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Chapter Text

A bald man, glowing cherry red with outrage, jabbered tinnily through Peter’s cheap wire earphones.

“Spider-Man needs to pick up his damn feet and clean up after his carnage! He has desecrated our streets and now the vagrant has moved on to blowing up our beaches! Where will the terror end? Will it be our aquariums next? Our zoos? Our nurseries? And what are the police doing? Nothing! That’s what! We, the good people of New York, need to stand-”

“Don’t torture yourself with it.” Peter jumped out of his skin as May appeared seemingly from the walls to unceremoniously pluck an earphone from his ear.

She stood over him by his seat at the kitchen table, a bejewelled hand clamped over her twitching mouth as Peter tried to still his flip flopping pulse.

Had she come home from work early just to mess with him?

“Sorry, Peter,” May tried unsuccessfully to taper her giggles, “you were just sitting there all gloomy looking, what did you expect?”

He levelled his Aunt with an unimpressed stare. Ever since he’d unintentionally outed himself as Spider-Man to her three weeks prior, she’d made it her mission to thwart his ‘Peter Tingle’, as she’d bequeathed it, much to his internal shrieking. But unfortunately for his sanity, it was his Aunt’s method of extending an olive branch after her initial outward shrieks at the news, so Peter shouldered it humbly. For now.

Peter would bide his time, he’d let the moniker go undisputed, he’d prove to his aunt that Spider-Man was a mature and balanced super-hero, but as soon as they were back on even ground, he’d strike. In the meantime, he would accept the bizarre new daily ritual of his aunt coiling herself up into miscellaneous areas of their apartment and pouncing at him like an opossum.

Though he had drawn a line one evening when she’d lurched out of his laundry bin like a horrifying Jack-in-the-box, his boxers ending up draped over her hair. However, even May had agreed that one had gone too far.

Peter’s phone vibrated from where it sat in his hand and he jumped. Again. May mouthed ‘Peter Tingle’ at him as he replaced his earphones and tapped to answer, taking in a second too late exactly who he was answering to.

He stumbled through a greeting. “Mr. Stark? Uh, hey, this is Peter, Peter Parker.”

“Yes kid, I’m aware, I called you, no?”

“Right, just kidding. Very astute, Mr. Stark, I can see why they call you Iron Man.”

May put her head in her hands on his behalf.

“What?” Tony sounded lost, before shaking off the confusion, clearly deciding he didn’t care enough. “Okay, here’s why I’m calling. You didn’t want to join the big leagues, cool, I respect that. I’m all for the youth of the day, carving your own paths and whatnot-”

“I thought that was a test?” Peter interrupted.

Tony bulldozed over him.

“But I have a proposition for you. As you may have heard from, I don’t know, every single news source in the city, the Cap co are officially moving back into the tower.”

Peter had most definitely not heard.“The tower you just sold? The tower I just blew up a beach for?” He asked incredulously, unconsciously parroting J. Jonah Jameson's words.

Tony hummed, not correcting him. “The very same, good memory kid, sharp as a tack. So, what do you say?”

“You, uh, didn’t ask me anything?” Peter shuffled to stare through the window as though the man shouting at a street pigeon could give him some insight into this unhinged phone call. Then he moved to the mantelpiece to pick a speck of dust from a small wooden Matryoshka doll, its identical, but slightly smaller companions watching him with dark painted eyes. May and Ben had purchased the set in Moscow, which in a bizarre cosmic fluke considering they were both born and bred New Yorkers, was where the pair had met- or nested, Ben had joked.

Tony's voice invaded his spring cleaning. “So I did not, you’re on fire today, kid. Here’s the rundown. Accords are toast, no scratch that, they’re the charcoaled crumbs at the bottom of the sandwich press. Ross’ goal now is ‘inter-team solidarity to promote community cohesion.’” Tony intoned the words flatly enough for Peter to speculate that they were well rehearsed, like they’d bounced from every crevice of the man’s mouth ten times that day alone.

“That sounds…spirited?” Peter offered.

“Yeah, like a ghost up my ass,” Tony scoffed. “It’s right-wing jargon for get your petty spat out of the public eye before we nuke you. Anyway. Friday night, you free? If not, clear your schedule anyway.”

“I’m free.” Peter confirmed, belatedly realising he could have hesitated at least slightly to gain some street cred with the man.

The startling sound of hands clapping together emanated through his earphones and Peter managed not to flinch back. One point to Peter Tingle.

“Good, good. We’re having a benefit at the tower to celebrate the new and approved regulations, whatever that means, far as I can see nada has changed. Either way, I’ve gotta suit up and make nice and Spidey’s the missing piece to the happy puzzle- considering you were spotted throwing plane parts at old Sam-o.”

Peter’s stomach churned with guilt. “I didn’t hurt him, did I?”

Tony’s voice softened a touch. “No, kid, it takes more than nuts and bolts to knock down an Avenger.” And that was comfort time done with. “So, you’ll be there? I can count on you?”

“Yeah, I-”

Peter couldn’t take it anymore, he gave May his full attention. His aunt had followed him around the breadth of their living room about twenty times throughout the course of the phone call as Peter resolutely shunned her grabby hands at his phone. He’d ended up on the ceiling, but that act of rebellion had only made his aunt retrieve a broom to poke him with, now making her impossible to ignore.

“Kid, you there?” Tony questioned.

“Yeah, sorry, it’s just, uh, my aunt wants to talk to you.”

Tony groaned. “Oh God, what now?”

That was another ongoing development. While Peter himself hadn’t talked to Tony since seeing him at the compound, May had compensated for the radio silence for about a hundred Parkers. Not that there were that many left.

Three weeks ago, when May had calmed down enough to stop swearing hysterically, she’d frantically dialled the Stark Industries’ reception desk and systematically worked her way up the chain of command until she had Iron Man himself on the other side of her beat up Nokia. And then proceeded to chew him out for two hours straight. Peter cringed at the memory of it.

However his aunt hadn’t stopped there, every time she had a question about Peter's suit, or a fresh angle of anger to direct at the man, she’d promptly call the personal number she’d wrangled and commence a new slew of interrogation. To Mr. Stark's credit, he didn’t stop answering. Peter would have slammed the block button after call number ten- his aunt had asked whether the suit had Bluetooth.

Not to say that Tony was ecstatic to be stuck as May Parker’s personal stress doll, evidenced by his fervent, pleading at the firing squad, begs- a word Peter never would have dreamed of using in conjunction with his idol even one hour ago.

“No, don’t you dare do it! I’m warning you, Parker. You hand that phone over and I’ll replace your webs with silly string, I’ll- hello, Mrs Parker! What can I do for you this fine evening? So lovely to hear your voice again, what’s it been, twelve hours?”

Peter sighed and moved to his bedroom. He’d tried to listen in on the calls at first, but three weeks along the line and his pride was in tatters; he didn’t need to know anymore, he was embarrassed enough for five lifetimes.

“Hi, Tony, I was wondering, do you think Peter could have a bow and arrow in the suit like your Eagle man? It’s just, I took him to learn archery when he was eight and…” Make that six lifetimes.

Forty-five minutes later, May appeared at his open door with a knock. “Damn, here I was thinking the press exaggerated his days of booze filled debauchery, but man oh man that man was steaming. Woo!” May plugged her nose as though whiskey fumes had leaked through the phone.

Huh, Peter hadn’t noticed...

.........

“Kid, are you sniffing me?”

Yes, he was, but Peter wasn’t about to admit that. What May had said before had stuck in his brain. He really hoped Mr. Stark wouldn’t be drunk during this, Peter’s nerves were practically bouncing from wall to wall, and he was counting on using the man as an Iron Man themed safety blanket. However, luckily for him, the man currently seemed booze free.

Peter himself looked, quite frankly, utterly ridiculous. He’d gone to leave his apartment decked out in his Spider-Man suit, but May had stopped him in his tracks, insisting that she wouldn’t have him turning up under dressed. Peter had no clue why, it’s not like Spider-Man’s manners reflected in any way on May Parker’s parenting, but he’d relented to her machinations. And now, he was most definitely overdressed, Ben’s old suit over his costume inflating him like a sweaty, overheated, hot air balloon.

Mr. Stark had taken one look at him and dissolved into a fit of laughter. So that was about 70% of the reasoning behind Peter’s nerves. The other 30% lay in the realisation that he had yet to answer Tony’s question.

So to summarise his current predicament, Iron Man had spent weeks being cyber-bullied by his aunt, only to be sniffed up by Peter himself, and then forced to watch his masked face drift off into daydream land like a complete psychopath.

“No!” Peter tried to recover. “It’s just…is that cologne Armani?”

“No.” Tony deadpanned.

“Huh, funniest thing. I webbed up a guy the other day for selling drugs to teenagers and he smelled just like that. I asked him and, lo and behold, he said it was Armani. I googled it but jeez Louise is that stuff expensive. It’s just smelly liquid; I don’t get it!” Then he paused as Tony continued to stare. “Not that you smell like…smelly liquid. Or a drug dealer.”

Peter was so thankful for the mask, if Mr Stark could attach his face to his words right now, then it might just be the last nail in his coffin.

“Right.” Tony nodded as though everything Peter had just said was perfectly rational. “Ready to rumble, kid?”

Then Peter was being led to floor twenty-two of the tower and funneled through the benefit’s entrance. The room was heaving. Peter, blinded by the enormity of it for a second, imagined the black and white dressed workers as penguins tittering about an iceberg, feeding fish, instead of champagne, to their tux clad clan. A camera flash blinked, and the scene was back to normal, and Peter was reminded of how little sleep he’d managed last night. What did people even do at these events? His eye twitched. Okay, caffeine. That would be his first port of call.

Tony’s eyes drifted longingly towards a champagne flute, but one look at Peter energetically and arguably over-politely ordering himself a diet coke had him clenching his hand into a fist instead.

Peter watched almost transfixed as the bartender sliced a lime with an almost mercenary level of precision, the edge of the knife’s blade catching the chandelier’s light and twinkling dangerously at him. He shook his head.

Peter realised they were the last to arrive. The Scarlet Witch and Vision stood in one corner of the room, speaking softly to one another as though they were the only two people in the whole world; and in startling contrast, the ex-Winter Solider stood slightly along from them, looking isolated and morose. The Black Widow and Hawkeye stood chatting in the middle of the room, as did the Falcon and War Machine.

Tony’s face flashed indignantly as though Peter had thrown an egg at him. “What is Rhodey doing? He’s consorting with… with his leg thief. I wish Bruce was here, of course he had to fall off the planet, now it’s only the two of us against this lot.”

Peter was starting to feel like he was being used as a human shield. But he didn’t have time to ask as Mr Stark spoke again, dread clawing at his tone.

“Wait, where’s-”

“Tony!” Steve greeted, looking like he wanted to fall into a puddle. Cameras flashed as he shook Tony’s and then Peter’s hands in turn.

“It’s good to meet you properly, Spider-Man.” Steve said sincerely.

“Yes, you too, Mr. Rogers.” And to Peter’s satisfaction, the words came out smoothly and confidently.

“Please, call me Steve.” Captain America responded amiably, seeming content to direct his conversation towards Spider-Man rather than Mr. Stark.

But then Tony himself chimed in. “Ah yes Spidey, tell Steve how pleased you are to meet him, and while you’re at it thank him for dropping a shipping container on your head.”

Scratch that, Peter wasn’t a human shield, he was a human battering ram.

“Oh god,” Peter said, unable to help himself, “I really didn’t mind, Mr Rogers, I get crushed by things all the time.” He nodded like a bobble head caught in a tornado.

Luckily the tension was spotted and clamped down on as though sniffed out by a blood hound. Or Thaddeus Ross. The man approached the three men (or two men plus teenager, but he didn’t have to know that), and greeted them enthusiastically, before charismatically requesting, in an underhand way that was actually a demand, that the surrounding photographers give them a moment.

Then Ross’ face morphed, and he whistled sharply, clicking his fingers at the rest of the Avengers, who had clocked on to the incursion and were now reluctantly shuffling their way towards the quartet. Maybe Ross wasn’t the hound after all, the mighty Avengers team were behaving like trained dogs, Peter noted with bemusement.

The team assumed a broken huddle with Ross at their head, backs turned from curious onlookers.

The politician spoke in furious whisper. “What part of inter-team relations do you bozos not understand? I don’t care what poor little hurt feelings you girls have simmering, I want smiles and I want them now, for God’s sake.” Ross paused. “I’m not joking. Smile. Now. I want to see them to believe you haven’t had your faces permanently botoxed into the sad, sorry splats you've had fixed on all evening."

And then they did, one by one in a rainbow of fakeness, starting with Natasha who painted on something adjacent to sincerity, all the way to Bucky who more at grimaced at the politician.

It seemed to appease Ross, however, who nodded. “Good, keep them there. Now go mingle, scat.” He shook them off before taking in Peter’s masked, and subsequently thoroughly unsmiling, face. “Ugh.”

Ross stormed away, clearly unwilling to touch the matter of Spider-Man’s anonymity, fortunately for Peter. But also: ouch.

Then the next hour was spent following Mr. Stark around the room like a trailing blanket, carefully maneuvering around any and all Avengers. Peter was introduced to all manner of people, but mostly billionaires. Who was he kidding? They were all billionaires. One of them even asked him where he went skiing, to which Peter earnestly replied, “on snow, of course!”, earning him a prissy, offended look before Tony steered him away.

And then they ended up standing with Sam and Rhodey. Peter haltingly apologised for throwing a plane wing at the man and the Falcon, in turn, apologised for defenestrating him. The conversation was stilted, but calm.

That is, until Sam asked about Rhodey’s physical therapy.

Rhodey nodded casually. “Oh yeah, pretty good, considering.”

“I’m surprised to see you two so friendly,” Tony burst out, the second of the evening. “You know, considering.” The man mocked, tone steeped with resentment.

“Tony stop, it’s water under the bridge.” Rhodey put a hand on Tony’s arm but was quickly shaken off like rain from a chinchilla.

“Oh yeah? And what happens when you land in said water? I’ll tell you what,” Tony said without pause, “your little Rhodey mobiles would fritz and spark out and you’d become a War Machine river buoy.”

“I swear if you didn’t make my legs waterproof, Tony, I’ll come after you.” Rather than assuaging Mr Stark’s anger, the comment seemed to enrage the man even further.

“That laser was meant for you, Wilson, don’t you forget that.” Tony jabbed an accusing finger at Sam, whose face crumpled.

And then Steve made the mistake of approaching. “Tony, please.”

At the simple plead, a thunder cloud passed over the inventor’s face and a vein threatened to burst free from his temple. “Right. Sounds about right, doesn’t it?” Tony asked no one. “Well, this has been mighty fun, but I think the press has gotten their fix of us for today. I’m off.”

Then he turned to Peter. “You think you’ll be able to see yourself out, Underoos?”

“Yes, Mr-”

“Perfect, get home safe kiddo, and everyone else? Let’s stick to different floors. Good inter-team, working relationship and whatnot.” And with that he was exiting, not before leaning behind the bar and grabbing himself an almost full bottle of whiskey.

Steve stared after the man looking agonised and upset, and the rest of the team just shook their heads dissapointedly.

This exact situation was straight out of the Peter Parker Book of Nightmares. It was wedged between the time he'd unthinkingly announced to his entire third grade class about Ned's lack of a bellybutton (the boy had ignored him for a week and Flash still brought it up sometimes), and the time Spider-Man got his finger stuck in the barrel of a gun and flapped it around fruitlessly for five whole minutes while one of Brooklyn's biggest drug lords took pictures.

To clarify, Peter couldn't handle one more second of this. The moment teemed rife with sullen tension from every single Avenger, the infection even seeping outwards like black tar and wiping the tipsy, oblivious expressions from the guests faces. And it refused to end, the silence just stretched on and on and on like the world's stretchiest piece of bubble gum. Peter couldn’t take the strain, he had to speak, he couldn’t stop it, he-

“Men, am I right?” Blurted from his mouth like vomit.

Everyone turned to look at him incredulously, so Peter decided that was his cue. Performing a juddery half bow, half salute, he too staggered towards the exit.

Then he proceeded to make his escape; he took the elevator all the way down to the ground level, all the while pointing an accusing finger at his masked reflection. He was just about to step out into the lobby, to freedom, when he realised his reflection was also pointing an accusing finger back at him.

“Oh well I just feel bad now.” Peter groused.

“What was that, Spider-Man?” A voice chirped, causing him to jump once again. Metaphysical disembodied voice- 1, Peter Tingle- 0.

“Who, who’s speaking? Jigsaw?” Peter’s immediate reaction was to bring his arms protectively to his chest, frantically searching the elevator for hidden blades. He’d been up late last night playing the Saw II video game with Ned and maybe he’d become slightly paranoid over it over the course of the day.

“I am FRIDAY, the tower’s inbuilt AI system.” Peter breathed in relief, relaxing his arms.

“Oh cool, like Karen. Nice to meet you.” His own AI thrummed slightly in acknowledgement, but remained quiet.

“And you too, Spider-Man. May I enquire about what you were referring to previously? Regarding ‘feeling bad’. Stark Industries has many in house mental health programs I could enrol you in.” The AI offered smoothly.

“No, uh, not necessary. But thank you.” He paused, being therapized by a ceiling wasn’t the weirdest thing that had happened tonight, so he decided to explain himself. “I guess I meant I feel bad leaving Mr. Stark while he’s feeling down.”

“I can take you to him if you would like?” Peter’s stomach jolted, but it wasn't only his foot he always put in his mouth, it was also his money (metaphorically, of course, Peter hardly had two cents to rub together). He nodded jerkily.

That seemed all the confirmation FRIDAY required as the lift was suddenly zooming upwards, almost like the AI was afraid he’d change his mind. The doors wooshed open and Peter came face to face with Tony Stark’s world-renowned lab.

“Oh my God, oh my god.” He whipped off his mask like it was a barrier to greatness.

It was heaven, it was technological Eden, Peter wanted to make snow angels amongst the robots. But he clamped down on himself, he had technically broken in, albeit aided and abetted by an over-eager AI. He would find Mr Stark and prove he wasn’t just joy riding.

Which wasn’t difficult, the man in question was huddled over a hologram of what appeared to be a War Machine suit, or more accurately the leg portion, tapping a shaking finger absently against an almost full glass of whiskey. But he looked up at the sound of Peter’s giddy wonderment, his eyes stormy and thoughtful, though something in them seemed to flicker as he processed Peter standing awkwardly before him in his costume and suit combo. Peter may as well have been wearing a clown suit, but at least he could entertain.

“Not God, kid, Stark tech,” the inventor corrected Peter. “The best in the business. Minus what Wakanda have cooking up, but they’re new hat so give me a month or so to read up, I’ll surpass them in no time.”

Peter had no clue why Mr. Stark was showboating to him of all people, but he knew he had to offer some sort of recognition. “Yes, you’ll blow Wakanda off the map, Mr Stark.”

That was wrong, he knew that instantly, and Tony seemed to agree as the man’s face screwed itself up, seemingly in pain.

“I know gravity doesn’t really apply to you what with all the wall crawling you do, but you realise exits are usually on the ground floor?”

“Yes, sir. Gravity, down. Lift, up. FRIDAY took me here.” Peter tried to work up some the courage, inwardly corralling himself.

“And why would she do that?” Mr Stark looked accusingly upwards. “I only mention because someone specifically requested not to be disturbed- I thought it was was me but clearly it would’ve been somebody people actually listen to.”

Peter watched absently as Tony told off his ceiling before deciding to bite the bullet. “Don’t blame FRIDAY, Mr Stark, I wanted to check that you were alright.”

Tony looked at him as though concern was a foreign concept, which Peter found a little sad. “Look kid, I appreciate the assist. Or the attempt at one. But maybe you should head off, I’ll give you a call in the morning. Or your aunt will call me, and you can actually rescue me from her for once.”

As the man spoke, Peter was being ushered to the door by Tony’s persistent hand, but the slight odour of whiskey on the man’s breath made his dig his heels in.

“My uncle was murdered a year ago.” Peter almost shouted, causing the hand on his back to spring off him as though Peter had instead announced he’d been exposed to anthrax.

“I’m sorry for your loss?” Tony looked taken aback. But at least the proclamation had wiped the moody self-pity that hung from his face like a Jack-o'-lantern.

“Uh-huh, it was very traumatic but that’s not what I’m getting at. He said something to me before he died.” Peter started.

“Kid, I don’t think-”

“Shh, story time.” Peter interrupted, trying to forget who he was talking to. The man needed help, and he was Spider-Man, the helper. Who cared if his lifelong idol judged him as long as he snapped the man out of his rut.

“You know you’re in my tower right, kid?” Tony didn’t look angry though, so Peter once again ignored the protestation and continued.

“What my uncle said, I’ve carried with me ever since. Ben was always coming up with life lessons, he should’ve worked for Etsy, I think he actually wrote them down in a little book just so he could just whip out something casually profound the second I so much as had my hair pulled in kindergarten. But this lesson stuck with me on account of, well like I said, the dying that followed it.” Peter gulped at the all too recent memory.

“With great power comes great responsibility.” He recited the well-worn phrase like he’d recited Ben’s favourite Tolkien poem at the funeral. Tony’s sharp eyes deconstructed the proverb, and Peter briefly wondered how it felt to hear it when it wasn’t covered in blood.

“I think you and Mr Rogers are both a lot like my uncle, and I’m not saying that lightly. It’s just that your interpretations of responsibility differ a little is all. You think that because the Avengers are so powerful, that you all have a moral duty to submit to some kind of regulation.” Peter looked at Tony, who nodded jerkily in confirmation. “And Mr. Rogers thinks that having the same power means a responsibility not to, to act independently of unknown agendas. But you know what the common thread between all three of you is? That you’d all die for what you think is right.”

“Peter, I-”

“One more thing, Mr Stark, then I swear I’m done and you can have your lab back.”

Tony grinned and Peter returned the gesture, feeling the weight of the conversation lifting for a moment.

“I’ve admired both you and Mr. Rogers my whole life, I won’t even go into how much. And I won’t claim to know the ins and outs of your situation, but I do know that neither of you are bad people. And I feel like if you don’t meet in the middle somehow, then you’ll both end up like Ben- Ben who bled out on some street corner because he thought he could save someone he couldn’t.”

Tony suddenly looked very tired. But his response belied his weary expression. “You’re something special, aren’t you kid.”

Peter decided that was his cue, he’d said his piece, and he just had to hope that the man would swallow it. “I'll leave you to it now, as promised. Night, Mr. Stark.”

However, Tony didn’t agree. “Wait a minute,” the cogs were turning behind his shadowed eyes. “You, uh, what would you do, theoretically, if you got your hands on the guy that did it. On whoever killed your uncle.” The inventor looked guilty to be asking the question, almost wincing as each word came out.

“I did. Get my hands on him, that is.” Peter said.

“And?” Tony pushed self-indulgently.

“I got bloody, and I got mean.” Peter said simply, thinking of frightened swollen eyes behind his torn fists. He breathed. “And then I let it go."

“Just like that?” Mr. Stark leaned in like Peter was about to throw leprechaun coins at his feet.

“Not in a day’s work, Mr. Stark, not even you could afford that therapist." Peter clarified before cobbling his thoughts together. "But I realised it was selfish, useless even. I was angry at myself for so long, too long. And I was angry at Ben for leaving, and then I was angry with the mugger, and then, when that didn’t help, I was angry at my aunt, at my friend Ned, and anyone else who tried to make me look at what I was really feeling.”

“Until the pain isn’t pain anymore, it’s just self-destruction.” Tony muttered to himself, like he was solving a long-abandoned equation.

“Exactly.” Peter nodded but left it at that, finally out of life lessons to bestow. Once again, he drifted to the door, unsure of how his meddling had been received by the man. But, like before, he was stopped by Mr. Stark’s call.

“Wait!” Peter stalled in place and watched as Tony’s gaze switched back and forth between him and the barely touched whiskey. It landed on Peter. “You want a lift back to your scary aunt?”

Peter smiled cheerily. “Yeah, thank you Mr. Stark! If it’s not too much trouble, of course.”

Tony, in lieu of answering, put a steadying hand on Peter’s back, and this time led them both to the elevator.

As he was prone to doing, Peter decided to fill the silence. “I’ll talk to May, I swear.”

The man hummed skeptically. “I’ll believe it when I see it, kid. You know she called me a cad?”

Peter’s face burned crimson.

Chapter Text

Over the next few weeks, May’s intensity went down, and Peter’s visits to the tower went up. Though, Mr. Stark didn’t often make a habit of shuttling him back and forth, and had instead enlisted Happy to become Spider-Man’s personal chauffeur, much to the dour man’s…pleasure?

“Happy, you don’t have to come to the door, I can walk down,” Peter garbled, his teeth clenching the handle of his backpack as he ransacked its contents for the web shooters he’d, once again, managed to misplace.

The head of security made a distracted hum and peered over Peter’s shoulder.

Peter snapped his mouth open, his backpack dropping onto May’s ‘enter if you dare’ welcome mat, and watched bemusedly as Happy popped an extra strong piece of peppermint chewing gum into his mouth, just in time for May to edge into the man’s view.

“Ms. Parker!” Happy chorused, showing more energy than Peter had seen him exhibit in all their conversations put together- including when Peter had saved Stark Industries from weaponizing the Vulture’s criminal empire, and by extension, saved Happy’s job. Not that Peter needed the recognition.

Though it wouldn’t hurt.   

Peter gagged, and May cuffed him lightly over the head in reprimand. He debated whether or not to admit the source of the gag had actually been the scent of peppermint that drifted from Happy’s breath and practically bombed Peter’s senses like a code red government destabilisation strategy.

He opted to pretend the idea of the man becoming ‘Uncle Happy’ was the reason (it served his agenda better) and leaned heavily on the door frame in an attempt to re-orient himself against the minty torrent.

Not that it mattered, Peter could have begun frothing at the mouth for all anyone would have noticed. The two seemed content to ignore him as they…flirted, and Peter listened with reluctant admiration as May managed to weasel a promise from Happy to drop her off at FEAST later that evening, not that it took much convincing.

……..

This was Peter’s sixth or so trip to Mr. Stark’s labs- he didn’t say ‘or so’ because he was unsure of the number, as he’d naturally kept his every interaction with Iron Man documented religiously, but more due to his inability to characterise his third visit.

It'd gone like this: Happy had dropped him off, and Peter had made his way up to the tower’s very top floor, only to find Mr. Stark completely passed out at his workstation, a small trickle of drool drooping from his mouth, and an upended and spilled bottle of Southern Comfort by his side.

Initially, Peter had been stupefied, a feeling that had only snowballed at the arrival of an extremely frazzled Pepper Potts, who had swiftly shuffled Peter from the building with an array of well-rehearsed apologies. Mr. Stark had texted him later to arrange a new date, and neither of them mentioned the slip up again, which suited Peter just fine.

So, in summary, he wasn’t entirely sure whether the five minutes he’d spent there warranted counting, but the unexpected meeting of the world famous CEO Pepper Potts had definitely tipped the scales in his favour regardless.

“Afternoon, Underoos,” Tony greeted, and Peter bristled slightly at the fact that Mr. Stark nicknaming him as underwear had seemingly stuck.

But Peter was working on embarrassing himself less around the man, and had been largely successful, barring the train wreck that was the post-accords benefit. He thought that maybe Mr. Stark was truly starting to respect Spider-Man not just as a fellow hero, but as an equal.

So, Peter simply returned the man’s hello and got stuck into modifying his web shooters. Did Peter forget to mention? These meets generally consisted of minimal chatter, which perhaps had contributed to the boy’s no embarrassment winning streak more than any significant personality improvements. He’d take it.

“Good week at school?” Mr. Stark asked unexpectedly, breaking their pattern.

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter stuttered, before managing to get a hold on himself. “This guy fell from the rope during gym class yesterday and broke his leg. But you could totally see bone, it was sick.”

“Sick,” Tony repeated, and that was that segment over.

About an hour into their tinkering, Peter watched as Mr. Stark became increasingly restless. Typically, Peter likely wouldn’t have noticed, but as it was, he still wasn’t quite over his somewhat crippling hero worship of the man, so was hyper attuned to Mr. Stark’s every movement.

Firstly, his hand juddered to his side, as though going to pick up something that simply wasn’t there. Then, he started munching from a bowl of walnuts. Finally, the man seemed to cave against whatever it was he was warring against and produced a round pot from his pocket. Peter ogled him curiously, trying to feign a casual level of interest.

Mr. Stark popped a little peppermint reeking, pillow adjacent thing into his mouth and positioned it carefully under his top lip with two index fingers, while Peter considered whether the universe was conspiring to send him into mint induced anaphylaxis. Tony then clicked his fingers at Dum-ee, who diligently appeared by his side to administer a healthy portion of hand sanitizer into the man’s waiting hand.

At the sight of the gooping liquid pooling in his hands and leaking all over his workstation, Mr. Stark let out a terrible string of profanity that would have left a priest quaking, and without asking, grabbed Peter’s wrist and dumped half the amount into his palm.

And then that was that, and the man dove back into tweaking his repulsors, not even sparing Peter a second glance, leaving the boy to wonder whether he’d stepped into the twilight zone. He absently rubbed the gel in and took in Mr. Stark’s new appearance.

The space that occupied above Tony’s upper lip and below his nostrils (the Philtrum, Peter’s Decathlon brain chimed in), was now puffed up and frankly ludicrous looking, and Peter calculated briefly how much he’d be able to sell that picture for, before dismissing the thought guiltily.

Perhaps the combined peppermint and antibacterial fumes were clouding his head, or perhaps he’d become a touch too comfortable with the superhero, but either way, Peter’s next sentence slipped from his mouth like a wet bar of soap from oiled up hands.

“Man, you look one rhyme away from becoming a Dr. Seuss character.”

Tony’s head ricocheted up, adopting an expression of pure, unadulterated affront, leaving Peter an ample few seconds to consider the ramifications of what he’d just said.

“But, hey,” the boy quickly backtracked, “you do you, and really, good on you for quitting smoking. That is a nicotine pouch, right? You know 1 in 5 Americans smoke? They taught us that in health class. And seriously, who am I to judge anyone’s appearance- there’s this kid in my year, Flash, who says I look kinda like a frog because I have no upper lip, so I probably wouldn’t even be able to fit one of those things in my mouth even if I tried, so that was probably just jealousy speaking. Not that I crave nicotine! I know I’m a mino-”

“Kid, please,” Tony sounded utterly haggered, the nicotine pouch long since removed and disregarded in the bin by Peter's station, whiffing its villainous odour directly into his nostrils.

Peter zipped his mouth shut and let the last few minutes wash over him in an embarrassing haze. There went his winning streak. He watched as Mr. Stark visibly tried to process the avalanche Peter had just wrought over their previously tranquil proceedings.

“I’m no smoker, let’s get that straightened out right now,” Mr. Stark said decisively.

“Of course, sir,” Peter agreed, trying not to let the scepticism show in his tone.

“Really,” the inventor pressed, though Peter couldn’t quite compute why the man felt it necessary to explain himself; Peter was a nobody.

But Tony persisted, “I’m not lying. This is displacement theory, very scientific.”

“So you’re replacing one,” Peter clamped down on adding the word ‘bad’, “habit with another?”

He didn't know many people who'd quit drinking via nicotine, but what did he know.

“Exactly. So don’t you go around telling your whole school that Iron Man is a chain smoker, or the PR department will string my guts up. And I happen to like my guts, thank you very much; I just forked out for a complete gut biome work up.”

It was Peter’s turn to lag, but he managed to splutter out a scandalised, “I don’t gossip about you, Mr Stark.”

Something subtle entered Mr. Stark’s eyes at that remark, something slightly vulnerable looking. But before Peter could dwell on it any further, the scent of peppermint finally won its battle, and like a blanket thrown over his eyes, Peter’s consciousness flickered into nothing.

………

That day, Peter learned the true meaning of the phrase ‘head pounding’.

As he clawed his way back into the land of the living, a hard-won expedition, his brain felt like it was pouring out of his ears. He imagined himself as a cut of butcher’s lamb being ground under a tenderizer- again, and again, and again.  Arduously, he wrenched his eyes open, only to find he was lying in the comfiest bed he’d ever lain on in his natural born life. It managed to supersede the discomfort that addled his poor head.

He was serenaded by the sensation of every curvature of his back and limbs being catered to as though by a magical mattress fairy. Peter didn’t think he could go back to normalcy after this, to his poor person bed. At the thought, he was reminded of exactly whose bed he was likely lying in.

It was then he took in Mr. Stark sitting stiffly in an equally lumbar supportive chair, tapping away at a StarkPad, evidently oblivious to Peter’s awakening. They were still in the tower, Peter could tell that much from the view, but it seemed he’d been transported to some sort of medical facility. There were a few more beds scattered in neat rows next to him and opposite him, but the room was otherwise unoccupied.

Steeling himself, Peter decided to get the thrashing over with and coughed slightly, grabbing Mr. Stark’s attention.

“What the hell, kid,” Tony jumped in, clearly having no regard for adopting a bedside manner.

“Uh-” Peter said, thoroughly ineloquently, realising he probably should have allowed himself some time to wake up first.

Tony didn’t let him continue. “You’re about as subtle as three kids queuing for Saw II stacked on each other’s shoulders wearing a circus tent as a trench coat,” he criticised vividly.

“You like the Saw movies?” Peter perked up, though quickly wished he hadn’t, as a wave of vertigo attempted to flip his bed onto the ceiling.

Once again, Tony spoke as though Peter hadn’t. “Of course I saw something was up, you walked in today looking three shades paler than pale and teetering on your seat like there was a pin up your ass.”

“You’re being very descriptive, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, trying to shirk away from the accusation.

Tony sighed, “why didn’t you say anything? I don’t bite, you know.”

“Wait, you’re not mad that I passed out, just mad that I didn’t tell you I was going to?” Peter was confused.

“I’m not mad, kid,” Mr. Stark said, and in contrast with his words, looked frustrated. And then it looked like he was going to follow his proclamation with a damning ‘just disappointed’, or worse, ‘worried’.

But instead, the man’s paparazzi face shuttered over his face, and he followed his sentence with, “I’m not a cow disease.”

“I’d hope not,” Peter played along, “you know, in Europe, there’s still 1 in 10 billion cases of it.”

Mr. Stark leaned back in his chair. “Surely they didn’t teach you that in health class.”

“No,” Peter replied distractedly, “um, Mr. Stark?”

The man promptly leaned forward again, looking at Peter intensely, as though he were about to keel over once more. “What? Do I need to get Cho back?”

“Cho?” Peter had no clue what Tony was on about. “No, uh, not to sound pathetic, but- do you know what happened?”

“You passed out?” Tony looked as lost as Peter felt.

“Yeah, I figured that one out, just like, why?” Peter felt his face burn. It was bad enough that Mr. Stark had been sitting with him like a nursemaid, but now Peter was asking the superhero to play doctor too. He was never getting invited back here.

“Oh,” Tony said, and then, “oh! You didn’t know? Peppermint, kid, it’s a spider’s kryptonite- according to Doc. Apparently it stunts their sense receptors, leaves them, and by extension you, in the lurch. Next time we’ll make a day of it, play pin the tail on the Peter.”

Peter made a small sound of realisation to himself. “This explains so much. I just thought I was being dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” Tony made an aborted motion to slap his hand against his face. “I don’t like walnuts, kid, but they don’t make me flail around like I’m a broken compass. Didn’t you wonder?”

“You were eating walnuts earlier?” Peter queried, deciding to table the discussion.

But it seemed Tony wouldn’t be distracted. “Displacement, remember? And don’t change the subject, next time there’s something wrong, you tell me.”

“Next time?” Peter said hopefully. He’d felt for sure he’d single-handedly exiled himself from the tower for good.

And it looked like the thought hadn’t even crossed Mr. Stark’s mind. He responded as though Peter had been disputing future honesty, and not implying that this would be their last ever conversation. “Yeah, next time. No ifs, buts, and coconuts.” The man’s voice was solid, commanding; he sounded almost like a teacher.

Peter beamed, and Tony shuffled back in his seat at the seemingly disproportionate response. It was then when Happy appeared in the doorway that Peter realised how much time had passed. Their lab day was gone- just like that.

“What did I miss?” Happy greeted, not looking too perturbed to be finding Peter hospitalised, which chafed slightly.

Tony jumped to explain. “Pete here is allergic to peppermint.”

“What?” Happy said, completely baffled, and then it seemingly clicked, much faster than Peter probably would have expected of him. “Oh.”

“Oh ho indeed. Here’s the rundown, Hap. Between the two of us, we’ve spent our day attempting to murder a fourteen-year-old.”

“Fifteen,” Peter corrected quietly, wondering how Mr. Stark knew Happy had been involved. He then quickly decided he didn’t want to know; the breadth of a billionaire’s surveillance was a rock better left unturned.

“A thirteen-year-old,” Tony continued, “who spent his day allowing said murder to go ahead like some kind of spider themed masochist.”

Happy groaned and looked beseechingly at Peter. The boy looked at the man in surprise, his pillows slipping down from behind him as he sat up in bewilderment, not expecting such a mournful reaction. Maybe the man did care, maybe-

“Please don’t tell May.”

Peter’s head pounding returned with a vengeance, and he crashed back down onto his comfortable bed with a sigh.

…..