Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter’s life can be best described as… fleeting moments of happiness strung together by a series of catastrophes.

So of course, of course, the house he inherited from his parents is going to be a shithole. An eerie and cluttered shithole on the outskirts of Queens. With an overgrown straight-out-of-Jumanji front porch, wreathed with climbing plants. With a worn staircase that doubles as a death trap. With dead flowers by the windows and a fucking kayak in the middle of the backyard.

He steers clear of the attic, but it’s probably a shitstorm up there, too.

Peter has no idea what the hell his parents had been doing with the place, before they kicked the bucket last year. He doesn’t remember it being such a mess back when he still lived here. Then again, he doesn’t remember much at all about the first five years of his life. Based on what he read in his own files, that’s a good thing. Maybe this place had always been a shithole. Another reason for the social workers to decide he was better off in the system.

He thinks he can do this. He just… needs to get a grasp of what exactly ‘this’ entails.

The house is simultaneously too big and too small. Too big, compared to the cramped foster and group homes he stumbled his way through in the last ten years. Too small, compared to what he remembers. He remembers racing down the hallway with his arms spread wide. He remembers spending whole days using condiments from the fridge to draw pictures on the walls. He remembers upturning all the potted plants to build a sandcastle in the middle of the living room…

Wasn’t anyone fucking watching him when he was five?

Oh, right. They weren’t.

“Aren’t you a little young to be living here alone?” the guy who bought his couch on craigslist asks. “What are you, fourteen?”

“I’m thirty five. I just use a good face cream,” Peter digs his heels into the wooden floorboards. “Take that end.”

He lifts the other end of the couch, and tries to pretend it’s actually heavy. The guy already thinks it’s weird some sixteen-year-old is living in this dump on his own. Peter doesn’t need to make it even weirder by being a sixteen-year-old with superhuman strength living in a dump on his own.

“I’m just saying,” the man says as they load the couch into his van, “if you’re trying to sell your parents’ furniture for some quick cash, so you can throw a party while they’re out of town, well… no take-backsies.”

Fuck, he hates it when adults get nosy. They always seem to be on a mission to make him feel like he’s doing something wrong, like everything he does somehow warrants an apology. Peter gives the couch a final shove. “Have fun with the couch. It matches your personality.”

He stalks back inside.

He has been here almost a week and managed to deal with the essentials. Getting electricity working again. Setting up WiFi. Buying clean bedding. Passing a vacuum cleaner through the place. It still isn’t clean by any definition of the word, but you can sit on the couch without feeling like you’re just breathing in dust.

Not that he had ever actually considered sitting down on that nasty-ass couch. Who knows what happened on that thing. He’s happy to be rid of it. Most of the furniture can stay, though. The pictures on the wall will have to go. There’s one of a naked guy in a meadow. He needs to take that down before El gets here.

Buy a couch. Repaint the walls. Fix the roof.

Money, money, money.

His parents left him money, and Peter knows it’s a lot, but he doesn’t know. Because everything is suddenly a lot. Utilities, property taxes, insurance. If he wants to work a proper job, he’ll have to give up school or give up Spider-Man. He doesn’t want to do either. So, for the foreseeable future, money is going out a lot faster than it’s coming in.

He’d like to hire some guy to explain everything and write out a financial plan or something. Just so he knows he’ll make it through the next ten years without getting into crushing debt. But he’s not trusting some shifty accountant with his parents’ savings, either.

He got emancipated. He’s supposed to be a fully functioning adult who doesn’t need help for anything.

But, he realizes as he stands in the kitchen with a quarter pound of medium roast in his hands, he doesn’t even know how to work the damn coffee maker.

Awesome start.

-

Turns out today is father’s day. Peter slurps his improvised cup of coffee on the back porch as he scrolls through the pictures — Tony Stark taking his daughter Morgan out for ice cream — that popped up everywhere in his newsfeed. Because apparently none of the wars are important enough.

There’s a picture of the little girl wiping chocolate ice cream all over Stark’s pristine white blouse. Peter feels strangely vindicated, since that particular blouse probably cost more than Peter’s laptop.

Stark junior looks about El’s age, five or six. When did Iron Man become an Iron Dad? Peter has really been living under a rock.

The stories he heard about Tony Stark are awfully similar to the stories he heard about his own parents. The parties. The lawsuits. The drunk pushing over of Porta Potties while there were people inside.

Peter was five years old himself when he got plucked up by social services, so Stark better watch his back. They’ll be coming for his girl, soon.

-

Ana seems a little taller every time he sees her. She might even be taller than him now, which annoys Peter because she is several months younger than him. Maybe it’s just because she is wearing heels, this time. Peter opens the front door wider. “Why’re you looking all spiffed up?”

Ana smoothly runs a hand down her dress as she steps inside. “Came straight from church.”

“Fuck. You go to church? Where you do, like, praying and shit?”

She glares. “Can you watch your mouth when there’s kids in the house?”

Right. “Hiya, El.”

Elena hops in after Ana, her braids bouncing up and down. “Hi! I got new shoes.”

Peter squats next to her. “Lemme see, champ. Me gusta, they’re looking Gucci. Your sister bought you those?”

“No I did not,” Ana says, dropping her duffel bag under the hat rack. “Lady at church gave them to her, while I wisely decided not to tell her that shoes don’t usually survive with El for more than a month. Don’t wear those to school, all right El? They are your Sunday shoes now.”

Peter eyes the duffel bag. “Is that everything you own?”

“No. Dropping by gammy’s place later to pick up the rest. ”

“How is your grandma?”

“Old and wrinkly as ever.” Her shoulders droop a little and she looks suddenly tired. “We really needed to be out of her hair. Thanks for letting us stay here for a while.”

“As long as you need. Really didn’t want to be here all by myself.”

When Ana was twelve, she grabbed her little sister, came to the US on a tourist visa to visit her grandma, and then just stayed after it expired. It has been three years. Her parents are still somewhere in Mexico, and she has no papers. Peter never asked why she fled her childhood home, but it’s probably for one out of the ten million reasons why all grown-ups suck ass.

“I like grandma,” Elena says, grabbing onto Peter’s hand and swinging it back and forth as they move into the living room. “But the house was messy and I had to sleep on the couch, and the couch smelled icky.”

“You’re gonna have a whole bedroom to yourself here,” Peter promises. “Just gotta – uhm – fix a hole in the floorboards. And I took out the curtains, because there was something living in them.”

“Your house is messy, too,” El says as she gazes around the living room. There is no censure in her voice, just that childlike candidness.

“No shit,” Peter says. “How am I supposed to fix in ten days what my folks fucked up over the course of ten years?”

“Language,” Ana repeats as she follows them inside. She takes a measuring look around. “It’s only a few more weeks before your summer hols. We can work on ‘Extreme makeover, home edition’ then.”

Peter shakes his head. “No can do. I need this whole place fixed up within a month.”

“Why?”

“My social worker, Ismael. He’ll do a visit in about five weeks. Aftercare program or whatever they call it. And I’d like for this place to not look like a dumpster fire.”

“Why do you care? Not like they can un-emancipate you.”

No, but Ismael had worked really hard to get Peter on the right track, preparing him for adult life. When other social workers said it was too soon for emancipation, that Peter wasn’t ready to live by himself, Ismael had backed him. So now, Peter wants to show him that he’s not fucking it all to bits. “I just do. I want to start by repainting these walls. Green.”

“Vale. So buy paint.”

“I don’t even know what kind.”

“Try the green kind?” she suggests in a dry voice.

Shit, Peter is suddenly glad to have her around. With her innate confidence and her bullshit-radar, and the grime of the streets greasing the wheels of her brain. Ana is his fellow traveler down the path of life. She never had a proper parent. The only adult she ever had a positive relationship with is her grandmother, who is utterly incapable of actually taking care of her. But who is, at least, kind. Story of Peter’s life. He never got on that well with foster parents and social workers. Most of them, he couldn’t stand. And the ones he could stand were often desperately overworked, and Peter couldn’t bring himself to add to their workload with his pesky existence.

“Na-ah El,” Ana says, clucking her tongue at her little sister. “Don’t take off your shoes inside here until I’ve scrubbed down this floor, girl. I don’t want to spend my whole evening plucking splinters out of your toes.”

El sits on the couch, pulling her feet up and dubiously staring down at the floor boards. Peter instantly feels bad. Putting a proper roof over El’s head is the least he can do, and he’s already fucking it up. “I’ll get someone in here to lay down carpet or something. I haven’t had a lot of time to—”

“I’m here to help,” Ana says. “I’m not a… a aprovechada. Imma try to find a new job working tables, somewhere closer to this place.”

Peter doesn’t think she ever went to high school. She has been hustling for as long as he knows her. He doesn’t know who the fuck would hire an undocumented teenager full time. Probably another suck-ass-grown-up. “Shouldn’t be too hard. You know how many restaurants there are in this city?”

“Not off the top of my head,” she replies, and disappears into the kitchen.

“Look,” El points at the wall. “That mister isn’t wearing any clothes!”

Fuck, Peter forgot to take down the damn picture.

Again, awesome start.

-

Tony’s business lunch is rudely interrupted by Pepper barging into the kitchen without knocking even once, hands covered in paint up to her elbows.

“Excuse you,” Tony says, pointing his fork between himself and Morgan. “We were in the middle of a little conference here.”

Pepper uses her elbow to turn the tap on. “Is that so? What about?”

“Ice cream,” Morgan says.

“That’s right. Heavy stuff.”

Pepper hums and begins to soap up her hands and arms, scrubbing at the brightly colored stains. “When you finish your conference here, how about a business meeting at the park? I’m done working for the day.” She is almost permanently covered in paint, these days. She is almost permanently smiling too, though, so Tony won’t complain. Because he can remember a time when Pepper would mostly smile about things like a balance sheet that actually balances, or even a well-placed oxford comma.

“Yes. I can tell by the aggressive rubbing of soap everywhere. So that’s how it is, now that you’re a freelance artist? Roll out of bed at ten, work until lunch and then throw in the towel? I don’t know how you can live with yourself.”

“You haven’t done any serious work since you were about thirty.”

“Hey, I am nothing if not a— a good old fashioned hard-worker with a nine-to-five mentality. And I gotta say, this happy-go-lucky hipster work you’re doing these days… We frown on that, don’t we, Morgan?”

“No,” Morgan says. “Work smarter, not harder.”

“That’s— Mommy told you to say that, didn’t she?”

She wags her pen back and forth. “Prioritization is key.”

“You’re pushing it, missy,” Tony tells her, and, to Pepper: “Stop teaching her corporate jargon. I want her to be a scientist, not a lawyer.”

“I don’t want to be a scientist,” Morgan says. “Or a lawyer. I want to be a hamster, like mommy.”

“Hipster,” Pepper corrects. She turns the water off and starts rummaging through the cabinets. “And by a nine-to-five mentality, I presume that you mean you start working at nine in the evening, until five in the morning.” She has found a packet of gummi worms – candy has become her main source of food, lately – and joins them at the table.

Morgan pushes her bowl away. “Can auntie Nat come to the park with us?”

“Certainly not,” Tony says. “I want quiet family time, not boot-camp with a drillmaster.”

He’s not sure how or when Morgan started referring to every Avenger as ‘uncles’ and ‘aunties’. She doesn’t even see them that often — though granted, more often than her actual uncles and aunties. Tony reserved this area of the compound for his own family. Because work and private life don’t mix, particularly once you have children. Most Avengers are pretty good about giving them their space.

Except for one.

“Top o’the morning,” Clint says, his gaze immediately seeking Tony out as he steps into the kitchen. He’ll barge in with any excuse. Tony can’t wait to hear what it is this time.

“Spider-Man,” Clint says.

Tony hums into his coffee mug. “Did he finally crack and go over to the dark side?”

“No. He moved neighborhoods again.”

“So?”

“So he’s in the same neighborhood where we are working on Actionplan Stark’s Screw-up. You don’t see a problem with that?”

“Not at all, I applaud your choice of acronym.”

“What if his little escapades interfere with our work?”

Tony gives an irritable shrug. “Tell him to back off. He’s small potatoes. Could not care less. My esteemed colleague just informed me that prioritization is key, and right now my priority is getting Morgan on a see-saw.”

“I brought you a little incentive,” Clint says, reaching into a pocket. “Bruce said it would work.” He holds up a tiny vial between index finger and thumb; something silvery-white inside. “A sample from our friend’s mysterious webbing.”

Tony takes it, just to be polite. “Bruce said that would work, huh?”

“Yep. He said you would pretend like you didn’t care, but that you would be neck-deep in lab-tests before the week is out.”

Bruce is a traitor. “Gummi worm?” Tony snatches the packet from Pepper’s hand and holds it out to Clint. A sure-fire way to get rid of the guy.

“You can’t keep bribing me with candy to leave you alone, Stark,” Clint says. “But I’ll have a yellow one.”

He leaves, munching.

Morgan picks a green gummi worm and sticks one end in her mouth. She looks straight at Tony and says, her tone grave: “Sugar causes diabetes.”

“She didn’t learn that from me,” Pepper says as she reaches for the candy, too.

“Elmo says candy is a sometimes food,” Morgan adds.

“Elmo.” Tony is pretty sure he heard that name before. “Is he that kid in your class who always walks around with one shoe?”

“No. He’s from Sesame street.”

Pepper smacks her lips and digs through the bag. “We need to buy more of these.”

“There’s an unopened bag by the coffee filters.”

“Not anymore,” she says and she pops another one into her mouth.

“How can you eat like an athlete and still stay in such perfect shape?”

“I shit a lot,” she says with a pleasant smile.

“Shit,” Morgan parrots.

Tony shakes his head. “You know, you’ve changed since you quit as CEO.” He tucks the sample Clint brought him into an inner pocket.

It can wait.

-

Morgan doesn’t actually want to go on the see-saw. Because going on the see-saw would require her to interact with one of the other children at the park, and Morgan hates human interaction. Tony can relate. But he worries too. He remembers how lonely school was for him, because he was completely inept at making friends. He never understood his classmates, and they never understood him.

He pushes Morgan on the swings for a bit, then returns to the wooden bench where Pepper is sitting. “I don’t have a plan,” he laments as he stretches his legs out.

She cocks her head. “Do we need a plan? We’re at the park. That’s the plan.”

“With the Avengers, I mean. I always had a… a… I don’t know, a dream, a vision. Usually something grand, like building the ultimate A.I., world peace, free chocolate for everyone, that sort of thing.”

“Do you want out?” she asks. “Off the team? Because I’ll support that, no matter how much I’m rooting for that free chocolate. But you need to settle on a decision and talk to Steve.”

Tony gives himself a moment to think by digging through his backpack for the Tupperware box with the purple lid. “Just… I feel like I’ve been more of a hindrance than a help, lately. And now they’re all just working on my ASS — Actionplan Stark’s Screw-up — to find that stupid technology I managed to lose. And I’m walking around with egg on my face. Sometimes I feel like this whole superhero business doesn’t make sense anymore. I lost my M.O. I don’t know what happened.”

“You became a father.”

“I’m not exactly the stereotypical dad-type, though.”

“Sure,” she says, as she watches him cut Morgan’s grapes in half.

“Maybe I’ll just become a hamster, too. Spend my days making art on commission. No, I retract that. I’d rather starve.”

“You would starve,” she says. “You have no discernable creative talent.”

-

Living with Ana and El means three things: good company, bad movies, terrible food.

“I got a stamp from Miss Lowick today,” El says with a bright smile as she waves a piece of paper around.

Peter stops scraping bits of burnt bacon from the pan for a moment. “Good job, girl,” he says, guessing from her expression that ‘getting a stamp’ is a good thing. “Go on then, put it on the fridge.”

Elena is in her first year of elementary school. Ana brings her little sister to school every morning, before going to work. Peter picks her up after his own classes have ended. He reads her stories, or he lets her draw at the kitchen table while he does his homework. It… It works. It’s almost like they’re a normal family. Except they’re all under eighteen. And Peter is pretty sure Ana has a girlfriend somewhere. And they live in a house like a colander, where it rains almost as much inside as it does outside.

Peter doesn’t know how to cook anything other than grilled cheese and fried bacon. Ana doesn’t either. The freezer is stocked with frozen meals.

Cleaning is easier. Just rub soapy water all over every surface. It took them three days to get the kitchen looking presentable, though. Ana threw out all pots and pans and bought new ones. She put candles on the dinner table, and flowers next to the kettle. “It’s all about the little things,” she had said. “It won’t solve the doubts and despair you go through as a mortal soul, but at least it’s a lovely distraction.”

The living room is next on their list. Peter watched a few videos on YouTube, and he thinks he’ll be able to paint the walls without causing any life-endangering catastrophes.

El snaps the magnets in place. Peter sees now, that it’s a drawing of Spider-Man fighting some blue tentacle creature, and it feels like the air in his lungs is promptly vacuumed out. Surely Ana hasn’t told her little sister... “Why’d you draw Spider-Man?”

She looks at him as if he grew a second head. “Because he’s cool,” she says, as though this should be obvious. “And funny.”

“He is?”

“Yeah. ‘Specially when he trips over stuff.”

“When he— He doesn’t trip over stuff.”

“Yeah-hah. Ana showed me a video.”

That bitch.

 El taps a finger against the tentacle monster. “Why’s there always bad guys doing the bad stuff?”

“Who knows. They want to take over and decide all the rules.”

“Oh. Like Miss Lowick?”

“Yeah. Like Miss Lowick.” Peter gives up on the pan and drops it into the sink. “You want a popsicle?” Peter stocked up on them. He’s got enough for about the next five years. El is particularly crazy about the strawberry-flavored ones.

She nods vigorously. “And then a story?”

“Not right now, I got homework.”

Peter sets her down at the kitchen table with a red popsicle and paint and a paintbrush. That seems like a proper survival kit for a five-year-old.

He sits at the other end of the table and takes out his books. “Hey. You can help me with my Spanish homework. I gotta learn the irregular verbs.”

“Who invented homework?” El asks.

“If I knew, that mofo would be dead.”

Elena was two when she left Mexico. Unlike her sister, she speaks English without any trace of an accent. But Ana speaks to her in Spanish a lot, so El can converse in that language just as easily. Which, Peter finds, is just awesome for your self-esteem when you’re still trying to cram in all the basic verbs, yourself.

“You sound funny!” she chirps when Peter recites all forms of ser and estar. “It’s not estuviste, it’s estuviste.”

“I don’t hear a difference.”

She just giggles and waves her paintbrush around, splattering paint everywhere.

“Girl, you’re making a mess.”

She aggressively dips her brush back into the paint. “But I have to have fun!”

No arguing that. Peter slides his book a little further away from the splash zone.

“You got some paint in your hair,” El says. “But don’t worry. It looks good.”

-

There is an old lady sitting on his back porch. A stately woman, hair wrapped in a neat bun, fingers clenched around the decorated handle of her cane. Peter has no idea who she is, how she got here, or what her plan is for ruining his life.

But he figures he should probably bring her some tea.

“Hello?” he says as he nudges the door open with his foot, steaming cup in hand.

She jolts a little and turns. Her face is thin, her eyes large behind thick glasses. She has to be at least eighty.

“Are you all right?” Peter steps forward and sets the cup down. “I made you tea.”

“Oh,” she says, and then lets out a breathy laugh. “I’m terribly sorry,” she lays a bony, wrinkled hand against her chest. “You must think I’m so rude. I just hoped to welcome you to the neighborhood. I thought I heard voices in the backyard, so I walked around the house. And then the view was so lovely.”

Peter glances at the kayak lying there in the mud, all depressing. “Is it.”

She points; far beyond his shoddy backyard. “The tree line dips over there. You can just see Little Neck Bay beyond.”

Peter hadn’t even noticed that before. It’s… Yeah, it’s pretty nice to see the light of the setting sun streaking the water. He turns back to her. “I’m Peter.”

“Miriam.” She picks up the teacup and cradles it. “I’ve seen you moving furniture around. You are living here by yourself?”

As a rule of thumb, Peter doesn’t like answering people’s questions. But she seems harmless. And she doesn’t look at him like he’s a bit of a joke. So Peter pauses to draw a slow, controlled breath, and sits down with her. “Got emancipated last month. I was in the system. It’s a long but obvious story. How ‘bout you?”

She points at the neighboring house. “I’ve lived right there for fifty-three years. Forty-five of those years, married. Twenty-odd years happily married. It’s a long but obvious story.”

“Life’s a bitch, right?”

“Damn straight,” she says with a slight huff. “Everyone in this neighborhood thinks I’m a silly old coot. Someone new moves in, and the first thing I do is invade their backyard like I lost my marbles. You catch far more sunlight here than I do on my back porch. I’ve always been jealous of that.”

“Oh, you can chill on our porch swing any time. If we’re not home, just walk ‘round the side.”

“I’m sure a young man like yourself doesn’t want some old woman on his porch.”

“I seriously don’t give a fuck,” Peter says. “Honestly, come by whenever,” because why not? It’s not like Peter is using this porch. It’s common decency, is all.

Miriam chuckles softly. “I think I’ll make you some new pillowcases as a housewarming gift.”

“Pillowcases.”

“You’ll like them. They have really intricate embroidery, so no one notices that I always write ‘screw you’ in tiny letters all along the edges.”

Caught off guard, Peter lets out a sharp laugh.

“You have your work cut out for you,” Miriam says, waving her hand around at… well, everything. Which is depressingly accurate.

“Yeah,” Peter says, suddenly wishing he had at least gotten rid of that fucking kayak already. It makes the backyard look like a junkyard, and makes him look incompetent. It’s embarrassing. “I promise I’ll get everything in order, and I won’t— I don’t play loud music or...”

“Don’t you worry. Anything is better than the people who lived here before. That couple was an utter disaster. Parties around the clock. Strangers walking in and out all day. You have very small shoes to fill.”

“No shit.” He doesn’t remember much of that. But he does remember, strangely vividly, one party when half-naked guests stumbled into his bedroom, sucking face like a pair of leeches. He had fled the room and locked himself in the attic the whole night. He even suffered through an asthma attack in there, but was too scared to go out and grab his inhaler. His parents hadn’t noticed until the next morning.

It’s one of his earliest memories of his own humiliating insignificance. He still can’t walk past the wooden ladder leading up to the attic without feeling like his lungs are shriveling up in his chest.

“They’d shoot the butts of their joints into my backyard,” Miriam says. “And they’d let the branches of their tree extend onto my property.”

“Oh,” Peter says. “That’s— I can get rid of that tree.”

Miriam twists her hands around her cane. “Don’t dump drugs in my backyard and you can keep the tree.”

Peter smiles. “Deal.”

-

“You don’t mind?” Peter asks Ana later that evening, as he washes some grapes for El. “That I invited an old lady to sit on the porch?”

“It’s your porch.”

“It our porch. I want it to feel like your house, too.”

“I don’t mind,” she says. “I like it. This is what you do.”

“What?”

She gives him a look like she wonders if he is serious. “You take care of people,” she explains. Slowly. As if he’s an idiot.

Peter scrunches up his nose. “What? No I don’t. I don’t take care of people.”

“Sure,” she says as she watches him cut El’s grapes in half.

-

He rarely breathes more freely than when he is in his suit, swinging around the city.

Like every neighborhood Peter has ever lived in, he knows Queens like the back of his hand after only two of three late-night patrols. All these playgrounds, parks and alleyways are now his: his to protect, to keep safe. He has gone out a few times this week and already knows all the important people.

Important people, in Peter’s book, are the homeless, the street vendors and the cab drivers. The people who know what’s up. A mailman points out local businesses that he suspects are drug fronts. A hot dog vendor talks about a restaurant with backrooms where people deal in strange weapons.

“Hey. Spider-Man, right?” a homeless man had said. “You in Queens, now? Or is this just a field trip?”

“I’m in Queens now, and I’m staying.” Because he is. He can feel it. The house suits him, even if it is a shithole. Ismael, his social worker, had advised him put the house on the market and then find a small apartment somewhere. But Peter has always had a weak spot for things that are a little broken. Or a lot broken.

If he ever stopped to think about it, he might realize that this is probably a metaphor for something. Which is why he never stops to think about it. He despises metaphors.

Fixing the house demands time, though. And of course it is precisely on an evening that Peter is at home laying down plastic and not outside keeping the neighborhood safe, that Ana stumbles into the house with a split lip and a torn jacket. She almost trips over the plastic he laid out and balances herself against the wall. “Sweet Jesus.”

Peter drops a paint can to the floor and rushes to her side, breath stuttering in his lungs. “Shit. What happened?”

“Got mugged. Almost.”

“I got you. Here, sit down. Where’d you— What street? And what does ‘almost’ mean?”

She sits-half-lies in an armchair and tosses one ankle up on the coffee table, somehow looking far calmer than Peter feels. “I maced him.”

“You got pepper spray?”

“Of course I do, my restaurant is in a terrible area. And I’m ninety percent flailing limbs. How am I going to protect myself? Some of us didn’t get bit by a super-sonic bug and magically gain the ability to punch far above our weight.”

Peter takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment, attempting to calm himself. “That fucker got your wallet?”

Ana shakes her head and pats her bulging jacket pocket. “Could you get me something like an icepack? Frozen peas?”

Peter ends up wrapping one of El’s popsicles in a tea towel. Ana presses it against her cheek, still looking exceedingly unperturbed. “Did you feed El?”

“No, she ate peanut butter out of a jar and then went to bed, what do you think?” Peter nudges her foot to the side so he can sit on the coffee table. “Does it… Does it hurt?”

“I’m good, it was not my first rodeo. So what did El eat? Because she needs enough vegetables.”

“It’s fine, she had something with carrots in it. I mean, it was orange, so I’m guessing it was carrots. Tell me where it happened.”

“Alley behind the 7/11.”

-

The next day, Peter skips his last two periods and suits up. He heads straight for the alley, landing on a rooftop with a quiet umph.

He is under no illusion that he will find the exact guy who tried to mug Ana. That motherfucker is hopefully still crying somewhere in his shoddy apartment, trying to douse his eyeballs in water.

Peter just needs to make sure the area is safe. He just needs to be seen: one thing he learned in the two years he spent as Spider-Man, is that his mere presence is often enough to ensure that criminals steer clear of an area for a while.

So he does a double backflip for the guy hanging out his window with his cellphone, high fives a few passersby, chats with the hot dog vendor.

“I saw strange activity around that restaurant again last night,” the man says as he piles onions onto Peter’s hot dog. “Some guys who pretend to pick up the laundry in this weird, grey van. And we’ve had some real crazy ATM robberies around here, the last few years. People using weapons that should be NASA-level stuff.”

“I’ll look into it,” Peter promises.

-

At three P.M. on the dot, he is back in his normal clothes and outside El’s school, steering well clear of the other parents. One of them had already attempted to rope him into doing some sort of fucking bake-sale. Because apparently he somehow gives off a vibe like he is a dumbass idiot who would do shit like that.

“I really need some pancakes,” El informs him, her tone grave.

“I don’t know how to make pancakes,” Peter says, kneeling down to tie her shoelace. “You can have burritos for dinner. And a popsicle.” He rises and lowers his hand for her to take it. “So what’d you do at school today?”

“Made unicorns.”

“Huh.”

“What did you do at school today?” she asks as she kicks a pebble away. She has a habit of kicking everything she comes across. Empty cans, street lights, people’s legs. Peter is beginning to understand why her shoes never last long. It’s low-key hilarious to watch people splutter when they receive a kick to the shins, and then frown at Peter as if he’s supposed to do something about it. A real spectator sport.

“I slept,” Peter says. “Don’t know what everyone else was doing.”

He becomes suddenly aware of a prickly feeling at the back of his neck. The feeling that someone is watching him. He gazes over his shoulder, scanning the area until he sees it. A dark silhouette in an unlit corner. Peter pauses for a moment, squinting – then suddenly realizes who it is.

Fuck that shit. He’s going home.

“How do unicorns taste?” El asks.

-

Peter has barely put on the kettle to make himself and Miriam some tea, when Hawkeye just straight up steps into his kitchen, bow in hand.

Peter almost drops the cups from his hands, lungs squeezing together in his chest. “Jesus – Fuck! Who let you in here?”

“I let myself in,” the man says, because apparently he has the manners of a fucking baboon. “Via the roof. Clint Barton.”

“Yeah, I know, asshole! You familiar with the term home invasion?”

“There’s raccoons in your attic,” the man says, voice puzzled. “And an old lady on your back porch. And a little kid playing on the bottom step of the stairs. What kind of ship are you running here, exactly?”

There’s raccoons in his attic?

“I’m here on behalf of the Avengers, to establish some boundaries,” Barton continues. He hoists his bow onto his back, but still hooks one thumb around the end, as if he expects Peter to jump him at any moment.

“I figured. Since you were following me home like a fucking serial killer.” Peter takes his phone from his pocket and starts googling raccoons. “They sent their little sock puppet to deal with the lowly vigilante, did they?”

Barton’s face hardens from aloof to pissed off. “We know you like to patrol the area, chip away at crime. And that’s fine. That’s good. We’re not telling you what to do--”

Peter doesn’t even look up from his screen. “Damn straight.”

“--but,” Barton continues, voice slightly raised, “the Avengers are running a high-stakes operation in this neighborhood. And I just want to make sure you understand: if you ever run into anyone from our team out there, and they tell you to back off, you back off. You don’t lurk around, you don’t try to interfere. You work solely on our say-so. Once our mission is complete, you can have Queens as your own little sandbox again. Are you listening, junior?”

“No, sorry, I was googling how to make my house raccoon-friendly,” Peter pockets his phone. “Were you saying anything important? You can just send me the highlights via email, maybe.”

Hawkeye glares at him in a clear attempt to get him to cower. It’s not gonna work. Peter spent his entire childhood being glared at for existing. He is done cowering.

“Who was that little girl you picked up from school?” Hawkeye asks, his gaze suspicious as if he has any right to be.

Peter feels a surge of protective anger fill his lungs. No way does El need to get involved in any of this shit. “None of your business!”

“Are you at home alone right now?” is Hawkeye’s next question, and Peter chooses to very much interpret that as a threat. He widens his stance. “No. My posse will be here any moment.”

Ana steps into the kitchen at precisely that moment, as if she had been at the door listening for her cue. She doesn’t look like much of a ‘posse’, though. She is still wearing her apron from work and her mascara is running a little. “Who’d you invite in here now? Is that… Hawkeye?” El curiously glances around her legs.

“I didn’t invite him,” Peter swiftly clarifies. “Just barged in.”

“El, go upstairs,” Ana says, without looking back at her sister. El pulls a face but obediently trudges off.

“Why’s she got a black eye?” Hawkeye asks, his intense gaze sweeping from Ana back to Peter as his frown deepens.

What the fuck does this asshole think happened? “I sucker punched her.”

“You bring a weapon into our home,” Ana says, her gaze on Barton steely. “There’s a child in the house. Have you no shame?”

“How’d you get the black eye?” he presses, but in the tone of a man who knows he is in the wrong and tries to deflect the blame.

“Do not make yourself a duck,” she says. Ana has a way of misusing the English language when she gets angry, but doing it in a menacing tone that makes anyone think twice before correcting her. “We need you to leave. And next time you need something, you can knock like a polite little boy and wait for someone to open. It’s called common decency.”

Peter walks Hawkeye to the front door. If the man had a tail, it would be tucked between his legs right now. “Solely on our say-so,” the man says, still looking miffed about some teenage girl telling him what to do.

“Yeah, yeah. Go report back to your big boss.”

“We’re watching you, junior.”

Peter flips him the bird before slamming the front door shut.

-

Tony’s life before could be best described as…. fleeting moments of clarity strung together by long periods of insanity. But that was before.

All the embarrassing things he did before Morgan was born… they essentially don’t count. Pepper doesn’t always agree, but Tony is adamant that they don’t. He was a different man back then.

The embarrassing things he has done since Morgan was born, however, he has no excuse for. And by far the most embarrassing thing was letting a plane full of precious cargo get hijacked mid-air, by some bozo with metal wings.

Months later, they still haven’t retrieved the stolen items. Rumors on the dark web point to Queens as a possible location, so Steve and Nat set up a full-scale operation — now apparently dubbed Actionplan Stark’s Screw-up — in that neighborhood. So far, with little results.

Tony prefers to be left out. And he gets the sense that Steve and Natasha don’t mind leaving him out.

So if he spends the whole night in his workshop, running every test imaginable on the web sample Clint left with him, it is purely because there is nothing good on TV right now. Certainly not because he is getting involved in any of this.

He isn’t.

Chapter Text

Their new, giant convert-a-couch is delivered to their doorstep early the next morning. It is a low, deep couch that Ana stretches out on, looking happy as a pig in shit.

She doesn’t seem particularly concerned about a bow-and-arrow-maniac invading their home the day before. So Peter isn’t concerned either. He isn’t.

He attempts to study for his history test on the bus to school, and he thinks he writes enough down to bullshit himself into a passing grade, and none of the teachers have to snap their fingers and say “Mr. Parker, would you care to join the rest of the class?” any more than usual. At school, his place on the social food chain is pretty low. If he has made it through a whole day without anyone laughing at him, he has had a good day. Today was… an average day.

He has that cramped pain in his chest he always gets when he is stressed but trying to ignore it. The spider bite got rid of his asthma, but sometimes he still feels like his lungs won’t work properly. It’s exhausting.

He picks El up from school, and returns home to find fucking Iron Man lounging around on his front porch, because apparently his house is now officially superhero central.

The man’s billion dollar car is ostentatiously parked in the driveway, in case Peter wasn’t aware that he is of course far beneath the great Tony Stark in every perceivable way. Stark himself is slowly walking up and down the porch, deliberately placing his feet as if he is inspecting the wood. Peter can feel his lungs constricting, like he’s suddenly breathing through a tiny straw. He protectively lays one hand on the nape of El’s neck. “Go inside and play,” he tells her, nudging her towards the front door. He waits for the door to fall shut before turning to face Stark, squaring his shoulders and purposefully stepping between Stark and the door. “Are you here for me?”

Stark takes off his sunglasses, swinging them around by one leg. “No, you’re here for me.” He sticks out his hand. “Tony Stark.”

He says it like he’s the second coming of Christ, the pompous bastard. Peter keeps both his hands firmly tucked in his pockets.

Stark lowers his hand, looking unfazed. He gives both Peter and the house an appraising look. “Just moved in, right? You all have some fixing up to do.”

He forces himself to stand tall, despite the anxiety he feels. “The previous owners were a couple of hillbillies.”

“Perhaps you’d like to be a polite young man and invite me in?”

“Nah,” Peter says. “I think I’d like to be an asshole and just keep you out here, but thanks for checking.”

Stark’s lips twitch, and it makes him look like even more of a smug bastard. He takes a few steps back to lean against the balustrade, then reaches up and takes a small vial out of his breast pocket. “Catch.”

Peter snatches it from the air and holds it up between two fingers, immediately recognizing a sample from his own web fluid. “Where did you get this?”

“My fellow Avenger collected it from the scene after you left.”

“I should point out that has major stalker vibes.”

“Can you tell me who manufactured that stuff?”

“I did. Want to steal all my research and claim it as your own?”

“Huh,” says Stark, who was probably under the impression that he was the only one in town who knew how to do basic chemistry. “And you are how old? Fifteen?”

“Sixteen!”

“Can you show me the research?”

“Nope,” Peter says. But, since the last time anyone said ‘no’ to Tony Stark was probably somewhere in fucking 1995, the man doesn’t seem very deterred.

“I can pay you for it.” Stark takes a step closer and Peter feels his hands curl into fists, nails digging into palms.

“I’m sure you can. I’m sure those were your first ever words since you crawled out of the womb.”

“C’moooon,” Stark says, with a look like he somehow finds this amusing. “Give me a hint, at least?”

“Motherfucker, or what? You gonna punch me with that hoity-toity watch?”

“Kid, I just—”

“I’m not a kid!” Peter snaps. Because he isn’t. He’s emancipated, which makes him legally an adult. And he’s sick and tired of pretentious adults oozing their superiority all over him.

“Mr. Parker,” Starks says, his tone infuriatingly calm. “Where are your parents?”

“Business trip,” Peter says with an eye roll. “As if you need to ask. You probably got my whole backstory with a snap of your finger.”

“I didn’t,” Stark says. “That’s not my place.”

Blessed relief comes, once again, in the form of Ana returning home from work.

Or so Peter thought.

“Who is this then?” she says, stepping onto the front porch.

“Tony Stark,” the asshole says again, sticking out his hand.

Ana shakes the hand and introduces herself and smiles, and that stupid fuck Stark begins making polite conversation, as if he is nice instead of terrible. Peter’s hope that Ana will expertly bully Stark off the premises, diminishes drastically.

“Would you like to come in for a moment?” Ana asks, and Peter’s hope is shattered entirely. He throws her a panicked look.

“What?” she asks under her breath as she waves Tony Stark inside. “He’s polite.”

Inside, El has apparently taken possession of every single teacup she could get her hands on and displayed them on a blanket in the living room. She greets Stark with a look unguarded curiosity. “Who is that?”

“He’s Peter’s friend from work,” Ana says, before disappearing into the kitchen.

El lifts one of the cups. “Would you like some tea?”

Stark gives a little bow. “How can I say no to that?”

Peter wishes the question weren’t rhetorical. He takes a very careful breath and lets it out just as slowly, his chest still aching.

Tony Stark sits down on the blanket El laid out, and drinks imaginary tea from a cup, and pretends to burn his tongue, and makes polite conversation with El’s teddy bear, and generally acts as if El’s tea party is the entire reason why he came to this house today. What the hell is this guy trying to pull?

And El is far too friendly in return. She always makes friends instantly. Peter had never considered that a character flaw before, but here they are.

“Are how frequent a visitor are you to the Parker residence, madame?” Stark asks her.

“Yes,” El says, because she clearly has no fucking clue what he is saying. How does Stark have a kid himself and yet have no idea how to talk to them?

“I suppose it’s open crib now that the parents are out of town,” Stark says, pointedly ignoring Peter even though the comment is clearly meant for him, and Peter realizes that — wait — this dipshit took his joke about the ‘business trip’ seriously?

“El,” Ana says, sticking her head around the door. “I really need your help to make some actual tea.”

Her subtlety is awe-inspiring. Peter makes sure to let her know with another trademark glare.

“Bring the cups,” she says, and disappears again.

El gathers as many as she can carry against her chest and patters into the kitchen, leaving Peter alone with his newfound nemesis.

Stark leans back on his palms, gazing up at Peter with a smirk firmly in place. Peter hates himself for feeling like the intruder, even when he’s in his own house and hasn’t even done anything wrong.

“Nice kid,” Stark says. “My daughter’s age.”

Peter merely narrows his eyes at the man.

Stark — still fucking smiling — sits forward and dusts off his hands. “Relax, ki— Mr. Parker, I’m not going to rat you out to your parents for having your girlfriend and her little sister sleep over when they’re out of town.”

Girlfriend. Right. Stark is terrible at this guessing game and very obviously really didn’t do a background check. It’s a relief, but Peter tries not to let it show. If Stark wants to be misinformed then, shit, let him.

Stark climbs to his feet and straightens his jacket, claps his hands together. “Web-stuff aside. I just gotta know. What’s your M.O.?”

“What?” Peter asks, annoyed.

“Your Modus Operandi.”

“Fucking what?”

“You know, what gets you out of the house every evening, wearing that cute onesie? Toiling out on the streets for nothing in return? What’s in it for you?”

Is this guy for real? What’s in it for you? The fuck is that supposed to mean? Does Stark need a form filled out in duplicate before he shows any normal human decency? “I’d punch you,” Peter says, “if you weren’t so old. And so tiny.”

Stark has the audacity to snort.

“And I certainly don’t need to be held accountable by the guy who crashed his Maserati into a cheese shop.”

“Huh. That video is still floating around, is it?”

“Is this the part where you tell me that you saw the light and changed your ways? Or that it was all camera trickery?”

Stark doesn’t, in fact, tell him anything. He just whips out a business card and a pen, and scribbles something on the back. “That’s me,” he says, holding it out. “My personal number, I mean. If you ever need help. I’m trusting you to not spray paint this number on the side of a building somewhere. Or post it on whatever social media website is ‘hot’ with you ki— with you young people.”

Peter eyes the business card as if it might explode at any second, and makes no move to take it. “Why?”

“Just in case. No strings attached.”

‘No strings attached’ is as much of a fairytale as flying elephants. Peter shoves his hands back into his pockets.

The door swings open again and El looks up at them. “We have tea,” she announces. “It’s real, this time.”

“Sounds lovely,” Stark says. “Are you joining us, Mr. Parker?”

No, Peter is not joining them. “I hope you actually burn your tongue,” he says. Which is a pathetic insult, so he stomps out before Stark can start laughing in his face.

-

“He doesn’t seem so bad,” Ana says that evening, when they are doing the dishes together. “He’s just a little pompous.”

Yeah, pompous is one way to describe Tony Stark. Also snobbish, nosy, and so painfully ignorant about the daily grind normal people face that he probably doesn’t even know the average price for a loaf of bread.

Stark had left his business card on the table before leaving. Peter already tore it in half and threw it in the cardboard box with paper waste. Because the day he asks Stark for help will be the day he checks himself into a mental institution.

He wishes he had the fucking guts to just ask Ana to not invite people into this place. She knows him better than anyone. But this part, she doesn’t really understand. She has a safety-in-numbers sort of mentality. But for Peter, safety is in seclusion. People suck. They are always working their own angle. They decide on changes without giving you a choice in the matter. They’ll shove your stuff into a trash bag and shove you into a car, and drive you to a different location, and you’re just supposed to be grateful that it’s another family or group home and not juvie…

He may have drifted off topic, there.

“I just can’t fu— I can’t stand people like him, with their holier-than-thou attitudes. Like you should be grateful to be given the time of day. When he’s nothing more than a huge…” he falters, eyes shifting to El who is still sitting at the table, kicking her feet against the wooden legs.

“What is huge?” El asks, pausing her assault.

“My love for Jesus, Hallelujah,” Ana swiftly says. “And it’s time for you to go to bed.”

“I’ll take her,” Peter says. “C’mon, girl. Let’s go brush your teeth.”

“And braid her hair,” Ana says. “Can you?”

“I’ve had about twenty sisters over the last ten years. I can braid.”

He leaves the room with El, conveniently missing how Ana takes the two halves of the business card from the bin and tucks them into her pocket.

-

“Well,” Peter says as he stares at the wobbly ladder. “Do you want to die, or shall I?”

Ana flaps her hand — “just hold the ladder” — and climbs up, while Peter kicks some weeds out of the way to get a better grip. Something rustles between the thorny bushes behind him and it’s probably rats or…— Which reminds him. “If you see any raccoons up there, don’t scare them, okay?”

“God forbid,” Ana mutters. “Lo que me faltaba…”

“Hey, they lived here before I did, so I think it’s fair to give them their space.”

Today’s mission entails cleaning out their gutters in hopes that it will magically fix all the water damage inside. It might be more efficient to inspect the attic first, but even the thought of going up there gives Peter the sensation like a person is reaching into his chest and squeezing the air out of his lungs with a death grip.

From her seat on the porch-swing, Miriam kindly encourages them by cackling every time Ana accidentally dumps gutter-gunk on Peter’s head.

The bushes rustle again. Peter glances back and catches sight of… not a rat or a raccoon. A comically fat cat peeks across a tuft of grass with yellow unblinking eyes, then waddles closer. “Is he yours?” Miriam asks as her eyes track the cat’s purposeful strides towards their open backdoor.

“Never seen him. He’s probably a stray.”

“Bit fat for a stray,” she comments.

Ana descends the ladder until she is on the bottom step. “Do you want me to get rid of him?” The cat has already disappeared inside.

“Nah. Let him look around. What’s one more guest?”

It is in that precise moment that the doorbell rings again.

“That was rhetorical!” Peter yells at no one in particular.

-

After spending well over a decade in foster families and group homes, Peter has had his fair share of temporary brothers and sisters. But if he had to make a list of all the kids who might turn up on his doorstep one day, the one standing before him with her bag slung over one shoulder would be very near the bottom.

“Hi Vick- Shit. You got pregnant?”

“No, I just got fat, fuck you.”

Her hands are bonier than the last time he saw her, and her cheeks a little hollow. “You’re not fat enough,” Peter tells her. “You know you gotta eat for two now. Come in, I got frozen burritos. And popsicles.”

“Nice place you got here,” Vicky says as she shuffles down the hallway. “Very… Overlook Hotel. Haunted mansion.”

“It’s not a mansion.”

“Pretty fucking close. How come you never told me your parents were loaded? I would’ve been nicer to you.”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? Because I always tell everyone.”

Vicky pauses in the living room and drops her bag to the floor with a grunt.

He probably should have offered to carry it, Peter now realizes. That’s the sort of shit you do for pregnant women, right? “How did you know where I live?”

“Craig told me.”

Ugh. Craigh. As far as Peter remembers, he never lived anywhere where he didn’t feel like a fucking inconvenience to everyone else’s life. But Craig from his last group home was the worst one. He’d take one look at Peter’s report card and just say “I hope you can do better than this.” And he’d always pace around the room with far too tiny steps as he picked apart every single little thing Peter did wrong.

“Come on,” he says, and leads her to the kitchen where he starts rummaging through the freezer. “We have them with cheddar cheese. Beans & chicken. Chorizo…”

She sprawls back in one of the chairs and leans her head against the wall. “No one’s ever accused me of being picky about food.”

“Chorizo it is.”

He and Vicky lived in the same group home for roughly two years. Until she turned eighteen, graduated from the system and spread her wings. Last he heard, she had moved to Pennsylvania. She’s gotta be barely twenty years old. “When are you due?”

“I got four weeks until this thing is gonna come out and wreck my vagina. I just need a place to crash until then. And then I’ll move back to Pennsylvania, I promise.”

“We got bedrooms,” Peter says, chewing his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Not a lot of spare bed sheets, though. I’ll go out and get more.”

“And how much money do we have for chocolate? Is it anywhere near ten thousand dollars? Because that’s how much I think I need.”

“Uhuh,” Peter says as he dumps the burrito in the microwave, “If you’re on a crazy pregnancy hormonal rage and you know it, clap your hands.”

“Fuck you, asshole.”

“Eat shit, bitch.”

It’s as if she never left.

-

It rains again during the night. Peter wakes up to brown-ringed water stains in the ceiling, and makes some much overdue calls. He skips his last few classes to be home in time for the lady from Happy Helmets to inspect his roof and give a rough price estimate of how much it will cost to fix it. “Replace part of the gutter. Fixing water damage. Replace some shingles. Patch leaks. We’d be sealing off any entry points, get rid of that raccoon problem for ya.” She slides a piece of paper his way.

“I was sort of hoping you could fix the roof in a – um – a raccoon-conserving way. Maybe leave them a little gap somewhere.”

She scoffs. Adult scoff a lot. At everything Peter does. He’s pretty sure it’s their main form of communication. “They are a pest, sir. They tear up trash cans. Carry parasites. I can give you the number for a pest control that could-”

Peter snatches the paper up and folds it in half. “Thank you for your advice.”

Six thousand fucking dollars.

-

El seems to be thriving; happy, relaxed. She loves digging holes in the backyard, and since it couldn’t possibly look worse than it already does, Peter lets her. She is learning how to ride a bike. And she loses her first tooth, for reasons unrelated to the bike riding.

Vicky, on the other hand, isn’t easy to have around the house. She ruffles feathers.

“Milo pushed me today when we were waiting in line to get our coats,” Elena says as she pushes the tuna off her slice of pizza.

“That’s not very nice,” Peter says.

“He also stole my blue pencil when I wasn’t looking.”

Peter wonders who the hell is supposed to watch these kids during class.

“Hey,” Vicky says, eyes narrowed, “if he steals your shit again, you kick him in the nuts. You know where a boy’s nuts are?”

“Vicky, quiet!” Ana snaps, her cheeks flushing. “Don’t teach her that!” She starts rattling off at Elena in Spanish, and Peter is just going to go ahead and assume that she’s doing some solid parenting.

“Your flowers are muerto, by the way,” Peter comments as he wipes a petal off the table.

“Muertas,” El corrects him.

“I like it,” Vicky says. “It’s giving me Georgia O’Keeffe vibes.”

Peter glares. “You know none of us care about your fancy French literature.”

“She’s a modernist painter, dipshit.”

“Inside voices, please,” Ana says.

-

Peter knows he’ll get a detention today for skipping classes this week. But if he goes to detention, he’ll be late picking up El. So he should probably skive off detention as well.

“No, no,” Ana says. “I’ll call Emma’s father, ask him to watch El tomorrow. You can pick her up at his house later. Don’t skip your detention, you’ll just get in more trouble.”

She doesn’t tell him to stop skipping classes. Because she understands sometimes you have to have priorities.

-

“I didn’t think it would work this well,” Clint says when he saunters into Tony’s lab one evening.

Tony doesn’t take his eye away from the microscope. “If you’re gonna be in here, make yourself useful and hand me that beaker.” He has spent a few productive hours on the web-fluid sample. He managed to get a rough outline on the basic ingredients, and a few lab tests will tell him everything else he needs to know.

Clint slides the beaker across the desk. “Any breakthroughs?”

“A few. Still running tests.”

Clint stands close behind him. Too close. “I meant Parker himself. Did you get through to him? Is he gonna stay out of our way?”

“I didn’t get around to discussing that part.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Clint says. “It was only the whole reason why we needed you to go down there in the first place. Fine. I’ll make another house call this weekend.”

Tony turns his chair around, very purposefully letting his feet hit Clint in the shins. “Leave him to me. I’m making Spider-Man my personal mission.”

Clint steps back and boosts himself up on to a nearby desk, rubbing at his shin. “I thought he was small potatoes?”

“Turns out small potatoes can have big brains.”

“Big mouths, too. Or was he civil to you?”

“Nah. Pretty much every sentence out of his mouth was an insult. But I figured that might have something to do with my idiot colleague who tried the diplomatic approach by invading his home the day before.”

“Not my fault he has holes in his roof,” Clint says. “You wanna report back to Steve, then?”

“No, I don’t wanna report back to Steve. Just tell him that I’m dealing with it. I’ll do my part, you do yours.”

“Team work used to be part of your vocabulary.”

“None of you seem to care that I’m staying out of this whole mission.”

“We’re giving you space,” Clint says. “You wanted space. Not everything we do is some sort of personal attack against you.”

“You all named it ‘Actionplan Stark’s screw-up’.”

“I named it that,” Clint says. “For shits and giggles. Since when are you so sensitive, man?”

Sensitive. Hah. Tony is about as sensitive as a steam roller. “Maybe I do my best teamwork from a distance.”

“Or maybe you’re tired of being an Avenger, trying to pull out, but you don’t want to admit it, so you make up reasons why we are pushing you out. You think I don’t get it? I retired too, once I got kids.”

Tony lets out a tiny puff of air and crosses his arms. “Look how that worked out.”

Clint shrugs. “I couldn’t squelch the part of me that wants the Queen and country. But I worked out a way to be both, eventually. It’s not either, or. It’s just adapting. None of us are holding that against you.”

“There's a limit to how much of this sincere crap I can listen to without puking, you know.”

“Your heart really wasn't in that one,” Clint says. “Try it with more of an arrogant drawl, next time.”

Tony opens a drawer to his right. “Chocolate raisins?”

“I told you not to bribe me with candy.”

“I don’t recall any such conversation.”

“Fine, I’ll have some.”

-

Scouting out the restaurant the hotdog vendor pointed out to him is precisely the sort of job that Peter saves for his Saturday evenings. Just in case he has to pull an all-nighter to put everything to rights.

He wriggles his body through an open window on the second floor, into a moderately sized room with tables and chairs neatly set-up. Probably the sort of room people rent out for private parties. …Or for shady business deals.

He crawls along the ceiling beams until he reaches a corner. He pauses there and focuses his hearing. Forks scraping against ceramic plates. Glasses clinging together. Murmuring voices; hundreds of them. A restaurant makes a good cover for the criminal underworld, he has seen it before. Not many people will notice illegal activity in a place that is already bustling with people. Only the street vendors, the cab drivers and the homeless usually notice when something is off.

He lets himself drop to the floor and moves to the door, spending another few minutes scanning the long, narrow hallway.

It’s weird. Being Spider-Man used to be his outlet. A way to vent frustrations. Running, jumping, swinging, punching. A year ago, he wouldn’t have had the patience to go about a mission so carefully. He supposes it’s a good sign, considering he’s supposed to be an adult now and all that shit.

Not that the adults he has encountered in his life have generally been such shining examples of patience.

He moves away from the door, and towards the window that gives him a view on the alley out back. The grey van that the hot-dog vendor described to him is parked by the back entrance. No one around.

Peter opens another window, swings his legs through, balances on the ledge for a moment and then jumps down, neatly avoiding the garbage cans.

The van is locked on all sides. The windows in the back are blacked out, but he can peek into the front seat. There is a drawing on the dashboard — yellowing around the edges — of the Avengers battling aliens in New York underneath a giant wormhole. There is a fake mustache handing from the rearview mirror with the word ‘carstache’ written under it.

Provisional conclusions: bad guy number one has a son or daughter, bad guy number two has a bad sense of humor.

The drawing makes him think of when he was little and his therapist had him draw pictures, and would say things like: “Ah, you drew a picture of your mom and dad? And why did you draw them lying down in the middle of the kitchen like that, are they sleeping?”

A door opens. Peter instantly lets himself drop to the ground, and slides underneath the van. Two pairs of shoes move around the car. Two men, heavy on the foot. Bad guy number one and two.

“Not that one,” a voice says. “Number forty-two.”

“We’re not taking any boxes? We’re— this thing? Really?”

“Mason said he’s running with an idea.”

“That’s mighty reassuring,” bad guy number two says. And then, more defensively: “I just don’t want to mess with the wrong stuff and blow this whole city up.”

“You’re not messing with anything, let Mason do his job. Hide it in the laundry. We have to stop by for a deal on the way back.”

The van dips when someone steps inside, rummages around. Both pairs of shoes disappear back inside.

Peter swiftly rolls to the side and jumps into the back of the van, eager to find whatever these assholes think may of may not blow up the whole city.

There are three huge baskets full of dirty laundry strapped in against the side and Peter wastes no time in beginning to dig through them. In the second basket, his hand scrapes across something hard. He pushes some towels aside and stares down at what… what… appears to be a shoddy imitation of Megingjörð, Thor’s magic belt.

What do a bunch of criminals want with that? They can’t possibly believe it’s the real thing.

Peter snatches it up and steps out of the van, webbing the fake belt against the backside of a dumpster. When you grow up in group homes, learning how to hide your own shit quickly and efficiently is the first rule of survival. Learning to steal shit from other people, who aren’t as skilled at hiding, is a close second.

He transfers some laundry from one basket into another and climbs in, hiding under the towels, grateful that it isn’t underwear. Waiting for the baddies to start driving. Step one was preliminary reconnaissance. Step two was confiscation of stolen goods. Step three is just fucking with them a little.

He doesn’t consider until the van is already on the move, jostling across speedbumps, that for all he knows these guys are about to drive to an entirely different freaking state. And he has an English lit test on Monday that he hasn’t studied for yet because Vicky needed to be settled in and El suddenly needed empty toilet rolls because Miss Lowick can’t do her damn job and get her own art supplies so Peter had been running around the house unrolling toilet paper...

Maybe his adulting needs a bit of work after all.

He can tell by the fading noises that they have left the perimeters of the city. But thankfully, the van pulls over only minutes later. Maybe he’ll make it back home before midnight, after all.

He hears several car doors slam, now. And three different voices.

“…crafted from a Chitauri Chariot…”

“…need something that doesn’t draw attention…”

“…gonna love my wormhole-grenades…”

No one seems to be in any hurry to open the back of the van, so Peter extracts himself from the laundry and, wincing at even the slightest noise, opens the back door to peek outside. The van is parked under an old, heavy bridge over a dried-up river bed. Exactly the type of place where shady business deals usually go down.

Bad guy number one and two are talking to a short, stocky woman with a haircut like a toilet brush. They’re not here to sell, Peter gathers from their conversation. It sounds more like the woman is placing an order. A literal weapon-drive-through.

He moves around the van so he can get a view of the car she is driving; memorize the number plates. He can get a better look at bad guy number one and two, as well. One is older; grey hair and sunken eyes. The other is younger, bald, with a strange sort of metal gauntlet fitted around his right hand.

He wouldn’t mind to bring that thing home, as well. Does he dare?

He dares.

He jumps across the hood of the van, shoots his web straight at the metal and pulls— But the gauntlet is attached tighter than he expected, so this only results in bad guy number two gracelessly tumbling forward with a yelp.

Immediately, several guns are pulled out. Peter ducks away. A bullet ricochets against the metal of the bridge overhead. He jumps back to his feet — and a metal-encased hand smashes against his temple. Peter’s head snaps back. The blow sends him hurtling back until he slams into a concrete pillar. His ears ring. He can taste blood seeping into his mouth, but doesn’t feel a thing. He does feel the swift kick to the ribs that follows. A hand grabs him by the throat and pulls him forward  several inches, before slamming him back against the concrete; repeating the motion until spots dance in Peter’s vision.

He feels another hand grasping at his mask and adrenaline spikes through him. He grits his teeth and  reaches up to grab the back of the man’s neck, then brings up one knee, straight into the guy’s crotch.

The man falls back, howling with pain, and Peter immediately shoots his web up to the bridge and launches himself into the air.

He lands on a wide, suspended metal beam where he sits on hands and knees; chest heaving, head throbbing. He lifts the mask past his mouth when a wave of nausea hits him. He gags, but doesn’t throw up.

“I’ll put a bullet in his skull—”

“—Leave him! We’ll only draw more attention to ourselves! Just clear out of here before he calls in any back-up!”

He hears car doors slamming, an engine revving. He knows he should get up. Follow.

His limbs are betraying him utterly.

-

He makes it back to the restaurant and changes out of his suit, stuffing it into his backpack along with the fake Thor-belt. He even makes it back home. Shuffling. Every step feels like a wrecking ball slamming against his skull.

“I’m fine,” he tells a nervously hovering Ana. “El’s in bed, right?”

“Yeah, she is,” Ana says. “Sweet Jesus. You don’t look fine.”

“And Vicky?”

“Currently taking the longest shower in the history of mankind.”

He hasn’t ever had a concussion this bad before. But there’s no reason to believe he can’t sleep it off like every other injury he has ever sustained. So that’s exactly what he does; kicking his backpack under his bed, swallowing down a pain killer, and crawling under the covers.

It feels like hours pass where he is not even sure if he’s dreaming or awake. At some indeterminable point, a wave of nausea washes over him again and he rolls over and throws up on the floor next to the bed. At another indeterminable point, a finger pokes at his arm and Peter lets out a low whine that probably sounds pathetic. But it’s just Ana, so he doesn’t care.

He groggily opens one eye and… and it’s not Ana. Not even a little bit.

It’s Starky Tone…   Tony Stark.    Who is not supposed to be here.        …Is he?

“Friday?” Stark asks.

Peter frowns as his sluggish brain attempts to latch onto a single, rational thought. “What’s on Friday?”

No reply. The man just stays quiet for a moment. “All right,” he then suddenly says. “Thank you. There isn’t much we can do for him at the compound as long as we don’t understand how he heals. Keep monitoring, Fri. Let me know if anything changes. I‘m getting a bucket.”

A hand tugs at his blanket, pulling it a little higher and tucking it around his shoulders.

Footsteps fade from the room.

Peter gives in to the darkness.

Chapter Text

“We were in circle time, and Miss Lowick asked us what we want to be when we grow up, and I said I wanted to be a dolphin, and she said I couldn’t.”

“Don’t listen to her, you can be anything you want,” Tony assures the little girl sat beside him.

El is slathering chocolate sauce all over her waffles, kicking the wooden leg of the table with a vigor. “Can I be Iron Man?”

“Definitely. Hand over your business card and my people will contact your people when I retire.”

“Okay,” she says, as if that settles everything.

A shuffling sound alerts Tony to a new presence. A sullen teenager; half-hiding behind the doorpost. “Morning, sunshine.”

Peter draws himself up with a narrow-eyed glare. “What are you doing here?”

“Boy, you may want to thank him,” Ana says as she pushes her way past him, into the kitchen. “He stayed awake all night to make sure you didn’t slip into a coma or nothing.”

“I didn’t ask for that, did I?”

“I asked him. Because you’re terrible at asking for help.”

“Excuse me,” Peter says, “I would be excellent at asking for help. I just never need it.”

“Mr. Parker,” Tony says, and indicates the plate in front of him, “I made waffles for breakfast. Would you care to have some?”

The boy hesitates, then stalks forward, chin raised high. He looks utterly, completely fine. Not even a hint of a fading bruise on him. His scowl is now aimed at the waffles, instead of at Tony. “Did you poison those?”

Tony laces his fingers under his chin. “Yeah, but just one. So it will be a Russian roulette sort of situation.”

“Just sit down and have breakfast!” Ana snaps as she wraps something in tinfoil. “You’re being rude!”

Peter perches on the edge of a chair, his gaze on Tony still that same mix of surly and suspicious. Tony makes a mental note to talk to this boy’s parents once they are back in town. He has no idea why Peter feels the need to be so antagonistic. Frankly, he finds it worrying. He nudges the plate of waffles a little closer to him and then focuses his attention on El again. “So what’s El short for? Is it… Eliza?”

“No,” El says. “Elephant.”

“Elephant.” He tries to keep a straight face. “Elephant. That’s… wow.”

“It’s Elena,” Ana says. “Imma go change and then we leave for church, all right, El?” She moves back into the living room, leaving the door open for a very fat, very obviously pregnant cat to waddle her way inside.

“Stop kicking the table, El,” Peter says, his voice still gruff. “I feel like I’m having breakfast in an earthquake.”

El sticks out her tongue, then commits treason by sliding from her seat and abandoning Tony to a very uncomfortable silence, only broken by the sounds of the cat pawing at a kitchen cabinet. Every time Tony’s gaze wanders Peter’s way, the boy freezes in his seat and scowls, sometimes with his fork lifted halfway to his mouth.

Tony waits for him to finish his first waffle, at least, before speaking up. “So what happened last night?”

“None of your business,” is the predictable response.

“What are these?” he holds up the bottle of pills he found on Peter’s nightstand.

“My painkillers.”

Tony eyes the barely legible scrawl on the label. “These could tranquilize a horse, where’d you get them?”

“Made them.”

“You make your own drugs.”

“Yeah, and like most things, it is none of your fucking business. Where do you get off, going through my stuff?”

“You’re right,” Tony says, calmly sliding the bottle of pills back across the table. “Please consider these waffles a token of my apology.”

Peter just bristles as he stuffs the pills into a pocket.

“What,” a heavily pregnant young woman says as she shuffles into the kitchen, “the fuck. Can someone explain why Tony Stark is in our kitchen?”

“Ana invited him,” Peter says.

“You know what ‘explain’ means, smart guy?”

“Go drink a nice hot cup of shut-the-fuck-up, bitch!”

Tony holds out a hand for her to shake. “You two must be related.”

“She’s my cousin Vicky,” Peter promptly says, as he spears another waffle with his fork.

Vicky shakes his hand and sags into a chair, eyeing the waffles with interest. “Finally some proper breakfast in this place. We inviting Beyoncé tomorrow to make us pancakes, or what’s the deal here?”

Peter glares. “Sorry our food isn’t up to your standards, your majesty.”

She reaches for the waffles. “You got home late, last night,” she tells Peter. “What, you been out robbing a gas station?”

“Shut up,” he merely snaps, but he ducks his head and hunches his shoulders, his demeanor suddenly self-conscious. His eyes dart up at Tony, as if he’s expecting Tony to make some kind of joke at his expense.

She doesn’t know, Tony realizes. Vicky doesn’t know that her own cousin is Spider-Man. Do the boy’s parents know, he wonders? Surely they do. But if they don’t, is it Tony’s responsibility to tell them?

The cat, meanwhile, has moved on to a thorough inspection of the cardboard box with paper waste in the corner.

“She yours?” Tony asks Vicky. He hadn’t noticed a cat in here last time.

Vicky glances back at the cat. “Nah. Just wandered in. El named him Bob”

Tony looks on as the cat experimentally dips one paw into the cardboard box. “Named her, you mean?”

“How would you know?

“You are aware that cat is nesting, right?”

“Doing what?”

“Nesting. She’s as pregnant as you are. And she apparently chose this house to give birth.”

Peter drops his fork down, says “oh, fuck,” and swiftly exits the room.

“And here we go,” Vicky says with an eyeroll. As if she knows exactly what’s next.

“I could take her with me,” Tony suggests. “I can probably bribe someone to take care of her.”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen, trust me. Peter won’t even get rid of the fucking raccoons.”

Tony isn’t sure what that means, but before he can ask, Peter re-enters the room, a blanket tucked under his arm. He moves the cardboard box into a corner and starts folding the blanket on top of it.

“Where are we supposed to put our paper trash?” Vicky asks, but Peter ignores her, smoothening out the fabric as if he is preparing a bed at the Ritz. Bob looks on with interest. She hisses half-heartedly when Peter gently lifts her into the box, but does settle down. “There,” Peter says, straightening himself. “Um… I’m gonna go out and buy some cat food.”

“Sure,” Vicky says, not seeming surprised in the least.

… Interesting.

-

The fake belt is still securely hidden away under his bed.

If Peter is lucky, bad guy number one and two assume that Spider-Man somehow found them underneath that bridge, and that he doesn’t know anything about their evil lair in the restaurant.

If he is unlucky, they played it safe and moved their entire cargo to a new location, and he will have to start from scratch to track them down.

If Spider-Man is spotted in or near the restaurant, it would surely drive the bad guys out, though. So this afternoon Peter walks in, wearing his normal clothes, and simply orders a cup of coffee to go. “And can I use your restroom?”

“In the back, to the left.”

Now, ‘to the left’ can of course be interpreted in many ways. Peter chooses to interpret it as ‘to the right, down the hallway.’

He sneaks past the kitchen and past at least three health violations until he reaches a back door where he can peek out.

The grey van is here again. Bad guy number one and two are sitting in the front, and appear to be arguing. Peter breathes out slowly and focusses his hearing until he can hear their voices.

“— idea how it was worth? Of course you don’t, no one does, BECAUSE IT WAS LITERALLY PRICELESS!”

“I talked to our contacts at the station. They’re keeping an eye out. If Spider-Man is the good guy he pretends to be, he’d hand the thing over to the cops, right?”

“Isn’t Spider-Man an Avenger? That belt is probably already back on Stark’s desk by now.”

“I think he operates alone, actually.”

Provisional conclusions: These guys have at least a few cops in their pockets. And whatever they are doing, the Avengers are involved.

Peter loathes to admit it, but he may need back-up for this one.

-

The next day, Peter comes home with El to find that Bob has given birth to six little kittens. The whole thing is wet and gross and a little bloody.

Just like Peter’s childhood.

Vicky is sitting in a chair next to the nest. “It all went swimmingly,” she says brightly. And then, in a low voice, only for Peter’s ears: “actually, one died. I got rid of it.”

“I want to hold them!” El predictably wails.

“Let Bob take care of them, I’m sure she knows what to do,” Peter says, holding El back as he eyes the kittens dubiously.

“It’s actually good to hold them,” Vicky says, “presuming you want to groom them into pets, not let them grow up as strays. You gotta socialize them. Be gentle of course, El, and don’t take them away from momma’s sight. If you don’t socialize them from an early age, they’ll grow up aggressive or shit-scared of people. Just like humans,” she adds, with a smirk in Peter’s direction.

Peter was going to ask how she knows so much about handling kittens, but now he is too busy trying to figure out if Vicky just insulted him.

El has already scooped up one kitten, making tiny, delighted noises.

“You wanna name them?” Vicky asks.

“They’re all named Olivia,” El announces.

-

“You said this house wasn’t haunted,” Vicky says. “There is definitely a ghost child running around here. I heard the little feet pitter-pattering across the roof last night.”

“Could have been a raccoon?” Ana suggests dryly, before turning her gaze on Peter. “Hey. Let’s clean out the attic next weekend,” she proposes, and Peter feels his lungs shrivel up inside his chest.

“or not—“ Vicky says, and gently blows on her tea.

“We can do the bathroom first,” Peter suggests quickly. “Lay some tiles. How does that sound?”

“Like a completely futile waste of our mortal lifespan,” Vicky says.

“I wasn’t asking you, I know you won’t lift a fucking finger.”

“I’m eight months pregnant, asshole.”

“Yeah, aren’t you glad to finally have an excuse?”

“You’re the worst.”

“You’re the worst! Back me up, Ana!”

“I’m not backing anyone up. You two are equally horrible,” Ana says as she shakes her head. “It’s almost like you’ve grown up in the same foster home. …I think the attic is a better place to start. Once it’s cleared out, it’s easier to see where the roof is damaged.”

“No,” Peter says, his mouth suddenly dry. “It’s— I don’t go up to the attic.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just don’t,” Peter says, his voice wavering.

“But we—”

“Hey,” Vicky snaps, her voice sharp. “He doesn’t go up to the attic, end of story.”

Ana seems to really look at Peter for a moment. “All right,” she then says. “Bathroom first. Can you lay tiles?”

“Yes,” Peter says, because he is pretty sure that he probably can. He can still feel shame rolling off him in waves. This whole thing is pathetic, he tells himself. Fuck, it was just an asthma attack. He shared foster homes with kids who got raped or beaten half to death by their own family. What’s he gonna do, never go up there for the rest of his life?

El patters into the room, hugging her backpack to her chest. “I’m ready!”

“Your shoes are on the wrong feet, girl,” Ana tells her.

She glances down, then glances back up at her, expression confused. “But I don’t have any other feet.”

-

Don’t be mad! Ana texts him, as Peter is on his way to pick up El.

What do you mean? He sends back, but receives no reply.

He is beginning to worry. But then he gets home and understands exactly what she meant, because Tony Stark is just there again, waiting on the front porch; his little girl tucked away under his arm.

“Ana invited me,” Stark says. “She said, uh— She said El’s good at making friends.” He pokes his daughter, then points at El. “That’s Elena. Say hello.”

Morgan sits up a little, looking at El with a mix of curiosity and wariness. “What’s your favorite color?” she asks.

“Popsicle.”

“She means red,” Peter translates.

That seems to pretty much exhaust Morgan’s topics of conversation. She shyly presses her face against her father’s sweater.

“Do you mind if we come in?” Stark asks him. He seems like he is trying to be nice or something. He’ll use any tac to get his hands on Peter’s web-fluid, that much is clear. Ana can’t seriously believe Stark is just here for a play-date. But Peter isn’t going to incur her wrath by sending Stark off now. Especially since it’s not little Morgan’s fault. “You both want tea?”

The muscles in Stark’s face relax and he smiles. “Yeah, sure.”

Peter spots Miriam on the back porch as he makes his way to the kitchen. He puts the kettle on and rummages around for cups, pointedly keeping his back turned on the two little girls and the one dumb asshole behind him.

El has never had a problem keeping the conversation flowing, though. She pulls Morgan towards the cardboard box in the corner and starts an extensive lecture on the care and management of newborn kittens. Morgan listens with rapt attention, but doesn’t say a word. “Vicky is pregnant too,” El continues as she deposits one of the Olivias into Morgan’s hands under the watchful eye of Bob. “She’s having a baby. She’s reaaally fat.”

“I saw,” Stark says. “It’s exciting, right? Do you want the baby to be a boy or a girl?”

“I want a puppy,” El says.

Stark lets out a chuckle, then says: “Morgan likes puppy’s too, don’t you, Maguna?”

Morgan is still not forthcoming with an answer. Peter almost feels sorry for Stark. But not enough to help him. “There,” he says, setting the teapot down before picking up two cups for himself and escaping towards the back porch.

“You have visitors?” Miriam asks as he settles in beside her.

Peter just grumbles in response. But then a thought occurs to him. “Miriam. You and me are partners in crime, right?”

“Naturally.”

“When Tony Stark gets out here, can you tell him you’re my grandma and you’re keeping an eye on the place while my parents are out of town?”

“Tony Stark.” She repeats. Not in a disbelieving tone, more like she’s recognizing the name but can’t place it.

“Here he comes. Be cool.”

Stark steps out the back door, two little girls in his wake. “I didn’t realize you had more visitors?”

“Just my grandma,” Peter says.

“Yes,” Miriam says. “I’m his grandma. He was the ugliest baby I had ever seen.”

Well, she sure is taking her role to heart.

“Nice to meet you,” Stark says. And, to Peter: “Hey, I brought a casserole. I put it in the fridge for you.”

“What for?”

“For eating. Ana mentioned neither of you are much into cooking. But your cousin needs good, healthy foods, with her pregnancy.”

“That’s— I mean—” A familiar wave of embarrassment rises up to wash over him. Immediately followed by a pang of anger at himself, for allowing someone to make him feel so inadequate. He knows he is supposed to cook proper meals; add it to the list of the gazillion other things he is supposed to do.

“Ah, yes,” Miriam agrees. “My future great-grandchild must come into this world in good health.”

Peter drops his head into his hands.

“Are you spending a few days here?” Stark asks Miriam as he sits down with them.

“No, I live nearby. I just drop by every now and then to keep an eye on this lot while the parents are out of town.”

“That’s good to know,” Stark says, and has the audacity to sound relieved, as if he thinks Peter needs someone to keep an eye on him. Peter draws himself up, bristling. “Well, excuse me if some of us don’t have cooking as a hobby.”

“What are your hobbies?”

“Crocheting and falconry,” Peter says, because his hobby’s aren’t any of this asshole’s concern.

“He likes DIY,” Miriam, the traitor, says. “He’s very handy; helping to fix this place up.”

“I’m not that good,” Peter says. Because it turned out he couldn’t really lay tiles, even with the YouTube videos, so now their bathroom is looking a mess, and he has to call a guy to fix it which is another bill coming—

“And he can make braids,” El adds.

Tony’s lips quirk up into a smile and Peter feels himself flush.

“I think I remember you now,” Miriam says. “It’s Tony Stark, as in Stark Industries, right? You’re a mechanic of some sort.”

Stark just nods. To Peter’s surprise, he doesn’t go off on a whole self-aggrandizing speech about how he is probably the world’s most famous scientist during the week, and the world’s most famous super hero on the weekend.

“And what does your wife do?” Miriam continues.

“Oh. Morgan explains it best. Honey?”

“Mommy is a hamster.”

“That’s right.”

“And I’m daddy’s business partner,” Morgan continues as she drapes her arms around his father’s neck.

“Yes,” Stark says. “I mean, between the two of us, we’ve got 5 PhDs, so…” He pokes his daughter in the side. “Why don’t you and El go play some more?”

Morgan ducks her head and shrugs a little helplessly. Peter feels bad for the girl. He has never been great at making friends, either. “El, why don’t you show Morgan some of those really nice holes you made in the backyard?”

El veers up. “Yes. Morgan. Help me look for treasure.”

She cocks her head. “Treasure?”

“There’s a treasure in the backyard and we’re gonna find it.” El jumps off the porch and starts clawing her way through the tightly packed weeds, presumably looking for the bright yellow plastic shovel she had been using.

“Go on, Maguna,” Stark says. “I’ll chat a bit more, and then I’ll come be your navigator.”

“I’m excited to see what you’ll bring to the role,” Morgan says. And takes off.

“Your daughter is very smart,” Miriam compliments.

“Not really. My wife loves teaching her corporate phrases. She’s just a good parrot. But she’s a little idiot. She once drew a picture on my forehead while I was sleeping and then tried to blame it on the dog. We don’t have a dog.”

“How old is she?”

“Just turned five. She’s finishing her first year of elementary school. She hasn’t really made friends. Solitary girl, you know? You’d think at that age they make friends like that—” he snaps his fingers, then shrugs. “But…”

“She’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

“She will be,” Stark agrees. “But as a parent you can’t help but worry, you know? Part of the job description.”

All right, fine, so Tony Stark might be a good dad. That doesn’t change anything, though, Peter tells himself.

“When you have a kid, things change,” Stark says. “You change. You are no longer the main focus of your own life. Whatever shit you need to clean up in your life, you get it done. Because she’s worth it. That’s just how it works when you’re a parent.”

Peter wonders why that declaration is making him feel so small and worthless.

-

Vicky steps onto the porch, supporting her back with both hands. “Why the fuck is Tony Stark in our house again?”

El and Morgan have been playing in the overgrown backyard for hours, now. Miriam left, Ana came home, and Peter is still sitting in that same spot on the back porch, trying to figure out how he feels. Morgan has warmed up to El and the girls are getting along swimmingly, which is all kinds of terrible. Ana and Tony Stark are sticking close to the kids, and appear to be getting along too, which is even more terrible.

“Don't ask me. Ana is the one who keeps inviting him.”

“He her sugar daddy or something?”

“Don’t be fucking stupid.”

“I thought she was into girls, anyways.”

Peter veers up. “How would you know that?”

“Girl talk. You know, when you are out doing whatever the fuck you do every evening, us girls get together and devise a strategy to defeat the patriarchy.” She stretches out on the porch swing. “Also, I am simply an exceptionally good judge of character.”

“Yeah? What do you know about Tony Stark?”

“Morally bankrupt basket case.”

Hm. Pretty damn accurate. Peter can finally be on the same page with her about something. “What about me?” he asks, and immediately regrets the question. But she already turns sharp, grey eyes on him. “You’re an old, fussy lady’s spirit trapped inside a teenager’s body.”

The hell is that supposed to mean? Peter decides he rather wouldn’t question it. He turns his gaze back to the four people trudging through the backyard. He still doesn’t like stupid Stark one bit. But yeah, he has to admit it’s kinda sweet, how the man lights up all over again, every time he turns to look at Morgan. The way he bends towards her every time she shows him something trivial — a pretty rock or a funny leaf — the corners of his mouth quirking into a soft smile. Somehow, seeing Stark and his little girl together is giving Peter a strange sense of loss.

“You gotta get rid of all these weeds,” Vicky says, “before they fuck up your espaliered walls.”

“What?”

“You gotta get rid of these weeds.”

“I’m not an idiot! I understood that part! What’d’you say about my walls?”

“Espaliered. You know. There’s fruit trees growing flat up against them. Fucking fancy.”

“Don’t call my fruit trees fancy when you’re the one throwing out stupid-ass hoity-toity words like ‘specaliered’.” Peter forgot about this part. Vicky swears like a sailor, but also reasons like fucking Plato, and has a vocabulary no one else stands a chance with. Which means you can never win a fight with her.

“Not my fault you have the vocabulary of a caveman. Did you get dropped on your head as a kid?”

“I probably did,” Peter says, considering what he remembers about his own childhood.

That shuts Vicky up. She turns away from him, her face suddenly remarkably closed-off. The group home where they both lived was a dog-eat-dog world, where attention was a scarce commodity, and something kids fought over relentlessly. But there was always a sort of unwritten code that you didn’t ask someone about the shit in their past, about their fucked up parents or their spiral into crime, drugs and homelessness. It’s why Peter still hasn’t asked Vicky how she got pregnant. She hasn’t said a single word about it, so it’s probably not a pretty story.

“I got a splinter!” El wails, popping her head out from behind a bush as she dramatically clutches her hand.

“Let me see, kiddo. I’m very good at fixing boo-boos,” Stark says. “Nothing but rave reviews.”

He calls every single person in this house ‘kiddo’, except Peter. Peter is still ‘Mr. Parker’, ever since he snapped at Stark about ‘not being a kid’. Like Stark is trying to prove some point.

“You guys have some tweezers?” Stark asks, and Peter steps inside to find them.

When he comes back out, the whole group have firmly installed themselves on the porch. Peter hands off the tweezers, and is now left with the choice to either join them, or flee back inside. He was about to go with the much more sensible option B when he overhears Stark discussing something that piques his curiosity.

“…operating in Queens,” he mentions, and: “…obscene amounts of technology that went missing.”

“What kind of technology?” Ana asks.

“The kind you’re not going to find anywhere else in the US. Chitauri. Asgardian. Wakandan. I’ve angered a lot of really rather important people, including one Asgardian god.”

“How could you lose technology like that? I thought your headquarters would have the security level of Area 51.”

“We were moving things upstate from the tower, about six months ago. They somehow hijacked the entire plane.”

Huh.

Peter thought he just stole a cheap knock-off from a bunch of misguided criminals. But it turns out he is hiding a possible cause for World War Three under his bed.

He is not telling Ana about this. She’ll probably still find out, somehow, but he sure as hell isn’t telling her.

-

Peter has to serve another detention for skipping some classes, or yelling at some teachers, he isn’t even sure anymore what this one is for. Ana just shakes her head and calls Emma’s father again. “I’ll pick El up from his place after work,” she says.

And of course the one time — the one time Peter is not the one picking El up… she manages to bring home an ugly clump of feathers, announcing that she adopted a baby crow who will henceforth be living here for ever and ever.

“That’s a magpie, actually,” Vicky says, and she tsks as she leans in. “You should have tried to place it back in the nest, first.”

“Good,” Peter says. There’s a limit to how many guests he can allow in this house. “Go put it back.”

“But I don’t remember where I found it!” El protests, protectively cradling the bird against her chest.

“Yeah, me neither,” Ana says.

“For fuck’s sake, Ana!”

“Language.”

Peter responds to that with a very eloquent growl.

“I’m naming him Bob,” El says.

“I thought the cat’s name was Bob.”

“I like the name.”

Ana takes out her phone. “I’ll just look up what to feed them.”

“It’ll probably die,” Vicky says, indifferently. “Just as a heads-up.”

“This website says dogfood and boiled eggs. About two tea spoons every hour. Um. Sunflower seeds, fresh fruit, and worms or bugs.”

“Every hour,” Peter repeats in flat tones. “Who do you think is going to be here to feed it bugs every hour, Vicky?”

But apparently, Vicky is willing to crawl through the backyard, digging for worms. Which simultaneously makes Peter annoyed at her for proving him wrong, but also makes him respect her a tiny bit more.

-

Today is another particularly worthwhile afternoon in the workshop. Tony’s esteemed business partner is currently working on a sesame street-themed coloring book. Meanwhile, Tony managed to figure out the full recipe to the web-fluid, but Peter Parker himself is still a bit of an enigma.

(“Don’t give up on him,” Ana had told him in a low voice as they trudged through the backyard together, looking for treasure. “I promise he’s a softie at heart.”)

Tony has no plans of ‘giving up’. He solved the riddle of the web-fluid, but not the riddle of Spider-Man. And he has never in his life left a riddle unsolved.

“You’re just like cookie monster,” Morgan says, looking up from her coloring book.

“Why?”

“Because he’s blue and loves cookies.”

Tony nods. “It adds up.”

The door to his workshop slides open. Tony recognizes the light but steady tread of the Avenger who rarely comes with good news.

“Auntie Nat!” Morgan chirps, confirming his worst suspicion.

“Hi peanut,” she returns with a soft smile. She is carrying a cardboard box; the duct tape already cut open. “Someone dropped this off at security,” she says. “You’re going to want to take a look at it.”

She places it on his desk and folds the flaps away. Something inside shimmers, and Tony sucks in a breath when he lays eyes on Thor’s belt — his actual belt. He can tell right away that it’s the real thing. One of the most unique and powerful objects on the face of this earth right now. Casually shoved into a cardboard box.

“This came with it,” Natasha says, handing him a succinct note.

You can find the rest at Charlecote restaurant, 164^th street. Followed by a few number plates.

“Has that restaurant popped up on our radar before?”

“No. And we ran the number plates. Nothing specific popped up. The belt is certainly legit, though. We don’t know if the note is. This might be a trap.”

“Who dropped it off?”

“A boy. Teenager. He had his hood up and left quickly, but you might still be able to run facial recognition.”

Tony lets out a long breath. “I don’t expect I’ll need to.”

The Parker enigma grows.

-

Tony Stark’s sneer at their frozen meals has stuck with Peter more than he’d like to admit. So he attempts to bake some potatoes and cook some leek for dinner. But the leek becomes gross and mushy and there is sand between the leaves, and the potatoes burn to a crispy black.

“Throw it out,” Ana says. “No one is eating that. I’ll heat up a lasagna.”

Feeling humiliated and inadequate, Peter wordlessly dumps the food into the garbage can.

“Hey, why are you upset?” Ana asks. “Why are you even cooking? The frozen meals are just fine.”

“They’re not,” Peter insists, and to his shame, he feels tears pricking behind his eyes. “They’re not nutritional and El is growing and Vicky is pregnant.”

“All right,” Ana says after a short pause. “We’ll try together tomorrow. We’ll figure it out. How hard can it be?”

They have lasagna for dinner, and makes plans to watch Jaws 4: the revenge after El has gone to bed.

“I’m watching ‘Endless Night’,” Vicky announces. “It’s a documentary about the lives of three generations of women in Siberia.”

“Why are you like this?”

“You mean cultured? If you enjoy being miserable, then allow me to recommend Crocosnake 2, this time it’s personal.”

-

Tony Stark turns up on the doorstep without Morgan, but with a paper bag full of groceries.  “Mr. Parker,” he greets with a nod. “Ana told me you want to learn to cook. So I figured we could make my infamous casserole together.”

“Oh,” Peter says dumbly, feeling his entire face flame. He knows Ana meant well telling Stark about that, but fuck, doesn’t she understand how humiliating this is?

“I’ll take you through it step by step,” Stark continues, as if Peter is a particularly stupid child, and Peter wishes he could just disappear.

“There’s something else I want to discuss, too,” Stark says as he moves into the kitchen, while Peter lingers in the relative safety of the doorway. “I’m sure you can guess what it is. How are the kittens doing—… What is that?”

Peter glances over. “A bird.”

Vicky has built Bob — that is, the baby magpie — a nest and placed it inside a wicker basket on top of the kitchen table where Bob — that is, the momma cat — can’t reach it.

“Why do you have a bird in your house?”

Peter crosses his arms. “Why don’t you have a bird in your house?”

“What are your parents going to think of all this?”

“Cross that bridge when we get there.”

Tony Stark gives an ‘it’s your funeral’-shrug. He dumps the paper bag on the kitchen counter, then turns so he can lean his back against it. “So. I was pleasantly surprised by that little present you brought by, Mr. Parker.”

Fantastic. So Stark already knows that was him. Amateur hour alert. “Yeah, well…” Peter says, and then can’t think of anything else to say. So he just stares back at Stark like an idiot.

“We raided the restaurant,” the man continues. “Found our gear – whatever they hadn’t sold already. Arrested a few people. How did you track them down? We’ve spent months analyzing satellite footage, tracking the dark web, hacking cell phones…”

“A hot dog vendor told me.”

“Huh,” Stark says. He somehow makes a single ‘huh’ sound as if his whole worldview is shifting. “And the night you came home with a concussion, was that them?”

“Yeah, I— one of them punched me.” Shit, it sounds lame when he says it like that.

"I see," Stark says, and Peter fidgets against the doorpost, wondering when the man will just get on with it and tell him how much of an idiot he is.

…Fuck, when did he start caring what Tony Stark thinks of him?

“Impressive,” Stark says. “You outsmarted a team of Avengers and the world’s best AI. And you got us out of a tight spot. Thank you.”

Peter doesn’t really know how to handle a compliment like that, so he just gives a terse nod.

“The leader got away,” Stark continues. “His name is Adrian Toomes. He is currently hiding somewhere and I— I just want to make clear that the Avengers are handling this from now on. You steer clear of all this, okay?”

“Look, if I’m out on patrol and I see him, I’m not going to ignore him.”

“If you see him, call me. You have my number. The guy is bad news. I think this stuff is a little above your paygrade.”

“You don’t decide that for me.” Peter grates, anger flaming up in his chest. “You’re… you’re not in charge of me. No one is!”

“You’re underage, kid. If I feel like you are endangering yourself, I think I have a responsi—"

“—I’m not a FUCKING KID!” His lungs are doing that uncomfortable, squeezing thing in his chest again.

“Except that you are,” Tony says, raising his voice slightly. “And whether you like it or not, that means something.”

Any feelings of goodwill that had started to form towards this man, are swiftly burned away as white hot anger flares up inside him. “You’re such… You’re such an asshole. Just… Just get out.”

“Okay. Let’s… Let’s calm down for a moment,” Stark lifts both his hands. “And leave the topic for now. How about we cook first, and talk more about it later?”

“Just get out! I— Fuck, I’ll figure it out! I’d rather eat frozen burritos every night for the rest of my life than spend one night learning to cook from the likes of you!”

-

Sometimes, being an adult is fucking terrible. But being a kid had been fucking terrible too so… out of the frying pan, into the fire. Peter always knew that being emancipated required you to solve all your own problems. But his problems had usually been things like… restricting rules. Condescending adults. Harassment from older boys. Feeling like there isn’t a single fucking place where you can just sit down and take a breath. Now his problems are suddenly all about health insurance. Deciding what’s for dinner every night. Giving El some semblance of a normal life.

He desperately wants her to grow up in a stable home. But nothing he has ever been through gave him the skills to deal with this shit. He knows how to bark and snark and even throw punches if he has to. Very effective when he was a system-kid. But it hasn’t seemed to help him much in his adult life, so far.

“Why are you still up?” Ana asks. Peter hadn’t even heard her come in.

“The roof,” he says, staring down at the papers in his hands, his chest hurting from hours of too shallow breathing. “I gotta get that fucking roof fixed somehow. Ismael is coming over in three weeks.”

She takes a chair by the table. “It’s too late right now for any of that. Go consult with your pillow and make the decision tomorrow.”

“It’s going to rain tomorrow.”

“You won’t have it fixed before then, anyways. Put it away, Peter,” she says, gently but firmly pulling the papers out of his hands. “You have been stressing for hours.”

“How would you know? You’ve only been here three minutes!”

“I can tell by your crazy eyes.”

“Just… the raccoons. And each place I call about fixing the roof gives me a higher price, and I don’t know if they’re ripping me off. They probably hear my voice and think I’m some incompetent amateur trust fund kid they can scam out of his money—"

“Don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out!”

“One step at a time,” she says. “I’ll clean out the attic, first. And I’ll buy some more plastic sheets to cover the worst holes.”

“I still haven’t paid you back for the paint cans.”

“I told you, I’m paying for that. Why do you think I got a job?”

“It’s not your responsibility.”

“It’s mine as much as yours. We both live here.”

“But I’m the adult. You’re fifteen.”

“Big deal, I’m a whole five months younger than you. Look, no offense, but I‘ve been doing the adult game for years now. You’re just getting into it.”

Peter veers up. “But I am legally an adult!” he snaps. “I am an adult. You’re not!”

“All right,” she says, elegantly crossing her legs. “Well, I’m glad you’re not touchy about it, ni nada. Why don’t you ask that social worker of yours to help you with the financial stuff?”

“Because I don’t want Ismael to know I’m freaking out about it!”

“Okay. First, I’m glad we’ve established that you are freaking out.” And then she makes a suggestions that promptly makes Peter question her sanity: “Why don’t you ask Tony?” Because apparently, those two are on a fucking first name basis already.

"What, so he can have a good laugh at my pathetic life?" Peter snarls. "No thanks."

“I’m sure he’d be happy to help, despite how rude you’ve been to him.”

Peter knows his behavior towards Stark has been… not entirely mature. If he knew Peter got emancipated, he’d probably wonder who the hell authorized that decision. “I don’t know how to be anything else,” he confesses.

“Asking him for help would be a good place to start.”

“I’m not asking anyone for help!”

“Why?”

“Jesus, because I’m fucked up,” Peter says, annoyed. “Who’d even want—”… Who’d want to put up with his incompetence? Even he’s sick of it. “Why do you think I became emancipated in the first place? So I wouldn’t get a bunch of people digging around in all my damn problems!”

“That sounds healthy and non-avoiding.” She waves the papers around. “I’m taking these. I’ll give them back tomorrow after breakfast.”

“Do you ever get tired of being right?”

“Lord, yeah, all the time.”

-

Peter: Hi Mr. Stark. This is Peter.

Peter: Parker.

Peter: I’m sorry for snapping at you. You were right about Toomes, I can’t handle him on my own.

Peter: OK Ana wanted me to text you that and she checked to see if I did. But she is gone now so I'd like to add also that you’re not right at all and I can handle Toomes just fine.

Peter: But I am sorry for snapping at you and if you want to teach me to make a casserole sometime that would be fine.

Mr. Stark: I will see you on Wednesday, Mr. Parker

Chapter Text

Peter comes home to Ana balancing on Vicky’s shoulders, holding a screwdriver in her mouth and reaching up to the ceiling.

“What am I looking at, live version of dumbest ways to die?”

“Lamp stopped working,” Vicky says. “Probably because the electrical wiring is water damaged. You know that’s a fire hazard?”

“We cut off the circuit breakers for the living room,” Ana continues as she lowers herself to the ground. “Probably best to leave it off until we can get a guy to look at it. I made some calls already — I’ll pay for it.”

Just what Peter needed today. Another reason to feel like a piss-poor substitute for a parent. He wordlessly nods and moves into the kitchen to check the freezer. Both Bobs and all the Olivias seem to be doing well. The bird flaps his wings and opens his beak whenever Peter moves past. And the kittens have opened their eyes and are making half-hearted attempts at crawling.

“You better know to keep them in your nest, girl,” Peter tells Bob as he cleans her water bowl. “We got raccoons in the attic.”

“Hey,” Vicky says, following him into the kitchen. “Will you sign the birthday card on the table?”

Peter glances around. “Who’s it for?”

“Craig.”

Peter lets out a joyless laugh. “What— You’re kidding right? He was a fucking asshole.”

She gives an unbothered shrug and sinks into a chair. “He wasn’t a saint, so what? No one’s perfect, he tried his best. And you’ve always reacted to kindness like a feral animal. No foster parent ever stood a chance with you. Don’t know why. You’re a guy, so it’s not like you had to worry about them groping you or nothing.”

“Shut up,” Peter snaps. Vicky doesn’t know a thing. Something like that has happened to him. Although it was one of the older boys, not a foster parent. And the one social worker he eventually confided in had actually handled it pretty well.

“If it wasn’t for Craig, I wouldn’t be in college,” Vicky says. “He pushed me to try hard in school, he drove me to all the college open houses. At least he gave a shit.”

That distracts Peter away from his previous line of thought. “You’re in college.”

“I like plants and animals and stuff,” she says. “I was studying environmental studies at community college before I got knocked up. I wanna work on making urban zones more climate-resilient.”

“Oh,” Peter says, realizing that he never bothered to ask her what she had been up to, because he had just assumed she wasn’t up to anything, and realizing subsequently that he may have been a bit of an asshole. “Cool.”

“I’ll get back into it, later.”

“You have money?”

“Not really. But I work and then I take a few classes, and it all works out. Neil and Alex said they’d pay for stuff, but that felt weird. Like I was selling my baby to them or something.”

“Neil and Alex.”

She jabs her stomach, and not gently either. “They’re the couple who are getting this little nugget once it’s out.”

“Oh. So… you won’t see it anymore? After?”

“We’re staying in touch, to a certain degree. Research says that’s beneficial to the child.”

She is actually smart, Peter begins to realize. Not smart the way Ana is smart; thinking on her feet and being all scrappy. But Vicky reads, and she watches documentaries about women in Siberia, and she has opinions and shit.

Apparently, it’s his fate to always be the biggest dumbass in the room.

-

Tony brings his daughter with him. And another paper bag of groceries.

“Hey,” Peter says, feeling embarrassed as hell.

“Mr. Parker,” Tony greets, his voice carefully friendly. “Morgan wouldn’t stop asking about your kittens.”

Morgan nods with enthusiasm, her gaze on Peter far more unguarded than the first time she was here. “Go have a look, then, ” he tells her. “They’ve been missing you, too. Particularly Olivia.”

“But they’re all Olivia,” she says, confused.

Tony grins, now. “Sarcasm and little kids. Not a great combo.”

Morgan and El huddle around the box with kittens. Vicky sits at the table to hand-feed Bob, as Ana and Peter help Tony lay out the ingredients.

“Crowded in here,” Tony remarks.

“We have no electricity in the living room,” Ana says.

A frown creases Tony’s brow. “I see.”

And then he starts explaining how to cut and wash the vegetables, and Peter attempts to follow instructions, while Vicky sits at the kitchen table and makes snide remarks.

“We could use some help here,” Ana pointedly says at some point.

“Yeah, I can tell,” Vicky says, making no move to get up.

Peter shows Tony a half-peeled potato. “Something like this?”

Tony looks at the potato. “You gotta make your own mistakes, Mr. Parker”

“That’s reassuring.”

The casserole has to be in the oven for almost three hours, which seems fucking unworkable to Peter. Who has time to do that every day? “It’s something, I guess,” he says.

Ana crosses her arms. “You have a very interesting way of saying thank you.”

Peter flushes and turns away, vigorously scrubbing a frying pan. He feels like a little kid, suddenly. He’s pretty sure that he looks like one too.

“Can I talk to you, privately?” Tony asks, lightly tapping Peter on the shoulder. Probably about that fucking Toomes guy. Peter reluctantly lets the frying pan slide into the sink and nods.

He leads Tony to the back porch. It is pleasantly warm but drizzling rain, which is probably why Miriam isn’t here today.

“No electricity, huh?” Tony asks as they sit down. His eyebrows are drawn together in an odd expression that Peter can’t really place. Like he’s trying to solve a problem.

“Oh. Just in the living room. Ana shut it off. She thinks it’s water damage. We, um, we called a guy.”

“When are your parents getting back?”

Peter clasps his hands together and looks away. “Next week, probably.” He wonders how much longer he can keep up the charade. It has been three weeks and it doesn’t look like Stark is going anywhere any time soon. Maybe Peter should just give him the recipe for the web-fluid after all; get the man off his back.

“Do they go on a lot of business trips?” Tony continues, his tone almost as gentle as when he talks to his own daughter.

…Is he worried? Or is he suspecting something? Peter analyzes Tony’s face for a few seconds. “Now and then,” he says.

“Do they know you’re without proper food and electricity?” Tony asks, his tone growing slightly sharper.

“We have food,” Peter argues weakly. “And electricity in— um— in most rooms.”

This answer doesn’t seem to appease Tony terribly much. “Do they know your girlfriend is staying here almost permanently, with her little sister?”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Peter snaps. “She’s… a friend.”

“Why are they staying here, then? I get the impression they sleep here too. Three weeks is a long time to be staying with a friend. Especially for little El.”

“We can take care of her just fine!”

“That seems like a lot of responsibility for a sixteen-year-old.”

Peter crosses his arm, fingers dinging into the opposite elbow. “What do you care? You’re only here because you want the recipe for my web-fluid.”

“Hate to break it to you, kid, but I figured that recipe out weeks ago.”

Peter drops his arms down and stares up at him. “You— You already have it?”

Tony must mistake his confusion for outrage, because he clarifies: “I won’t use it without your permission. I don’t actually have a use for it at the moment, anyway. I just needed to figure it out, that’s how my brain works. It obsesses.”

“But why are you still… Why are you still here, then?” Peter asks, feeling utterly confused. Tony Stark has the recipe for his web-fluid.

“I may not have been much of an Avenger lately, but I’m a dad. That’s my best superpower right now. So I’d like to have a talk with your parents when they get back. One concerned parent to another. Any chance you can give me their phone number right away?”

Tony Stark has the recipe for his web-fluid.

“I’m sure we have a lot to talk about. And I can give them some advice on fixing this place up into a sustainable home. I have plenty of experience in that area, too.”

Tony Stark has the recipe for his web-fluid. And he’s still here, bumbling his way through a very transparent attempt to call Peter’s parents out for being horribly negligent.

About ten years too late.

“You should tell them they can use foam tape to insulate that door—” Tony starts saying, just as Peter opens his own mouth and says: “Um, so my parents are dead.”

“Keeps the cold out— what?” Tony tears his eyes away from the door and turns to Peter.

“My parents are dead. You think we need to insulate our doors?”

“Well it’s… It keeps out the… What do you mean?”

“Happened about a year ago.”

“But your grandmother said—”

“She not my grandmother. Just a cool lady who lives next door and likes to hang out on my porch.”

“And your cousin—”

“Not my cousin.”

Tony draws back in his chair, hands clenching around the wood. “But,” he manages after a few moments of stunned silence, “you have a legal guardian. Right?”

“I got emancipated when I turned sixteen. I’m legally an adult, and the house is mine. So. Whatever problem you have with how this household is ran, you can take it up with me.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Tony says. “Kid, you— I— How did they die?”

“Car accident. DUI.”

“Did they catch the asshole?”

“That asshole would be my mother. And it doesn’t matter, I hadn’t seen them in ten years, anyways. I was five when I got pulled into the foster system. And I’m trying to fix up the house, all right? I’m getting the electricity fixed. I’m learning to cook.”

“Jesus,” Tony says again. “Kid, I didn’t mean—”

“Not a kid,” Peter says. Not even angrily. Just as a fact. “Legally an adult.”

“Why did you get emancipated?”

Peter shrugs. “After my parents died, the money was there to be financially independent. And I just… had to get out of there. Nothing against my social workers, particularly. They tried. But when you spend your whole life feeling like an inconvenience because you made the mistake of being born, it catches up to you eventually.”

Tony doesn’t ask dumb questions like why didn’t you tell me, and Peter is thankful to him for that, at least. “So,” Tony says, choosing his words carefully, cautiously, “I don’t know a lot about emancipation. Does it really mean that you have no… You have no-one?”

“From where I’m standing, I have a lot more than I did last year. A different social worker every month and emotionally fucked up foster siblings don’t make for a stellar social safety net. I can finally build something up. I can finally fucking breathe. Sorry, you don't care, sorry—" He draws in a deep breath, then releases it. “Anyway, thank you,” he then murmurs. “Um. For the food, and stuff.”

Tony leans in and hugs him. It is sudden, it feels unfamiliar and clumsy and Peter isn’t sure if he likes it. So he squirms away after a second or two. “Still want to join for dinner?”

“Of course,” Tony says. “Yes. Of course.”

They return to the kitchen. “Give me that,” Peter tells Vicky. “I’ll sign the damn birthday card.”

-

Tony comes again on Thursday. And again on Friday. He doesn’t even bring Morgan. But he brings food. And tools to fix up the house. And new school supplies for El. He looks at Peter with different eyes. Peter isn’t sure what it is, and he isn’t sure if he likes it.

“You told him, didn’t you?” Ana asks over breakfast as she slathers butter on a piece of toast. She looks happy about it, and Peter isn’t sure what there is to be happy about.

“I told him me and El are undocumented,” she continues.

“Are you fucking insane?”

“He won’t use it against us,” she says, sounding far too certain about it. “It’s good to have people on our side. Safety in numbers.”

Tony comes again on Saturday, bringing his daughter, this time.

“When are the kittens going to run and play?” Morgan asks as she and El kneel over the nest full of Olivias.

“Not for another week,” Vicky says, carefully shifting in her seat. Her due date is nine days from now, and Peter is annoyed with himself for how much anxiety that gives him. He checks his phone every two minutes when he is at school, and tends to hover around Vicky when he is home. If she noticed, she isn’t saying anything about it.

“What will you do once the baby is out?” Tony asks her.

“Smoke a cigarette. Fuck, I miss those things.”

“Smoking causes cancer.”

“Gee, thanks,” she says, “didn’t know that yet.”

Tony chuckles good naturedly. Because he just gets along with everyone, as always. It’s difficult to reconcile the image of Tony Stark, the paparazzi catnip who made drunk speeches on television, with this Tony Stark who just wants to raise his daughter and make casseroles.

“What’s mancipated mean?” Morgan asks, and frankly, it weirds Peter out to think that Tony has been talking about his emancipation at the dinner table. He shrugs as he gathers the dirty dishes in a pile. “It means… I pay for all my own stuff. I fix my own problems. I sign my own report cards, my own sick-notes.”

That piques Vicky’s interest. “You can sign your own sick-notes? Fuck, why are you even going to school then?”

“This coming from the girl who is working shit jobs to pay her way through community college.”

“Yeah, because I like school. But I know you fucking hate it.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“So why don’t you have any friends?”

“Not interested,” Peter snaps.

Vicky shrugs and turns away. “What about you, Morgan?” she asks. “You like school?”

“I like Sam,” Morgan says.

Tony looks mildly baffled. Vicky, on the other hand, looks like Christmas has come early, eyes glittering speculatively. “Why’s that?”

“He’s got a nice backpack, and he can do a handstand.”

“Sounds like he’s got the whole package,” Vicky says. “You gotta lock that shit down fast, before some other bitch moves in.”

“Don’t swear in front of them,” Peter tells her.

“Ha.”

“What ‘ha’?”

“Something with a pot and a kettle,” she says. “I’ll let you connect the dots.”

Peter turns away from them and opens the faucet wide. He leans against the kitchen counter as he watches the dishpan fill up.

“Peter’ll be fine. He could have been a lot more fucked up,” Vicky says frankly, like she and Tony are having some sort of private tea party to gossip about him. “Some of the kids in our group home, don’t get me started. Police raided the place once because one of the girls had gone out and stabbed her uncle. Motherfucker probably deserved it, anyway. Or that kid Warren, who tried to off himself. Peter was the one who found him, actually, isn’t that right?”

Peter presses his lips together and doesn’t turn around. His breath begins to feel constricted, lungs cramping up to suck the air in.

“Even did CPR, though I don’t expect Warren thanked him for it. He survived, but we never saw him again. Yeah, compared to most of us, Peter was really white bread. Not surprised they approved his emancipation request.”

Tony isn’t saying anything in reply, and Peter doesn’t want to turn around to see what the man’s face looks like. Because he’s pretty sure that every imaginable facial expression is just going to feel mortifying.

But after Vicky takes the girls out to look for more ‘treasure’ in the backyard, Tony gets up from the table and helps Peter dry the dishes. And he just makes small talk about fixing the house, and how he likes the neighborhood, and which terrible movies he and Ana have been watching this week. Until Peter feels like he can breathe again.

Tony promises to come again the next day. And Peter finds that he is beginning to look forward to the man’s presence.

And frankly, that scares the crap out of him.

-

“The slugs have launched a concerted attack on your rudbeckias,” Vicky says.

“I understood about fifty percent of that sentence.”

“If you want to keep your flowers alive, you gotta start clearing out some of the weeds.”

“Really not a priority right now, Vick.”

“Yeah,” she says, resigned. “I get that. If I weren’t so damn pregnant, I’d take care of it for you.”

Huh. She still isn’t lifting a finger around the house, but this is the first time Peter has ever heard her express the willingness to do some fucking work. She must really love that gardening bullshit.

El wanders into the room. She’s wearing a pretty dress, but raggedy shoes that are worn out at the tips.

“You can’t go to church with shoes like that, girl,” Peter says, “They’ll excommunicate you.”

“Don’t make jokes about that!” Ana snaps as she marches through the room, shrugging into her coat. “El, put on them nice shoes that lady gave you. Come on, now.”

“I’m gonna sleep some more,” Vicky says, pushing herself to her feet. “Someone wanna come tuck me in?”

“I’ll come douse you with a bucket later,” Peter says. Tucking in, what a joke. It’s not as if anyone ever tucked him in. Not anyone he cared about, anyways.

Actually, Tony tucked him in once, he suddenly remembers. That night when he… “Hey,” he says, turning to Ana. “That night I came home, um, sick. And you called Tony. I think I— I’m pretty sure I threw up. You didn’t … ?”

“Tony probably took care of that,” Ana says, her voice entirely casual as if that wouldn’t be the uttermost mortifying scenario imaginable. “He told me to just go to bed.”

“Oh my god,” Vicky crows, clapping her hands together. “Iron Man cleaned up your puke.”

Peter is beginning to wish for a large rock to be dropped on his head. Maybe he remembers it wrong. He was concussed, after all. Maybe he just imagined… Surely fucking Tony Stark wouldn’t go around cleaning that shit up when he probably never even had to wash a plate in his own home?

-

Ana and El are still at church and Vicky is still in bed when Tony arrives.

Peter scurries around the kitchen, making equal parts coffee and a fool of himself. His lungs feel like they are cramping up inside his chest. He can’t even look Tony in the eye.

“I brought some leftover pie,” Tony says. “Pepper made it last night.”

“Okay,” Peter says. “Um. Thanks.”

“Are you all right, Mr. Parker? Did something happen?”

Peter opens his mouth and closes it again. Swallows. Tries again. “Did you— Um— The night I got my concussion, did I throw up?”

Tony looks surprised for a moment, before schooling his face into a more neutral expression. “I have a five-year-old daughter, Mr. Parker. I’m no stranger to cleaning up after sick people. Don’t worry about it.”

Crap. Peter wishes he could collapse in on himself like a dying star. Could he be any more fucking pathetic?

“Hey,” Tony says, his voice soft. “It’s no big deal.”

No big deal. He only managed to completely humiliate himself in front of the one man he had hoped would take him seriously.

“It’s okay,” Tony emphasizes.

“I know that,” Peter snaps. “It’s not even my fault! I didn’t ask you to come over! You just— You just barge in all the time.”

“I just want to—”

“What? Play the big hero? How long are you planning to continue with this… this…” he doesn’t finish his sentence, because he doesn’t know what this is. What is he to Tony? A hobby? A project?

“There’s no plan,” Tony says. “I mean… I don’t know.”

“No, you don’t need a plan, do you? Because you have nothing to lose, this is just a fun pastime for you. Something to help you feel better about yourself. But I don’t have time to entertain you with my problems. I fix my own problems.”

“But I could—”

“And it’s really fucking disrespectful and condescending when you walk around here like I can’t wipe my ass without your help.”

Tony stands. “This was a mistake," he says. He doesn’t even sound angry, just tired and sad.

And he leaves.

The box with leftover pie sits in the middle of the table, looking as sad as pie can look.

-

Peter doesn’t hear from Tony the whole week. The next weekend, Tony drops Morgan off for a playdate and later picks her up, without even getting out of the car himself.

“I’m not saying anything,” Ana says. Her face says a lot.

-

Every day that week, he surveys the area around the bridge, where Toomes had tried to close a business deal before. One time, he notices the fresh print of several car tires, coming from and leaving in opposite directions. Toomes might still be active, here.

A few google searches inform him that Toomes now has a warrant out for his arrest. His wife is divorcing him and left town with his daughter. A few corrupts cops were fired. The restaurant was closed down.

So Toomes is alone and he lost everything. Go figure.

Being in a position like that can do funny things to a guy’s mind. He might agree to an offer he would usually lay aside. So Peter does something he has never done before. He finds a stick and writes up a message on a muddy patch of the hillside under the bridge. Mr Toomes. If u want 2 talk, I’ll be here tomorrow 6 PM. Alone. -Spider-Man.

He returns the next evening, web-shooter loaded up to the maximum.

He is early.

So is Toomes.

The grey van is parked in the shadow of the bridge. The lights are off. Peter scurries closer and pauses, a safe distance away from the van.

“Hey, Mister Toomes, you in there? I just want to talk.”

It stays silent for a whole three seconds.

Then a dark, not-entirely-human-shaped figure drops down from the bridge— and the dude’s got fucking metal wings that spread out as he plants his feet wide apart on the ground, kicking up dust. Jeez, looks like Peter missed a memo or two.

“Well….” The man hisses, his eyes lighting up green as the wings creak. “You really did come alone. You fool.” Metal creaks. A spark flies. “You stuck your nose where it didn’t belong.”

Peter realizes he wasted precious seconds staring, mouth agape. He should probably do something, right about now.

Toomes moves first, shooting forward, metal claws extended like a vulture ready to tear its prey apart. Peter flings himself sideways, onto the ground and hears the scraping of metal against concrete when Toomes misses him by a hair.

Peter rolls onto his back and fires a web as Toomes launches himself back into the air. It catches one of the metal wings and Peter pulls as hard as he can to force Toomes back down.

Come back down he does. Peter doesn’t roll to the side fast enough this time and Toomes smashes down on top of him. Metal claws dig into his chest and stomach and Peter screams.

Toomes releases him and fires up his engines, flying up to the sun. Peter shoots his webs again, catching Toomes on the foot, but the wingsuits engine roars and Peter feels his feet lift off the ground as he is raised into the air, higher and higher, air whizzing past his ears.

Neon-green eyes gaze down at him. The tip of a wing bends, the edge shining like a sharpened blade, and a moment later Toomes cuts straight through the webbing. And then Peter is falling - - falling towards the concrete at alarming speed.

He is already bracing for impact when something metal hits him from the side, not hard but not gently either. Disoriented — wasn’t Toomes above him just moments ago? — Peter tries to squirm out of the grip until suddenly he realizes — It’s Iron Man keeping him from falling.

And higher in the air, another winged suit slams into Toomes. “That’s right jackass!” Peter hears The Falcon shout. “This town’s too small for two people with wings.”

Iron Man gently sets him down on the hillside next to the bridge. Peter stumbles to his knees, his injuries screaming in protest. Overhead, the Falcon is forcing Toomes back towards the ground in a flurry of metal wings.

And Hawkeye is casually standing next to the grey van, admiring the view. He leisurely pulls out an arrow, squints his eyes against the sun and fires straight up.

The wingsuit sputters before giving up completely, and Toomes drops out of the sky, smashing into the concrete at Hawkeye’s feet. Hawkeye slow-claps three or four times.

Peter coughs, then heaves in a breath and turns to the red-and-yellow suit. “Thanks,” he says, staring up at the suit and sitting back on his haunches. “Thanks, Tony. I… Can we talk?”

“Mr. Stark is currently not connected.” A robotic voice speaks up, and the suit’s face plate lifts to reveal nothing but machinery. “Would you like to convey a message?”

“No,” Peter says, his stomach suddenly feeling like lead. “No that’s— Thanks, ma’am.”

The face plate closes. The suit shoots into the sky.

Hawkeye is moving in his direction, with an expression like he wants to talk or something. Heart pounding in his ears, Peter fires his webbing and swings away.

Chapter Text

Clint Barton shows up on his doorstep again.

“I knocked,” he says.

“And what, you want a medal?” Peter asks, only keeping the door half-open. “Fucking finally is all I’ll say.”

“Just wanted to see the kid that Tony Stark can’t ever shut the hell up about.”

“El’s not here.”

Barton gives him an odd look. “Who’s El?”

“What do you want?”

“Just letting you know that our operation in Queens has ended successfully. Neighborhood is all yours again, junior.”

You mean I successfully ended it for you, Peter wants to say. But doesn’t. “That’s what Tony sent you here for?”

“Tony doesn’t send me. I’m here on behalf of the Avengers.”

“So he didn’t… He didn’t say anything to you?”

Barton cocks his head as he studies Peter. “You have his number, you know.”

“Just go,” Peter says, suddenly feeling exhausted.

-

The kittens have begun crawling all over each other, their tiny heads wobbling back and forth as they let out the softest little meows Peter has ever heard. Bob, the bird, no longer needs bugs every hour. Vicky lets him forage his own food in the backyard a few hours every day and diligently feeds him by hand the rest of the time.

Meanwhile, her due date comes and passes. “This better not go on for another week,” Vicky grumbles as she pats her hands against her belly.

“There’s stuff you can do to move it along,” Ana says.

“Yeah, what? And don’t suggest spicy food or going on the swings, because I’ve already tried those.” She leans her head back with a dramatic whine. “Wish I was into girls,” she laments. “Would have solved so many problems. You have it easy.”

“Sure,” Ana says. “Because being gay and Hispanic has historically proven to be a real winner combo when you want to make it in this country.”

-

Peter has been moping on the back porch in an entirely mature way when Vicky steps outside and hands him a green popsicle. “I got your favorite flavor.”

Peter frowns down at the popsicle with well-founded suspicion. “Why?”

“For fuck’s sake… To cheer you up!” She shuffles over to the porch swing where Miriam is sitting, and sags into the seat next to her. “Aahhh… This is your own fault, you know.”

“Thought you were here to cheer me up.”

“What did he do?” Miriam asks. “Tell wise old grandma.”

“Displayed his anxious-avoidant attachment issues, like a real textbook case right out of every self-help book. There is a free mental health clinic on 86^th street, you know.”

“Shut up,” Peter grumbles.

“I never much liked self-help books,” Miriam says conversationally. “None of them ever advised me to simply kill my husband, when in retrospect I’m growing more and more certain with every passing day that I should have done just that.”

“Some have merits,” Vicky says. “One thing I read is that humans mistake familiarity for safety. That’s why people run away from fucked up drunk-ass parents and then end up with a fucked up drunk-ass husband. Because it’s a situation they know, and that’s somehow less scary than sticking with someone sane.”

Peter veers up. “Why do you think I don’t want Stark in my house? I’m done with people running my life. I’m breaking the cycle.”

Vicky snorts. “No you’re not. You’re pushing away the only adult who actually has his shit together, and meanwhile you invite every damp squid train wreck into your home — no offense, Miriam, but you did just display homicidal tendencies — along with all their emotional baggage. You’re not breaking the cycle, you’re right in the middle of it. The cycle is kicking your ass. All you know is how to take care of others, but you’re too chicken shit to be taken care of because it’s not familiar.”

“You don’t know anything,” Peter snaps.

“Did you fight with Tony Stark again?” Miriam asks.

“He fights with me."

“Fuck…” Vicky mutters. “Enjoy setting money aside for therapy.”

“Fighting is normal,” Miriam says. “You talk and you move past it.”

“But he hasn’t called or dropped by or anything.”

“Has it occurred to you that you could be the one making the first move?”

-

The next day after his patrol, Peter returns to the rooftop where he left his backpack and changes back into his normal clothes, before spending a good few minutes agonizing about the decision whether to call Tony or text him.

Deciding that it would be too painful to be hung up on, he finally sends Tony a message. Can we talk?

The answer comes in under a minute: On the phone?

Peter swallows. Maybe. Or I’m on a rooftop at 65th and 170th.

The next answer comes in under ten seconds: Be there in five.

Peter takes in a slow, measured breath and then lets it out again, laying one hand against his aching chest. Tony wouldn’t have agreed to come so quickly if he was utterly pissed, right? Or maybe he thinks this is an emergency. Shit, Peter should have said it isn’t an emergency.

…Or maybe he should fabricate an emergency and see if that helps move things along.

God, no. That would be the opposite of mature and dignified.

He is already on the verge of what threatens to be a very undignified meltdown when Iron Man lands on the roof next to him. The face plate lifts and Tony turns his heavy gaze on Peter. “Are you injured?”

“No,” Peter says, hoping that the man won’t just turn around and fly away.

He doesn’t. He steps out of his suit completely, revealing stained jeans and a casual sweater. He looks like a total dad and Peter glances away, throat tightening.

“What’s wrong, what do you need?” Tony asks, voice carefully cautious.

“I just…” Peter starts, shrinking in on himself. “Just wanted to say… I’m sorry. For snapping. At you. Again.” Shit, he’s so pathetic. He can’t even form a proper sentence.

It stays quiet for a few horrible seconds.

“Oh,” Tony then says. “Thanks. Yeah. But it’s… I get it, all right? I can be—impulsive. And when something catches my interest I can get obsessive, and I notice too late that I’m intruding. So it’s… Don’t worry about it. I can back off; I’ll just drop Morgan off for play dates every now and then.”

“No,” Peter says. “No, I— You don’t have to… You can come by I guess.”

You can come by I guess. Fuck, could he sound any more like an ungrateful little shithead?

Some of that awful tension seeps out of Tony’s face, though. He takes another step forward and then sits next to Peter on the ledge of the building. “Look, Mr. Parker—” he starts, and Peter wishes he would stop calling him that already, “—you are legally an adult. I get it. I want to respect that. I should have, before. It’s not my business how you live your life. How you work as Spider-Man. I overstepped. And that thing by the bridge the other day – that wasn’t me. Hand on heart. Barton had been scouting that location and saw your message to Toomes. I told Steve not to get involved in your business, but well…”

Peter begins to think that maybe Tony calling the whole thing a ‘mistake’ had been self-reproach, more than anything else. That maybe he didn’t send in that remote-controlled suit because he was too angry to be anywhere near Peter, but because he wanted to… respect his wishes?

And he can breathe a little easier. Because this can be fixed. “Okay,” he says. “But you can… come over for dinner and stuff. If you want to.”

“I’d like that,” Tony says. His voice is utterly sincere and Peter wants to cry, he’s so relieved.

-

Only two days later, Tony emerges from a post-workshop shower to find three missed calls from Peter. Feeling an unexpected surge of protective concern rise up in his chest, he calls back.

“Sorry,” is the first thing Peter says. “It’s not— It’s not actually an emergency. Are you busy?”

“You called me three times. What’s up?”

“Vicky went into labor, and I’ve been at the hospital for fucking ages. El is getting out of school soon. Ana is at work, her asshole boss won’t let her leave, and I don’t— I don’t have anyone else to call. I just need someone to pick her up. Primrose Elementary School. Can you… please? You can drop her off at the hospital if that’s easiest, I can keep her busy here.”

Tony presses the button for the elevator. “What hospital are you at?”

“Presbyterian.”

“I’ll go make arrangements. I’ll get back to you.”

“Thank you,” Peter says. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

The kid is apologizing far too much, lately. Tony isn’t sure what changed, and he isn’t sure if he likes it. “Pep?” he calls out as he leaves the elevator. “We’re gonna need to team up for this one.”

-

He parks by the hospital less than half an hour later, and makes his way to the maternity unit. He finds Peter slumped in a chair, hair tousled and eyes glassy. “Hey,” Peter says, his voice rough. “Where’s El?”

“Pepper is picking her up, and Morgan too. She’s taking them both to the park until Ana gets off work.”

“Oh,” Peter sits up a little straighter. “Great. That’s— You didn’t need to come over.”

“You’ve looked better, Mr. Parker.”

Peter winces. “Yeah. Contractions started around midnight. So we took a cab to the hospital but these mofos sent us back home. We spent the whole night keeping tabs. This morning they told us to come back in. Fuck, cabs are expensive. They won’t let me into the room because I’m not family. And then I realized I should call Alex and Neil, but I don’t even have their number.”

“Have you had lunch?”

“Lunch?” Peter asks in a weird voice, which essentially answers that question.

“Let me go take care of that.”

Tony all but empties out a nearby vending machine and swiftly returns, dumping a whole load of snacks and drinks on the table next to Peter.

“Thanks,” Peter says. “I didn’t mean for you to go out of your way, I— Now I feel bad.”

“Don’t. This is the most interesting field trip I’ve had this month.”

Peter huffs. “This whole thing is so unfair! You were my childhood hero! And you always know how to fix everything!”

“Those were some very angry compliments,” Tony says.

Peter looks up at him, his expression open and unguarded despite the bleary eyes. “I just… I don’t understand why you bother.”

Tony steals a chocolate bar for himself and tears the wrapper open. “Why is Vicky staying with you? Was she homeless?”

“No. I don’t actually know. She was going to college in Pennsylvania. And living somewhere over there.”

“So why did she come here? In her last trimester?”

“Maybe she got kicked out or something.”

“You never asked her?”

“I mean… no.” Peter says. “Does it matter?”

“It would to most people. But think I get it now.”

“Hm?”

“Your M.O.,” Tony says. “I get it now. You don’t need a reason to do all this stuff. It just goes without saying. I don’t think it even occurs to you to turn people away when they ask you for help, does it? It’s sort of unconditional.”

“I… I don’t know. I guess.”

“So why’s it so hard to accept that someone else would help you?”

Peter doesn’t answer anymore. He just quietly tucks into a packet of crisps. The silence stretches for a few minutes.

“Thank you,” Peter finally says.

“Any time, kid.” He realizes too late that he called Peter ‘kid’ again. But the boy doesn’t correct him or look annoyed. He just ducks his head a little as if he is somehow embarrassed.

-

It’s another hour before a nurse comes out and approaches them. “The baby and the mother are in good health,” she states, barely looking up from her clipboard. “Miss Davis asked me to call Mr. Alex Baccarin, the prospective adoptive father. He is on his way.”

“Oh,” Peter says. “Okay. Okay. Is she going to be discharged soon?”

“Not for the rest of the day. She lost quite a lot of blood. She is stable, but we’re keeping her under observation just in case.”

“Can I see her?”

“I’m afraid not, sir, since you’re—"

“—Yeah, not family.” Peter stretches and yawns. “All right. Anti climax. I guess I’ll wait for Mr.… whatever his last name was. Alex. And then I’ll go.” He turns his gaze on Tony. “You really don’t have to stay.”

“How about a game of twenty questions?” Tony suggests.

-

“Vicky always speaks very highly of you,” Neil says as he shakes Peter's hand. Peter gives a weird laugh in response.

“We’ll bring her by the house as soon as we can,” Alex promises. “We’ll take care of everything. You look like you need some sleep.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” the kid lies. And then barely manages to walk straight when Tony guides him back to his car.

Peter sags into the passenger seat. “I think it’s just the anxiety,” he says as Tony steps behind the wheel. “I’ve pulled all-nighters before, but when you spend every ten minutes checking how far apart the contractions are… Fuck.”

“FRIDAY, call Pepper,” Tony says as he digs into his pocket for the parking ticket.

El is the one who picks up. “This is Pepper Potts assistant. Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line.”

“My wife has been teaching you some phrases, huh? You’re on speaker phone with Peter.”

“Hi Peter!” El chirps. “You’re on speaker phone with Bob!”

“Hi Bob,” Peter says. “So you’re at home then, El?”

“Yes. We went to the park and then Ana was there and we all went home. When is the baby here?”

“Vicky and the baby are staying at the hospital a little longer, but I’m on my way. Remind Ana to feed all the animals!”

“We already feeded the animals,” El says.

“All right then, see you soon, girl.”

-

El and Morgan practically tumble over each other entering the hallway.

“Did you bring dinner?” El asks, hopeful.

Ana’s voice calls out from inside the living room. “Elena Medina, that’s no way to greet someone!”

“I didn’t bring dinner, but I’m sure I can whip something up for you, young lady,” Tony says as he shrugs out of his coat. “Did you have a nice day at the park?”

“Yes. Me and Morgan looked for treasure everywhere.”

“I’m sure the park maintenance workers will be pleased with all those holes, then. My darling wife didn’t stop you?”

“No. She helped.”

That’s when you get when your wife quits as CEO and turns into a hamster. It’s just anarchy.

“And we went on the see-saw,” Morgan says.

“That’s…” Tony’s heart gives an unexpected leap. “That’s nice. That’s good.”

He turns back to Peter, who is still standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring blankly ahead like a zombie. “Go to bed, Peter,” he says. “We’ll take care of everything.”

“Okay,” Peter murmurs. “Okay, I— yeah… Will you wake me for dinner?”

“Of course, kiddo.”

-

Miriam turns up on the porch. “How exciting! My first great-grandchild!” she says when she hears the news.

“You don’t have to keep up the story, Miriam. I know everything,” Tony tells her.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “Nobody knows everything.”

-

The softly snoring lump of blankets doesn’t respond to Tony’s first knock, or his second. So he cautiously steps inside and tugs at a tuft of brown hair sticking out from under a pillow.

A moment later, bleary eyes blink up at him from inside a cocoon of blankets.

“Dinner is served,” Tony announces. “Do you want to come down? I can bring some up here.”

“Nuh, no. I'm getting up,” Peter mutters, pushing the blanket away and cracking his neck, “or I’ll fuck up my whole sleeping schedule. Have you heard from Vicky?”

“Yes. She’s coming home around nine PM. Alex’s sister is driving her. Pepper is taking Morgan home after dinner but I can stay longer if you want. Feel free to tell me to buzz off, though.”

“No,” Peter says. “No, I don’t— It’s… It’s nice to…” he trails off, voice almost a whisper.

“It’s nice to be taken care of, every now and then?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, shrinking in on himself like this is another one of his supposed failures. “It’s just… I don’t know. I’m supposed to be—. But I don’t really know how to adult.” He suddenly looks ready to cry, hands twisting together in the blankets.

Tony reaches out and squeezes the kid’s shoulder. He wishes he’d done all this sooner. When Spider-Man first popped up on his radar, two years ago, he just shrugged and went back to his daily grind. Why didn’t he follow up? Maybe he could have… made a difference. “Here is something you seem not to realize: adults are allowed to ask for help, too. But you do have to ask first, because you— you are an adult and I won’t make your decisions for you. But I will be here if you need me. So just… call me when you need something, okay? I don’t care what it is.”

Peter gives a wan smile. “Being a dad really is your best superpower.”

-

Vicky is dropped off on the doorstep after dinner, looking pale but content. She throws a half-smoked cigarette to the ground and squashes it under her heel before stepping inside.

“But I wanted to see the baby!” El wails.

“I have pictures on my phone,” Vicky says. “Come look. But as a warning: he ugly as fuck.”

“Even I didn’t get to see the baby,” Peter says, feeling oddly disappointed. He learned to cook entire freaking casseroles for that little peanut.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t come in with me,” Vicky says in teasing tones. “I’m sure you would have liked a peek at the good stuff.”

“Gross,” Peter says from the bottom of his heart.

“C’mon,” Vicky cajoles. “What’s your favorite part of the female body?”

Peter lifts his chin. “Her character.”

“You’re a nerd.”

She shows them pictures. And then frets over all the Bobs and Olivias for a bit. She is going back to Pennsylvania tomorrow, she announces, to which Peter responds with nothing more than a shrug and an ‘okay’, while he wonders what damp squid train wreck will show up on his doorstep next.

At least Tony will be here to back him up.

“So why didn’t you get a hospital in Pennsylvania?” Tony asks.

“Neil and Alex live nearby, they know the hospital. Their first baby was born there, too. So I told them I could stay here in Queens in the last weeks. Or I could have stayed with their sister. She lives basically down the street from the hospital.”

“So why did you come here?” Tony asks her. “Since you— well… You don’t always seem to get along that well.”

Vicky eyes him for a moment, then points at Peter. “We hadn’t seen each other in over a year. When I showed up on the doorstep, he didn’t even ask me what I wanted or nothing. He just invited me in and gave me burritos because he thought I looked too thin. That’s why I came here. Because I knew I could be his worst enemy and he’d still let me in. He just can’t turn anyone away. I mean, it’s a little annoying sometimes, like when he refuses to fix the roof because it might inconvenience the fucking raccoons. He’s like an old, fussy lady’s spirit trapped inside a teenager’s body.”

Peter still isn’t sure whether she is insulting him.

-

“We need to talk.”

“Are you quitting the team?” Steve asks, resigned.

“No. I’m just rebranding. I think I do my best work from a distance, these days. I got my main mission right there at home, with my family. I have unmanned suits available to you, to operate remotely. But I’m not flying out myself, unless it’s an absolute emergency. And of course I’m still here to pay for all the gear and generally make everyone look cool.”

Steve looks at Tony, then at the window, then back at Tony, with no particular expression on his face. “Is there room for negotiation?” he finally asks.

“Not a whole lot, what do you want?”

“I want you back in our strategy meetings. Even if you don’t join for the mission, we need your perspective. You have a… different way of thinking than most of us.”

“Oh,” says Tony, who had always thought that his ‘different’ way of thinking was mostly a source of aggravation to his team. “I can do team meetings. But when a family matter comes up — and I mean anything, from untied shoelaces to missing toys, that takes precedence.”

“Fair.”

-

Vicky left. She took Bob — that is, the bird — with her, despite El’s vociferous protests. “We are not looking after no bird,” Ana had told her sternly. “I have a job, Peter has school.”

“But I can bring him to class with me, in my backpack!”

“Pretty sure Miss Lowick would have an aneurysm,” Peter said. He is also, quietly, pretty sure that Vicky grew quite attached to Bob, and that it might be good for her to have something to look after.

Meanwhile Bob — that is, the cat — appears to be hellbent on raising her litter in the most inconvenient-to-the-stupid-humans way possible. Her kittens have started exploring. Crawling around, walking and stumbling. Sometimes one gets stuck in a stupid place, like the inch of space under the fridge or inside an empty shoe, and then Bob follows Peter around and digs her claws into his legs until he fixes it for her.

Tony comes over when Peter has two kittens stuck in his hair, which does not help his already rapidly deteriorating reputation of being the tough guy with the big mouth. “I didn’t put them there,” he says by way of defense.

“No, I’m sure they chose that nice, soft spot all on their own,” Tony says as he sits down next to him and stretches out his legs.

“My hair is not soft.”

Tony just smirks, and Peter decides that’s it and extracts the kittens from his hair with slightly more force, wincing as he pulls some of his own hair out. “Eight more fucking weeks until they can go to a new home,” he complains. “And I’m supposed to start litter training them, but momma just poops in the garden so she’s no help. And then they’re supposed to be spayed and neutered, so that’s another medical bill coming up.” He pauses to draw a slow, controlled breath, one hand on his chest, then releases it.

Tony, he notices, is watching him carefully. “Do you ever get panic attacks?”

“No. Just. I had asthma as a child,” he says. “It’s, uh— I got some bad memories of it. Not being able to breathe is scary. And my parents didn’t… what’s the proper term… give a fuck.” He has the sudden, horrible thought that Tony’s about to tell him to quit being so pathetic.

“I have mad respect for you kid.”

Peter glances up, expecting to see that trademark smirk on Tony’s face. But there is no trace of humor in Tony’s eyes. “You take everyone under your wing,” the man continues. “And you do it so easily. Without a second thought. I have a lot to learn from you.”

“It’s not…” Peter says, “I wouldn’t say easily.”

“Can I give you a hug?”

He hadn’t asked last time, and it kind of helps that he does, now. “Yeah. Okay.”

The hug still feels unfamiliar, but Peter tells himself to just go with it. Tony pats him on the head and Peter can almost feel him holding back a remark about how soft his hair is.

“Would you mind if I made you a new suit? Something more flexible. But with stronger fibers. Preferably with its own AI.”

“I… I got no money,” Peter says, feeling embarrassed all over again.

Tony leans back, putting him at arms length. “It would be a gift, obviously. That’s why I asked if you’d mind. I don’t want to impose.”

“Oh. Um. I don’t…”

“We could call it a trade,” Tony says. “You gave me your web-fluid. That’s equally valuable, you have no idea how much that stuff could be worth.”

“I didn’t give you a thing. You stole my web-fluid.”

“All right,” Tony says, corners of his mouth quirking up. “Then let’s call it a financial compensation.”

“Okay,” Peter says. “Um. Thanks. Undying gratitude, and all that.”

Tony releases his shoulders and leans back against the couch cushions. “Hey, kiddo,” he says, dropping his voice a little lower. “When you say you have no money— Feel free to tell me to mind my own business, but… Your parents didn’t leave you in debt, did they?”

“Oh, no,” Peter says as he fiddles with his sleeves. “They— Actually, they left me a lot of money. But it’s supposed to last me a while, and I only got emancipated two months ago, so I don’t really have a grasp on… um… It just feels like there’s new bills coming in every day.”

“Maybe my wife can help you.”

“The hamster?” Peter asks dryly.

“Used to work as an accountant. She can walk you through all your finances if you want.”

Peter looks up at him, his eyes suddenly wide and achingly hopeful. “I— I wouldn’t want to inconvenience her.”

“I’ll invite her along again next time,” Tony decides.

-

Tony coaches the girls through a red-and-gold fingerpainting. Because there are now three drawings of Spider-Man fighting various creatures on Peter’s fridge, and not a single one of Iron Man. A grave oversight that requires immediate fixing. At the other end of the kitchen table, Pepper glances through the financial paperwork Peter has clearly haphazardly gathered together, with an air of being too polite to comment.

“I won’t claim you have enough to retire instantly,” she says, “but if I factor everything in; fixing this place up, living expenses for you and your roommates, insurance, vacations, college tuition, a car… If you don’t do anything extravagant, you can easily make it until your forties before you absolutely need to start working.”

“College?” Peter asks in a weird voice.

“Yes. Tuition, board. I can help you set up a 925 plan account, so you’ll have the money securely set aside.”

Peter looks at her, clenching the papers a little tighter. “But I didn’t— I never— I don’t…” he falters and fidgets, his eyes now darting elsewhere, shoulders hunching defensively. “I’m not, um, smart,” he finally admits, and Tony feels a painful twinge in his chest.

There is a pregnant pause. Pepper exchanges a look with Tony, but then continues, her tone still calm as ever: “You have enough savings to set the money aside. Whether or not you use it, is a decision you can make at a later time.”

“Okay,” Peter meekly says, ducking his head.

Pepper continues on explaining, about hiring people to fix up the house, and raccoon-friendly services who trap the animals in humane ways and release them in the wild, and Peter nods along and says ‘okay’ to everything, looking simultaneously awkward and relieved.

They have tea with Miriam on the porch while El and Morgan dig holes in the back yard. Pepper helps them; dirt streaking her cheeks and mud splatters clinging to her hair.

“So good to see you boys getting along,” Miriam says. “You wormed your way back into his heart.”

“I’m a worm,” Tony confirms.

“In fact, I made you a lovely embroidered pillow case,” she says as she whips one out of a plastic bag. There is an intricate pattern on it, very Escher-esque.

“Oh. Oh, thank you. That’s so nice.”

“Very beautiful,” Pepper agrees, wiping her hands on her jeans.

Peter, for some reason, is ginning madly.

Little Neck Bay is glittering in the sun, under a faultless blue sky. A tiny kitten snores in Tony’s lap. Morgan is laughing as she chases El through the garden; her teacher recently mentioned that she is starting to open up more to her classmates.

All in all, Tony feels pretty damn happy with the turn his life has taken in these last five weeks.

“I don’t think I even want to go to college,” Peter says when Miriam has gone home and Pepper and Ana have taken the girls inside. But the fact that he even brings it up, unprompted, is telling enough.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“Well, I‘d just love to be an arrogant billionaire,” Peter drawls.

“I used to get bad grades in high school,” Tony says. “Because, you know, I missed deadlines and didn’t do the reading. I could usually bullshit my way through calculus, but English and history were a disaster. I was just a little jerk who slacked off because he though he had a point to prove to his old man. I didn’t have a good reason for it, I didn’t… have a million other responsibilities on my shoulders already.”

He waits for Peter to make eye contact with him but, when it seems that is not going to happen, he continues: “Listen, Pete, you don’t— you don’t have to go to college. But you could. The stuff you create in your bedroom on the weekend… There’s people with PhDs who have assistants and labs and funding, who dream of scientific breakthroughs like that. I promise you, you are smart enough to make it to college. I don’t care what your report card says.”

El leans outside, waving a paper around. “I made another drawing of Spider-Man. Can I put it on the fridge?”

“What happened to Iron Man?” Tony asks.

“I spilled lemonade on it.”

-

“If Tony and I completely clear out the attic,” Ana says, “and repaint the walls and lay carpet so everything looks different, do you think you’ll be okay going up there?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I just don’t want you to live in a house where you can’t walk freely about. I was thinking of painting the walls lime green. You know what color that is?”

“Let me guess. It’s a shade of orange.”

-

On the dreaded day of his social worker’s visit, Peter wakes to slate grey skies and a warm rainstorm washing down in hyphens. Tony arrives early and he and Ana get to work in the attic, sticking plastic everywhere in an attempt to keep the house dry.

Peter has spent the whole week cleaning like he never cleaned before, and he fluffed up all the pillows, and he even bought one of those fancy tea boxes with different compartments. Because only households that really have their shit together have tea boxes like that.

“Craig was very touched to receive birthday wishes from you,” Ismael says as he selects a jasmine tea bag.

“…Okay,” Peter replies, not entirely sure how to feel about that.

“How is school?”

“Oh. I’ll be honest… I’ve skipped some classes these last few weeks. I’ve just been stressed with fixing up the house and stuff like that. So, yeah, I need to get my grades back up.”

“All right,” Ismael says. “Have you thought about what you can do to make things easier for yourself?”

“It is easier. I have a… a neighbor. Who helps out.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I must say my main concern about your emancipation was that you wouldn’t ask for help when you needed it. Knowing when you need help is a sign of maturity, you know.”

Which makes Peter feel a little less like a fraud when he shows Ismael the financial plan he wrote up with Pepper. And Ismael says he is impressed, and pleased, and all sorts of other words that used to be in short supply in Peter’s life.

He is back out the door less than twenty minutes later, tea only half-drunk.

Strange that it had somehow felt like it would all be coming down to this.

Peter puts the teacup in the sink and goes up to the attic. Ana and Tony cleared most of the space out already. Everything was either donated or thrown away. Even though they haven’t started painting, the attic already looks nothing like it used to.

Peter stands in the middle of the room and breathes in, his lungs expanding until it feels like he can contain the whole world inside of them.

“Everything good?” Tony asks him.

“Yeah,” Peter says, and means it in the broadest possible sense of the word.

-

Tony receives a text message in the middle of a team strategy meeting.

Peter: Tony, WTF.

Peter: El is supposed to dress up in a costume tomorrow for her last day of school and NOW is when she decided to tell us.

Peter: Help.

“I have to go,” Tony says, pushing his chair back. “A family matter.”

Time to go be a super-hero.