercise consisted of running from fists. If anything, it was double the energy to pretend to be bad, because then every move was precise rather than the second nature it usually was.

Pulling on his gym wear in the bustling locker room, he withheld a deep breath. The entire room held a lingering scent of body odor, as if sweat had soaked into the plaster and posed as some cruel form of air freshener. The only part of the area that didn’t absolutely reek were his shoes—nothing fancy but most definitely out of May’s tax bracket—they were a new addition to his wardrobe courtesy of Tony and fit perfectly on his feet. He rolled forward and back on his heels, admiring the kicks heartily as he waited for Ned. The absence of squeaks was a nice reminder of how fresh they were, along with the clean, grimeless lines to the lingering scent of new rubber. Nothing like the dilapidated pair rotting from acid in Tony’s lab.

‘Dude, nice shoes,’ his friend pointed out with a wide smile, dropping his clothes into his bag. ‘My mom might be getting those new Star Wars kicks—the collaboration with Converse?’

‘That’s awesome!’ Peter exclaimed, chucking his balled shirt into his backpack. ‘Let’s go. Can’t keep Coach Wilson waiting when he’s already up my ass about my effort in class.’

‘Dude, just do like five pushups to show that you can do it,’ Ned nudged him as they entered the gym.

‘Then he’ll complain that I’m not reaching my full potential when I don’t do that, man,’ Peter exclaimed. They made a beeline for the bleachers, settling with short smiles beside familiar faces.

Coach Wilson entered with an exhausted, half-assed smile. He rolled the portable television forward. ‘Remember the Captain America Fitness Challenge from your sophomore year?’

There was a collective groan, followed by an exaggerated eyeroll from the teacher in reaction.

‘He’s not a war criminal anymore, so I don’t see why none of y’all aren’t excited. Anyway, this one’s harder than last year’s, so suit up, and get stretching with the Star Spangled Man.’

‘I would pay the school to not hear Coach Wilson say that again,’ Ned grimaced. His friend snickered quietly, eyes fixated inconspicuously at the front.

‘Alright, everyone, set up on our half of the gym. The seniors are sharing with us today.’

Again, another groan followed.

Peter reminded himself to bring up to Steve about the many PSAs and videos he’d filmed, and as to why every single one of them played at his high school.

Soon enough, the teenagers were dragging royal blue mats marred with age across the shiny floors. Peter and Ned set up towards the far corner, as far as they could from Coach Wilson’s nosy eyes.

Peter hissed, pushing himself up into a plank as Ned rattled on about a new LEGO set. He offered his input while frequently dropping onto his stomach, eyes watching out for his teacher.

He was midway through a half-assed pushup when something obnoxious pummelled at his torso. The impact knocked him over and made him buckle, groaning and complaining as his eyes scanned for the culprit.

‘Dude, you alright?’ Ned sprung upon him, eyes scouring the scene like a security guard. ‘Guy in the Chair speaking, contact has just been made.’

His friend rolled his eyes fondly, scrubbing at the sore spot with the ball of his palm. Across the gym, a class of seniors were playing a mini game of volleyball and apparently, whoever had just served, had either never played volleyball or thought Peter, a junior in the opposing class, was a part of the match. Judging by the smug smile from across the gym that stood out amongst the other, impatient teenagers, it was too conveniently aimed at him. Scowling, he picked up the ball, chucking it over his head towards the opposing team, decidedly not meeting the eyes of the other, more sardonic seniors.

‘Thanks, Parker!’ Harry Osborn called, sticking his tongue out. ‘Took you long enough, nerd!’

Harry Osborn, Harley’s right-hand man and someone almost just as obnoxious as the blond himself. His father ran the rival company to Stark Industries, so Peter assumed the teenagers’ friendship originated from ways just to defy their parental figures. Osborn flashed him a smug grin, one which he ignored by swerving his head back to Ned.

‘Uncalled for,’ Peter sighed, flopping onto his back. ‘Why me?’

‘Because you’re easy to ragebait,’ his friend responded with a fond smile. ‘The whole grade likes to take advantage of that.’

Peter swatted him with a lethargic hand. ‘Thanks for that, MJ.’

‘Always, man.’

‘More energy, Parker,’ Coach Wilson commented on his stroll past. From the mat, Peter sighed again.

Chapter Text

Time seemed to go as slowly as ever, the clock ticking with enough finesse that Peter debated just standing up and leaving. He imagined no one would be able to stop him—if he slid his chair against the floor, strolled past Mr Cobwell’s desk and never turned back.

He’d finished his test thirteen minutes and forty-eight seconds ago. In that period of time, he’d become hyperaware of every square inch of space in the classroom. Each individual stroke of a graphite pencil as it scratched against paper. The slight, unprompted scuff of the chairs dragging across the vinyl flooring. Even his clothes upon his skin, every thread and stray fiber.

Maybe he could take Tony up on that offer of graduating early.

He gave Ned a side glance. The boy looked up, a hesitant smile on his face. He tilted his test sideways, nodding in reluctant confidence. Peter looked back up at the clock. Apparently, their biology test was way easier than it usually was, because they’d both finished with at least twenty minutes to go. He leaned down on his desk, resting his head against the surface and giving his best friend a woeful look. Ned returned a pitiful smile, twiddling his pen between his fingers.

Peter’s eyes scoured the room boredly, channeling his inner MJ as he observed each student’s mannerism. He imagined drawing out their expressions; Betty’s eyebrows pressed together as she glared at her test paper, Seymour’s pen hanging from his mouth, the frustrated tears in Flash’s eyes.

The hairs on the back of his neck gently stood up. He turned his head, glancing slyly behind his shoulder.

Harley was looking at the paper with desperate distress. His eyes were scanning his neighbours’ tables, scavenging for answers like a rabbit searching for food. Looking crestfallen, he stared back at his own paper as if it had personally attacked him.

Peter turned back around, aware of Harley’s next course of action. His longing eyes were on Peter’s biology test paper, so naturally he slapped his arm down on the desk to block his answers, similarly like he was squishing a bug. Out of the corner of his eye, Harley dropped his head, groaning quietly.

The boy’s disappointment was enough to fuel Peter for the last twenty minutes of nothingness.

After the class was over, Peter found himself dropping back from his friends. Students flooded past him, as eager to escape the clutches of biology as he had been earlier in the lesson. He ignored the mock interest from three seniors and faced Harley with narrow eyes. The basketball player’s friends stared at Peter with silent judgement, nudging each other and snickering like young children. He restrained his own laughter at the absurdity of it all. None of Harley’s friends had looked even remotely happy with the outcome of the test.

‘Trying to cheat your way out?’ The brown-eyed boy snickered, stifling his laugh with his hand. ‘You didn’t look too sunny about cellular respiration.’

The basketball players shot him leering glances. Harley rolled his eyes, punching him lightly in the shoulder. ‘Not all of us excel in biology.’

‘It’s AP, Sunshine, you do university courses in thermodynamics. Not my fault you were too busy fornicating to study.’

Harley wrinkled his nose. ‘Do not ever say “fornicating” in front of me. In fact, I don't want to hear any of your unnecessary verbiage ever.’

‘Is that basketball for “shut up”?’ Peter gawked, an incredulous laugh slipping from his lips. ‘Stop copying me, jock. Know your worth.’

‘What, you want me to flex?’ Harley raised his brow. Then, to Peter’s utter disbelief, he pulled up his sleeve and legitimately flexed. The muscle bulged, lines defined.

Harley’s posse erupted into hyena-like laughter. One guy doubled over, slapping his thigh as tears rolled down his face. It was as if Peter was an idiot and not the reason Harley was getting a passing grade.

The brown-eyed boy grimaced. ‘Um…okay, whatever, just stop pretending you’re stupid. It’s fucking weird, man.’

With that, he turned and left, the snickering still audible behind him.

‘What a fuckin’ nerd.’

As if Peter’s day couldn’t get any worse, Liz was supposed to stay the night again. It was another call for no sleep. He was plagued with super hearing, forcing him to listen to what was essentially a porno as it occurred in the room beside him. To avoid any more time he could be in the same vicinity as the couple, he decided to avoid the awful car ride to the tower.

He slung his backpack over his shoulder and made his way out of the school, ignoring Harley’s heckling from the front gate.

He trailed slowly to the train station, sneakers scuffing against the ground. It was almost therapeutic taking the subway, specifically as it rolled across bridges and passed through high ground. The descent into the underground was the only downside, but he only had to make it a couple of stops before it reached Manhattan.

Peter wouldn’t have to think of Harley for the next couple of hours. There was the train ride and lab time with Tony—that took up more than just the afternoon. Then, he could patrol. By then, he hoped Harley had decided on a full night’s sleep.

-

Tony and his kid sat in the lab, AC/DC blasting so loud it’s damn near assaulting Peter’s ears. He swears he can feel it through the floor, but the look Tony gives him is just a reminder of his crippling paranoia. The music is comforting though—through the deafening guitar and obliterating drumkit—it gave him something to concentrate on while the sounds of the rest of the world forced themselves into the background of his mind.

Peter glared down at his web formula, a new prototype and the cause of his most previous migraine. He didn’t know whether the migraine was from a stress reaction or that the concoction was literally reeking with possibly poisonous substances. By the way it wasn’t mixing in his beaker, he suggested it was yet another failure at his new viscoelastic polymer concoction. Rolling his eyes, he readjusted his goggles over his eyes and picked up his drifting pencil.

The tensile strength was appalling, far past viscous. He chewed on the end of the pencil, let out a disappointed sigh, prodded the solidifying glob and drew a line through the description of his latest prototype.

‘Pass me the soldiering iron, my loyal, humble minion,’ Tony called from a further bench, waving his hand blindly. His eyes were fixated on the Iron Man boot, hands steady as he repaired the joints.

‘In a minute, Mr Stark,’ he whined, picking let me just—’

There was an awful rattling, before a series of crashes in varying disturbance caught both the attention of both the intern and his mentor.

Tony spun on his chair, eyes wide in horror.

Peter froze, the beaker slipping from his grip. It dropped like a dead weight onto the floor, shattering into a million smithereens. His botched web fluid drifted lazily, assuming qualities of resin as it attached itself to the floor.

DUM-E, the billionaire’s humble assistant (or nuisance, according to the man) had attempted to pick up the soldiering iron from a nearby bench. In the process, DUM-E had knocked over an Iron Man suit, a skeleton and the entire trolley of tools—in turn, those had gone flying.

‘No! DUM-E! I meant Peter!’ Tony exclaimed, exasperated. He stood up, diving for the scattering tech. ‘Kid, a little help here!’

‘See,’ the teenager paused, glaring down at the glob of web fluid like it had personally offended him. ‘I’m still deciding whether I want to acknowledge that you referred to me as your loyal, humble minion.’

‘Not the time!’

Peter decided to ignore the flying tools to ponder further, deciding against prodding the web fluid with his finger. ‘I appreciate that you used “humble”, but I have skepticism about being seen as your underling.’

Tony turned to him with an expression both terrified and irritated. ‘Priority; stop the floating screwdrivers from either impaling my suits or impaling us.’

A low buzzing caused Peter to swerve, narrowing dodging a soaring Phillips head.

‘Yes, master,’ the teenager chirped.

The billionaire groaned, catching a flat-headed screwdriver in his fist. ‘Then, deal with whatever the hell that is.’

Peter looked up at him with an affronted expression. ‘That has a name—and it’s Blobby.’

The billionaire chose not to respond. Instead, he dove for the skidding Iron Man helmet, narrowly missing Blobby in his drift.

Peter leaned over, hands sticking to any tool in his reach. After a dozen stuck to each palm, he disposed of them onto the trolley with a huff.

He gave the glob an apologetic glance. ‘Blobby, I’m sorry man, but your existence has caused me too much misery.’

‘Kid, do not talk to your web fluid.’

The teenager stuck out his tongue, which Tony thought was frankly a little insulting. The teenager huffed, before pouring web dissolvent over the snot ball. It fizzled, smoked a little, and finally melted.

‘Go, go,’ Tony shooed him. ‘No more web snot. My non-minion, I release you into the real world.’

‘Yes, master, Peter is free,’ the teenager recited, removing his goggles.

‘No Harry Potter references either, Underoos.’

Peter raised his eyebrows. ‘It says enough about you if you were able to recognise that reference.’

-

Peter could hear Liz’s sickening giggles from the elevator, as if his mind was purposely making her voice stand alone compared to every other sound in the city. Apparently the girl hadn’t come straight back to the tower and Peter could’ve enjoyed a rare moment of quiet before she arrived.

Alas, he couldn't turn back time.

He stood alone in the kitchen, a steaming hot chocolate of Natasha’s recipe on the bench before him. It was now the pivotal decision of whether he topped it with kidsafe, non-alcoholic whipped cream or the vodka shot topping.

The elevator doors slid open. Peter hoped that in some rare turn of fate, it was an Avenger, especially one with limited knowledge on either his own age or the legal drinking age. Probably Clint—wait, no, he had kids. Sam, maybe, he didn’t care enough about Spider-Man’s wellbeing, although he prioritised watching Peter suffer. That, in turn, would mean anything resembling happiness and joy would be dangled just out of reach.

His excitement was short-lived as the teenage couple stepped out. In fact, all remote happiness he’d once felt was now drifting away like the heat in his hot chocolate. Their mouths were locked, attached hungrily like honeymooners. Peter grimaced, turning away, focusing intently on his dilemma.

‘Liz, baby, my dad’s up here somewhere,’ Harley assured her, an arm looped around her waist. ‘Wait till we get to my room.’

The girl let out a whine, tipping her head back. They hadn’t noticed the teenager lurking …

He wasn’t lurking. He rightfully sort-of-lived here, thank you very much.

The knot in his chest was evident, coiling tighter as the couple stumbled mindlessly past him. His lips pursed as he stood with disconcerting stiffness. As he leant against the kitchen bench, he debated just how bad it would be to go into the fridge and just down one, innocent shot. It would happen so quickly that there wouldn’t be any evidence. By the toying expression on Liz’s face, Peter would need it now more than ever.

Because of the intense need to solve such a dilemma, he found himself staring at the fridge like he’d glared at Harley earlier—full of utter bewilderment. He’d given up on his homework an hour ago. Not because it was hard, but because it was such a mindless bore.

‘Oh, hi, Peter,’ Liz’s voice interrupted his mental spiel. He snapped his head towards the girl, eyes automatically drifted to her arms, hanging from Harley’s neck.

‘Hey Liz,’ he responded, nodding his head solemnly. Beside her, Harley hummed in acknowledgement. Peter pursed his lips, his mind blank of any coherent sentences. He nodded again, slower, and turned away.

The awful squelch of passionate making out was audible behind his head.

His eyes rolled so far back they almost lolled into his skull. However, the sound of footsteps followed, and whatever tenseness was coiled in his chest reduced. Finally swallowing his nerves, he reached into the fridge. His hands had barely brushed against the side of the can before FRIDAY’s ringing tone had him pausing like a guilty culprit.

‘The Margaritaville Protocol has been activated and Boss has been notified of your presence in the kitchen,’ the AI chirped, not at all remorseful for being a sneaky little tattle tale.

‘Of course,’ Peter muttered, his eyes scanning the living room before he felt for his wrists. To his utter excitement, his nanotech suit was probably charging somewhere in the tower. He brought the now lukewarm drink to his lips, abandoning toppings and chugged it.

He slid past Harley’s room, wrinkling his nose as the couple’s vivacious mingling could be heard from the other side of the door. He’d had enough of their weird situationship so he left them alone, sneaking away to go on patrol.

He bolted to his room, stripping immediately, pulling up the red and blue spandex. Digging for his mask, he carelessly searched through piles for the piece of material. After a few minutes, he’d retrieved it and pulled it over his head.

‘Welcome back, Peter,’ Karen chirped.

Peter restrained the impulse to wave to his AI. He then realised just how stupid it was to want to wave to an automated voice. Instead, he called for FRIDAY to open the window and dove out.

-

The air was crisp against his suit, brushing past as he freefell. Sunrays flooded through the sky, the atmosphere a vibrant blue. His suit exploded with a red glow, almost neon against the sunlight. He let himself drift, wind rushing against his body. Then, he clicked at his webshooters, propelling a thread from the cartridge. It attached to a further building, yanking him forward as he swung. His body drifted like a pendulum, before jerking to the side as he webbed himself in a different direction. He scoured the streets, eyes peeled for crime. ‘Karen, connect me to the NYPD servers.’

The AI was silent for a moment, as if it were thinking. ‘There is unusual activity on 5th Ave and East 45th Street.’

‘Alright. Map it for me.’

Manhattan wasn’t his usual patrolling route—he liked to stick to his home ground, but he’d gotten familiar with the borough.

Minutes stretched into hours as the sunset licked the horizon. Spider-Man had stopped three armed robberies, saved a cat and retrieved alien technology from a criminal clearly way out of their element.

A typical weekday on patrol.

Peter swung up towards the top of the Empire State Building, the sky clear as the evening chill brushed his skin. His feet hit the side of the building first, and he allowed his axis to shift, stomach twisting temporarily as he adjusted to the new pivot. Allowing for his body to move slowly, he dragged himself up the side of the building and across the glass. Weirdly enough, he felt more at home being upside down than rightside up.

He wandered up towards the spire, settling himself just below it on one of the structural beams. His legs dangled, swinging lethargically as he gazed at the sunset. Wind brushed past his masked face. He had the inkling to remove his mask, his hand reaching up to his neckline.

Spider-Man was Peter Parker’s sacrosanct.

‘Sleeping on the job?’ An obnoxious voice interrupted his state of mind, buzzing lowly in the back of his head—awfully like a fly. Voices like that tended to have that effect.

He looked up, forward, staring at the floating figure with a blank expression.

‘At least I’ve been doing mine,’ he retorted, unmoving from his position. ‘I’ve heard you’ve been sleeping around, Iron Lad.’

‘Contrary to popular belief,’ the hero said, as if he had any righteous bone in his body, ‘I have a girlfriend—one girlfriend.’

‘Bullshit,’ Spider-Man let out a sudden laugh. ‘That’s not what Twitter is saying.’

Iron Lad settled beside him. ‘You believe that shit?’

Spider-Man shuffled over, giving the other hero more space between them. ‘It’s more believable than anything that comes out of your mouth.’

‘Now that’s just ludicrous.’

He scoffed. ‘You told me you hung out with Tony Stark. I asked him myself—nothing.’

‘And how am I supposed to know you know him?’ Iron Lad rebutted, shoving him.

‘Who else made this suit?’ Spider-Man gestured wildly to his suit. ‘And before you ask, dude, I’m broke as broke gets. I’m in…um, college, full ride.’

Clearly Iron Lad didn’t have a response, just nodding plainly in acknowledgement.

They fell into silence. The sun was barely visible in the skyline, dipping down into the horizon. Peter bit his lip to hide his smile.

Spider-Man hadn’t yet worked out whether their quiet was comfortable, or the other hero was feeling immense awkwardness by staring out into the sunset. Before his question was answered, the guy beside him opened his mouth again.

‘You seem tense,’ the hero commented unhelpfully. Spider-Man restrained the urge to push the hero off of the building just so he could watch the sky in peace. He was also very aware of just how coiled his muscles felt. However, he didn’t feel the need to satisfy Iron Lad’s observation. He didn’t deserve that kind of grace.

However, Spider-Man had nothing better to talk about. He sighed irritatedly. ‘It’s been a long day. My…uh…roommate, has his girl over again.’

‘The noisy one?’ Iron Lad replied, amused. ‘Sounds like you’re just a prude.’

Spider-Man rolled his eyes, the mask moving animatedly in mimicking his expression. He chose not to respond, instead fixated on the sun as it disappeared further between the skyscrapers.

‘Fine, fine, not a prude,’ Iron Lad tried, noticing the other hero’s petty silence. ‘Maybe you should just talk to your roommate, then?’

‘I would, but he’s not exactly a rational person,’ Spider-Man quipped.

The other hero nodded. ‘Well, my roommate is, if not worse, than yours.’

‘Is that possible?’

‘He throws things out of proportion,’ Iron Lad sighed. ‘He gets all finicky every time my girlfriend comes over.’

‘Finicky?’

‘My girlfriend, she’s super nice, well liked,’ he said. ‘But for some reason, my roommate always tenses up, complains about her, etcetera.’

‘Well he sounds like an asshole. Almost as bad as Ha—him,’ Spider-Man spluttered, barely spitting over Harley’s name.

Iron Lad made an amused hum, like he’d just raised his eyebrow and wanted to make himself known. ‘Almost as bad as you.’

Spider-Man gaped, chucking his empty web cartridge at him. ‘You dick!’

‘Hey!’ The hero protested, dodging the canister easily.

‘Nope, nope, don’t talk to me,’ Spider-Man stood up, exasperated. ‘I’ve had enough.’

From beside him, Iron Lad let out a scoff. ‘Fine. Go. See if I care.’

‘Suit yourself then.’ Spider-Man dived off the edge, like a swimmer plunging into the depths of the ocean.

Chapter Text

Peter had relived the same lesson over and over again, yet it never seemed to stick—do not, under any circumstances, engage in a knife fight past two in the morning. Apparently, the moon looked similar in the sky as it did reflecting off of a machete. Even with his wise years of experience and eyes sharper than Hawkeye’s, mistakes could happen. And they did.

And frankly, it wasn’t his fault. The woman shouldn’t have been slashing a knife around like a wannabe Gordon Ramsey.

Dental floss sutures held his side together with only its free will, poorly executed in a desperate attempt to stop anything internal from becoming external. Blood loss was a bitch and Peter had no intention of dealing with her during school hours. The more he’d wearily peeled off of the bandages to check up at the wound, the more he winced, purely at the fact that it replicated a mauled limb in a horror movie.

Again, his brain was on autodrive when he’d sewn himself up.

The sutures strummed like guitar strings at every movement. Even the lightest stretch and his nerves would be electrified like someone was incarcerating him from inside out.

He’d made it as far as the school gate before doubling over, wheezing in an attempt to catch his breath. Apparently with a stab wound deep into one’s flank, it made walking no easier. He wrapped one arm around his side, the other out for balance, and began to shuffle towards his locker. Maybe if he didn’t have a fifty-ton school bag, his hip wouldn’t be so stressed.

Ten minutes later and Peter had barely evaded the morning rush, escaped the wrath of his backpack and was cradling his schoolbooks on his way to APUSH. Neither of his two friends were anywhere to be seen, although it was a Wednesday, so Ned had to take his younger sister to school and MJ had a Model UN meeting.

It meant Peter was back to his loner status. Hooray.

Trying not to be miserable about his solitude, he figured leaving earlier for class sounded like a good idea. Or, better than standing alone next to his locker while some fuckhead laughed at him for having no friends. He shuffled forward, careful to shield his bandaged hip from distracted students.

As if the universe wanted to punish him for existing, yet again, said fuckheads appeared out of nowhere.

It happened achingly slowly.

Harley and Harry were mid-conversation, oblivious to anything and anyone around them. They inched closer to Peter, unaware, and before the teenager knew it, bumped straight into him. The brunet’s feet fell from under and his books went tumbling, as well as his laptop that skidded across the floor.

He tried not to hear the unruly crack as someone’s foot crashed down onto it.

The sutures snapped like elastic bands, floss unweaving within his skin. He let out a quiet, wordless noise, hands instinctively grappling for the splitting stitches. Peter bit down on his lower lip, attempting not to have a breakdown in the centre of the busy hallway.

Get it together, Parker.

Harley spun back at the deafening thud. Instinctively, Peter sat up straighter a little, biting back a pained groan. A miniscule part of him expected for Harley to react, maybe even notice the small splotches of crimson. Instead, the blond only delivered a smug smile and turned back around.

Typical.

Huffing, he collected his books, picked up his newly-destroyed computer, and bit down hard on his tongue. He shrugged off the nagging sting of pain. It would be fine. Surely the wound had mostly healed—maybe there was a small graze?

It was nothing.

-

It probably wasn’t nothing.

He and Flash had been partnered for a research task, not something he was particularly enthused about. Neither was the other boy, whose sour expression didn’t falter once, even when Peter offered what he thought was a clever solution to their teamwork issue.

‘If you read about the American Revolution, I’ll—’

‘Jeez, Parker,’ Flash rolled his eyes, fishing his phone from his pocket. ‘Does it look like I want to read a book?’

Peter grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Do you want to fail this assignment?’

‘The internet is right there.’

They’d both found separate spots in a hidden corner of the library. Peter had sat down first, expecting his partner to follow, but Flash stopped a few metres away. Fine, Peter didn’t care. Flash could do what he wanted.

‘Pass me that book,’ Flash said as the other teenager flipped his first page. ‘The one with the flags on the spine.’

If Peter wasn’t so surprised that his partner wanted to actually read, he would’ve ignored the request. But who was he if he didn’t help even the most obnoxious of people?

He reached up and pulled the book off of the shelf with a quiet groan. His wound was still a little sore, although it had been a couple of hours since it had ripped open in the hallway. Nevertheless, he bit back the low throb of pain and slid the book across the carpet. Flash picked it up with a small nod and cracked it open to a random page.

Peter went back to reading.

A few minutes later, the boy was asking for another book. Peter was a little sceptical, considering no one, especially not Flash, could read a full biography at that pace. However, the teenager looked insistent so Peter fished another book from the shelf. With a huff, he slid the new book over and returned to his own. Whatever kept the boy quiet, he guessed.

It became worse when Flash continued to ask for more instead of retrieving them himself. Every so often, Peter would be hassled to reach up, rekindling the pain in his flank to pass over another futile book.

There was also a faint glow emitting from between the pages.

‘Penis!’

‘What, Flash,’ Peter droned for the eighth time in a row, not looking up. His own belongings were scattered around him, from every interval that he’d have to step over one to pass a book to his needy partner.

‘I can’t reach it,’ the teenager responded with an uncaring smirk. ‘The green one.’

Rolling his eyes, Peter stood up and promptly ignored the constant throb in his side. He reached for the musty cover, fingers straining around the thick spine. Slowly, he pulled it from its spot on the shelf.

‘Is this book from prehistoric times?’ He coughed, fanning away a gentle cloud of dust.

‘Parker, hurry up,’ Flash exclaimed, insistent.

Peter tugged the book completely off, flinching as the entire weight settled into his palm. A sharp twist of pain exploded in his hip, causing him to jerk away from the shelf. He froze, nerves lighting up like dynamite.

‘You gonna give me it?’

Peter let out an involuntary gasp, his free hand instinctively rushing to the source of pain. ‘I—I can’t…’

‘Too heavy? I knew you were weak but man, it’s a book,’ the teenager let out a mocking chuckle.

‘No, it’s not that—’ He spluttered, the air fleeing from his lungs.

Sticky warmth seeped through the loose material attached to his hip. Flash gave him a sour look. His eyes drifted maliciously down the teenager’s frozen position, leering. Then he stilled.

‘What the fuck, Parker,’ the boy said quickly, his jaw agape. The malicious mask disappeared, leaving a horrified teenager with eyes bulging out of his skull. ‘Dude, you want me to go get the nurse? You’re—you’re bleeding out.’

Peter looked down at him through desperate eyes. ‘Do not call the nurse.’

Taking a shaky breath, he brought his arm back down to his side. He stumbled forward, leaning towards his bag, because surely with his suit there, there was a first aid kit. He stretched further, arms outreached, but it was cut off with a stabbing—ha ha, stabbing—pain. Hissing, he buckled over, his nerves electrified.

‘My—my bag,’ he managed to get out, his voice suddenly hoarse. Flash passed it autonomously, as if his body worked faster than his brain. Worry was etched all over his face, and Peter almost felt honoured.

The bag dropped like a dead weight, making him stagger to gain a split second of balance. He dug through it, movements sloppy as he rummaged deep for even a rogue bandage or two.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, where is it,’ he bit back another noise of pain. Blood was visibly seeping through his shirt, a thick patch of crimson soaking the fabric. His jaw clenched.

Fucking Parker Luck.

‘I’ll go get Ned, um, maybe Michelle,’ the teenager said hesitantly, eyes darting between the wound and Peter’s explicit grimace.

‘Tell them…my locker—’ He was cut off by his own dry heaving. His hands grasped for the bookshelves, scrambling to grip to something—anything. ‘Go.’

Flash rushed away, frantic.

Michelle had her head deeply buried in a book. Anyone in a thirty-mile radius could tell she didn’t want to be disturbed. Even her partner, Cindy, was occupied and had left the girl in her peaceful solitude. Flash’s chest coiled a little tighter at the idea of interrupting her. However, Peter Parker was bleeding out in a high school library, so he felt that was a plausible excuse.

‘Michelle,’ Flash hissed.

The girl’s eyes snapped up, narrowing like a serpent. He recoiled, shifting backwards.

Fuck, Flash, I’m bleeding out. Pick up the pace, would you?

Penis? What the fuck was he doing in Flash’s consciousness? And why was he so…so opinionated?

‘What do you want, Eugene?’ She sneered, hand pressed between the pages of her novel as a makeshift bookmark.

‘It’s Parker,’ Flash said quickly, eyes darting between the girl and the enclosed shelves. ‘He’s bleeding.’

Michelle sprung from her chair. ‘Go back and make sure he doesn’t do something stupid,’ she hissed. Flash didn’t object, nodding and darting back to his partner.

The colour was fading from Parker’s face as he lowered himself to the carpet. He looked as ghostly as Flash felt, skin almost pure white.

Don’t just leave me hanging, dumbass.

Parker let out a strained whine. He flushed slightly at the sight of Flash, jaw clenched in discomfort. Huffing, Flash gave him a disbeliefing look and moved closer to help ease him to the carpet. The teenager stiffened at his touch, but allowed for him to bring him to the ground.

Luckily, Michelle had come back before Flash made any rash, possibly life-threatening decisions. Concern was etched into her face, although it was masked by her typical annoyance. ‘For fuck’s sake, Peter.’

Parker grumbled wordlessly, turning to his side.

‘Flash, cut his shirt,’ the girl ordered, unravelling a pouch stocked with medical supplies Flash assumed was not the usual range. He wasn’t sure though. He’d never had to witness someone get sewn up in his school library.

Flash hesitated, picking up the glimmering scissors. Shaking, he looked back at her for confirmation, just in case he’d misheard her.

‘Do it!’ She hissed, shoving him forward. Pursing his lips, he approached the bleeding teenager.

‘Shouldn’t you consult me first?’ Parker protested, his eyebrows in a thin line. ‘Consent and all?’

‘Shut up, Parker, this isn’t easy for me either,’ Flash huffed and began hacking at the material. Under the action, the bleeding teenager stilled, eyes fixated on the bookshelf.

He gently peeled back the poorly wrapped bandages and repressed the bile in his throat. Horror movies couldn’t compare to this moment, not when the scent of blood was so palpable that he could taste it.

Don’t be such a coward, Flash.

Moving backwards, he held the chunk of material far out from his body. It was almost soaked to the bone of his partner’s blood, and holy shit that was Parker’s freaking blood and—

He glanced frantically again at Parker, before freezing. ‘Fucking hell, you’re ripped.’

The teenager only sighed, his eyes rolling. Michelle tore the material from Flash’s hands and shoved it into Parker’s mouth. ‘Bite down,’ she ordered. Parker wrinkled his nose at the bloody rag but grit his teeth anyway.

Flash grimaced for him. Parker was looking more and more like a mauled animal as the seconds ticked by.

Beside him, Michelle had finished unpacking the first aid kit and was gloving up. He froze, glancing at the scene like a deer in headlights. Was she—no, surely not.

She’s gonna sew me up, Flash. Scared?

Stupidly, Flash felt this was the necessary time for small talk. It was most definitely not to get rid of Brain Parker’s useless yammering in his head. ‘Are you planning on going into medicine?’

‘What makes you say that?’ Michelle responded, not unkindly, but her tone left minimal room for question.

Flash decided wisely not to continue the futile conversation. Especially when the girl’s hands were brushing across the wound, wiping at it with antiseptic. Parker groaned through the gag, low and pained. She ignored it, continuing with steady strokes until the crusted blood and debris had been ridden.

Sighing, she tugged at the first piece of floss, unweaving it from his gory skin. Parker let out an incoherent noise of protest and Flash felt himself clinging to a large book as if it would ground him.

‘Think about this very moment next time you decide to sew yourself up with dental floss,’ she said sourly, pulling out the rest. The teenager yelped, before grumbling unintelligibly.

Next time? Flash was feeling oddly pale.

Of course there’s a next time, stupid. Why do you think she knows what she’s doing?

Shut the fuck up, Brain Parker.

The worst bit was when Michelle held up the needle. It gleamed under her grasp, silvery and tiny and ripping the air from Flash’s lungs

‘Lighter,’ she spoke bluntly. Flailing, Flash searched for the item and flicked at it frantically. She turned to him with an exasperated look, before gently passing the needle through the flame.

Then, she tore open a sealed packet of—what was that, sutures? And after a few moments of fiddling, she was pressing the needle into her friend’s skin.

Parker tensed immediately, his whole body stiffening like a marionette doll and someone had just tugged his strings. A hoarse groan escaped through his stuffed mouth, vibrating lowly like a predator. Michelle let out an exasperated sigh and pulled the first stitch taut. She stilled, raising her eyebrow. Parker unclenched and curled up like a bug, letting out a pained wheeze. Flash swore he could hear the rattle of bones.

Because it hurts, obviously. She’s sewing through my skin with no painkillers.

‘One down, nine to go,’ she huffed, giving her friend a knowing look. Parker groaned again, and Flash turned away.

Ten sutures later and Flash was damn near passing out against the library shelves.

Parker’s forehead was glistening with sweat, eyes glassy from withholding tears. He spat out the rag, scowling as he wiped his mouth. Michelle had successfully sewn her friend up and was patching it up with better bandaging skills than the poor attempt that Flash had been revealed to earlier.

How she’d done it, Flash didn’t want to know, ever.

You think I’d tell you?

‘You should be a surgeon,’ he said, watching her clean up.

‘I am a surgeon,’ she quipped with a small smile. ‘Licensed? Maybe not, but someone here can vouch for me.’

Parker gave her a humoured half-smile, the colour returning to his face.

Flash looked up with wide eyes. ‘I feel like I’ve seen something I shouldn’t’ve.’

Parker hummed in agreement. ‘Would it kill you if I chose not to explain?’

‘Does it look like I want to know why you happen to have a stab wound?’ Flash exclaimed. Deep down, he did want to know, because he was a teenager with a habit of being nosy. What? It was a rite of passage. But judging by the teenager’s miserable expression, now was not the time to pry.

‘Tell anyone about any of this and I’ll crush your balls with my Oxford Dictionary,’ Michelle exclaimed all too casually. ‘But for now, you think you could find a spare shirt from the Phys Ed office?’

Flash didn’t have to be told twice. On the way, he threw up in the restrooms. Because, what the fuck?

Imagine how I feel.

Shut up Brain Parker.

-

Harley was having a great day. He’d aced his English assignment, got in some solo practice at lunch, and he hadn’t ended up with Mystery Meat at the cafeteria. He hadn’t been late to school and Happy hadn’t been miserable when Liz came with them again. Peter hadn’t even been there in the morning—only God knew how often the teenager went between Manhattan and Queens, but Harley wasn’t complaining. It was nice to have a little peace and quiet.

He wasn’t even nervous about biology, for some reason, even though he had very nearly failed the last test. They were starting a new unit, thus he could put it in the past. That, and the awkward conversation of Peter simultaneously being a martyr and the most annoying twerp on the planet, just to prove that Harley could do science.

Weird.

‘Dude, there’s a party down near the docks,’ Harry exclaimed as they sat down at their usual spot beside the windows. ‘My buddy’s guy is throwing it, we should definitely go.’

‘When is it?’ Harley asked, already opening his phone. ‘We cannot miss any more training, man, Coach Wilson will rebuke my captain status.’

‘Friday,’ Harry nodded. ‘No training on a Friday. We can have some fun.’

‘I’m in then, man,’ he said, grinning.

‘Alright, class,’ Mr Cobbwell clapped his hands and their heads drifted to the front. ‘Shall we begin?’

Class had been in session for at least fifteen minutes when Harley noticed a gap. There was an odd silence. A peaceful gap in answering questions. A missing voice amongst the nerds. He scanned the classroom, turning his head as inconspicuously as he could.

‘Can anyone recap, what is mitosis?’ Mr Dell asked the class. ‘Yes, Ned.’

‘When a parent cell divides to create two daughter cells,’ the teenager explained unenthusiastically.

Harley glanced over to the boy, expecting to catch Ned and Peter’s strange handshake of celebration.

But Peter wasn’t there. Ned sat alone, an earbud in his right ear, sketching notes frantically in his notebook. Harley almost felt bad for the guy—Peter’s best friend was the much friendlier counterpart in the partnership, so something tugged in his chest that the boy was alone.

‘Underoos, what the fu—fudge have you done?

His eyes snapped to the window, the previous train of thought fizzling away. Instantly, his eyebrows pressed into a thin line.

His father was outside and, speaking of the devil, was helping Peter down the stairs of the front of the school. Tony’s voice was faint, but his voice was consistently over a hundred decibels and could be heard through the paper thin windows. Peter’s arm was slung around the billionaire’s shoulder, legs ever so slow as the pair of them shuffled towards a parked vehicle.

‘Dude, what the fuck are you lookin’ at,’ Harry leant across, stretching far over his friend. Harley chuckled quietly, moving backwards to allow for the boy to peer obliviously.

‘My dad’s out there,’ he murmured, pointing at the sleek vehicle.

‘Without you?’

He grimaced, eyes shifting mindlessly back to the whiteboard. ‘Parker’s probably sick or injured again. He’s got the immune system of a goddamn baby.’

‘Man, how is he so poorly?’ Harry winced. ‘He doesn’t even do anything active.’

‘Beats me,’ Harley huffed, subconsciously rubbing at his forearm. After a brief patrol of the city last night, he’d gotten slightly banged up as his superhero alter ego. The armour protected him, mostly, but it only did so much.

‘Mr Osborn, Mr Keener, please concentrate,’ Mr Dell turned to them, an unimpressed look on his face. The two boys nodded sheepishly, before returning to their conversation.

Harry rolled his eyes, shrinking back. ‘Buzzkill.’

‘When isn’t he?’

His friend hummed in agreement, before his eyes lit up. ‘What if Parker’s secretly in a gang?’

‘You think he’s beating people to shit?’ Harley stifled a laugh. ‘He wouldn’t even last ten seconds before someone knocks him out.’

His friend raised an eyebrow. ‘You never know, dude, he could have a sleeper build.’

‘He’s as lanky as a twig.’

‘Wasn’t there a rumour that he was fucking jacked?’

Harley’s eyebrows furrowed. ‘Bullshit!’

‘Mr Keener!’ Mr Dell’s exasperated tone interrupted his train of thought. ‘Since you’re so engaged, how about you describe the four stages of mitosis?’

Sharing a peeved look with his friend, Harley took a breath and let the words roll off of his tongue. Maybe Peter had been right, most of this content was easy. But, he wasn’t going to grace the boy with glory. ‘Prophase, metaphase, anaphase and telophase.’

Mr Dell eyed him, but shrugged it off with a tired sigh.

Chapter Text

Natasha looked the teenager up and down.

Peter stared back at her with a forlorn expression, swaddled in every blanket in the tower. He was tucked under his comforter, leaning miserably against his headboard. FRIDAY was playing sad rain music quietly in the background and he’d been staring out of the window for the past hour, reminiscing about the good old days. The good old days, when the grade’s resident asshole had just watched him be sewn up in a library. He could never face Flash again. He was never getting over this, not in a million years.

‘I feel violated,’ he shuddered, sinking lower into the cocoon. ‘I don’t think I can ever recover from this.’

Nat’s eyes widened, just barely. Her hair was tied up into a tight ponytail, her figure clad in athletic wear. The teenager glanced miserably at the clock, then back at the woman, then the clock. He made another distraught sound, eyes wide and devastated.

After a moment of assessing the damages, she raised an amused eyebrow and began to tug at the end of a blanket. Peter grasped for the stray edge like a feral animal, barely suppressing a hiss.

‘If something bad had actually happened, you’d be in the gym already,’ Nat replied, her lip twitching, ‘trying to hide the fact that something’s wrong because you believe that it’s a burden on everyone and that there’s no point in involving the people that care about you.’

Peter only pouted further. Was she right? He wasn’t going to grace her with satisfaction.

‘C’mon, паук-ребенок, she pressed her lips into a thin line. ‘Steve’s gonna think you’re a quitter, and you know how he feels about quitters.’

Sighing miserably, a distressing sound, Peter appeared from the depths of comfort. The air bit at his clammy skin like ice. He stretched, wincing quietly as he accidentally tugged at his healing wound. He imagined it was nearly healed but something about being tucked under a mountain of blankets was more appealing than having to train with a sore hip.

Nat wrapped an arm around his shoulder. ‘I’m right and you know it. Now you better not work too hard with that healing wound or Tony will never let you leave your room again.’

‘Not you?’ Peter gave her a betraying look.

‘He’s scared of me. I can do what I want.’

The pair met Steve in the gym. He paused his stretching to wave. ‘Tony told me about your injury, so we’ll take it slow today.’

‘I’m fine,’ Peter whined, covering his hands in his face. ‘I swear, MJ sewed it up for me.’

‘He also told me that he had to pick you up early because a close classmate of yours had to witness you being sewn up in a library.’ Steve added, mirth written all over his face. He continued to stretch, rolling his arm backwards to loosen his joints.

Peter mindlessly followed, ignoring Nat’s amused smirk.

‘Was that why you were sulking?’ She snorted, cracking her knuckles.

‘Snitch,’ the teenager hissed. ‘Can’t trust Mr Stark with anything.’

‘Son, Tony’s just worried about you.’

Natasha kicked aside a pair of violet boxing gloves, muttering something about Hawkeye under her breath. ‘Tony’s a mother hen.’

‘Doesn’t mean he doesn’t think it’s funny,’ Peter lunged, wincing as the top bandages rubbed against his skin. Steve flashed him a concerned look, but the teenager merely batted a hand.

Nat began with some light shadowboxing. ‘He’s not wrong. It is very funny.’

The three continued their warmup before moving into sparring. Steve threw Peter a roll of handwrap and the teenager indignantly wrapped the tape around his knuckles.

‘You’re not allowed to do any fancy, life-threatening moves,’ Nat eyed him, her tone without any room for argument. She turned to face the super soldier, indirectly pushing Peter out of the way.

With a sigh, the teenager crouched beside the wall and watched the Avengers as they stepped up to the sparring mats.

Steve advanced first, throwing a punch outwards. Nat saw it and dipped, twisting and knocking her elbow out and into the super soldier’s gut. Steve made a sound of protest, before managing to land a hook punch.

The two continued to spar, putting up a fair fight. Steve had more brute force, but Natasha’s agility posed fair competition. But at the end, Nat swung out a leg and knocked the man onto his backside.

‘Your turn, son,’ Steve wiped sweat from his face, smiling weakly. The super soldier wandered to the side and tipped back a bottle of water.

Peter’s muscles screamed in protest as he stood up and stepped forward onto the sparring mat. He bit down on his tongue, swooping under a fist and barely missing it by the skin of his teeth. Nat was pulling her punches, but even those still posed a challenge.

By the time they’d finished sparring, Peter was keeling over, hands gripping tightly to his side.

‘Nat, I told you this was a bad idea,’ Steve gave her his Righteously Disappointed™ look, unwrapping his knuckles. ‘Let’s take a raincheck.’

‘It’s not her fault,’ Peter protested indignantly. ‘It was my responsibility, don’t blame her for my mistake.

The super soldier turned to him, worry etched across his face. ‘Son, you’d be here even if you were bleeding out. Nat should’ve known.’

Nat only smiled unrepentantly. ‘Kid, walk it off. You’ve been through worse.’

Steve raised an unimpressed eyebrow. ‘Let’s just move to the cooldown.’

-

‘Man, Coach Wilson is definitely trying to kill us,’ Harry groaned, wiping his glistening face with his jersey.

Harley nodded sluggishly, buckling over to heave at the floor. ‘If I have to run any more laps, my legs will fall off and I’ll have to build new ones.’

‘You’ll be the first basketball-playing cyborg,’ his friend’s eyes widened, a smug grin on his face.

‘Me and Rhodey can start a club,’ Harley chuckled through a huff. His face was flushed

‘You lot, two more laps and we’ll wrap up practice,’ Coach Wilson called and blew his whistle sharply.

Harry grimaced and stumbled into a stiff jog. ‘I’m not gonna…huff…I’m not gonna make it.’

Inhaling sharply, Harley took off, heels burning into the shiny floors. ‘Two more—that's…that’s nothing, right?’

His friend didn’t have time to respond before getting lost in the overhaul of athletes jogging past. Harley bit down on his tongue, suppressed a breathless groan and followed the pack.

After the two rounds of physical torture, he fell to the floor with a defeated sigh. His head lolled to the side, flushed and glistening with sweat. ‘The sweet relief of stillness.’

Beside him, there was a thud as Harry followed, limbs splaying across the polished floors. ‘I can’t feel my legs. Maybe I’ll start a club with Rhodey.’

‘We both can,’ the blond choked out, panting.

After a moment, his heartbeat slowed to a steady pace, but his muscles had given out long ago.

‘Stark, Osborn, get up,’ Coach Wilson rolled his eyes. ‘Go do that in the locker rooms.’

Harry wrinkled his nose, his chest still rising and falling quickly. ‘Respectfully, Sir, but do you want us to get a disease?’

Coach Wilson raised an unimpressed eyebrow. ‘Do you want to be the two tidying up the sports shed?’

The teenagers sprung up without another word. Harley’s muscles screamed at the sudden movement, but Coach Wilson’s no-nonsense stare wasn’t something to disobey.

-

Harley heaved his burning feet from the gym. His feet, barely cushioned in his rubber sandals, dragged along the ground. The car was just so far, and his legs could only move so much.

Eventually he made it to the swanky vehicle, parked beside the curb, windows down and music loud. Ignoring his father’s wave, he threw his bag carelessly into the boot.

‘Shit,’ he hissed, his arm jolting sideways from the gear’s momentum. He winced and cradled it gently.

‘You smell,’ Tony eyed him through the window, his nose wrinkled. ‘Your sweat is going to infect my new leather car seats.’

‘Yeah,' he said dismissively, sliding into the front passenger seat. ‘You shoulda thought about that before you decided to take a new car to pick up your son from basketball practice.’

‘Well sorry for wanting to make you look cool,’ Tony flicked his shoulder before recoiling immediately with a horrified look. ‘Eugh, you’re slimy.’

‘Cool for who? It’s six in the evening at a high school,’ Harley said unrepentantly and leaned back in his seat. ‘You want to impress the janitors and my underpaid coach?’

‘I’m going to ignore you said that,’ his father huffed, pulling the car out and onto the road, ‘and when you get home, you are going straight to the bathroom and those clothes are going directly into the washing machine.’

‘It’s not even that bad.’

‘That jersey is toxic waste,’ Tony feigned a gag, making a horrible retching noise as he swerved around another vehicle.

‘It’s lived in,’ Harley replied triumphantly. ‘Shows I’ve been working hard.’

‘Sweating hard.’

‘It is a natural bodily process—’

‘I don’t want to talk about you being a hormonal teenager,’ Tony cut him off with a peeved scowl. ‘I reckon—’

‘We have to talk about something,’ Harley said with a grin.

‘If you didn’t cut me off,’ his father muttered. ‘I was going to say, I reckon we should discuss your eighteenth, the big one-eight, the step-into-adulthood, the end of high school, the legal drinking age in Europe—’

‘Oh, yes, I was going to ask whether you knew anyone that could hook me up with, y’know,’ the teenager said with a straight face, before his expression cracked and he burst into snickers.

Tony wrinkled his nose. ‘I don’t know whether I should be concerned that you want substances at your party, or that you think I know any drug dealers that can “hook you up”.’

Harley hummed amusedly.

‘I’m choosing to ignore your request,’ the billionaire announced, eyes on the road. ‘Anyway, I figured you wouldn’t want the kind of party Pepper usually throws, so I need to know your requests before we meet with the party planner.’

‘No investors, no networking,’ the teenager said, counting off his hand. ‘No suits, no ties, no weird fancy jazz music that makes me fall asleep.’

‘So basically anything but a Stark party.’

‘Yup! Wait, can you hire Drake?’

Tony rolled his eyes. ‘You are such a typical teenager. I’m almost ashamed.’

With faux sincerity, Harley batted his eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

They fell into comfortable silence. Harley drummed his fingertips onto his thighs, Manhattan’s skyline stretching above. The sky was a gentle orange, pink swimming through the clouds.

‘You were at school earlier,’ he said quietly, gazing out of the window. ‘Picking up Peter.’

‘Oh, he didn’t feel well,’ Tony replied without hesitation. ‘Stomach ache.’

‘May wasn’t available?’

‘Not everyone makes seven figures, kid,’ his father looked over at him with a small smile. ‘And she can’t just leave her shift. If I’m available, I’ll go for her.’

‘No, yeah, I get it,’ Harley nodded, pursing his lips. ‘I was just, um, worried. He’s always sick.’

There was a strange look in his father’s eye that Harley couldn’t decipher.

‘Not sick, just…’ Tony began, evidently choosing his words. He trailed

‘He doesn’t have some weird disease, does he?’ Harley’s eyes widened, a shred of something, maybe fear, maybe even…guilt, gnawing suddenly at his lungs.

‘No, no, no, no,’ his father replied frantically. ‘Just, ah, weak immune system, frail bones.’

Harley wasn’t convinced, but he wasn’t going to push. They settled back into silence.

-

‘You said I had a weak immune system and frail bones?’ Peter yelped incredulously, hands twisted around the sauce jar. ‘You couldn’t think of anything better? He’s going to think I’m a pipsqueak!’

They stood determinedly at the kitchen bench, attempting to cook an edible meal for dinner. With Peter’s aunt’s not so helpful influence and Tony’s history of inefficiency in the kitchen, the pair was a match made in hell.

Peter’s eyes narrowed confrontationally onto the recipe—it was from one of Pepper’s fancy, gastronomy books. He could barely bake a cake, let alone whatever artwork he was trying to create. Tony was focused on turning on the stove, glaring at the fancy appliance like it had personally offended him.

‘What else could I say?’ The billionaire raised his eyebrows, jabbing furiously at another button. ‘I’m not going to out you as the crime fighting pajama man, Roo.’

‘They aren’t pajamas,’ Peter huffed, picking up the bottle of marinara sauce. He wrapped his shaking fingers around the lid and tugged. ‘Maybe outing myself would be better than having him think I’m the living embodiment of a stick!’

The billionaire sighed, glancing up with an exhausted expression. ‘You want to tell him or should I?’

Peter froze, gripping harder at the lid. ‘I wasn’t serious, I was just saying, like, hypothetically.’

The lid sprung off and flew across the room, followed by the neon pink glitter that burst from the jar and across his face. Tony pressed a hand to his mouth to suppress a laugh.

The teenager’s expression hardened, furiously blowing a puff of sparkles. ‘Clint’s going down.’

‘Can you get your vengeance after we sort out dinner?’ The billionaire replied, glaring back at the oven. ‘If only this thing was controlled by FRI. Roo, you understand it?’

Wiping pink from his face, Peter wandered over to the stove. ‘You can build a high-tech suit of armour but not turn on a stove?’

‘Tell me that thing is simple.’ Tony huffed. ‘I bet you that you can’t.’

After a moment of pressing on a screen, one Tony had missed, and turning on a dial, the surface glowed a faint red. ‘You were saying?’

‘Beginner’s luck.’

‘I make pancakes on here all the time,’ Peter pouted indignantly. ‘Speaking of, are you sure you don’t want me to make my skittles pancakes?’

‘The thing that burned the bottom of Pepper’s Le Creuset frying pan?’

‘That was Bucky, actually,’ the teenager tried.

Bucky, who’d been minding his own business at his spot in the living room, huffed non-commitally from the couch. ‘All you, kid.’

Tony turned back to Peter with an exhausted eyeroll. ‘Let’s just order takeout.’