Chapter Text

ACT ONE

“You’re not serious,” Harry laughed. “You? A dance scholarship?”

“Me,” Peter confirmed glumly. “A dance scholarship. Can you stop laughing now?”

Harry took a moment to catch his breath and regarded his best friend fondly. “Honestly, Peter, how do you get yourself into these situations?”

Peter sighed. He couldn’t turn it down, not now, not after Aunt May had been so excited for him. He’d had to spin her the same story he’d spun Tony Stark, about how dance was his secret passion and how he practised in his spare time because he knew they couldn’t afford tuition at a performing arts school, let alone one in New York. “Sorry for impressing people with my natural flexibility,” he grumbled. “Harry, I don’t know how to dance.”

Harry pulled out his phone, and started browsing with a determined air. “I know, I’ve seen you try. And this is a good school, Peter. How long is it before term starts?”

“A month,” Peter replied immediately. He’d been agonising over it for days. “I need to watch the hell out of some YouTube videos.”

Harry scoffed. “What you need is a tutor. I’m going to call Gwen.”

Peter’s ears perked up. “Gwen Stacy? You still – you guys still keep in touch?” Gwen Stacy had gone to school with them, and had been a constant, shining presence on the periphery of Peter’s life. They’d never been close, but through the blessing that was social media he’d caught glimpses of her new life post-high school at the prestigious (and expensive) Carter Academy; Facebook status updates about gruelling classes, YouTube videos of class performances, Instagram posts of her blonde hair in immaculate buns.

“So that crush hasn’t gone away,” Harry said nonchalantly, noting his expression. “I’ll ask if she can teach you the basics.”

“No, she’s –“ Peter started to babble, a nervous habit from his early teen years. “She’s a trained professional, she doesn’t have time for –“

“Believe me,” Harry sighed with a long-suffering expression, also developed in Peter’s early teen years. “For you, she’ll make time.”

“Wait, Harry. Harry.” Harry pulled out his phone and made a flappy, hang-on gesture at Peter. “Harry! What does that mean?”

*

Two days later, Peter found himself walking up to the main entrance of the Carter Academy. It was late August and swelteringly hot. He carried a gym bag in one hand and two ice teas from Starbucks in the other; the least he could do, he reckoned, as Gwen flatly refused to let him pay her. Gwen herself was sat on the grand stone staircase, eyes closed with her face up to the sun. Peter couldn’t help himself taking a quick photo on his ancient camera. As he approached, he coughed politely.

Gwen opened her eyes and took him in. A sunny smile stretched over her face. “Peter, hi.”

“Hi,” he waved, lamely, before remembering he was carrying drinks. “Um, I got us tea. Since it’s so hot out. It’s lemon.”

“My favourite,” Gwen grinned, accepting it gratefully.

“I know,” Peter said, and then mentally cursed himself. “I mean- I’ve seen you drink it before, so I figured it was a safe bet. So, um.” He shuffled awkwardly to sit beside her, “this is the Carter Academy, huh?”

“It is indeed,” Gwen agreed. “And you are Tony Stark’s new pet project?”

Peter felt himself blush. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Well, it’s all over the ballet network. Everyone’s very excited to see what Stark’s new ingénue has to offer.”

“That’s just the point,” Peter groaned, “I don’t have anything to offer. I’m just… bendy.”

Gwen raised an eyebrow, and his blush deepened. “You’re just… bendy?”

“Flexible,” he amended. “That’s why I got the scholarship. That, and because Tony Stark is a strange, highly excitable man with more money than sense.”

Gwen giggled. “You sound like Mrs Carter.”

“And she is?” Gwen stared at him pointedly until Peter remembered the name of the building they were sat under. “Right. The Carter Academy. So that means she runs it?”

“It means she’s the principal dance mistress,” Gwen informed him. Peter sighed.

“I need to start taking notes. That’s the other problem – the dancing I can do, I think. He knows I’m starting as an untrained beginner. But I don’t know anything about ballet. I don’t know who the people are, or what to call them, and I only found out this morning that male dancers aren’t called ballerinas. I have to be able to pass myself off as someone who’s been religiously following the New York ballet scene since I was twelve, you know?”

“They’re called ballerinos,” Gwen replied, looking at him oddly. “But only if they’re a principal dancer in a company, otherwise they’re just ballet dancers. Or company artists. What do you know about ballet already?”

“That you do it,” Peter said quickly, “and that you’re really good.”

When Gwen laughed, her eyes lit up. She stood, and pulled him to his feet, unabashedly looking over his entire person like someone sizing up a fight. “That’s a good start. Come with me.”

Gwen was good, Peter quickly realised. And smart, and beautiful, and funny… and it was like being back in freshman year all over again, except this time she knew his name. She’d taken him into an empty studio in the basement of the building and set about teaching him the absolute basics of ballet. It had started with his clothes.

“Did you bring clothes to change into? You can’t dance in cargo pants,” she informed him.

Peter looked down at his t-shirt and loose cotton pants, then looked back up at her with a quizzical frown. “What’s wrong with them? I can move about just fine.”

“You said you were flexible. You need to be in flexible clothing. Luckily,” Gwen replied, delving into her own bag, “Harry said you might have this problem. Here,” she announced, and passed a small bag over to him. “I’ve got shoes too.” That was how Peter found himself dancing in yoga pants and a red vest top decorated with dark blue spider webs. Gwen grinned at him appreciatively when he emerged wearing them. “Spider-Man fan?”

“Harry is,” he mumbled. “So. Ballet?”

“Ballet,” she confirmed. “Now, hold onto the bar with one hand and place your feet like this…”

Later, after more iced tea, she started teaching him about the dynamics of their schools. Rival schools, he found out, each with a famous dance company attached. The Carter Academy was run by artistic director Steve Carter-Rogers, with his wife, ex-prima-ballerina Margaret “Peggy” Carter-Rogers as the company director and principal dance mistress. She was a huge deal, Gwen explained, her big eyes shining. The Carter Academy was prestigious, posh, and exclusive, whereas the Stark School of Dance was equally as prestigious but focused on accessibility. Stark gave out a bunch of similar scholarships to Peter’s every year, and seemed to go wandering various scenes about town in search of fresh talent.

He also found, to his great surprise, that anyone enrolled in the Stark School of Dance could also take classes in the physics and biomedical departments of Erskine University, in a building just opposite the main dance studios. “It was a wedding anniversary thing Stark did a few years ago,” Gwen shrugged. “I think like, two people have ever taken them up on it.”

It was time for Peter’s eyes to shine. “You can take classes with Bruce Banner? At Erskine? That’s it. I’m becoming the world’s first ballet and biology double-major. That is so cool.”

Armed with a laptop and what seemed like infinite patience, Gwen took him through the rest of the staff and structure of ballet schools; from how to navigate the admin department to what kind of shoes you had to wear to different lessons. The principal dance mistress of his school was an elegant-looking woman called Virginia Potts, (though Gwen mentioned that all the Stark students called her “Pepper”) and they found out (to Gwen’s great jealousy) that for the autumn term the Stark school was playing host to a prima ballerina from the Bolshoi: Natalia Romanova.

“She’s going to see through me in a heartbeat,” Peter groaned into his hands. “Gwen, I don’t think I can do this.”

“Yes, you can.” They’d finished dancing for the day; Peter was exhausted, and there were more sweat patches on his shirt than shirt. Even Gwen looked ruffled – she’d ditched her fluffy ballet cardigan hours ago and her hair was starting to fall out of her neat bun. “Peter, as someone who’s been training for years I kind of hate to say this, but you’re good. You’re naturally good. You just need to get the basic technique under your belt and I think you could go really far.”

That stopped Peter in his tracks. He hadn’t exactly been thinking about a career in dance, of all things. If anything, he’d been feeling guilty all day about the surprise on Gwen’s face whenever he moved. In school he’d been lanky, awkward, and clumsy. The spider-bite hadn’t just given him enhanced senses and sticky palms, it had given him the grace and flexibility of, well, – a ballerina. A ballerino, he quickly corrected himself.

“You really think I can do this?” He asked.

Gwen nodded. “I think this is something you were meant to do.”

*

“Knock knock,” Bruce called out, stepping neatly into his husband’s office. “I brought lunch. I also spent half an hour in Pepper’s classroom and accidentally learned how to do a pas de chat.”

“You’re a saint,” Tony grinned, making grabby hands for the paper bag. “I won’t even mention how you called Pepper’s studio a ‘classroom’.”

“I think that’s a lost cause,” Bruce agreed affably, bending down for a kiss before relinquishing the bag of food. “How goes planning for the new term?”

“I’m arguing with Pepper about the winter performance showcase for the seniors,” Tony said around a mouthful of sandwich. “She wants to do scenes from Onegin. There’s only one scene anyone cares about in Onegin.”

Bruce cocked his head thoughtfully. “Is Onegin the one that’s like Pride and Prejudice, if at the end of Pride and Prejudice, Elizabeth told Darcy to fuck off?”

“Precisely, you dance philistine. And I keep telling her – this isn’t the Carter Academy. I don’t want straight-up classical ballet. I want them to experiment.”

Bruce smiled fondly at his husband. In the last few weeks before term got started he always panicked and got ruffled up, and then as soon as the students were enrolled properly he’d be as smooth as satin: strolling through the hallways and making sure that everyone felt welcomed and included in their classes. It was endearing how much he really cared about the kids and their wellbeing. I don’t want any kid to go through dance school the way I had to, he’d confessed one night, early in their relationship. I want them to be here because they love it, not because their parents shoved them into it or because they think it’s the ‘right’ place to be. Tony had eschewed his dance heritage as soon as he’d graduated and went into business and education classes. Decades later, he finally took up the school his father had left him and turned it into the most popular dance school in the country.

“Oh,” Bruce suddenly remembered. “Speaking of experiments, your new student came to see me today.”

“Peter!” Tony grinned. “Is he taking your class?”

“He’s taking more classes than Fitz and Simmons put together. Betty talked to him about cell renewal in cross-species genetics for hours. Are you sure he’s a dancer?”

“Positive,” Tony nodded. “I can feel it in my bones. But if he wants to do science too, more power to him. I just hope he can cope with the workload.”

“I won’t work him too hard,” Bruce promised, “I know how you dance types are. Please don’t break him, he’s too cute.”

“Isn’t he adorable? Almost makes you wish we…” Tony trailed off. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Tony…” the argument from two nights ago reared its ugly head in Bruce’s mind. Tony refused to look at him, playing with the sandwich on his desk. Bruce wanted to curse. They were so close to getting past it.

“Can you take a break?” Tony finally said upon looking up, no trace of the last awkward thirty seconds on his face. “I could definitely do with a walk. Let’s go sit in the park like teenagers.”

“Sure,” Bruce said, relieved. “You can have me for a whole hour before the next departmental planning meeting.”

“I’ve got you for the rest of my life,” Tony shot back, slipping an arm through his as they left the office together.

*

Peter found himself being drawn more and more to the dance studios when he was out on patrol as Spider-Man. Dancers were so dedicated. Term didn’t officially start until the next week and still there were students coming in to practice until 8, 9, 10pm at night. Tony Stark, the director, also kept late hours. Perched on the ledge of the university building, Peter could see a silhouette of the man in the window opposite, gesturing violently to some unseen person. He looked away, not wanting to intrude, but his spider-senses interfered and he felt the sound of broken glass and the sight of blood in an instant. Almost automatically, he swung to the window. It was open. Stark had knocked over what looked like a large glass figuring, and there was blood dripping from his fingers.

“Fuck,” he cursed, into the phone he had sandwiched between his ear and shoulder. “No, I’m okay, I just knocked over that awful glass figure Rhodey got me as a joke when we finished Les Sylphides. Yeah, the mermaid. No, I’m fine. Barely bleeding. Please don’t panic –“

It was at that moment that Tony spotted Peter perched on his windowsill. He stared open-mouthed. “Bruce? I’m gonna call you back,” he finally said, and hung up.

“I heard the glass,” Peter said quickly, trying to disguise his voice as much as possible. “I just wanted to check everything was all right.”

“I’m fine,” Tony repeated, still staring.

“Um, you’re bleeding.”

Tony looked down at his hand as if seeing it for the first time. There was a large, wet gash across his palm, and a small but steadily-growing pool of blood on the hardwood floor below.

“Well, would you look at that,” he murmured.

“I’m pretty sure that needs stitches,” Peter added. “Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll get…”

“Pepper,” Tony said quietly. He’d managed to lean back against the desk, but his face was getting rapidly white and Peter recognised the symptoms of shock all too well. He rummaged through the backpack he was carrying and pulled out a hand towel.

“Here,” Peter said, wrapping it around Tony’s hand. “Press hard on this, okay? It’ll help with the bleeding. I’ll go and get Pepper. I’ll be as quick as I can, promise.” He didn’t want to leave Tony alone, but he knew where Pepper would be. Two minutes later he sped into her private dance studio, knocking quickly before opening the door to see Pepper with a red-haired ballerina, standing very close to each other. They both jumped to see him, and Pepper grabbed the other woman’s hand in shock.

“Sorry!” He quickly said. “Mr Stark – he’s in his office, he’s cut his hand open. I think he’s going into shock and he asked for you. Pepper,” he clarified. Then he remembered that he was supposed to be Spider-Man, New York vigilante, and not Peter Parker, future New York ballet student. “Um, so do you know where I can find her?”

Pepper was already moving out of the door. “I’m Pepper. Office?”

Peter nodded. “I gave him a towel to help with the bleeding.” As they moved through the corridors, Pepper started to run.

“He’s got a heart condition,” she explained, with genuine worry on her face. “Losing a lot of blood could be dangerous.”

Peter reached the door first and flung it open. “Mr Stark –“

“I told you I wasn’t hallucinating,” Tony said triumphantly. He was still sat on the desk, but kneeling on the floor in front of him, inspecting the wound, was an older man with curly, greying-brown hair.

“Bruce,” Pepper said from behind Peter, the relief evident in her voice. “Record time.”

“I was already on my way,” he said mildly, absorbed in wrapping a bandage carefully around his husband’s hand. “Ducked into the office to grab my first aid kit.”

“He was on his way to walk me home,” Tony grinned, looking at everyone else with the air of someone who was very light-headed. “Isn’t that sweet? There were even flowers involved, apparently. I can’t believe you let me yell at you on the phone while you were bringing flowers. I feel awful.” The other hand, the one that wasn’t being attended to, was resting loosely on Bruce’s curls.

“The flowers were for Natasha,” Bruce corrected him, “to say welcome back to the States. They’re in my office,” he added, looking past Peter at the red-head he suddenly realised was Natalia Romanova. He felt his posture improve incrementally just by standing next to her.

“I’ll pick them up,” she said, smiling at him. “After we go to the hospital.”

“No hospital,” Tony said, at the same time that Bruce said “yes, hospital,” clearly knowing his husband too well. “Aren’t we going to talk about the spider in the room?”

The two women started and turned around, as if only just remembering that Peter was there. He felt himself blush under the mask.

“Um.”

“Yes, I’m sorry I said you were hallucinating,” Bruce pacified Tony. He turned towards Peter. “Thank you. The towel really helped with the bleeding.”

Peter felt as if he was intruding on something very personal, now, like he had wandered into a family situation. “Glad to help. I’ll just –“ he motioned towards the window, “get out of your hair. Unless anyone wants a spider-lift to the hospital?

Pepper shivered good-naturedly. Peter grinned, clapped Tony gently on the shoulder and said “good luck, man,” before absconding out the window.

The next day, as Peter headed to the building for his last class with Gwen, he spotted a small white card in the window of Tony’s office and resolved to check it out later that night if he had any energy left. Ballet was hard. Gwen was a lovely friend but a strict teacher, and she’d drilled him through hours of gruelling exercises. However, if Peter’s high-school self could see him dancing with Gwen Stacy, he’d have taken up ballet years ago. It wasn’t just about being in such close proximity; holding hands, leaning into positions, it was about trust. He’d never felt so open and raw with someone before as he felt when he was dancing with Gwen, like she could see everything about him and still chose to stay. She didn’t laugh at him when he messed up exercises or positions, even though he felt completely silly and exposed. She looked at him like he was doing well – like he was her equal. Not some stupid kid who’d written her name in hearts in the back of all his biology textbooks when she didn’t even know what his was.

“Peter? Pay attention.” They were working on a simple pas de deux she’d performed in her first term the year before. “Okay, so now I’m going to walk forward like this.” They were still holding hands from the last movement; Peter in front, facing her. “Then you take my waist with your other hand, and lift, okay?”

“Wait.” He stopped. “You want me to lift you up?”

“Well, more precisely,” Gwen told him, “I’m going to jump, balance my weight on your hip, and then you’ll keep me in the air as we spin. It’s a basic hip lift with a single hand hold. It’ll make more sense actually doing it.”

“What if I drop you?” Peter asked, fidgeting.

“You won’t drop me.” Gwen squeezed his hand. “I trust you, okay? I just hope you’re stronger than you look,” she teased. “We’ll go slowly the first time.” She took a moment to readjust her balance and walked forward. Peter took her waist, and not knowing what else to do, lifted her into the air and span round in a circle. Gwen let out a yelp of surprise.

“Oh my god!”

“I’m sorry!” He put her down immediately and drew back. “Was that wrong? Are you hurt?”

“You just… picked me up.”

Peter had never been more confused. “You told me to pick you up.”

“Yes, but you just picked me up like you were picking up a… I don’t know, like a piece of fruit.”

“What? Fruit?”

“Do it again,” Gwen instructed. Peter shimmied forward, feeling self-conscious in a way he never had with her before. He rested both hands on her waist, and before she could jump up, he lifted her into the air. Gwen stared down at him in wonder.

Ah. Peter understood the issue now – normal humans weren’t this effortlessly strong. “You’re just really light,” Peter said weakly. “I’ll um – I’ll put you down now.” He placed her down gently on the floor. She looked into his eyes; half in awe, half in suspicion. Then, as he realised he should probably take his hands away from her waist, she leaned forward and kissed him.

Kissing Gwen Stacy was better than ballet. It was even better than being Spider-Man.

A knock on the door interrupted them, and Gwen sprang back like she’d been burned. “I can’t be seen with you,” she whispered urgently, and before he could say anything she’d detached herself from his gentle grip and run towards the back exit.

“Gwen!”

“Anyone in there?” A clean, pleasant voice called out.

“Just a minute!“ Peter called back. He stared at Gwen in disbelief. She mouthed sorry at him before she left, gym bag hastily slung over one arm. She left him standing in the middle of the dusty mirrored studio; hair ruffled and strawberry gloss on his lips.

When he shook himself and opened the door, two students around his age were waiting expectantly. “Sorry!” the girl said. He recognised her English accent from behind the door. “We didn’t mean to disturb your practice – just wondered if the room was free.”

“It’s about to be,” Peter said, already looking around for his things. Gwen would be long gone by now, at the rate she’d sprinted away from him. He felt his cheeks burning in embarrassment. 

“Don’t let us push you out,” the girl protested. “Hold on a tick – Peter?”

“Huh?” Peter looked up from his bag. “Do I know – oh my God, hi.” Jemma Simmons, his partner from last summer’s inter-school science fair was beaming at him, inexplicably dressed in a navy blue leotard and a white chiffon skirt. He recognised her partner by sight, a shy, irritable boy from the physics section. “You do ballet?” He asked stupidly, because it seemed inconceivable that his science-fair-partner-turned-occasional-pen-pal could be standing here, wearing a dance cardigan instead of a lab coat.

“As do you!” She replied, clearly equally as surprised. “Oh my gosh, you must be Tony’s new protégé. How bizarre. How are you?” Jemma raced across the floor to give him a hug and he was suddenly conscious of touching someone who was very similar to, but not, Gwen.

“I’m having kind of a stressful day,” he admitted, overwhelmed by touch and heat and whatever the hell had happened to him in the last five minutes. Jemma drew back, clearly concerned. “Will you two be here in an hour? I really, really want to catch up, but – I think I need to go take a walk, or something. Hi,” he added, nodding at the boy Jemma had come in with. “Peter.”

“Fitz,” he replied companionably.

“We’ll be here,” Jemma promised. “Is there anything I can…” she trailed off, at a loss. Peter smiled at her.

“I just need some fresh air. And then I want to hear all about which classes you’re taking with Dr. Banner. Because I assume you’re taking all the science classes.”

She grinned at him. “All the science. We’ll be doing barre exercises if you need us.”

Peter half-expected to see Gwen waiting for him outside, but there was no trace of her. I can’t be seen with you. He kicked the stone wall, and watched debris crumble down. He’d been an idiot to expect anything more than this.

His phone buzzed in his backpack pocket. The screen lit up when he fished it out.

Incoming call: Gwen Stacy

Accept / Ignore

> Call declined.

*

“You know, the Carter Academy kids start class at 8am.”

“The Carter Academy kids have no fun.” Pepper sat up and stretched, letting the blanket they’d fallen asleep under pool across her lap. Natasha propped herself up on one shoulder and looked on with an admiring eye until the other woman caught her staring, and leaned down to kiss her gently on the cheek.

“You’re sentimental in the mornings,” Natasha observed wryly. She still wore her clothes from last night; leggings and an oversized t-shirt. Pepper hadn’t even remembered to take her makeup off, and there were smears of mascara on the pillow.

“Shouldn’t you be in rehearsals right now?” She asked, leaning back down onto the bed. “Isn’t that why you’re in New York?”

“There are a lot of reasons to visit New York,” Natasha replied, idly tangling her fingers in Pepper’s hair. “They don’t need me all day.”

Pepper smiled, imagining her youngest students around the formidable force of a Russian ballerina. “I think you’ll like teaching this year.”

“I think you’ll like the Bolshoi,” Natasha countered smartly, and Pepper felt her stomach fall as she remembered the argument from last night which had led to them falling asleep so haphazardly.

“I’m not moving to Moscow.” She said, defiantly, and burrowed out from under the bedclothes.

“Well, I’m not moving to New York,” Natasha called after her.

“Good, so it’s settled.” Pepper got up and started undressing for the shower, not looking at her lover who she knew was undoubtedly rolling her eyes. “We’ll just carry on doing this once a year and make each other miserable.” She strode into the en-suite bathroom and started the water running for a shower.

“You’re wasted at Stark’s school,” Natasha reminded her in vain, reluctantly swinging her legs out of bed.

Pepper poked her head around the door, indignant. “I believe in this project. It’s important.”

“So are you! Do you really want to spend your last performance years in a school for kids who will end up teaching high school dance for the rest of their lives?”

“Some of them are really something, Natasha. You’ll see that today.”

“I’d better,” Natasha murmured. She didn’t have a lot of faith in Tony’s ability to run a successful school, no matter what Pepper said. Real dance training required discipline. Something she’d never seen much of in her friend.

Pepper opened the door of the bathroom again, and light steam filtered out. “Are you coming in, or what?”

Natasha shucked her t-shirt off and grinned, admiring the fluorescent lights on Pepper’s bare skin, and the way her lips pouted when she was annoyed. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Two showers and several hours later, Natasha found herself in Pepper’s afternoon barre class. She quickly dismissed half the students in her head during the first ten minutes. The scholarship students from Britain looked promising, though she doubted their confidence when separated. A Pakistani girl in a brightly coloured leotard and leggings made her smile; she was enthusiastic, and didn’t know her own strength. The exchange student from Wakanda also drew her eye. He exuded a powerful, feline grace, though he shied away from attention. At the end of the line, there was a lanky teenager in a tank top decorated with spider webs. Natasha watched them all with interest and a critical appraisal, but decided to approach him on his own as the other students filtered off for a ten minute break.

“You’re new to this,” she observed. “Peter, is it? You’re watching everyone else’s performance instead of your own. There are mirrors for a reason, you know.”

“I’m trying to make sure I get it right,” he mumbled. Eyes downcast, shoulders hunched. They’d have to work on that. “Like you said, I’m – I’m new.”

“Show me that last movement again.” He dutifully got up to stand at the barre, and she adjusted his posture, noting how he seemed unused to the contact. Ballet students weren’t often shy. Intriguing. He performed the movement self-consciously, but well, with the natural fluidity that Tony had raved about. She could see right away that he’d had no formal training, but there was something there; in the way he held himself, and corrected his own movements, there had been a tutor along the line somewhere. “Not bad,” she judged when he’d finished. “You can come see me after lessons.”

“Oh, I…” He obviously had no idea what that meant. “I have a meeting with Mr Stark. At 5pm. It’s my first week review.”

“So come after.”

Incredibly, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, I have to pick my aunt up from work.”

“You drive?”

He shook his head again. “I just don’t like her walking home alone.”

Natasha looked at this boy; all of 19 years old, principled, with a definite air of something secret about him, and thought she might enjoy teaching this year after all. “We’ll see in a few days, then,” she told him, and signalled to Pepper that she was ready to resume.

Peter had the feeling that he’d just made a Very Bad Mistake; but to be honest with himself, he’d had the same feeling ever since he’d walked up the stairs of the Stark School at the beginning of the week. Aunt May, beaming with pride, had sent him off with a hug and a packed lunch, and for the duration of journey to the building he’d almost felt like he was ready. His phone had buzzed when he was registering as a new student. Good luck today. X. – Gwen. He hadn’t looked at it since. He’d barely had time. The Stark School prided itself on its non-traditional classes and flexible learning, but that didn’t mean the work wasn’t difficult. Between lessons, lectures, and getting to know everyone in his year, Peter had hardly had time to patrol as Spider-Man, instead falling into bed at 11pm and promising himself he’d go out tomorrow every night that week. Putting Gwen out of his head was just common sense, he assured himself. He needed to concentrate.

“Hey, Parker,” a voice called out after class has ended, as Peter was putting away his dance shoes and tying the laces on his sneakers. He looked up to see a strangely familiar boy; tall, grinning, with a shock of messy blonde hair.

“Hi,” he said back. “Uh, sorry, I’m new…”

“Johnny,” the boy said, and stretched out a hand. Peter took it, and got up with his bag on his shoulder. “Johnny Storm.”

“Oh,” Peter said, stupidly. No wonder he was familiar; they’d teamed up as the Human Torch and Spider-Man three or four times that year. But Peter Parker, new dance student, wouldn’t know that. “I didn’t know you did ballet,” he said instead.

“Just part-time,” Johnny shrugged. “It’s great for balance and muscle tone, which you need when you’re…” He tailed off meaningfully, and was watching Peter a little curiously. “You know.”

“Being a superhero?” Peter guessed. He’d never met Johnny Storm as Johnny Storm, celebrity superhero, instead of Johnny Storm… regular superhero, so he didn’t know how happy the guy would be to talk about his super-powered life with regular people. “Dude, you can literally fly. Jeté’s must be so easy for you, damn.”

To his relief, Johnny burst out laughing. “They’re not bad,” he agreed. “Hey, we’re going to lunch. Wanna join?”

Peter looked over at the group of students hovering by the door. There was no-one else he recognised from the superhero gig, thank God – though he could have sworn he saw the younger Hawkeye racing through the corridors that morning with a cello case -so he smiled and waved and made his way over. “Hi,” he said, a little shyly. “I’m Peter.”

“We know,” one of the girls giggled. “Hi! I’m Kamala. I’m also part-time, like Johnny,” she explained. “And this is Billy and Teddy” – she pointed to a male couple who were still getting ready – “and we’re gonna meet Kate and a few others in the park. They can’t wait to meet you,” she told him, smiling in that same odd way that Johnny had been.

“Geez, don’t scare the kid,” Johnny said. “Come on, we’ve only got one hour before a thrilling period of dance history. I need food, stat.”

*

Peter went back to class feeling a little bemused, and slightly interrogated, but with a warmth inside that came from finally managing to mix in with the other ballet students. Johnny had always been easy to talk to, and even though he wasn’t aware that he and Peter had met before, their breezy camaraderie reignited almost instantly and Peter was no longer so shy. Three hours later, he brought himself up to Tony’s office for their appointment. The door was open, and Tony was talking on the phone; his manner was agitated, he gestured wildly to no-one in particular and it was only when he spotted Peter that he lowered his voice.

“I have to go,” he said shortly to the phone, and clicked it off.

“I can come back,” Peter said hurriedly. “If you need a moment…”

“No, no,” Tony replied, flapping a hand in impatience. “You guys are the only kids I’ll ever get, apparently, I may as well make the most of it. Come in.”

Peter moved into the spacious office, noting the empty space where all the broken glass had been the week before. Tony looked ruffled, rushed; his hair was standing on end from where he’d been running his hands through it. Peter had been in a physics lecture earlier, and Dr. Banner had looked the same. Peter sat down in the armchair by the desk, which was littered with various mechanical looking gadgets and fiddle-toys as well a sleek-looking laptop and several photos. He recognised Pepper and Natasha in a few of them, and Dr. Banner in most. No kids, he noted.

“Rough day?”

“Yes,” Tony admitted. “But it’s your day I’m interested in.” He leaned back in his desk chair, visibly calming down and becoming more focused on the task at hand. “How goes it, my young, promising acrobat?”

Peter grinned despite himself. “I’m not an acrobat.”

“I found you wrapped around the top of a streetlamp with both hands on your camera, steady as a rock. Don’t tell me you’re not an acrobat. What are you, part monkey? Can you do a handstand?”

“I’m not a – what? Of course I can do a handstand. Who can’t do a handstand?”

“Lots of people! Show me.”

Laughing, Peter found himself getting up from the chair and pushing it to the side to make space. “What, here?”

“Sure. I’ll try and catch you if you fall.”

Peter was upside down before Tony had even finished his sentence. “I won’t fall.” As Peter Parker, mild-mannered teenager he wasn’t supposed to show off. However, after a day of restraint and repetition and relentless, perfect posture, he couldn’t help it. As Tony watched in badly-concealed amazement as Peter stayed in a perfect handstand without wavering, he decided to take it even further. He sprung himself up onto just his right hand, then onto just the finger tips. Then three fingers. And then one.

Mindful of the space around him, he bent backwards and flipped right-side-up, smirking a little at the genuine look of shock on his new mentor’s face. “Like I said, handstands are easy. Kids do them.”

“Not like that, they don’t.” Tony stared at him as Peter pushed the armchair back into place and sat down. “Funny.”

“What?”

“Natasha said you were shy.”

Peter grinned. “No, that’s just around her. What, you put a principal dancer of the Bolshoi in a beginner’s class and expect me to be able to string a sentence together?”

Tony laughed, and sat back down opposite him. “Fair enough, kid, fair enough. I forget that I’ve known Nat for so long that she’s not quite as scary any more. Most of the people who work here are old friends, and Natasha comes to visit every year while the Bolshoi’s on their Christmas tour to cast judgement on my pupils and seduce my principal teacher. Like clockwork.” Peter thought back to finding her with Pepper in the dark studio, which made a lot more sense now. “So,” Tony continued, “How’s your first week been?”

“A little overwhelming,” Peter admitted. “I liked the orientation tour. Wardrobe was cool.”

“You met Phil?”

Peter nodded. “We talked about dance fabrics.”

“Of course you did. And class at Erskine? How’d that go? I heard they were very impressed. I have inside sources, you know.”

Peter relaxed slightly, remembering the two hours he’d spent at the building opposite. “Brilliant. Not that barre exercises aren’t fun, but…”

“Bruce will be very smug,” Tony chuckled. “He’s already stolen Fitzsimmons from under my nose with the sweet lure of science. This was a terrible anniversary gift. I should have found him something nice for his office. A statue of Marie Curie.”

“Oh, speaking of, how’s your hand?” Peter asked, suddenly reminded of the broken glass from Tony’s own office statue. “Is it healing up okay?”

Tony waved his lightly bandaged hand and nodded, and then looked curiously at Peter. “Yeah, I… cut it on some broken glass. That awful glass mermaid fell over and broke – how did you know that?”

Peter could have cursed himself. “Uh, I didn’t. I just noticed the bandage.”

“You said ‘speaking of’.”

“Speaking of… terrible things. Like injuries.” He didn’t breathe until Tony shrugged the whole matter away.

“So,” Tony said, clapping his hands together and then wincing. “I have a job for you.”

“A job? I’ve had one week of lessons, Mr Stark, I really don’t think I’m ready to - ”

“Hear me out, kid,” Tony said with an amused look. “Don’t worry, it’s not a show. It’s a peace embassy. You are my olive branch.” He leaned back in his chair and consulted the calendar on his desk. “Every year at the beginning of term, our school has a little breakfast event with the Carter Academy. To, you know, cement unions and foster friendships and all that jazz.”

“Okay?” Gwen had never mentioned that, Peter thought. The confusion must have registered on his face, because Tony laughed and nodded.

“Right, except that we don’t. But we’re going to, because Steve and I decided… well, they’re not getting any younger, are they? And, frankly, this rivalry is bad for business.”

Peter nodded, following along. “So you’re starting, uh, a coalition?”

“I’m trying,” Tony said. “Steve can be a little… prickly. Especially as our schools have had nothing to do with each other for the last few years.”

“Why?” Peter asked, then immediately cringed. Someone with a ‘passion for ballet’ would know that, he figured. “I mean- I know what everyone says happened, but I was wondering…”

“My father ran a very tight ship,” Tony explained. “Classical ballet only, strict rehearsal times, shows that ran like clockwork. Kids used to work themselves to exhaustion trying to be noticed by him. Steve and Peggy were his best students.”

Peter started. “They were students here?”

“Yes,” Tony said, giving him that odd look again. “They don’t really like to talk about it. They danced here too, in the company, but they left when – well, they left to dance in Russia. With another dancer. That’s not important. Anyway, a little while after they came back I’d inherited the school, and they didn’t like that.”

“They didn’t like how you changed it,” Peter guessed. Tony nodded.

“Traditionalists. It’s not their fault.” Tony seemed breezy enough, but Peter could see hurt behind his eyes, and felt a strange spike of protectiveness towards this man who was old enough to be his father. “They created the Carter Academy to ‘preserve traditional teaching’, and, well, you know the rest. So. You’re coming to this breakfast shindig with me so I can show them exactly how non-traditional ballet is the future and how it wouldn’t kill them to lighten up a bit. Any faster than old age will, anyway.”

“Wait,” Peter couldn’t help grinning. “So I’m not an olive branch. I’m your secret weapon.”

Tony shrugged nonchalantly. “Your words, kid. Think you’re up to it?”

“What would I have to do, exactly?” Peter asked. He’d have to do some intense research on the Carter-Stark rivalry when he got home. Gwen would be the person to ask, but they hadn’t exactly been speaking since she ran out on him like a rabbit in headlights.

“Mingle, drink orange juice, talk about your lessons,” Tony shrugged. “I think they’re bringing a few of their students too, so you can meet them and see how boring their life is.”

“I can’t imagine why you’re not all friends,” Peter said, deadpan. A spike of panic shot through him. “Uh, do you know who they’re bringing?”

“No idea. Why, do you know anyone there?”

There was that curious look again. Peter tried to keep his face inscrutable. “Not really. Just wondering.” As he avoided meeting Tony’s eyes, he caught a look at the clock hanging on the wall behind them. “Crap! Sorry, Mr Stark, but I’m going to be late – “

“Your aunt,” Tony nodded, waving a hand in a don’t-worry-about-it gesture. “Go get her. I’ll email you the poncey invitation Peggy emailed me.”

Peter smiled gratefully, picking up his bag and shrugging on his jacket in a hurry. For a second, he eyed the window, thinking how much easier it would be to leave in the spider-way, but sighed internally and headed for the door instead. “And don’t worry,” Tony called after him, suddenly remembering his mentoral duties. “You’re doing great!”

Peter paused at the doorway and grinned. “Thanks. See you tomorrow!” he called out as he left, forgetting for a moment that Tony was the school director and not just some classmate he saw every day. He was out of the building in less than a minute.

Tony watched his young, scatter-brained protégé leave his office, trying not to laugh and failing miserably.  “Steve won’t know what’s hit him,” he chuckled. He picked up his phone from the desk and fired off a quick text to Bruce.

17:32: I’m sorry. I’ll pick up dinner? Love you.

The reply came within the minute.

17:33: I’ve got dinner sorted. Come home soon. x

Tony smiled, but it faded as he looked up at his computer screen and saw the email from Peggy Carter-Rogers sitting in his inbox. It had been a long time since their schools had met; and the last time they’d attempted a project like this, his best friend had gotten hurt and the students had manage to cement a rivalry that the adults tried to keep to themselves. He could only hope that his new generation of dancers had the strength to deal with their teachers’ mistakes.

To: ‘Peggy Carter-Rogers’ at [email protected]

• Thanks for the invite, Peg. I'm bringing along one of this year's scholarship students - I think you'll just love him.
• PS: Tell Steve I'll be nice if he will.

Chapter Text

ACT TWO

Gwen fidgeted with the cord of her grey dance cardigan. Uniform at the Carter Academy was strict; nude leotard, nude tights, grey or pink cardigan, and regulation satin shoes. Hair had to be short or kept in a neat bun. Gwen secured hers with a light blue velvet scrunchie that just about got past Mrs Carter’s eye. It was the end of the week;  she was feeling pretty frazzled from the hard-hitting start of term, and wanted nothing more than to catch the subway home, hug her parents and run a bath, but Mr Rogers had asked to see her specifically and you didn’t say no to the artistic director. It was almost nice to have something different to worry about. Gwen absent-mindedly thumbed the lock button on the top of her phone, and then stopped herself from actually checking her messages. She knew she wouldn’t have the one she wanted.

“Gwen?” The voice of Mr Rogers jolted her out of her thoughts and she stood up immediately. She’d only seen Steve Rogers personally two or three times at her reviews; otherwise she only saw him at recitals and assemblies.  He was a kind-looking old man with grey-blonde hair and crinkly eyes, but anyone could tell that he’d had an imposing physique as a younger man, even if they’d never seen the videos of his famous performances.

“Don’t worry,” he smiled at her, “you’re not in trouble. Come in.” His office looked like an artist’s studio, and was lined with photographs. Gwen had been in here before, and her favourite was a black and white print of Steve and Peggy in their most famous roles: the leads of the World War Two inspired Captain America ballet. Steve caught her gaze and laughed. “That old picture. You know, I’m sure you’d make a great ‘Agent’ if there was ever a revival.”

“A revival? No-one would dare,” Gwen joked, though inside she was glowing with pride. “That’s not what this is about, is it?”

“No, no. Come look at this.” Gwen sat down on the chair next to Steve’s at the desk and he pushed his bulky laptop towards her. On the screen was some kind of Carter Academy invitation, with the appropriate flourishes and embellishments. She scanned it quickly and felt her heart skip a beat.

“A collaboration with the Stark School?” She asked. “Really? After… what happened last time?”

“Really,” Steve replied, jaw set grimly as if he was going off to war. “Tony – Mr Stark – proposed it, and we said we would host. It might turn into a genuine collaboration, or it might be… messy. Knowing Tony, probably the latter.”

Gwen stifled a laugh, and Steve met her eyes with a knowing twinkle. “So, why am I…”

“Well, Stark is bringing his most promising protégé, and we’re bringing a selection of ours. You’ll be missing lessons for that morning, if that’s okay with you?”

His most promising protégé… Selfishly, Gwen prayed she wasn’t right. “Do you know who he’s bringing, exactly?”

Steve shook his head. “I don’t know his name. The contortionist kid he’s been bragging about.”

Gwen’s heart sunk. “I know him,” she admitted.

“You do?”

“I mean – I know of him. He went to my high school.”

“Oh,” Steve relaxed incrementally. “Good, so this won’t be so awkward for you two.”

“You have no idea,” Gwen mumbled. “And yes, sorry. Of course I’ll come.”

“Good.” Steve laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Don’t look so worried, Gwen. Believe me, you’ll blow this kid out of the water.”

Gwen said her thankyous and goodbyes, and left the office in a whirl of worry. On the subway home, she gripped her phone in both hands, and didn’t let herself look at it once.

While Gwen made her way home, Peter picked Aunt May up from the station. Hours later, after Peter had gotten them both home safely, helped to make dinner, and made his way through a fraction of the reading Dr Banner had given him, he donned the Spider-Man suit and headed out across the East River into the city. It felt good to be swinging and somersaulting again in the night air. It was its own kind of dance, but the only music were the shouts and sirens of the city below and the only audience were the pedestrians who were lucky enough to look up in time. He took a left and let himself space out for a while, relying on his enhanced instincts and expert knowledge of the city to get him to his destination and the man he was looking for: Daredevil. He found him on a 10^th avenue rooftop overlooking Hell’s Kitchen Park.

“Nice of you to show up,” the older man said as he touched down. “Have a lot of homework?”

Peter staggered backwards, clutching his chest in a show of mock betrayal. “You call me up – you specifically ask for my help – and then you dad me? I am shot through the heart, dude. I am appalled. I am - ”

“You are twenty minutes late,” Daredevil added, but Peter could hear the smile in his voice. They’d built up a good rapport over the past year, and while Daredevil preferred to work alone, Peter was flattered that the man had reached out to him for help with a particularly thorny gang problem. The text from Daredevil’s burner phone had come through just after dinner with Aunt May, and he relished the opportunity to work off some of his frustration in a good old-fashioned bust.

“You ready?” Daredevil asked, adjusting his grappling shooter.

Peter nodded. “Lead the way, my man. And you were right, by the way.”

They both hopped up to the ledge of the rooftop and aligned themselves. “About what?” Daredevil asked again.

Peter jumped off the ledge with a whoop, and yelled back at him: “The homework! Tons!”

“You’ve changed your style,” Daredevil noted an hour or so later, when they were both exhausted but grinning with the success of the evening. Peter fell backwards and starfished out on the grass beneath them, wondering if they could find someone still selling hotdogs at this hour.

“Huh?”

Daredevil stood over him as if surveying him, and then sat down on the grass beside him. “Your fighting style. Sounded more… I don’t know, graceful?”

“Are you saying I wasn’t graceful before? I’m wounded.” Peter laughed nervously and tried to change the subject as soon as possible. He couldn’t exactly tell the man that he’d been taking ballet lessons for the past month. Daredevil was great, but Peter doubted he’d let that go quickly. Despite his gruff appearance and manner, the other vigilante had a wicked sense of humour.

After a little while, Daredevil got up, and winced a little. “That’ll ache in the morning.”

“Don’t talk to me about the morning,” Peter groaned. His first class (in a few hours) was anatomy and kinesiology with Ms Cho: a brilliant theory teacher, but very dry. It was a whole new experience learning about muscle and joint mechanics when your own muscles were tired and sore from illicit crime-fighting the night before. After that he had Contemporary Partnering for two hours and while he enjoyed it, his partner for the moment, Johnny, always had so much more energy than he did. It took a huge effort on Peter’s part to even keep up with him.

“You got class?” Daredevil asked. He always seemed so surprised that Peter was so much younger than he was.

“Yeah, I got class. Full day. What about you, work?” Ever since Peter had accidentally let slip his age he’d been on the lookout for some personal information of his own to discover. “Let me guess, karate teacher? Bodyguard?”

“Keep guessing,” Daredevil advised, and bumped his shoulder companionably. “Thanks for your help, Spidey. Let me return the favour some time.”

“Count on it.” Peter waved him goodbye and began the journey back to his house in Queens. With any luck, he’d get at least three hours of sleep before he had to be up in the morning for dance school.

*

Peter had almost forgotten about the ‘breakfast meeting’ at the Carter Academy in the midst of getting to grips with all the new lessons and exercises. It wasn’t until Tony knocked on the open door of Dance History with Mr Rhodes that Peter remembered that it was today.

“Rhodey, I’m borrowing Parker for the morning,” Tony said, unapologetically interrupting the lecture. Peter squirmed a little as his classmates shot him curious (and some jealous) looks.

“What, you can’t wait until the next period?” Rhodey asked.

Tony shook his head. “Nope, we’ve got a breakfast date. Come on, kid.”

Peter flushed bright red, shot his headmaster a look and gathered up his stuff. He apologised to Mr Rhodes on the way out, who waved him off, clearly well-used to Tony’s antics.

“I am so sorry,” Peter said immediately as the classroom door was closed. “I totally forgot, it’s been such a busy week –“

“Calm down, kid, it’s fine. I live to annoy Steve with my tardiness.” He looked Peter up and down and raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

Peter, like most students who had theory lessons in the morning and practicals in the afternoon, had come to class already dressed in his dance clothes; black tights under workout pants that he would shed later, and a pink tank top with the words “BALL(ET) IS LIFE” emblazoned on the front in white lettering. Harry had given him as a joke present for surviving his first week, and Peter had been forced to wear it as he was behind on laundry.

“I can change,” Peter said quickly, “I have spare clothes in my locker – “

Tony interrupted him with a wave of his hand. “No time. Besides, you look adorable.”

“Is this a punishment for forgetting about the thing?”

“Absolutely.” Tony steered him towards the parking lot, and towards a shiny orange sports car; the kind that Peter never thought he’d see up close in his wildest dreams, let alone ride in one. He waited until Tony opened the driver-side door before getting into the passenger seat.

“Wow,” he said lamely. “I mean. Wow.”

Tony laughed. “Buckle up.”

The ride to Carter Academy was short; short enough that they could have walked, Peter remarked, only to be met with a look from Tony. “Did you drive here just to show off the car?” Peter asked.

“I’m insulted. Besides, Steve and Peggy don’t care about that kind of thing.” Tony nudged Peter as they both got out of the doors. “She looks impressed though, doesn’t she? Friend of yours?”

Peter’s heart skipped a beat as he looked in the direction of Tony’s gaze. Standing outside the Carter Academy in a literal sunbeam, dressed in perfectly appropriate Sunday Best clothes, light glinting off her perfect blonde hair, was Gwen Stacy. She waved, and bit her lip. Peter only stared.

“You know what?” He said quickly. “I changed my mind. Johnny would be so much better at this anyway, or anyone really, I’ll call him - see you, Mr Stark – “

“Peter.” Tony caught him by the back of his tank top. “What’s going on? Who is she?”

“Gwen Stacy,” Peter mumbled. He chanced a look back at the spot where she stood: she had already gone. “We, uh, we used to go to school together.”

“Great, so you’ll have something to talk about. Come on, we’re already late.” Tony stowed his keys in his suit pocket and adjusted his tie, clearly psyching himself up. “Peter. Work with me here.” He took hold of Peter’s shoulder gently, but his expression was anything but. Peter blinked back surprise to see his headmaster and mentor looking so vulnerable. “Things like this – at this place – they freak me out, okay? I need one of us to be un-freaked. I need a trusty sidekick. Can I count on you?”

Peter didn’t think about how Mr Stark had given him a scholarship, or how he’d publically made Peter his protégé. He thought about how friendly Mr Stark had been to his Aunt May when he had brought her to see his new life at school. He thought about every passing wave or friendly greeting they’d shared in the corridors, and, despite current difficulties, how much he clearly loved his husband and his students.

“Of course,” Peter said, and meant it. “I’m here for you.”

“Good.” Tony snapped his head up: all traces of vulnerability now gone. “Let’s show these dinosaurs a thing or two.”

*

“Natasha?”

Natasha finished untying her shoes and looked over at her companion in the dance studios. “Yes, dear?”

“There’s a mistake in this handout,” Pepper told her, frowning at a slip of white paper in her hand. Natasha recognised it as one of the leaflets they were putting in the student’s common room to advertise Natasha’s yearly masterclass for the senior students, (not that it particularly needed advertising – they tended to sell out before she even touched down in America – but students liked to keep them as souvenirs.) “This says you’re not playing Odile this year, but,” she continued, wrinkling her nose in slight distaste, “the Polish Bride. Damn it. I’ll get these reprinted.”

“Don’t bother,” Natasha said, getting up gracefully and putting her chin on Pepper’s shoulder, her arms around her waist. “That’s right.”

Pepper broke away from the hold, and turned to face her. “What do you mean, that’s right? You’re the principal dancer. They can’t take that role away from you.”

“They didn’t,” Natasha countered calmly. “I asked if I could take a backseat this year. It’s not like I haven’t danced Odile a thousand times.”

“But…” Pepper clearly couldn’t get the fact straight in her head. “The Polish Bride?”

“It can be quite fun, actually,” Natasha shrugged. “I’ve got a tambourine. I think they’re annoyed with me, though, because every other bride has a prop that’s been bejewelled to within an inch of its life, and mine’s just a plain old tambourine. I can’t figure out if it’s an insult to me, or to Poland.”

Pepper clearly couldn’t compute, and Natasha usually found her stressed short-circuits adorable, but this was obviously going to be a bigger deal than she’d anticipated. “Who on earth is dancing Odile, then?” Pepper asked.

“Yelena.” Natasha curled her lip. “She wasn’t my first choice. Darling,” she sighed, “why does this bother you? People will come to the class either way.”

Pepper folded her arms in a testy little gesture. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I thought you’d be pleased.” Natasha wouldn’t admit to pouting, but she definitely felt pouty. “I wanted to have more time to spend with you, so I demoted myself. It’s just one stupid tour. We do it every year.”

"But you love Swan Lake. You're the only ballerina who never gets bored of it."

"Yes," Natasha replied, frustrated, "but I also love - "

She was cut off by the ringing of the school bell. Their early senior lessons were over for the day, and the students would soon be filing in after having hit the changing rooms to warm up at the barre.

Pepper didn’t move. She just stared at her, transfixed. “You love what?”

"Forget it," Natasha growled. "We can talk after the stupid brunch at Carter."

"Right," Pepper said faintly. "First thing."

*

The first thing that Peter noticed about the Carter Academy was that its pupils were definitely not wearing yoga pants and tank tops. They had a clean, precise uniform; pinks, blues and whites. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to tame his bedhead, and looked everywhere but at Gwen (who of course, looked perfect.)

"Calm down," Tony said out of the corner of his mouth. "Jesus, I thought I was the one freaking out."

"You could have let me change," Peter shot back, mutinously.

"You look fine. Go mingle."

Before Peter could protest, Tony had put a hand in the small of his back and guided him forward until he was left facing a group of bored twenty-something dancers who regarded him with minimal curiosity. Tony chuckled and moved off to greet the “adults”, giving Mr and Mrs Carter-Rogers an only half-sarcastic salute.

“Hi,” Peter said lamely. “Uh.” At least two of them were staring at Mr Stark with blatantly hostile expressions. “He’s a character, huh?”

“He’s an idiot,” one of the girls said coldly. “You must be the new monkey he’s training.”

“Wanda,” the boy next to him chastised. He gave Peter a look that was somehow both sympathetic and guarded. “Forgive her. We have a… history, with the Stark School. I’m Pietro,” he said, and held out a hand for Peter to shake. “The moody girl is my sister.”

“Peter,” Peter told him. “But hey, you can call me ‘monkey’ if you want. They’re incredibly agile creatures: I’d probably be much better at this whole dancing thing if I was one.”

Miraculously, Wanda laughed. “Not bad,” she said. “Is it true you’ve got no professional training at all?”

“That’s absolutely not true,” Peter replied, putting on a serious face. “As of today, I’ve had three weeks.”

“One more week and you could join the Company,” Pietro joked. “You must be a prodigy to be accepted so late.”

“I’m just lucky.” The group were looking at him with much less hostility now, and he relaxed a little. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gwen walk over and start to usher people away; there were designated seats for dancers and students, and speeches to be made by their teachers and directors. Peter finally allowed himself to catch her eye.

Hi, he mouthed, and mirrored her wave from before.

Gwen stared at him, and then gave him a little, relieved smile. “You’re sat there,” she said, pointing to an empty seat in a row with other students, but close to Mr Stark.

“Can we talk after?” he said, surprising himself and her. Gwen nodded, and hurried away to catch the last stragglers at the door. Dancers, apparently, were not known for their punctuality. He made a note of it. It was another ten minutes before everyone was sat down, Gwen beside him. Director Steve Rogers stood up and smiled out at all of them with kind eyes.

“Thank you all for coming,” he began. “Especially our students who are missing out on their morning lessons today.”

“Yeah, that’s a real shame,” someone snickered behind Peter. Gwen shushed them.

“And thank you to our envoy from the Stark School of Dance,” Steve continued, and to Peter’s horror, looked right at him. As did the rest of the hall. A few students craned their necks. Tony shot him an apologetic glance as Peter tried his best to disappear without actually moving from his seat. Spider-invisibility, he cursed silently, if you wanna manifest anytime soon, that would be great.

He looked at the table of Carter Academy staff as Mr Rogers continued to talk about friendship and cooperation and, of course, dance. Dame Peggy Carter-Rogers, executive director and principal ballet mistress, sat at his left-hand side; her grey hair was up in a neat bun and she surveyed the room with authority, and unless Peter was just being paranoid, a fair amount of suspicion. There was a conspicuously empty space at the Director’s right-hand side, and every so often Peter saw Tony’s eyes flick to it with apprehension. By Peggy was someone Peter recognised, finally. Sam Wilson, lead principal dancer, occasional répétiteur, and one of the best aerial dancers in the world. (Let it never be said that Peter hadn’t done some research.) Other principal dancers and board members had attended, but Peter’s eyes kept getting drawn back to the empty chair.

There was an empty space next to Tony, too. Miss Potts had supposed to meet them earlier with Natasha, but had never showed.

“- and we hope the students from the Stark School will enjoy working with us just as much as we will enjoy having them,” Director Rogers said.

Before Peter could react – oh God, what had he missed, why wasn’t he paying attention – there was a squeak and a swooshing sound as the ornate wooden double doors of the hall opened. Peter blinked in surprise to see Pepper, who apologised to Steve and Peggy before quickly but elegantly making her way over to one of the chairs beside Tony. She leaned over, almost imperceptibly, to whisper something in his ear.

“Something’s wrong,” Peter murmured, more to himself than to Gwen. Tony’s eyes had widened like those of a startled cat when Pepper had leaned over, and now he was gripping the mug of coffee in front of him like it had done him a personal injustice.

“We’re just waiting for one or two more latecomers,” Steve said, with an apologetic smile. “Our Russian friends were unavoidably delayed.”

“Russian, plural?” Peter asked Gwen under the cover of the audience’s quiet chatter. He’d ask about the end of Steve’s speech later. “We’ve got Natasha, who have you got?”

Gwen bit her lip. “James Barnes, but I didn’t think he’d show up. This is bad.”

“What? Why?”

Before Gwen could answer, Peter followed the faint ping! of his spidey-sense to see that Tony had stood up from his chair, a look of cold fury on his face. He looked as if he were about to move forward, but Pepper had a tight grip on his arm. Even she, however, couldn’t mask the expression of distaste she was shooting towards the newcomers.

Natasha stood at the side of the door, looking from Tony to James Barnes with badly-disguised worry. Barnes, for his part, was taken aback with shock, staring at Tony. And then he curled his lip, and smiled.

“Sorry we’re late, everyone. What did I miss?”

*

The speakers at the table - Tony, Steve, Peggy, Natasha, and James Barnes – had left the hall abruptly after the sudden appearance of James Barnes. Peter had sprung up as soon as Mr Stark passed him, (he was the first to leave, with a face like thunder,) but was stopped from going any further by a look from Pepper Potts.

“I know you want to help,” she murmured to him later as she mingled with students and teachers in an attempt to keep the event running smoothly. “He’ll need you later. Don’t try and barge in on them now.”

Feeling slightly more important than he felt he had a right to, Peter kept an eye on the corridor that lead out of the hall. He could feel, in turn, Gwen’s eye on him. Drawing a deep breath, he took his attention off his teachers and turned to face her.

“So,” he said, with an awkward smile.

“So,” she agreed. Part of her lower lip was chapped, from where she habitually chewed at it when she was nervous. Peter thought about how it had felt against his own lips, and then immediately remembered why they weren’t speaking in the first place.

“So,” he said again, “are you only ashamed to be seen with me if we’re in my school? It’s fine if it’s yours?”

“Peter,” she sighed. “You can’t just attack me like this, I’ve tried to call so many times to explain…”

“What’s there to explain?” He hugged his elbows tight to him, defensive. “A student – a friend of mine, actually – almost saw us kiss and you freaked out and ran away.”

“No, that’s – “

“That’s exactly what happened. I remember it like it was, oh, two weeks ago?”

“It’s not that I didn’t want to be seen with you,” Gwen argued, lowering her voice as she looked warily around them. “I didn’t want to be seen at all.”

“Slumming it in the Stark School? You know, I really didn’t think you were that prejudiced.”

Gwen narrowed her eyes at him and straightened up. Something in her demeanour changed; she grew colder. “Don’t act so high-and-mighty, Peter, you barely knew what ballet was three weeks ago.”

Peter drew in a sharp breath and scanned the room to check no-one was paying attention to them; luckily, Natasha had emerged by this point and the audience were agog listening to stories from a real-life Bolshoi ballerina. He stared at her pointedly and then jerked his head towards the empty corridor. Wordlessly, she followed him.

“If you’re planning to out me,” Peter said as soon as they were alone, “could you just not do it today? Mr Stark has enough to deal with.”

“Teacher’s pet,” she shot back, but there was no real heat behind it. “Of course I’m not going to ‘out’ you. What do you take me for?”

“I don’t know!” Peter replied, flinging his hands up in the air. “You’re the most confusing –“

“I’m sure I wouldn’t confuse you if you’d ever given me the chance to explain –“

“Fine.” Peter stopped fidgeting, and crossed his arms. “You’ve explained. You didn’t want to be seen at my school.”

“The other students would crucify me,” Gwen admitted. “They’re only here at this event because, well, no-one ignores a direct order from Mrs Carter.”

“And now they want us to collaborate,” Peter said. “That’s what she said, right? A joint performance?”

Gwen nodded. “For after Christmas. I doubt it’ll happen, now…”

“So if it was so dangerous,” Peter asked, brow raised quizzically, “why did you say yes to Harry?”

“About what?”

“Teaching me,” Peter clarified. “Ballet.”

“Oh.” Gwen coloured, her cheeks going pink to match her cardigan. “Because we’re friends.”

“You mean,” Peter continued, “you did it for Harry. Because you two are friends. That’s… fine.”

“Not Harry.” Her cheeks were positively rosy by now. “I liked you, okay? I never got to say anything at school, but – “

“You never said two words to me at school,” Peter interrupted. He was aware that he was doing something that Harry affectionately termed the “spider-stare”; his eyes were wide and shocked, and blinking rapidly. “Not ever. Believe me, I would remember.”

“You were with someone else,” Gwen argued.

Peter scanned the history of his non-existent love life in a matter of two seconds and shook his head. “News to me.”

“Harry,” she clarified.

“Oh.” Peter felt his brain unfog, just slightly. “Oh, you mean… you were at the…”

“The party,” Gwen confirmed.

Peter groaned, and as there were no pockets in his dance leggings, twisted his hands in the hem of his oversized tank top. “Can’t a bisexual man kiss his gay best friend in a game of spin the bottle without it becoming a big Thing?”

“It was a very long kiss,” said Gwen defensively. “As kisses go, it was… well. A spectacle.”

Peter wished he could say he remembered it well, but he did at least have a lot of snapshot screenshots to preserve the memory. “Well, we’d had a lot of those jello shot things, and besides, kissing’s fun. It’s not like anyone else was lining up to kiss me. That I was aware of, anyway.”

“Well, you have to admit how it looked,” Gwen said. “And you two are so close. I didn’t want to intrude.”

“I guess that’s fair,” Peter nodded. “And what about the entire year before out end-of-term graduation celebration party two months ago? You know, when I was desperately crushing on you from the safe distance of exactly one row behind you in homeroom?”

“Uh.” Gwen looked up, a smile threatening to break out on her lips. “What?”

“You heard me,” Peter said. She really did smile then, and Peter felt as if his blood had been replaced with helium.

“So much for the two smartest kids in the year,” Gwen said as she took a step towards him. “Want to start again?”

“Here?” Peter asked, his nose wrinkling, and was suddenly very conscious of the open corridor they were standing in and the small crowd of people in the next room. “Where anyone could see us?”

“Well,” Gwen murmured, as she pulled him forward by his ridiculous tank top. “In the spirit of collaboration…”

A door sprang open just as Peter moved in for the kiss, and Peter loved and respected Mr Stark like a weird uncle, but at that moment he was the last person he wanted to see.

“If you want a lift back, we’re going now.” He addressed Peter sharply, but, but jerked his head back to the office he’d just left as if to say ‘it’s them I’m mad at, not you.’

“Tony,” Peter heard a voice half-shout, half-sigh, and then came face to face with the living legend that was Steve Rogers. He felt Gwen’s fingers drop down from his shirt immediately, but Steve wasn’t looking at them. “What about the collaboration?” Steve pressed.

Tony was watching Gwen and Peter with a strange look. In a snap movement, he turned his attention back to Steve. “I’m not gonna stop the kids from working together,” he said shortly, eliciting a look of surprise on Steve’s face. “Collaboration stays. But if you bring Barnes into my school, around my kids, we’re gonna have a problem. Come on, Peter.” He stalked down the corridor, and with a last apologetic look at Gwen (who made a surreptitious ‘call me’ sign with her hand,) Peter scurried after him.

They walked to the car in silence. Only after Tony had slid into the driver’s seat and let out a long groan, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, did he finally say something.

“Be honest,” Tony said, not looking at him. “How bad was it?”

Peter searched his brain for the most diplomatic answer. “I actually think it was going pretty well at the start…”

“Before the interruption.”

“Before the interruption,” Peter agreed. “The Carter students were kinda hostile at first, but I think I won ‘em round.”

“Of course you did,” Tony said, almost affectionately. “You’re my secret weapon.”

Despite circumstances, Peter glowed. “A collaboration though… like a performance?”

“A joint performance,” Tony confirmed. “Choreographed by the younger members of the company, Wilson’s done some groundwork, I think, but it’ll be you kids who have the real creative control. It’ll be part of lessons until after Christmas, two days a week. Maybe less. I’m not so sure what’s happening now.”

“A performance…” Peter toyed with the skin around his nails as Tony waited for him to finish saying whatever was on his mind. The sound of his hands tapping impatiently on the steering wheel filled the car. “Will they be able to tell?” Peter asked after a few moments. “That I’ve never…”

“Gone all the way in ballet?” Tony teased. “No, I don’t think so, not at the rate you’re progressing, kiddo. Besides, it’s not like you’ve never seen a live performance before, you know the formula if nothing else.” Tony stopped dead at the look on Peter’s face. “You’ve never seen a ballet before,” he stated blankly.

Peter squirmed in the expensive leather seat. “I’ve seen a lot of videos,” he protested. “DVD’s of shows…”

“Okay, okay. Jesus. What am I going to do with you?” Tony took a few deep breaths, purely (Peter hoped), for dramatic effect. “I’ve got seats everywhere. You can go to Berlin, tonight. Take your aunt. It’s a mixed bill, modern stuff. You’ll like it.”

“I, I can’t – “ Peter stuttered as Tony put the car in gear and prepared to drive. “I can’t go to Germany.”

Tony pulled away from the drive, accompanied by the hum of the beautiful engine which, on a normal day, Peter would be completely distracted by. “Why not?” Tony asked, smiling.

“Because.” A million reasons ran through Peter’s mind. The expense, the accusations of favouritism, his duty to his city… “I got homework.”

Tony gave him a look before he returned his attention to navigating the busy New York streets. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that.”

*

“Very funny,” Peter mumbled to himself as he came face to face with the bright lights of the Berlin Theatre, three blocks away from his school.

“What is?” Gwen asked beside him. Peter’s Aunt May had taken a late shift at the hospital but had told him on no uncertain terms to ‘take that pretty girl you’ve been moping over.’ Gwen, despite not being the world’s biggest fan of modern ballet, had been only too happy to join him.

“Something Mr Stark said,” Peter said quickly, hopeful to change the subject. “So – is this good? Apparently everyone else in the entire school has already seen it.”

“Well, I’ve heard it’s excellent,” Gwen promised him, with a slight twinkle in her eye. “Will you know either way?”

“Touché.” They made their way over to the ticket booth, and Peter self-consciously asked for the two tickets being held under ‘Mr Stark’.

“Not bad,” Gwen said as she saw the seat numbers, and gave out a low whistle. “Not bad at all. Must be nice being the teacher’s pet – oh my God, don’t look at me like that, I’m kidding.” She laughed at the horrified expression on his face. “Everyone else saw this on a subsidised school trip too. Just think of it as homework.”

“Right,” Peter mumbled, shoving their front-row tickets into the pocket of his one pair of smart-ish trousers that he’d bought for graduation. “Homework. Although,” he said, continuing bravely, “I don’t usually bring a date when I do homework.”

Gwen flushed prettily, and Peter rather felt like he’d regained some ground as they made their way to the front of the stalls.

The show was a mixed bill from three contemporary composers, and although Peter felt a little – a lot – out of his depth as the audience quieted down and the lights went dark, he soon found himself wrapped up in the performance. To his own pleased surprise, he even began to recognise certain technical moves, including ones he’d been working on himself. Without a specific narrative to follow in the first piece, Peter found himself following the movements of individual dancers and seeing in them the best qualities of his classmates; Jemma’s graceful arm work, Kamala’s leaps, and Teddy’s strength in lifts. When he looked over at Gwen, she was equally as absorbed. He was about to return his attention to the stage when a man in the wings caught his eye; he was looking not at the stage, but very intently, at Peter.

Peter quirked an eyebrow. The man didn’t move. Something uneasy crawled over Peter’s neck, and reluctantly, he forced himself to turn back and watch the ballet instead of following his spider-instincts.

“Is everything okay?” Gwen whispered as the lights went down on the first act.

“Fine!” he whispered back, clapping as loudly as anyone, but the man’s gaze weighed heavy on him throughout the second act, until the curtain fell and the house lights heralded the intermission.

“I’ll be right back,” he said quickly to a startled Gwen, before he sprinted to the edge of the stalls circle.

“Hey,” he said, firmly. He wouldn’t normally have approached a stranger like this, but something in the auditorium felt deeply wrong. “Can I help you?”

The man – an attractive, smartly-dressed redhead – just smirked at him. “I thought so,” he said, to himself more than Peter.

“What’s that now?”

“Yes,” the man said. “You can help me. Spider-Man.”

Peter drew in a breath and unconsciously went up onto the balls of his feet; ready to run, or fight, depending on what the situation called for. The man continued to smirk at him, and suddenly, he realised where he’d seen that smile before. And those muscles. And, once, a glimpse of that hair.

“Oh, you asshole,” he said before he could stop himself. “Did you have to scare me like that?”

The man – Daredevil – let out a bark of laughter. “Couldn’t resist. But I could actually use your help. I’m here tracking a very dangerous man from that Italian gang we almost got rid of a few weeks ago, but I ended up being distracted by this twelve-year-old in the front row with Spider-Man’s heartbeat.”

“Keep your voice down,” Peter hissed. “And I’m eighteen,” he added, but was comforted by their easy, familiar banter. The crawling anxiety in the back of his head must have come from the people Daredevil was tracking; he followed Matt’s gaze to the front row of the dress circle to confirm it.

“How many?” Peter asked.

“Five. Four packing.”

“Are they here to mess shit up, or do they just really like ballet?”

“One likes ballet,” Daredevil explained. “One likes taking beautiful women to the ballet, and the other three are bodyguards.”

“Right.” Speaking of beautiful women, Peter thought. “Okay, do you actually need my help? Because I abandoned my date over there to confront you.”

Daredevil inclined his head. “You carry on,” he said. “How did you know I was over here?”

“Uh,” Peter said, nonplussed. “You were staring at me.”

Daredevil laughed again. “Kid. I’m blind.”

Peter noticed the white cane by Daredevil’s seat, and then looked into his eyes, properly. “Oh,” he said, feeling stupid. “That’s… interesting. Blind vigilante? I love it. You should have your own TV series. I’d totally watch Daredevil on Netflix or whatever.”

“Thanks,” Daredevil said, looking amused rather than offended, Peter noticed, thank God. “And it’s Matt.”

“Peter,” Peter told him, and rushed back off to Gwen. “So,” he said, grinning at her, and desperately hoping she hadn’t overheard any of the last five minutes. “Ice cream?”

*

Matt, as it turned out, did need his help. He yelled as much at Peter as they both ran towards the stage in the middle of the third act, but Peter could have deduced it on his own from the gunshots that had rung out seconds before.

“Get outside!” He yelled at Gwen, ignoring her protests as the crowd swept them apart. Matt had already jumped onto the stage and ducked past the victim - a male dancer who had been in the middle of a beautiful solo – and out through the wings. Peter followed him and stopped at the bubble of dancers.

“Is he still alive?” Peter called to them. The authoritative tone in his ‘Spider-Man’ voice worked wonders on crowds. A wave of relief washed over him as he saw that the dancer, while clearly in agony, had only been shot through the shoulder, with other bullet grazes on his arm. Peter pulled out his phone, called 911, and threw it at the closest dancer with the least hysterical temperament. “Ambulance,” he ordered her. “We’ll catch the guy.”

“You’re like, twelve – “ someone shouted, but he had already run through to the backstage.

“What took you so long?” Matt called out to him, somehow already dressed as Daredevil. “He’s not far. Come on.”

“Five seconds,” Peter yelled back, stowing his backpack with his suit balled up inside behind the back of a dumpster. He pulled the Spider-Man mask over his head. “Okay, let’s get him.”

“Finally,” Daredevil growled, before leaping off the stage door wall to join him in the sky.

“Why would you try and kill a ballet dancer?” Peter grumbled as they began to pursue the sleek black car that was racing through the streets. “And couldn’t they have done it, like, after the show?”

“Spider-Man – “ Daredevil started to say, but was interrupted as Peter dove in front of the car, stopping it with his arms out-stretched. He winced as the shock reverberated through his arms: he’d feel that in the morning. The pedestrians around them scattered like mice. In the next second, Peter webbed up the steering wheel and front tyres while Daredevil dodged a shower of bullets and disarmed the driver. Peter took the passenger side.

“Hello, Mr Criminal,” he addressed the seething man, who was now neatly encased in a spider-strait-jacket. “I gotta know; who tries to assassinate a Junior Soloist? I hate to say it, but raise your ambitions, man.”

“Spider-Man,” Daredevil warned, but Peter could see that smirk again. “Nice work,” he said.

*

“Junior soloist?” Matt asked later as they made their way back to stage door. “Where’d you get that from?”

“What,” Peter said, “you didn’t read the programme?”

Matt shrugged. “Wasn’t in braille. So you’re really into ballet, huh?”

“I’m…” Peter shied away from him a little. “I’m kind of a ballet dancer. Student. I’m a ballet student.” He watched Daredevil’s too-stoic reaction, unimpressed. “Okay, laugh before you break your face.”

“I’m sorry,” Matt said, at least five minutes later. “I just really, really wasn’t expecting that.”

“Yeah, well. If ballet is always like this I should be right at home, huh?” As they reached the back alley-way that connected stage to stage door, Peter felt a jolt of panic. “Shit, shit. My backpack’s gone. And the dancers still have my phone. Damn it.”

“One of them might be keeping it safe inside,” Matt suggested. “I’m sure we won’t freak too many people out if we – “

“Looking for this?” A voice called out.

Peter felt his heart skip a beat, and then take up comfortable residence in his mouth. Gwen Stacy was sat on the steps of the stage exit, hugging his backpack close to her and staring up at him with a furious expression.

“Oh,” Daredevil murmured, “you’re in trouble.”

*

“You could have been killed,” Gwen spat at him twenty minutes later, when Matt had made a hasty retreat and Peter had changed his clothes and retrieved his phone from a bemused dancer. “Why would you run after a gunman?”

“To stop him,” Peter said helplessly. “That’s what I do.”

“Did you know it was going to happen?” Gwen asked. She wasn’t looking at him.

“Huh?” Peter asked back. “Why would I have brought you if I knew there was going to be danger? Give me some credit.”

“I thought…” Gwen whispered. “I don’t know.”

Peter wrinkled his nose. “You thought I was; what, on a stake-out?”

Gwen just shrugged, still pointedly looking at the floor.

“Oh, no,” Peter said quickly. “No, this really was supposed to be a date. I had no idea Daredevil was going to be here – I didn’t even know who he was out of costume until tonight. I just… attract trouble.”

“I’ll say,” Gwen said softly. “Spider-Man.”

She edged a little closer to him on the cold stone steps, and Peter, thinking it was the scariest thing he’d done all night, put his arm around her. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Forgive me?”

“Of course,” she said, giving him a light shove before burrowing back into the side of his jacket. “Besides, my dad owes you his life.”

“Huh?” Peter asked, and then suddenly remembered: “Oh my God, Captain Stacy is your dad.” Captain Stacy, who had helped him bring down the Lizard two years ago. Who still occasionally stopped the other officers from giving him shit when he swung by. That Captain Stacy.

Gwen, to his relief, burst out laughing. “You’re an idiot, Peter Parker.”

“Yeah,” he agreed happily. “Please don’t tell your dad I’m Spider-Man. I really don’t think he’d approve of him dating his daughter.”

“Dating?” She teased him. “One date, which ends in gunfire, and you think we’re dating?”

“Um…”

She poked him in the side again. “Of course we’re dating. God, Peter. Ballet hasn’t been this exciting in ages.”

Chapter Text

 (Many years before)

“Now,” Bruce laughed, not trying particularly hard to squirm out of his fiancé’s embrace, “you know I can’t dance. You signed up for this.”

“You know I like a challenge,” Tony shot back at him, grinning. “Come on, it’s not that hard. You must know how to waltz, at least.”

Bruce obediently put one hand on Tony’s waist and the other on his shoulder, only for it to be taken up by Tony’s hand. “I think I did a vague shuffle step at junior prom.”

“Like this.” Tony positioned him properly, and stepped forward, motioning for Bruce to step back as he did so. They fell into a comfortable two step, not-quite-waltzing around the empty, dust-covered ballet studio.  The final forms had been signed that morning; the final instalments paid, and this was the first time Bruce had seen inside the antique building opposite his own university.

“The Stark School of Dance,” Bruce said softly as Tony tried, unsuccessfully, to twirl him around. “Feels very real now, doesn’t it?”

“It’ll feel real when there are kids really in here,” Tony said. “God, I’ve got so much work to do before term starts.”

“We also have a wedding to plan,” Bruce reminded him gently.

“Oh please,” Tony grinned, “you think I’m letting you anywhere near our wedding plans? We’d end up with a ten-minute ceremony at City Hall.”

“Oh God,” Bruce said, stopping the dance immediately in mock-horror. “That’s not what’s happening? What are you planning? What have you planned? Let go of me, I’m calling Pepper.”

Tony laughed as his fiancé broke out of their dance hold and started to look around the studio. It was just as he remembered it from his own school days, back when it was the Stark Ballet Company, with a school attached. This was the smaller dance studio of the three in the building; as light and airy as the others, but nicer, more ornate, and smaller. For the more ‘select’ pupils. His father’s office, one of two, was through a door at the side. He scoffed. Make it a janitor’s closet, he thought as a mental note. They’d rotate the studios throughout the class timetable so all the kids would have equal time in all of them. A newer, fairer school.

“What’s in there?” Bruce asked, jerking his head towards the closed door at the side of the studio. “Closet?”

“Office,” Tony corrected reluctantly. “Dad’s. He’d work in there when his favourite students were rehearsing so he could come out, give tips, bark orders, et cetera.”

Bruce’s interested smile fell. “That must have been really weird for you, having your dad pop up when you were dancing.”

Tony scoffed. “I never danced in here. Hey, is it open? I wanna see.”

“Is that a good idea?” Bruce murmured, but dutifully checked. There was no lock, and when he twisted the old brass doorknob the door swung open with a creek. The office was surprisingly spacious inside. Bruce fiddled with his phone and turned on a torch light, as there was no electricity in the building yet.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in here,” Tony mused, looking around. The space was practically empty, apart from a desk, chair, and a few posters and photos on the walls. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust.

“Not strictly true,” Bruce replied. He’d wiped the dust off one photo frame on the desk to reveal another Tony; young, and smiling up at the camera lens. He was eight years old and dressed as Fritz from The Nutcracker, the last year that Peggy had played Clara and Steve the prince.

Tony had never known his father to keep pictures of him before.

“There’s the Carters,” Tony said diffidently, pointing to a poster that was framed and hung up above the desk. It showed Steve and Peggy Carter-Rogers in some vaguely romantic hold; Romeo and Juliet, maybe. Tony suppressed the urge to snarl at it. “No wonder they wanted this place. They wouldn’t even have to decorate.”

“Remind me,” Bruce said, smirking. “You’re not creating a dance school just to spite Steve and Peggy, are you?”

“Of course not,” Tony said promptly. “Well. I’ll admit that’s what started it. But hey, they’re doing fine, aren’t they? Carter Academy is almost up-and-running. Before us,” he scowled.

Bruce moved forward, gently propelling Tony out of the dark, unpleasant office. “They’ll come,” he said gently. “The students. They’ll love it here.”

Tony nudged Bruce’s shoulder with his forehead and was immediately drawn into an embrace. “I love you,” he said faintly, squashed into Bruce’s knitted sweater. The wedding really was the most important thing to Tony. In the middle of dance schools and land contracts and old rivals, there stood Bruce; calm, loving, about to be his forever. A scientific genius who was absolutely hopeless at dancing. Tony thanked his lucky stars every day for him.

“Maybe our kids will dance in here one day,” Tony said, almost inaudibly, but Bruce caught it.

There was a long pause, and neither of them moved. Tony held his breath. And then, a moment later, he felt a kiss being pressed to the top of his head.

“Maybe,” Bruce agreed, and then, quickly changing the subject: “Do you want to invite them to the wedding?”

Tony wrinkled his nose as he pulled back, face-to-face with Bruce again. “Our future kids?”

“No,” Bruce said patiently, “Your godparents.”

“Oh.” Tony stopped, and considered it. It wasn’t as if he hated Steve and Peggy. (Just Barnes, a voice said in the back of his head. In fact, before the building bidding war had started, he’d practically gotten over them leaving his father to teach at the Russian ballet. Letters had been exchanged, friend requests accepted: he’d laughed himself silly over Steve trying to use Facebook. They’d even been to dinner, all four of them, and the last time Natasha had been in town they’d all gone to see Pepper perform as the Queen of the Wilis in Giselle.

Tony made a mental note to enquire about when Natasha was coming back next. Pepper was looking more downbeat every day.

It was their decision to buy up the abandoned Stark Academy that had done it; or rather, Peggy’s unwittingly-harsh comment of “it’s not as if you could do anything with it” that had set it all off again.

“Tony?” Bruce prompted. His sweet eyes looked worriedly at him.

“Invite them,” Tony said, as if making a memo. “They won’t come.”

*

“They look old,” Tony murmured into his best man’s ear.

“They are old,” Rhodey reminded him, as he fussed with Tony’s bowtie. “I hope they’re only going to be teaching theory. Have you seen inside their building yet?”

“Not a single studio,” Tony replied. “Haven’t been invited.”

“What are you, a vampire?”

“I’m trying not to be pushy. What’s it like?”

“Nice,” Rhodey admitted. “Saw Sam rehearsing in their studio over the summer. It’s, you know, ornate. Classical. Total opposite of what we’ve got going on.”

“Good,” Tony said defiantly. “That was the point.” The Stark School of Dance, newly-opened, was ultra-modern; all shiny and chrome, with a state of the art gym and physio facilities, and student accommodation for those that needed it. The Carter Academy looked like an old ballroom, and there was no space anywhere.

“Stop talking about work,” Pepper instructed, appearing out of nowhere with a bouquet of flowers. She added a spray of baby’s breath to Tony’s buttonhole and stood back to admire her handiwork. “Very nice.”

“But there’s nothing to do now until it starts,” Tony pointed out. “And I can’t go and see Bruce, because Betty will yell at me and say it’s bad luck.”

“You’re getting married today,” Pepper tutted at him. “We can put the ballet aside for one day.”

“That’d be difficult, with this guest list,” Rhodey interjected, and laughed with Tony.

“Oh, Pep,” Tony remembered suddenly. “Natasha called last night, said she’s happy to come and teach some classes with you when she comes down for Swan Lake at Christmas. We could probably make it an annual thing, huh?”

“Oh.” Tony was a good friend, and Pepper was a better one, so he didn’t mention the faint blush that popped up on her cheeks. “That’s nice of her. Is she – is she still coming today?”

“On her way,” Tony promised. “Though Clint’s driving her up, so it’ll be a miracle if they both make it here in one piece. He’s bringing his niece – cousin? Little girl. Plays the cello.”

“Kate,” Pepper interjected absent-mindedly. “I’m just going to go check the seating arrangements again.”

As she hurried off, Tony caught Rhodey’s eye and grinned. “Weddings, huh? Good for all sorts of things.”

Peggy and Steve made their way over just as Tony was getting antsy with waiting for the world to hurry up and let him marry the love of his life already. Old they might be, but Steve still looked stronger in his light grey suit than most men half his age; and Peggy looked beautiful and dignified in a floaty, 40’s style tea dress. Tony felt a sudden rush of affection for them both.

“Hey, Aunt Peggy,” he said.

She smiled softly at him. “Tony, darling. You must be so excited.”

“Well, if it’s half as nice as your wedding day…” he shrugged.

Steve’s kind old eyes crinkled in response. “You remember that? You were only a baby.”

“I remember,” Tony insisted. He hadn’t been that small. Maybe it was just the photos and stories that inspired it, but he was sure he had memories of the day; blue skies, and cake, and the lace of Peggy’s dress tickling his cheeks as he hid behind her big skirt.

Steve clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Bruce is a very lucky man,” he told him.

Tony snorted. “Other way around, Steve. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“We really are so pleased for you,” Steve said, in earnest. “And look, son, I wanted to give you this. It’s not from us,” he added immediately as Tony immediately went to protest the envelope he’d drawn out from his inside pocket. “I’m just the messenger.”

“Steve,” Peggy said softly at his right arm. “Perhaps now isn’t the time.”

Tony shot her a quizzical glance as he slipped the envelope open with his thumb and drew out a simple, pretty card, which bore the word Congratulations on the front. He flicked the card open with interest. “Whose handwriting is…” Tony stopped mid-sentence; his eyes had already glanced down and seen the name signed at the bottom. “Oh.”

He was conscious of Steve watching him like a hawk; his kindly, wrinkled eyes trained on his face for any hint of emotion, good or otherwise. Tony kept his face as impassive as he could manage.

“Enjoy the party,” Tony delivered in a flat voice. Pausing only to leave the card on the drinks table next to them, he walked away, trying to think only of Bruce and their new life together.

“Ready?” A voice asked behind him. He turned to see his best man. Rhodey clasped his shoulder, and grinned. Behind them, Tony heard the spine-tingling sound of instruments tuning up.

“Ready,” he said.

Chapter Text

ACT THREE

The Carter Academy didn’t waste any time. A handpicked selection of students made their way to the Stark School’s largest studio the next morning, wide-eyed and suspicious. Peter recognised the twins, Wanda and Pietro, and Gwen, but no-one else. They were all perfect and pristine in their official uniforms; except Gwen, who had judged the tone admirably. She slid up to Peter in leggings and a non-Carter standard leotard and oversized jumper, looking simultaneously adorable and daring.

“How did you get them all here?” He murmured while the crowd got organised.

“Curiosity won out,” she told him. “But they’re not happy about it.”

“I can see that,” Peter said, and yawned. “Man, I’m sleepy. Did your parents get mad at you about last night?”

“They’re only mad because I was with a boy,” she teased. “Dad couldn’t have cared less about the gunman.”

“In his defence, he wasn’t a very good gunman. Oh, so I found out what was going on. This mob boss was taking his girlfriend to the ballet, right, because this guy who’d run out on her years before was performing, and – “

A sudden hush fell over the room and Peter trailed off as he turned to see Natasha and Pepper walk through the double doors to the studio. “Oh, hi,” he greeted them. The rest of the Stark kids; doing shoe maintenance, chatting and stretching, did the same. Peter realised with a degree of glee that the Carter students were starstruck.

“Hi, kid,” Natasha said, clearly amused. “Have fun in Germany?”

“Very funny,” Peter quipped back. “Did Tony tell everyone that little story?”

“Absolutely everyone,” Natasha promised. “You should go up and see him after this, he’s half-convinced himself you got shot on stage, and not the dancer. And you must be Gwen,” Natasha changed tack suddenly and addressed her.

“I must be?” Gwen grinned.

“Okay, okay,” Peter said, making as if to push Natasha away, scandalising several Carter students in the process. “Go embarrass someone else now.”

“You make it so easy,” Natasha called back, before making her way over to talk with an exchange student from Wakanda.

Natasha and Pepper continued to visit the studio on scheduled collaboration afternoons, but the other teachers and principal dancers took turns supervising as well. Peter liked it best when one of Carter’s choreographers, Sam Wilson, came by, and he could bombard him with a million questions about aerial dancing and stunts. He was a warm, friendly man, ineffably cool, and not as haughty as other teachers. While they were sure to be visited by one or two of them a week, the students were generally left alone to ‘collaborate’ and come up with their own choreography and designs. It took a week for the rest of the Carter students to start coming to their shared classes in normal, comfortable dance wear instead of their uniforms, and by that time, they’d started to come up with a theme for the whole performance.

“New York,” Peter confided in Tony at their next student-mentor meeting. “You know, like, a celebration of the city. I guess living here was the only thing we all had in common.”

“New York,” Tony repeated thoughtfully. “Not bad. Better than ‘the future’, at least.” At Peter’s quizzical expression, he explained. “That was the theme from the last time we tried.”

“The last time?” Peter asked. “You tried this before?”

“Not with students. Just the company dancers.”

Peter hazarded a guess. “It didn’t go well?”

“It did not go well,” Tony agreed. “But hey, water under the bridge, or so it all seems. Even Rhodey’s fine with it now.”

Peter fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. For the first time, he realised how much was riding on this performance. “Do you really think this is gonna work?” he asked.

Tony seemed surprised that he’d even asked. “Course it will,” he said. “You’re my secret weapon, right?”

“Right,” Peter agreed, starting to smile again. “Though, uh, I don’t actually want a really big part. For obvious reasons. I’ve just asked them to put me in the background somewhere…”

The other dancers, as it turned out, had different plans. Peter walked five minutes early into the next group class to find a furious argument going on between members of the two schools; he recognised Scott Lang and Pietro and Wanda from Carter, and Johnny and Kamala from Stark.

“I’m telling you,” Johnny was saying, hotly, “it should be Peter. He’s the best fit for the part, and it’s our equipment anyway.”

“And your equipment works so well,” Scott drawled back. “In fact, wasn’t the last person to use it also one of Stark’s special pet projects? And look how that turned out.”

Wanda stamped her foot – for a moment, Peter thought she was going to fly at him – and raised her voice. “Don’t you dare bring Viz into this.”

“Are you on their side?” Scott demanded.

“There aren’t any sides!” Kamala joined in, a little fretful. “You asked us who we’d put forward for the role, and we told you. None of us are trained in stunts like that and none of you are either. But if we had to pick someone…” she trailed off and her eyes grew wide as they finally noticed Peter standing in the doorway.

“Um.” Peter said. “Do I even want to know?”

“Peter,” Johnny said, practically dragging him over to their corner of the room. “We need your input on something.”

“We do not need your input on something,” Scott added.

“Shut up. Peter, there’s a lead role we want you to take on, but some people don’t think you’re right for it.”

“Do you want me to play you?” Peter joked, hoping to diffuse the tension. For the last few days there had been a running joke that someone would need to ‘play’ Johnny if they were going to include all of the city’s superheroes in their ‘New York’ piece. “Because I think I’d be much better at playing your sister. I could be great at being invisible.”

Johnny and Kamala laughed, but no-one else did. “Don’t think you get to pick who plays the superheroes just because you are one,” Scott continued.

To Scott’s complete irritation, Johnny preened. “I don’t call myself a superhero, but thanks, that’s really sweet, Scott.” Scott just glared at him.

“Whoah, whoah,” Peter put his hands up. “Let’s all just calm down here. Who is it you want me to play?”

“Spider-Man”, Johnny said.

Peter felt the air rush out of his lungs. “Oh,” he managed to say. “Um. Huh.”

Other students were starting to file in; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gwen.

“Is that a no?” Wanda asked. She seemed oddly disappointed.

“It’s a…” Peter looked at Johnny and Kamala. “It’s a maybe. Guys, can I have a word? Uh, now?”

“Absolutely,” Kamala said brightly, with a sudden determination in her eyes. “Actually, I need your help with something. Both of you.” She grabbed both their arms and they made their way through the influx of students coming in, going down the corridor until they could speak privately.

“I don’t want to play Spider-Man,” Peter blurted out as soon as they were alone. His heart was racing. The idea of dancing as his alter-ego on the festival stage was suicidal. The audience would figure him out in a heartbeat.

Johnny and Kamala were looking at him quizzically. “We’re sorry,” Kamala said. “We just thought… you wouldn’t want anyone else to take the role. It’s only you and Johnny that will have that problem, really, I mean, I’m from New Jersey.”

“Wait.” Peter was suddenly hyper-conscious of the atmosphere; like he was standing on a tight-rope, about to make either a good decision or a terrible one. “You mean… do you two… know?”

Johnny shrugged, his expression a little confused. “About you being Spider-Man? Yeah, man. We were trying to save the role for you.”

“You know?” Peter squeaked. He looked around furiously for anyone who might have been listening, but they were alone. “How? Who else knows? Was there a newsletter I missed?”

“Well, sort of,” Johnny continued. “The venn diagram of people who have super-powers and people enrolled in ballet school isn’t exactly massive, you know, but it’s not like we have a Facebook group. But we all pretty much know each other. And, you know, Tony doesn’t just give out scholarships randomly. That was a big clue.”

“Oh my God,” Peter said, the world finally starting to click back into place. “Kamala, you’re Ms Marvel.”

Kamala grinned at him. “Yeah. Hey, thanks for helping me take down that slime monster last week. I couldn’t get the smell out of my hair for days.”

“But you never said anything?” Peter asked. “I’ve been here for weeks. Like you just said, we’ve worked together.”

“We thought you were just really shy,” Kamala admitted, “so we didn’t want to bug you about it. Uh. No pun intended. And we try not to chat in costume.”

“Who else is there?” Peter demanded.

“Well, let’s see,” Johnny said, ticking off on his fingers. “You, me, Kam, Billy and Teddy; oh, have you met Danny? He runs the yoga class? And Kate from the orchestra… there’s a few people at Carter too, but we don’t know them well enough to ask. I definitely think Wanda’s freaky, regardless. And America is way too strong for her size.”

“Oh my God, did you hear that Kate and America are dating?” Kamala asked, interjecting suddenly. “They are so cute together! Even cuter than Teddy and Billy! I mean – “ she stopped at Peter’s stare. “Sorry. You’re having a freak-out. I shouldn’t squee.”

“But it’s totally squee-worthy,” Johnny agreed solemnly. “Peter, man, we’re sorry. We didn’t mean to freak you out like this. Maybe we should start a Facebook group.”

“Ooh, we could have socials,” Kamala added.

“How come – “Peter was finding it hard to formulate sentences in the midst of all this new information. “Uh, ballet? How did we all end up in ballet?”

Johnny and Kamala looked at each other, and shrugged. “Mr Stark,” Kamala said. “He likes to collect people like us. Uh, not in a creepy way. I think he just wants to keep an eye on everyone? Keep them safe.”

“And, you have to admit,” Johnny added, “it’s pretty awesome. I don’t think I’ll be doing this for the rest of my life, but it’s fun, right?”

“It is fun,” Peter admitted. “So he knows about me. That’s why I got the scholarship. That… that explains a lot.” There was a strange, sinking feeling in his chest as he said the words, and he wasn’t sure why. “Um, can you guys cover for me? I think I need to go talk to him. Like, now.”

“What about the Spider-Man part?” Kamala asked. “Are you sure you don’t want to do it? I mean, no-one in the audience would suspect that the guy playing Spider-Man was actually Spider-Man. It would be too perfect.”

“I guess…” Peter said slowly. “I guess I will. But, uh – “ he jerked his head back towards the corridor. “Just give me ten minutes, all right?”

“Done,” Johnny said. “We’ll keep it safe for you.”

“You guys are kinda the best,” Peter said, and meant it. Now that the initial shock was wearing off he felt a great deal of warmth towards two people he’d already thought of as friends, but were now allies.

“Duh,” Johnny said, with a grin.

Peter left them at the door to the studio and raced on ahead until he hit the elevator door and sailed up the three floors to Mr Stark’s office. Anxiety was humming and buzzing under his skin. Mr Stark had known, all this time. Had he known when Peter was in his office that night he cut his hand open? And hadn’t said anything? Peter couldn’t understand it. He was anxious, and confused, and… and angry. So much for being a promising ballet talent.

He walked into Mr Stark’s office after knocking once, too keyed up to wait for an answer. “You knew,” he said immediately, ignoring the startled expression on his mentor’s face. “You knew I was Spider-Man? And you never told me? You knew?”

Tony blinked at him, and Peter immediately knew he’d made the wrong decision.

“Well,” Tony said, after a long, excruciating pause. “Now, I do.” He looked down at the phone on his desk. “Bruce, I’m gonna call you back. I have some mentoring to do.”

Peter waited, and resisted the urge to hurl himself out of the nearest window.

“So,” Tony said, spinning the phone around in his hand as he stared at Peter, wide-eyed. “You’re the… spider-ling. Crime-fighting spider. You’re spider-boy?”

“Spider-Man,” Peter mumbled. “I thought you knew.”

“I had a theory,” Tony argued back, staring at him like he was perfectly aware of Peter’s strong desire to defenestrate himself. “I wasn’t sure.”

“But you knew about the others,” Peter said. “Johnny – well, everyone knows about Johnny – and Kamala? And literally everyone else?”

Tony sat back down at his desk with a weary little sigh. “Peter, they all told me,” he explained. “Kamala is actually an Erskine student; she was freaking out about juggling her schoolwork with her superhero-ing. I’ve known Kate since she was tiny, her uncle’s an old friend. And Teddy was kind of hard to miss anyway. You never said anything about it all, so I thought…” he shrugged, hands splayed out in an ‘eh’, gesture. “I guessed my theory was wrong. It happens.”

“And everyone else?” Peter persisted.

“Friends. Friends of friends. I do some inventing, you know, on the side. The superhero community is kind of indebted to me in a lot of ways, not to blow my own horn, but they know it and I know it. But most of them are kids that Steve finds and sends my way. He has a… vested interest in super-powered individuals.”

“Oh,” Peter said, grinning despite himself, “please tell me that Mr Rogers has superpowers.”

“Let’s just say that Captain America is based on almost-real-life events and leave it at that,” Tony said, with a twinkle in his eye. “The arts gained a great hero when the US military decided that he’d be better at propaganda than punching. And another when my dad decided to follow him instead of building bombs.”

“And another with you,” Peter pointed out.

“So we’re a little protective of kids like you, because… well. It could’ve been us.” There was a pause as Tony went to continue his speech, and then registered what Peter had actually said moments before. “Uh, what?”

“You heard me,” Peter said. “Three heroes.”

“All right, don’t get sentimental,” Tony said brusquely, blinking far too rapidly. “You stormed in here yelling not five minutes ago.”

“Well, I thought…” Peter gestured lamely. “I thought something sinister was going on, you know? And now I find out you and Mr Rogers are just big softies when it comes to super-powered kids. I’m okay with that.”

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that,” Tony said gruffly, but Peter could tell he was pleased. “So what was all that guff about ‘ballet is my passion, Mr Stark’?”

“What was I supposed to say? If I’d have said ‘photography is my passions’, it wouldn’t have explained the whole… flexible thing.”

“But…” Tony seemed to be struggling for words: uncommonly anxious. He looked at Peter searchingly.

“What is it, Mr Stark?”

“Do you like it?” Tony asked. He nodded to Peter’s gym bad and his feet in his canvas dancing shoes. “Dancing?”

Peter stopped, and considered it. Dancing. His new friends – his new superpowered friends – the theatres, the theory, the physicality of it all. Gwen.

“I don’t think I’m going to grow up to be a ballerino,” he answered honestly. “But I do like it. I really do. And no matter what I end up doing… I’ll be really glad I did this.”

Tony smiled, and Peter let out a little sigh of relief.

“Bruce and Betty think you’ll really be something amazing in genetics,” Tony said. “But just remember: I found you first.”

“I’ll be your secret weapon forever,” Peter promised solemnly. “I should probably get back to class, though. I kind of ran out when Johnny wanted me to play, uh, myself.”

Tony frowned. “You’ve lost me.”

“You’ll see when you supervise class next.” Peter sighed and got up out of the chair. “This is gonna be a lot of work, isn’t it?”

“Sounds it,” Tony agreed. “Go on, kid. Make me proud. I’ll process the big Spider-Man revelation after I call Bruce back.”

“I will,” Peter said.

*

“How’s Poland?” Tony asked Natasha as they walked down the street from the coffee shop back to the school building. It was mid-November, and an unseasonably warm autumn had suddenly turned crisp and bitingly cold. Natasha had borrowed fluffy, Victorian-style mittens and a hat from the Nutcracker section. “Poland’s fine,” she answered after a sip of her pumpkin spice latte. “A little dull. Still not fond of the tambourine.”

“You’ve danced it before, right?” Tony asked.

“Millions of years ago,” Natasha agreed. “The ballet forums aren’t happy about it. And neither,” she added, lips drooping slightly, “is Pepper.”

“Trouble in paradise? Join the club,” Tony sighed. “Pepper doesn’t mean anything personal by it. She’s just a workaholic and can’t understand anyone choosing anything else. And she’s scared that she’s not as willing to give up work as you are. Commitmentphobe,” he added, shaking his head.

“And Bruce came from an abusive family which has given him an intense fear of parenting,” Natasha countered. “I can play therapist too, you know.”

“Okay, okay, let’s go back to Swan Lake,” Tony muttered, staring moodily into his coffee cup. “It’s probably for the best we don’t have kids, anyway. Our dog hates me.”

“I think that’s because you named your dog Ultron,” Natasha laughed. “If I were that dog I’d hate you too.”

“I miss Jarvis,” Tony whined. “Jarvis was a good dog. He always brought the post in.”

“Oh,” Natasha remembered suddenly. She dug into her bag as she spoke. “Speaking of post, how amenable would you be right now to reading a letter from James?”

“Not very,” Tony ground out. “Which you know.”

Natasha sighed, and thrust an A4 envelope at him. “He said you’d want to read it. It’s got stuff about your father in.”

“Then I want it even less,” Tony said, not taking it. “Look, I said the show could go ahead, didn’t I? But I still want nothing to do with him. And he doesn’t get to talk to me about Dad.”

“Okay,” Natasha said, looking tired. She took his arm and lead them both to a nearby bench. “Sit down.”

“Therapist time is over,” Tony said darkly, but sat down next to her willingly and took a long drink of coffee. “What is it?”

“James didn’t kill your father,” Natasha told him, a serious look on your face.

Tony stared at her for a moment before saying, as if talking to a child, “I know. But if he hadn’t left the company two days before opening night to go to Russia, Dad might not have had that little stress-induced heart attack that did kill him.”

“An elderly alcoholic had a heart-attack, and you blame stress?”

“Partly,” Tony snapped back. “Didn’t help, did it?”

“Would you just take this? Please? I promised I’d try,” she told him. “You don’t have to read it right now.”

Begrudgingly, Tony took the envelope and shoved it into his inside coat pocket. “I’m not saying I’ll read it ever. I might just let ‘Tron eat it.”

“My job is done either way,” Natasha shrugged. “I’m sorry he asked me. But he is my teacher.”

“I understand,” Tony said, reluctantly. “Actually, I never actually had a teacher I was close with. But I married one, and I know Bruce’s students would do anything for him.” Bruce was one of the few university lecturers who really cared about their students, especially those that truly made an effort. In summer their house and Bruce’s office would be overrun with Bruce’s ‘kids’; Amadeus making coffee, Carmilla buried under dissertation research, Skaar snapping at anyone who dared to disturb his notes, and Rick, Bruce’s TA, helping to plan lessons for the next term. He felt a slight pang at the thought of them. Bruce would be such a good father if he’d only let himself try.

“So, your turn,” Natasha announced brightly. “How do I convince Pepper that I’m serious about her?”

“Short of moving to New York, which I know you’d never do… but even then, she’d always be worried that you resented her for moving,” Tony mused. He knew Pepper far too well. “You know you’ve always got a spot here if you want it, right? We’d be lucky to have you.”

“I have been with the Bolshoi a long time,” Natasha sighed. “It would be nice to have a change.”

“You’re kidding,” Tony stated flatly. “You? Move for good?”

“Why not? But if you say even that won’t be enough…”

“It would be a fantastic start,” Tony promised her. “Are you serious?”

“I’m seriously thinking about it.” Natasha drained the rest of her latte, and stood up. “Come on, you. Time to supervise class. Coming with?”

“Yes, actually,” Tony stood up and dug his hands in his pockets as they started walking again, bemoaning the lack of gloves. “I want to see how this superhero motif is working out.”

*

“This superhero motif is not working out,” Peter moaned at the end of the day. Gwen, packing her shoes away beside him, giggled.

“You’re just tired and grumpy,” she informed him. “It looks fine.”

“I’m just saying,” he stressed, “this part would look a lot better if we could use the aerial equipment already.” Mr Rhodes and Sam Wilson had been very, very uneasy about putting Peter in the harness. Peter hadn’t found out the whole story, but he knew there had once been an accident; something to do with a mysterious character called ‘Viz’, and Mr Rhodes’ wheelchair. No-one liked to talk about it.

“Hey,” Gwen said softly, pulling him to one side as everyone else left the studio. “Grumpy. I have a question for you.”

“A question?” Peter asked, taking advantage of the sudden alone-time by winding his arms around her waist. “Don’t you have to get back to your building in time for class? Hanging around in dark corners with me, people will talk.”

“I’ll be quick,” Gwen laughed, poking him in the chest for his cheek. “You know the Christmas party?”

“What Christmas party?” Peter asked, blinking faux-innocence. He laughed as Gwen groaned at him. “Yes, I am aware of the Christmas party. The one your school is hosting. The one everyone’s been talking about all week. That party?”

“That party,” Gwen confirmed. “I’ve been reliably informed that there will not be jello shots, so… if you wanted to go, I would probably not be totally embarrassed to be seen with you.”

Peter considered this, or pretended to. “With you? As… your date?”

Gwen shrugged minutely and wet her lips. “As… my boyfriend.”

“Well,” Peter said, looking thoughtful. “That’s a tough one. A beautiful, talented woman wants me to be her boyfriend? I don’t know, I’ll have to think really hard about this…” he interrupted himself, laughing, as he leaned down for a kiss.

Gwen flushed as they pulled away. “Is that a yes, bug boy?”

His nose wrinkled. “Is that nickname going to be a permanent feature?”

“Bug boy is non-negotiable, yeah.”

Peter sighed mockingly, and grabbed both their dance bags with one arm. “You drive a hard bargain, Ms Stacy. Can I come see you after patrol?

“I’ll keep the window unlocked,” Gwen said as they made their way out of the studio.

*

“Hold still,” Bruce instructed his husband as he methodically tied the knot in Tony’s tie. His tongue poked out a little as he concentrated. “Tony. Hold still or tie your own neckwear.”

Tony, who had been able to tie a tie since the age of five, grinned at him. “I like the way you do it.”

“Clumsily?”

“Adorably.”

Bruce made a pleased, non-committal hum and stepped back. “There. Not perfect, but you’ll do.”

Tony checked himself quickly in the mirror. “Your finest work.” As Bruce got ready himself, Tony sat on the edge of the bed and watched him fondly. As term ramped up for the winter in both their schools they hadn’t had much time to themselves lately. And there seemed to be no perfect time to bring up what Tony had to say.

“I had a pretty deep conversation with Natasha the other day,” Tony ventured. “You know she’s thinking of moving to New York permanently?”

“Really?” Bruce asked, fiddling with the cufflinks Tony had bought him for their third Christmas together. “For work, or for Pepper?”

“What do you think?” Tony grinned.

“I think it’s about time,” Bruce said, turning round to be surveyed. “Will I do?”

“Very handsome.”

“Thanks,” Bruce grinned, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek as he sat down next to him on the bed. “So, what do you really want to talk to me about?”

Tony started. “Excuse me?”

“I have been married to you for how many years now? I know the look you get when you’re trying to broach a difficult subject,” Bruce told him. He spoke lightly, but there was a layer of concern in his deep brown eyes. “What is it?”

Tony opted to fiddle with his own cufflinks instead of looking at his husband. “I just wondered if you’d thought any more about the discussion-which-shall-not-be-named,” he said after a little while. “You know, the one we’re always arguing about. I thought that’d be a really great way to start a night of festive fun.”

To his surprise, when he looked up, Bruce was smiling at him ruefully. “I have, actually,” he said.

If he was a dog, Tony’s ears would have pricked up. He tried not to look too visibly encouraged. “And?”

“And you’ve done such a great job with Peter,” Bruce said, on what seemed to Tony like a tangent. “He was in class the other day all excited about the show and the rest of term... I don’t know, I guess I felt… encouraged.”

Tony frowned, and despite his best intentions in originally broaching the subject, felt irritation bubble up under his skin. “Wait.”

“Yeah?”

“That’s your reservation? You were waiting to see if I could show any signs of being a decent father?”

Bruce immediately looked horrified. “Shit, no. That came out all wrong. I just meant… I’d been so caught up with thinking of all the ways I could be terrible that I forgot how amazing you already are. I forgot that our kid would stand a much better chance of not getting screwed up with you here.”

“Bruce, that’s…” Ton sighed, and the irritation washed away. He nudged closer to his husband, butting his shoulder affectionately. “That’s really sweet, and it’s definitely a start, but I don’t think ‘oh, at least my husband will be good at it’ is a good basis for getting a kid. A lawnmower, maybe. A piano. But probably not a baby.”

Bruce gestured helplessly. “I don’t know if I can do any more than that. I just can’t in good conscience say I believe I’d be good for a child.”

“Why not?” Tony asked. “Look, I know you have deep-rooted family issues thanks to your fuck-up of a father, but do I have to get every single one of your students to come spell it out for you? And God help me, I will bring ‘Tron in here.”

“What’s that meant to mean?” Bruce asked, good-naturedly bemused.

“I mean your kids, Bruce. You talk about Peter: what about Rick? Who makes sure that Amadeus eats and sleeps in exam season? Who helps Skaar with his English? Who drove Carmilla to that conference on Greek lit last year when her parents bailed?”

“My kids?” Bruce asked, blinking in surprise. “I thought you called them that as a joke.”

Tony resisted the urge to groan. “You know, for a mega-genius, you can be pretty dumb.”

“You tell me that a lot,” Bruce said, staring at his hands. “I didn’t think you were right until now.” He sat there like he’d been presented with a particularly thorny physics problem. “This could definitely merit more thought on the matter.” He paused for a while as they sat together, silently, but more in sync than they had been lately. “What does ‘Tron have to do with this?” Bruce asked after a while, and right on cue there was scratching at the door.

“You know he likes you more than me,” Tony said, unwillingly getting up to let the dog in. Ultron growled fiercely at Tony and ran past him to get to Bruce, who picked him up, clearly grateful for the distraction. “See! Who feeds you every morning, demon?”

“Don’t be mean to murder-puppy,” Bruce cooed. “He’s just crabby because he doesn’t like being left alone all night. He knows that fancy ties and cufflinks mean Abandonment.”

Tony looked at his designer watch. “Shit, speaking of, we need to get going. I can’t handle that Captain America look-of-disappointment that Steve reserves for me and me alone tonight. Are you ready? Is the evil spawn subdued?”

“’Tron will be fine,” Bruce said, getting up with the puppy nestled in his arms. “Let me just put the TV on so he has background noise and we can go.”

“You spoil him,” Tony said, exchanging growls with the dog as they walked out of the bedroom.

“He’s young! Being alone still freaks him out,” Bruce argued.

“Whatever. But can we find him a new movie?” Tony asked, following Bruce down the stairs. “God, I am so sick of Pinocchio.”

Chapter Text

ACT THREE, PART TWO

Carter Academy, Peter had to admit, knew how to throw a party. Despite various promises that the evening would be ‘relaxed’, they were hosting it in the grand ballroom and everyone had mostly ignored the ‘smart-casual’ dress code in order to dress up. Peter - after a helpful warning from Gwen - had borrowed a suit from Harry, determined not to let the side down.

“You look nice,” Gwen said as he arrived with Kate and the others. Kate had claimed designated driver and Peter had been pleasantly surprised to be picked up in a bright purple Chevrolet.

“Not as nice as you,” Peter grinned. Gwen, pleased, patted down her fluffy pink mohair top which she’d teamed with a white ballroom skirt. After looking around her quickly, she got up on her tiptoes to kiss him.

“I’m shedding,” she commented, after they broke apart. “People will think you’ve got a pink cat.”

“I think people will put two and two together,” Peter replied, good-naturedly picking pink fluff from his collar. He motioned to the ballroom: the entrance to which they were stood just outside. “Uh, shall we?” There was a brief moment where he thought she was going to take his arm like in some kind of period movie, but then they both laughed, and went in together.

Inside, Peter found that he recognised maybe half of the people there. He zeroed in on Johnny, with – cool, the Invisible Woman – and a few dancers from more senior classes he didn’t recognise. Gwen steered them towards a group of Carter kids and Peter found himself face-to-face with Wanda, who had never warmed to him, and an extremely uncomfortable-looking man on her arm. With his dark, reddish-brown skin and the green suit he was wearing, he stuck out like a sore thumb and seemed to be regretting his choice entirely.

“Hi,” Peter waved, earning a perfunctory nod from Wanda. “Uh, Wanda, you look nice.” It was the first time he’d seen her out of class and she did indeed look very nice in a dark red dress with matching lipstick. “I’m Peter,” he added, extending a hand to her date.

The man started at the sound of his name, and chose to stare at him rather than take his hand.

“Viz,” Wanda muttered, jabbing him in the side.

“Viz,” the man repeated, jolting himself back to the conversation, and shook Peter’s hand. “Forgive me. I’ve heard… so much about you.”

“So have I,” Peter said cheerfully, but regretted it as soon as Viz’s face fell. “I mean, uh, I’ve heard your name. Interesting name. Not one you’d forget! Is it short for something? Uh…”

“Vishv,” Viz mumbled, looking at the floor.

“Vishv,” Peter repeated. “That’s cool. Gwen,” he added, as she came over to rescue him, “thank God. You know Wanda. Have you met Viz?”

“A pleasure,” Gwen said graciously. “Peter, we’re needed over here. Nice to see you, Wanda.” As they made their hasty exit Peter muttered his thanks, and then noticed, as he looked around them, that a few people were not-so-subtly staring and whispering in their general direction. “Uh. What did I do?”

“Viz used to be Tony’s star student,” Gwen told him under her breath. “He’s the one that was involved in Mr Rhodes’ accident. He was operating the aerial equipment.”

“Oh,” Peter said, feeling stupid. He’d known that, heard it talked about before. He wondered if Mr Stark knew he was here, and how that relationship had ended. Did Viz resent him?

Peter thought he would, if he were in his place.

“There’s Mr Stark,” he pointed out, and Gwen followed his gaze to where Tony had just entered with Dr Banner, both of them looking happy and flushed from the cold weather. Peter hung back until Tony noticed him and waved them over with a smile. He hadn’t seen the two of them together since the night of the shattered statue, and Peter was struck by their comfortable affection; Tony’s arm around Bruce’s waist, and the way they leaned in to each other.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, grinning at both of them. “I swear,” he added, looking at Bruce, “I submitted my essay before I came.”

Bruce made a show of checking his watch. “With five and a half hours to spare! This is a new and exciting change for you. I look forward to reading it. And,” Bruce continued, his smile turning into a slight smirk, “I’m very much looking forward to your star turn as Spider-Man after the holiday.”

“Hah,” Peter said, feeling his smile become a little forced. “Yeah, I can’t wait. Counting down the days! I just hope the costume is warm,” he added, remembering that Mr Rogers had recently revealed that they would be performing on an outdoor stage as part of a festival of New York. “You should actually be excited for the rest of it though. The good bits.” He was suddenly more conscious than ever before of the fact there would be an actual audience. Not just other classmates reflected in mirrors and the occasional teacher; real-life people with opinions and cameras and Twitter accounts.

“Aw,” Tony said, still grinning as Peter’s mind reeled. “You’ve scared him. Don’t scare my Spider-Man, we don’t have anyone else that bendy.”

“I was being genuine,” Bruce argued. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, Peter. And if not, your biology grades will probably save you from the ballet life.”

“I’ll let you know if I need saving,” Peter promised. “Oh, sorry – have you met Gwen?”

Tony chimed in. “Sorry, Ms Stacy. This is my husband, Dr Bruce Banner.”

“Nice to meet you,” Gwen said, shaking hands. “I’ve heard so much about your classes.”

“Really?” Bruce asked, looking pleased. “Are you the girl Peter keeps talking about in class instead of working?”

He’d obviously meant it as a joke, but Peter felt his face freeze. Gwen shot him a panicked look.

“I’ve said something awkward,” Bruce said immediately, noticing the sudden rise in tension. “Sorry. That was just meant to be a joke.”

Tony showed no such regret. “Are you two together?” he asked, leaning in with interest.

Peter saw Bruce nudge his husband unsubtly as he turned his head to look at Gwen. Gwen took his hand in response.

“Yes,” Gwen said firmly, and Peter nodded.

“That’s great,” Tony said, clearly bemused by their sudden hostility. “You two are adorable together.”

“So I’m not expelled?” Peter half-joked.

Tony just blinked at him. “What? Oh, Christ. No, you’re not expelled. Will you three excuse me?” He asked, downing the drink he’d been holding before putting the glass down on a side table. “I need to talk to Steve.”

“And he thinks my kids are a handful,” Bruce commented wryly as he watched his husband leave. “You two thinking of trying out for Romeo & Juliet?”

Gwen and Peter exchanged guilty smiles, and held each other’s hands tight.

*

“Are you cold?” Natasha asked, watching Pepper carefully. “We can go inside.” She’d led them up to the balcony above the ballroom, where they had been watching the snow fall over the city. Natasha could hear a waltz playing below them, and she took the opportunity to prise Pepper away from the brass railing and into her arms.

“I’m not cold,” Pepper said. “It’s beautiful out here.”

“You’re beautiful,” Natasha replied smoothly, her words not betraying how shaky she felt. “The snow is an adequate backdrop.”

Pepper rolled her eyes, but smiled. “You’re very sentimental tonight.”

“What can I say?” Natasha shrugged. “I’m in a beautiful city with the girl of my dreams, and I’m not pretending to play a fucking tambourine on stage for tourists. It’s a perfect night.”

“You can’t complain about a part you willingly signed up for,” Pepper reminded her. “Besides, you love Swan Lake. We met at Swan Lake.”

“I remember,” Natasha smiled. “That feels like so long ago now. I can’t believe I’ve only seen you once a year since then.” They Skyped at least once a week, and were constantly messaging when time zones allowed, but it wasn’t the same and they both knew it. As the snow fell, the atmosphere on the balcony grew charged, and heavy with anticipation.

Pepper was still in Natasha’s arms. “If you moved to New York…” she said, only teasing.

“If I moved to New York,” Natasha agreed. “I think we need to talk.”

With a frown, Pepper extracted herself and folded her arms. “Really? Here? Now?”

“Here,” Natasha confirmed. “Now. I really need to ask you something.”

“If it’s another invitation to join your company, I’m telling you right now, the answer’s no.”

“Hear me out,” Natasha said, smiling. She took her clutch bag from where she had left it on the windowsill and hugged it to her chest, her movements unnaturally nervous. “I’m not going to ask you to join the Bolshoi.”

“Oh,” Pepper said, momentarily disarmed. She relaxed her arms. “Okay, shoot.”

“I’m going to ask you to marry me,” Natasha said. “And before you run off like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight, I should confirm that yes, I am being serious. Yes, I do want to marry you. And I talked to the director of the New York ballet this morning and told her that if my fiancée was willing, I could be ready for the fall season.”

Pepper’s hands flew to her face and she stared at Natasha with wide, bright eyes. “You are being serious,” she said. “Oh God, you were about to propose and I said ‘okay, shoot!’ I’m the worst!”

“You’re not the worst,” Natasha said quickly. “Well. Possibly the worst at answering proposals.”

Pepper let out a shaky laugh. “Oh my God, it’s snowing, and it’s beautiful, and you’re proposing, and I’ve made it so awkward… I… Do you have a ring?”

“I wasn’t sure you’d let me get that far,” Natasha admitted. “Are you going to make me kneel down? It’s cold.”

“Are you sure you want to leave Russia?” Pepper asked softly, hardly daring to believe it.

“I will kneel down to prove how serious I am,” Natasha warned her instead of answering, “but I’d really rather not.” She dug into her bag and drew out a small red box. “Yes, I… want to leave Russia. I want to be wherever you are all the time, not just every winter. I want to be your wife,” she continued, and opened the velvet box to reveal a dainty engagement ring, with a diamond nestled in between two silver swan’s wings. “It’s okay, I’m scared too. Will you marry me?”

“I hope they at least offered you principal,” Pepper murmured, tracing the wings with her fingertip.

“Pepper.”

Pepper looked up, and their eyes met. “Of course I will,” she said, and pulled Natasha in for a kiss.

The party continued in the ballroom: students laughing and dancing through the windows behind them. In the corridor outside, Tony was taking in a deep breath as he scanned the doors, looking for one room in particular.

He paused in the doorway of Steve’s office. He’d never seen it before. It was covered in pictures; both photographs and sketches; some, he suspected, drawn by the man himself. He was surprised to spot a picture of the four of them; Steve, Peggy, himself and Bruce, at their wedding. It was a nice photograph, he admitted begrudgingly to himself.

“I knew I’d find you in here,” Tony said when Steve and Peggy finally noticed his presence. “You two never really knew how to party, did you?”

“Did you come and find us so we could argue?” Steve asked, smiling despite his words. “You never change.”

“No, no,” Tony waved the assumption away with an irritable flick of his hand. “I need to talk to both of you. Your star pupil is dating my protégé, did you know?”

Peggy folded her arms. “And? That’s fine. Our students can date whoever they wish.”

“That’s the point,” Tony said, sitting down in the available chair with a huff. “I know it’s fine. You know it’s fine. The kids themselves, however, thought we were about to disown them or something.”

“Oh,” Steve said, clearly disappointed. He traded looks with his wife. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“It is that bad,” Tony said emphatically. “And it’s our fault. Well, mostly my fault. Although you never actively discouraged any rivalry, did you?” He directed the last part of his sentence to Peggy, who had the grace to shake her head in agreement.

“Healthy competition is always beneficial to a school,” she reminded them both, “but perhaps we have gone too far. I don’t want my students to feel pressured in any way.”

“Really?” Steve teased.

“Well,” Peggy amended, “not in that way. In every other way: yes.”

“You’re so strict,” Steve said, smiling lovingly.

“Cut the gooey eyes now,” Tony warned. “Truce?”

The pair considered it. “Will you talk to James?” Steve asked. “He’s been trying to talk to you.”

“Yeah, he even enlisted Natasha,” Tony grumbled. “I will consider it, and be polite if we end up in the same room. That’s all I can promise for now.”

“It’s a Christmas miracle,” Peggy deadpanned, and reached over to envelop her godson in a rare hug.

“Merry Christmas, Aunt Peggy,” Tony said, muffled into her shoulder. They stayed like that before a long moment before Peggy released him, and took hold of Steve’s arm.

“Come on now,” she said, “back to the party. This one owes me a dance.”

*

“It’s going to be cold,” Peter moaned as he tried on the Spider-Man costume for the first time. Phil Coulson, the wardrobe master, rolled his eyes at him as he wrapped a tape measure around Johnny’s waist.

“Baby,” Johnny teased.

“It’ll be warmer once you start dancing in it,” Coulson reminded him with a world-weary sigh. The show was in one week, and since the wardrobe had been working towards both the spring dance season and the student performances, they’d been completely swamped. Every so often one of his assistants would run through the fitting room with bolts of fabric, throwing pointe shoes in the general direction of the new shoe pile, and measuring students for costumes.  “Good Christmas?” he asked, through the pins he was holding in his mouth.

“Great,” Peter agreed happily. “I took my aunt to see the Nutcracker, she loved it.”

“Aww,” Johnny grinned. “Was that your first Nutcracker?”

Coulson frowned in confusion, and Peter could have kicked him. “Of course not,” he said pointedly.

“You’re done,” Coulson said, straightening up and stepping backwards to look at his work.

Johnny surveyed Peter intently as he practised moving in the suit. “It’s very… realistic,” he said, finally.

Coulson preened a little. “Thank you. Peter gave us some excellent photos to work with.”

“You really, uh…” Peter trailed off as he looked down at himself. It was very realistic. He suddenly realised why Johnny was looking so worried. “You really paid attention to detail, huh?”

“Hey, do your solo,” Johnny called out to him. “I wanna see how it looks.”

Peter scowled at him, but reluctantly went into his one, short solo; thankfully, they’d dropped the aerial stunts for the first showing as they were performing outside, so he didn’t have to worry about that until they showcased the performance later in the summer. There wasn’t quite enough room to leap around like he was supposed to, but he dutifully went through the motions of the steps he remembered up until his pas de deux with Gwen.

Johnny whistled and clapped when he was finished. “You’ve got a great range of movement in that thing.”

Peter stopped himself from saying that’s how I designed it. “Yeah,” he said instead. “It’s great, Phil, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Coulson said, finishing up on Johnny’s measurements. “Now get out of my fitting room, both of you, I have twenty other people to see today.”

Peter waited until they were both out of earshot before he collapsed dramatically onto a sofa in the empty common room, Johnny following suit behind him. “What am I going to do?”

For his part, Johnny looked genuinely concerned. “Shit, I don’t know. I shouldn’t have encouraged you, I didn’t even think about this. Man, why is Coulson such a stickler for detail?”

“I’m screwed,” Peter moaned into a pillow, and then screamed a little, for good measure. “What am I doing here?”

“What’s that? Your pillow of sadness is muffling you.”

Peter looked up from the cushion. “I said, what am I doing here? I can’t play myself in front of the entire city of New York! I must be crazy! You must be crazy! I should be playing a student. Or one of the businessmen. Or you! I could have played you!”

“You could have played me,” Johnny admitted mournfully. “Or, I could have agreed to play me, and then I wouldn’t have been stuck in the business section watching Pietro prance around in a blonde wig.”

“That’s tough, man,” Peter sympathised. “He’s not doing a bad job, though.”

“No,” Johnny said, “he’s doing a great job. And it kills me. Back to the point at hand, though- what are you going to do with the Spider-Suit?”

Peter shrugged. “What can I do?”

“Talk to Tony about it?”

“Tony can’t get round Phil, even if he does run the place.”

“Take the costume home the night before and ‘accidentally’ lose it?”

“As if wardrobe would let me live after that,” Peter sighed. “No, I’m dead anyway. I’ll figure something out. At least it’s got Stark School of Dance written on the back, huh?” He checked the window, and realised it had gotten fully dark outside while they were being fitted for costumes. “Man, it’s late. I gotta run home and put on my actual spider suit.” He finished folding up the dance costume with care – Coulson would kill him if it got torn – and put it in his bag.

Johnny clapped him on the shoulder as they got up. “Hey, be safe out there. I heard the Vulture’s back.”

“Oh good, I could do with an easy takedown,” Peter joked back. “See you in class, Johnny.”

“See ya,” Johnny waved, and they parted ways at the front door.

The Vulture wasn’t hard to track down. Peter only had to spend half an hour in Times Square with the tourists, getting waved at and Instagrammed before the villain descended, melodramatic as ever and twice as shiny.

“Hey, buddy,” Peter greeted him. “Long time no see! Have fun in prison?”

“Spider-Man,” the Vulture ground out. A few tourists screamed, but the general throng of people in the square kept going about their business. Peter did a quick two-finger salute at a passing policeman to say, I’ve got this.

“Aww,” he preened. “You remember me!”

The Vulture apparently decided that enough quips had been had, and charged. Peter dodged him neatly, and webbed the man straight back down to the ground after he unfolded his (admittedly, impressive) wings and tried to take to the skies. Peter almost yawned, and then did, for good measure.

The Vulture seethed as he stood back up again. “You think you’re untouchable,” he sneered.

Peter looked down at himself, and shrugged. “Pretty much,” he said. “You ready for round two, or do you want a breather? A juice box, maybe?”

“Come on then!” he roared. The Vulture took flight again, and instead of webbing him down, Peter webbed himself up. Fighting him in the sky would lead any physical danger away from the tourists, and besides: it looked fun. Peter was about to finish things when the Vulture did a sharp hairpin turn, and caught the dislodged spider in his talons.

Talons, Peter thought dimly. That’s new.

The sound of sirens and heavy footfalls alerted him to the fact that the police backup had finally arrived. Good call,  he thought, as he struggled to get through. The Vulture laughed. There was an awful sound of grating metal as he worked levers to tighten the talons around Peter’s torso, before dropping him down into the square.

Despite the agonising pain in his chest, Peter shot out a web and swung out just before hitting the sidewalk.

“We got this, Spidey,” an officer called out to him: a worried frown on her face. “You got somewhere to go?”

“I’m okay,” Peter gasped. “Give me a minute.” He shook his head as if to clear it. What the hell had just happened? The Vulture was a z-list supervillain who barely deserved the title, and Peter had fought him a dozen times before.

“Get some help,” the officer stressed, before charging with the rest of the group.

Have I got somewhere to go? He thought. Not home. Not the hospital. He didn’t know where to find Matt – or anyone else - in a hurry. Harry was out of town for an Oscorp conference.

He stared at the police captain who was yelling orders into a walkie-talkie, and was struck with an idea. Before he could change his own mind, he swung out of the square and towards the police captain’s daughter.

*

“Hey, bug boy,” Gwen greeted Peter softly as he rapped on her window. Her warm smile faded as she saw the huge rip that went down the centre of his spider-suit, exposing the bleeding skin underneath. “Oh my God!”

“Ssh,” he flapped his hands at her. “Don’t wake up your parents. I just need a band-aid. Or ten.”

“You need stitches,” she hissed, helping him down from the windowsill and onto the bed. “What happened?”

“The Vulture,” Peter explained, wincing as he prodded his chest experimentally. Gwen rolled her eyes at him and drew out a shiny First Aid tin from under her bed.

“I had a feeling I’d need this,” she murmured. “I thought you said the Vulture was no big deal?”

“He wasn’t,” Peter said, “but he’s got these new – I don’t know, talons? – and they’ve put a whole new spin on things.”

Gwen drew out a pack of antibacterial wipes and set about cleaning the wound, pointedly ignoring Peter’s slight hisses of pain as she did so. “Are you going to be okay for next week?” she asked. “There are a lot of lifts in our pas de deux, you know.”

“I’ll be fine,” Peter promised her. “It’s already healing up. Perks of being a human mutate. My suit, though…” he sighed, looking down at the ruined material. “That’s definitely gonna need some stitches. Get it? Stitches?”

“You’re an idiot,” Gwen said, but her smile was fond. She cut a long length of dressing and secured it over the wounds with medical tape. “This is the best I can do with what I’ve got,” she said, apologetically.

Peter took her hand and pressed it against his chest before she could take it away. “Thank you,” he said. “I shouldn’t have brought this to you, but…”

“I’m glad you did,” Gwen said. “But please don’t swing around town with your chest cut open in future, okay?”

“No promises,” Peter replied, attempting to wink like a cool, casual guy, and failing miserably. Gwen laughed and brought her hand to his neck, pulling gently until he fell forward; his forehead into her shoulder, and they stayed like that for a while. Gwen closed her eyes and concentrated on the hold. She ran a hand over his back soothingly. The spandex felt strange under her hands; she traced the webbing design with her fingers as Peter hummed contentedly.

The pad of Gwen’s index finger stilled as she hit something that felt different, and she cracked an eye open to look at it.

“Uh-oh,” she whispered.

Peter didn’t move: clearly exhausted. “Hmm?”

“Peter,” Gwen said slowly, prising him off her and turning him round. He was very pliable, with his tired muscles. “Why does your suit say Stark School of Dance on the back?”

Peter froze. “What? Oh God. Tell me you’re joking. Gwen.” He scrabbled and craned his neck, trying to look at the small of his back. He quickly peeled himself out of the top half of his suit and swivelled it round, stretching the fabric until he could see for himself the words written there. Panic washed over them both, and Peter’s face turned pale.

“It’s the wrong suit,” he said, needlessly.

Gwen turned on the small TV in her room and switched it to the first news channel. Predictably, a shot of Peter was on screen, with a tilt shift focused on the spiky letters on his back. The headline read: STARK INVOLVED WITH SUPERHEROES?

And then, in big, heart-stopping letters, a new caption rolled across the screen.

COSTUME IDENTIFIED AS BELONGING TO NEW YORK BALLET STUDENT PETER PARKER.