Chapter Text
Love and death run twin rivers of red from the void-long nowhere, both wound as fast as a heartbeat around Peter's thumb. If he concentrates hard enough, narrows his mind and eyes down to slits, he can see them running a track lined with red…
...up.
Into the ceiling. Straight through concrete and wood rafters and probably further than that. In the fantastical recesses of his mind, Peter thinks that perhaps the strings extend into the skyline and zero-gravity above.
He snorts a little at the thought and shifts onto his side, coming face-to-face with Tony Stark.
Or, really, the printed image of Tony Stark, Iron Man, photoshopped to perfection amongst the shining features of his fellow Avengers. The figures on his peeling poster cut an imposing image, even in their humble paper forms.
"How awesome would that be, huh?" Peter mumbles to 2D-Tony. "My soulmate in space."
He laughs again, and the sound is muffled by his bedsheets.
He knows that couldn't be true.
At first, Peter did actually think that his soulmate was an astronaut when the twin lines manifested. Who wouldn't, when their soulmate's strings tugged up, up, up all the damn time? But then one night, he caught them—taut as ever—but now tilted somewhat horizontal to the earth.
The realization wasn't exactly jarring, but Peter had still been a little disappointed. Because how cool would that have been? But, no. No astronauts, no space.
He'd gotten over it, though, and compiled a short list of possible occupations, including, but certainly not limited to: a pilot, a sentient flock of pigeons, a part-time flying pirate, someone who lived on stilts, or maybe New York City's entire cloud of permanent smog.
There were just so many possibilities.
Peter rolls over again and prods his digital alarm clock until he can make out its glowing green 12:25.
Sleep, huh.
An easy mental calculation would conclude that he'd have approximately four hours and thirty-five minutes of slumber if he fell asleep exactly right now.
He blinks as the five flickers into a six.
Four hours and thirty-four minutes, then.
He closes his eyes. And opens them. Closes them again.
He doesn’t even need to tune in to his own senses to hear the rush and bustle of city life around him.
Peter flips onto his back, eyes open once more. He creeps out of his bed, leaving a trail of Iron Man Red (trademarked) bedsheets behind him. With a few silent strides, he's at his closet and pulling on familiar red-blue spandex. A final tug, and his mask is secured, the lenses whirring into a position mimicking his squinting expression.
Now for the next part of his impromptu escapade…
The window slides open with a long, agonizing creak. Peter cringes, making a mental note to oil his window panes, or whatever (he didn't know how to stop the noise).
His face holds a pinched grimace as he slithers through the opening and slides the creaky window shut once more. With his luck, it probably woke May. Peter sends a prayer to whatever gods above that she wouldn't take it upon herself to investigate the creaks and bumps in the night, because, nine times out of ten, all that creaking and bumping was Peter.
Fingers crossed, I guess. Sorry, May.
Now grinning, he scales the side of their apartment building, gaining momentum with each barely burning pull of his muscles. At the top, New York's eternal smog and winking lights greet him. Peter's grin stretches wider. This city truly never sleeps.
With the flick of his wrist, he sends a webline out onto a nearby building and leaps into the restless night.
* * *
The tingling of his spidey-sense is only a tiny thing at the base of his skull when he whips past a decrepit, old building. Peter had just stopped another mugging and was running high on the dregs of adrenaline and accomplishment, but allowed himself to careen left to land on the building's battered roof.
The moment his feet hit the concrete, the tingle rises into a solid, piercing shiver clawing down his spine.
"Okay... definitely something suspicious," Peter mutters, suppressing another involuntary shiver. "Totally calls for some webs and spandex.”
Peter takes in his surroundings, stepping in a careful circle as his suit-clad feet pick up the dust and grime of the roof. His spidey-sense is ringing a constant tune, but he can’t see anything similar to a malicious form waiting to jump out at him from the shadows. All he spots is the partially collapsed corner of the roof, and with nothing much else to investigate, drops into a wary crouch, approaching the wreckage of concrete and debris.
“And what do we have here…” He rubs his hands together, musing to himself the possibilities.
Mutant pigeons? A crash-landed grill? A giant frisbee?
But instead, Peter blinks. And blinks again.
His lenses whir and whir and whir. Open and closed, open and closed.
Because, oh. Oh, no. What the hell?
Like. What the hell.
And oh, God. Oh, God, he’s hallucinating. He’s hallucinatory and absolutely losing it. Was it that expired oatmeal he had for breakfast? That questionable hot-dog, or several questionable hot-dogs? Or—or—
He lets out a yelp as the dented suit of holy shit Iron Man twitches faintly.
The gleaming red-and-gold is beaten, battered, and filthy, but Peter knows that red from various YouTube compilation videos and his own room decor. So, yeah. Iron Man. Fucking Iron Man.
“Iron…Man?”
The suit lets out a groan.
Correction: the man inside the suit lets out a groan.
Hearing this, despite every single nerve in his body telling him to stay still and observe the situation, Peter leans closer, reaching a tentative hand out to the hero.
“Are you okay?”
The question falls like a fervent whisper, but somehow, he knows Iron Man hears him. The groaning has stopped now, and the silence leaves Peter squirming in discomfort. He shuffles closer, crouching down even further to level with the collapsed suit.
“Hey—”
The sudden, jolting shock of his spider-sense snaps him into focus.
“FRIDAY, engage.” The command is barked with unwavering resolution.
The eyes of the suit suddenly come alive with a piercing glow, and Peter stumbles back, letting another yelp escape.
“Wait! Hold on, I'm not a threat or anything, I swear!” Peter ends his sentence with an uncertain, upwards lilt. “Um. So, great to see you alive and all that jazz.”
He inches back another step, eyeing the repulser-blasters aimed at his head. The teenage vigilante cowers a little, much to his own shame. “Please don’t blast me into the floor, it’s super gross.”
Iron Man pauses. The blinding light of his repulser-blasters dims, and Peter heaves a sigh of relief. Still, the arms of the suit continue to premeditate his demise, raised and unwavering.
Then, another thing happens.
Ironman’s faceplate retracts slowly, like a dramatic reveal you’d only see in the movies.
And underneath? Well, you guessed it: Tony fuh-reaking Stark.
Little fanboy fireworks go off in Peter’s mind. All he can think is pew, pew, pew… BOOM, genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist Tony Stark.
A fresh wave of nervousness overtakes him. In front of him is his idol. His hero. One of the many inspirations that led him to donning a mask of his own, courage of his own. It occurs to Peter that this might as well be his only opportunity to put himself within the sights of Iron Man, of the Avengers, of Earth’s mightiest heroes. Not that he actually wants to join them. After all, who’d look out for the little guy?
He just… wants to impress them a little. Besides, any goodwill from literally anyone is a win in Peter’s book. With people like J. Jonah Jameson out there calling him a ‘wall-crawling menace’, he certainly needs it.
Peter adjusts himself, drawing back up to his full height of five feet and six inches. He puffs his chest out, spider emblem shining against the moonlight.
“FRIDAY, what's up with the kid?” Tony Stark squints at him, face unexpectedly scruffy. Peter notes a 5 o’clock shadow overtaking his jaw as well as the series of reddish-purple bruises beginning to pool into existence under the man’s skin.
He winces a little in sympathy before the hero’s words even register with him.
His hero, Peter thinks, and, again, he’s instantly lost in his own head.
He could say anything right now. He could gush about how it was an absolute honor to meet the Iron Man, or ask him what it was like being so great and important. He could make a witty quip about the situation, create a lasting impression with his infamous humor.
But Iron Man looks different from the magazines, Peter realizes. This Tony Stark is distinctly different from the plethora of posters plastered on his bedroom walls. Less shiny. Less airbrushed shadows. This Tony Stark isn’t wearing an expensive three-piece suit--he’s not even shaved.
So, Peter settles on something else. Questions and quips could wait, and based on the state of the Iron Man suit, he could most likely infer what had happened, perhaps who. He had a feeling that the hero probably wouldn’t appreciate his silly fanboy antics after getting a serious beatdown from whatever villain had inflicted this damage.
Peter asks again, “Are you okay, sir?”
He’s so polite about it, too.
Iron Man ignores him.
“This appears to be Spider-Man, a vigilante who mainly operates within Queens, New York, and has also been seen frequenting Manhattan’s Times Square. He is infamous for capturing criminals by binding them with a special “webbing” and leaving them for the police, along with a note. Much is unknown about him, as well as his identity, but my estimate for his age would be from early to mid twenties.”
Iron Man grimaces.
“You have a lady in your suit? And she knows about me?” Peter blurts out, only a little disappointed that Tony Stark himself doesn’t know who Spider-Man is. “That’s just, wow. So cool.”
“Can it, kid,” the man growls, annoyance bleeding out onto his features. “I’ll deal with you in a second, so just, y’know. Keep quiet. I’ve already got one hell of a migraine running around in this gorgeous head of mine.”
Ah, right. Rightrightright. Coolcoolcool.
Peter nods emphatically, mouthing an Of course, Mister Stark, won’t be a problem, Mister Iron Man Stark sir, before realizing that the man couldn’t possibly see his mouth moving underneath the mask. He ducks his head a little, coughing awkwardly as he scuffs a heel against the concrete.
“Good,” Iron Man pauses, closing his eyes. “Good, grief, actually. How the hell did you find me?”
Peter’s jaw hinges open and closed for a few seconds before he finds his voice. “I- uh, actually I was just vigilantism…ing around… and stuff. And I just,” He gestures vaguely at the hero. “Happened upon this lovely rooftop. Where you were obviously taking a killer power nap. Yeah.”
The roughened man purses his lips and raises a skeptical brow in Peter’s direction. “Uh-huh.”
“But you were, like, super collapsed into the roof.”
“Really, now?” Tony Stark squints at him.
Holy shit. Tony Stark is squinting at me.
“Really! Honest! I only found you like that! And the dent in your suit looked pretty gnarly, so I was like, ‘Well, huh, I should probably help, then.’ So I did. Kind of. You woke up.” Peter sucks in another breath. “And then you almost repulser-blasted me into smithereens. Which, let’s be serious, sir, would be an absolute honor. Like, thanks so much for blasting me with your hella cool suit, that’s awesome.”
He pauses. “Um. Not that you would, sir. You’re an Avenger, so you probably wouldn’t unless I was, like, super evil.”
“Well, are you one of those super evil types?” Iron Man looks wholly unimpressed.
“No! No, no, no, never! I would. Never. Be evil,” Peter says, eyes wide.
“Alrighty then, kid. Can’t exactly blast a non-evil doer. Wouldn’t be very superhero of me.” He grumbles the last part, sounding suspiciously bitter for a superhero-philanthropist.
Peter sighs, his shoulders sagging with relief and only a little disappointment. (Getting blown up by Iron Man would still be a hella cool way to go out.)
“Thanks—thank you, Mister Iron Man Stark, sir.”
“Uh-huh. Welcome, kid.” The billionaire waves a dismissive gold-titanium alloy gauntlet at him.
Peter can’t help but fall into a stunned silence.
“Mister Iron Man Stark, sir,” he starts.
Then abruptly stops.
An intense surge of danger, danger, get out of the way, manifests as a swelling buzz in the recesses of his mind.
“Something’s coming!” Peter hisses and immediately drops into a cautious crouch, surveying the area with renewed vigor, now recovered from the shock of an unexpected meeting.
“The hell are you—”
“Boss, I’m detecting an unknown entity approaching at a notable pace.”
Iron Man pauses to listen to the suit-lady and looks at Peter appraisingly, like he’s found something particularly interesting. Peter doesn’t notice. The red-and-gold suit emits a subtle mechanical whir as it steps up out of the shallow crater Peter found it in, but he’s not really paying attention to anything but locating what triggered his spider-sense.
He finds it a few seconds later.
“Over there, sir!” Peter points up and sure enough, a smudge of sickly yellow lights emerges from behind another dilapidated building.
“Spider-Man is correct, boss,” the disembodied voice affirms.
“Huh. Well, there you go.” The Iron Man suit steps forward, craning its neck to join Peter in gazing up at the impending peril. “Get me a headcount, would you, Fri?”
“Approximately fifty separate entities are approaching.”
Although they’re still pretty far off, Peter can see the yellow light disperse into the fifty ‘entities’ suit-lady specified. Another detail that he can make out is that they’re drones. Lastly, he registers that they are most definitely approaching at a notably concerning speed.
Iron Man sucks his teeth and turns to Peter. “Care to stick around, kid? I think I could use another set of hands here, especially if it’s the same guy as last time.”
The drones close in, throwing yellow beams across the rooftop.
“R-really?” Peter stutters, heart hammering in his chest. He gapes, open-mouthed, for probably the hundredth time that night, turning rapidly from Iron Man to the drones. Iron Man to the rapidly descending drones.
“Oh yeah, really. Really, truly, honestly, impossibly, indubitably, yada, yada, yada,” Iron Man says, gesticulating vaguely with both gauntlets now aglow with energy.
A drone dips into Peter’s line of sight, fan blades abuzz.
“Okay, yeah! For sure. I mean, I wasn’t really doing much before this—just a mugging here and there, a fight to break up or two or—”
>Thwip, thwip, thwip.
“—three,” he finishes, cheeks aching from his wide smile.
The drone is incapacitated, stuck to the concrete in a swath of webbing. A thrill races up Peter’s spine, slotting into place beside his buzzing senses.
“Hey, not bad, kid!” Iron Man chuckles before the brief, telltale whine of his repulser blasters sings into existence. The drones loom above them, taking their deadly aim. “Let’s see if you’re any good.”
* * *
They make quick work of the drones, and a few of them immobilized with Peter’s webs are hauled up by the Iron Man suit.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he whistles, plucking up two web-bound drones.
The suit hovers in the air, and its faceplate folds back again. "And I'd prefer if you kept this little event to yourself. Top secret stuff, you know."
"Of course," Peter bounces on the balls of his feet, nodding his head eagerly. "Yeah, totally, I get it. Super top secret."
Iron Man nods back, faceplate folding down. His thrusters boost, sending the man further up. Peter cranes his neck to watch, to keep watching.
As the hero dips and flies away, Peter can't help the aching grin spreading across his face. He flexes his tingling hands before leaping off the roof with a whooping cry.
* * *
He settles into the sounds around him, of creaking wood and rustling trees. Moonlight dances across the floorboards when he crawls back into his room.
Peter is still grinning by the time he flops into bed, still stretching out the strange buzzing in his hands. Like something bigger had happened tonight. Like all his nerves were narrowed into the power he quite literally held in his own two hands.
He rubs his itching palms together.
God, Ned is going to freak out tomorrow.