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The Littlest Avenger: Novi Grad's Unknown Hero

By Jordan Whelk | 3 August 2015

Our hooded hero... and no one knows who he is.

This mysterious person is clearly young, height aside; top behavior analysts have rewatched the footage countless times and assessed the hooded hero to be between thirteen and twenty years old. It was originally assumed that a Sokovian citizen stepped up, uncanny genius coming in handy right in time, but all present at the scene recounted instead seeing a foreigner matching this person's description.

"The [boy]," one Sokovian woman reports, "came to me in a hurried frazzle and ushered me to leave immediately. He was strong. Helped me carry my bags, and wished me a well evening. I was surprised; American children are never well-behaved."

When questioned on how she knew he was of American origin, she commented only that the "accent was obvious in his... Sokovian." Among the few other citizens who interacted with this hooded hero, only a few additional details were gleaned: he was young enough to be a schoolchild (according to a 17-year-old who reported him looking "just like my little 13-year-old brother") and carried with him only a beat-up backpack.

No one has since come forth with more details, most remarking that the situation was too hectic to recall much about the strange appearance of the foreigner. Any information on this young hero is welcome, but for now we're left asking ourselves the big questions: who is this person? Why is he working with the Avengers? Why are the Avengers not saying anything on this young man's behalf?

Perhaps most importantly--how did a young teen from America end up in Sokovia at such a convenient time? Why did he step in as he did? I'll lay out for you some of the current most popular theories...

Related coverage of this story

Tony Stark - a Father?

Bringing a Child to his Father's War: the Ethics of Young Heroes

It is Peter's first day of high school.

May is trying to convince herself she's not nervous. Honestly, she doesn't have much reason to worry. Peter's cool as a cucumber about it all, not stressed about friends or bullies or any of it. May trusts him to look out for himself. He's learned the way every New Yorker has to nowadays to check over his shoulder before turning a corner. It's not as though it's all that different from middle school, even! Similar bus, similar locations. 

It's only the teachers and classmates that are different, really. Better, even! Midtown is the best of the best, and if it weren't for Tony Stark taking an interest in her nephew (including his education, which was easily funded by a billionaire) after rescuing him from some sort of mugging—she hadn't had the time to force the details of the event out of Stark, too busy trying to comfort a poor, frazzled-looking Peter—as Iron Man, she'd have had to scrape together every penny she earned to cover tuition, even after scholarships. It's that good. 

Maybe Stark is part of why this is stressing May out so much. Having a virtually unknown man suddenly barge into Peter's life—the boy she'd basically raised as her own son—and take up such a... prominent role, it...

Well, it's hard for May to miss how much like a father Stark is becoming for Peter. He nags him over the phone about eating, gets Peter to talk to him about worries Peter won't even tell May, ruffles his hair persistently enough that Peter has stopped trying to lean away from it.

Not that Peter tried particularly hard in the first place, which is another thing that just makes May ache. 

He's not replacing Ben. She's not worried about that at all, really. She wants nothing more than for Peter to have a reliable father figure in his life, someone to look up to and to lean on for support. But it's just... she never thought that father figure would be Tony Stark, an extremely high-profile identity who's only very halfhearted in his attempts at keeping Peter's connection to him discreet. 

High profile isn't good, in a run-down neighborhood like the one they live in. High profiles put a target on their backs, a target on Peter, and god, has the bus stop always been such a far walk from their apartment?

May blows out a heavy sigh and waves Peter off, her smile forcibly unwavering. She won't ruin this first day for him; he seems excited, which she honestly wasn't sure she could expect. Peter's never been one with an affinity for meeting new people, getting to know new places. But she presumes the science of it all must be exciting him; he's always been a nerd like his mom was. Stark has probably only worsened it. 

"Be careful on the way to the bus stop, sweetheart!" she calls at Peter's back. He makes a muffled mhm! of agreement, mouth still full of the bagel he'd tried (and failed) to eat in two bites. "Look both ways, don't talk to strangers who don't go to school, and keep 911 on speed dial if you're alone!" 

"Love you, Aunt May!" Peter calls, followed by a grunt of annoyance that makes May wince. She's definitely cleaning up chewed bagel crumbs from the hallway later. There's a more muffled showwy..! to compound that suspicion only seconds later. 

She huffs through her smile. "Love you too, Peter. Have a good day!" 

The door slides, creaky and loud, shut behind him. The deadbolt slides in with a clack.

It is not Peter's first day of high school, even though it technically is. 

His... second first day? This time travel thing gets confusing. There's not really many manuals for it, if you exclude the old-timey sci-fi novels that have protagonists jumping centuries ahead of themselves and seeing the future still using phonographs. 

Whatever! Even though this isn't Peter's first first day of high school, he's excited. A lot more excited than he was the first time, because back then he was mostly nauseous and depressed about Uncle Ben and exhausted from irresponsibly rationing (or, more accurately, overindulging) his Spidey time. He even gets into his homeroom on time, familiar enough with the campus now that finding the far-back corner they'd stuck him in isn't confusing as shit anymore. 

Homeroom with Ned. That's why they'd first started talking, after all. Ned had recognized Peter from middle school and sat next to him. He'd chattered on and on as much as the teacher would let him, a little obvious in his attempt to make Peter less visibly nervous. 

Seriously, Peter's first-first day was not so hot. He was half-dead and three-quarters the way to puking. 

This second-first day is leagues better in comparison, if only it weren't for the fact that all this waiting is killing him. What if there was some weird ripple effect and Ned got put in a different homeroom? What if him knowing the future makes him come off weird and Ned actually hates him and he'll be alone all of high school just watching Ned from the corners like a creep? Like he did before he, er, died? 

Oh god. Peter's back to feeling nauseous. There are so many ways this could go so wrong. What if he slips up and makes it obvious that he's from the future? What if someone finds out he's Spider-Man? Spider-Man isn't a big deal yet, sure, but if anyone knew that Peter was the spider vigilante, Peter would have to retire that identity immediately. He's not—he can't have a repeat of last time. He can't bear it. 

"Hey, Peter, right?" a familiar (so familiar, so reassuring, so relieving, because maybe things are going to be at least a little bit okay) voice interrupts his spiraling. "We went to the same middle. I'm Ned. Ned Leeds?" 

Peter snaps his attention over belatedly, awkward smile pasting itself onto his face without a second thought. It's been so long since he's just talked to Ned. Well—they hung out, built some Legos. But he'd had his mask on, so does that really count? Either way, it's been an eternity since Peter had, like, normal interactions, so it's easy enough to play into the awkward conversation with an acquaintance situation he should be having. "Yeah, yeah! We had, uh, English together, right? Mrs. Swerdloff?" 

Ned snaps with both hands, grin and finger guns in place. Typical. He'll look back on that in senior year and groan at himself. "Yes sir!" He slings his backpack onto the ground, sliding into the seat next to Peter. This teacher—what was his name? Hosey?—has the desks arranged in pairs, blessed be. "I'm just glad to be outta there, man. Middle school was hell." 

Peter grins. Middle school has nothing on their next four years. Good god, Peter hates to see Flash Thompson coming. He's a whole adult! There's no reason he has to be dealing with a high school bully all over again! "Right?" he lies through his teeth. "I'm excited for the classes, honestly. Midtown's no slouch." Oh, ew, he sounds like an old person. 

It earns him laughs good-naturedly in his face. "Oh, crap, man, you're a total nerd. Awesome." Peter's lucky he knows Ned well enough to be certain that's not an insult. From anyone else, were Peter actually fourteen, that'd make him cry. 

Instead of any of that, he shrugs in a way he hopes comes off as chill or cool. Sue him, he wants his best friend to like him. And he's inconveniently trapped in the brain of a fourteen-year-old, with fourteen-year-old thoughts and hormones and emotional immaturity. "We're at nerd central, who's surprised?" 

Mr. Honny (oh, that's his name.) tells them all to shut up and pastes a PowerPoint on the screen. He clicks through it as disheartenedly as Peter remembers, droning out the rules and regulations almost verbatim from each slide. He only starts to become slightly animated when the topic of clubs come up. He himself sponsors the poetry club and eagerly urges them all to join. Highly inclusive environment, he says. 

Highly desperate for more members, if Peter has to assume. Why would someone start a literature-related club at a science and tech school?

As soon as Honny stops talking, Ned's right back to it, buzzing on about his schedule and what he's heard about the teachers and what he's most excited for in his classes. Whether it be luck or Peter's careful planning, they have most of the same classes; Peter remembers Ned's freshman year schedule pretty well because of how much Ned complained about his following years' awful lineup in comparison. He'd groan about how he misses having block biochem first, misses having his coding elective right after, on and on and on. 

Peter, taking the placement test all freshman enrolling at MSST were required to take, had easily tested out of high school altogether. He probably could've tested out since junior year the first time he'd gone through this. 

Except now, just like then, he doesn't want to skip out on four years of close proximity with Ned, or the chance to get close with MJ again—even if nothing comes of it this time. Peter doesn't know if he'd be able to subject himself to that unique heartache. Point being, he tested high enough to just take the exams and get his diploma; Midtown threw him their course registry and said 'pick what you want'. 

Coincidentally, he wanted block biochem first, a coding elective right after, and a convenient rest of the day almost identical to Ned's. 

Nice. 

"Let's walk together, man! Pete. Can I call you Pete?" 

Peter grins. "Sure. I'll tell you if I think of a good way to shorten Ned." 

Ned pulls a face, the same as he always used to do when Peter cracked that awful joke. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I think you'd be better off trying your luck against Leeds." 

"Weeds?" Peter throws out, just for the sake of making Ned splutter incredulous laughter. He snickers back, eyes curling up tight with the force of his smile. "Alright, alright, my bad. I dunno if I'll be able to get you there." 

Ned bumps his shoulder against Peter's. "You got all the time in the world. We've got a whole year of practically the same schedule." He slows down, hand hesitating on the door to Ms. Kape's classroom. "I have a feeling we're gonna be good friends, Peter." 

Yeah. Peter's got that same suspicion, and a lot more evidence for it than he'll ever end up telling. "What happened to Pete?" 

The blaring rock over FRIDAY's speakers lowers, quieted to a backing thrum of drumkits. "Boss, The Kid is here to see you." 

Tony hums. He could've guessed that from the Spidey-Ears Procedure; apparently superpowers come with hypersensitivity, and Tony's preferred music volume would probably send Peter into a coma. "Let 'im in, FRI." 

The doors slide open with a rather dramatic woosh. It makes Tony happy in an uncanny sort of way to see Peter come hurrying through, backpack half-unzipped and only slung over one shoulder. "Sorry I'm late, Mr. Stark. I, uh, got kinda caught up talking to Ned and then we were making plans and I didn't even realize it was Wednesday 'til I checked my phone and it was already, like, 3:00. I woulda booked it straight here but I had to find an alley away from cams to take my civvies off and everything's a little different than I remember it so that took way—"

"Slow your roll, Underoos," Tony cuts him off, smirking when the kid splutters at the nickname. It's fitting; his suit is just... spandex. Literal spandex with some colors and an embedded AI. Pah! Not even a plate of armor, despite Tony's very impeccable suggestions! "You're... how late is he, FRI?" 

"Twelve minutes and forty-three seconds, Boss." 

Tony nods, leaning back lazily in his fun new chair with its stretchy back (thank you Pepper!). "Not even fifteen. My shareholders would love you." Fifteen minutes late for Tony Stark is like teleportation. Completely impossible and unheard of except through means of magic. 

That earns him a dry look of exasperation. "...Right, of course. How could I forget that you're the picture of punctuality." 

Okay, well, no need to be so snarky about it. Tony sniffs huffily. "I'm on time when it's important." 

That makes Peter soften, in the way he does when someone says something that has a double-meaning only Peter knows. "Yeah," he agrees. A little shit-eating grin takes up his face, clearing up some of the melancholy. It lingers in the creases of his eyes and his smile. "Most of the time." 

Tony makes an indignant verbalization, shoving a hologram in Peter's face as punishment. "You wanna be smart with me so bad, then be smart, spider-kid." Peter's already shucked off his back, prodding at the digitized schematics with half familiarity. "Fix whatever's clogging this prototype up. I want these new gauntlets fabricated ASAP." 

"'M not a kid," Peter protests, but it's halfhearted and entirely distracted. He's already thrown himself headfirst into this new bone Tony's thrown him, a problem Tony is sure he could fix himself if he could get his head on straight for ten seconds, but he's been in his lab for the last... fourteen hours? Not much coherent thought going on right now, at any rate. Peter's mumbling fills up the silence Brian Johnson had previously occupied, an echo of Tony's own preferred workstyle as screens and random scrap metals accumulate around him. 

It's kind of cute, seeing the kid in his element like that. He looks happy, like he's not carrying around that whole huge weight of the future on his scrawny little shoulders. He looks his age. 

Or... how old he looks? Tony's still not really clear on that, though he's got a few working theories. He doesn't see why Peter would lie about living to age twenty—he's too good a kid for that—so that possibility is struck out, but it leaves no clear explanation for why Peter... well, he acts like a fourteen-year-old kid. He can get whiny and complains about stupid shit, he thinks with his heart before his brain, he gets into petty arguments. 

He seems to catch himself, half the time, and get embarrassed, like he knows how to be better than that, but for some reason can't. 

That's the basis of Tony's theory, at least. Because, reasonably, a fourteen-year-old body being equipped with the brain of a twenty-year-old is impossible. Setting aside the fact that things like magic and alternate universes and time travel are able to exist in their batshit crazy world, it's just beyond the capabilities of a underdeveloped brain cavity to house and support a developed brain. 

Since Peter's time-traveling sponsor was a telepath, it'd make the most sense to Tony that, rather than time travel, fourteen-year-old Peter was just hijacked with the memories of twenty-year-old Peter. Which, pretty fucked up if you asked him. Either way, it makes Peter make sense. He's still a kid (despite his fervent denial) who thinks he's way older 'cause he knows shit he shouldn't. 

Like a... a—clairvoyant? Is that the word? Fortune-teller, oracle, some bullshit like that. Tony's too tired for technicalities; he's never been one for the supernatural, anyway. More of a science guy, if the billion dollar corporation didn't make that obvious enough. 

"—ony? Ca-can you hear me?" 

Tony blinks himself back to the present, weariness drooping his eyes. He startles a little when he sees Peter right up in his face, the kid's pupils dilated way more than is normal or probably possible for sober human beings. "Kid? What the hell?" 

Peter pulls back hurriedly, hands up in a placating gesture as if to soothe a startled animal. His pupils shrink down to a normal size faster than Tony's fried brain can process. "Sorry, sorry. I just—you seemed kinda zoned out while I was asking about the circuitry mock-up and then you weren't responding at all and I just, I..." 

Aw, shit. Tony might just be the Worst Person. Like, ever. Period, hard stop. He knows the kid doesn't do it on purpose (at least, so he hopes), but Peter's got the most pitiful kicked puppy eyes when he gets worried about something pertaining to the tragic future and Tony doesn't know if his ruined heart can handle the guilt of continuously summoning that damn look. He reaches out to ruffle Peter's hair before he can second-guess himself, lips twitching up into a reassuring smile without his permission. 

"Shit, you mistake me for a bag of bones? I'm not that old!" he protests playfully, hoping despite his halfhearted insistence to himself that he doesn't really care what the kid thinks that it cheers Peter up. When he stretches his hands above his head, his whole body pops satisfyingly. "Ouph, I am wiped, though. I've been in here since..." He trails off, not actually sure what time it'd been when he'd bolted into the lab with the stroke of genius his dream had provided last night. 

"12:23 AM this morning, Boss," FRIDAY fills in helpfully. 

Tony withers a little at the reminder. It's past 4:30. "...Yeah. It's been a minute." 

Peter's sad puppy face creases into a worried puppy face that makes Tony feel even more evil. "Is there something bothering you, Mr. Stark? If it's something with this gauntlet I can come in more often to help with it, it's not like I actually need—"

"No, nope, and triple no, spider-baby," Tony cuts him off before the thought can finish forming. "If your aunt finds out you're cutting school—if you're cutting homework, even, and running yourself ragged 'cause of me?" 

"I can kiss this internship bye-bye," Peter grumbles obediently, the phrase perhaps nailed into his head old-fashioned with a hammer. Tony is completely unabashed in enforcing that, and he nods proudly. 

"Yep. You can kiss this internship goodbye and watch me be flayed alive, Parker." May does not play games when it comes to her nephew. 

It's not as though Tony can judge her for it, really. If he found out some rich bastard was wasting his kid—the kid's time for his own sake, he wouldn't waste a second siccing Nat on them. Nat is not a punishment Tony doles out lightly.

"Are you feeling Thai for tonight?" Peter proposes, breaking the silent impasse Tony had been using to dwell in his own thoughts. "I can place the order." 

Tony rolls his eyes. As if he'd make the kid pay for him. "You get yourself whatever you want, Underoos. I'm gonna finish up here so you can have free reign, capiche? I'm just playing supervisor tonight." 

Peter frowns, deep and insistent. He's scrawny, but his cheeks still cling to baby fat. It's still hard for Tony to believe, sometimes, that the kid's actually fourteen. He barely looks ten. "Mr. Stark, you need to eat, too. We don't have to get Thai. Would you rather, um, Mexican? Maybe? Or just something from Delmar's?" Does Delmar's even do inter-borough deliveries? Aw, who is he kidding. DoorDash and a decent tip will get you anywhere. 

"I won't keel over, kid." He'd really like to. Particularly in a bed. Has he mentioned how much he loves Pepper for getting him this stretchy new chair? "Just eat what you want and go crazy in the lab." 

"I don't want to bother Ms. Potts but if you're not—"

Oh, no no no Tony won't be dealing with that tonight. "You said Thai?" 

Tony's definitely gonna puke up whatever he puts in his mouth, but the kid's relieved smile is just a little, miniscule, smidgen bit worth it. 

Being fourteen again is not for the weak. Being fourteen again while undergoing a secondary spider-puberty (for the second time)? 

It's a lot for a long-time superhero, if Peter has to say it. He hates being fourteen. He hates having to hide Spider-Man and being from the future from May, hates having to act like he's not Ned's best friend in the universe and instead a vaguely close classmate since childhood, hates having the emotional capacity and wherewithal of a fourteen-year-old again. 

That's probably the worst of it, honestly. Being fourteen. Because, logically, Peter is twenty. He has the memories and most of the skills of a twenty-year-old. He should be mature, right? 

Except he's not. He cries when thinking about the future gets overwhelming, and he wakes up from nightmares in a cold sweat and walks to May's room on shaky feet and sits next to her bed just to assure himself she's still breathing. He lashes out and screams where he's long since learned to restrain himself and he stumbles over his words and he flattens the Queens out of his voice in some passing instinct to seem... grown to the Avengers. 

He's, for all intents and purposes, fourteen with the memories of a grown-ass adult. It's infuriating. 

The stupid spider-puberty doesn't help. Whatever Jean did had launched his spinnerets right back with him, blessedly enough, but all the rest of it—that random skyrocket in arachnid hormones he was dealing with not a week ago—has come back to haunt him in each painful, slow step. 

He wakes up wrapped in webs. He has to tear them down and stuff them under his bed before Aunt May can come in his room to check on him. He gets distracted doing homework and only realizes he's sitting on the wall when May asks if he's standing on his bed, because why is his voice coming from so high up? He gnaws at his bottom lip with teeth-turned-fangs and bites right through the plush flesh, and, oh, that's a new one. Fangs. 

He wonders if he's venomous. Hiss. 

He bares his fangs in the metal table that's so shiny it's practically a mirror, lips pulled back for a long enough time that his mouth has started to ache. He doesn't feel like testing that theory on anyone in particular, but... shit, that'd be really cool. 

Grow up, Parker, he chides himself. Really dangerous, is what it is. He needs to go back to thinking with his grown-up brain. 

Has Peter mentioned that he really, really hates being fourteen?

"Only once or twice," Dr. Banner supplies drily. 

Peter almost jumps out of his skin. "Do-doctor Banner! When did you get here?!" He's been sitting in this empty lab talking to himself like a crazy person for the last thirty minutes, waiting around for Mr. Stark to finish up whatever important Avengers meeting it is he's got to deal with. Peter hates himself a little bit for how squeaky his voice got—because, while Dr. Banner is Peter's hero, Peter's technically already worked with him and also fought the Hulk—but, seriously, how much did Dr. Banner hear?! 

"Well, this is my lab," Dr. Banner remarks, bustling around with a familiarity that makes Peter's face flush. He's definitely not making that up to embarrass Peter, huh? 

Not—not that Peter thinks Dr. Banner would do something like that! He's very nice when he's not Hulking out! And even the Hulk can be sort of reasonable, sometimes! (Peter's not biased just because Hulk remembered him. It's just that... well, Hulk remembered him. He backed off because Peter is—was—his friend.) 

"I've been here for the last..." he pauses to check his watch, "five minutes. I'm surprised you didn't notice me. Aren't your senses pretty sharp?" 

Peter can feel the pink in his cheeks. "O-oh, uh, yeah, haha." He's been pretty much tuning everything out in the tower, lately, the spider-puberty boost hitting his senses like a train. And Peter knows what getting hit by a train feels like, so it's not even a hyperbole, technically. He'd thought that sound of Bruce shuffling around was at least a room over, at the back of his mind that'd registered it. 

Then again, he doesn't particularly feel like airing out his freaky advanced mutations to the Avengers. He does actually want them to like him, after all. And he feels like the number one way to get people to lock you up in a lab instead of liking you is telling them about your freaky spider mutations. 

So. Secrecy. 

(Peter's learned that lesson, the importance of secrecy, the hard way.) 

In honor of that, he shrugs and does his best impression of someone not on the verge of tears or screaming. "I was pretty zoned out. Even my super-senses are vulnerable to distraction, I guess." 

Maybe not his best choice of phrase, because that prompts a slight crease of concern in Dr. Banner's face, but he huffs it away with a smile just as soon as Peter notices it. "Well, don't let yourself get distracted on the field, kid. It's not a game, what we do." 

"I know that," Peter says before he can bite back the slight spike of offense. He's not a kid. He looks young, sure—hell, if he were in the right body, he'd be smacking himself upside the head for insisting he was grown enough for everything that being Spider-Man requires. But he's not young. He forces himself to relax and smile. "I'm not actually a kid, you know. I'm twenty years old, Dr. Banner." 

Dr. Banner just smiles, an odd crinkle under his eye. "I know, Pete. You gotta understand that that's still pretty young for old coots like me." 

"Wh—that's—I didn't mean to imply—!" Peter splutters, paling a little.

Dr. Banner laughs, and finally seems to let the subject drop. "I'm just poking fun. Tony sent me up here to call you down for dinner; he said you weren't responding to FRIDAY?"

Peter frowns, head cocking. He definitely wouldn't have missed FRI calling out to him, no matter how distracted he is. He's got a sixth—seventh?—sense for her. And if she heard him talking to himself, she would've told Tony as much. 

Then again, the whole reason Peter had chosen this room to lounge around in is the lack of FRI's constant buzz in the background. It's really, truly silent, unlike any other place in the Tower. 

Oh, right. FRI's not in here—this is Dr. Banner's lab. FRIDAY disables when Dr. Banner isn't in here because it 'creeps Brucie-Bear out to have my wonderful AI graciously keep watch of his things, apparently.' Tony's words. Privately, Peter suspects that some of it has to do with the Ultron situation, but he's not a mind-reader. He'll leave that to Jean. 

Urgh. Not thinking about that. He's spacing again. "Uh, Dr. Banner, I don't think FRIDAY was even active in here," he points out to break the pause of silence. "It would be a little hard for me to hear her in here." 

"I figured Tony just wanted to make me go out of my way," Dr. Banner concedes easily. "But seriously, Pete, come down with me for some food. Tony hasn't fed you since you got here, and your strengthening enhancements probably come with a decent-sized metabolism, no?" 

Peter flushes, a little embarrassed at how spot-on Dr. Banner is. Then again, Mr. Rogers is pretty much the same. Peter supposes it's not that embarrassing. But. Still. It's the principle of the thing. "Yeah, alright. Thanks for coming up here to grab me, Dr. Banner. Sorry for, uh, barging in here." 

Dr. Banner waves him off easily, chatting lightly with Peter about stuff in his lab that might've caught the younger's attention as FRI jets them down in the elevator. It's really nice to talk to him again—even nicer now that he actually remembers who Peter is. Or, well, at least knows him, Spider-Man and all. It's not as though he remembers—

Not. Thinking. About. It. Today is Peter's not-thinking-about-it day. He thought about it last week, when he came in almost fifteen minutes late then forced an overtired Mr. Stark to have some Thai. He thought about it a month ago, on the first day of school. He's thought about it pretty much every day between then and now, and today is his vacation day. Relaxation. Reclearing the mind, or whatever. 

It's getting to him, is his problem. It's touching his every nerve, lighting him on fire when he patrols and goes to school and talks to May or Tony or anyone at all, even the Bodega guy who'd died a year or so before Jean started going on her rampage. It's exhausting, being dialed up to a hundred all the time, especially on top of not really getting enough sleep for a fourteen-year-old and not feeding his uber-enhanced metabolism as much as he should. 

One thing on another on another, this annoying madness piles up. 

And the last time the camel's back broke, or whatever the expression says, Peter... Peter changed. 

He changed into this, with organic web-shooters and black eyes and fangs and all sorts of crazy instincts no human teenage boy should have. He's—stupidly, childishly—terrified of changing again, into something worse, even less human. Something inhuman enough to be repulsive, something inhuman enough to be obvious. 

How many little things being 'off' will the Avengers look past before they realize Peter's not like them, doesn't belong among them? 

He'd like to tell himself it's teenage insecurity, that a tower full of superheroes with strange mutations and technology won't judge him for having a mutation of his own, but every time he gets too comfortable with the idea Detective DeWolff's wide, condemning eyes flash in his mind. 

"Get it together, Spider-Man. You almost just killed a cop." 

It's not the fact that he's weird that makes Peter turning 'spidery' bad. It's the fact that he's dangerous. He's uncontrollable and he—he's been too scared to ask Mr. Stark for the stuff to make an inhibitor because that would spawn questions, and questions would require truthfulness or diversion and Peter really isn't good at either of those things but he especially doesn't want Mr. Stark to know that Peter is scared enough of himself to want to at least prevent further mutations. 

Mr. Stark draws a hard line for heroes: you're either in it or you're not. Peter is a hero because he has to do good with the powers he has. If he doesn't accept those powers, how can he accept being a hero? 

At least, that's what the Mr. Stark asks him in some of Peter's imagined doom-scenarios of those conversations. 

"—sure you don't want any, kid?" Tony presses, waggling a turkey leg in Peter's face. It stinks badly on his sensitive nose. The sauce is sickeningly rich and it being cooked at all seems, to Peter, like it's charred beyond edibility. 

...He may be developing a stomach for insects, small animals, and raw meat. If he had to guess, a byproduct of the fangs. Spiders inject digestive juices into prey then consume the liquified version. Peter shudders at the thought of eating food like that. 

Peter scrunches his nose at the offending turkey leg, shaking his head 'no' for probably the third time. The whole time he's been letting his mind wander he's been absently avoiding all of Tony's attempts at filling his plate. All of the food around them is classic New York and perhaps fresh from a theme park: pizza, turkey legs, pretzel bites, and a fancy sandwich platter because Tony's insufferable and rich. It's almost enough to be deemed by Thor a feast, mostly because Mr. Rogers is staying over for the night and needs to eat almost as much as Peter does. 

It all looks—and smells—awful. Peter feels bad that he can't accept any of it, so he grabs a few things and scatters them around his plate when no one's looking so it looks like he's eaten a lot, resigning himself to doing something gross like catching a squirrel on his way home to eat. Ew, ew, ew. Peter hates this spider stuff. Spiders are so gross! Of all the things to get mutated into, seriously!? 

God, is he going to be able to eat cake anymore? Chocolate, sour gummies!? Oh, that might actually kill him. 

Tony looks over at Peter (who's being very careful not to pull a face) and then glances down at his plate. It looks suitably messy, a torn-up mini sandwich splattered across it like crumbs of at least five of them, stolen bones from other people's plates littered in the space in between. Peter's creative, if nothing else. It makes Tony look back at him with an amused smirk and a raised brow. "You sure dug in, Underoos. Glad I sent Brucie up to get you." 

Peter does his due diligence laughing abashedly, mumbling some halfhearted excuse of a light lunch until everyone else at the table chuckles and moves on. It's lucky that Mr. Rogers, Dr. Banner, and Tony have some important Avengers business to keep themselves occupied, because Peter's too hungry to think about entertaining a conversation right now. He probably rushes out a little too quick when Tony shoos him away, some justification about not wanting to keep Happy waiting leaving his lips before he can think about it. 

He's off and swinging five blocks from home, as usual; he picks up a gross, raw dinner on the way. It, unfortunately, tastes very good. 

Ned is pretty sure he's the first one who's noticed something's wrong with Peter. 

Sure, they're not best friends, but they've gotten pretty close in the last two or so months they've been sharing practically every class. Peter is, like, a super-crazy genius, but he's also really weird and kind of friendless except for Ned. He has an internship "somewhere dumb" (Peter's words, when Ned had pressed for details) so he can buy stuff without taking money from his Aunt, so he's never really free after school. 

But that internship is really starting to worry Ned, because he's pretty sure that fourteen-year-olds aren't usually allowed to work pretty much anywhere, and Peter refuses to disclose exactly what this internship entails. 

He's been coming to school bruised and with dark bags under his eyes, dragging himself through every class on autopilot and only perking up when Ned talks to him about Legos or Star Wars or some other nerdy shared interest. He looks like he's losing a pound a day, skin and bones and swallowed up by his old, faded t-shirts. He's not really... the picture of someone who's got money to spend on themselves, like he claims he's working to do. 

And, listen, Ned has met Mrs. May Parker. She is a wonderful woman, and he would rather burn at the stake than speak ill of her. But... she also looks incredibly haggard and tired, her cooking was a mess when she attempted in honor of Ned coming over one weekend, and their apartment is boxy and in a not-great part of town. He hates to make assumptions, but these blanks are kind of hard not to fill in. The Parkers are probably living bill-to-bill and Peter is probably doing something really, really illegal (or at least incredibly dangerous) to help his aunt make ends meet. 

Even when Peter's at school, he doesn't eat much. He doesn't buy lunch; he's packed since the start of the year. But now his lunchbox is emptier and emptier every day, usually only containing some half-eaten sleeve of crackers that doesn't get much emptier by the end of lunch. Peter looks nauseous around other food, like he's sick at the smell. 

Ned may or may not have Googled a few things, and the results may or may not have sent him into a panicked spiral where he considered calling a hotline or two. 

But... it's not as though Ned wants to get May in trouble. She's all Peter's got left, in terms of family, and she really does her best to do well by Peter. Hell, Ned knows that Midtown itself was a crazy investment for them—even with Peter's endless scholarships, the fees for supplies and trips and all the extra stuff make a dent. Ned, living with his Lola, sometimes has a hard time keeping up with it all. 

It makes sense, honestly—why Peter had been so much better off at the start of the year. More time to sleep when he wasn't at his 'internship', less costs to keep up with that stretch their food budget thin. 

It makes Ned sick to think about it. He doesn't want Peter to struggle like this. Like he said, they're not, like, friends-from-the-cradle, but Ned gets a—a feeling about Peter, like they're meant to be friends. Like Peter was the missing puzzle piece in Ned's life and he clicked just-right in when they'd finally started talking. He's not a superstitious person, but his Lola taught him not to take signs from the soul lightly. 

It's definitely a sign from something, Ned realizes, when one random Thursday Peter shows up late, panting, with a black eye forming and gauze peeking out from under his oversized t-shirt sleeve. He's walking with a limp. 

He feels physically sick looking at his friend in that state. He's sure he makes some kind of face because Peter is quick to paste on a smile, turn in his late slip to the teacher—whose brow is also creased, looking Peter over, thank god Ned's not the only one—and slide into his seat across the room. Annoying, but it's not their choice. 

It feels a little ridiculous that it's taken this much for it to register with him, but it's that stupid Thursday morning, that black eye and arm wound and limp, that finally pound it into Ned's brain that Peter is in danger. Whatever he's doing at his 'internship' is hurting him, hurting him bad, and his aunt probably doesn't even know. She probably doesn't see some of the stuff that Peter pays for, probably assumes he's going off to hang out with some friend from school she hasn't met. 

She might even think Peter's sneaking out to see Ned. She'd acted like, when he went over that time, he and Peter had spent more time together than Ned thought was reasonable. 

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Peter is gonna get himself killed like this. He's gonna get axe-murdered by some crazy person in an alleyway or—or collapse in the middle of the day out of hunger or sleep deprivation and have, like, a heart attack and die! 

And it's going to be Ned's fault, because he's the only one who's noticed—because Peter doesn't really have anyone else to notice—and he isn't doing anything. 

He spends the second half of the block period only half-listening to Ms. Kape's review of the chapter work due tomorrow (it's a completion grade, so...), trying not to glance at Peter too much because Peter's already made a face at Ned when he caught him looking for the third time in two minutes. Mostly, he's thinking about what he can do without getting May in trouble or getting Peter taken away from her—away from Midtown. 

Teachers are mandated reporters. Peter's not displaying signs of abuse—no flinching, social withdrawal, that kind of thing—despite the bruises, which is probably why no one's called up CPS yet. But if Ned goes up to any of the staff here and says 'hey my friend is definitely doing something probably illegal to make ends meet at home and I think he's in danger', Peter's going to get shipped off to the nearest foster home and May can, at least, kiss her medical license goodbye. 

She's just like Peter, in a way, because having that taken from her—the ability to help people—would kill her. 

From what Ned's seen, at least. All May seems to think about is how to help. She stops for the beggars on the streets when she can, sends Peter off with extra cash for the needy who stay in their area. She pulls extra shifts after villain attacks cause major collateral damage, even when it leaves her with no time with Peter and half-dead when she does come back. 

And even though Ned can see how it wears on Peter, to be alone so often, he's the same way. He steps in front of the even scrawnier kids when this dick freshman Flash Thompson (whose parents definitely paid to get him in) picks a fight. He smiles and waves away concern every time he's pressed for information about his constant injuries. He shares his lunch without a second thought even though he's got basically nothing in it. 

It drives Ned crazy! How is he supposed to help these people who don't do anything except help everyone else?! If May's anything like Peter (and Ned is certain, by now, that she's where he got all his edges from), it's going to be pulling teeth to get them to realize they can get support from someone. Anyone, even if it's not him! Ned is really, really past the point of caring about that. 

The bell rings and jolts Ned out of his musings of doom. Coding next. Mr. Murphy. He shoots up like a zombie, trailing on next to Peter when his friend sidles over to him and making idle conversation his heart's not really in. 

Peter's brows crease with concern, but the expression smooths a second later as Peter tries to cover a wince. His eye is probably hurting. "You doing okay, Ned?" he asks, soft and tentative like he's going to scare Ned away. Ned stares a little disbelievingly, because there's no way underfed, constantly-beat-up, currently-limping Peter Parker is asking him that. "You seem kinda tuned out," Peter elaborates, apparently interpreting Ned's disbelief as confusion. 

Ned would punch him if Peter didn't have plenty of injuries going for him already right now. It'd be a pretty pathetic punch, sure, but a strong wind could probably leave a mark on Peter right now. Instead, he forces himself into a grimacing smile, wondering how Peter does this reassuring stuff so easily. Maybe it's just because Ned was friendless in middle school and thus emotionally stunted, but whatever. "I'm good, man. Exhausted, though. I barely slept last night." 

Peter laughs. "Yeah, I feel that. There's no reason for school to start as early as it does." Yeah, Ned thinks, I bet that's relatable, Mr. Eyebags-the-size-of-the-sun. 

He just huffs and keeps walking, eyes fixed on his feet. The whole day drains past him that same way, with his head lowered to the tiles and his mind a hundred miles away. More than one teacher stops by his desk to quietly ask if he's okay—Ned's not usually inattentive like that—and Ned wishes he could sic them on Peter instead. 

Blessedly, miraculously, finally, the dismissal bell for seventh period rings. The hordes of smelly and exhausted teens are released. Peter, as usual, bids Ned a quick goodbye and slings his bag over his shoulder, rushing off. Most everyone else filters out at a decent pace behind him. Ned follows them, shoving his own stuff carelessly into his backpack as he assesses Mrs. Leones out of the corner of his eye.

English II and Creative Writing. Strict. Known for being a hardass and relatively unpopular, but lacking the horror stories some of the other English teachers at school boast because she's pretty fair. When you tell someone you have her, the general reaction is a sigh and a vague grumbling about remembering having her freshman year. 

...Not the kind of person Ned trusts enough to bring this up to. She hadn't checked on him or Peter in that awkward teacher-way, or side-glanced either of them as far as Ned has seen. She's a little too absorbed in cramming her first-quarter grading (something about catching up to a deadline) to care about much else right now. 

Ned slings on his backpack and marches out, beelining back to biochem. Ms. Kape noticed. She seems to like Peter enough, and had made a joke once after that school tour night that she could tell Peter's aunt was a nurse by her natural composed frazzledness (positive perception?). 

In this precarious and particular situation, in which neither Google or Reddit can help him, she's Ned's best bet. 

The door is unlocked when Ned tests it, and he knocks after it's already open to be polite. Ms. Kape seems a little surprised to see him, but she ushers him in easily enough. She's clicking away at her computer, probably entering some last-minute grades like Mrs. Leones. "Good afternoon, Ned," she greets, her smile a little tighter than usual. "Can I help you?" 

Ned laughs awkwardly instead of responding, this whole idea suddenly seeming a lot less good now that he's at the actual talking-himself-out-of-triggering-the-mandated-reported part. Ms. Kape's face falters with concern. "You seemed a little distracted in the second half of class today. Did you miss anything with the chapter work review?" 

An out. God, Ned really loves Ms. Kape. 

Regardless of how bad he wants to take the out, he knows that Ms. Kape knows what he wants to ask her about, and Ned owes it to Peter—for being his friend and for being such an unreasonably good person in general—to look out for him in at least this little way. So, he steels himself, draws in a deep breath, and starts with, "Hypothetically—"

Ms. Kape looks relieved before he can get another word out. 

Swinging through the streets of Queens, Peter thinks to himself—just for a second—that he wishes he weren't Spider-Man. 

He feels guilty for it as soon as the thought forms, but it's persistent and wriggling at the back of his head. Ned had looked worried and tuned-out today, May has been anxious about leaving Peter alone for work, Mr. Stark has been on his case about checkups, showing his worry in the only way he's comfortable. He's causing all these people so much heartache because he's biology-bound to his duty to swing around New York stopping petty crime. 

And he's really, really hungry. 

A little selfishly, that's the part that's been bothering Peter the most. He can't eat normal food anymore—feels sick at the thought of it—but bugs and squirrels and small birds aren't really cutting it for his super-enhanced metabolism. He's constantly aching with an empty stomach, his every move feels sluggish, his brain is full of lead, and petty criminals are so much harder to deal with than they should be because Peter feels half-dead on a good day. 

He's earned himself a bullet in a limb on multiple occasions already. He's gotten more black eyes than he's willing to admit. A guy almost broke his nose three days ago. He still hasn't shaken the limp from his knee getting popped out of place falling. 

Everything hurts. It feels so much like—

Not thinking about it. Peter is grown. 20 years old, even if for some stupid reason he doesn't feel like he is. He needs to move on from stupid crap that happened when he was sixteen.

"Get off me!" 

Perfect. Peter's first distraction of the night.

"C'mon, pretty lady, you don't wanna come home with me?" a greasy-looking scumbag prompts, leering in close and smearing his hands all over a young-looking woman's shoulders. She's probably fresh out of high school, if Peter had to guess.

Barely legal. Eugh. 

It's easy to tell that this guy is that kind of person. "Hey, hey," he cuts in before the poor woman can start shrieking again, dropping in all heroic-like. He thinks he looks pretty cool, in all honesty. "I'm pretty sure the first time she yelled at you to get off was a clear 'no'."

Mr. Scumbag scowls. "I ain't hear a proper 'no'," he retorts, pulling her closer to him as though he's got any sort of claim on his victim. 

"I said no! I'm not fucking going anywhere with you!" 

"But ya didn't mean it."

Aaaand that's where Peter is gonna cut this short. His stomach is roiling for a different reason, now, and he webs the guy to the wall without prompting. He's not feeling quippy today. The woman scrambles back as soon as his hold loosens, arms wrapping around herself protectively. Peter glues the man's mouth shut for good measure, and right after that his hands. He ought to keep them to himself. 

"That's a charge for holding someone against their will, coercion, sexual misconduct..." Peter lists, droning. "I'm sure they could slip something else in there, I'm no lawyer. Let's keep inside our personal bubbles next time, yeah?" 

"Thank you," the woman murmurs, her brows drawn tight but her shoulders loosened with relief. "I assume this is the part where I call the police to come collect him?" 

Peter nods. "I'd appreciate it. You just need to give them a street number and a quick summary of what happened. You'll have to ask an officer for information on how to press charges from there, but that's the first step I can give you." 

She smiles. "Oh, I can handle it from there, Spider-Man." She looks him up and down, a cursory glance. "You... should get some rest, I think. Can't be saving the city all the time!" Peter laughs awkwardly. Do I look that bad? She seems to read his mind, offering, "You're swaying."

Hm. It seems like he is. "Well, always crime to stop. I should, uh, get to that," he mumbles, backing away quickly. 

"Take care of yourself, Spider-Man. You can't save us all on fumes." 

Accepting that as a goodbye, Peter webs himself up and goes shooting away. His head is spinning and light and thinking at all is becoming a little too taxing, entertaining this conversation rapidly dropping in his priorities. He's sure he can hear someone else screaming a block or two away, anyway.

He only registers about half an hour and a mugging later that he should've offered to walk her home. Peter is so, so hungry.

"Hi, is this Mrs. May Parker?" 

May purses her lips. She wasn't misremembering the school's number, then. "Yes, hi. How can I help you?" 

"I'm sorry to disturb you after school hours, Mrs. Parker. This is Ms. Kape, I'm your nephew's Introduction to Biochemistry teacher. I was wondering when you'd be free for a meeting with me." 

What? Everything May's read online says that they stop doing those Parent-Teacher meetings after middle school. Or maybe it's a fancy school thing? Midtown is technically a private institute. They always run things differently. "It's no problem, Ms. Kape, thanks for reaching out. I'm usually pretty booked but I've worked enough overtime that I should be able to take off, er, next Tuesday?" 

Kape—Yulia, she'd introduced herself as, during the school open house night—agrees happily, but it's hard to miss how tight her cheer is. Or maybe it isn't, and May is just used to reading her cagey nephew. "Did Peter... do something?" she hedges when Yulia doesn't end the call but doesn't add anything to the discussion. "I'm not particularly used to getting calls home from his teachers." 

"Oh, well," Yulia starts, forcibly airy, "he was a little late to class today, but he's not a bad child. He's incredibly smart and very well behaved, you don't have to worry about disciplinary action." She laughs a little. It doesn't do anything to ease May's building anxiety. "But—and I know you mentioned hefty overtime—have you, em, seen Peter lately?"

May tenses without meaning to, some part of her wanting to bristle and snap at the implication that she doesn't—what, doesn't pay enough attention to Peter? But she deflates with a sigh before any of those immature emotions can slip past her lips, combing an exhausted hand through her hair. When was the last time she sat down with him? They haven't had a meal together in at least a month, probably since Ned came over. 

"I—" she starts, but can't come up with anything to say after that. "No," she settles on admitting. "I'm barely home and when I am home he's holed up doing homework or out with friends." Guilt gnaws at her. "I'm usually just... too tired to press." But she should, no matter how tired she is. That's her job as his guardian, especially after—after he had to see Ben—

May swallows hard, trying not to let her tears fall. It doesn't make her voice any less watery when she speaks next. "I should be doing better. He's been through a lot, recently, with his Uncle—Ben was like a father to him. I just..." She breathes in. Blows it out, long and smooth. "It's been hard. He was the chef, he was the second income, he was the one Peter could really... really talk to, you know?" 

"I know, May," Yulia comforts, even though she doesn't, not really. "I can't claim to understand, but it's easy for me to know that Peter loved him a lot. He still talks about his uncle sometimes in class, you know. With his friend Ned Leeds." 

May laughs wetly. "Really?" She wouldn't have expected that. "He doesn't usually bring him up at home." Probably— "Probably because he feels like he needs to protect me. Peter's always been like that. Too worried, like I'm not the adult and he's not the kid. I can't seem to get it through his head that it's my job to look out for him, not the other way around."

Yulia inhales sharply. "...Really?" she prompts, almost anticipatory. "Has he ever—done something because of that desire to protect you? Something that's put him at risk?" 

A rainy, damp night, Peter bundled up in shock blankets and herded between police and EMTs carting away Ben's cooling body flashes in front of May's mind. 

You oughta keep him inside, Jim said. He was right there huddled over Ben's body, trying to staunch the wound. He could've been next. 

He could've been next. "Please tell me Peter's safe," May whispers, her voice breaking. "Yulia, why are you calling me? What happened to Peter? Is he still at school? He texted me that he was out with friends." 

Yulia curses under her breath, but it's close enough to the phone for May to catch it. Her heart stutters in her chest. "May, this isn't a conversation I can have with you over the phone, but this can't wait until Tuesday." 

"You have my address on file." 

Yulia's at the door in fifteen minutes. May is quick to let her in. The teacher smiles tightly and slides off her sandals where the rest of the shoes are huddled, following May to the kitchen table. May doesn't offer drinks, and Yulia doesn't pause in wait for it. "Peter came to school about half an hour late today with a bruise forming on his face and a limp. I didn't get a good look, but I think I saw some bandaging on his arm, as well," she lays out plainly. Her eyes are fixed on her tangled fingers, laced together atop the cheap wood. "I didn't want to call him out to stay after class, I don't—I don't know what that might risk, but that friend of his I mentioned earlier, Ned Leeds, came to me at the end of the school day." 

May's face drains of color. 

"Who did you call?" she demands before Yulia can get another word out. "Was—is someone coming? Is Peter going to be taken from me? I can't—" Her breath hitches. "You can't let them take Peter from me, Yulia, I'll do everything in my power to fix this—"

"Ned's a smart kid," Yulia cuts her off. "He asked me a few hypotheticals about what to do if a friend was at risk, that's all." 

May slumps forward, her forehead kissing the table. All hypotheticals. No reporting mandated. Yulia hasn't called anyone and Peter's not going anywhere, for now. For as long as May is able to keep him by her side, she'll fight tooth and nail for it. "Hypothetically," she echoes, like a prayer. "What was wrong with this hypothetical friend?"

Yulia scrubs a hand down her face before answering. "This hypothetical friend has been getting noticeably thinner, doesn't seem to get adequate sleep, is constantly showing signs of injury, and brings very little to lunch daily, which isn't even eaten. This friend claims to have an internship and thus has no time to spend with friends outside of school, although he also has no friends in school except for Ned. He's cagey and dismissive when asked for details about the internship." 

Peter only goes to Stark Tuesdays and Fridays—every other day he's out he's allegedly with friends (which May had suspected he didn't have) or running various errands. "Are there," she starts with ice in her throat, "particular days that Peter looks less or more beat up or sleep deprived than usual?" 

If Tony Stark is abusing her child—so help her God—no security, no lawyers, and no heroes on earth or from the next solar system over will stop her from gutting him. 

Yulia scrunches her brows and pauses to consider it. "I hadn't kept track, but he usually looks less—well, less injured on Wednesdays? One of my students made a comment that he seems to come in covered in bandages once a week. And he's always more peppy on Fridays, though I could write that off as the weekend coming." 

May deflates with relief, basking in it and completely aware that a new wave of fury is coming on. She doesn't have to kill Tony Stark.

Tony Stark knows her kid is getting injured and didn't fucking tell her? She smiles, terse, at Yulia and snatches her phone up. "Please excuse me for just a second, Yulia. I need to make a call." 

Tony Stark's personal number is in her phone. Ha! Three months ago she'd have called herself crazy for thinking that would ever happen, but here she is furiously dialing his contact. 

"...May?" Tony answers, his tone already colored with nerves. "Is Peter okay?" 

It incenses May just as much as it relieves her to hear Stark's concern. Because of course he's concerned, Peter has been showing up to him injured twice a week, and he didn't fucking tell her. "Why wouldn't he be?" she bites out. "Is there a reason he'd be injured, Stark?" 

"Uh—no, no, but—"

"You have a personal driver, right?" she snaps, too impatient to let him sputter his excuses. Stark confirms warily. "Then drive your happy ass over here now, God help me if you're not here in thirty minutes I am driving myself and Yulia to your building on my own." 

"Yulia?" Stark questions, though she can hear shuffling and the faint automated voice of a call connecting behind him. Good. He's actually getting moving. "Isn't that his teacher's name? Yulia, uh, Kale?" 

"Kape," May supplies, still icy. "You know his teachers' names?" 

"Why wouldn't I?" 

Oh, that grates. That grates badly. "Knock when you get here. Yulia is sitting in my kitchen and we need to have a conversation."

She returns to her seat across from Yulia and forces herself to relax. "Is there an actual internship, May?" the other woman presses, gentle and tentative as though afraid of startling May into a fury. "Someone who might be..." Hurting Peter, she doesn't say. 

May grits her teeth against the fresh wave of irritation her concern spawns. If Stark had just—had just told her her boy was getting into things he shouldn't, had just told her he couldn't reign in Peter's—whatever phase this is, she wouldn't be in this position, scared out of her mind that a man who practically owns half the world is hurting him! "He does have an actual tech internship," she grinds out faux-calmly. "My boy is a genius." Yulia smiles comfortingly, encouragingly. "His boss is the one who's been patching him up." 

"And who hasn't told you about any of this to begin with," Yulia continues, grimacing at the realization. "You said they're coming?" 

"He'll be here soon enough. Water? Tea?" 

Yulia sighs, her shoulders dropping with it. May can appreciate how much genuine concern she can make out in the motion—this is way outside of Yulia's work hours and definitely beyond her pay grade, but it's clear that she actually cares about Peter. May can't begin to explain how grateful she is that there are adults like that looking out for her boy. 

"A water, if it's not any trouble." 

A smile quirks her lips, genuine for the first time since her phone started ringing. "I wouldn't have offered." 

When May opens the fridge to grab a water bottle—sue her, she doesn't feel like reaching obnoxiously high for the cups—she can't help but notice how empty it is. Her lunches (all kindly prepared by Peter or the microwave) are stacked in neat piles of tupperware. Leftover Pasta for tomorrow. A microwaveable fish and chips for Saturday. Apples and a few soda cans stuck in the drawer and waters packed along the door—the only thing there for Peter, because he takes the plastic bottles to school. The fridge is a wasteland. 

She swallows hard and grabs a second water for herself. She'll just refill this one with tap water, like she normally does. She can't help glancing in the pantries too, finding exactly what she'd expected: a half-eaten jar of peanuts, three stale sleeves of crackers, and a cereal box that might actually be collecting dust. 

She walks back to the tables with both waters in hand mechanically, but she can't brings herself to do anything but hang her head in her hands when she sits back down. This—whatever's happening with Peter—is her fault. Because she's inattentive and overly concerned with her work and she just hasn't been watching over Peter closely enough. And it's not as though she's doing some gallant thing, working shift after shift. She's running from her grief, she's trying to drown herself in work so the tears over Ben don't come spilling up and out again, uncontrollable and unstoppable like that first night.

Yulia doesn't waste her breath uncomfortably filling the silence, which May appreciates. The clock ticks on loudly, the silence consuming its echo amidst the brief pops of lids opening and the short gargle-gargle of one of the women taking a sip. It feels like an eternity before a knock tap-tap-taps at the door, and May bolts upright a little too quick when it finally comes. 

As an afterthought, she glances back to Yulia. "Peter's boss is a, er, decently-known name," she warns. "I don't want to blindside you when I let him in." 

She can see Yulia's brows raise curiously, but Peter's teacher blessedly doesn't ask further. She's going to find out in ten seconds anyway. May hurriedly clicks open the locks, swinging the door open and letting an extremely cowed looking Tony Stark come in, tailed by a more-miserable-than-usual Happy. 

It's a shame; May actually does like Happy. 

"May," Stark starts before she can even open her mouth to chide him, "I promise I can explain."

"Tony Stark?" Yulia bites out incredulously. Her disbelief is obviously not malicious, but it's a little amusing how badly Stark startles at the sight of her in the kitchen. He grumbles to himself something about forgetting she was here. May very purposefully ignores him. "Wow, May. Not exactly a 'decently-known name'." 

She rolls her eyes. "He deserves to be undersold." The air sobers again with the reminder of her fury. May hasn't forgotten for an instant. "Stark, sit. Happy—" he probably won't leave from looming over Stark's shoulder if she threatens violence. May decides to quit while she's ahead. "Do whatever you want." 

They go exactly where she'd expected. Stark sits with his back to the wall and Happy stands behind him. May threads her fingers together and stares the tech guru down. "So. You said you could explain." Tony nods, and May gestures widely with one hand, a 'go on' motion. "Explain." 

Stark sighs like he's preparing himself. For what, May can't predict. "...You know how Peter is," he leads with, then winces when May's expression contorts with indignance.

"Are you implying something about him? You think he's not well-behaved? Getting into trouble?" she accuses. She's not normally like this, she prides herself on her patience, on her ability to put logic before most else in dire situations, but...

But she just lost Ben. She was an only child until her brother-in-law and his amazing life came into the picture, and even when she grieved them they left her with her little blessing: Peter. Even now, after all this suffering, she still has Peter. Peter is all she has, and she's his only family, too. It's her God-ordained duty to protect him at any detriment to herself, and she's failed. Failed so clearly that his friends and teachers are worrying when May hadn't even thought to past her usual, constant anxiety for him. 

She'll protect Peter if it costs her anything. Anything. "No, that's not—look, May, he's a great kid. I'm not... I'm not a fan of kids, usually, but..." He glances at Yulia and then shakes his head, cutting off the thought. May has a sickened sense she knows what he was going to say. She could almost hear it in his voice, those words describing Peter in the way Ben always had: 'he's just like a son. My son.' Part of her is grateful Tony has yet to put it into words, because there's nothing she could do to refute them and that feels like moving on. "Peter's just... too good for his own good, I think. If I ask him what he's doing that gets him so roughed up, he'll clam up and start hiding injuries, tell me not to worry, not to think about it. The only way he'll let me treat him at all is if I don't press, May, and you gotta understand that's a trade-off I have to make." 

"But..." May's brows pull together, her warm heart and swirling stomach arguing for control of her emotions. Peter's got such a big heart, and she's so proud of him, but she feels sick to her stomach at the implication that she taught him how to put himself in danger for others like that. Selfishly, she wants Peter to be selfish, even if it makes him rotten. As long as he's rotten and safe. "Can't you... can't you watch the city security cams, or something? Put a tracker in his bag?" 

Even as she suggests it, May knows Tony would've if there wasn't something stopping him. He shakes his head to confirm that fact, a grimace of his own in place. "He'd know and he'd only get sneakier, May. You weren't lying when you said he was a smart kid." 

Yulia's sigh interrupts the silence that takes up the air after that, and May glances over to see her running a hand through her hair. "I'll get out of your hair now, May. Mr. Stark. I'll... I'll do what I can for Peter at school. Please do what you can here. I'm legally obligated to intervene at some point, but you know I don't want to do that to you."

May smiles weakly, standing up to show her out. She can't find any words to respond to Yulia's warning. "Safe travels home, Ms. Kape."

"Have a good night." 

("Pull up the tracker," she can hear Stark mumbling to Happy. "Let's see if he's figured this one out yet.")

May doesn't think she will. 

A mugging stopped. A granny walked home with her groceries. Cat retrieved from tree. 

Normal neighborhood Spider-Man stuff. No attacks on the recently-instated DODC, no alien invasions, nada. A perfectly peaceful and easy-to-handle night; no bullets involved, even. Peter takes to strolling through the sidewalks, greeting people who recognizes him and ignoring the strange looks from people who don't. A few pedestrians even stop him to ask for a picture or a favor. He obliges every time, basking in the feeling of being recognized, but only just. 

Like an internet micro-celebrity. It's kind of cool. Peter would be happy for Spider-Man to stay this way forever. 

Two small figures walk past him—blonde and redhead. Their steps are uncertain and they're pressed into each others' sides, as though wary of everyone surrounding them. The redhead's eyes, when they dart onto Peter for the briefest of moments, are familiar.

(Don't think about it.)

Peter can't help but stop in his tracks, considering his options before crawling up a lamppost to get out of the way. He watches the two figures split away from the steady stream of foot traffic from his vantage point, the shorter girl—they're both girls, the blonde clearly older than the redhead, it's so familiar—tugging the blonde's sleeve until she cranes down to let Redhead whisper in her ear.

(Don't think about her.) 

(Jean—the future—is gone. All of it that Peter knew. He's searched New York top to bottom, fanning out his patrols as far as he dares to go. Jean's nowhere he can find, probably in another state altogether.)

The redhead turns around. Her hood drops, wispy, unkempt hair spilling out over it. Her bangs are missing, but her eyes are the same when they meet Peter's through the mask, pinpoint precision. Her face is the same, if softer and rounder with childhood. 

Hi, Peter, a familiar (so familiar) voice whispers into his head. The redhead smiles and waves.

Peter waves back as if possessed. He very well might be. Hi, Jean, he thinks, and he hopes it's loud enough for her to catch. She flashes a grin that says it was. 

Tap-tap-tap Jean goes at the door to his mind. Peter swings it open without a thought. They sit on his bed together. "We should talk," she starts, tentative. She looks so small. Peter feels small, too. It makes him frown. 

"Yeah, we should," he agrees, holding his tongue. He decides two seconds later not to bother, since she's literally in his mind right now. "If you—if you're from the future like me, why do we both look like babies? Shouldn't our bodies be, like, how I remember them being?" 

Jean cocks her head to the side, assessing him. "What do you mean, from the future?" 

"Wh—" Peter splutters, suddenly feeling stupid. "Aren't you the one who sent us to the past?" 

It would be nice if Jean softened her disappointed stare a little bit, but, well. Can't have everything. "I'm not a time traveler, dummy. I can't send things to the past or future." 

"But that's what you did!" Peter protests, arms flinging out a little childishly. He reigns himself in, a little embarrassed. "You totally did. I was twenty with a bullet hole in me—" he winces at the grim look that overtakes her face, should've softened his wording— "and then I was fourteen lying in the middle of Sokovia." 

That does earn him a genuine look of confusion. "Sokovia?" she echoes. "Like that place from the news? Where the Avengers—er, hm. I guess that didn't happen this time." She offers him a sly smirk. "I guess they have you to thank?" 

Peter can't help grinning back. "Hate to brag, but...." 

"Sure, sure," she dismisses, rolling her eyes. "No, but—I don't have a clue how you ended up in Sokovia, but future me didn't send you to the past, Peter. She stuffed all of future-you's memories in right-now-you's body. Same with me, though I don't know if she erased future me from existence like she did you." 

Peter's mouth opens and closes slowly, his brain a little sluggish in processing that. When he can't figure out how to phrase the hundred questions she's caused, he just weakly echoes, "Erased?" 

Jean shrugs. "The memories cut off barely a minute later. I don't know much more than you, but your whole body vanished when she sent your memories to you. That future has no more Spider-Man, or Peter Parker, or any of it." She pauses, then frowns. "Frank is gonna be upset. She didn't think about that." 

Oh, god. He might actually. Especially after Peter asked so much of him, after they—dare Peter presume—became somewhat close. 

"Well, you would've been dead anyway," Jean concludes, shrugging. "This was the happiest possible ending."

Peter glares at her dryly. "What a pep talk." 

"I'm not a cheerleader," she snips back, but the animosity is a farce. Peter huffs a laugh and draws up his knees, resting his chin on them while Jean leans back on her palms. "I... It was really hard to just wake up in the middle of a park and realize that it'd only be a few years until Sara gets taken. I wasn't... I didn't know what to do, so I told her everything I remembered and we just... we ran. You've been in Queens your whole life and I—you told her, me—" Her voice breaks off, uncertain. 

Peter smiles, bumping their shoulders together. "And I meant it, Jean. No matter what a pipsqueak you are, you've got me, too. I'll look out for you." 

"You're a kid too, y'know," she grits out, despite the fact that she's leaning into his side. "You're, like, twelve." 

"Fourteen," Peter corrects, annoyingly used to this conversation. "How old are you?" 

"...Ten." 

He snorts. "Okay, big girl. How old's Sara?" Saying her name feels like stepping on a landmine, but Jean doesn't flinch or harden. Her smile tinges softer with goo. 

"She's fourteen, too. She was—she is your age." 

"Oooh, when's her birthday? I bet I'm older." 

"You're immature." 

"I totally am older! That means I am!" 

"I'm not telling you shit, Parker. Grow up." 

He laughs all the way to the alley she growls at him to meet them at. 

"We'll stay in touch," Jean promised Peter, and Sara promised Jean, after the whole sent-back-in-time-memories situation was smoothed over. Peter disappeared into the night, off to live whatever life he lived that Jean had seen mere clips of in that far-off future. Jean and Sara, who had no life to return to, no beds to lie in and no family to see, stayed where they were. They made themselves a home in the corner, backs to the dead-end wall. Safer that way; they'll find a homeless shelter tomorrow. 

From there, it's a game of cat-and-mouse. 

The DODC gets active. Peter drops by, somehow always able to tell where Jean and Sara is hiding, and warns them that they're swarming for a cleanup. Sara and Jean hide and suppress their powers. CPS catches wind of two orphan girls running around. Sara plays police officer and tells someone high up in the system that the girls actually belong to so-and-so, it was all a misunderstanding. 

It's exhausting, and a little bit humiliating, but Jean has Sara and that's enough for her. 

Really, Jean has Sara and Pete. (He told her to call him that, if she wanted. She likes bothering him by calling him 'Petey', instead.) When his Aunt May's not home ("I'll introduce you guys soon, Jean, I swear, but I just—she's so stressed already, with work and my Uncle Ben passing. I can't make her feel responsible for two more people, or ask her to keep you guys a secret from—" "Petey, it's fine. You're fine."), he sets up his bed nice and cozy for the two of them and lets them use 'girly' haircare products he'd worked odd jobs to pay for and takes the couch for himself. 

He apologizes like he's still not doing enough and Jean lets him. Sara watches them both, sometimes, like she's seeing two strangers, but the look never lasts more than a moment. Those moments become few and far between when one night at Pete's becomes two nights and two nights become five and then ten and then fifteen and then they're practically living there, dropping in during the day for rest if May's home at night and vice versa. 

On one of these nights, a knock interrupts their heated debate over an extremely worn-down Sorry! board. 

Peter perks up, blinking confusedly. His eyes have gone big and black like they do when he's all spidery. Sara snickers like she always does. She thinks it makes him look like a fawn. "Who's there?" Jean whispers, because apparently she's the mature one here.

"...Ned," Peter answers hesitantly, like he can't understand why he'd think such a thing. "That's weird. He... doesn't usually come over uninvited." 

Not like he used to, Jean can hear him thinking, and she presses a gentle reminder into his head like she always does that that future they saw isn't necessarily their future. "Well, might as well let him in, I guess." 

Peter shoots her a dry look, but blinks his eyes harshly until his pupils are back to a normal size and stands to answer the door. He does his duty of opening it hesitantly, peeking his head through the crack like any responsible New Yorker without super-senses would do. "Ned?" he asks, sounding pretty convincingly surprised. Jean is almost proud, but Sara would unabashedly take credit for teaching Peter how to decently lie, even though she totally didn't. 

He still sucks at it for the most part, anyway. "Hey, Pete," filters in through the doorway. "Sorry for dropping by unannounced. You hanging out with your aunt?" 

"Oh, nah, nah," Peter denies quickly, stepping back to swing the door open. "Come on in, man. You wanna hang out for a little bit? If, uh, you don't mind a few other people being here." 

"I thought I heard other voices in there," Ned crows, as though he'd made some great discovery. "Do you have family staying over?" 

That's when they step back into view of Sara and Jean, two people very clearly not related to the Parkers and very clearly girls around Peter's age. Ned balks. 

All it solicits from Jean is a dry glare, but Sara bursts into peals of laughter that have her leaning back and clutching her side. "Jeez, Pete, this is the Ned you tell us so much about?" she teases, grinning up at the both of them. Jean very strongly dislikes how Ned's face floods red enough to contrast against his skin. "I was expecting someone a little cooler with how much you talk him up." 

Jean is a little more amused by Peter's full-face blush, the red crawling down to his neck as he squawks at Sara not to act like he talks about Ned like some fanboy. Sara argues back hautily that he totally does. 

Ned spends the whole conversation stupidly gaping until his brain cells rub together and come up with, "You have other friends?" 

All three of them stop dead. Peter looks a little abashed but not surprised, the indignance covered in full by Sara's affronted expression. Jean, personally, can side with Peter on this one. He's totally a loser. If she didn't know what she knows about his life, she'd be a little surprised he has friends, too. Actual ones—not friends forged by circumstance. As much as Jean appreciates her relationship with Peter, she knows that it's different. More than a friend, he's like—

(An older brother.)

—she doesn't have a good word for it. 

"I'm Jean," she offers, because Peter still looks too embarrassed to speak up for himself and she knows her sister will maintain her silence as protest. "That's my sister, Sara." To be just a little mean, she adds, "We're not Petey's friends, though. He's helping us for now." 

Of anything, that's what makes Peter frown. He crosses his arms at her, somehow makes the motion look scolding. "I told you to stop with that 'for now', Jean. I told you you have me and I'll stick by that, even after you guys don't need me anymore." 

Sara sighs. "Let's not get into this right now." She's had to mediate the same tired argument probably fifty times by now. Somehow, Jean's unable to conjure any sympathy, because why won't Sara take her side? Peter's not indebted to them. He doesn't—there's no reason for him to stay so persistently. 

She's afraid it's a promise he won't be able to keep. 

"So, uh," Ned mumbles, fiddling awkwardly with his own hands, "'Sorry!'?" He gestures to the beaten-up board that Jean is still certain she's totally dominating, even though Sara is a sore loser and insists otherwise and Peter is spineless and refuses to back her up. 

She huffs, gesturing for him to take the blue piece that's left. "We need a tie breaker anyway. I'm totally winning but these losers won't accept it." 

If only she was blissfully unaware that Ned is as spineless as his friend. She wouldn't have to bear the uncanny guilt that slams into her when she catches Peter's grateful look as he settles back down next to them. 

Ned chatters on and on, clicking in with the three of them with no issue. He's just a generally friendly guy, Jean deduces, if a little nerdy. A lot nerdy. They probably only deal with that as well as they do because Peter's desensitized them to it. 

Or maybe it's because Peter looks happier than she's ever seen him, even though he's usually pretty cheery. Like, unnaturally and constantly enthusiastic. 

This happiness is softer at the edges, familiar, grateful. It's rich with something Jean can't label with a simple word, but is aware of intimately. Something like love. Fullness, contentedness. Being a mind reader doesn't make it easier to describe, annoyingly. 

A little self-indulgently, Jean pushes into the soft gush of Peter's brain, lets herself soak up that warm feeling. As always, he lets her in, that same bedroom waiting for her. It looks different, now, decorated with the traces of her and Sara. It feels different, too, in a way that's not as simple to name.

Sara reaches out, feeling the buzz of Jean's powers, and they play Sorry! with their minds shoving happiness into each other to an extent that's almost cacophonous. 

That room in Peter's mind, the room they're sitting in, this entire dinky little apartment made just that bit brighter by Peter's happiness at seeing Ned, feels like home.

Peter has been doing... better. 

Maybe it's because May is watching more closely. Maybe it's because she's sitting down with him and watching him eat, gritting her teeth and forcing herself to encourage him to eat more when he looks like he's ready to puke. 

He never does. She listens for that, too. 

He doesn't come to school with visible bruises anymore—not that Yulia is able to see, at least, and she keeps May updated. He hasn't broken any limbs, hasn't required any hospital visits. She'd cornered Tony into promising to inform her if that ever did happen. 

Maybe he's just gotten better at hiding whatever it is that earns him these bruises, but May hopes that it, at the least, means he's being more careful with himself. Taking less hits he could avoid. He's never been the most fit of boys, an asthmatic as a child, but it's obvious to May that puberty's grown him out of a lot of that old frailty. Perhaps it's grown him into something else, something she still can't put her finger on. 

He's more careful than he should be, less obvious in his lies in the way that May can't quite guess what he's hiding like she used to. It's frustrating. Especially when his safety is on the line like it is.

Unfortunately, Tony was right. Peter is... too good for his own good, in Stark's words. Too concerned with how his being hurt might make her feel, rather than how it actually affects him. Any questions that would reveal too much, an obvious curiosity in his city activities, would shut him down immediately.

May wants to ground him for life. Till college, at least. Wants to lock him in his room, only let Ned visit and transfer him to online school and quit her job to watch over him forever, wrap him in bubble wrap for good measure. 

But—extreme impossibilities aside—she knows she not only can't, but shouldn't. Because Peter is a good kid. May notices the beggars near their complex have had cups a little fuller lately, notices that this dark and dirty part of Queens has been safer, notices random people catching Peter's eye and smiling in a way no New Yorker does for a stranger. 

He's been out there—getting hurt, going hungry, scaring this shit out of May—helping people. He's been helping people, even at the cost of his own safety, because he's always taken after Ben in that way. 

Maybe that's why it's bothering May so much that she's letting this happen. Maybe that's why she's letting it happen. Maybe that's why Peter is doing this at all. To be like Ben. To do what he can't do anymore. 

Peter was there when the body was still warm. He was still there when the body went cold. May would give anything, anything, to take his place. She'd suffer watching the life fade from Ben's eyes a thousand times over if it meant she could spare Peter that memory, that pain. She can tell it haunts him. It hangs like a shadow over his shoulders, stiff and drooping as though he's bearing some secret obligation, the weight of worlds. 

May can't change the past. Just the future. But right now, she's being forced by her own tyrant emotions to let it run its course. 

So May heats up premade pasta dishes and chicken and fish, when they have the money to indulge or Stark orders delivery to their apartment, and watches like a hawk as Peter eats at least half his plate. At least. That's as much as she's willing to force him, because every bite he takes he looks sicker. 

He doesn't puke, May listens for that, but she can tell it weighs on him. The food. She has a few suspicions why, is sure the guilty looks he casts every time a plate is set in front of him have to do with it, is sure it's related to the way leftovers are always packed neatly for her to take to work. 

She watches. She waits. 

It's Friday. Pietro loves Fridays. They're Peter Days! Stark has Peter over to the Tower (where he and Wanda are living now, with the Avengers staying semi-regularly between here and the Compound) every Tuesday and Friday, though sometimes Peter also comes on other days. Fridays are Pietro's favorite, rather than Tuesdays, because although Stark says he's brought Peter over to work on techy stuff that Pietro couldn't be bothered to understand, he usually just lets Peter loose to hang out around the Tower. 

Which gives Pietro plenty of time to hang out with him! 

Wanda teases him for it, but Pietro is more than just grateful that Peter saved his life; he really likes Peter! He's a nice person, and a good friend, and perhaps enjoyably a little gullible. Pietro would feel worse about it if Peter weren't so happy all the time, but even when Pietro uses Peter's unshakeable kindness to mess with him a little, Peter laughs along and keeps seeking Pietro out. 

It's great. Pietro loves Wanda, loves her more than anything or anyone in the world, but Peter is—Peter is his first real friend. A friend who's not his sister or a HYDRA agent. 

A little more selfishly, Pietro also likes hanging out with Peter because it makes him feel dependable. Peter is rather scrawny-looking and nervous all the time, jumping at sounds none of the rest of them can hear and stuttering over his words. He ducks behind Pietro without realizing, sometimes, or whines to Wanda about his annoying classmates and lets Pietro cheer him up by threatening violence against them.

Pietro hadn't been able to protect Wanda when they were small and helpless, or when they were captured and experimented on like clipped-winged birds. Peter is young and a bit pathetic and very much easier to protect, even though he's almost as bullheaded as Wanda on a good day.

So, Pietro likes Fridays and any other Peter Days he can squeeze out of the week, because he likes being able to swing Peter over his shoulder and race him around the Tower 'til Peter's breathless from laughing, and patch up all the little scrapes and bruises he gets from friendly spars against Wanda, and ruffle Peter's hair and pretend not to notice how he leans into it. 

"Pietro!" Peter calls, jogging into the room. He's light on his feet, like he's made of air. It used to be quite unnerving, because Pietro could never hear him coming. 

He's used to it now, though, and whirls around flashing his pearly whites in a smile. "My favorite Spider-Boy! How are you?" he calls, swooping over as usual to wrap a single arm around Peter's stomach, an ego-boostingly little amount of strength necessary to hoist Peter over his shoulder. "You ready for a—?" 

"Hgrk-!" A sharp gag and a lurch as Peter writhes in Pietro's grip cuts him off. "P-Pietro, no—not today, hnrg..." 

He sounds like he's about to vomit. Pietro is conscious of his speed as he moves to drop Peter on the couch. The kid looks green in the face as he curls into his side, clutching his stomach and expression scrunched tight. Pietro drops to a crouch next to him, pressing the back of his hand to Peter's forehead. "Are you sick, ПетрикPetryk?" He's not running a temperature, but he has looked rather run-down these last few weeks. Pietro frowns at the thought. "You are working yourself too hard, Spider. It's no wonder you're feeling ill." 

Peter groans, rolling away from Pietro and moving his hands from his stomach to cover his ears. 

That can't be a good sign. Pietro softens his voice before carefully prying one hand back. "ПетрикPetryk, are you injured?" Peter winces despite Pietro speaking barely above a whisper, so Pietro lets him press the hand back to his ear. 

"Too loud," Peter breathes out, barely audible. His eyes are still squeezed shut, but Stark's AI has already taken the cue to lower the lighting. 

Pietro huffs to himself, wondering if the Spider would appreciate or be revolted by the offer of some headphones. Neither he nor Wanda experience enhanced senses like Rogers, who is currently staying at Barton's family home, so his guess is relatively uneducated. 

Perhaps two brains are better than one, though. He speeds off to Wanda's room between one blink and the next, having learned his lesson to knock just in case Vision is 'staying over' again. 

Eugh. Of all her choices, it had to be the purple robot with no understanding of social customs. If Pietro dares to believe that excuse, even. 

"Hello?" his sister's voice filters through the fancy door. 

"Вандочка,""Vandochka," he calls. "A bit of help, if I could ask for it?"

She huffs and the door slides open, revealing his sister in sweatpants and an overlarge t-shirt. It's practically her uniform, nowadays, though Pietro can't fault her for preferring comfortable clothes after years of what they wore before. "What happened now?" she snarks with her arms crossed. "I thought it was Peter Day." Pietro grimaces and Wanda sobers. "Is he safe?" 

"I don't know if he's injured, but he's green and sensitive."

Wanda squints at him, though she's already walking hurriedly towards the lobby. "What? Speak clearly." 

"Ehh," Pietro dawdles, the words not forming in his mind. He wasn't quite as smooth in picking up English as Wanda was, but she insists he use it frequently to get better. She'll only indulge him in Sokovian late at night. "The—the sick green. Vomiting." 

"Nauseous," she offers, nodding along and walking a little faster. A trash can cloaked in red light joins them a few seconds later. "And by sensitive, you mean..?" 

"Like Rogers," Pietro compares, sure that Wanda will understand. "ПетрикPetryk is a sensitive spiderling, but not like this." 

Wanda hums when she sees him, though she cuts the sound off when Peter whimpers quietly and curls tighter into himself. She—or rather, her magic—sets down the trash can beside his head just seconds before she settles onto the small stretch of couch not occupied by Peter, and Pietro returns to his position crouched next to the spiderling's head. "Hello, Peter," she greets, in that same barely-a-whisper Pietro had tried.

It elicits a similar breathy response, and Peter still does not open his eyes. Wanda spreads her hands, shrouded in red, and Pietro watches with the fascination that never leaves him as her magic crawls around him, examining. Peter doesn't seem to sense it, not twitching as it fans out around him. 

Wanda frowns, standing up as her magic withdraws and her hands wring together. 

Spread-out injuries, her voice whispers into his head. Pietro is glad she'd thought of it, a little wary of making any noise around Peter right now. Some treated, most more recent. I don't feel anything wrong with the head, but something is... off. 

Pietro takes the cue for what it is, shuffling his hands under Peter's shoulders and slowly jostling him to a seated position. Peter whines at the motion, visibly becoming more nauseous with it, but Pietro just murmurs a short apology and forces him to stay sitting up. It's easier, that way, for Wanda to press her searching hands around Peter's head, checking for bumps or scabs or anything that might indicate a concussion. 

"Peter," she murmurs, soft and gentle. She must have been blocked from his mind again, to be speaking aloud. "Will you open your eyes? I need to check you are not concussed." 

Peter's jaw clenches and he shakes his head minutely. "The lights are down," he promises, and FRIDAY helpfully cuts them entirely. "...More gone, then," he addends. 

"N-no, 'm fine," Peter chokes out, his voice hoarse. 

"ПетрикPetryk, I must check you over," Wanda insists, wheedling. "It will only be brief. I do not want to force, but I must check." 

At the suggestion of force, Peter inhales sharply and covers his eyes with his hands, even as the influx of noise tears another wounded sound out of him. Pietro would like to shake Stark on the shoulders and demand a new piece of technology to fix this, if only the billionaire were even here right now. He'll be in some meeting for another hour, and the Tower is deserted but for them. "No," Peter denies forcefully, and in his snarl flash a set of fangs. 

Pietro and Wanda stare blankly at the boy's bulged lips, meeting each other's eyes with equal confusion and revelation. "ПетрикPetryk," Pietro calls cautiously, with the same wariness as one beckoning a wild animal, "we will not judge a strange appearance. Wanda's eyes are very ugly, and I still love her." 

That draws a breathless snort that's immediately cut off by a weak groan, but Pietro relishes in the small victory even as Wanda glares holes into the side of his head. "Can't, uh..." Peter starts to stammer out, his face relaxing to ease the strain that scrunched expression must be putting on his aching head. "'S weird. Like, really weird." 

"Weirder than the fangs?" Wanda pokes, and that's what gets Peter's hands to drop, eyes flung open wide, as he stutteringly demands to know how Wanda found out about that. 

His eyes are indeed rather strange. Mostly, however, they are quite cute. Exaggeratedly bug-like, in the way that his entire eye has been taken over by the black of his pupil. Peter narrows his eyes a little when Pietro stuffs a hand over his mouth to stifle laughter, though he mostly succeeds by feeling bad about how similar to a kicked puppy Peter looks. "ПетрикPetryk, spiderling, your fangs are out right now. It would be hard to miss." 

Peter's hands fly to his mouth, mortified, as he squeezes his back against the cushions. "I-I—" he stammers, searching for an excuse or an explanation. 

"Is that why you are pained?" Wanda asks before he can come up with a lie terrible enough to make them laugh. "You are... evolving?" 

Peter slumps forward, shoulders curling into himself. "No, I—I've been like this," he admits, still quiet to spare his own sensitive hearing. "I just, uh..." 

Peter has 'just' been quite a few things, apparently. If Pietro were to make an itemized list, it would look something like:

• Peter has just been distracted during fights because of his highly advanced senses, resulting in far more severe and continuous injuries than he should be getting.
• Peter has just been skipping most of his sleep because it's nearly impossible to not hear someone crying for help while in the middle of his thin-walled apartment in Queens. 
• Peter has just been failing to eat regularly because, since his fangs came in, normal, 'human' food has been repulsive to him. 
• Peter has just been hiding his injuries from Stark because Stark apparently received a scolding from May Parker about how injured Peter frequently was, and Stark had 'seemed worried'. Peter 'had not wanted to stress him out, because he has a lot on his plate'. Spiderling's words. 
• Peter has just been forcing himself to eat the human food that makes him feel sick because May has been worried, too, and she feels better if she thinks—knows—he's been fed. 

That last one is, allegedly, why they have found themselves in this situation. Peter's stomach is completely repulsed by most things non-meat and most things non-raw, which is just about everything he's been eating. Not at all the proper diet for a poor arachnid, which has resulted in frequent nausea and even more distraction and exhaustion during fights. That perpetual exhaustion has relegated Peter to relying on a constantly high adrenaline to keep him awake, hence the overwhelmingly advanced senses. He's trapped in an unending fight or flight. 

Pietro wonders if this is what a scolding parent feels like when he frowns down at Peter, hands planted on his hips. "I've told you to rest more, Spiderling, but you've instead completely neglected yourself. Why have you not been feeding properly?" 

"What am I supposed to do?" Peter complains. "Tell my aunt I'd like my food meaty and uncooked from now on?" 

Pietro frowns, a little confused by Peter's tone. "Well, yes?" 

Peter's hands fly to his hair, his eyes fixed incredulously on Pietro like he's the unreasonable one here. "Pietro, the—the whole point of this is that May doesn't know I'm Spider-Man. If I make it obvious I'm some—some mutated little creep, it won't take her all too long to connect the dots and-!" He cuts himself off, drooping forward and pressing a hand to his head as he sways. 

Pietro sighs. "Okay, I apologize. Perhaps that is not your best option."

"There are others who know you are Spider-Man," Wanda points out. "Were you to tell Tony of your needs, you would be constantly overfull." It's true; Pietro has seen that, even though Stark vehemently denies any affection for the spiderling, the billionaire will go to any lengths to look out for Peter and has certainly grown a fair amount of grays because of him. 

Peter averts his big doe-like black eyes then, fixing them to the fancy carpet on the floor as he wrings his hands together. "I just... I don't think I should tell him. I didn't even plan on telling you guys. I mean—it's just..." 

"You are hardly the only mutant in this tower," Wanda says, placing a comforting hand on his head. She, like Pietro, pretends not to notice how Peter leans into it. "Stark, of all people, will not judge you." 

Peter draws his knees up, shielding himself behind them while careful not to displace Wanda's hand from his unruly curls. "I don't care about that," he lies, his voice thick with how obviously he does care, "but I also, I just, I don't wanna be Spider-Man like that with them. Or with you guys. 'Cause if Dr. Banner knows he'll try to work with me on analyzing the mutations and Mr. Stark will try to accommodate them by changing my equipment and Ms. Romanoff might wanna train and I—I get dangerous, and I don't wanna be dangerous, but if they wanna do all this stuff I'll have to, like, let it out. I don't..." 

He trails off with a shrug, drawing in tighter to his knees. 

Wanda frowns, looking inclined to argue the contrary, but Pietro knows—even though he hasn't gotten a field trip into Peter's brain—that pressing won't get them anywhere. At least, not right now. He's sure the only reason Wanda misses that fact is because she's just like Peter in this way; she'll shove all her aches caused by her powers down as deep as they can go until they're destroying her, and then she'll insist on shattering alone when the pot boils the kettle.

Or... whatever the expression was. 

He's lucky, though, that his sister is so much like this new pseudo-little-brother of theirs. It leaves Pietro feeling confident in himself when he concedes, "Okay." 

Peter's gaze snaps up, and Pietro thinks he understands why people like their dogs' big, sad eyes so much. "O-okay?" he echoes, hesitant as though Pietro is tricking him. 

"Mhm. We will not tell a soul, yes? ВандочкаVandochka?" He nudges her side with his elbow, praying her discontent expression remains her only retaliation. He does not appreciate being slammed into reinforced walls with angry magic. 

Blessedly, she seems a little preoccupied also mentally comparing Peter's spider-eyes to a puppy's. She sighs, and nods, grumbling to herself a bit all the while. "At the least, Peter, tell us when these things bother you?" she pleads. "We do not poke and prod like Stark and Banner." 

"Nor am I interested in a fight," Pietro adds with a snort. Getting his ego crushed so thoroughly by a fourteen-year-old was enough humbling for a lifetime. 

Peter smiles a little at the reminder of that crushing victory, and finally unfurls from his legs. "...Okay. Sorry to—to bother you with all this." 

"Not at all!" Pietro crows, refusing to let Peter bask in his misery for longer than a moment. "You have given Quicksilver something to do with this boring day, ПетрикPetryk, so do not apologize!" 

Both his sister and Peter glance at him oddly. "Something... to do?" Peter queries, wary. Pietro is a little affronted by the hesitance. 

Probably reading his mind, Wanda rolls her eyes. "Your methods of occupying boredom, little brother, are never quite safe enough to be left unchecked. Might I remind you of the time I came to find you—"

Pietro is a little upset by the fact that there are multiple rather embarrassing incidents she might be about to reveal, so he hurriedly cuts her off with a complaint that he's definitely the older twin, she's just in denial. "And, really, it's no bad idea," he insists. "I am quicker than a bullet, as fast as light. If ПетрикPetryk says he prefers fresh prey, I will give myself the mission to gather a feast of it!" 

"I—I could just buy red meat from the store, you don't need—" Peter protests weakly. 

Pietro is already dashing off, whooping as the wind rushes past him. The world moves slow when Pietro is going so fast, and so he takes his time finding the chubbiest squirrels and boxes up insects with care, eventually deciding to race out of New York entirely to gather up some more exotic prey and interesting-looking birds for Peter to pick from. 

By the time he's back in the Tower living room, Peter's just barely finished his sentence and Wanda is watching with a smugly satisfied look as a vaguely disgusting array of freshly-killed small prey sits on the coffee table. 

Pietro plants his hands on his hips, satisfied, when he sees Peter wipe a budding drop of drool from his lips. The spiderling's stomach growls loudly as he sniffs the food, lips again bulging as his fangs unsheathe themselves from his gums or wherever they must be hiding. "Go on, ПетрикPetryk!" Pietro urges, shoving the box of insects into Peter's hands. Peter grimaces at them (or perhaps himself), looking vaguely disgusted, but digs in like he's shoving his hand in a box of popcorn. "Eat up." 

Pietro loves Fridays.

Today is the moment of truth, the test of time, the first trial of his true-and-tired Parker Luck. 

Peter is going on a field trip. May had signed off on it with that same worried air she always carries with her nowadays (and Peter knows it's his fault, has been trying harder to not get sloppy and injured on patrols, has forced himself to eat where she can see him and only vomit what he can't keep down where she can't hear) and told him to have fun, but not too much fun. 

"I want you to want to come home, you know," she jokes, ruffling his hair and then pulling him into her side for a half hug. Peter soaks it all up shamelessly, despite the fact that their field trip is to the soup kitchen in their area. He doesn't think May actually read the paper. She'll see the email confirmation later today, so he won't hold her skimming against her. 

Peter tries to hold out hope when, two weeks later, his whole English class piles onto the bus. They're literally going to his home turf, in a relatively unobtrusive area. If anything were to go wrong—well, nothing will go wrong. It just wouldn't make sense. It's not the kind of place that supervillains show up to, or people with guns come to rob. Better to take from the rich than the poor, is usually the principle, even if it's just because the rich have more to steal. 

Desperate people do desperate things. Peter's not a person to hold that against them. 

Still, he finds himself wishing he would shut his big mouth, because he totally, totally jinxed it. 

"Get down!" a shriek cuts through the staff guide's droning explanation of outreach efforts. 

Perhaps a little too used to situations like this, living in the area they do, Peter is the first to drop in sync with the man. The rest of his class falls down, ducking behind things when a spray of bullets embeds into the wall. The door breaks in with a clattering slam. 

A man in an unfortunately advanced-looking suit comes marching in, posture proper but eyes crazed. Why does Peter always get the smart villains? Peter 2 and Peter 3's villains didn't even have nanotech! 

Probably Mr. Stark's fault, actually, if Peter had to cast blame. He doesn't think there is an Iron Man in their universes. 

"I know you're in here, girl," the man snarls, scanning the area. "Did you see this coming, little prophet? You know I was following you all this time?" He laughs to himself, shooting another bullet up in the air and beelining to the first scream he hears. He scowls and stomps away when it's not whoever he's looking for, prowling away. 

Some idiot makes for the door and a shot fires off. It's just a warning, it misses, but the escapee-hopeful drops to the ground with a whimper. "No one leaves," the armed man snarls. "Not until I find her." 

"Wh-who? Who are you looking for?" someone stammers, and Peter wants to shake them by the shoulders. Why would you draw attention to yourself in this situation? Peter is trying to figure out how to sneak out of sight of his classmates to at least throw on his mask and take this guy down. He hates being helpless like this, pinned to the floor while shots are ringing out, still fresh and familiar and sounding like—

"Uncle Ben!" 

"I'm okay, I'm okay. I'm okay." 

It wasn't actually that recent. Neither of those things were. It's all—it's all fine. Peter's fine. 

A flash of red. Jean had said she'd drag Sara here to meet him on his field trip today. 

No. 

"You cost me a lot, you know, little miss prophet." Who is he talking to? Please don't be talking to her. Please, god, if you're out there and you really do love Peter, please say he's not talking about Jean. "All the signs are there, that there's a superpowered little freak running around New York. Running around Queens, more recently," he sneers. "They called me crazy. Called me a pedophile, wanting to track down a little girl. But I know what you are, and I'm gonna drag you in kicking and screaming and run all the tests myself. They'll come back on their knees begging for me back." 

Damage Control. Why is it always Damage Control? 

"We were tracking a case like this right outside New York, you know," he continues, gun tracing across every head he passes. Counting. "A pair of sisters. Right around your age, yours and Sara's. Funny tha—"

He jolts forward, as if possessed. Peter feels his muscles untense with relief. Jean's got him. Why'd she wait so—

"Ah-ah-ah." No, no. "You really think I'd go hunting a telepath without some precautions in place?" He turns, with uncanny precision, to stare at a location back-right behind Peter. He twitches his head over his shoulders and locks eyes with Jean. She's crouched, arms clutching Sara's, and frozen like a deer in headlights. Her eyes are wide and hazy, disoriented. She was shoved out of Damage Control Crazy's head—she's probably left-footed from that. 

Peter needs to move. He's in DCC's line of sight, but only his peripheral, and the floor is swarmed by his classmates. He inches as subtly as he can to DCC's blind spot, gritting his teeth and ignoring the way the people he moves past glare at him with wide-eyed looks of panic. At least they have the mind not to speak, not to give him away. Jean is still swaying in place and Sara very carefully avoids glancing at Peter as he rises to his feet. 

The world sharpens into harsh relief around him. The mumbling of drivers in the cars on the street filter into his ears alongside Mrs. Leones's haggard breathing. Someone covers a gasp as a hiccupping sob, glancing away from where she'd been staring at Peter's face. 

His eyes went crazy again, haven't they? 

DCC stalks closer, and Sara isn't able to pull Jean away without risk; the man is a lot bigger than them, apparently not susceptible to telepathic attacks, and armed to the teeth. If she moves, it's not just her life she's putting on the line. Peter steps closer, slow, slow, silent, and sticks a hand to the wall. He pulls himself up, careful not to let the fabric of his clothes rustle too loudly. He prefers cotton for this very reason. 

He's sure he looks bizarre, crawling straight up the wall and over the man holding a soup kitchen hostage to kidnap two telepaths, but New York has seen weirder. And Sara looks so scared, so resigned, and Jean is still half-dazed and Peter can't... he can't put his secret over their safety. He can't be selfish and be Spider-Man; that's what the mask is all about. That's why he's able to call himself a hero. 

DCC lunges and Peter jumps on the hair-trigger cue, slamming down hard atop him. The metal of his suit just crrrunches faintly, not breaking but bending slightly. Dents are better than nothing, Peter supposes, as he jumps back and away from the wild-eyed man snapping around to look at him. 

"Hah... hahaha!" DCC cackles, smearing a hand down his elated face as a manic grin overtakes it. "Where one comes, the others follow!" he crows delightedly. "Oh, you little freaks... I can't wait to pick you apart...!" 

Oh, that's unnerving. Peter feels his face crease with disgust, Spider-Man slipping back onto his shoulders without his meaning to. "You know, you're really not helping the allegations talking like that, man," he points out, hands on his hips. Maybe a little too casual for a skin-and-bones teen facing down a guy with guns, but he's also a skin-and-bones teen with fully black eyes who just crawled straight up a flat wall, so...

Exceptions. 

DCC doesn't grace that with a response, pulling out a new weapon—some sort of net-slinger—and firing in some attempt to catch Peter. "Interesting choice against the guy who uses webs on the daily, but who'm I to judge? I've made some poor tactical choices in the past," he shrugs, jumping up to the roof and crawling across it hurriedly, dropping down to plant himself between DCC and the Greys. 

"Don't act so cocky," DCC spits, swapping the netter out for... hm, stun gun, if Peter had to guess? "You think you're invincible 'cause you're a mutant freak." Well, Peter would hate to say it so crudely, but if you're going to get technical about his healing factor and durability... He stares down the stun gun without much fear in his heart. Even if DCC does fire on him, even if this weapon is somehow effective against a mutant DCC was unprepared for, Peter can shove him to the ground before he can take a proper aim. 

The weapon shifts to Peter's classmates, still huddled together on the floor. 

Peter's cocky smile and nonchalant posture drop. Someone whimpers and wetly sobs, and Peter can see Ike gripping Hana's hand white-knuckled. His classmates do not have insane durability or even mildly advanced healing factors. If Peter lets DCC keep running his game for the sake of the building's safety, if Peter gambles his classmates lives that the weapon isn't lethal—

Ned meets Peter's eyes, and it steels Peter's resolve even though the decision was made already. 

Peter's not a brutal guy. He's honestly kind of pathetic. Known for getting shoved around at school, had pretty bad asthma as a kid. Orphan, generally reserved, huge nerd. All-around loser. Spider-Man's the exact antithesis of Peter: happy, outgoing, strong. Unbeatable. But he's similar to Peter in that one little way—he's not dangerous. Not to his enemies and not to the innocent. Spider-Man will do everything in his power to save the day, but Spider-Man does not maim or kill. 

He's a friendly neighborhood hero. What would even push him that far?

DCC is smashing into the tile floor of the soup kitchen as Peter breathes heavily, yanking the weapon out of his hands and smashing it over his shielded head. Once, twice, three times, until the helmet cracks and breaks and draws blood from the man's bald head.

Peter is angry. Peter is so angry, and his blood feels hot and his face feels hot and his head is so tight it feels like his brain will pop out as a liquid. Something that feels like instinct whispers in his head hurt, hurt, hurt. He stomps on the man's high-tech suit, wordless outrage twisting out of him in vaguely inhuman growls. DCC howls in pain, scrabbling to get away or at least slow Peter down. 

Peter tosses the stun gun into the wall, watching it crumple with the force of impact. The building rattles a little with it. "Try it again," Peter glowers down at the man. "Try it again, you motherfucker! Threaten me all you want, hurt me, don't you fucking put a hand on people who aren't a part of your fight! You pathetic coward! 

DCC reaches for something else, something shiny, and Peter stomps down and breaks it and his wrist. The man's eyes roll back in his head and he falls limp with a strangled whine. 

Hurt, hurt, hurt, those instincts chant, but Peter stares down at DCC and tries not to make this another Scorpion. He stumbles back trying to even out his breaths, lips pressed tight together and hands balled into fists at his side. 

"Peter," Sara calls, but he cuts her off with the shake of his head. 

"Later," he promises. The explanation can seriously wait. "Are you both okay?" Sara is still basically holding Jean up; the ten-year-old looks tinier than she ever has (and she usually looks pretty small), dazed and trembling with her whole body. 

The blonde clenches her jaw. "I... I'm fine. She'll be fine. Just... stunned." 

"Whatever that inhibitor was was powerful." It was clearly localized, rather than targeting Jean's powers as a whole, but the same principles must apply; Jean was disoriented when Peter put that inhibitor on her in the other-future, and that was when she was older and more stable in her abilities. "You two need to get out of here. I'll... I'll call the cops and we'll get him gone." 

Sara purses her lips, glancing over Peter's shoulder at the approximate fifty people who for sure know he's Spider-Man now. "I could always try to..." 

She's not powerful enough for that yet. "I don't want you to overexert yourself, Sara," he murmurs low. She'll probably end up in a state worse than Jean's if she tries. "Go, seriously." He makes a beeline to his classmates after that, keeping half an ear on Sara as she mumbles to Jean to try and bring her back to awareness, hoisting her towards the door. Peter would help if he weren't trying to shuffle everyone to their feet, telling people to call parents and reminding Mrs. Leones to call the police to pick up DCC. 

He's stopped paying attention entirely by the time he gets to the rest of the soup kitchen, focusing on helping get the elderly or disabled to less uncomfortable positions where they'll be easy for first responders to check over, assessing everyone for any immediate damage. The worst of the wounds are scrapes and bruises from fallen shrapnel, and Peter slumps a little with relief. 

Sara shrieks. "Peter, he's—!"

DCC is sat half-up off the ground and raises a gun. Peter's hairs stand on edge. He hears in slow motion as the trigger creases under the pressure of the man's finger and he's moving before he can think about the familiarity of it all, webs shooting out and pinning DCC back down as he leaps to shove Jean and Sara back to the ground because he didn't move fast enough, the bullet was fired at Sara but he can see Jean's eyes clearing and he knows Jean will try to take it for her, racing closer-closer-closer they don't heal like he heals.

Shick.

The bullet meets flesh with a wet, painful sound. Peter can't help but be relieved as his side explodes in agony. 

Jean jolts fully back to her senses to look up at Peter with terror. "P-Peter?" 

He smiles. "You're okay, Jean. No one's hurt. Sara's okay. You're okay."

Sara lurches forward just as the world tilts back, a wordless scream on her lips as she tries and fails to catch Peter's collapsing body. It's painful painful painful when she presses her hands against the wound, trying to starch the flow of blood, and Peter can't stop himself from whimpering. 

Jean collapses to her knees next to him, breathing fast and tearing up as the rest of the kitchen explodes into chaos. People are scrambling, screaming, running away and dialing 911. "Peter, Petey, no, no, no," she chants, grabbing his hand and squeezing, pressing on top of Sara's, like that'll put the blood back in him. Peter smiles weakly. 

"It's okay, Jean," he comforts her, but it hurts. Everything hurts so bad and Peter is so scared. He doesn't remember being this scared last time—in the future. He doesn't remember tears beading in his eyes or his lips wobbling as he tries to hold his smile or a head-spinning dread. "You two—y'need to find May. Te-tell 'er... to look after you. She'll do it. H-hide. 'Long as you need t-to."

"Stop talking!" Jean shrieks, and though it's meant for him, the whole place falls silent. But for Peter's class, herded together by Mrs. Leones and checked over by her frazzled, skittering eyes, there's only a few staff members and patrons and the frail they're helping to their feet remaining. One young man, falling into neither of the categories, is mumbling in the corner onto a phone, full body wracked with tremors. 

Peter coughs wetly. It's bitter with blood. 

One of his classmates screams and Mrs. Leones teleports over with her shaking hands and drops to her knees next to Sara, flitting over him without touching, pupils trembling. "Peter, Peter, oh my god," she chokes out, pressing one hand to her mouth, under her nose. Probably blocking out the scent of blood. 

He closes his eyes against the fiery pain and continued drip-drip-drip of tears down his cheeks. He makes sure to keep a smile on his face, but it's become less reassuring and more watery over time. "I'm okay," he murmurs, though he's not sure to who. Blood burbles down his chin as he talks.

"I told you to stop talking, dipshit," Jean curses him, breathing hard and haggard through her sobs. "Stop it, Petey. St-stop playing hero! I don't ne-nee—"

"Jean, go," he cuts her off, pretty certain he's not got long left to talk. That's—he's—Peter is scared. "The—they'll come... f-for you... go..." 

"Stop it!" Sara screams, pressing down hard and making Peter choke. "You're going to live and we're going to make sure of it, asshole, so stop acting like you're gonna take the hero's way out. You're not your stupid uncle!" 

Peter sobs wetly. "I did good," he babbles, barely hearing her anymore. He doesn't wanna go yet. He doesn't wanna go like Uncle Ben. "I w's good, h-helped p'ple." 

"Yeah, sweetheart, you did well, you did amazing," Mrs. Leones cuts in, brushing a hand through Peter's hair. It feels like how Peter imagines a mother to comfort her son after a nightmare. How May comforts him. It's nice. "It's okay, sweetheart, you don't need to keep talking. Help is on the way." 

"'N Sokovia," he keeps mumbling, trying to remind himself why he's doing this. "Helped 'em. Did 'em right." 

"Yeah, you did." It's Jean this time. "Even though you didn't need to."

"Fixed it. Mis'r Stark... w's proud." 

He can imagine Jean gritting her teeth. "Peter." 

It's so hard to breathe, it hurts so, so bad. Peter's sure he doesn't have far to go to hypovolemic shock, and he's sure that death is waiting for him on the next corner from there. "T-tell May, tell 'er 'm sorry, n' I didn'... didn' wan' worry 'er, tell 'er..." His breath hitches and he knows he shouldn't waste what little life he has left in him sobbing but he can't help it. "'M scared, May," he pleads to the figure stooped above him, crying and screaming and he's sure he's imagining her. "I don' wanna go, May, pl-please, 'm scared." 

The world goes black. 

Peter is small on the clinic bed. It's not made any better by the flood of flowers and cards and nonsense piled around him, waiting for him to wake. The Tower infirmary—where they're keeping him because Tony will be damned if he sends that kid off to some poorly-secured, completely-public hospital—is cramped enough for it to feel overflowing.

His StarkPad replays the soup kitchen security footage for the hundredth time, a special agony Tony has decided to inflict on himself. 

"'m scared, May, I don' wanna go, May, pl-please, 'm scared." 

Wanda had watched it with him, when she'd come to the infirmary to drop off her and Pietro's gift. She'd flinched and shrunk into herself, admitting that those were almost the exact words Peter had said in the memory she saw where he was—would have been dying. 

(To Tony. He said those words to Tony, clung to Tony, and Tony could do nothing to save him. Again.)

"You can only watch that so many times before you make yourself sick," Steve says, scaring the shit out of Tony as he appears from literally nowhere. 

Tony whirls on him with a hand pressed to his chest, unfortunately genuinely caught off guard. "How the fuck—the door didn't even open!" 

"You just didn't hear it," Steve contradicts, hands planting on his hips. The sight makes Tony roll his eyes hard. "Seriously, Tony. You gotta stop beating yourself up over this. There's only so long you can bury yourself in the guilt. May needs you to be strong with her right now, and the kid's gonna need you when he wakes up."

"If," Tony corrects bitterly. "We've flown in every expert I could get my hands on and it'll be a miracle if he doesn't stop breathing again." Again, because Peter had stopped breathing in the middle of the night, twice. Tony had watched from the security feed, kicked out of the room, as they pumped his chest, forced oxygen through his lungs. 

The little redheaded girl still sits in the waiting room, next to her older sister. They refuse to give him their names, and Tony doesn't care to scrub through the feed again to pick out who is Jean and who is Sara. He'd have to raise the volume to hear Peter, and hearing Peter means hearing his wet, bloodstained breaths and his ragged tears. Every few hours they switch off, eyes closed and breathing steadily. The one awake watches the hall carefully, though they never look better-rested after their nap shifts. 

Tony's left it to Clint to try and offer them beds. The guy has kids, apparently, so Tony entrusts it to him to get through to these brats that looming around like ghosts won't make Peter better any faster. 

So far, Clint hasn't had much luck. Tony peers into the hallway to see Clint gone and the blonde girl glancing around them warily. Redhead's eyes are shut and her breaths are purposeful and slow. A hand lands on his shoulder, tugging him back into the infirmary room. Right, somehow Tony had forgotten about Steve. "Tony," the walking American idol calls again for his attention. "At least get some sleep. Peter's gonna freak if he wakes up to see you looking like crap." 

"I'm not going—"

"You don't have to go anywhere," Steve cuts him off, shoving him down onto a couch Tony hadn't realized was in here, big enough for him to sprawl out on. It's a little embarrassing how easily he's pushed, even though Steve is a super soldier. Maybe Tony's too tired to give himself the grace. "Sleep. I'll watch out for him." 

Peter breathes steady on his too-large infirmary bed and Tony's heart remains heavy. 

Tony's kid, Pepper thinks, is frighteningly like him. She'd almost suspect him to be the product of a fling if he didn't have traceable records of parents that aren't Tony Stark. 

Genetics aside, it seems to run in the code of their shared genius minds to be absolute PR disasters. Pepper hates to think so critically about such a heroic young man, especially while he's actively fighting for his life on a hospital bed, but he's sure giving her a headache to deal with. The happenings of the soup kitchen shooting spread like wildfire through Queens and it didn't take long for the rumors to catch throughout all of New York. It's a miracle this has yet to go national, like the Sokovia scandal did. 

The Sokovia scandal which Peter was also, coincidentally, the heart of. Pepper put in incalculable hours of overtime trying to sweep under the rug the fact that a boy barely older than a preteen was in a warzone and, quite frankly, the only reason things were tied up so neatly without any significant injuries and zero casualties. The Sokovia scandal which Peter, delirious from blood loss, had brought up in front of a horde of loose-lipped civilians. 

Pepper pastes on her best business smile and steps out in front of the cameras, praying to god that her headache won't split into a migraine until this is over, at least. 

The reporters, breath hanging in silent anticipation just moments before, burst into chaos. Shouts of her name and incomprehensible questions scramble over each other, ragged and loud and sharp from a hundred strangers' lips. 

Happy, as always, holds the line between Pepper and the public steadfast. His frown is more vicious than usual, and though Pepper knows he'll never admit it, it's probably because he's worried about Peter. It's impossible to miss the soft spot Happy has developed for the kid, who's so soft around the edges despite the rough hand life dealt to him and somehow knows how to avoid each and every of Happy's buttons. 

He's a good boy. Pepper's almost a little jealous that she's not as close with him as Tony or Happy. She's never really thought seriously about having children, before, too caught up in the insanity of being in a relationship with Iron Man and also running Stark Industries from the CEO's chair, but—but if she had to imagine her and Tony bringing up a son, she'd want that boy to be just like Peter. He'd probably look like Peter, too. Big brown doe eyes, wide like Pepper's and dark like Tony's. Tony's unruly dark curls. Pepper's heart-shaped face. Tony's smile. 

Her stomach roils. 

Maybe she's a little bit worried about Peter, too. 

When no responses make themselves clear and security fans out a bit more threateningly, the reporters calm themselves down. Pepper takes a hold of the microphone handed off to her, raising it to her lips. Her plastic smile has yet to falter. "Hello, everyone. On behalf of both Stark Industries and the Avengers Team, I thank you for coming out today. The Avengers would like to extend their sincerest apology that none of them could make an appearance themselves." 'None', of course, meaning Tony, who's the only one well-respected and PR-trained enough to not make a wreck of this. He's inconsolable and refuses to tear himself from the infirmary for anything except an occasional trip to the bathroom. All his meals are brought to him. 

The rest of the Avengers and Pepper herself had agreed, silently, to leave him be about this. "In light of recent events, concerns and questions of the public have arisen about Peter Parker, the student of Midtown School of Science and Technology who heroically warded off an attack on the Masbia of Queens soup kitchen." The babble rises again, reporters jostling past each other to get closer to Pepper in hopes their questions will be heard. "In hopes of honoring his incredible courage, with the consent of his guardian, I've come here today to tell you his story."

Or, more accurately, the Tony-approved story that won't violate Peter's secret identity and, hopefully, cause him the least amount of trouble possible in the future. 

"Peter lost his parents when he was a young boy, and was taken in by his aunt and uncle, May and Ben Parker. May herself urged me to make it clear that Peter has always had the heart of a hero; he was kind even when the world was cruel to him." She clenches her jaw tight, glancing down at her next notecard as though hoping another glare will make the content change. "Over a year ago, when Peter was just approaching fourteen, he watched his uncle Ben Parker, a police officer, be shot and killed in that very neighborhood in Queens." If it really was that neighborhood, Pepper doesn't know. May had refused to have oversight on this part of the script, but Tony had agreed that the embellishment was sensible. 

The bubbling murmurs of the reporters finally fall completely dead. The hall is instead filled with the sounds of pen scratching on paper, and it fills Pepper with a little bit of disgust. Peter, sweet Peter, will wake up from his insurmountable heroism to find his tragedies pasted all over the news. Mostly by fault of Pepper. May had pleaded with her to use something else, to explain things away using any other reason, but Pepper could find nothing that the public would accept. 

May hadn't been able to help, because she has yet to even find out Peter's biggest secret of all. 

That, too, is a special little guilt Pepper carries in her heart as she continues talking. "Peter has a hero's heart, and that wasn't changed by his grief. In fact, his grief instead pushed him to help people however he could. Peter's abilities stem at their greatest from his exceptional mind." Scribble scribble. Cameras flash and shutter. "He caught wind of the Ultron tragedy in a quite physical way; a malfunctioning corrupt StarkBot targeted him for attack before short-circuiting and exploding. It was, the Avengers have realized after further research, Ultron's 'trial bot'. Were the corruption more sophisticated, Peter may not be alive today." 

Scribble scribble. More dirt on Stark Industries, more things for Pepper to sweep under the rug. She's doing this for Peter. 

"It was because of this incident that Peter was able to stow away on the Avengers' transport out to Sokovia. He—"

"What about security?!" someone hollers, a young man loud and red-faced enough to cut through the scribble scribble. "He's a kid!" 

Pepper smiles a little more forcefully. "An incredibly talented child, I must remind you. Peter's ability to stow away was, of course, aided by the hurriedness of the situation. However, it was Peter himself who designed and built the technology that ultimately disabled Ultron, one of Mr. Stark's most advanced AI creations. He designed and built this inhibitor, in addition," she cuts before another too-bold young person can interrupt, "out of Sokovian scraps. He worked with what was provided to him in the way of technology solely within Novi Grad, with no advance warning, and managed to collapse and disable Ultron simply through studying the remains of the StarkBot that attacked him." 

Another wave of loud chatter. The security tightens and pulses, then fans back out. Steady, slow circuits until the crowd once more calms. "Because of this immense feat, and a desire to make reparations for the harm and responsibility that befell Peter as a result of the Ultron AI's corruption, Mr. Stark took Peter in as an intern and has been nurturing his incredible mind since then." 

"The webs!" an older woman calls. It's a face Pepper half-recognizes, a face that's definitely well-respected by the way every head turns towards her as she speaks. "Every Masbia victim reported webs!" 

Breathe in, breathe out. Tony went over this with her. Pepper lets her PR smile tip into something a little more genuine and fond, playing up the affection for childish whimsy for the cameras. "Peter, as an intern, has nearly unlimited access to Mr. Stark's labs and supplies." She leans a little closer to the reporters, eyes curling up with a mischievous smile as though she's sharing a secret. "And he is quite a big fan of Spider-Man." 

As quickly as that, the final hole in their story is stitched neatly together. The webs, the strength—it can all be explained away as technology even geniuses come short of understanding, a product of the great Tony Stark's supervision and his mini-me's admiration of a local hero. Anything that can't will be chalked up to adrenaline, to bystanders remembering things improperly. The footage has long since been removed from public record, property of SHIELD. 

Pepper lets the reporters go wild, picks a few questions at random to respond to, tries to find the perfect Goldilocks of how much to play up or play down Tony and Peter's closeness. Any more lovechild allegations might actually be the end of him, but being seen as neglectful will ruin him just as badly. 

"If Parker only lives with an aunt," a reporter calls out as Pepper is already walking away, most of the chatter dulled in favor of the shutter-click-flash of cameras, "will Tony Stark be taking part in his care? Is he considering adoption, Ms. Potts? Shared custody?" 

Pepper is careful not to make her steps off stage any faster. God have mercy on her heart.

The bedroom doesn't look like it used to, the first time Jean visited it in that far-off future. This time, it looks truer to life: messy and a little haphazard, walls filled to the brim with markers of Peter and desk spilling over with traces of Sara and Jean. 

Peter still sits on the bed, and Jean still joins him. She can hear May bustling just outside, some far-edge of Peter's consciousness reminded of her always. 

"Hi, Peter." 

He smiles, tight around the eyes. "Hi, Jean." 

Jean knocks into his side, their shoulders bumping together. It ticks her off, a little, how naturally the motion comes to her. How naturally Peter relaxes into it, even in the non-physical realm of his mind. "I'm pissed," she says, because she can't be bothered to find some more delicate way to start this conversation. "There's only so far I can send you back before you stop existing at all, asshole."

"Jean, I—" He cuts himself off, laughing wetly. "I really wasn't expecting you to do that. Please understand I'll never put that responsibility on your shoulders. If anything happens to me, it's not—"

"Shut it," she snaps. "Of course I know you weren't expecting me to. That's your problem." Peter blinks at her, wearing that same kind smile and seeming confused. Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Jean almost wishes she'd taken Sara up on her offer to tag-team Peter's brain and force a promise to never, ever do that again out of him, but the selfish part of Jean that has started to see Peter the same way she sees Sara wanted to do this alone. She listened to it, and now she's paying the price with no one here to back her up as her irritation bubbles over for Peter's stupid lack of self-preservation. "There was—you have everything back, Peter. You didn't have nothing to lose like—like you did in that future. You have a life to get back, a real, full life with people who'll miss you." 

Why would you give that up for me? 

Peter's smile has faded but his eyes are still so—too soft. "And Sara wouldn't miss you?" 

"She wouldn't ask you to trade your life for mine." 

"She would." Jean despises, truly despises, that she can't contradict him with certainty. For all her power as a telepath, sometimes she can't tell what her sister's thinking. "She should, Jean. You have a life worth living, too, and if I can protect that, it's my responsibility to." 

Jean scoffs, and this time it's her voice that sounds wet. Stupid Peter is at fault, as always. "With great power comes great responsibility, yeah, yeah. Have you considered that I also have great power, Parker? I froze an entire island. I can practically stop time." 

"Then why didn't you?"

She couldn't, and she knows she wouldn't have been able to, her entire brain shaken and rattled by that Damage Control bastard's device, but she wants, so desperately wants for Peter to concede to her, just this once. "That's not fair. I could've... I could've done something, Peter. You shouldn't have—you can't, it's not—you're not just Spider-Man anymore," she urges desperately, her volume picking up. "You said it yourself, Peter! You're both! You can't let Peter Parker die because Spider-Man wanted to play—"

"Jean." His voice is soft when he cuts her off and maybe it's that, maybe it's because he doesn't rise to her aggression, that Jean falls silent. "You're right. I'm both. Spider-Man can't refuse his responsibilities even if Peter Parker is scared, even if it kills him." He pauses, smiling again as his shoulders slump and he stares at Jean with something she's afraid to call love. "And Peter Parker can't allow Spider-Man to cower and live to save another day if it means losing you."

Her stupid, unreliable throat releases something like a sob and Jean curses herself. She curses herself silently and then aloud, and then throws in a couple curses at Peter for the hell of it, makes sure to spend a separate breath insulting Spider-Man, and she keeps spitting fire even as Peter's arms wrap around her (pulling her out of the way, danger-danger-danger she's too late again) and she sags into his chest, sagging with the relief of being able to hear his heart go thump-thump, thump-thump.

A hand strokes through her hair soft and gentle, like he's afraid he'll put too much pressure and pop her skull like a brains balloon otherwise. Jean sniffles into the touch and clings to Peter's shirt—gown, more like, that stupid thing he's wearing as he lies in Tony Stark's stupid, useless infirmary bed—all the while. 

"You gotta wake up, Petey," she murmurs, barely a mumble, when she finally gets herself together enough to take a breath. "In real life. It's been... it's been too long, and May's worried, and so is your stupid hero dad, and pretty much the entirety of New York." 

Peter laughs, as though she's not being dead serious (he probably thinks she isn't, and she won't press; his shocked face will be her retribution), and ruffles her hair a little less like he's holding fragile glass. "Okay, Jeanie. I'll do my best." 

"I told you not to call me that, asshole, it sounds so stupid," she snips without bite, pulling away and scrubbing at her raw eyes. The most that'll transfer over is a scant few tears where she's sharing his bed, lying with her head pressed against Peter's beating heart. "I'm serious, though. Wake up soon." 

He sounds a little more genuine, this time, when he promises, "I will." 

It's one day later, a week and a half after he was shot, that Peter Parker opens his eyes. 

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The Littlest Avenger: Novi Grad's Hero Has Become New York's

By Jordan Whelk | 12 March 2016

Peter Parker: all of New York knows his name—probably most of Eastern Europe, too. He's perhaps the best-known fourteen-year-old in the world right now, and it has nothing to do with his attendance of the prestigious Midtown School of Science and Technology, or even his unprecedented internship with Tony Stark. No, Parker's fame comes from another name, one that almost every schoolchild has whispered since the newsreels and photos first came out. New York's hero is the very same Littlest Avenger from the Novi Grad disaster.

Our hooded hero—who wasn't actually wearing black at all. In Sokovia, on that fateful day Parker put himself on the Avengers' map (see this article on the press release from Stark Industries CEO Pepper Potts), he was apparently wearing this exact jacket. It's a charming detail as much as it is a tragedy. At fourteen years old, Parker tugs all the heartstrings that spawned articles on the ethics of young heroes back in August. He's young enough to admire New York's local vigilante so innocently, yet has forced himself to act old enough to stop a global threat and take a bullet for a friend. 

In light of recent updates indicating Parker's steady return to health, perhaps the tragic attack on the Masbia of Queens can be seen as a blessing in a very terrifying disguise—all eyes are set on this young hero, and perhaps we, as New Yorkers, can find ourselves inspired by his bravery and unique use of his talents to be heroes for the people around us. "[His philosophy is to] look out for the little guy," Genevieve White, who was saved from the bullet by Parker's intervention that day, said about him. "He cares... even when it hurts him." 

White (whose exclusive interview you can read here) also brought to light the heroism Parker displays in his day-to-day life. Genevieve and her sister, Sally, were homeless; unwilling to be taken in by Child Protective Services for fear of being separated, they wandered New York as vagrants until stumbling upon Parker in Queens. Without question and with "too much enthusiasm to be safe," White says, he "took [them] in and made his home [their] own. [Sally and Genevieve's] stuff is still in his bedroom... taking up space even though [Peter] never told his aunt he was taking care of [them]."

Their story is more than just one of heroism, though; it is a story of finding family, even outside of blood ties. May Parker, upon discovering the White sisters whom her nephew and only living relative was willing to die to protect, agreed to take them in immediately, housing them even in the wake of her worry for her injured nephew. White expressed that she "think[s] of Pete[r] like a brother" because he "is reckless and... loves to make me worry." 

Unfortunately, Mrs. Parker was not in the financial condition to legally adopt the White sisters, nor was her living space deemed acceptable to proceed with a formal custody acquisition. Crowd funding began immediately, of course (and you can still donate!), but Tony Stark works faster. We aren't privy to the details, but a full adoption and custody agreement has been arranged between May Parker, Tony Stark, and Pepper Potts-Stark: those three are the official guardians of both the White sisters and Peter Parker, and the White sisters will live full-time with Stark. 

Critics suspect that the reason Parker was included in the custody arrangement is so that Stark can oversee and facilitate his medical care without hassle. The administration of emergency treatment was, of course, of the utmost importance, but what has been leaked to the public indicates that Parker's care in Stark's private facilities has involved significant government interference. 

Speculation has...

Related coverage of this story

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"That's—that's the worst photo they could've used! May! How did you even find those?!"

Ned splutters. "Dude, that's what you're worried about right now?! Who cares about how the photo looks?!" he squeals, not even giving May the chance to try to respond. Peter frowns, sure that May's not particularly miffed by that cutoff. "You're a hero, dude! Did you even read the first paragraph, man? This guy is, like, calling you famous. World famous! People in Eastern Europe know you, man!" 

"Yeah," Peter murmurs dryly. "As you can see, I've been there." He'd really like to gloss past the whole... Sokovia thing. One twenty-minute-lecture-turned-cry-session from from May was enough to last Peter a lifetime. Multiple lifetimes. He's just glad he hadn't been awake to see May tearing into Tony for it (the Tony Stark!), and especially glad he hasn't had to see the rest of the Avengers to suffer their weird looks when they inevitably come to think of him as the odd kid whose aunt scolded them. 

He's a little sad he missed the rapid development of Aunt May and Mrs. Potts becoming friends, though. They're sitting together in the infirmary couch right now, occupying each other so Peter can have some time to talk with Ned. 

Ned groans at Peter's nonchalance, smearing a hand down his face. "You've gotta be crazy doped up, still, man," Ned complains. "How are you not freaking out?" 

"Do not freak out!" May interrupts before Ned can get any further with his prompting. She looks a little pale. "No freaking out, Peter Benjamin Parker, or you're grounded. Even longer than you're already grounded." Crap, Peter's already grounded for, like, a while. He does not need to be adding to that. 

He sends off a mock salute, to which May huffs and slumps back into her chair, immersing herself back into the conversation with Mrs. Potts with half an ear on Ned. Ned cringes a little, looking guilty. "Sorry, Peter. I probably shouldn't be trying to get your heart racing." 

Peter just shrugs. "You weren't wrong," he lies, "I'm totally still doped up." The painkillers flushed out of his system a while ago. He thinks Bruce and Tony are both catching up on sleep right now, which is why they still haven't been refreshed. Or they're just trying to not overdose him, who knows. Peter would appreciate it a little more if everything didn't hurt so bad right now. 

Mostly his side, though. Definitely his side. 

Ned snickers, flashing a grin. "Be careful with that stuff, man. Drugs are baaaad." 

"You're a loser," Peter groans, rolling his eyes and pretending he's not grinning like an idiot.

"Don't say I didn't warn you!" Ned crows, shifting his weight lightly from foot to foot. Peter can't tell if the motion is supposed to be taunting. "I can see the tragic future already: Peter Parker, once-hero, now-dropout; a drug addict." He shakes his head, faux-mournful. "A travesty beyond words." 

Peter rolls his eyes a little harder and offers Ned his phone back. "Alright, alright. I'll ease off the hard drugs and just face the blunt pain of a shotgun wound. Maybe it'll make me a real man." 

Ned's eyes widen, his posture jolting a little straighter with alarm. "Shit, are you okay, actually? Do you, um, need a nurse, or something? Are you in pain?" 

The sudden change makes Peter laugh breathily, which then makes him double forward and groan because ow ow ow owwwwww. 

Being shot hurts, motherfucker. 

Ned starts freaking out a little bit and it really tests Peter's self control because laughing would, objectively, make this worse, but some part of Peter can't comprehend that Ned—Peter's Guy-in-the-chair, Ned, Ned who's helped him cover up all manner of crazy injuries in some past future—is acting so surprised. Maybe he's laughing because thinking it's funny is easier than remembering that it hurts. Just a little. An old wound, a scab constantly picked at by surfacing memories. 

He breathes even and careful, straightening up a little. "I'm fine, Ned. I'm just messing with you."

"No the hell you aren't, brat," Tony interrupts, steps silent in his stupid-looking fluffy slippers. (They'd been a gift from Peter, who'd bought them from the corner store because he thought it was funny. Tony wears them all the time.) "Who's in charge of your drip? The painkillers have to have been flushed from your system by now, it's been at least two hours since they're processed on average." For Peter, at least, who goes through painkillers disgustingly quick. 

Peter shrinks in on himself as the whole room turns to assess him with sharp eyes. "Peter," May starts, something warning and reedy in her tone. She pauses, and sighs, glancing at Ned and then at Tony and finally back at Pepper when she puts a careful hand on May's shoulder. "Just... just let someone else look after you, Pete, please. Even if it's just this once." 

Ned takes a half-step towards the corner, looking a little awkward with the emotions leaking from May's voice. There was a time, once, where he would've joined her instead of shrunken away, but they're getting closer to it. Peter's okay if that's not right yet. May keeps talking. "You put so much on yourself, and there is nothing I am more grateful for in this world than what a wonderful person you are, but it's not your responsibility to—"

"You listen to me. You have a gift. You have power. And with great power, there must also come great responsibility."

She had been so—she'd almost seemed angry, and Peter hates that that was the last version of him that she saw; the last version of Peter she knew, even in a future that's no longer real to him, was unsure and afraid. 

"It is." 

Her jaw clicks shut and it draws tight. "Peter, don't you start this argument—"

"Aunt May." It's a surprise she hears him; his voice is soft. Pepper is looking on with her lips pressed tight and when Peter glances at Tony he almost looks... does he look proud? Peter slides his gaze back to his aunt. "I—I can do things, things that other people can't do. And these things can save people, May, and if I don't use these gifts to save people and people are hurt, that's on me. Because I could've prevented it, because I could've chosen to do good. I can't do nothing," he pleads, feeling himself become a little shaky and a lot desperate for her to understand. "You can't ask me to do nothing." 

Ned is fully cowering in the seat in the corner of the room, trying to make himself invisible. Peter is acutely aware of his presence regardless, is acutely aware of his flinch as May starts to cry. "Peter, you can't do this to me," she pleads, and it's almost enough to make Peter want to stop. Almost. Maybe, if Peter didn't have the memories he does, memories of her holding him by his shoulders and telling him that this—that Spider-Man, that the safety of New York, all of this—is his problem, he'd have caved. 

But he does have those memories, even if May doesn't, and he'll always have the outlook May instilled in him. He says nothing as she pleads. 

"You can't be like Ben, Peter. You're fourteen. You're not old enough to be a hero." 

Maybe she's right. Who knows? There's not exactly an age bar. Peter's long past the point of caring. "I know, May." 

"Then why are you doing this?" Her hands fist into her skirt, wrinkling the fabric. She has yet to part from Pepper, who's rubbing consoling circles on her back. Peter's a little grateful that neither she nor Tony have tried to intervene. "Why... why are you sitting on that bed, hurting, and looking at me like you're not to going to stop?" 

Peter opens his mouth, then closes it. Her eyes are bright and searching and warning. Afraid. "I..." What can he say that will make her understand? He doesn't want to drag her into his mess, again, the same way he's resolved to keep everything away from Ned. That way, if people have to forget him, Peter at the least won't have that painful thread of Ned's Spider-Man obsession killing him slowly. He wants to keep them safe without some stupid memory spell, wants the people he loves to live for once. 

He wants to listen to May and run away from all of it. From the Tower, from the mantle of Spider-Man, from the powers turning him into a half-spider freak who can't even eat normal food. 

"This is what we do, Peter, we help people." 

But he can't. The spider—the gift—is as much a part of him as his blood, as his skin, every part of him that is his mom and every part that's his dad. The responsibility runs through his veins and the will is built into his heart, nurtured and shaped by May herself.

Peter is done running away. What good has it ever done him? He opens his mouth again, the room still entrenched in silence as May waits for an answer, and hesitates only a moment. 

"I'm Spider-Man." 

Ned chokes and a shrill noise escapes May's throat. "What the fuck?!" 

To her credit, Pepper doesn't gawp at him for revealing it so abruptly, though she does blink as if disoriented for just a moment. It's Tony who breaks the stunned silence that follows, snickering and then fully laughing into his fist, drifting over to pat a hand on top of Peter's head—noticeably careful, more tender than Peter thought Tony could be—and grinning down on him like they've collaborated on a particularly excellent prank. Peter can't help staring back up stupidly. 

Tony looks proud fond happy pleased proud proud proud proud—

"Wasn't expecting you to come out with it just like that," he teases, that patting hand ruffling just a little. Peter would be peeved if he cared at all about how his hair looks, because he'd spent ten minutes after waking up trying to comb it with his fingers. "I'm proud of you, kid." 

And then Ned starts screaming.

The post earns Peter an entire eight-minute lecture from Pepper—he timed it—because that's apparently something she does now. Because May's at work already and Peter is technically her legal son(?). Son-adjacent thing?

Peter's still kind of mad at Jean for just waiting for him to find out about that whole thing on his own.

But—off topic. The post. Peter really hadn't expected it to gain any traction! Nobody follows or even knows his stupid Twitter account, not even the kids from school! The only one who has it is—

Ned. Oh god.

Pepper looks a little smug as the grim realization dawns on his face. "Only Ned knew, right? That's what you were about to tell me?"

Peter ducks his head, thoroughly cowed. "Sorry, Pepper."

"As you should be, young man. I tell you these things for a reason, you know! I'm the one in this house with the most PR experience, on your behalf, no less!" Peter mumbles another apology under his breath, shuffling his foot side to side. Pepper just sighs, patting his head. "Do you want Happy to drive you? I'd feel better knowing you're not getting stalked the entire way to your school."

"That kind of feels like a moot point given all my information's already out there," Peter points out dryly. "I don't want to bother Happy, anyway. He's been a little weird since the whole, uh..."

"Eating live prey in front of him incident?" Pepper fills in helpfully. She gives him the same amused look she'd worn that day. "It was certainly an interesting way to come out with the truth. I was about ready to throttle Maximoff before I realized it was actually good for you."

"In my defense!" Peter squeaks, "I really didn't mean for it to happen like that! I was just, I was just kind of really hungry and Pietro offered some of my favorite beetles and I didn't even really think about it, so..."

That earns him a laugh as Pepper reaches for his head again, this time smoothing his hair into place. She's insisted that he has it nicely styled, because papparazzi is undoubtedly going to be on his ass for a while. "Anyway, Peter, Happy's really not bothered by it. He was convinced you were going to start asking him to collect bugs for you on the way here from school, which is why he's been avoiding you. It's nothing personal." 

Peter can't help the face he pulls. "That... that feels a little personal." 

"He equated it to you asking to stop for fast food," Pepper reveals, shrugging. "Not the conclusion I'd jump to, but he'll be fine as long as you refrain from requesting fresh roadkill. He's a little squeamish about dead animals." 

It's a little funny to think that Tony Stark's head of security is squeamish about anything, but Peter can admit that's a fair thing to be grossed out by. If Peter didn't need to literally eat them to live, he'd stay far away from bugs and small rodents. He, unlike Happy, does not have the luxury. 

Pepper sobers, her arms folding over each other. "I'm serious though, Pete. Have Happy drive you to school. I don't feel like risking the subway, and the Tower's too far away to get there in a decent time anyway."

"I could just swing there," Peter offers, half-hopeful. He kind of doesn't want to be driven. He's going stir-crazy, cooped up in the Tower like he has been. He literally hasn't felt fresh air on his skin in, like, a month. He's not even allowed to patrol! Even after his physical therapist said he was good for normal activities! 

Like a bummer, May had argued that 'normal' activities don't include swinging around New York stopping crime. Peter can't help believing Tony would've sided with him if she hadn't spoken up, which he's a teensy bit bitter about. 

Pepper probably would've shut it down too, actually, had she not been busy working at the time they'd had that conversation. She's frowning down at him now like she's considering mandating another week of bedrest just for that. "I really hope I don't have to tell you why that's a no." 

"Yeah," Peter sighs out, slumping. "I know. figured I'd give it a shot." 

That softens her just a little bit. Pepper huffs and crosses her arms, considering him for a moment. "Alright, Pete. I understand. You've been cooped up for a while. You want to go out and feel the New York smog." He doesn't appreciate the disapproving tone she's using, but yes, essentially. He's not going to argue for fear of her rescinding whatever compromise she's working up to. "I'll make you a deal. You can walk out to the edge of the Tower sensors—I'm sure you know where that is—and Happy will pick you up there, okay?"

A grin is already working its way onto his face. Peter will take what he can get, and this is pretty good. The property in the vicinity of the Tower is pretty expansive, as expected of a billionaire being its owner, so Peter can get in a solid five minute walk before he's shuffled away into Happy's car again. "Thank you, Pep!" he crows, barreling into her for a quick hug before rushing out past her before she can change her mind. "You're the best!" 

Some kind of strangled noise floats over to his shoulder from where she's standing, but Peter's too excited to pay it much mind, already bouncing on the balls of his feet as the elevator door closes behind him. "Take me to the lobby, please, FRI." 

"Of course, Peter," her smooth voice replies, his only warning before the elevator goes rocketing down at ridiculous speeds. 

That, too, makes him grin a little. "You're finally allowed to take me at a normal speed again?" he asks, well aware that part of his 'bed rest' had included forcing FRIDAY to slow the elevator when he was in it, like the normal Stark employees and interns are subjected to.

She seems a little amused. "Yes, Peter. Protocol 'INJURED SPIDER_BABY' has been disabled." 

"Spider-Man, FRI. Injured Spider-Man," Peter groans. 

"INJURED SPIDER_BABY is the protocol name, Peter. Would you like me to change it To INJURED SPIDER_MAN?" 

"Please! You're the best, FRI!"

A lull of silence echoes in the elevator. It doesn't usually take FRIDAY longer than a second to do this kind of thing, so the pause is a little weird. "I'm sorry, Peter, it doesn't appear I'm able to follow your request at this time." Peter groans, already expecting her to play the voice clip from Tony. He's had way too much time on his hands lately, because it seems like every time Peter tries to do anything, there's some quip waiting for him. "Boss has requested I relay to you:"

"No dice, protocol stays how I name it. Maybe when you're a little more grown, but for now you're SOL, Spider-Baby." 

Peter huffs a little petulantly, rolling his eyes. "Well, FRI, send him a video of this." He sticks his tongue out at FRIDAY's camera on the ceiling. "Asshole." 

"Language, Peter," May's voice plays over the speaker, making Peter jump out of his skin. 

What—what the fuck? What was that?! 

"Apologies for startling you," FRIDAY murmurs. "Sexy Aunt has requested I play that whenever you say one of the words registered under my SWEAR_BANK." 

It's a blessing that the elevator door opens as quickly as it does, because Peter suddenly can't wait to get out of this godforsaken tower. Stupid protocols treating him like a baby. He's fourteen! That's old enough to take care of himself! And definitely old enough to swear in his private time! Peter should've considered how lethal May would become with access to Tony's technology. She's insisted on, on top of all the stuff like FRIDAY's 'swear bank', keeping a tracker on him at all times that'll alert her and Tony if he's in 'lethal danger', or something.  

...Peter's a little less inclined to complain about that one, actually, because he doesn't have KAREN yet and when he was on the floor of that soup kitchen he hadn't even been able to grab his phone to tell May he loved her or call Tony for help or—

"Take a breath, Peter."

He jumps, not having noticed Jean approaching. He laughs a little awkwardly, scrubbing his face to cover up the way he'd flinched. "What're you doing down here?" Her school—elementary, she's only ten, god if Peter hadn't—doesn't start for a while. 

Jean raises an unimpressed brow. "I'm not allowed to walk around in my own home?" She doesn't waste time waiting for him to come up with some snippy reply to that, or just gape in grateful silence at the fact that this really is her home, their home, now. "I wanted to tell you to have a good day, nerd. Sara was waiting up, too, but she had to leave for school. It's busy outside." 

"Traffic, already?" It's not even seven in the morning. "You'd think the nine-to-five was dead." 

That earns him a dry, unimpressed look, before Jean shakes her head and mumbles to herself, "Maybe you are just that stupid." 

"Hey!" 

Jean rolls her eyes, turning sharply on her heel and beelining for the elevator. "Bye, Petey. Have a good day." 

That's enough for him to walk out the door with a smile, despite knowing the honking of cars and screaming pedestrians will kill his head. It's a five minute walk to the street Happy picks him up on, right outside the garage, but the street follows the perimeter the whole way across, blocked only by the busy sidewalk. 

The busy sidewalk full of people... standing still and holding signs? Is there a protest going on? Outside the Tower? That's a little concerning. Did Pepper know something about people having a problem with Tony again? Maybe that's why she was so insistent—

"Hey, it's Peter!" 

Huh? 

That rippling crowd of people shuffling from one foot to another suddenly bursts to life as though struck by a spark off a flint, cheers deafening Peter and stomping clattering over the traffic as signs and banners and posters are waved around. 

WE LOVE YOU!, some of the posters say. Others hold signs with large letters pasted by his eighth grade yearbook photo (eugh) spelling, NEW YORK'S HERO! There are people Peter half-recognizes among the horde bordering the Tower perimeter, people from his neighborhood and at least three quarters of his last-period English class and people from the soup kitchen and about a hundred people he's never seen in his life. 

"Peter! Peter! Peter!" they chant. 

Peter goes still, sure he's making some dumb, caught-off-guard face as cameras flash towards him and the crowd of—supporters? Something like that?

He hasn't been forgotten in this world, he's never been truly, really alone the way he was in that not-real-future, but it was easy to go through every day with May not knowing, with Ned not knowing, and feel like an impersonator wearing Peter Parker's skin. It was easy to walk around like a ghost, to say every one of Spider-Man's quips like a scripted line and float through every conversation only half-aware.

It'd been easy to not feel real, to feel like a person who no longer has a place in the universe. To feel like all of this, this second chance—better chance?—he's been given was a mistake.

They're cheering for him. For—for Peter. Not for Spider-Man, or the Avengers, or Night Monkey or a SHIELD agent or—or anything but him. 

Peter Parker. New York's hero, New York's loved. 

A watery grin splits through his expression of surprise, his vision blurring with beading tears. Shutter click flash go the cameras, but Peter's eyes are stuck on the front and center of the crowd that's parting to let Ned stumble through. He's waving wildly, smiling lopsided and laughing breathlessly to himself. "Sorry, Peter! I only meant to show the AcaDec team!" 

Wrapping his arms around Ned's back, hiccupping into his shoulder, letting Ned squeeze the life out of him in return, feels all too natural. It feels like coming home.