Chapter Text
There’s a measles outbreak, Ned’s sister is teething, and it’s hailstorming outside, which means Peter’s trapped inside a painfully boring law firm.
For his ‘safety’.
“I’ll write you out my will,” he warns May over the phone, from where he’s had to temporarily set up camp at Matt’s desk. “I was going to give you my Emperor Palpatine.” He’d bought one to match Ned’s a while ago. It’s one of his most prized possessions.
May sighs. She sounds tired. “I’d tell you about how you don’t need a will for at least another sixty years, Pete, but there’s a measles outbreak and a kid’s just walked in with a Monopoly hat stuck up his nose.” She hangs up.
It's fine. May gets off work at five, so she'll be home by five-thirty, and Peter will be home free. He leans back and balances his chair on two legs in a way he knows Matt hates and examines the ceiling. They don’t even have any interesting stains up there or nothing.
Peter lets his chair clatter forward. “Hey, Mr Nelson, how do you make a will?” Because that's definitely a thing lawyers do.
Mr Nelson is sitting at his own desk, flicking through a dusty, old law tome. “Hm? Well, I suppose first you’d have to take inventory of all your assets, decide who inherits what, then appoint someone as your executor,” he says without looking up.
Peter grabs a paper that doesn’t look super important and plucks a pen out of his bag. “I think I’d want my executor to be someone cool. Like the Winter Soldier.”
Mr Nelson turns a page.
“Didn’t that guy quit?” Peter googles it real quick, just to check. He did. “Oh! Don’t you guys know the Punisher? Does he take commissions?” Because that guy is definitely still going strong.
Mr Nelson finally looks up so he can frown at Peter, “I think you’re confusing ‘executor’ and ‘executioner’.”
Lightning flashes outside. And there was probably some thunder too, but Peter doesn’t know because everything’s being drowned out by the hail. Football-sized chunks of ice noisily crashing down into the street. Probably demolishing some poor guy’s car. It’s the emptiest Peter’s ever seen the city.
Worst of all, he can't patrol.
Matt refused to leave his apartment, which is incredibly hypocritical because he was the one who insisted that Peter stay at the firm after school while May works. He’s probably wrapped up in his fancy silk sheets with two pairs of earplugs jammed up his ears right now.
Mr Nelson insists Matt’s got a cold because he doesn’t know that Peter knows he’s Daredevil, and nobody’s bothered to fill him in.
“I think I’ll leave Matt my earmuffs,” Peter decides, chewing his pen. He doesn’t have any noise-cancelling headphones to give, so Matt will just have to make do. He still leaves May his Palpatine, but she is cutting it close.
Mr Nelson grabs a scrap paper from the same pile Peter got his will and starts scribbling onto it. Peter decides to leave him all of his extra printing paper and empty notebooks. The guy is clearly in need.
“I really don’t think you’re going to be needing a will for a while, Peter. At least sixty years.” He says.
“Mr Nelson, what would you do if I go outside right now and one of those hailstones whacks me on the head and puts me in a coma? For twenty years because my aunt loves me too much to pull the plug. But then!” He pauses for emphasis, “Then the hospital runs out of beds, so they have to throw my comatose self to the curb. All for some kid with a Monopoly hat stuck up his or her nose.” Peter says seriously.
“I’d probably wonder how to fit that all on a card,” Mr Nelson says. He folds his paper into crisp fours, wincing when Peter cracks Matt’s chair against the weathered wooden floor.
The analogue clock on the far wall says something that could be interpreted as five-thirty, which is good enough for Peter, who jumps out of the chair he’d been rocking in and snatches his backpack. “May’ll be home now so I’m out!”
He leaves before Foggy can do anything stupid like offering Peter a ride. If Peter spends another minute cooped up anywhere, he might just explode.
Turns out, swinging during a hailstorm without full-body armour hurts. So, Peter compensates by swinging as low as possible, using the city's garish taste in infrastructure to shield himself from the worst of the storm.
He doesn’t even realise he’s not wearing his mask until a fat raindrop lands right into his eye.
No one else is crazy enough to be outside right now anyway, let alone with their phones out. Besides a lone pigeon that Peter mentally names Leslie. But Leslie won’t tell; they’re bros.
He should probably get Tony to check it out anyway. Tomorrow
Peter hauls his bag up four flights of stairs in soggy jeans because his landlord doesn’t believe in basic human rights like elevators or free milkshakes. It’s when he’s about to grab his keys that Peter realises his backpack, and probably everything inside, is soaking wet.
He doesn’t want to deal with that right now, so he throws his bag onto the doormat and knocks instead—With his feet, because his hands are frozen numb and he’s not pulling them out of his pockets unless there’s a fire nearby.
Peter wiggles his toes. There’s a rip in the toe of his sneakers, which explains the wet socks. May is always complaining about the state of his shoes. He does a lot of kicking.
He kicks the door again; someone calls out unintelligibly from inside. There’s the distinct click of a lock, and May opens the door.
“What do you think is more beneficial to society?” Peter asks, “Elevators or milkshakes?”
May ushers him inside and grabs a towel to scrub at his hair, “You’re shivering.”
Like Peter doesn’t know that already.
May’s hair is in a bun, and she hasn’t even taken her work shoes off yet. They’re these ugly slip-on trainer things she bought on clearance that Peter refuses to touch because May talks about her work sometimes. Who knows what different types of bodily fluids those things have soaked up over the years. Being a paediatrician is not for the faint of heart.
“I’ll order in.” She says, “I was waiting for you to get home. How does Chinese sound?”
She fiddles with her phone. The light from the screen accentuates her dark undereyes.
Peter pushes her out of the kitchen towards the couch, discarding the towel somewhere along the way. “I’ll make us dinner today.” They probably have some leftover pancake mix somewhere.
May slumps into the couch with surprisingly little protest, and Peter can hear the intro to Kitchen Nightmares start playing. “But I’m not having breakfast for dinner again; you’ll send me to an early grave,” she calls.
Dang it. Peter puts the frying pan down. “I was planning on making fried rice anyway.” He lies, “And the only person who’s going to an early grave is me. I’ve written a will and everything.”
A will he just waterboarded in his backpack.
Dang it.
“Should I be concerned?” She calls, over all the televised yelling. It’s probably that episode with the cockroach ravioli again.
Peter measures out the rice and fills the pot with water. “I’m just saying that if I dropped some of this water right now, slipped, accidentally inhaled a bunch of rice, and died. I’m all set to go.”
May twists around, eyes narrowed, to scrutinise Peter over the couch.
“I mean no. No worrying needed here.”
“You’re still dripping wet.” She says, eventually. “And you’ve left a trail of rainwater behind you. Like a big slug.”
Oh yeah, he’s wet. He fiddles with the stove a bit more before leaving to scavenge for something waterless. “That metaphor hurts my feelings, by the way. I am at least a snail.”
“A big, cute slug.” May amends. “And that wasn’t a metaphor. Do your English homework.”
*
His bag is mostly dry by the morning, so foolishly, Peter doesn’t check its contents until he’s sitting in his English class. He tries to pull out his notebook, only to find that everything has fused into one soggy, academic lump. Whenever Peter tries to write, the paper just deteriorates pathetically under his pen. Abe must take pity on him eventually, because halfway through class, he silently slides over a handful of pages from his own notebook.
At lunch, Peter slams his lump onto the table and sets about trying to delicately peel away his will. Next time he’ll laminate it. He dutifully ignores Ned and MJ, who inch their lunches away from the splatters of rain.
“Dude, that thing smells like my sister’s wet diapers,” Ned says.
Peter sets his lump down and sips his apple juice. “Dude. This thing is my legacy.”
“Your legacy stinks,” Ned says.
He prods the lump. Ned’s not wrong.
“MJ, do you have more of that fancy art paper?” he asks. He’ll just have to rewrite his will again from memory. “I’ll give you my nice pens and my USB drives.” After he dies.
MJ is morbidly supportive of Peter taking the initiative in his own death. He wasn’t actually expecting her to hand over her expensive art paper when he asked, but she seemed more than willing to donate some to him. For the cause.
When the weather isn’t a genuine threat to human life, they’d usually gather at Ned’s after school. But Ned’s sister is teething right now, which means she has to gnaw on everything besides her actual chew toys. This includes Peter. Especially Peter. Despite her budding cannibalistic tendencies, Peter is pretty sure his blood is radioactive, so he reluctantly relocates them all to Nelson, Murdock & Page. Just for the time being.
Mr Nelson blinks at the horde of teenagers in his workplace, but Matt eagerly ushers them all in. He seems adamant to turn his firm into a wayward home for teens. Apparently, he’s convinced that they’ll turn to debauchery and crime if left unsupervised. Peter strongly suspects he’s projecting.
Peter clears Matt’s desk and slaps his will down. “Mr Nelson says I need an executioner. I think I’m going for the Punisher. Or the Winter Soldier if he wants to unwinter.” Peter says, rocking back in Matt’s chair.
“There’s no way the Winter Soldier would rewinter himself just for you,” MJ says, “Add me instead.”
“You’d execute me?” Peter asks her, slightly touched.
“Only if you leave me your Metro Card and all your old school photos,” MJ adds.
Peter sighs and updates his will. But he pointedly doesn’t cross the Winter Soldier out.
Just in case.
“Hey, can I have your—” Ned mimes Spider-Man’s weebshooters, “You won’t really need them when you're all blegh.” Ned sticks his tongue out and crosses his eyes in an impression of a dead Peter.
Peter updates his will.
“You’ve spelt ‘testament’ wrong.” MJ carelessly prods at the words. Peter hisses, pulls it away before she can smudge it again. They’ve had to restart three times already.
“Spelling mistakes don’t matter, I asked Matt. He said we can add codicils afterwards, anyway.” Peter says. “That’s posh lawyer speak for a PS. Like at the end of letters.”
*
Peter sits on a workbench, spinning a spanner in his hands.
If his chronic lack of sleep, chronic coffee consumption and chronic liver disease are anything to go by, Peter bets that Tony’s lifespan will be short enough to rival his own. Not that he wants it to be, but you have to be realistic about these kinds of things.
Tony blindly sticks his hand out behind him, and Peter dumps the spanner into it. He picks up a screw and starts fiddling with that instead.
They’re down in the garage working on Tony’s red Pagani Zonda because Pepper refuses to let them haul the thing up seventy-nine floors to Tony’s lab. She says it’ll scratch the new floors.
“Hey Pete, what d’you say we make this thing fly?” Tony says, hauling himself out of the car’s engine, back popping loudly.
“Nah. That’s already been done a buncha times already.” Peter flicks the screw away. It hits the opposite wall with a satisfying ping.
Tony wipes his oily hands on his jeans so he can push his hair out of his face. “Not that you’re not welcome, kid. But I wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow.”
How does he always know? Peter was supposed to have his plan of action sorted out before they’d gotten to this. His POA. Dang it.
Peter slides off the workbench and inspects the car, keeping what he hopes is a neutral expression. “You haven’t seen any news about Spider-Man recently?”
Tony answers slowly, “What kind?”
Peter runs his finger along the vert seal and shrugs casually. “Oh, you know, just the identity-revealing type.”
Tony’s sigh is loud and exaggerated, but he waves his hand dismissively, which means it’s all taken care of. Spider-Man’s identity is safe for another day.
Tony looks stressed. He should probably change the subject.
“Have you written a will yet, Mr Stark?” Peter asks.
Tony is visibly snapped out of his thoughts. He turns to Peter, face screwed up in an expression of utmost confusion. Wrong move apparently.
“Well, I just figured.” Peter rushes to explain himself, “What with your chronic unhealthiness and all… And the liver disease! That cirrhosis stuff is no joke. My aunt tells me stories about her patients sometimes, y’know?”
“I suppose your aunt regularly comes across alcoholic infants? No kid, I have not written a will, and I don’t intend to for at least another decade,” Tony says. “And my liver is perfectly healthy.”
Peter isn’t sure about any of that. “I’ll leave you some vitamin gummies,” he decides, “In my will.”
He adds a reminder to his notes.
Tony makes a weird throaty sound and drops his spanner. Twice. Peter is starting to get seriously concerned about the guy's health. He adds another reminder to look up symptoms of early-onset Alzheimer’s.
“You’ve spelt Alzheimer’s wrong, kid.” Tony points over his shoulder at his phone
“Whatever old man,” Peter says.
“‘Old man’? Weren’t you calling me Mr Stark a minute ago? I’m getting whiplash over here, Pete.”
Mr Stark has long since given up on getting him to call him ‘Tony’. At this point, Peter only keeps it for appearances.
Tony grabs Peter’s shoulders and manhandles him back to the Pagani. “By tonight, I want flames shooting out of this thing while we drive her across Manhattan.” He slaps the hood for emphasis.
Getting extra parts for the Zonda would be a pain. So instead, they avoid messing with the exhaust altogether by just attaching mini flamethrowers to the back. As far as mods go, it’s stupidly simple.
Then Tony insists they take the thing out for a field test. Which is just stupid.
For the guy who built about a hundred different safety features into Peter’s suit, Tony has very liberal views on seatbelts—or just road laws in general. And Peter’s feeling very regretful that the Roadster doesn’t have any back seats. There’s a reason the man’s had a personal driver for the last twenty years.
They use FRIDAY to find a deserted road so they can actually turn the flames on without melting some guy’s poor bumper. As if things like that exist in Manhattan.
The roof is down, Peter doesn’t drive but is pretty sure they’re speeding, and Tony’s wearing sunglasses. It’s dark out.
“I’ve got astigmatism,” Tony explains. He revs the car to emphasise.
He plants his feet to the footwell and uses his sticky powers to stay in his seat. Tony’s hair is flapping everywhere, and every time he takes his hand off the wheel to fix it, they swerve dangerously to the side. Are Peter’s reflexes fast enough to grab Tony if they crash? They run a red light (“Whoops.”). Does he want to?
Keeping one hand securely stuck to his seat, Peter reaches across Tony and grabs the seatbelt, ignoring his yells. He buckles Tony in and collapses back into his seat. He can feel his heart beating in his eardrums.
“What the hell, kid, I couldn’t see!” Tony shouts.
“Eyes on the road!” Peter yells back.
At least they’re both wearing seatbelts now.
Ignoring Tony’s protests, Peter decides to call Happy to drive them back. Happy doesn’t even complain; he’s been acting weird recently. Peter’s starting to get disconcerted by the amount of small talk happening in the Audi lately.
Tony buys them both strawberry milkshakes. Peter doesn’t even want to know how many times Tony’s had to come here to get on a first-name basis with every single worker. They sit on the curb with their drinks while they wait for Happy. No matter what, Peter isn’t getting in that car again.
“Milkshakes are a basic human right,” Peter says.
“I should probably get something safer,” Tony considers. “Like an SUV.”
This is what he gets for swinging around without his mask.
*
The next day is their actual scheduled ‘internship’ day. Peter’s already overslept half an hour, which isn’t catastrophic, but Pepper Potts will be there. What if she accuses him of having a less-than-innocent role in enabling Tony’s… general destructiveness?
He must’ve forgotten to tell Happy because he's six toasts deep into his brunch when he gets a phone call.
Peter swallows down his toast with orange juice before answering. “Just… What if she glares at me all day and calls me a bad influence or something?”
“She won’t think that. Just get in the car.” Happy, who apparently instantly understands what Peter’s talking about, says.
“But what if she does?”
“You’re a teenager; you’re supposed to make stupid decisions.” Happy sighs, “Just get down here.” A car honks impatiently from the street below.
Well, if he’s going to have to suffer Pepper’s wrath, he’s not doing it in Hello Kitty pyjamas.
Peter’s gotten one leg through his jeans when his phone vibrates again. It’s a voice note from an unsaved number.
“It’s Pepper. As my therapist likes to remind me, I am not Tony’s mother, and it is not my job to worry about whether or not he’s abiding by federal laws, so even if you were a bad influence, Peter, I couldn’t care less.” She sounds exceptionally calm.
Good for her.
Happy’s already holding the door open when Peter comes out. Passenger side. He asks Peter about his school, friends, Aunt May…
“How’s the Spider-Man thing going? Your, uh, voice note things haven’t been as long as usual lately.” Happy says.
Peter didn’t even know Happy listened to those things.
So so weird.
He drops Peter off at the lift, going as far as to press the buttons for him before going away to yell at interns about the importance of lanyards or something.
Pepper smiles when she sees him walk into the kitchen, “Glad you made it in, Peter. I got your email.” He dumps his bag by the door; he should’ve dried it as soon as he’d gotten it wet because he’s pretty sure it’s starting to grow mould. Pepper gestures for him to sit with her in the kitchen at the island. These stools are very good for rocking.
She’s grazing on a large bowl of blueberries because, apparently, they’re in season. Tony’s at the stove, flipping pancakes. It’s five pm. Tony is the only other person in Peter’s life who has realised that arbitrary social norms shouldn’t constrain breakfast. “And yes, Tony does have a will,” Pepper says.
Tony whips around, brandishing a spatula in one hand and a ‘World’s Best Dad’ mug in the other; he’s also wearing a ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron. “No, I don’t!”
Pepper rolls her eyes. “You’ve had one from the moment you inherited Stark Industries. If you didn’t, and heaven forbid something happens, all your assets would be absorbed by the state,” she shrugs. “Or your closest living relatives.”
Tony lowers his spatula, mollified. “Fine. But everything goes to you.”
“It does,” Pepper says.
“And the flamethrowers.” Now Tony directs his spatula towards Peter. “You wanted the flamethrowers, right?”
“Peter’s not getting the flamethrowers,” Pepper assures them both.
Tony turns to the pancakes. “Honeybear’s had dibs on U since his conception, and Happy should get the place in Dubai. I can’t name someone who needs a vacation more.” He dumps the cooked pancake onto his tower and pours the last of the batter into the frying pan.
“Why did you make so many anyway?” Peter asks.
There’s a twenty-three pancake-tall tower leaning precariously. Peter had tried to reinforce the base, but the only things he had on hand were Pepper’s blueberries.
“Underoos, you casually outeat professional competitive eaters. We’ll be lucky if there’s anything left for us.” Tony says. He scalps the top of the tower and pushes the pancakes towards Peter, which earns him a blueberry that bounces off the crown of his head.
“It’s not like you can’t afford it, old man.” Peter liberally drowns his pancakes in maple syrup.
Tony gets massive buckets of the stuff specially imported from Canada, because he thinks he’s too good for Aunt Jemima.
His phone vibrates in his pocket. Peter stops swinging his chair. It’s Happy. Since when does Happy text Peter? He’s even started reacting to Peter’s messages with thumbs-up.
Happy: I’ll drive you back. Pick up 7.30?
He even added a question mark at the end.
Peter looks up to see Tony staring at him.
“Why do you look like that?” he asks.
“Like what? I don’t look like anything!”
A blueberry hits Peter square on the forehead. It leaves a sticky residue because, for some reason, it’s covered in fancy Canadian syrup. There’s a small mound of blueberries in his pancakes that definitely weren’t there before. Another berry lands on his plate, splashing in the syrup. Pepper pointedly avoids eye contact, but Tony grins unabashedly in his face.
At least Pepper has the decency to push a pack of antibacterial wipes towards him.
It didn't take long for Peter to realise that Tony’s a major germaphobe. Major. He refuses to take things from strangers, washes his jeans after every wear and only has six takeouts he deems safe enough to walk into, kinda way. The only reason he gets away with it is that everyone always assumes it's a superiority complex thing. Pepper probably only has these wipes because he’s conditioned her into bringing them around with her everywhere. In case he has to touch a doorknob or shake hands or something.
It's probably something her therapist is trying to decondition. What with the whole wife-not-mother thing. Baby steps.
“Happy’s acting weird.”
Tony sits back down in his seat and twirls his own fork in deliberation. “You know, if anyone should have a will, it’s Hogan. I’ve told you about his cardiogram, right?” He steals a handful of blueberries from Pepper.
“How’s he acting weird, hon? Pepper asks.
“He just messaged me, and he keeps driving me places. It’s totally freaking me out.”
Pepper and Tony exchange a look.
“Isn’t that what he’s always done?” Pepper asks slowly.
At the same time, Tony says, “Maybe he’s got the hots for your aunt.”
Peter chokes on his pancake. “No. No. No way. Happy and Aunt May?” He looks to Pepper for reassurance but doesn’t find any. She doesn’t even look surprised. In fact, she looks like she agrees.
Peter swallows. The fancy Canadian syrup sticks to the walls of his throat.
Some time later, they go back down to the garage to take the flamethrowers off the Pagani because someone high up complained to someone else high up, who told Tony, ‘For the love of God just please take them off.’
Peter sits on one of the emptiest workbenches and flicks a screw. It flies across the garage and bounces against a Rolls Royce.
“I don’t get it. Why would Happy want to date my aunt? I mean, this is New York! I bet there’s hundreds—no, thousands of single aunts. Why does everyone have to go after mine?”
“Pass me a spanner?” Tony asks.
After Peter banned him from mentioning Aunt May’s looks, Tony quickly ran out of clever things to say.
“I can’t believe I was going to leave him my keychains in my will,” Peter grumbles.
Happy collects him at seven-thirty on the dot. He’s very punctual.
Peter sits in the backseat and Happy waits till they’re at a red light before he speaks.
“So. How’s your aunt doing?”
Peter crosses his arms and glares. “Drop me off in the Kitchen.”
*
“And then! And then he had the audacity to ask me how May's doing!” Peter’s back in the firm and he’s rocking in Matt’s chair again. Foggy and Karen are out, so it’s just him and Matt in the office.
Matt doesn’t reply. He’s shuffling through the heaps of papers that pile up on every flat surface in the office. The scrap paper pile has officially graduated into a scrap paper tower.
“Hey, what’s the difference between codicils and addendums?” Peter asks.
“Codicils are used specifically in the context of wills, whereas addenda can be used in a broader range of contexts.”
Peter leans back in his chair and shoots a web to grab his backpack. Matt flattens himself against his desk to dodge. He was reluctant about even letting Peter bring the thing inside. Something about the smell.
He pulls his will and a pen out, letting everything else fall to the floor with a heavy thump. He twirls the pen in his hand, deliberating. He should probably add another codicil. Something like, ‘Anyone who tries to ask Maybelle Parker, formerly Reilley, out on a date will be excommunicated and not invited to Peter Benjamin Parker’s funeral.”
Matt sighs, “Is there a reason why you’re so against this Happy guy dating your aunt?”
Peter frowns, “Yes! A bunch of reasons.”
“Such as…?” Matt prompts. “Is he dodgy?”
“No!” Peter starts twirling the pen again and promptly drops it. It rolls under Foggy’s desk, where it’ll stay forever. “It’s just… Like,” Peter groans and scrubs his face, “Me and May have a thing going on, y’know? We’ve finally found a new normal after… What if—what if Happy throws off our feng shui?”
Matt swivels in his chair and tries his hardest to make eye contact. “I’ve met your aunt. You’re her number one. That woman isn’t rationing her love, Pete. She has more than enough to go around.” He says.
“What if Happy turns out to be a major douchebag and breaks her heart?”
“Then we’ll deal with him.” Matt says it like it’s simple.
Peter pushes back, balancing Matt’s chair on two legs. There’s a splinter, then a crack. The chair falls apart, and Peter falls with it.
“That’s what happens when you swing on my chair,” Matt says smugly.
Peter groans. He would bet his webshooters that Matt booby-trapped the chair to do that somehow.
He rolls away from the wreckage and sits up to see Mr Nelson standing over him but looking at Matt suspiciously. “Don’t accuse him of anything, Mr Nelson. It never works. He’s a lawyer. He gets paid to find excuses for things.”
"Call me Foggy, Peter—" Mr Nelson starts, but Matt cuts in.
“No, hold on, why is he, Mr Nelson? Why aren’t I Mr Murdock?”
Why does everyone care about what Peter calls them all of a sudden?
Peter hauls himself up and dumps himself in Mr Nelson’s spinny chair. “What would you do if someone you really really cared for was dating someone you didn’t want to?” he asks Mr Nelson. “Hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically, why don’t I want them to date this person?” Foggy asks. He shoots a look towards Matt, who almost imperceptibly shakes his head. Do they think they’re being discreet?
Peter spins in his new chair. He could probably beat the world record for the most spins in a minute. It’s sixty-seven spins. He has spider powers.
Mr Nelson considers, “I wouldn’t say it’s entirely relevant, but I’ve had conversations. I have a lot of nieces and nephews."
Peter stops spinning.
"Tell me everything."
"Only if you call me Foggy."
*
“So basically, you’re giving him a shovel talk,” MJ says through the phone.
Peter falls back into his bed and lets a puff of air out. “I wouldn’t call it a shovel talk. That’s not even a thing they do in real life.”
“I’m with MJ on this one. You’re totally planning on doing the whole” Ned lowers his voice, “‘If you hurt her I’ll end you’ thing.”
“Hey, who said anything about ending people? Nobody’s ending anybody, alright? I’ll just cook him a nice meal, we’ll talk it out, and then everything’ll be cool.”
According to Foggy, cooking is integral.
*
Peter doesn't dare cook in Aunt May's presence, lest she try and help; Ned's sister is still cannibalistic, and the firm only has a coffee machine, so he's back in the tower. Reluctantly.
Tony's lounging in his lab with his reading glasses on. He's watching reels at max volume because he's also got heavy metal blasting from his built-in surround-sound speakers. Dum-E's wearing a dunce hat and is collecting all the paperclips, screws and dimes he can find to add to his pile on the floor in the middle of the room.
This is why the Tower was his absolute last choice. Peter is deleting that app no matter what.
He steps over the paper clip pile and waves his hand in Tony’s face until he finally looks up. "What does Happy like to eat?"
Tony takes his glasses off to squint at Peter. "Why?"
Gosh, can a guy not know another guy’s favourite food? "Uh… Let's go to the kitchen," Peter says. Best not to reveal the plan too soon.
They're in the kitchen, and according to Tony, Happy likes anything homemade. He's big on cooking.
"Yes, but what does he like cooking?" Peter asks again. To his credit, Tony does look like he's genuinely thinking hard.
"I don't know! Cheeseburgers? I like cheeseburgers. Why don't we make something I like instead?" he suggests.
This is useless. Peter opens the fridge. There’s only blueberries and tubs of zero-fat, high-protein Greek yoghurt. Dozens of them. Is this how rich people prepare for the apocalypse?
There’s something behind the stacks of blueberry punnets. Peter yanks it out and holds it up, letting it dangle between him and Tony.
"Steak," he says.
"Where did you even get that from?"
"With mac 'n' cheese."
He launches the steak at Tony, then starts digging around to find the macaroni. He finds pasta and a pot. What else goes in mac 'n' cheese? Cheddar.
"Hey FRIDAY," Peter asks, because he has a feeling they’re both out of their comfort zones here. "How do you make mac 'n' cheese?"
"According to all relevant sources online, I think you should start by boiling your pasta, Peter," FRIDAY says.
Tony snorts.
Peter turns to glare.
Tony is in no laughing position. He's wearing disposable gloves and is holding a pair of tongs. "I'm not touching raw meat," he says.
Fair. Peter turns back to his pasta. The water boils over three times before Peter goes back to the lab to grab anti-bumping granules.
Tony hovers while Peter adds them to the water. "I’m not convinced those are food-safe."
Peter rolls his eyes. "I'll strain them out—"
Tony cuts him off with a gloved palm, "FRI?"
"Anti-bumping granules may contain trace amounts of metal residue from the manufacturing process, making them not recommended for food use. In case of indigestion, do not induce vomiting; seek medical attention immediately."
"See? They're totally fine. You have an entire hospital downstairs anyway.” Peter says, ushering Tony away.
Tony looks down at the pasta in disdain, "I don't like how you're already thinking of contingency plans for when we eat."
We? Peter has to nip that in the bud real quick.
"Nuh uh," he wags a finger in Tony's face, "This is for Happy."
"All of it? Pete, there's twenty-four ounces of filet mignon and enough pasta for a hoard of Asgardians here."
Peter starts making his roux. "Get cooking, old man."
At least the pasta doesn't boil over again.
They finish making the food with minimum casualties, and Peter sends a quick message to Happy. He feels weirdly nervous. Did they add enough salt?
It’s a whole two hours before Happy gets off work. But it's not even two minutes later before he replies with a thumbs up and an order to meet him downstairs. He shouldn’t even be on his phone during work.
Peter stuffs the tupperware into his mildewy backpack, and Tony almost has an aneurysm—or whatever the Alzheimers equivelent is. He forces Peter to take everything out of his old bag and put it all into an almost identical new one he’d pulled out from somewhere. He double-wraps Peter’s old backpack in plastic bags and throws the whole thing down the garbage chute.
Then Tony spots Peter’s shoes, but Peter draws the line there.
Happy rings to say he’s outside. Peter’s already going down in the elevator with his new mould-free backpack before he realises he should probably formulate a plan of action. A POA. But Tony’s designed these elevators to be way too fast, so he’s already in the car park before he can figure anything out beyond that.
Happy’s standing by his Audi; he’s already opened the passenger door. Does Peter sit in the backseat to spite him, or does he sit in the front seat to show him they’re on an even footing?
He ends up throwing his new bag in the front and sitting in the back. Happy makes a face but doesn’t say anything.
Happy keeps glancing at him through the rear-view mirror, and it’s seriously winding Peter up. He should talk to him about it during The Meal. ‘Hey, could you please stop looking at me sometimes? It really messes with my vibe.’ No! No. That sounds stupid as hell.
Suddenly, Happy speaks. “You got a new bag?” he asks.
“What? Oh. Yeah, Tony—I mean, Mr Stark—threw my old one away.”
“Hm.” Happy grunts.
Peter really should figure out his POA. Happy takes a left turn even though his GPS clearly says to go right. Seriously, what’s the point of even turning it on if you’re not going to follow it?
They pull up in Forest Hills, right outside the apartment.
They’re here?
Peter could’ve sworn Google Maps said they had ten more minutes.
Happy probably only keeps his GPS on so that he can prove it wrong by getting around places faster without it.
Happy frowns at him through the mirror, “You forget something back at the tower?”
And Peter still hasn’t figured out his POA yet. Dang it.
It’s fine. It’s fine. He can wing it. He’s Spider-Man. Spider-Man always wings it.
“D'you wanna, uh… Inside?” Peter directs a thumb towards the apartment. “Elevator's broken by the way. Breach of basic human rights.”
Happy looks unsure, but he still says, “Okay.”
They both get out. Happy keeps glancing back at the car like he expects someone to run off with the hubcaps.
They reach the apartment. May shouldn’t be home for a couple more hours yet.
Happy stands awkwardly by the door while Peter sets the table.
“…Are we eating?” Happy asks.
“Mac ‘n’ Cheese with filet mignon.”
Happy pulls up a seat and sits opposite Peter.
Peter’s throat is dry. He swallows. ‘How long have you liked May?’ He should ask. That’s a reasonable question to start with. He just needs to say it—
“The Mets have a game in Citi Field.” Happy clears his throat. “I got tickets.”
Peter was already planning on staying home the entire day to watch the game on TV. “Cool. Um.”
“So I’ll pick you up on Saturday then. I got two tickets, but if you want to bring a friend, I could get a third?”
Peter takes a long sip of water before he replies. “No. Two are fine. Uh, I’ll be there?”
Happy nods and pours a glass of water for himself.
The food goes untouched.
*
May doesn’t sound surprised when Peter tells her about the tickets over breakfast.
“You don’t think it’s even a little bit weird? I mean, the guy barely knows me. He just drives me places sometimes; that’s all.” Peter says.
May shrugs. “They’re long drives.”
“Doesn’t he have friends? Why would he want to go with me?” Peter exclaims, almost hysterically.
“Because you’re delightful to be around.” May pokes his head, as if she’s trying to literally push the point into his mind, “And anyone with sense would jump at the chance to spend time with you.”
It could be worse. Happy could’ve asked to go with May.
Happy rolls up in his usual Audi. Couldn’t he drive something more normal for once? A Honda Civic or a Toyota Corolla or something.
The car beeps while he’s still putting his shoes on. He’ll just tie his laces in the car. May wraps him into a hug and squashes something onto his head.
“Have fun,” she says.
Happy isn’t holding the door open for him when he gets outside. Peter feels kinda bad, which is weird considering it’s his own fault for liking May in the first place.
He sits in the back anyway.
Happy is silent for a while. He drums his fingers on the wheel for a bit until he glances in the mirror and says, “I tried the steak and pasta you made. It was good.”
“Thanks.”
Another pause. Then, “Nice hat.” Happy says.
Peter takes it off and inspects it.
It’s a Mets hat. His Mets hat. It’s old and worn as hell because it used to be Ben’s before it was his.
“I’ve never seen you wear it before.” Happy continues.
“Yeah. It just started making me sad after a while, so I stopped.” Peter says.
He ties his laces, and Happy doesn’t even say anything when Peter gets scuff marks all over the upholstery. He just grumbles a bit about parking and roadworks.
They get there seven minutes before Google Maps says they should, and then parking takes another fifteen minutes. Happy buys them both hot dogs with every possible topping. Peter even convinces him to get a Mets scarf.
“It’s sixty-eight degrees.” Happy grumbles, but he’s already putting it on, so Peter decides he just likes to complain.
The game starts a bit slow.
“How’s school going?” Happy asks.
Peter shrugs. “I rejoined robotics and AcaDec.”
“Not band?” Happy asks.
Peter finishes off the rest of his hot dog and wipes his hands on his jeans. Happy hands him a napkin. Since when did he keep track of Peter’s extracurriculars?
“Nah, I realised I couldn’t stand all the noise,” Peter replies. He should probably ask him about May.
Happy frowns, “What about now? Do you need ear guards? I think they were selling them over—”
Peter waves his hands to cut him off. “No! No, half the fun is the crowd.” As if to punctuate his point, one of the batters hit a home run and the stadium roars. Happy’s the one with cauliflower ears anyway. He should take his own advice.
Foggy was very adamant about the food. But they did just have hot dogs. That has to count. Happy’s finishing his right now. He pulls a folded napkin out of his pocket and wipes the grease off his fingers daintily.
“Have you heard of the art of Feng Shui?” Peter asks.
Judging by the face Happy’s making, that’s a no. “It’s the philosophy of creating positive spaces that promote harmony and stuff.”
Happy nods, “Okay.”
“That’s basically what me and May have. It’s very delicate.”
“Hold on. Are you saying you’re worried that if I date May I’ll… throw off your Feng Shui or whatever?”
Peter considers, “That just about sums it up. Yeah.” It took a long time for May to get where she is now, and Happy doesn’t exactly seem like the good vibes, warm fuzzy type. His phone vibrates in his pocket.
May: Hows it going?? :)
“Do you actually even like her?” Peter asks. “Because people are always asking me about her, but none of them actually like like her.” His voice gets slightly drowned out by the crowd at the end, but Happy seems to understand him fine. They aren’t even paying attention to the game anymore.
He thinks for a bit before he replies. “We got talking because of you actually. May was worried.”
She worries way too much. Peter kicks the seat in front of him. The guy turns around to give him a dirty look.
Happy apologises for him before he continues, “I think she needs someone in her corner. She reminds me of you in a way.”
Peter turns to him, “That’s nice, but I don’t wanna date you either,” he says.
The Mets win 6 - 1, and Peter ends up sitting in the passenger seat on the way back.
*
He’s at home when he realises that Happy’s still expunged from his will.
He calls Matt.
“I talked to Happy,” Peter says in place of a greeting.
“How did it go?” Matt asks.
“Is Foggy there? I made Happy dinner like he said, but we ended up watching a baseball game instead. We had hot dogs, so that should count, right? I told him about Feng Shui, but I’m not sure it convinced Happy to stay away.” Peter says.
“For the sake of full transparency, I do want to disclose that all of Foggy’s nieces and nephews that are old enough to marry are married,” Matt says.
Peter hangs up.
*
Peter doesn’t know why Tony’s germaphobic, but if it’s got anything to do with getting ill, he feels like Tony should know that non-communicable diseases do exist. Like Alzheimer’s.
“What are you reading about?” Tony asks curiously, turning left. He’s driving with one hand and is holding his cheeseburger in the other.
“How much cholesterol is in a cheeseburger on average,” Peter replies.
“It’s saturated fats you really need to look out for,” Tony says. “Either way, it doesn’t matter when you spend as much time in the gym as I do.”
“That’s not how that works,” Peter says. He looks up how many saturated fats are in a cheeseburger. It’s a bit more than six grams according to Google. “But you’re probably fine anyway. You eat lots of blueberries and have a pretty good memory when it actually matters.”
“Thanks for not being too hard on Happy the other day.” Tony takes a bite of the cheeseburger. “Don’t tell him I told you, but he was extremely nervous about it.”
Peter shrugs. It’s not like he was trying to be easy or hard about it either way. Tony makes a sharp left. He might not have Alzheimer’s, but the fact that Peter even got into a car with Tony again after last time is reason enough as to why he needs a will. “Where are we going?” he asks.
“I wanted to get something for Pepper. What’s something that says: spontaneous but not thoughtless?”
“I don’t know! What does she like?” Peter asks.
“She likes high heels and yoga, and eating healthy. Usually I’d make her something, but I’m supposed to spend less time shut up alone in the lab.” Tony says, “And interior design. Pep is very big on interior design right now.”
“What, like Feng Shui?”
Tony makes another sharp left turn. “Feng what?”
Peter is pretty sure they’re driving in circles.
They ended up buying her flowers and a vase, organic scented candles, red bottom heels, yoga pants, a reed diffuser that says it ‘promotes wellness’, and a small ceramic pigeon Peter names Inez. It’s all packed in the trunk with fancy bags and pretty bows on top. They didn’t buy any healthy food because Tony and Pepper already have way too many blueberries and tubs of Greek yoghurt.
“Why?” Peter asks.
Tony turns to him and looks Peter in the eye above his sunglasses. “This is important advice, so listen closely, okay? The key to a long and happy marriage is syncing up your cravings.”
“Like Bluetooth?” Peter asks sceptically.
“Like Bluetooth,” Tony nods. “If Pepper wants blueberries and no-fat Greek yoghurt three times a day, then so do I. It also helps to know their allergies,” he adds.
Peter nods. To be fair, Tony has to be doing something right. Maybe it is the food.
Tony pulls his sun visor down. “And she’s pregnant,” he says. “So what about that flying car? I know you said they were boring, but together we could make something way better than all those other nameless chumps.”
Peter’s probably going to have to add another codicil for Tony and Pepper’s unborn child. What do babies like? Chewing on things. Gum?
*
Happy turns up one day clutching two shoeboxes. “Work shoes for May and sneakers for Peter. I noticed you guys were in need,” he says.
Usually May hates charity, but right now she looks so fond that Peter doesn’t know why he was worried about Happy in the first place. They’re too far gone.
And then, waddya know? It’s hailstorming again so Happy’s stuck inside with them while they wait it out.
Peter takes his new shoes to his room. On the plus side, he’s inside his apartment this time. On the down side, he might have to go outside anyway because there’s this pigeon fluttering around outside. Somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark, he mentally names the thing Penelope Clarence, which is when he also realises he has to actually go out and help this dumb bird now. He’s attached.
Peter scales his apartment wall and makes a slightly superhuman hop onto the next rooftop. He’s only wearing his pyjamas, but no one else is crazy enough to be out right now anyway, so it’s fine. Penelope Clarence must spot him because she starts fluttering around even more frantically but still won’t take flight.
He jumps her and attempts to swing back to his bedroom window with Penelope Clarence under one arm, but a terribly timed gust of wind blows a solid brick wall into Peter’s head. The last thing he remembers is tumbling to the ground and Penelope Clarence finally flying away. Couldn’t she have done that before?
Thank God he has a will.
*
Peter wakes up in a bed. His bed.
He’s wearing different pyjamas, and there aren’t any pigeons to be seen, but there is a killer headache somewhere in his skull, and Happy Hogan who is sat at his desk. He’s holding Emperor Palpatine.
“You didn’t happen to see any pigeons on the way here, did you?” Peter asks, sitting up. If he hasn’t, that’s hopefully a good sign.
Happy jumps and turns to frown at Peter. “What the hell did you think you were doing?” he says.
He reminds Peter a bit of what he was like when they’d just met, and Happy clearly hadn’t trusted Peter and thought he was just a stupid kid. Which means he must have changed and doesn’t usually act like that anymore. Logically, that means he trusts and likes Peter now.
Happy’s staring at him still, and to be honest, Peter doesn’t have the time to be lectured. “How long was I out?” he asks.
Happy exhales loudly, “May found you outside fifteen minutes ago. She doesn’t think you have a concussion, but we’re still getting you checked out as soon as it’s safe enough to drive.”
Peter’s head pangs and he looks down. He feels a little guilty at the idea of May finding him outside like that.
“Where is she anyway?”
"She’s, um, looking for the Tylenol.”
May comes in a moment later. Peter winces when he sees her brandishing a bottle of orange-flavoured Tylenol for children.
“You couldn’t have found the pills?” he complains.
“It’s what you get for doing stupid things.” May replies. She’s trying to sound angry, but she hugs him really tight, which spoils the effect a tiny bit.
Happy gives May his seat so he can brood moodily in the corner while he and May make him explain what the hell he was doing outside during the hailstorm twice around mouthfuls of foul-tasting medicine. And then Tony calls, and they put him on speakerphone and make Peter explain three more times because Tony is a really, really, really bad listener.
“Listen. It’s really not that complicated,” Peter says for the hundredth time, “There was an injured pigeon.—”
“Called Penelope Clarence,” Tony interjects.
“Called Penelope Clarence.” Peter confirms, “And when I was swinging back inside with her, the wind blew a massive brick wall into me, and I was KO’d.”
“It was probably the other way round, kid,” Tony says.
Terrible listener.
His will is sat innocently on his bedside table. It’s slightly crumbled under his lamp so Peter pulls it out and smooths it over. He still hasn’t laminated it.
“It’s silly, but there was a moment when I was falling that I thought to myself that if I died, at least I’m a bit prepared. I won’t, like, leave you guys with a big mess or whatever,” he says. There’s still the bit that bans anyone from dating May on here. He should probably cross that out or something. It’s childish. “I mean, obviously I knew I wouldn’t die but…”
Peter looks up to see May’s eyes glittering dangerously. His stomach clenches weirdly. She pounces at him, and he thinks she’s about to hug him again, but instead May snatches the will out of his hands and rips it into twos, then fours, then eighths again and again, until there’s only tiny bits of legal confetti all over his room.
“You’re not dying,” she says. And then she hugs him.
*
Pepper is eight months pregnant, and they still don’t have a nursery because she insists that they redecorate and babyproof the entire rest of the penthouse first. For the last few months, every time Peter has come over, someone’s been drilling in the background. Every single time. Tony is just as bad.
He rings Peter in the early morning, practically begging him to come over to the tower because he and Pepper chose to order a bunch of massive wooden furniture things. The problem is that everything came prebuilt and won’t fit in the elevator, and the delivery guys absolutely refuse to haul the thing up ninety-three floors. No matter how much Tony offers to pay them.
Peter meets a bright-eyed Steve Rogers and a bleary-eyed Bucky Barnes alongside Tony, Pepper and Happy. Everyone’s sort of just standing around and scratching their chins at the entire set of comically large bits of furniture in the middle of the lobby, surrounded by a crowd control belt that says ‘AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY’. Around them, there’s loads of frantic Stark Industries employees running around, giving the furniture and co a wide berth.
Tony is the first to spot him. He walks over to Peter and slaps a hand on one shoulder. “Nice thinking with the suit,” he murmurs before grabbing Peter’s other shoulder and steering him towards Mr Rogers and Barnes. “Rogers, Barnes. You’ve met Spidey before. When he beat your asses in Germany?” Tony says.
Peter feels his shoulders hike up to his ears. Tony pushes them back down with a squeeze. Peter can’t see his face, but he knows the man is grinning like a wolf right now. Peter can see Happy rolling his eyes. Happy notices Peter looking and gives what is probably his take on a reassuring smile.
Thankfully, Steve Rogers just smiles diplomatically, offering Peter a hand. “Firm grip,” he comments approvingly when Peter takes it.
Pepper smiles, “Hey, hon.”
Happy glares at Tony, who eventually takes the hint and claps his hands, “Right! So, the dresser, bedside tables and chest of drawers are small enough, but the closet, display cabinet, crib, and that table thing look like two men jobs. Happy’s blocked off access to the stairway. Pepper and I will meet you three upstairs,” he steps into the elevator with Pepper. “Um, don’t scratch the paint. Ciao.” Tony snaps his fingers, and the doors shut.
“Hey, why isn’t he helping?” Peter asks. “He has the Iron suit! Shouldn’t he be helping?” Peter rings Tony. “Why aren’t you helping?” he demands.
“My suit’s thrusters will scorch the stairs. Sorry, kid.” Tony says, not sounding sorry at all.
“Call me if you need something.” Happy says, leaving Peter with the two super soldiers to either go do whatever it is he gets paid for, or profess his undying love to May on WhatsApp. Peter’s seen the messages. He shouldn’t even be on his phone during work.
More and more SI employees are streaming in and running about.
“We should probably start on the bigger ones. Get them out the way.” Steve—master strategist— Rogers says.
Peter jumps forward, “I call dibs on Bucky!”
Steve smiles wider. On the other hand, Bucky instantly looks weary, but he doesn’t outright object. Following Steve’s instructions, they lift up the display cabinet and move it towards the stairs. Peter faces backwards. “Because I have a Spider-Sense.”
They go up the first flight of stairs; Steve following close behind with a bedside table. Stark Industries has one of those staircases where each singular step is way too short, but two steps are too steep.
Peter takes the opportunity to covertly eye Bucky’s arm. That thing is hella badass. “Y’know, we used to learn about you in history. In school.”
Bucky grunts. He reminds Peter of a more grunge Happy Hogan. That’s good; he can work with that.
“But then you came back to life, and you got completely taken off the spec. Too controversial.”
“Never died,” Bucky says gruffly.
They shuffle awkwardly around a corner, being very careful about the walls.
“I’ve been explicitly told I’m not allowed to die anymore, but if I could, you would totally be my executioner,” Peter says. “In my will,” he clarifies.
Bucky abruptly stops walking, making Peter stumble, and looks him in the eye— well, mask. “What?” He sounds perplexed.
Peter takes a hand off the cabinet to wave it. “I’m not going to die for at least another sixty years. It’s cool, man,” he says quickly. The cabinet slips and Bucky stumbles. Peter winces, “Sorry.” He puts his hand back.
“Everything okay up there?” Steve calls.
“All good!” Bucky calls back.
Peter continues as they go around another corner, “We figured you probably wouldn’t agree anyway. You ever heard of the Punisher?”
“The serial killer?” Bucky asks.
Peter nods, “He’s a friend of a friend. I think he takes commissions.”
Bucky looks like he considers every word he says. He’s not like Peter, who blurts out everything that comes to mind. “Isn’t Spider-Man all about… Love and Peace?” he asks.
“Oh yeah. Totally.” Peter agrees, “If we ever met, I’d be having serious words.”
Bucky makes a face that’s slightly more friendly than neutral at that. “You would.”
“What floor are we on now?” Peter asks, “Seventy?” They have to have been climbing for forty minutes by now.
Bucky smirks, “Sign above your head says twelve.”
This is why elevators are a basic human right.
*
Eighty-one floors later, they find Tony and Pepper leisurely sipping blueberry smoothies. That baby is going to come out bright blue.
Pepper directs them to where she wants the cabinet to go. She puts Inez the ceramic pigeon in the display area. Peter has to admit, they don’t look as oversized in the penthouse with its ridiculously tall ceilings.
“I called Banner, but he did Hulk-Smash our stairs the last time he tried to use them,” Tony shrugs.
Apparently, he considers that an apology.
Bucky looks just as unimpressed.
Peter makes grabby hands, “Give me your phone.”
“Why?” Tony sounds suspicious, but he’s handing his phone over as he speaks anyway.
Peter deletes Instagram and hides the app store so Tony can’t redownload it. “FRIDAY, block Tony from watching reels on every platform.
“Hey! Undo that right now!” Tony cries.
“Over my dead body,” Peter says. Which is another way to say, ‘Not for a long, long time’.
*