Chapter Text
All morning Peter had been on edge. Everything slipped through his fingers, breakfast burned, he was late for his first chemistry class, and during recess he failed to notice Flash's trip and went flying to the floor to the jeers of his buddies. The day had been jinxed from the very start, and all because something incredible awaited him that evening.
A meeting with the Avengers! Or rather—with the Rogues.
Ned was losing his mind at the mere thought, but Peter himself felt no excitement. Sure, these were the Avengers, nearly the full roster, and once upon a time he'd thought he'd stammer with puppyish awe and possibly faint on the spot. But Germany had changed a lot—not just within the team, but also in his attitude toward heroes.
The way Mr. Stark had come back from Siberia... Peter didn't want to see him broken, vulnerable, and exhausted ever again. He himself was still haunted by nightmares of Captain America's shield piercing his mentor's chest—deeper, straight through the heart. Yes, Peter had wheedled and finagled FRIDAY into giving him the bunker footage by hook or by crook. And what did Mr. Stark feel? He always hid his emotions, but Peter heard and saw more than others: the slight tremor in his voice when he talked about the Rogues, his heart racing if something reminded him of Cap, his trembling fingers and that uncertain, weary gait.
And now, when things were just starting to smooth over, the fugitive superheroes had received a pardon and signed the Accords. Their return to the Compound on probation meant one thing: Tony was back to staying awake for three days straight, worrying himself sick and working himself to the bone. No one bought his forced enthusiasm or his stock "everything's fine." Ms. Potts was on edge too, and Mr. Rhodes looked worried. A week of waiting and preparing the Compound for the residents' return had worn everyone to a frazzle. And now the big day had arrived.
Peter, lost in thought, jumped into Happy's black Audi, mumbled a greeting, and slumped against the cool window. How should he act? What should he say? Stay quiet? Be polite and friendly so as not to offend the heroes, or the opposite—cold, because he wasn't about to let go of his grudge?
He sighed for the fifth or sixth time, and Happy finally lost his patience. The man shot him a grim look in the rearview mirror.
"Something happen at school, kid? You've been out of sorts since we left. And if you plan on sighing the whole hour we've got left, I swear I'll drop you off on the side of the road."
"Everything's fine, Happy. It's just the Rogues... I mean the Avengers..."
"And what about them?" Happy prompted when Peter trailed off and retreated into himself again. "You haven't met since Germany, have you? I mean Spider-Man."
"No, no, they never tried to contact me. I just don't know how to act. Mr. Stark won't appreciate me being rude, but how do I pretend everything's okay? After what Mr. Rogers did?"
Happy silently pulled into a pizza joint, picked up the order: one for Peter to snack on and another twelve for the group dinner. They drove in silence for a few minutes, and Peter felt relieved that someone understood his anxiety and resentment. Happy always tried to seem unflappable, but Peter had noticed he always clicked his tongue and angrily switched radio stations whenever the Rogues came up on the air.
"Listen, kid, you're usually polite to the point of teeth-grinding, you weep over dead flies, and I can barely believe you're capable of pettiness. But you know what? Go for it, kid. They deserve at least a little discomfort. Put salt in their coffee, don't wish them good morning—or whatever it is you kids do."
"Thanks, Happy! I'll think of something."
Happy had really given him a great idea. Peter finally relaxed and cheered up. He spent the remaining hour to the Compound laying out his nefarious plan to Ned.
***
The pardon and the team's return were supposed to herald a new era. At least, Tony hoped so. Earth needed them—the villains hadn't been idle all that year, and underground activity alone wasn't enough to keep them all in check. Tony was tired of fighting alone or with a scrap of a team, so he made the first move—he extended his hand to his old friends. He worked on the Accords until he was spent, haggling over every line in the documents, negotiating and renegotiating endlessly, until he was finally satisfied with the result.
No forced identity disclosure, no legal persecution of heroes, no confiscation of tech, no tracking bracelets. The Avengers Initiative would open its doors to anyone willing—those with abilities and active vigilantes alike. Anyone who passed training would become a junior with the option of advancing to the main team, sign the Accords, and receive a license, which would allow the police to cooperate with them actively.
The activities of those who refused would be closely monitored: whether they used their abilities for profit or crime, how responsibly self-proclaimed heroes approached protecting people, whether they killed criminals.
Revenue from merchandise sales would be subject to a hefty tax—that percentage would go exclusively to Stark Industries funds dedicated to restoration and cleanup after superhero battles.
Tony thought they'd gotten off lightly, even though public sentiment toward heroes and altruists who saved their hides for free seemed unfair. But he also understood the people who'd lost their homes—heroes carelessly hurled villains, henchmen, robots, and aliens into residential buildings, used other people's cars as weapons. You could say "lives are more valuable than money" till you were blue in the face, but that wouldn't bring back Sokovia or help the thousands of refugees and homeless.
Tony had achieved the nearly impossible: almost all of the governments' original proposals had been scrapped. States couldn't use heroes for their own purposes, but they could refuse their help and ban them from entering the country. Even so, the Avengers had secured the right to create popular petitions for aid, with the stipulation that the state would bear financial responsibility for damages if it couldn't handle things on its own.
Tony hoped the Avengers would appreciate his efforts, and that they could return to something at least. Things would never be as before, and his heart would take a long time to stop skipping at the sight of a shield and a metal arm. But at least he'd have a team at his back again.
He thought he'd accounted for everything. Except for the awkward silence of former friends who'd beaten each other's faces in, betrayed one another, and were responsible for one of them becoming disabled.
The Rogues looked decent—in Wakanda, they'd been treated like honored guests. T'Challa had sworn that Barnes's mind was restored, and Tony, looking at the soldier's ridiculously guilty, grim face, was inclined to believe it. Natasha looked deceptively relaxed and frivolous next to an aloof Wanda. Steve, Sam, and Clint fidgeted uneasily, straining every nerve not to show guilt while also not snapping at Tony. Scott tried to lighten the mood, but only made things worse and eventually fled to the kitchen.
Tony was about to climb the walls when FRIDAY announced:
"Mr. Parker has arrived on Compound grounds. Vital signs are normal."
Tony jumped up, smiled genuinely, and clapped his hands.
"It was nice chatting, like old times, but my intern is here and we have intern business to attend to. I'll introduce you—and then we'll go our separate ways. Your bedrooms are in the same places as before. My workshop, as always, is off-limits to everyone except Pepper, Rhodey, and now my intern."
"An intern, Tony?" Clint snorted skeptically on everyone's behalf. "Who are you and what have you done with Stark? You hate it when anyone touches your tools."
"Peter is the exception. You'll understand when you get to know him better. The kid's a genius. He can keep up with me, and in some places, outdo me."
Sam had already opened his mouth to joke, but he was interrupted by the elevator chime—a cheerful teenager bounded out. Tony was surprised: that morning the boy had been out of sorts. And now—beaming. But the next words explained everything. Peter started speaking in Italian. Tony knew that no one in the room except him, not even know-it-all Romanoff, spoke that language.
"Ehi, signor Stark! Cosa facciamo oggi in laboratorio? Io e Happy abbiamo comprato la pizza!"—the boy waved the boxes as proof, while Hogan huffed behind him, pushing his way toward the kitchen. (Hi, Mr. Stark! What are we doing in the lab today? Happy and I bought pizza!)
Tony didn't miss that Pete didn't even glance at the Avengers, pretending to be busy with the pizza. He saw through the boy's game in seconds—of course, he couldn't just let the situation slide, especially after sneaking a look at the bunker footage. Tony's heart filled with warmth: protecting him in that manner, Peter reminded him of Pepper. No confrontation, no fights. Just a harmless prank and pointed ignoring. Well, Tony would happily play along with his favorite intern.
"Sei proprio un tipo intelligente, Pete. Sii gentile e saluta gli ospiti, ragazzo." (You're quite the sly one, Pete. Be polite and say hello to the guests, kid.)
"Ospiti? Mi sembra di vedere solo un branco di traditori ed ex criminali di guerra. È spiacevole conoscervi."—Peter turned to the hall in surprise and waved at the Avengers, as if only just noticing them. And where had his acting talent been hiding all this time? The kid couldn't convincingly lie even to save his life. (Guests? It seems I only see a bunch of traitors and former war criminals. Unpleasant to meet you.)
"Uh, Tony," Sam cut in, "more than two speaking out loud or whatever. Maybe share with the class? In English."
"Oh, right. So, this is Peter Parker, my genius intern,"—Tony pulled the boy to him and ruffled his hair.—"but unfortunately, he barely speaks English. Italian diaspora and all that. He understands a little, knows a few tourist phrases. If needed, ask FRIDAY to help with translation."
"Sì, sì, my apologies, I parlo un pochino... un pochino... uh-uh-uh... little bit speaking English. Little bit understand."
Watching how realistically Peter spoke with an accent in broken English, Tony realized this weekend would go perfectly. He didn't even notice how the tremor disappeared, his breathing evened out, and his posture straightened. At dinner, Peter entertained him further by calling the Avengers silly nicknames. Even FRIDAY joined in, translating a heavily censored version of his words.
***
Peter had a great time on D-Day and wasn't about to stop. The last month before break he'd spent at home with May—she was leaving for the whole next month on a volunteer program, and he was supposed to move into the Compound. Peter used that time productively: he and Ned drew up a detailed plan on how to annoy and guilt-trip the Rogues.
His friendliness quota ran out that very evening when Clint thoughtlessly quipped, "I wonder how Peter hasn't run away from Tony with that temper of his." Because, honestly, what right did they have? Maybe it was normal for them to joke like that, but such disregard genuinely stung Peter. And what could have remained a harmless jab became his personal vendetta.
He and Ned spent ages coming up with prank scenarios so as not to accidentally offend anyone. The plan had several stages: have fun—lay on the guilt—have fun. The main thing was to remain polite, innocent, and friendly so no one would start suspecting anything. And then he'd present it all as a fun prank.
Maybe it was too petty and childish, but in the end, no one would get hurt. And as Happy said, they deserved a little discomfort. Peter had never heard a single word of apology or gratitude from them for Tony's work. Mr. Stark didn't apologize, but he'd done so much for them—and not even one tiny "thank you."
Deep down, Peter hoped he could lower the awkwardness and tension for everyone, not just Mr. Stark. And that the Avengers would become almost as close-knit as before.
***
Peter gleefully moved into his room at the Compound on an early summer morning. Aunt May was already on the plane, promising to text when she landed. Mr. Stark and Pepper were due back soon from a business meeting in Hong Kong, and the Avengers from a field training exercise by lunch. Peter decided it was time to implement the first phase—fun.
He'd pried out of FRIDAY in advance which ingredients the Rogues disliked most (after making sure no one had allergies—he wasn't about to actually harm anyone). Peter headed to the kitchen—the ordered groceries, a recipe book from a secondhand store, and light music were already waiting.
For convenience, he hung a menu on the fridge:
Tuscan vegetable stew with zucchini, olives, and rosemary.
Chicken frittata with zucchini, olives, and rosemary oil.
Pesto pasta (by Peter's special recipe—with zucchini and rosemary).
Zucchini fritters with olive paste.
Turkey alla pizzaiola—tender meat braised with vegetables in a tangy tomato sauce with olive oil.
Focaccia with tomatoes, rosemary, zucchini, and olives.
Citrus spritzer with rosemary.
How was he to know that those very ingredients—zucchini, olives, and rosemary—were particularly disliked by Steve, Clint, and Sam? They were so popular in Italy! Natasha and Wanda were forgiven (and Peter wasn't afraid of them in the least, no), while Sergeant Barnes escaped punishment—he'd gone back to Wakanda temporarily. And how convenient that Happy, Rhodey, Pepper, and Tony all ate those things with no problem.
A few hours later, the Compound kitchen was filled with the aroma of spices and warm food, the dining table beautifully set with Pepper's favorite tablecloths and china. All that was left was to transfer the dishes to nice serving bowls and arrange everything. Peter was almost done when he heard the elevator. A minute later, the Rogues entered with Happy, Pepper, Rhodey, and Tony, who'd arrived earlier but Peter had forbidden them from setting foot in the kitchen.
"Ehi, tesoro, cos'ha un odore così buono?"—Tony sniffed the air. (Hey, honey, what smells so good?)
"Peter, you cooked?" Pepper was surprised.
"This is your surprise, kid?" Rhodey chuckled.
Surprised and delighted exclamations came from all sides. Everyone was quite tired and hungry. Peter even felt a pang of guilt, but the memory of his beaten and betrayed mentor instantly drowned it out.
"Benvenuti tutti! Ho preparato un vero banchetto italiano per celebrare il vostro ritorno!" (Welcome, everyone! I've prepared a real Italian feast to celebrate your return!)
Steve smiled—sincerely, a warm smile. Sam gave an approving nod. Clint rubbed his hands together. Wanda and Natasha also looked intrigued.
"You made all this yourself?" Clint asked with respect.
"Sì, signor arciere! Sono in cucina tutta la mattina. Tutto fatto in casa!" (Yes, Mr. Archer! I've been in the kitchen all morning. All homemade!)
Tony smirked into his fist, watching the scene. Rhodey raised a questioning eyebrow, but Tony just shook his head: watch and enjoy. Finally everyone sat down, and Peter obligingly poured the spritzer into glasses.
Clint eyed the stew suspiciously:
"Is that zucchini?"
"Zucchine, signor Arciere! Sono molto buone, specialmente quando sono cotte al forno con olive e rosmarino!" (Zucchini, Mr. Archer! They're very tasty, especially when baked with olives and rosemary!)
Clint frowned, but out of politeness took a small portion. Sam tried the turkey and winced almost imperceptibly at the taste of olive oil. Steve broke off a piece of focaccia and, inhaling the rosemary, paused for a second. He didn't like that herb, but the bread looked appetizing enough not to refuse.
Peter enthusiastically offered seconds:
"Ancora, signor Falco! Questo piatto è il mio preferito!" (More, Mr. Falcon! This dish is my favorite!)
Sam smiled politely and took a second helping.
Tony ate the stew calmly—he liked zucchini, olives, and rosemary. Pepper popped a zucchini fritter into her mouth and nodded with satisfaction:
"Pete, this is incredibly delicious. You're a genius!"
Peter beamed:
"Grazie, signorina Potts! Ho usato il ricettario fatto in casa di mia zia!" (Thank you, Ms. Potts! I used my aunt's homemade recipe book!)
Happy hid a chuckle behind another serving of pesto pasta—he knew perfectly well about Peter's revenge and his aunt's culinary talents. Rhodey reached for the frittata:
"You've got talent, kid. Maybe next time try Spanish cuisine?"
Peter laughed.
Meanwhile, Clint was trying to swallow the frittata, washing it down with big gulps of spritzer. Zucchini was everywhere. Sam chewed the stew and thought about how much he hated olives, but smiled at Peter. Steve choked on the bread but bravely smiled back.
When Peter offered them more fritters, Clint couldn't take it anymore:
"Pete, do you have anything... well... without zucchini?"
Peter blinked in surprise:
"Senza zucchine? Ma... la cucina italiana è piena di zucchine! Sono il simbolo della nostra terra! Olive e rosmarino anche! È come... come la pizza per gli americani! Onnipresente!" (Without zucchini? But... Italian cuisine is full of zucchini! They are the symbol of our land! Olives and rosemary too! It's like... like pizza for Americans! Everywhere!)
Steve tried to intervene:
"Pete, we just... not all of us like certain ingredients."
Peter tilted his head with genuine puzzlement:
"Ma... allora cosa mangiate di solito? Io ho sempre pensato che queste fossero le cose più buone!" (But... what do you usually eat? I always thought these were the most delicious things!)
Tony finally couldn't help it and snorted into his plate. Pepper looked at him suspiciously.
Natasha, who had been eating with particular enthusiasm, calmly remarked:
"Pete, everyone has their preferences. But you did great trying."
"Grazie, signorina Romanoff. Allora... posso preparare un'altra cena domani? Forse con meno zucchine?" (Thank you, Ms. Romanoff. Then... can I make another dinner tomorrow? Maybe with fewer zucchini?)
Clint hastily said:
"No need! We'll cook ourselves. Take a break, kid, you're on vacation, after all."
Peter lowered his eyes, looking almost upset:
"Capisco, non credo di essere un bravo cuoco. Tutti sono così stanchi e io ho rovinato il pranzo." (I understand, I don't think I'm a good cook. Everyone is so tired and I ruined lunch.)
"No," Steve cut in with a pang of guilt, "you're a wonderful cook, Pete. It's just... we have strange tastes."
Peter looked at him gratefully:
"Grazie, signor America. Sei molto gentile." (Thank you, Mr. America. You are very kind.)
When dinner ended, everyone dispersed. Tony caught Peter in the kitchen while he was doing the dishes.
"You did that on purpose, didn't you? All the dishes with zucchini, olives, and rosemary?"
Peter smiled the most innocent smile:
"Io? Ma signor Stark, io volevo solo preparare un bel banchetto! Non sapevo che non amavano questi ingredienti. Sono stato così ingenuo." (Me? But Mr. Stark, I just wanted to arrange a nice feast! I didn't know they didn't like these ingredients. I was so naive.)
Tony laughed:
"Sei un genio, ragazzo! È stato divertente guardare i loro volti. A proposito, a Clint piaceva organizzare tali scherzi: rovinare il cibo di qualcuno o sostituire. Lascia che provi la tua medicina per il gusto." (You're a genius, kid! It was fun watching their faces. By the way, Clint used to like pulling pranks like that—ruining someone's food or swapping it. Let him taste his own medicine.)
"Davvero? Grazie! Ora ho perso ogni senso di colpa!" (Really? Thanks! Now I've lost all guilt!)
"Yeah," Tony grinned. "Alright, go to sleep. You probably have plans again tomorrow? Maybe zucchini soup for breakfast?"
Peter laughed, but didn't answer. The second phase of the plan was ahead—laying on the guilt. But first he needed to get a little more into their good graces.
The next morning, a note appeared on the fridge:
"Mi dispiace per ieri. Spero che non mi odiate. Il vostro amico italiano." (I'm sorry about yesterday. I hope you don't hate me. Your Italian friend.)
At breakfast, everyone made a point of assuring Peter that everything was fine and he hadn't offended anyone.
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Author's notes: There will be a second chapter!
I don't speak Italian, and all the phrases have been translated through an online translator, so they might sound a bit off. The translation into English was done with the help of artificial intelligence.
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