Chapter Text
“If you chopped off Wolverine’s head, would his body grow a new head, or would his head grow a new body?”
Ned tore his eyes away from his computer to fully face Peter, who was sprawled on Ned’s bed, clutching a fistful of gummy worms.
“What?” Peter exclaimed at his look.
Ned shook his head, “Obviously, his head would grow a body. That’s where all his consciousness and stuff is kept.”
“But that’s so inefficient! It would take much more energy and time to grow an entire body than it would to grow a tiny, little head.“
“Yeah, but how would you even get the energy without a mouth, dude?” Ned stole a gummy worm from an unsuspecting Peter’s hand.
“Hey!” Peter clutched the gummy worms to his chest protectively, “What’s the point of a mouth without a stomach?”
“Huh.” Ned leaned back in his chair. “Do you think you can regrow limbs?” Ned asked around another stolen gummy worm. For a guy with enhanced senses, Peter sure missed a lot.
“No, no, nope. I do not like the look in your eyes right now. You’ve got that whole mad scientist vibe about you.”
“Just your pinky toe or something. For science.”
“I am not amputating my pinky toe for science,” Peter said, making sure his toes were safely hidden under Ned’s Incredible Hulk comforter. The empty gummy worm wrapper lay abandoned on the floor beside the empty chip packets.
“You never know what could happen until you try. Just imagine—"
“I’d rather not.”
“Your loss, bud,” Ned took a swig of his Coke. It was flat and almost lukewarm. “Y’know, they say having a weak imagination is a sign of low intelligence.”
At Peter’s affronted expression, Ned was forced to smother his laugh with both hands to keep from spitting his drink everywhere, making himself choke as he tried to swallow it down.
Peter half-heartedly patted his friend’s back. “Only you, Ned Leeds, can find a way to drown. On land. With flat Coke. And, for the record, I have an extremely high intelligence. Even Mr Stark admitted it. But without all the Playboy. Or Billionaire.”
Ned raised an eyebrow. He had spent two hours in front of the mirror perfecting the art, and he sure as hell was going to use it.
“I’d believe you, Pete,” he said, turning back to the computer. “But Google says otherwise.”
There was a pause. Ned patiently watched, entertained, as Peter’s eyes darted over the text. Two, three, four times. Uncomprehending.
He had been waiting to see Peter’s reaction ever since he made the discovery himself.
“But! Ned—This is obviously wrong. I mean…”
“Happens to the best of us,” he consoled, “I mean, look at Mr Stark.”
“70? Spider-Man’s IQ isn’t 70!” Peter squeaked, reminding Ned of his voice when they met in sixth grade. “People say all sorts about Mr Stark, but no one has ever called him stupid!”
“An IQ of 70 isn’t stupid, Peter. It’s intellectually impaired.”
Peter grasped Ned’s shoulders like a drowning man. Obviously, getting swept away by all the melodrama. “Ned. How could this happen?”
Ned bit back a grin, though he wasn’t sure he was completely successful in keeping his laughter out of his voice. “Isn’t it more impressive that you can do your Spider-Manning despite your cognitive disadvantages?”
“This is a matter of honour, Ned. Look up Peter Parker’s IQ.” Peter pleaded.
“Why would Peter Parker’s IQ be public knowledge, dude?” Ned gave Peter a concerned look, “Maybe Google wasn’t far off after all.”
“Do I really come across as that stupid?”
“Most people don’t go around getting beat up by criminals and supervillains if they can help it…”
Peter groaned, collapsing into a puddle of frustration, smothering himself in the Hulk’s green abs.
“Look on the bright side, it’ll be a lot easier to keep your secret identity.”
“What’s the point of a secret identity anyway? I bet Logan never went through this.”
Peter cared too much about what other people thought. Ned got it. Sometimes, he did too.
***
At first, it was just shaky videos of him doing something cool, like a backflip midair or catching a bus. He used to like reading the comments. Until some of the bigger news stations caught wind of him. The Bugle, for some reason, was particularly hellbent on proving Spider-Man was a menace to society.
He’d quickly learnt to stop Googling himself. Ned sent him anything noteworthy. They’d once stayed up all night laughing at an entire forum of people convinced Spider-Man was actually thousands of spiders sharing a hive mind.
Peter crashed into his pillows, turning his laptop on. Squinting at the harsh light.
He had no idea what on earth he did as Spider-Man to convince the public he’d been dropped twice too many times as a baby.
Which, of course, meant he had to find out. Headlines, videos, memes.
He decided to stay away from forums for now.
Dawn started to stream in through the curtains. His eyes burned. There was one hour until his alarm went off. Peter figured that if he were to go to sleep now, he would spend the rest of the day groggy. He’d just get ready for school and have a good night’s sleep tomorrow.
He checked one last time.
Spider-Man’s IQ was still officially 70. He bookmarked the page. Just in case.
Before it was even noon, Peter realised he had made a mistake. He decided this after being jolted awake by a sharp prod from Ned for the third time today. It was difficult to pay attention to angular momentum when you haven’t slept for thirty-six hours.
They were in the cafeteria. How did that happen?
Peter found a slice of pizza in front of him and took a large bite, ignoring Ned and MJ, who were sharing a look. A favourite pastime of theirs.
“Did you stay up too late doing You-Know-What?” Ned did a crude imitation of Spider-Man shooting his webs. (“Pew. Pew. Pew.”)
“Everyone knows you mean Spider-Man when you do that,” MJ said around a book, Invitation to a Beheading. MJ never did stop scaring him.
Ned was looking at him expectantly.
He forced the pizza down, “What?”
“Did you sleep at all?” Ned peered at him suspiciously. Or concerned? Peter couldn’t tell.
He avoided answering by stuffing his face with the rest of the pizza. Proportional strength of a spider. Proportional appetite.
“I’ll send you my Physics notes later. I saw yours. Those scribbles didn’t even resemble the Latin alphabet.”
“People with higher IQs have messier handwriting because their brains move faster than their hands can keep up. I think we found the exception,” MJ remarked.
Peter’s head snapped up, fully awake. “You told her?” he asked Ned.
Ned grimaced.
“Her is right here. And she would have found out herself anyway.” MJ leaned forward, book forgotten, squinting at Peter as he squirmed. “Don’t tell me you stayed up all night because of that?” Something in Peter’s face must’ve answered for her. She laughed, evilly.
Peter thunked his head on the table, narrowly missing his lunch tray. “You would too, if being smart was the only thing you had going for you.”
“Bro. You’re literally Spider-Man! How could you even think that?” Ned exclaimed. A bit too loudly. “By the way, you’re getting pizza grease in your hair.”
“But Spider-Man does all the heroing." Peter complained.
“No one has called Peter Parker stupid. As you said, Spider-Man has other stuff going for him. By your own logic, Peter, you have nothing to worry about.”
Peter felt his face heat up as MJ’s words sank in. He kept his face squashed firmly against the slightly sticky table.
“I just,” he lifted his head up, “I don’t understand why.”
“Why this happened to you? Or why everyone thinks you’re a dumbass?” MJ asked.
Peter frowned, “Are those not the same thing?”
The rest of the day trudged along agonisingly slowly. Peter struggled to see why he bothered sitting through each lesson. For all the attention he was paying, he might as well not be there, doing something equally boring and useless. Like watching Flash’s streams.
But it was Peter’s abhorrent attendance that kept his butt firmly in his seat. He had to save his ‘sick days’ for real (Spider-Man-related) emergencies.
A spider skittered across the ceiling of his Spanish class. It descended slowly from a silvery web directly above Flash’s head. He absently wondered if he could telepathically convince it to burrow into his bully’s hair. He’d never tested it out. What if Spider-Man could command an army of spiders?
The forum—full of people convinced he was Spiders-Man—popped into his head.
Peter decided he worked better on his own anyway.
Besides, Ant-Man would probably file for copyright.
Today was Thursday, so at least he was free from Acadec practice. Under MJ’s dictatorship, Acadec practices inflated from two to three times a week, Monday to Wednesday. (“Well, you quit Band and Robotics, so I figured you had some time to spare.”) Peter could almost hear his neglected bed calling out for him. With enhanced senses, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.
Usually, Mr Stark would invite him to the lab for his ‘internship’ on Thursdays and Fridays, but the man had a busy lifestyle, even if Pepper was the CEO of Stark Industries. He had to cancel on Peter quite often. Like today. At least there was Friday.
Stepping outside of school, the flowery spring air hit him, and all thoughts of his bed or internship flew out of Peter’s mind. He detoured into a deserted alleyway, adrenaline coursing through him.
He pulled off his t-shirt to suit up, ignoring the stench. Perfume à la Piss.
A quick outfit change and a couple flips to force himself awake later, Spider-Man swung across New York City, following Karen’s directions to the closest crime alerts.
It was a montage kind of day. The good, cinematic kind.
Dodging a punch here, webbing someone up there. Retrieving stolen purses and helping pensioners cross the street. At one point, he had to hold an old woman back after she almost came to blows with a cabbie. Afterwards, she pinched his cheek and left him clutching a toffee, slightly dazed.
“It was mad! I don’t know if you’ve ever been hit by a purse, but they hurt more than you’d think—”
“Do you ever shut up? What did I do to deserve this?”
Peter was taking a small breather after webbing up a pair of pocket-thieves just off 5th Ave.
“Not really, no,” he shrugged, “You did try to pickpocket that guy.”
“I was being sarcastic, ya dunce. God, you really are stupid.”
That hit a nerve.
“Alright, let’s play the Quiet Game, why don’t we?” Peter shot a web at the man’s mouth, “Look, your best bud’s awesome at this game. He’s already winning!”
Maybe too awesome.
Was he getting enough oxygen? Peter checked the webbing.
The man spat a thick glob of spit. Airflow wasn’t the issue. Peter grimaced, wiping his mask. The guy was a heavy smoker. Mr Stark’s words echoed in his head, “multi-million-dollar suit”.
“You, my good sir, are a sore winner,” he said before swinging away. The cops were around the corner anyway.
Somewhere in Astoria, Peter landed on top of a nail salon.
“What did that guy call me again, Karen?”
“He called you many things, Peter.”
“At the end.”
“He called you “a dunce” and “stupid”, Peter. Do you want me to define ‘dunce’?”
“No. Karen, I know what dunce means.”
***
Peter was scaring Ned. A little.
“You’re scaring me, Pete, a little.”
Peter turned to Ned with a crazed expression and unbrushed hair.
Who’s the mad scientist now?
“I’m not supposed to be scaring you, Ned. I’m supposed to be proving my—Spider-Man’s—intellect to the world.”
It was Saturday. Peter dragged them to his small bedroom (part-time evil lair) for an emergency meeting. Ned gaped when he wheeled in a massive whiteboard—It was one of those expensive, magnetic ones—and started using a ruler to explain his Master Plan.
He was doing a lot of aggressive waving with his ruler. Which wasn’t ideal in a room with barely enough space for a bed. On top of that, Peter kept going on tangents. So, despite his best efforts, Ned was lost by step seven. Then, Peter flipped the board over to explain ‘Phase Two’.
“Don’t listen to him, Pete. He’s got a weak constitution.” MJ said from where she was lying on Peter’s bed, reading that book she was obsessed with lately, Invitation to a Beheading. Sometimes, MJ kept one ear on the conversation, only pretending to read. Ned was sure this wasn’t one of those times.
“How did you get the whiteboard again?” Ned asked, half-curious, half-wanting to change the subject from Spider-Man’s IQ.
Peter threw him an irritated look for interrupting. “I asked Mr Stark for one.”
“Mr Stark bought you a whiteboard! What even is your life, dude?” So cool.
Something flashed across Peter’s face before he quickly turned away.
“You never ask Stark for stuff.” MJ propped herself up.
“Well, I might have told him I needed it to study. Finals are coming up, so…”
“You lied to Mr Stark? So cool.” Ned cut in.
“Stealing from billionaires. Nice one, Parker.” MJ complimented. Though all it did was make Peter look guiltier.
“Yeah. So, um…” Peter trailed off. Ned could see the tiny Stark Industries logo at the bottom. So cool. “That was it, actually.” He smacked the ruler against the whiteboard and declared, “Any questions?”
***
“I bet—No, I know Wolverine never had to go through this,” Peter complained. It was almost a week after Peter unveiled his Master Plan.
“People also think Wolverine is brutal and animalistic.”
Peter’s screwdriver clattered on the floor. So much for sticky fingers.
“Wait, Mr Stark. Have you fought with him before? Have you met the other X-Men? Wolverine’s, like, a living legend!”
“Jee kid, what am I? Your next-door neighbour?”
Peter smirked. “Iron-Man is cool and all…”
Mr Stark pulled his head out of one of the Iron-Man suits he was working on, shaking it. “And here I was, thinking I could make the hero-worship last for at least another couple of weeks.”
“He has adamantium claws.”
“So, why are you in my lab instead of whatever brothel Wolverine crawls out of every morning?”
Peter shrugged, “Wolverine didn’t pick me off the streets to fight in Germany, then give me a super cool suit.”
Mr Stark scoffed, “Yeah, millions of dollars, countless hours and a state-of-the-art AI is super cool.”
There was a comfortable silence. Not silence, seeing as Tony Stark’s personal playlist was blasting through the speakers. Almost uncomfortably loud for anyone with regular senses. Except for Mr Stark.
“So, what was the ‘super important thing’ you had to do on Thursday. And Friday?”
Mr Stark was bent over a circuit board, his AC/DC t-shirt stained with motor oil. “Huh?”
“What were you doing last week?”
“Oh, just some Avengers business, nothing too crazy. Pass me that screw, would you?”
“Oh.”
“Y’know,” Stark wiped his hands on his t-shirt, “I’m craving pizza. And maybe some ice cream for dessert?”
Peter jumped up, his own project forgotten, “Yes! Can we get it from the place from last time? Joe’s Pizza. The one with—”
“The mozzarella sticks. Yeah, yeah, I know. Just don’t tell Pepper.” He rolled his eyes.
The food arrived in record time. (“Perks of being a billionaire, Pete.”) They ordered four servings of mozzarella sticks! Mr Stark even bought Peter his favourite (double pepperoni and pineapple) despite it being “sacrilege”.
They sat on the sofa in the lab. A pizza box each in their laps. Ice cream—Stark Raving Hazelnut and Mint Chocolate Chip—softening on the coffee table. The picture of gluttony, Peter thought, MJ must be rubbing off on him.
Mr Stark finished his slice and was wiping his hands with a napkin.
“Y’know, kid, I’m sorry for bailing on you last minute like that. I was just…" he trailed off.
“Busy. Yeah, I know, Mr Stark, it’s okay. You don’t have to apologise. You were probably saving the world or something.”
***