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Late Afternoon, Queens Apartment outside of New York City, USA – August, 2016
Peter Parker and Jean Grey walk through the front door in casual clothes, standing close together with their fingers loosely intertwined. A shared cord connects a pair of earbuds between them, trailing down into a phone tucked inside Peter's hoodie pocket.
Both freeze in the doorway as Tony Stark sits on the worn living room couch, one arm draped casually over the back. His tailored suit jacket, crisp open-collar shirt, and polished shoes look entirely out of place against the apartment's outdated wallpaper.
"What are you doing here, Stark?" Peter asks.
"I need to talk to you about the Stark Internship program you applied for," Tony says, leaning forward slightly. "In private. Away from non-essential ears."
"That’s funny, considering neither of us ever applied for it," Jean says, her eyes narrowing while stepping half a pace in front of Peter. "Ned did. If you're looking for applicants, you're at the wrong address."
"Why don't you get down to the real reason you're here? And how you broke into my apartment while my Aunt May isn't home," Peter inquires, his voice dropping into a slightly icier tone.
"Better question," Jean says, her voice dropping into a dangerous, measured quiet. "How did you know we'd even be here right now? Have you been tracking his phone, or just stalking us?"
"Uh, well, let's look at the tape, shall we?" Tony pulls out a phone, tapping the screen to project a low-quality video of Spider-Man catching a runaway taxi with his bare hands. "Spider-Boy? Spider-Kid? In dire need of a top-to-bottom upgrade, by the way. How do you even see in this ridiculous outfit? I had better Halloween costumes when I was six."
"And what is that supposed to prove?" Peter asks, crossing his arms.
"Let’s tally it up," Jean says, folding her arms as a faint, almost invisible tremor hums through the loose air around her hands. "Breaking and entering, tracking minors without consent, and leveling baseless vigilante accusations while actively committing a felony yourself."
"This wouldn't have anything to do with those Sokovia Accords, would it?" Peter asks, looking directly at Stark. "Looking for an extra weapon to throw on your side of the board?"
"So you do admit to being him," Tony says, pointing a finger with a slight, triumphant smile.
"He didn't admit to anything," Jean says coldly. "You're operating on stolen footage and wild guesses. "Frankly, you remind me of every politician who thinks a press conference solves real problems. Spider-Man and the others look out for those on the ground floor. When was the last time the Avengers did that?"
"I... we handle the big issues," Tony says, shifting uncomfortably under her sharp glare. "The global ones."
"So the 'big stuff' doesn't include a woman getting mugged two blocks from here?" Jean replies, her blue eyes fixing on him with uncomfortable intensity. "Or teenagers dying of overdoses because nobody cares about this neighborhood? My sister works sixty hours a week just to keep a roof over our heads. You don't care about us until you need a soldier."
"Look, kids, I get the whole 'protect the neighborhood' idealism, but the world is changing. It’s getting bigger, dangerous, and people like—well, that's what the Sokovia Accords are about. Keeping everyone safe," Tony protests.
"Safe?" Peter lets out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "That’s hilarious coming from you. Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't you the same Iron Man who got trashed at his mansion a few years back, put on a walking weapon of mass destruction, and started blasting watermelons and light fixtures over a crowded dance floor?"
"That was a complicated time—" Tony begins.
"Right, super complicated," Peter cuts in smoothly, with a casual shrug. "Point is, if anyone actually needs a leash, an armful of government oversight, and a babysitter, it's you."
Beside him, Jean presses her lips together, forcing her gaze toward the ceiling. Her chest hitches slightly as a sudden, silent laugh tries to claw its way out. She keeps her mind tightly guarded, locking her telepathy away so deep Stark wouldn't pick up a stray hum if he was looking for it, but watching Peter casually dismantle Iron Man in a hoodie is testing her self-control to its absolute limit. A tiny smirk slips past her composure anyway.
"Where are you two even getting your legal analysis on the Accords?" Tony asks, his tone turning dry as he tries to deflect. "Because last time I checked, high school civics doesn't cover international sovereign treaties."
"Oh, well, there’s this incredible ground-breaking invention, Mr. Stark," Peter says, pointing enthusiastically toward the corner of the room. "It’s called the television. Came out around the 1950s, real high-tech stuff. Broadcasts the news right into your living room."
"And if you miss the broadcast, there's another fun little tool called the internet," Jean adds, finally smoothing her face back into a cool, unbothered expression, yet her eyes are practically glowing with satisfaction. "They actually publish the text of public legislation online. You'd be amazed what you can learn when you actually read what your friends in government are signing."
"Right," Peter says, opening the front door wide, holding it open with a polite, razor-sharp smile. "So unless you brought a warrant signed by a judge who doesn't mind a blatant break-in, you can take your movie clips, your pitch, and your fake internship, and walk back out to your chauffeur."
Tony sits back, adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket with deliberate care. The easygoing, benevolent benefactor act vanishes entirely, replaced by the sharp, defensive edge of a man who isn't used to losing an argument to teenagers.
"Right. Very clever. Sharp tongues," Tony says, his tone hardening. "But let's talk about reality for a second. You two think you've got it all figured out, but you're blind to the bigger picture. Captain America—the great, heroic golden boy Steve Rogers—is currently parading around the globe breaking international law because he thinks he's above the rules. He thinks his morals supersede the will of one hundred and seventeen nations. Although you've probably got posters of him on your wall."
"I support him standing up against a bad law," Peter says smoothly, his voice entirely devoid of the awe Iron Man clearly expected. "Do I think he's perfect? No. I haven't seen Steve Rogers down on Queens Boulevard stopping an abusive mother for thinking her kid watching The Last Airbender is some moral offense or keeping a local shopkeeper from getting shaken down, either. I respect what he did in World War II, Mr. Stark, but we're not anybody's fan club."
"We don't do hero worship," Jean adds, stepping up right alongside Peter, her arms crossed over her chest giving an icy, unyielding stare. "Steve Rogers fights his battles, and you fight yours. But neither of you gets to march in here, break into an apartment, and dictate how we live our lives just because you've got an ego battle going on in the headlines."
Nodding toward the front door, "So, like I said. Have a safe drive back to Manhattan," Peter says.
Staring at them for a long, heavy second, Stark's jaw tightens as he realizes his rhetoric isn't landing. His eyes flick between Peter's steady expression and Jean's cold, unblinking glare. Reaching into his jacket pocket, Iron Man pulls out his phone once again, letting it rest lightly between his fingers.
"You know," Tony says, his voice dropping into a smooth, practiced cadence of soft extortion, "it’d be a real shame if this footage happened to find its way to your Aunt May. Or your sister, Sara. I wonder how they’d feel knowing what you two are getting up to after school. The late nights. The dangerous stunts. I don't think May's heart would take that news very well, Peter."
Peter doesn't even blink, exchanging a quick, almost amused glance with Jean before looking back at Stark.
"Go right ahead," Peter says plainly.
Tony freezes, his thumb hovering over the screen. "Excuse me?"
"Show her," Peter says, taking a half-step forward, his hands resting casually in his hoodie pockets. "Call her right now. Tell her you broke into her apartment, tracked two high schoolers using unauthorized surveillance technology, and tried to blackmail her nephew with a grainy, pixelated video of a guy in a cheap spandex suit. See who she calls first—the police or the press."
"And if you try taking that clip to Sara," Jean adds, her voice deadpan and razor-thin, "she'll laugh in your face, call you a delusional billionaire trying to harass kids, and have you served with a restraining order before dinner. If we ever decide to tell them about Spider-Man, it'll be on our terms—not because some guy in a high-priced suit tried to bully us into joining his little private war."
Tony stands completely still in the middle of the small living room. The confidence, the smooth authority, the upper hand—all of it has completely evaporated. He looks at Peter. He looks at Jean. He checks his phone, suddenly realizing that the footage he thought was a master stroke of leverage is completely worthless without their cooperation. He has nothing. No angle, no leverage, and two teenagers who refuse to play along with his script.
Without another word, Tony slips the phone back into his inner jacket pocket. He adjusts his lapels with a quick, irritated jerk as Stark looks like a teenager who just got grounded from his own party. He struts past them toward the open door, refusing to look either of them in the eye, stepping out into the hallway.
"Door's on the left, Mr. Stark," Peter calls out politely behind him. "Watch your step on the stairs; the railing's loose."
The front door clicks shut, leaving the apartment in blissful, quiet solitude. Letting out a long, slow breath, Peter's shoulders drop while locking the deadbolt and sliding the security chain into place.
"Well," Peter says, turning around, "I think we really made a friend today. Do you think he'll send a Christmas card?"
Letting out a soft, breathy laugh, the lingering tension draining out of her frame, "I think you officially made the Avengers' burn list before you even got a learner's permit. Calling out his mansion party on top of the Sokovia Accords? Bold strategy, Parker." Jean notes.
"Hey, the man broke into my living room," Peter says, crossing his arms with a slight grin, walking over to the couch. "If you trespass in Queens, you get the Queens special." He collapses onto the worn cushions, tilting his head back against the upholstery. "Honestly, though? He thought he could just drop in, dangle a little bit of tech and a name-drop, and expect us to fall in line like starstruck fanboys."
Jean steps over, kicking off her sneakers near the coffee table before slumping down right beside him, tucking her legs up under herself. She leans into his side, resting her head against his shoulder without hesitating.
"People with that kind of money always think everyone has a price," Jean murmurs, her tone softening into something much quieter, much realer. "They don't see Sara spending four hours last night trying to fix the budget because our landlord jacked up the trash fee again. And Stark's sitting here talking about international treaties like the rest of the world isn't barely surviving."
Peter turns his head slightly, pressing a soft kiss against the top of her hair. "How's Sara holding up?"
"She's fine. Working a double shift at the diner, as usual," Jean says, her voice dropping a fraction lower, a faint bite of old bitterness. "She shouldn't have to, though. If my mother hadn't freak— freaked out and thrown us out the second I started floating butter knives across the kitchen, Sara would actually be in college right now."
"Hey," Peter says gently, tightening his grip on her hand until she looks up at him. "Your mom's an idiot. Like Aunt May, your sister, and me have said, that’s on Elaine, Jean. Not you."
"She thought I was Stephen King's Carrie," Jean says, a weak, fleeting smirk touching her lips, though her blue eyes remain dark. "Literally cited the book. Called me an abomination and locked the door. If it wasn't for Sara taking the fall, choosing to stick by me when she could have cast me out, and getting us that tiny basement studio, I don't know where I'd be. Probably in some underground government lab getting analyzed."
"Yeah… I know how that feels," Peter says. "These Accords feel like the start of something, an excuse for those like us."
"You're an outcast too, you know," Jean says softly, running her thumb over the back of his hand. "Even before the spider thing. The weird kid in the back of the class hiding his test scores so Flash Thompson wouldn't jump him in the hallway."
"Hey, squinting through glasses for five years builds character," Peter quips, though his expression becomes somber. "I don't even remember my parents, Jean. Not really. Just knowing they handed me over to Uncle Ben and Aunt May because being SHIELD operatives was too dangerous. And then Ben gets taken out by a drunk driver in a random intersection three years ago."
"And then you went and let a genetically altered spider bite you," Jean adds, a soft, teasing edge returning to her voice. "Just to make sure you were extra strange."
"It wasn't on purpose!" Peter protests, though smiling now.
"What about the teeth thing? Did you ever figure that out?" Jean inquires.
"Regrew a broken molar in thirty-six hours," Peter says proudly. "DNA's rewritten, for senses of hearing noise across the city block if I'm not careful, and all. Not entirely human anymore, I guess. Just a weird, local hybrid keeping the streets safe."
"A weird hybrid who happens to be the only person in this city who doesn't drive me crazy," Jean says quietly, leaning up to kiss his lips. "Everyone else's thoughts are just... noise. Loud, selfish, fake noise. You're the only one who actually says what he means. No filter, no hidden motives. Just Peter."
"Is that your telepathic way of saying you like my loud mouth?" Peter asks, raising an eyebrow with a cocky, crooked grin.
"I'm saying you're a giant idiot who almost made Iron Man blow a fuse in your Aunt May's living room," Jean replies, her eyes sparking with affection. "And I wouldn't trade it for anything."
"Good," Peter says, leaning his head back against the couch with a contented sigh. "Because if he comes back, you're the one telling May why the throw pillows are levitating."
Jean lets out a soft laugh, resting her cheek back against his shoulder. "If May sees the pillows floating, I'm telling her it was a localized electromagnetic anomaly caused by your non-human DNA."
"Right, throw the spider-boy under the bus," Peter says, shaking his head with a grin. He reaches over to the coffee table, grabbing the TV remote and clicking the power button. The screen flickers to life, illuminating the dimming living room in a cool blue glow. "Movie, or should we catch up on Grimm?"
"Definitely Grimm," Jean says immediately, shifting so she can rest her legs across his lap. "We're three episodes behind, and if Sara spoils whatever Juliette is doing this season, I might actually lose my mind."
Peter navigates through the menu, launching the streaming app. "Honestly, Juliette is the absolute worst. I don't know how Nick puts up with her. She makes every single situation ten times harder than it needs to be."
"Thank you!" Jean says, gesturing enthusiastically at the screen as the opening theme music kicks in. "She's insufferable. Nick's out there trying to balance keeping the peace, protecting people for human and Wesen. He needs a partner, not someone who complains every time he has to do his job."
"Nick's solid," Peter agrees, settling deeper into the cushions as the episode fades in. "Just a guy doing the right thing because nobody else is going to do it. Plus, Monroe is easily the best character on the entire show. Hands down."
"Monroe carries that man's life on his back," Jean quips with a slight smirk. Then, as the opening scenes begin, her smile turns a little subtle, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "So... what's your take on Adalind these days?"
Peter snorts, glancing down at her. "Adalind? You mean the blonde hexenbiest who's dangerous, slightly chaotic, has mind powers, and acts like a total menace to anyone who gets on her bad side?" He pauses, letting his gaze linger on Jean with a slow, teasing grin. "No idea why, but she reminds me of someone. Can't put my finger on it, though."
Jean elbows him lightly in the ribs, though the satisfied smirk on her face completely gives her away. "Watch it, Parker, or I'll make the TV remote fly into the kitchen."
"I'd like to see you try," Peter says smoothly, pulling her a little closer against his side. "You're too comfortable."
Jean doesn't argue. She just tilts her head up, pressing her forehead lightly against his collarbone, her hand resting over his heart. Outside, the fading afternoon sun dips below the Queens skyline, casting long shadows across the living room, but inside, with the TV hum filling the space and their fingers intertwined, the rest of the world—and the Avengers—feels a million miles away.
Night, Alleyway behind an Appliance Electronics Store outside of New York City, USA – August, 2016
The heavy iron pry bar metallic-clangs against the store’s back door frame, sending a shower of rust flakes down onto the damp asphalt.
"I'm just saying, the production value on LazyTown is criminally underrated," the guy holding the flashlight grunts, wiping sweat off his nose with his sleeve. "The villain? Robbie Rotten? Pure theatrical genius. You don't see that kind of commitment on children's television anymore."
"Will you shut up about LazyTown?" the guy with the crowbar snaps, jamming the edge into the door seam with a sharp screech. "We’re trying to lift four thousand dollars in high-end monitors, and you’re giving me a thesis on Icelandic puppet shows. My six-year-old has more maturity than you. Watch the street!"
"Honestly? I'm going to have to side with the crowbar guy on this one," a cheerful voice calls down from above.
Both men freeze, looking up just in time to see a slender silhouette drop from the darkness of the fire escape overhead. Spider-Man lands softly in a low crouch, blue and red suit vivid even under the pale yellow glow of the alley streetlight. He straightened up, tilting his head.
"I mean, finding common ground with guys breaking and entering isn't usually my Sunday night special," Peter says, leaning his shoulder against the brick wall and crossing his arms. "But LazyTown? Really? And by the way, did you two forget your keys? Because I’m pretty sure you don't open a deadbolt with crowbars. Seems a little excessive. Look, I enjoy a good discount as much as the next guy, but this is just total overkill."
"It's the bug!" the flashlight guy yells, fumbling in his jacket.
"Spidey," Peter corrects smoothly. "Or Spider-Man. 'Bug' is just rude, and arachnids aren't even—"
Heavy footsteps crunch against broken glass around the corner of the alley as a third guy—built like a brick wall and wielding a heavy steel tire iron—comes charging out of the side shadows, aiming a wild, blind swing straight for the back of Peter's head.
Peter’s spider-sense blares a fraction of a second before the swing lands, but before he even needs to duck, a sudden, heavy pressure ripples through the humid night air. The heavy tire iron stops dead mid-air, inches from Peter's mask, vibrating violently as if caught in an invisible vise grip.
The big guy blinks, pulling furiously on the metal rod, but it doesn't budge an inch. "What the—"
From the deep shadows at the alley mouth, Jean steps into the yellow streetlamp light. She’s wearing dark boots, black jeans, and a faded charcoal leather jacket mixed in with yellow stripes, and the hood pulled low over her face. Her hands are shoved casually into her jacket pockets, her posture loose, unbothered, and completely in control.
With a slight, almost lazy flick of her chin, the tire iron yanked out of the big guy's grip entirely, soaring backward into the darkness and clattering harmlessly into an empty dumpster.
"You really need to work on your spatial awareness, big guy," Jean says, her voice low and even, echoing softly in the narrow brick corridor.
"Okay, see, now that is just showing off," Peter quips, spinning around and firing two quick strands of webbing directly onto the big man's chest, yanking him forward before sweeping his legs out from under him. The man hits the pavement with a loud thud, instantly pinned to the concrete by a dense spray of web-fluid. "Though I do appreciate the assist on the rear guard."
"I was getting bored standing on the roof," Jean says, taking three slow steps forward.
The guy with the crowbar panics, raising the heavy tool to swing at Jean, but Peter is already moving. He shoots a line to the steel bar, yanks it out of the guy's hands, and webs it directly to the brick wall behind him. Before the thief can turn to run, Jean simply raises an index finger from her pocket.
A heavy wooden pallet leaning against the alley wall glides two feet across the ground entirely on its own, slamming solidly into the thief's shins. He yelps, losing his balance and tumbling backward—right into another wave of Peter's webbing, which glues him firmly to the security door he was just trying to bust open.
The third guy—the LazyTown fan—drops his flashlight, raises his hands in the air, and slowly backs himself into the corner. "I didn't even do anything! I was just holding the light!"
"And offering terrible television reviews," Peter says, firing a single web-blob that pins the man's wrists over his head against the brick. "Consider this a civic intervention."
Silence settles back over the alley. The three burglars are thoroughly secured, groaning quietly, while Peter dusts off his gloves and turns to Jean, who has a small smirk playing on her lips.
"That was... four minutes? We're slipping. We usually wrap these up in three." Jean notes.
"Hey, I had to give my monologue," Peter says, flipping down from the dumpster lid to stand beside her. "Dialogue is half the job. You can't just be muscle, Jean, you gotta have flair."
Peter walks over to the store's security door, pulling out a small piece of paper from a pouch on his belt and sticking it right over the crowbar guy's mouth. "Just leaving a little note for the precinct so they know who to thank. And a reminder that Robbie Rotten is not scary, even if your breaking-and-entering skills need work."
"Police siren," Jean says quietly, her head tilting slightly as her eyes scan the far end of the block. "Two streets over, heading south. We’ve got about thirty seconds before they turn the corner."
"Right on cue," Peter says.
Stepping up behind Jean, Spider-Man slips his arm smoothly around Grey's waist. Jean loops an arm securely around his neck, adjusting her posture effortlessly as Peter shoots a thick line of webbing up toward the lip of a five-story brick building across the alley.
"Don't drop me, Parker," Jean murmurs into his ear, a subtle grin.
"Never have, never will," Peter replies, and with a sharp tug, the line pulls taut, launching them both upward into the night sky just as the siren wails grow louder.
Clearing the roofline in a heartbeat, vanishing seamlessly into the shadows of the Manhattan skyline, where they land softly on the gravel roof of a residential building, well away from the flashing lights below.
Pulling her hood down, Jean runs a hand through her red hair as the cool night wind catches it, looking out over the city. Pulling his mask off, Peter takes a deep breath of the cool, high-altitude city air, as while leaves it on for 99% is well rather stuffy, and sweat-filled after a while.
"I still can't believe that guy was actually defending LazyTown," Peter mutters, dropping the mask into his hand. "That show is a terrifying, neon-colored fever dream. The plastic hair? The weird puppet things? It haunts me. Honestly, I should have webbed his mouth shut the second he brought it up."
Jean leans her forearms against the low gravel parapet, looking out with a faint, amused smile. "Everyone has their niche, Peter. Even guys breaking into appliance stores with crowbars."
"I'm just saying, there's a line," Peter replies, walking over to join her. "And somewhere between the carjacker we stopped on 5th Avenue and that three-car wreck we helped clear out in Brooklyn, my patience for terrible television opinions completely evaporated."
"It has been a long shift," Jean agrees, leaning over to bump her shoulder lightly against his. "Two other robberies before this one, the extraordinarily unhappy taxi driver who threatened to sue you for denting his hood—"
"Hey, I saved him from hitting a fire hydrant!" Peter protests. "He should be thanking me."
"—and let's not forget the runaway Golden Retriever," Jean finishes, her smile widening into a genuine grin. "Which you spent twenty minutes trying to coax out from under a halal cart using half a stale pretzel."
"He was a very good boy," Peter defends instantly, crossing his arms. "He just had severe trust issues. And anyway, I don't see you complaining when you got to scratch him behind the ears after I did all the heavy lifting."
Jean laughs softly, the sound getting swallowed by the distant hum of traffic far below. She reaches out, letting her fingers slide into his, her thumb tracing the edge of his web-shooter. The adrenaline of the night patrol slowly bleeds out of them, replaced by the quiet, comfortable rhythm they always settle into when it's just the two of them.
"It was a good night," Jean says quietly, resting her head against his shoulder. "Kept the neighborhood safe. Didn't sell out to a billionaire."
"A successful Tuesday all around," Peter agrees, resting his cheek against the top of her head while looking out over Queens. "You ready to go?"
"Yeah," Jean murmurs, her grip on his hand tightening just a fraction.
Pulling his mask back on, the white lenses snapping wide, Spider-Man wraps his arm securely around her waist. With a seamless, practiced motion, they step off the ledge together, diving into the glittering concrete canyon below.