Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lunch was usually safe. Operative word: usually.

"Want a mint?" Ned asked, tossing a shiny-wrapped candy onto Peter’s tray like it was no big deal.

Peter barely glanced at it. "Nah, I’m good."

MJ, sipping her suspiciously strong coffee, quirked a brow. "Because it’s not vegan, or because you’re a weirdo about breath mints?"

Peter opened his mouth to reply—and then froze. His eyes locked onto the wrapper. Green. White stripes. Peppermint.

Time slowed.

Ned: smiling like a golden retriever.
MJ: looking vaguely amused.
Peter: already sweating.

He stood up so fast his tray flipped, spaghetti launching like a tomato-based firework.

"DON’T TOUCH THAT!"

Silence hit the cafeteria like a slap. Flash Thompson stopped mid-selfie. A grape rolled off a table somewhere. Betty Brant gasped like she’d just seen a ghost. Or worse—a broken WiFi signal.

"You okay, dude?" Ned asked, staring at him. “It’s just a mint.”

Peter’s throat was closing before he could even answer.

"Guys—I—I need—" His voice was suddenly hoarse. His face flushed. Hands trembling. He clutched his chest. “Epi...pen…”

MJ’s coffee hit the floor. “Oh my god—someone help!”

Mr. Harrington, at the next table with the Academic Decathlon team, jumped up and fumbled with his phone. “I—I’m calling 911!”

Cindy Moon rushed forward. "He’s allergic?! What is it—nuts? Dairy?"

Ned held up the wrapper, horrified. “Peppermint. It was just peppermint.”

Peter slumped to the floor, face already swelling. He tried to speak but all that came out was a wheeze.

Brad Davis, of all people, pulled Peter’s bag open and found the EpiPen inside, tossing it to MJ with surprising coordination. She jabbed it into his thigh like she’d been waiting for this moment since freshman year.

Peter gasped—but barely.

Someone screamed, “The nurse’s office is too far!” Another yelled, “He’s not breathing!”

By the time the ambulance screeched into the lot, Peter was only half-conscious. Paramedics loaded him up with practiced speed, glancing at the medical bracelet on his wrist.

In case of emergency, DO NOT take to hospital. Transport to Stark Medical Facility.
Severe allergic reaction risk: PEP-ALL (Peppermint)

"Stark pickup confirmed," one paramedic nodded. "He’s tagged. Let’s move."

MJ stood frozen beside Ned and the rest of the Decathlon team, watching the ambulance doors slam shut.

Later that evening, the school received an email.

Subject: STUDENT MEDICAL ACCOMMODATION - URGENT UPDATE
From: Stark Industries Medical Division

Effective immediately, the following substances are strictly prohibited on Midtown High property due to a confirmed medical risk to a registered student:

• Peppermint (oil, flavoring, extract)

• Menthol-based products (gum, candy, lip balm)

• Essential oils containing mint compounds

• Select aerosol sprays with cooling agents

Any exposure may result in severe allergic reaction requiring specialized treatment. Violation of this list will trigger automated alerts to Stark Security.

Attached was a full Stark Security PDF protocol, complete with hazard labels, QR codes, and what might have been a flame-thrower icon.

MJ, reading over Betty’s shoulder, said, “Only Peter Parker could nearly die in a lunchroom and end up with a corporate-sponsored allergy ban.”

Ned was still pale. "We literally almost killed him."

Betty added, “This is going to be so good for the school paper. Is it exploitative if I call it ‘Peppermint Panic’?”

Brad just muttered, “Next time I’m sitting with the drama kids.”

Chapter Text

Gym class was supposed to be low-stakes. That’s what Peter told himself every week. No pressure. Just jog a little, pretend he still had the lung capacity of a regular teenager, and pray no one asked him to play dodgeball.

"You're running like someone whose kneecaps are falling off," MJ called as Peter shuffled back into the gym after a few laps outside.

"Thanks for the support," he wheezed, dramatically winded.

It was all an act, of course. He could’ve lapped the track twenty times in under five minutes, backwards, with a vending machine strapped to his back. But he had a reputation to maintain: Peter Parker, mildly nerdy, asthmatic-adjacent, totally normal human.

He plopped down against the wall just as the “cool group” gathered near the bleachers. Liz was there, along with Flash (who was currently flexing at his own reflection in a storage mirror), Betty, and a few others Peter didn’t know by name but definitely recognized from the school's Instagram page.

"Okay," Betty said, "real talk—who do we think is the hottest guy at Midtown?"

"Please," Flash scoffed. "Obviously, it’s me."

"Not if your personality counts," Liz deadpanned.

Betty giggled. "No, seriously. C’mon, Liz, what’s your pick?"

Liz looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged casually. "Honestly? I think Peter Parker's the cutest guy in school."

Flash almost choked on his own ego. "Parker? That walking chemistry set?"

Just as she said it, the gym doors opened with a dramatic clunk, and in walked Peter, sweaty from his "totally exhausting jog." He headed over to the benches to grab his water bottle.

"Speak of the devil-boy," MJ muttered with a smirk.

Then it happened.

Peter, feeling the sweat tickling his forehead, grabbed the hem of his shirt and wiped his face—lifting it just high enough to flash a perfectly sculpted set of abs to the entire gym.

Time. Froze.

Someone dropped a water bottle. Betty made an actual squeak. Flash blinked like he’d seen a ghost with a better core routine than him.

Peter, blissfully unaware, flopped onto the bleachers next to MJ. "Ugh. I’m dying. Do we really need to run outside? What happened to Presidential Fitness being optional?"

MJ didn’t say anything. She was too busy watching half the gym try to subtly steal glances at Peter’s midsection.

"Did I miss something?" he asked, looking around.

"Nope," MJ said, sipping her coffee. "You just casually detonated the school’s social structure. Carry on."

Peter blinked. "What?"

Liz, from across the gym, looked like she was questioning every decision she’d made since sophomore year.

Later that day, in the girl’s locker room:

“I didn’t know he was, like… built,” Betty whispered.

Liz nodded slowly. “He wore three layers and tripped over a hurdle last month. He tripped on purpose. That little liar.”

Meanwhile, in Peter’s texts:

Ned: dude
Ned: i heard you flashed your abs and broke flash thompson’s brain
Peter: what
Peter: no i wiped sweat off my face
Ned: with your entire shirt
Peter: oh
Peter: huh
Peter: anyway wanna study for chem or
Ned: YOU HAVE ABS??

Chapter Text

The Academic Decathlon competition was going well. Suspiciously well, actually. Peter had answered all his questions without accidentally quoting obscure Star Wars trivia, Ned hadn’t fainted mid-presentation this time, and Flash had only insulted the opposing team’s fashion choices once.

It was a good day.

That night, the team checked into a pretty standard roadside motel. The kind with buzzing lights, questionable carpet patterns, and beds that made you think twice about laying your face on the pillows.

Peter had a checklist he had to follow before going to bed. It was a very official, very Stark-approved checklist titled:

“Things to Do Before Bed So You Don’t Sleepwalk into a Bus”
(by Peter Parker, supervised by Tony Stark, edited by FRIDAY, legally monitored by Happy)

The checklist included:

• Lock all windows and doors.

• Set motion-detection override on phone.

• Put tracking sticker on pajamas.

• Tell someone, anyone, you’re going to bed in case you go missing.

It was a good system.

Unfortunately, it was also a system that only worked when he remembered to do it.

He meant to go through the checklist. He really did.

But Ned was already asleep, Flash was watching boxing videos at full volume, and Peter… passed out the moment his head hit the pillow.

2:46 AM.

Abe was brushing his teeth in the tiny motel bathroom when he heard it.

Click.

The front door creaked open.

“Guys?” he called. No answer.

He poked his head out—and saw Peter, barefoot, in sleep-rumpled pajamas, walking into the motel parking lot like he was in a trance.

“Peter? What are you—dude, it’s freezing!”

No response.

Peter shuffled onward, ignoring a “Slippery When Wet” sign and tripping over a parking block. He hit the pavement hard—shoulder-first, cheek scraping the concrete—and rolled right into a gravel patch lined with decorative desert plants.

“Oh my god!” Abe shouted.

2:49 AM.

Flash woke up to Abe shouting, “HE’S BLEEDING!” and immediately screamed, “WHO? ME?!”

Ned bolted upright, glasses crooked. “What?! Who’s bleeding?!”

Abe was half-carrying, half-dragging Peter back into the room, both of them scraped and disheveled.

“He was outside! He walked out! He didn’t say anything! He just—left!”

Peter stirred, groaning, now awake and very confused. “Wait… why am I full of gravel?”

Ned’s face went pale. “Oh no. You forgot your protocols, didn’t you?”

Peter looked down at his scraped forearms and bleeding knee. “I think I forgot everything.”

Flash pointed at him like an exorcist. “Why were you outside? What kind of weird nerdy vampire are you?!”

“Sleepwalker,” Peter muttered, wincing. “I’m a sleepwalker.”

3:12 AM.

MJ showed up in the hallway wearing plaid pyjama pants and judgment. “Is it true Peter tried to wrestle a cactus in his sleep?”

“No,” Ned said. “He lost to a cactus in his sleep.”

Peter sat on the edge of the bed with an ice pack on his head and Band-Aids all over his legs. “This is why Tony installed sleep sensors at the Tower. This is exactly why.”

“Doesn’t help you here,” MJ shrugged. “You’re in motel-town now. No FRIDAY to stop you from going full zombie.”

Peter groaned. “He’s gonna kill me for forgetting.”

“No,” MJ said, smirking. “He’s gonna upgrade your pyjamas with GPS and taser cuffs.”

Later, at the competition…

Peter limped into the classroom with a bandage on his cheek and a weird leaf stuck in his sock.

Flash whispered to Abe, “He’s like if a superhero and a Roomba had a very clumsy baby.”

Abe whispered back, “Don’t tell Peter, but I locked the motel door with three chairs and a mini-fridge last night. Just in case.”

Chapter Text

Peter never meant to let it slip.

It happened in the most tragically Peter Parker way: sleep-deprived, mid-coffee sip, while reviewing flashcards for the next Decathlon meet in the cafeteria.

Ned, MJ, Abe, Cindy, and a few others were huddled around the table, sharing notes and collectively dreading AP Chem. Flash, of course, was at the end, pretending he wasn’t part of the group but totally still listening.

“Okay, but like,” Abe said, flipping through his stack of cards, “where do you even find the time to study, Peter? You disappear for days sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Cindy added, “And your internship thing? Do you actually work somewhere or is that just code for ‘nerd cave’?”

Peter, already halfway through a yawn, said without thinking, “No, it’s real. I’m Tony Stark’s personal intern.”

Ned choked on his apple juice.

“WHAT?!” MJ said flatly, though her eyes finally left her book.

Flash straight-up laughed. “You? Please. There’s no way Tony Stark would hire Peter Parker. Maybe to clean his lab floors.”

“It’s true!” Ned blurted, still recovering. “He has clearance! Like—like Stark-level clearance. I’ve seen it. He’s been to the Tower.”

“Yeah right,” Flash scoffed. “Next you’ll say he’s met Pepper Potts.”

“Twice,” Peter muttered under his breath.

MJ squinted at him. “Say you’re lying.”

Peter, now fully awake, realized his mistake. “Look, I’m not trying to brag. It’s just an internship. Sort of. I do tech diagnostics and help with engineering projects and, you know… weird high-level AI stuff.”

Flash looked around like he was being pranked. “Okay, who gave Peter a thesaurus full of fake science words?”

By fourth period, the whole school had heard.

Betty from the morning announcements cornered him near his locker with her phone recording. “Peter Parker, is it true you work for Tony Stark?”

“No comment,” Peter said, holding up his hands like he was dodging paparazzi.

By fifth period, even Mr. Harrington was whispering to Coach Wilson in the teacher’s lounge. “I knew he was more than just a bright student. That kid has ‘prodigy’ written all over him!”

“He also once put a magnet through my whiteboard,” Coach Wilson deadpanned.

And by sixth period… Peter was considering transferring schools.

The next morning, everything exploded.

It started when a matte black Stark Industries car rolled up in front of Midtown High. Security followed. So did a second car. And a very annoyed Happy Hogan climbed out, immediately scowling at the press of students watching from inside.

And then—of course—Tony Stark himself stepped out, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, holding an enormous fruit basket wrapped in gold foil.

“Is this the right nerd school?” he asked Happy.

Happy grunted. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Peter was mid-morning hallway shuffle when he heard the wave of whispers and screams erupt like someone had just announced Beyoncé was subbing in for PE.

He turned—and nearly walked into Tony.

“Oh no.”

“Hey, Underoos,” Tony said, grinning. “You forget to tell your friends who your mentor is, or were you just planning to keep the whole ‘Stark Intern’ thing on the down-low forever?”

“I didn’t mean to—"

“It’s fine. I made a PowerPoint.” Tony handed the fruit basket to Principal Morita, who looked entirely unprepared to hold two dozen artisanal mangoes. “Consider this an official confirmation. Yes, Peter Parker is my personal intern. Yes, he’s brilliant. No, you cannot borrow him to fix your Chromebook.”

He snapped his fingers and Happy opened a case like a bodyguard in an action movie. Inside was a Stark Industries–branded tablet. Tony tapped it.

“Please enjoy this short presentation titled ‘Why Peter Parker is Cooler Than You Think.’”

The school stared as a slideshow began playing in the hallway TVs and classroom screens: photos of Peter helping rewire tech, schematics with his notes in the margins, even a blurred-out pic of him wearing safety goggles next to a glowing reactor core.

Tony looked around at the stunned students. “So now that we’ve cleared that up—Pete, I’m late for a meeting. Don’t forget your upgrade kit. Bye, kids. Stay in school.”

And with that, he was gone.

The rest of the day was a blur of shocked teachers, slack-jawed students, and an entire Decathlon team suddenly re-evaluating everything they knew about Peter Parker.

“You—you really work with Tony Stark?” Cindy said, staring at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Since sophomore year,” Peter muttered, flushing.

“I helped him with one AI tuning protocol,” Ned said proudly. “For like six minutes. But I was there.”

Flash just stood in the background, arms folded, mumbling to himself, “Still not cool. Just cause Stark likes him doesn’t mean—okay, fine, maybe it’s a little cool.”

MJ, of course, looked Peter dead in the eye. “So. Intern for a billionaire. Sleepwalks into cactus traps. Accidentally flashes abs in gym class. How are you still the weirdest person I know?”

Peter just shrugged. “Talent.”

Chapter Text

Peter had a personal rule.

Never enter Midtown’s Annual Science Fair.

Not because he wasn’t good at science. Quite the opposite.

Because the last time he unintentionally helped Ned build a “self-correcting drone” for fun, it accidentally short-circuited the chemistry wing’s vending machines… and Flash's hoverboard project… and three classroom thermostats.

Peter swore off school fairs after that. One project, one mini explosion, one very expensive janitor bill—he was done.

So when MJ casually said, “You’re entering this year,” Peter choked on his juice.

“No way. Not happening. Midtown doesn’t need another ‘Parker Incident.’”

“Yeah, but this year we’re entering,” Ned said, eyes sparkling. “And if we’re entering, you have to enter. It’s tradition now.”

“I’m not starting that tradition.”

“You already did,” MJ deadpanned. “Come on. Science is literally the one thing you can show off without making people suspicious.”

Peter opened his mouth to argue. He really did.

But then MJ narrowed her eyes and said, “Unless… you can’t win. I mean, I get it. Some people peak early.”

That’s how Peter ended up submitting an entry at 1:47 AM two days before the deadline—sleep-deprived, annoyed, and surrounded by takeout containers in Ned’s basement.

The idea had come from a Stark Labs prototype. Something Tony had sketched once and said, “Cool in theory, pain in the butt to build.”

Naturally, Peter built it anyway.

In 36 hours.

While running on soda, regret, and one very sarcastic email from FRIDAY.

He called it the Adaptive Graviton Response Field—a device that could dynamically redirect gravitational pressure within a short radius to counteract turbulence, instability, and in Peter’s words, “awkward falling situations.”

It was supposed to be theoretical. Instead, he made a working model the size of a backpack that could catch a falling egg from twenty stories up and land it gently on a pillow.

Ned cried the first time it worked.

The day of the science fair, Peter looked like a ghost in Midtown colours — hoodie, messy hair, eye bags you could pack for vacation.

His table sat between a water - filtration project and a carbon - neutral pizza oven.

“Be cool,” Ned whispered, filming with his phone.

“I can’t even spell my own name right now,” Peter muttered. “I shouldn’t be near electronics.”

Then the judges came.

Including one from Oscorp. One from Stark Tech Outreach. One from NASA.

Peter flipped the switch.

The egg launched.

The entire gym went silent.

And then the egg landed—untouched, unscrambled, floating gently onto a feather-padded tray.

There was actual applause.

The judges just stared at him. One said quietly, “What… are you?”

Peter blinked. “Uh… a junior?”

He didn’t just win.

He obliterated the competition.

People were still debating second and third place when Peter was already half-asleep against a trophy that read:

“Midtown High Science Fair 1st Place: Peter Parker – AGRF Device”

Principal Morita shook his hand so hard Peter thought his shoulder popped.

“Is this safe for school use?” he asked.

“I mean… probably,” Peter mumbled.

Flash walked past, looking like he’d swallowed a lemon. “Congrats, Parker. Your egg drop cheated physics.”

MJ leaned on the table, smug. “Told you you’d win.”

“I didn’t even brush my teeth this morning.”

“Doesn’t matter. You beat science.”

Later that week, Peter opened his locker and found a note taped to the inside:

“Next year, you’re judging. You’re banned from competing. - The Midtown Science Fair Committee.”

Peter held it up.

Ned read it and laughed so hard he fell into a recycling bin.

Chapter Text

Peter Parker had been having a good day.

The kind of good day that didn’t usually come with his name on it. His biology paper was finally done, he’d gone a full month without needing his EpiPen, and the decathlon team was on a field trip to the botanical gardens, which meant a whole school day without sitting in a classroom pretending he didn’t already know everything in the lesson plan.

He was even looking forward to walking around with MJ and Ned, making dumb observations about plants while MJ judged the world with her usual quiet intensity. Peter, ever the allergy-prone teen, had doubled up on antihistamines just in case, and was smugly confident that this would be one of those rare, uneventful, peaceful school trips.

That optimism lasted all of twelve minutes.

The lavender greenhouse was at the far end of the gardens—tall glass panels catching the sunlight and drawing in a group of excited students led by a cheerful guide. Peter didn’t notice the sign until he was already inside.

“Medicinal Aromatherapy Exhibit—Featuring Fresh Lavender, Eucalyptus, and Jasmine.”

The smell hit him like a wave.

His first thought was that it was strong—too strong. Not just floral, but sharp and cloying, like it was crawling into his sinuses. Then, in a blink, the burning started. His throat tightened. His chest ached. His tongue felt wrong, like it was swelling.

He staggered back, bumping into a railing. MJ turned toward him, frowning.

“You okay?”

Peter tried to answer, but it came out garbled. The panic didn’t hit until he realized he couldn’t swallow. Something was happening—something bad—and it wasn’t peppermint this time.

Ned appeared beside him a second later, face going pale. “Peter?”

Peter's legs buckled.

MJ was already on the ground, catching his fall. She was calling his name, shaking him. The other students around them froze, unsure what to do.

“EpiPen,” MJ said, trying to keep calm. “He has it—check his backpack.”

Ned dropped to the ground, fumbling through Peter’s bag, finally pulling out the black case and ripping it open. MJ took it and jabbed the injector into Peter’s thigh like she’d practiced once, hoping it would work as quickly as it had with peppermint.

But Peter wasn’t getting better.

His breathing didn’t return. His body kept spasming, face pale and lips taking on a frightening blue tinge. One of the garden chaperones was already on the phone with emergency services, but MJ was shouting at them now.

“Tell them he’s Stark Medical! He has a bracelet, look at his wrist! You need to take him to Stark Medical right now!”

A paramedic arrived, read the bracelet, and didn’t hesitate.

“Clear a path—we’re calling in air evac. Stark Med is closest with synthetic adrenaline support. Prep vitals, call ahead.”

As the team loaded Peter onto a stretcher, MJ caught sight of his hand twitching.

“Peter, you stay awake, okay? You don’t get to die from flowers. That’s embarrassing.”

But he was already unconscious.

At Stark Medical, the doors flew open before the emergency crew even landed.

Tony Stark met the stretcher with two doctors, four nurses, and a medical AI projecting diagnostics directly onto the wall as Peter was wheeled into an isolation pod.

“Throat’s nearly closed,” one medic reported. “He went into shock during transit. His EpiPen was ineffective—partial absorption only.”

“FRIDAY,” Tony snapped, walking beside the gurney, “run a full cellular diagnostic. I want a breakdown on what compound caused this.”

“Initial scan suggests linalool and linalyl acetate—found in lavender. Reaction consistent with enhanced arachnid immune response.”

“Fantastic,” Tony muttered. “Another one.”

Peter woke hours later, lips cracked, throat sore, but breathing.

He was alone at first. The room was dim and humming softly with machinery. He blinked up at the ceiling, then slowly turned his head—and found Tony Stark sitting in the corner, sleeves rolled up, typing something into a holographic console with a scowl on his face.

“You live,” Tony said, without looking up. “Congratulations.”

Peter rasped, “Lavender?”

“Lavender.” Tony turned the screen so Peter could see it. “Congratulations. You’ve added another thing to the list of ‘seemingly harmless substances that try to murder you.’”

Peter let out a weak groan and covered his face with his arm.

“New allergy list just dropped,” Tony continued, standing and walking over to his bedside. “We compiled it from your cellular reaction patterns and cross-referenced it with what affects spider nervous systems. Lavender’s the big one. Jasmine’s a risk. Chamomile? Could go either way. We’re adding all known terpenoids and esters that trigger defensive responses in arachnids.”

Peter dropped his arm, peeking up at him. “You’re making me allergic to tea now?”

“You’re lucky you’re not allergic to air,” Tony shot back. “Also—you’re getting a new bracelet. Upgraded. Pulses if your oxygen drops, transmits live data to FRIDAY, and auto-alerts my private line.”

“You really didn’t have to—”

“I really did, kid. You almost flatlined.” Tony paused. “That’s not something I let happen to people under my care.”

Peter swallowed hard. “MJ saved me. She used the EpiPen. Ned got my bag.”

Tony nodded. “They did everything right. But next time—there better not be a next time.”

He tapped the console again, and a file appeared on-screen titled: “Parker: Tier 1 Reactive Allergy Protocol.”

Stark Medical Advisory for Midtown High – CONFIDENTIAL

Patient: Peter Parker

Critical Allergens (Updated):

Peppermint (Mentha piperita)

Lavender (Lavandula angustifolia)

Jasmine (Jasminum officinale)

Chamomile (Matricaria recutita) – Observe for delayed reaction

Terpenoids, Linalool, and related esters – High risk due to spider-based mutation

Response Protocol:

Do not administer standard epinephrine alone. Synthetic stabilizers required.

Under no circumstances transport to standard hospitals. Use Stark Med only.

Bracelet and beacon MUST be worn at all times.

“Your school’s getting another list,” Tony added, voice tight. “Along with a very strongly worded letter from Pepper and four new emergency kits.”

Peter blinked. “They’re going to love that.”

“They’ll love it more than a funeral.”

Peter didn’t argue with that.

Later, MJ came to visit. She brought orange juice, a tiny fake cactus that said “Low Risk Plant” on a post-it, and a card signed by the whole decathlon team—even Flash.

“You scared the crap out of everyone,” she said, sitting beside his bed.

“I scare people all the time,” Peter croaked.

“Yeah, but usually it’s with your social skills. Not your actual death.”

Peter smiled weakly. “Thanks for saving me.”

MJ shrugged. “Next time, try being allergic to something that isn’t in shampoo.”

“I’ll get right on that.”

She handed him the cactus. “Try not to die. You’ve got a science quiz next week.”

Chapter Text

Peter Parker had a lot of secrets. One of them could bench-press a car. Another one had a billion-dollar lab named after it. But there was one secret that haunted him more than all the others—one he’d fought harder to keep than even the Spider-Man thing.

He was fourteen.

Not fifteen. Not “almost sixteen.” Not whatever age he was pretending to be during every group project, gym class, or weirdly personal question from Flash.

He was fourteen years old, legally a freshman, and had somehow managed to slip through the social system of Midtown High by sheer force of awkwardness and pure academic overachievement.

It wasn’t like he meant to lie. Exactly.

He’d just… skipped a couple grades. Well, three. But Tony Stark had signed off on his Midtown enrolment with enough vague “gifted program” paperwork to convince the school that Peter was totally normal. Which worked for a while.

Until the day Midtown High decided to hold a mandatory student census. A full-grade audit for state reporting. With birth certificates.

Peter didn’t think anything of it when the teacher handed out the forms in homeroom. He was half-asleep and trying to build a prototype micro-condenser in his lap under the desk.

“Last page is your ID info,” the teacher mumbled. “Fill it out before lunch.”

Peter flipped through, yawning—and paused.

Date of Birth: August 10th.

Current Age: 14.

Oh no.

He stared at the numbers, stomach dropping. He hadn’t even thought about this. He figured the school knew—or at least didn’t care. But now there was actual paperwork going to actual state systems, and he couldn't lie on legal forms. And if he scratched it out and changed it, they’d definitely notice. Maybe call his aunt. Or worse—call Tony.

So he did the only thing his anxious, sleep-deprived brain could think of.

He submitted the form and immediately began crafting a plan to pretend he had never been born.

The next day, the secret was out, Somehow.

It started small—just a couple of whispers in the hallway. Cindy Moon blinking at him weirdly during physics. Flash making an offhand joke about “freshmen who think they’re smart.”

By third period, people were staring.

By lunch, everyone knew.

Peter walked into the cafeteria and the entire Decathlon team turned to look at him like he’d just grown a second head. Betty Brant dropped her fork. Abe was choking on his juice box.

“You’re fourteen?!” MJ said, completely deadpan.

Peter opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Ned, bless him, jumped in. “Technically, it’s not that weird. He’s just… advanced.”

“I helped him with a Spanish worksheet last week!” Flash exclaimed from a nearby table, sounding personally offended. “I was tutoring a middle-schooler?!”

Peter slumped into his chair, burying his face in his arms. “I skipped grades, okay? That’s it. End of story. Not a big deal.”

“You’re a child,” Betty whispered, like she’d just found out she’d been hanging out with a baby goat in a hoodie.

“I’m the same person I was yesterday!”

“You were a toddler yesterday,” Abe muttered.

MJ was the only one not losing her mind. She just sipped her drink and stared at him over the rim. “This explains a lot, actually.”

“MJ—”

“Your handwriting. Your unexplainable love for Legos. The fact that you laugh at the word ‘buttress’ every time we go over Gothic architecture.”

Peter looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor. “In my defense, it’s a very funny word.”

Then came the worst moment.

“Hey, mini-Stark!”

Tony Stark’s voice rang through the cafeteria as he strolled in with Happy behind him, carrying a literal basket of oranges.

Every student turned.

Peter audibly whimpered. “Please no. Not today. Why is he here—”

“I’m here,” Tony said, clapping him on the back, “because your school called me this morning and asked if it was legal for a child to be working at a global tech firm. Apparently, someone updated your school file with your actual age.”

Peter groaned so hard it echoed.

Tony continued, oblivious to—or maybe enjoying—Peter’s humiliation. “So, I told them yes, you’re technically employed under a science mentorship internship. Then I sent them seventeen articles on child prodigies. And also a fruit basket.”

“Why oranges?” MJ asked.

“Citrus is morale-boosting,” Happy said.

Tony grinned. “Also, I ran into the principal. Very cool guy. He asked if you’re some kind of Doogie Howser.”

“Tony,” Peter hissed, “I’m begging you.”

But it was too late. Flash was taking selfies. Betty was already recording an impromptu vlog. Someone in the corner yelled, “Make way for the baby genius!”

Peter buried his face in the oranges.

The next week was a blur of chaos.

Teachers started double-checking everything he handed in, thinking maybe he’d copied it from an older student. A sophomore tried to offer him a lollipop “for being so brave.” Someone taped a sign to his locker that said "Midtown Daycare."

Ned made him a tiny cape with “KID GENIUS” bedazzled across the back.

MJ made him wear it to lunch.

“I hate all of you,” Peter muttered as he ate his sandwich in shame.

“You’re fourteen,” MJ said, not looking up from her book. “You don’t even have the legal right to hate us yet.”

Peter flopped onto the table dramatically. “I want to be homeschooled by a robot.”

“We tried that,” Ned said. “You kept building more robots.”

Peter moaned into his sandwich.

Eventually, the chaos died down. A little.

People still made jokes, sure. But now, they mostly rolled their eyes fondly when Peter answered three questions at once in chemistry or accidentally built a working laser pointer in woodshop.

Tony even called him “Junior Junior” for a week and then upgraded him to just “Junior,” which, in Stark language, was practically affection.

And Peter? He got over it. Mostly.

Because yeah—he was fourteen. A baby by high school standards. But he was also the top student in three senior-level classes, the undefeated science fair champion, and technically, Tony Stark’s personal intern with access to a multi-million-dollar lab.

He could survive a little teasing.

Still, he made Ned promise to burn the cape.

Chapter Text

It started with a debate about Star Wars.

To be fair, it wasn’t supposed to start anything. It was just Peter, Ned, and MJ sitting on the quad during lunch when Flash—passing by with a tray and an unearned sense of superiority—decided to loudly announce that the prequels were the best Star Wars movies and that anyone who disagreed just “didn’t get the politics.”

Peter blinked. Slowly.

“Flash,” he said, carefully setting down his sandwich, “do you even know what the Trade Federation was trying to accomplish?”

Flash stared blankly. “Uh. They had robots.”

“That’s not even close,” Peter muttered, already slipping into what MJ called his “soapbox voice.”

Five minutes later, Peter had stood up, drawn diagrams in ketchup on a napkin, and was passionately describing the flawed economics of the Outer Rim blockade, complete with voice impressions.

By the time he reached “the systemic failure of Jedi bureaucracy,” half the Decathlon team was watching. Betty had started recording. Again.

“Did he just quote an entire deleted scene?” Abe whispered.

“Yes,” MJ said, not looking up from her book. “Verbatim.”

But that was just the tip of the iceberg.

Peter Parker was, without a doubt, the king of nerds.

Not in the “wears thick glasses and snorts when he laughs” kind of way—though, to be fair, he did snort-laugh sometimes. No, Peter’s nerdom was deep. Personal. The kind that made people question if he’d been genetically engineered in a trivia lab.

Case in point: game night.

The decathlon team had decided to bond more—after almost losing Peter to both peppermint and lavender-related death—and organized a tabletop game night in Abe’s basement.

Peter showed up with a handmade dice vault, a binder labeled “Campaign Lore: Volume 1,” and three different sets of metal dice he had apparently forged himself in a mini kiln.

“You have a travel-sized kiln?” MJ asked.

“Technically it’s for melting circuit boards,” Peter said. “But if you crank it high enough and use scrap titanium—”

“Stop. I regret asking.”

By round two, Peter was in full character voice, referencing an ancient spellbook he’d made from tea-stained paper and hand-drawn glyphs.

“You are so painfully extra,” Betty whispered, equal parts horrified and impressed.

Flash quit halfway through. “This is nerd jail. I’m not doing math for fun.”

“Then you’ll never understand the art of arcane spellcasting!” Peter said, dramatically rolling a d20 and knocking over an entire can of Sprite.

Then there was the anime incident.

It was spirit week, and one of the dress-up themes was “Fictional Heroes.” Most people went the Marvel/DC route. Flash showed up as Batman. MJ claimed she was “a metaphor.”

Peter? Peter wore a lovingly recreated My Hero Academia UA uniform.

He even had foam Deku gauntlets.

Not because he thought it was cool. No. Because he related to the character arc of a powerless kid who wants to save everyone and ends up breaking his body to do it.

“I have literal notes,” he said, flipping through a tiny green notebook full of handwritten thoughts like ‘Episode 22 parallels my own growth as a vigilante’.

“You are Deku,” Ned whispered, emotional.

Peter wiped away a single dramatic tear. “Plus Ultra, man.”

But the moment that sealed Peter’s fate forever—the moment that turned his nerd status from “quirky genius” to “unquestionable king of the dweebs”—came in the form of a school trivia night.

It was supposed to be fun. Harmless. Just a fundraiser with snacks and music and some light questions.

Peter took it personally.

He showed up in a Midtown Science hoodie, hair pushed back like he meant business, and brought his own buzzer, “just in case the school ones had delay lag.”

The first five rounds were a blur of Peter destroying everyone.

He buzzed in before questions were done.

He gave bonus context when he answered.

He corrected the quizmaster’s pronunciation of “Heisenberg.”

By the final round, it was down to Peter and two terrified seniors. The audience was hushed. The final question came:

“What element is atomic number 119 and what is its predicted name?”

Everyone stared blankly.

Peter grinned.

“Ununennium,” he said calmly. “It hasn’t been synthesized yet. But the placeholder name is derived from the Latin roots for one-one-nine.”

Silence.

Then the quizmaster blinked and muttered, “Yeah… that’s correct.”

Peter just sipped his juice like it was no big deal.

The next day, someone taped a sticky note to his locker that read:

“PETER PARKER: SLAYER OF TRIVIA. WEIRDLY INTO SPREADSHEETS.”

And Peter? He didn’t mind.

Sure, he was a massive nerd. The kind of nerd who took apart toasters for fun, could recite Pi to 162 digits, and once tried to explain quantum tunneling during a fire drill.

But he was also their nerd.

The kind who fixed your laptop for free, built solar chargers for school field trips, and stayed up all night helping MJ turn her conspiracy zine into a proper encrypted PDF with a password so strong even Tony was mildly impressed.

So yeah. Peter Parker was a huge nerd.

And Midtown wouldn’t have him any other way.

Chapter Text

It started with a field trip.

Midtown High’s Decathlon team had been invited to a winter science expo upstate—snow-covered hills, freezing temperatures, and excited teenagers packed onto a school bus with way too much sugar and not enough adult supervision.

Peter, naturally, layered up like a nervous onion.

He wore two thermal shirts, a Midtown hoodie, a jacket over that, gloves, a scarf, and a beanie so tight it made his ears fold. Ned made fun of him for it until Peter pointed out the exact temperature range in which brain function starts to decline.

Still, no one thought it was weird—not yet.

Peter always wore layers. Everyone just assumed he had a thing for hoodies. Or that he was cold-blooded in a “nerdy, shivers-when-the-AC’s-on” kind of way.

The expo was cool—literally and figuratively. Robotics exhibits, energy prototypes, live demos of cryogenic tech that made Flash gasp and mutter “Dope” every two minutes.

But somewhere between the outdoor hydrogen balloon experiment and the wind-powered turbine showcase, Peter stopped talking.

At first, nobody noticed.

He trailed behind the group, eyes glassy, hands in his pockets. When MJ asked if he was okay, he just nodded and said, “M’fine,” without meeting her eyes.

Then he stopped responding altogether.

By the time they got back on the bus, Peter was curled up in his seat, motionless. His hoodie was zipped all the way up to his chin, gloves still on, and he didn’t say a word when Ned sat next to him and offered a snack.

“Pete?” Ned whispered. “Hey. Buddy.”

No answer.

Ned frowned, waved a hand in front of Peter’s face. Nothing.

“Okay, that’s not normal.”

MJ turned around from the seat in front of them and looked over, her expression shifting from mild concern to full alarm.

“He’s not shivering, he is freezing” she said sharply. “Like—Ice freezing.”

“Peter,” Ned tried again, gently shaking his arm.

Peter blinked. His lips were pale. When he opened his mouth, no sound came out at first—just a soft breath, then, “C-cold…”

“Driver!” MJ barked, standing up. “Pull over.”

It was chaos after that.

Peter didn’t protest—he was too out of it. His skin was cold to the touch, and he couldn’t warm himself up. The adults assumed it was sudden illness. One teacher wrapped him in a blanket. Another fumbled for their phone.

But Ned, MJ, and Betty already knew what to do.

They checked Peter’s bag. Found his medical bracelet. Called the number engraved on it.

Within ten minutes, a Stark med team intercepted the bus on a snowy backroad.

Peter didn’t remember much after that. Just warmth, synthetic blankets, a quiet voice saying, “His core temp is dropping too fast,” and a wave of heat from something high-tech and humming.

When he finally came to, he was in the back of a sleek black van, covered in Stark gear, with a worried MJ glaring at him from the passenger seat.

“Hypothermia?” she said flatly.

Peter winced. “Technically mild.”

“You fell asleep freezing to death.”

He looked away. “I wasn’t asleep. I was… conserving energy.”

“That’s not better.”

Later, at the Tower, the truth came out.

Peter Parker didn’t regulate heat properly. Not since the bite.

His internal thermostat—the one that was supposed to kick in when he got cold—had gone haywire. He could handle short bursts of low temperatures, sure. But extended exposure? Even mild winter days? His body didn’t warm up on its own.

Tony had known. Kind of. He’d run tests. Made Peter wear temperature-monitoring patches, installed climate alerts in the suit, even slipped little warming fibers into his clothes without him knowing.

But Peter, being Peter, hadn’t really processed what it meant.

“I thought layering was fine,” he mumbled, cheeks red—not from cold this time. “I didn’t think it’d get that bad.”

Tony sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and updated the Midtown staff with yet another memo titled “Things That Will Kill Peter Parker If You’re Not Paying Attention.”

Right under Peppermint, Lavender, and exposure to certain flower oils, was now a bold new entry:

- Extreme or prolonged cold exposure.

Warning signs: quiet, lethargy, inability to form full sentences. DO NOT assume he’s just tired. He’s always tired. Call Stark emergency line immediately.

Peter tried to laugh about it the next day. “So I’m like a lizard now, right? Just need a heat lamp.”

But MJ wasn’t laughing. Neither was Ned.

“You should’ve told us,” MJ said, dead serious.

“I didn’t want to be a walking emergency,” Peter muttered.

“You’re already that,” Ned replied gently. “Just… let us help next time.”

Peter didn’t argue.

And from that day on, whenever the weather dipped even slightly, someone in the Decathlon squad would silently hand him a hot pack, a thermos, or an extra hoodie.

No one made jokes.

Peter never forgot to thank them.

Chapter Text

There were two things everyone at Midtown High knew about Peter Parker:

He was always cold.

He never complained about the heat.

Which is why, when the temperature in Queens hit a record-breaking 103°F and the rest of the school turned into a collective puddle of misery, Peter looked exactly the same.

Too the same.

Flash was sweating through his polo. Betty had given up on her hair. Abe was fanning himself with a science textbook and whimpering into his water bottle.

Meanwhile, Peter was calmly sitting on a bench during lunch, hoodie tied around his waist, long-sleeve shirt still on, and completely dry. Not a single bead of sweat.

“Okay,” MJ said slowly, narrowing her eyes. “What the hell.”

Peter blinked. “What?”

“You’re not even shiny. You should be shiny right now.”

“I’m… hydrated?”

MJ squinted. “You are a liar.”

“I mean—technically, it’s a metabolism thing—”

“Peter, I watched you chug a slushie in under two minutes and you didn’t blink.”

“I was… enjoying it?”

Ned leaned in, suspicious. “Wait. When was the last time any of us saw you sweat?”

There was a long pause.

No one could remember.

The incident happened later that same day—right in the middle of gym class.

The heatwave had pushed the school to cancel outdoor activities, but Coach Wilson still made everyone rotate through indoor stations. Jump rope. Sit-ups. Agility ladders. The kind of cardio nightmare that made even the most athletic kids feel like melted cheese.

Peter started off fine.

He jogged through cones, did a few half-hearted burpees, kept his head down and faked being just-out-of-shape-enough. Classic Peter.

But by the second station, MJ—watching from the bleachers under a broken ceiling fan—noticed something off.

Peter’s face was flushed. His hairline damp, but not from sweat—more like humidity trapped under pressure. He moved a little slower. His balance slipped. He missed a step.

By the third station, he stumbled.

Hard.

“Peter?” Ned called.

Peter didn’t answer.

Then he collapsed—straight down onto the gym floor with a soft, horrifying thud.

Everything spun into chaos.

Flash actually screamed.

Coach Wilson ran over, radioing the nurse. Betty pushed her way through the crowd. MJ was already next to Peter, kneeling and slapping his cheek gently.

“Pete. Hey. Stay with me.”

His skin was hot. Not just warm—radiating like a space heater on max. His pulse raced under her fingers. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused.

“Can’t… cool down…” he whispered.

And just like that, everything clicked.

“No sweating,” MJ muttered. “He’s overheating. He’s—damn it—he’s heatstroking.”

Ned pulled the medical bracelet from under Peter’s sleeve. “Call Stark,” he told the gym staff. “Now. This is on the list.”

Ten minutes later, the sleek black Stark van rolled up to Midtown’s curb again, air-conditioned to a medically optimized chill.

Tony didn’t come himself this time, but FRIDAY’s voice filled the space as the med team worked.

“Internal temperature 104.8 and rising. Initiating external cooling sequence. Electrolyte levels dropping. Administering IV.”

Peter groaned as they lifted him in. “I feel like soup…”

“You are soup,” MJ said, climbing into the van beside him without hesitation. “Dumb, dehydrated soup.”

Once stabilized, Peter had to spend the night at the Tower.

Tony arrived in person with a tablet and that look—the one Peter hated more than anything. The "you didn't tell me something incredibly important and now I'm mad but mostly worried" face.

"You knew about the cold issue," Tony said. "But you didn’t think to mention you don’t sweat?"

“I didn’t realize it was a big deal!” Peter argued, sitting under a blanket with cooling patches taped to his neck. “I thought I just… ran hot.”

“You’re a radioactive spider-powered furnace with no AC, kid.”

“…Cool?”

“Not cool.”

That week, Stark Industries sent an updated medical memo to Midtown:

Updated Medical Alert: Peter Parker – Thermoregulation Deficiency

Due to a unique metabolic anomaly resulting from his enhanced physiology, Peter Parker cannot regulate internal temperature efficiently.

In case of exposure to extreme cold or heat:

Cold: Monitor for lethargy, confusion, silence. Signs of hypothermia.

Heat: Monitor for disorientation, flushed skin, collapse. Signs of heatstroke.

Note: Peter Parker does not sweat. This is not a joke.

If symptoms present, do NOT delay. Call Stark Emergency Medline immediately.

Peter didn’t go back to school for three days. When he finally walked into the cafeteria, someone had made him a fan out of cardboard with “#1 Overheated Friend” written on it in glitter.

Betty had crocheted a tiny ice pack hat.

Flash gave him a bottle of water and muttered, “Don’t die again, Parker,” like it was a personal inconvenience.

And MJ handed him a folded note with one sentence:

“Next heat wave, you’re staying inside or I swear I will duct tape you to an air conditioner.”

Peter just grinned and wrote back:

“Deal. But only if it’s Stark Tech duct tape.”

Chapter Text

It all started with the car.

Not the sleek black Stark SUV with tinted windows and state-of-the-art privacy shielding. No, this one was red.

Cherry red.

Convertible.

With flame decals and fuzzy dice.

It looked like it had been built by someone who lost a bet at a Vegas magic show and then doubled down with a “YOLO” tattoo. Music blared from its speakers—Careless Whisper, unironically—and as it pulled up in front of Midtown High on a random Thursday afternoon, it honked twice in rhythm, then let out a mechanical wolf-whistle.

The entire school turned.

Then a man stepped out.

And everything went to hell.

He was tall, absurdly handsome, and dressed like a Calvin Klein model trying to play “cool stepdad” in a Netflix original. Aviators. A tight white shirt. A leather jacket with a patch that said “Definitely Legal.”

“What—” MJ started.

“The—” Ned blinked.

“Hell?” Betty finished.

The man leaned against the hood like he was posing for a cologne ad titled Regret and Cautionary Tales. Then he waved.

“Peteypie! Sugarbug! Lambchop Supreme!”

Peter Parker—sweet, awkward, definitely-too-young Peter Parker—grinned, shouldered his backpack, and jogged up to the guy.

The guy hugged him.

MJ’s brain melted.

The next twenty-four hours turned into a full-blown investigation.

The Decathlon Team gathered like a tiny, overly-caffeinated FBI task force in the library after school.

“We need to figure out who that was,” MJ said, pacing.

“Was he an actor?” Betty asked. “He looked like Ryan Reynolds.”

“Like—young Ryan Reynolds,” Abe clarified. “But also, like, if Ryan Reynolds ate a Greek god.”

“I didn’t know Peter was bi,” Ned whispered, still in shock.

“I did,” MJ muttered. “I just didn’t think the first guy we’d see him with would have abs you could land a helicopter on.”

“Who do you think he is?” Flash asked, frowning. “No one that hot drives that car. That’s gotta be fake hot.”

“That’s not a thing,” Abe replied.

“Okay, focus!” MJ snapped. “Here’s what we know:

• He doesn’t drive the Stark SUV.

• He called Peter ‘Lambchop Supreme.’

• Peter smiled.

• He picked Peter up twice in the last three weeks.

• Peter didn’t introduce him.

• And he had a Hello Kitty band-aid on his neck.”

They all paused.

“I forgot about the band-aid,” Ned said thoughtfully. “That’s either adorable or terrifying.”

“Why not both?” MJ muttered.

Operation: Figure Out Who the Hot Mystery Man Is began in earnest the next morning.

The team tried to be subtle.

They were not subtle.

“Hey, Pete,” MJ said, sliding into the seat next to him at lunch. “You got a… friend picking you up again?”

Peter paused mid-bite. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Wade.”

“Wade?” she repeated slowly.

“Wade.”

“Cool name.”

“Totally normal name,” Peter nodded.

“Does he always wear jackets that look like they were stolen off a biker who moonlights as a model?”

Peter blinked. “He likes fashion.”

“And sunglasses indoors?”

“He has sensitive eyes.”

“And a car that backfires glitter?”

Peter considered. “That only happened once.”

Betty leaned in. “Is he… like… your boyfriend?”

Peter flushed. “I mean… yeah?”

Ned choked on his juice box.

MJ’s eye twitched. “You’re dating a literal heartthrob with a criminal-sounding car, and we’re just now finding out?”

Peter scratched the back of his neck. “I didn’t not tell you?”

“That’s exactly what you did.”

They dug deeper.

Ned set up Google alerts. Betty checked DMV records. MJ hacked (read: strongly suggested) access into public security cams.

But nothing came up.

No Wade in the Stark employee list. No Wade in local records. No Wade in any school database or acting profile.

Except one.

A single photo on a conspiracy site. Blurry. Captioned:

“The Merc With The Smile: Is This Former Assassin Now Living As A Male Model?”

Everyone stared at it.

“Peter…” MJ said slowly, turning the laptop around. “Who is this guy?”

Peter shrugged. “He says he’s Canadian?”

“Is he dangerous?”

“He has a flamethrower license?”

“Peter—”

“He doesn’t use it often!”

“PETER.”

Peter raised his hands. “Look, I don’t know everything. I just know he really likes Bea Arthur and once bought a goat because it ‘looked lonely.’”

The room went silent.

“Do you think he’s… a criminal?” Ned whispered.

Peter looked thoughtful. “He’s more like… crime-adjacent.”

Flash was white as a sheet. “Does Tony know?”

Peter opened his mouth. Closed it. Then muttered, “...Define ‘know.’”

The next time Wade came to pick Peter up, the entire Decathlon team was waiting.

They stood like a wall of teenage judgment at the curb. Arms crossed. Faces grim.

Wade pulled up, music blaring.

He leaned out, winked, and said, “Hey there, scholastic superheroes. You keeping my sweetcheeks safe from rogue equations?”

Nobody moved.

Peter approached the car like it was a normal day and slid into the passenger seat.

Flash nearly fainted.

“Peter!” MJ called. “Is he… legal?”

“He’s been legally declared ‘a high-level adult of undefined but definitely over-18 status,’” Peter replied.

“That’s not a thing!”

“Tell that to his lawyer-slash-magician!”

Then they were gone. Music echoing behind them. Wade giving finger guns through the windshield.

The group stood in stunned silence.

“I don’t know what’s more confusing,” Abe finally said. “That Peter’s dating a human supernova… or that said supernova might be an ex-assassin with goat money.”

“Honestly,” MJ muttered, “I’m not sure if I’m impressed or terrified.”

“Both,” Ned said. “Definitely both.”

Flash just blinked. “Do you think he could pick me up from school?”

Peter, of course, never gave a straight answer.

“Is he a mercenary?” MJ asked one day.

“He’s a romantic.”

“Did he once flip a car on the highway and laugh about it?”

“It was mostly a controlled spin.”

“Does he have knives hidden in his boots?”

“Only on Tuesdays.”

And when they finally asked point-blank: “Is Wade even his real name?”

Peter just smiled and said, “That’s classified.”

And then asked if they wanted goat cheese for their bagels.

Peter had a bad feeling the moment Wade said the word “surprise.”

“Come on, baby bug,” Wade grinned, holding the door open to the red monstrosity of a convertible. “Trust me. I planned this whole night. Romance. Adventure. Slight trespassing.”

“Slight what—?”

“Get in the car, Peter.”

Peter got in the car.

Wade’s version of a date night started with—

• A rooftop picnic (not on a roof deck—literally on the slanted part of an old abandoned theater).

• Candlelight made from LED tea lights stuffed into mason jars marked “definitely not explosives.”

• A tray of tacos, macarons, chocolate-covered strawberries, and chicken nuggets shaped like dinosaurs.

• A single red rose... made of duct tape and regret.

Peter blinked at the chaos. “Wade, did you... make all of this?”

Wade beamed. “Craft store. Discount food court. Two hours of YouTube tutorials. And maybe one knife fight behind a 7-Eleven.”

Peter laughed. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re dating me, so technically you’re unbelievable.”

Peter shook his head fondly, then kissed him on the cheek. Wade looked momentarily stunned, like the world paused for half a second just for that moment.

Then the taco tray caught fire.

Meanwhile.

Ned: “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

MJ: “We absolutely should be doing this.”

The Decathlon Team crouched in the alley across from the theater rooftop, peeking through binoculars and the world’s shakiest phone camera. Abe was live-commenting like it was National Geographic.

“And here we see the elusive Peter Parker, somehow on a date with what appears to be the physical embodiment of a Tinder fever dream.”

Betty gasped. “Did he just light a candle with a flamethrower?!”

“Yeah,” MJ muttered, squinting. “Why... does that guy have so many weapons?”

“I thought this was going to be cute,” Ned whispered. “Like a Ferris wheel or a picnic. Not heavily armed rooftop dinner.”

“Why does Peter look so calm?”

They watched as Peter reached over to take a bite of Wade’s taco, then calmly redirected Wade’s hand as it accidentally triggered something that looked a lot like a detonator. Wade looked sheepish. Peter sighed. Then leaned his head on Wade’s shoulder.

The team was officially stressed.

“Okay,” MJ said. “I thought Peter was dating a hot weirdo with bad taste. But this... this is something else.”

“Do you think Peter knows?” Ned asked.

Flash blinked. “Knows what, exactly?! That his boyfriend carries four knives and a rocket pen?”

“Guys.” Betty’s voice dropped. “Look over there.”

On the street below, two guys in tactical gear were loitering near Wade’s car. One was scanning it with something that beeped ominously.

The other had a rifle.

The team froze.

“Are those—agents?” Abe whispered.

“Or hitmen?” MJ said.

“Do we call someone? Do we—?”

Before anyone could finish, Wade casually glanced down, pulled something out of his pocket, threw it, and the agents suddenly exploded into a glitter bomb.

Literal glitter. Screaming. Coughing. Probably some tracking devices fried.

The rooftop remained calm. Peter didn’t even flinch.

Peter Parker didn’t flinch.

That was the moment the entire team collectively realized: Peter might be the scariest one.

Back on the roof, Wade raised an eyebrow.

“They followed us again.”

Peter sighed, mouth full of macaron. “I told you not to glitter bomb anyone unless absolutely necessary.”

“They had weapons!”

“I have weapons.”

Wade smirked, eyes softening. “God, I love when you say terrifying things so casually.”

Peter rolled his eyes and leaned back against him.

Down below, the decathlon team had quietly backed away. Then sprinted. Then panicked in a circle behind the nearest dumpster.

“I don’t think we’re qualified to know Peter Parker,” Ned said, breathless.

“Guys...” Betty’s voice trembled. “Are we friends with a murder couple?”

MJ blinked slowly. “Honestly, I think Wade’s the emotional one.”

They sat in stunned silence.

“...Should we still invite him to movie night?”

“I mean... probably,” Abe said. “But, like. We should make sure there’s no swords.”

“Or tacos.”

“Definitely no glitter.”

Back on the rooftop, Wade looked up at the stars, arm around Peter.

“This is the best date I’ve ever had,” he said quietly.

Peter smiled. “Because of me or the glitter?”

“You. Obviously.”

A pause.

“And the glitter.”

Peter laughed, then leaned in to kiss him under the stars, while below, terrified teens tried to figure out if their classmate was dating a hallucination, a criminal, or both.

They were correct.

And very, very out of their depth.

Chapter Text

Peter Parker had a reputation.

Quiet. Smart. Kind of weird. Surprisingly good at dodging dodgeballs. Wore too many layers for someone who never seemed cold.

But to the Midtown High Decathlon Team, he was something even stranger:

A human trash compactor.

Because Peter—sweet, polite Peter—ate. Constantly.

They had a theory going.

Ned said Peter had a wormhole in his stomach. Betty thought he was stress eating his way through advanced trauma. MJ suggested he was hiding a second, secret person under his shirt who also needed feeding.

But no matter what Peter consumed—protein bars, vending machine junk, an entire pizza during the field trip to the Met—he never gained a pound. Still tiny. Still drowning in hoodies.

And he never got tired.

Until one day, he did.

It was a normal Wednesday.

Which, in Midtown terms, meant mild chaos.

The Decathlon team had stayed after school to prep for the regionals. MJ was dissecting the practice questions. Abe was yelling about formatting. Peter, as usual, was scribbling notes, snacking on a protein bar the size of a brick.

Then he checked his bag.

Then he frowned.

“Something wrong?” Ned asked.

Peter mumbled something like “forgot my lunch backup,” and brushed it off.

Hours passed.

And Peter… stopped talking.

Stopped answering.

And then?

Peter’s head dipped forward onto his notes.

Face-first.

Like a cartoon character. Like someone hit an off switch.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Ned shouted, “PETER?”

Panic.

They tried nudging him. Nothing.

They tried yelling. Still nothing.

MJ—cool as always—checked his wrist.

“Stark Medical bracelet,” she read aloud, eyes narrowing. “...Again?”

“I thought that was for, like, peppermint?!” Abe yelled. “Did he eat mint?!”

“No, that was last week!” Betty wailed. “We banned mint from the whole floor!”

Peter groaned, slowly opening one eye. “M’fine. Just... need a snack...”

“Dude, you’re fainting,” Ned hissed. “You skipped one meal.”

Peter blinked at him.

“Wait—was it just one?” He checked his watch. “Okay, maybe two. And a snack. And dinner yesterday.”

“PETER.”

By the time someone ran to get the nurse (who was, frankly, useless when faced with “Stark Intern Biology”), Peter had managed to sit up.

Happy was called.

Then Tony was called.

Then a sleek black Stark emergency car arrived and drove him off with three protein shakes and a glowing diagnostic tablet attached to his wrist.

Before he left, Peter looked back at the Decathlon team—wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Didn’t mean to scare anyone. I just burn through calories really fast. Super fast metabolism. Like... scary fast. Not like... regular fast. More like... if I don’t eat every few hours, I shut down like a sad little robot.”

He was trying to make it a joke.

No one was laughing.

Except MJ, who snorted. “So you’re telling me if we ever want to defeat you in battle, we just remove snacks.”

Peter glared. “I am not a vending machine villain, MJ.”

“You literally carry a granola bar in your sock.”

“Emergency stash,” Peter muttered.

The next day, the Decathlon team arrived at school with a brand new group chat:

“Feed the Bug.”

MJ stocked Peter’s locker with high-calorie snacks.

Ned handed him a water bottle with protein powder already mixed in.

Abe tried to offer a literal steak once, which Peter declined only because it came wrapped in foil shaped like a swan.

And when Peter looked confused, MJ said, “You faint again and we will strap a burrito to your chest like an inhaler.”

Peter flushed redder than Wade’s convertible.

Later that week, Flash asked why Peter was being fed like a Victorian ghost child.

MJ casually replied, “He’s got high-performance bio-energy expenditure.”

Flash blinked.

“...He eats like he’s being chased by demons.”

“That too.”

And from then on, whenever Peter looked even remotely pale, a protein bar would be thrown at him from somewhere off screen like an anime power-up.

He never missed another meal.

Mostly because his friends made sure he couldn’t.

Chapter Text

It started with a fire drill.

Because of course it did.

Peter was sitting in chemistry class, brain-deep in balancing a stupidly complicated equation, when the shrill fire alarm went off above him like a banshee on steroids. The sound pierced through his skull with the force of a freight train, and he flinched so hard he snapped his pencil in half.

Around him, the usual chaos erupted. Chairs scraped back. Students groaned. Someone laughed. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered with a buzz that Peter could suddenly hear too clearly. People were yelling to each other across the room, and it was so much all at once that he couldn’t move.

He blinked, confused. His hands were shaking.

He reached up instinctively to feel behind his ear—where the Stark sensory patch was supposed to be.

Nothing.

Oh no.

Oh no no no no no.

He’d forgotten it. That morning had been rushed—Happy showed up late, he missed breakfast, there was a pop quiz in history, and he completely forgot the small, smooth disc Tony designed for days exactly like this.

His breathing quickened.

He heard everything.

The girl in the next row chewing gum.

The kid behind him zipping a backpack.

Someone tapping a pencil.

His own heartbeat pounding like a bass drum in his ears.

He swallowed, grabbed his bag with shaking fingers, and stumbled into the hallway with the rest of the class.

It didn’t help.

Out in the corridor, it was worse.

Hundreds of kids talking and laughing and yelling. Lockers slamming. Sneakers squeaking. The alarm still wailing like a screaming robot directly in his brain. His hoodie felt like it was made of fiberglass. The floor felt wrong under his shoes, like he could feel every speck of dirt. Light bounced off the polished tiles and smacked him in the face.

And someone bumped into his shoulder.

That was it.

His vision blurred. The world felt like it was crashing down on top of him. His knees buckled and he dropped to the floor hard, books spilling from his hands, backpack half-unzipped. He squeezed his eyes shut and shoved his hands over his ears, rocking forward slightly.

Too loud.

Too bright.

Too much.

Too much too much too much—

“Peter?!”

Ned’s voice. Sharp, panicked.

Peter didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He could hear everything but also nothing. Just noise. A wall of it. Like trying to breathe underwater in a hurricane.

Ned dropped down next to him immediately. “Hey, hey—it’s okay, I’m here, you’re okay,” he said quickly, but his voice sounded far away, like it was being filtered through static.

MJ appeared seconds later, cutting through the students gathering like smoke through fog. “What’s wrong? What’s—oh, God. This isn’t a seizure. This looks like a meltdown. Like—like a sensory overload.”

“What? He’s never done this before!” Ned said, panicked. “Peter, dude, c’mon—look at me!”

MJ shook her head. “My cousin has SPD—sensory processing disorder. Sometimes she shuts down when it’s too loud or too bright. Peter’s kind of a walking antenna. It would make sense.”

“He has the Stark patch,” Ned said, blinking rapidly. “Tony gave it to him to regulate stuff. It’s like a bio-dampener. If he’s doing this now—he must’ve forgotten it today.”

Betty crouched beside them, eyes wide. “What do we do?! Do we call someone? The nurse? Tony?!”

Peter whimpered, barely audible, “Too loud…”

“Okay, okay,” MJ said, spinning around. “Everyone! Back up! Give him space!”

Someone started filming with their phone.

MJ marched over and smacked it right out of their hand. “Delete that before I make you.”

The student scrambled.

“Betty, block the light from the ceiling,” MJ snapped. “Ned—check your bag. Didn’t you say you had your noise-canceling headphones?”

“Yeah—yeah, hang on,” Ned said, digging through his backpack furiously.

Abe jogged up, looking half-freaked and half-curious. “Is Peter okay?!”

“No,” MJ said flatly. “And you’re gonna help.”

“Uh—okay?!”

“Science lab. Get tinted goggles and the blackout scarf from the theater room. Now.”

Abe turned and ran.

MJ turned back to Peter. “Hey, Peter. It’s MJ. You’re okay. We’re fixing it, alright? Just hang in there.”

Peter didn’t answer.

He was still rocking slightly, clutching his ears, breathing too fast. Sweat was starting to bead on his forehead. MJ bit her lip.

Ned returned with the headphones and gently tried to ease them over Peter’s head.

Peter flinched.

“Sorry—sorry!” Ned said, voice breaking. “I’m just trying to help, buddy. You’re gonna be okay.”

Betty draped her scarf over Peter’s head to dim the light. “Maybe this will help?”

He twitched but didn’t pull away.

Abe came back, out of breath, carrying the lab goggles and a blanket someone had handed him. MJ took them and very carefully slid the goggles onto Peter’s face. The lenses dimmed the light immediately.

Peter let out a shaky exhale.

His rocking slowed.

Still silent.

But not panicking anymore.

MJ reached for her phone. “I’m calling Happy. He can get someone here. Stark med team, whatever. He needs more help than we can give.”

“I got him,” Ned whispered, still kneeling at Peter’s side. “You don’t have to talk, Pete. I’m here.”

It took fifteen minutes for the emergency Stark vehicle to arrive. By then, the hallway was cleared out and eerily quiet. A few teachers hovered nervously nearby, clearly out of their depth. The Decathlon team held the space like bodyguards.

Two medics arrived—sleek, all-black uniforms with the Stark logo—and wordlessly slipped Peter into a med stretcher with soft padding and noise-dampening walls. One of them gave Ned a nod of approval.

“You did good, kid.”

Ned didn’t feel like it.

He felt like crying.

That night, Peter sent a message to the Decathlon group chat.

Peter Parker: “Hey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak anyone out.”

MJ: “You didn’t. We were just scared.”

Betty: “Are you okay now??”

Peter Parker: “Yeah. I’ve been having sensory issues for the past year. Sometimes my brain just… fries. Tony made that patch to help, but I forgot it today. I didn’t mean for it to get that bad.”

Abe: “Dude. You could’ve died.”

Peter Parker: “Not from that. But it feels like it. It’s like… the whole world is yelling and I can’t hit mute.”

There was a long pause in the chat.

Then:

Ned: “Okay. So we’ll just make sure you never forget it again. Starting tomorrow.”

MJ: “I’m putting a checklist on your locker. If you ignore it, I will scream.”

Betty: “I can knit a sleeve for your patch. Like a keychain!”

Abe: “We need, like, a ‘nerd reboot kit.’ You glitch, we fix.”

Peter Parker: “You guys are the weirdest. Thank you.”

The next morning, taped to Peter’s locker in glitter pen and electrical tape was a checklist that read:

“SENSORY PATCH?

Hoodie?

Headphones?

MJ intimidation?”

YES: Peter is safe.
NO: WE PANIC.”

Peter smiled so hard his cheeks hurt.

Because for all the things his powers gave him—strength, speed, danger sense—what he valued most was the group of nerds who had his back, even when his brain didn’t.

Chapter Text

“Okay. Someone explain how this is physically possible.”

“Is he dead?”

“Guys, he’s breathing. I think.”

“I feel like I shouldn’t be seeing that many knees.”

These were the words Peter woke up to.

Kind of.

It had started as a regular Saturday morning—Midtown’s academic decathlon team was having their weekend study session in the gym because the library was being fumigated. Why? Because Flash Thompson had dared Peter to crack open a “sealed since 1984” lunchbox he found in the lost and found bin. Turned out it was mostly mold and vengeance.

So there they were, hunched on yoga mats and folding chairs around a pile of textbooks. Someone suggested stretching breaks to avoid brain fog. Peter, running on three protein bars and four hours of sleep, hadn’t been paying attention.

“Betty said to do a bridge pose,” Ned explained later. “You know. Like yoga. I was not expecting full-on circus acrobatics.”

Peter had dropped to the mat, kicked into a backbend, and casually transitioned into a move no one could name but MJ later described as “a cursed noodle.”

When they’d tried to get his attention, he didn’t respond.

Probably because he’d fallen asleep. Upside down. In an arch. With one leg hooked over his shoulder like a scarf and the other foot braced against a bench.

Peter blinked awake to find all of them hovering above him, their faces frozen in a mix of awe and mild concern.

“Am I dying?” he croaked.

“No,” MJ said. “But your spine might be.”

“Is that… your foot by your ear?” Flash asked, baffled.

Peter groaned and slowly untwisted himself like a pretzel being unraveled. “Sorry. I must’ve dozed off.”

“Like that?” Ned asked, horrified and amazed. “Peter, your bones made a shape I thought only snakes could do.”

“I’m just bendy,” Peter mumbled.

“You just folded in half like origami,” Betty pointed out. “That’s not ‘bendy,’ that’s ‘physics-defying.’”

Peter sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not that weird.”

“You fell asleep in a yoga pose that would snap Flash in half,” MJ said.

“I’m limber.”

“You bent backward until your shoulders touched the mat and your butt was still in the air.”

Peter paused. “Okay, that might be a little weird.”

“No, what’s weird is that you did it casually. While snoring.” Abe looked mildly traumatized. “At one point I think your elbow was under your chin and your chin was over your knee.”

“Okay, so maybe I’m very flexible,” Peter admitted, brushing himself off.

Everyone stared at him.

“You also scaled the bleachers last week sideways,” Ned added, realization dawning.

“I thought that was normal?” Peter offered.

“It is not,” Flash declared, still gaping. “Dude, you’re like a human Twizzler.”

Peter shrugged. “It’s just one of those weird body things.”

“You also dropped your phone last month and picked it up with your foot. From behind you. Without looking,” MJ said, narrowing her eyes.

“I like efficiency.”

“You dropped your AirPods in the cafeteria and caught them with your ankles.”

“…I have fast reflexes?”

“You scratch your back with your toes,” Ned said quietly, like he was afraid to speak the truth out loud.

Peter looked around, then gave a sheepish smile. “So… maybe I’m a little more flexible than most people.”

Betty raised an eyebrow. “Peter. If you were any more flexible, you’d qualify as a Looney Tune.”

“Do you even have bones?” Flash asked.

Peter grinned. “Want to find out?”

Everyone screamed.

Coach Wilson, passing by in the hallway, poked his head into the gym. “Why are you all yelling?”

Peter waved. “I sat weird again.”

Coach stared at him for a beat, nodded once, and said, “Of course you did,” before walking away like this was just another Tuesday.

The team stood in stunned silence for a moment.

Then MJ turned to Ned. “Start a list. ‘Strange Things About Peter Parker We’re Pretending Are Normal.’”

“Already at fifteen,” Ned muttered, pulling out his phone.

Peter gave an exaggerated stretch, hands touching the floor behind his head. “Add ‘freakishly cool.’”

Flash mumbled, “Add ‘terrifyingly bendable.’”

And just like that, Peter Parker—already a legend for his snacks, weird injuries, and mysterious Stark bracelet—earned another unofficial title at Midtown High:

The Most Flexible Kid Alive.

And no one knew how to feel about that.

Especially when he casually reached behind his back and pulled his hoodie over his head with both arms twisted backward.

Chapter Text

It started with an argument over who could recite the periodic table fastest.

Well—technically, it started because Flash tried to impress someone in Chemistry by confidently declaring there were only 100 elements, “because they never go past the big ones like gold and krypton.”

Peter, seated three stools down and halfway through building a triple-reinforced polymer chain for extra credit, had muttered under his breath, “There are 118, actually. Though some of the later ones are synthetic and unstable in atmospheric conditions…”

Flash had not taken it well.

“Okay, nerd,” he sneered. “Bet you couldn’t even name them all. In order.”

Peter blinked. “Alphabetical, numerical, or discovery order?”

The entire class went silent.

Mr. Harrington, who’d been grading papers with a vague sense of despair, slowly lifted his head. “Peter, can you—wait, no. Are you saying you can?”

Peter frowned, a little confused by the attention. “Yeah, why not?”

Betty raised her hand. “Because that’s 118 elements.”

Peter shrugged. “It’s not that hard. The list’s in my head. It just sticks.”

“Wait, are you saying you’ve memorized the entire periodic table?” MJ asked, genuinely impressed.

Peter turned slightly pink. “Among other things.”

Ned leaned forward. “Define ‘other things.’”

“Like… textbooks. Diagrams. Maps. Schedules. Every conversation I’ve ever had since I was twelve. That one time someone spelled ‘photosynthesis’ wrong in the gym on the whiteboard and it haunted me for three weeks.”

Flash narrowed his eyes. “Prove it.”

Peter stood, walked to the whiteboard, and—with terrifying speed—began writing. Symbols. Numbers. Element names. By atomic number. In less than two minutes, the entire periodic table had been recreated.

He even color-coded it.

Betty’s jaw dropped. “Okay, what?”

Peter turned, arms crossed, and looked at Flash. “Want me to do it in German now?”

“Why German?!” Flash shouted, mostly in horror.

“I learned it in fourth grade. It was a phase.”

“A phase?”

“Yeah. I was also into Norse mythology and antique train schematics. It was a weird year.”

Everyone stared at him. MJ, recovering first, said, “So you’re telling us you have an eidetic memory? Like, photographic?”

Peter looked around, confused. “Did… did I not mention that?”

“No!” the group all shouted in unison.

“I mean, it’s not perfect,” Peter mumbled. “It’s more like… I can remember the layout of things. And exact wording. And most numbers. And conversations. And any page I read for more than four seconds. And—”

“Peter,” Ned said slowly, “you remembered the bus schedule from last year so well you told the driver when he was thirty-two seconds late.”

“He was,” Peter said indignantly. “And the light was green.”

Betty turned to MJ. “We need to update The List.”

MJ was already on it. “‘Peter’s Brain is Terrifying: An Ongoing Study,’ entry #42.”

“Put it next to ‘Can do Calculus in his sleep,’” Ned added.

Peter looked genuinely surprised. “You guys keep a list?”

The entire team gave him a look.

Peter scratched the back of his neck. “It’s not that impressive. I just remember things.”

“Peter,” Flash deadpanned, “you helped Ms. Warren re-shelve the entire biology reference section from memory. In Dewey Decimal order. Backwards.”

“It was bothering me,” Peter mumbled.

“You once quoted every line of dialogue from Iron Man 2,” MJ added, “complete with sound effects.”

“…that was a dare.”

“No one dared you.”

“...Okay, but it was fun.”

Just then, Mr. Harrington clapped his hands together. “Well, that was… alarming. But also incredibly helpful. Peter, I’m going to pretend you’re not smarter than the textbook I teach from and ask you nicely not to correct me in front of the superintendent again.”

Peter gave a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. He’s still crying in the staff room.”

As class ended, Peter packed his bag and followed the others out, still puzzled by the fuss.

“Seriously, guys, it’s not that big a deal.”

“Peter,” Ned said, “you remembered every pizza topping we ordered at MJ’s birthday party two years ago and even who picked off what.”

“And you remembered it so well you ordered it again exactly the same last month,” MJ added.

“You even remembered the distribution of crust slices,” Betty said. “Who remembers that?”

Peter shrugged. “People who don’t want MJ to stab them over getting the wrong combo?”

MJ gave him a thumbs-up. “You live another day, Parker.”

Flash shook his head, muttering, “I’m not convinced he’s human.”

And as they walked out into the hallway, Peter absentmindedly recited the Fibonacci sequence up to 610 while trying to remember if his lab partner had borrowed his extra goggles in second period or third.

Because of course he had.

Chapter Text

It was a quiet morning at Midtown High.

Too quiet.

Which was always dangerous when Peter Parker was involved.

In the library, the decathlon team was spread out across two tables, surrounded by highlighters, papers, color-coded flashcards, and at least four cups of mystery cafeteria coffee.

Midterms were coming.

Tensions were high.

And Peter? Peter was reading a 1,200-page physics textbook like it was a Buzzfeed listicle.

Ned glanced over from his own copy—half a chapter in, scribbling notes furiously—and did a double take.

Peter had just flipped another page. And another. And another.

At this rate, he was averaging one page per second.

MJ leaned over from across the table, eyes narrowed. “Hey, Peter?”

“Hm?” he replied, not looking up.

“Are you flipping through that textbook or reading it?”

Peter blinked and looked up, casual as ever. “Reading.”

Flash snorted. “Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.”

Peter tilted his head. “You want a summary of chapter 6?”

Flash smirked. “Go on, then.”

Peter set the book down, leaned back, and launched into a perfectly detailed explanation about quantum entanglement, referencing diagrams on pages Flash hadn’t even known existed.

By the time Peter casually quoted the footnote from page 422—“Which was really more of a misprint, honestly”—Flash had gone quiet.

Betty leaned closer. “Wait. Are you saying you read the whole thing?”

Peter glanced down at the brick of a book and shrugged. “Yeah. Twice.”

Everyone stared.

Ned whispered, “What are you?”

Peter, unaware of the dramatic effect he was having on the room, just blinked. “Is that not normal?”

“No, Peter, it’s not normal,” MJ said, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You just skimmed a full textbook in fifteen minutes.”

“I wasn’t skimming,” Peter said. “I’m a speedreader. It’s just a thing I do.”

Flash flailed slightly. “Since when?!”

“I don’t know. Since always? I mean, it got worse after the whole… uh… puberty thing.”

Ned side-eyed him. “You mean when you randomly got buff and started benching microwaves?”

“I had to move the microwave to fix the wiring! It wasn’t that big of a deal—”

“Not the point!” MJ interrupted, waving her hands. “Peter. Peter. You just read a textbook. Like it was a pamphlet.”

Peter nodded. “Yeah, I have to do that a lot for my internship. Tony gives me about six binders every week, and I kind of got used to it. Fast reading’s the only way I can keep up.”

“Tony as in Tony Stark?” Flash asked, deadpan.

Peter blinked. “You guys already knew that.”

“We do,” Betty said. “We just forget. Because you keep pulling new superpowers out of your backpack like it’s Narnia.”

“I swear it’s just fast reading,” Peter said, folding his hands like this was a perfectly mundane confession. “It’s not even that hard. I just... absorb the page. I remember it if I see it long enough. It's kind of like watching a movie, but with words.”

“So you’re telling me,” MJ said slowly, “you have an eidetic memory, speedread textbooks, eat like a black hole, don’t sweat, and bend like a Stretch Armstrong.”

Peter looked hesitant. “Well, when you say it like that—”

“Are you sure you’re not an alien?” Flash asked, pointing an accusatory finger.

“No!” Peter cried, deeply offended. “I’m from Queens!”

Coach Wilson wandered past their table, saw the pile of books, Peter’s innocent face, and muttered “Of course it’s him,” before walking away without stopping.

“Okay,” Ned said, rubbing his face, “we need to rename the list.”

“What list?” Peter asked.

“The ‘How Is Peter Parker Real’ list,” MJ said, already updating her notes. “We’re up to, what, 63?”

“67 if we count the thing with the Rubik’s cube and the saxophone,” Betty added.

“That was one time,” Peter muttered.

“You solved it with your feet. While playing ‘Careless Whisper.’”

“I was under a lot of pressure!”

Flash stared at Peter like he was seeing a new dimension. “Dude, how do you even exist?”

Peter smiled sheepishly, lifting his coffee. “Speed, brains, and caffeine. I’m basically a raccoon with a scholarship.”

No one had an answer to that.

Mostly because it was disturbingly accurate.

Chapter Text

It started with a power outage during the Decathlon team’s overnight study lock-in.

Midtown High’s ancient wiring—held together by duct tape, budget cuts, and hope—finally gave out just as everyone was about to quiz each other on the principles of thermodynamics.

The lights died. The heater groaned. Half the vending machines let out sad wheezing noises before going dark.

Naturally, chaos followed.

“Okay, nobody panic!” Mr. Harrington called out, waving a tiny flashlight like it was a wand. “We’ll just… uh… sit still and wait for maintenance!”

“You don’t even know if they’re coming,” MJ pointed out.

“Of course I do. I left a voicemail!”

“That is… not reassuring,” said Betty, clutching her coffee thermos like it was a life raft.

In the darkness, someone kicked over a chair.

And then—tap tap-tap tap tap tap.

Everyone froze.

“What… was that?” Ned whispered.

Tap tap tap... tap-tap-tap-tap… tap.

It was coming from Peter’s corner.

“Peter?” MJ called. “What are you doing?”

“I’m communicating,” came Peter’s voice.

“With what, the table?” Flash snapped.

Peter rolled his eyes (not that anyone could see it). “With the robotics team. They’re in the next room over. I’m telling them to check the breaker box.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then more tapping—faster, more complex.

“…wait,” Betty said slowly, “are you using Morse code?”

“Yup,” Peter replied cheerfully.

“Why do you know Morse code?” MJ asked, alarmed.

Peter sounded puzzled. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“No, no, no, Peter—why?!”

“I don’t know!” Peter said, a little defensive now. “I learned it when I was eight. I thought it was cool!”

“You learned Morse code for fun?” Ned whispered.

Peter shrugged. “I also learned semaphore, but flags are hard to carry around.”

Another series of taps came from the other room.

Peter grinned. “They said they’re on it.”

Flash made a strangled noise. “What kind of teenage superhero Batman detective nonsense is your life?!”

“Wait,” MJ said, narrowing her eyes. “Why did you learn Morse code?”

Peter hesitated. “Okay, you can’t laugh.”

“No promises,” said everyone at once.

Peter sighed. “I wanted to tap out secret messages during class and pass them to myself so it looked like I had a ghost friend.”

There was a pause.

Then Ned snorted.

Then MJ cackled.

Then Betty slid halfway off her chair laughing.

“Of course you did,” MJ wheezed. “Of course it was for ghosts.”

“It worked!” Peter cried. “I convinced the lunch lady I had a haunted locker!”

“Peter,” Flash said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You speak like five languages, read like a robot, remember everything forever, and now you’re tapping out code like a spy. Are you secretly part of the CIA?”

“No,” Peter said, “but they did accidentally email me once.”

Everyone froze.

“You’re kidding,” said Ned.

Peter didn’t answer.

“Oh my God, he’s not kidding,” Betty whispered.

Just then, the lights flickered back on, and the vending machines sprang to life with a dramatic ka-thunk.

From the other room, a shout rang out: “WE DID IT!”

Peter tapped a quick message back—thanks, you’re the best, also tell Jeremy he still owes me five bucks—and turned back to his team like nothing happened.

The Decathlon team just stared.

“I’m updating the list,” MJ muttered, already pulling out her phone.

“Peter Parker: Possessed? Possibly,” Betty said.

“Put ‘talks to ghosts’ next to ‘spoke Latin for extra credit,’” Ned added.

Peter looked around, visibly confused. “Guys. It’s just Morse code. It’s not that weird.”

Flash raised a hand. “Next you’re gonna tell us you can whistle in binary.”

Peter paused. Then slowly turned red.

“…Oh my God,” MJ whispered. “Can you?!”

Peter shrank into his hoodie.

“…It was a phase.”

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be a chill Friday.

The Decathlon team had been roped into helping set up for Midtown High’s annual “World Language Day,” which mostly meant hanging streamers, placing flags, and setting up booths with dictionaries no one would open.

The school’s Latin teacher—Mr. Bennett, a man powered entirely by coffee and dreams of Rome—had insisted on an authentic section for his underfunded, four-student Latin class.

So there they were, all ten Decathlon kids, decorating a tiny table with plastic laurels and fake scrolls.

“Why do we even have a Latin class?” Flash grumbled, taping up a wrinkled poster of a gladiator. “It’s a dead language.”

“It’s not dead,” Peter said, balancing on a chair to hang a mini toga. “It’s just… chilling.”

Flash rolled his eyes. “Nerd.”

Peter smirked. “Mortuus lingua est, sed adhuc calida.”

Flash blinked. “What?”

“That means, ‘It’s a dead language, but still warm.’”

Now everyone stopped what they were doing.

“…Peter,” MJ said slowly, “did you just casually speak Latin?”

Peter blinked, climbing down from the chair. “Yeah?”

“Why do you know Latin?”

“I don’t know. I got bored one summer and found a website.”

Ned raised a finger. “Peter. Latin is hard.”

“Yeah, it took me like three weeks to get fluent.”

Three weeks.

“Three?!” Betty sputtered.

Peter looked faintly alarmed. “What? It’s not like I planned to get good at it. I was just trying to figure out how to read some ancient tech manuals Mr. Stark had lying around.”

“You learned Latin… to translate Stark tech,” MJ echoed.

Peter shrugged. “Also some medieval poetry. That stuff gets weird.”

Flash stepped back and pointed an accusatory finger. “Okay, what don’t you know?”

Peter thought for a second. “Ballroom dancing. I tried, but the shoes were uncomfortable.”

“You took ballroom dancing?!” Ned exclaimed.

“Yeah, but I stepped on too many toes.”

From across the room, Mr. Bennett walked past just as Peter muttered something under his breath in Latin.

The teacher froze. Backpedaled. Then turned slowly.

“…did you just conjugate that properly?”

Peter blinked. “Uh. Yes?”

Mr. Bennett’s eyes shone like someone had handed him the Rosetta Stone. “Would you… like to join the Latin club?”

Peter looked uncertain. “Is there… food?”

“We have themed cookies?”

Peter nodded. “I’m in.”

Flash just stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

Mr. Bennett beamed. “Finally. A worthy successor.”

“Wait, what?”

Peter was pulled into a chair and handed a plastic laurel crown before he could resist.

MJ snapped a photo.

Peter frowned. “I’m never gonna live this down, am I?”

“Not a chance,” Ned said.

Flash crossed his arms. “Next thing you’ll say is you whistle in binary.”

Peter flinched.

Again.

“…Peter?”

Peter turned around. “Hey, who wants cookies?”

Chapter Text

It was lunch period at Midtown High, and the cafeteria was at full chaos capacity.

The Decathlon team had claimed their usual corner table—complete with half-finished homework, lukewarm fries, and MJ’s ever-expanding list of “Things Peter Parker Should Not Be Able to Do, and Yet.”

Peter, in his usual habit, was halfway through demolishing a protein bar and a towering sandwich like his life depended on it. (Which, let’s be honest, it probably did.)

Ned was fiddling with his new coding project, muttering about corrupted syntax.

“This line keeps bugging,” he grumbled. “It should output the sequence but it’s just throwing back errors.”

“Want help?” Peter asked, mouth full of turkey.

“Nah, it’s fine—wait, no, yes. Please.”

Peter leaned over, scanned the code for two seconds, then looked away and—whistled.

A short series of high and low tones, like a weird bird call filtered through a calculator.

MJ raised an eyebrow. “Did you just whistle your solution?”

Ned blinked. “What the—hold up. That’s the binary sequence. You whistled it.”

Peter froze, mid-sip of chocolate milk.

“…No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did!” Ned spun the laptop around. “You literally just whistled the exact eight-bit string!”

“Did not.”

MJ smirked. “Do it again.”

Peter turned red. “It’s just something I do sometimes when I’m bored.”

Betty leaned in. “You whistle binary when you’re bored?!”

“It’s… soothing?”

“You are so weird,” Flash said, sounding vaguely impressed and deeply offended all at once.

“What can I say,” Peter muttered. “Numbers sing to me.”

“Okay, now that’s just creepy,” said Abe.

“I’ve never heard someone sound more like a robot,” MJ added, scribbling furiously in her notebook. “Updating the list.”

Peter sighed. “Can I at least finish lunch before you all decide whether I’m secretly Skynet?”

Ned nodded slowly, eyes wide. “Peter. You didn’t just whistle binary. You whistled hexadecimal binary.”

“I’m sorry I understand math too well!” Peter cried. “It’s not like I’m out here whistling the Gettysburg Address!”

“Can you do that?” Flash challenged.

Peter opened his mouth.

“No!” MJ yelled. “No more proving stuff! We just got over the Latin!”

“Speak for yourself,” muttered Mr. Harrington from another table, scribbling down “Possible Extra Credit Ideas” like his life depended on it.

From somewhere behind them, a kid shouted, “HEY! Who’s making that R2-D2 noise?!”

Peter sunk low in his chair.

Ned was still staring at him. “Seriously, how do you do that?”

Peter glanced around and then whispered, “I may have been trying to train my phone to respond to binary whistling like a voice command.”

There was silence.

Then MJ laughed, long and hard.

Peter just bit into his sandwich and muttered, “One day it’s gonna work.”

Chapter Text

It was the kind of Friday where time stopped making sense somewhere around third period. The whole school was running on low power mode—teachers included—and Midtown High’s annual Spring Assembly was doing nothing to help.

Peter had been running on fumes all week. Between decathlon, homework, AP science projects, and something mysterious he only described to Ned as “an internship thing,” he’d barely slept and had gone a whole day with only two protein bars and half a vending machine pretzel.

So naturally, the crash came.

But it came in the worst possible way.

The gym was packed, the lights too bright, and the microphone feedback made Peter's skull feel like it was pulsing in Morse code. He sat between MJ and Ned on the bleachers, blinking very slowly while the principal gave a speech about “academic excellence” and “teamwork” and something about a recycling program no one had heard of before today.

“I think I’m hallucinating,” Peter whispered, leaning toward MJ. “Did she just say the cafeteria is going green by banning cheese?”

“That happened two weeks ago,” MJ said without looking up from her sketchbook. “You were probably too tired to notice.”

Peter nodded, then slumped slightly to the side. MJ gently pushed him upright like one would reposition a sleepy toddler on a train.

“He okay?” Ned asked under his breath.

“He’s doing that thing again,” MJ replied, frowning now.

“What thing?”

“That scary zombie-shutdown thing. Like when his body just gives up.”

“…oh no.”

Right on cue, Peter’s eyes fluttered, his head wobbled forward—and then, with the grace of a tranquilized sloth, he face-planted directly into MJ’s shoulder and went completely limp.

Thump.

She stared at him. “Peter.”

Nothing.

She shoved him lightly. “Peter.”

Still nothing.

Betty, sitting a row down with her camera in her lap, turned around. “Did he fall asleep during the principal’s speech?”

“I think he passed out,” MJ whispered. “Again.”

“He’s burning through energy too fast,” Ned said. “He was too tired to eat this morning.”

“You said that last time he fainted in the science lab.”

“Because it keeps happening,” Ned hissed. “He needs like… six full meals a day just to stay upright!”

Flash, three rows up, turned around when he heard “fainted.” “What, Parker skipped a juice box and went into power-save mode?”

“Shut up, Flash,” the entire row snapped at once.

Peter, meanwhile, made a soft snoring noise and slid further down MJ’s side like a melting popsicle. She grunted and rebalanced him as best she could.

“Do we take him to the nurse?” Betty whispered.

“He hates going to the nurse,” Ned said. “And she always gives him graham crackers and milk like he's five.”

“Well, right now he looks five,” MJ muttered.

“Okay, but seriously,” Betty said, “this isn’t normal. I know he eats like six bears in a trench coat, but it’s like his body just gives up on existing sometimes.”

“I’m starting to think Peter’s entire existence is held together by sheer willpower and peanut butter granola bars,” MJ said flatly.

Flash leaned over again. “You guys sure he doesn’t have, like, some weird anime disease?”

“I swear, if you keep talking, I’ll throw you off these bleachers,” MJ replied without turning.

Peter stirred briefly and mumbled, “Need… lasagna…”

Ned leaned over. “We should let him sleep. Tony Stark sent that list to the school nurse, remember? With all Peter’s weird medical stuff?”

“The one with the allergy warning?” MJ asked. “Yeah.”

“It also said he has low tolerance for sleep deprivation. And something about energy burn and needing regular, high-calorie intake.”

“Are you saying he skipped a meal and pulled an all-nighter?” MJ asked, aghast.

Ned nodded solemnly. “I think we’re in Defcon Hangry.”

MJ sighed. “We’re never letting him skip breakfast again.”

Peter made a tiny “mmmm” sound against her shoulder and drooled a little.

The assembly continued. A student choir started singing something vaguely inspirational. A slideshow of school spirit events played on the projector. People clapped.

Peter snored louder.

The decathlon team sat around him like a makeshift crash barrier, whispering jokes and concerns and maybe Googling “can someone survive off of trail mix alone?”

By the time the assembly ended, Peter stirred awake like a groggy cat in a sunbeam.

“Wha… what’d I miss?” he mumbled.

“You fainted,” MJ replied. “Again.”

“Oh. Cool, cool. How long was I out?”

“An hour and a half,” Ned said. “You missed a whole musical number and a prize raffle.”

Peter blinked. “Did I win?”

“No, but someone did ask if you were a very lifelike mannequin,” MJ said.

Peter rubbed his eyes and sat up. “I should eat something.”

“You think?”

Ned immediately handed over a protein bar. Peter devoured it in three bites.

Flash, walking by as students started filing out, called, “Hey Parker! Drink some electrolytes before your next nap!”

Peter blinked at him. “Thanks, Flash. I’ll try to schedule my crash after I finish not caring.”

Betty laughed. MJ patted his head like a weary pet. Ned handed him another snack.

And the legend of Peter “Crash-And-Burn” Parker lived to nap another day.

Chapter Text

If you asked anyone at Midtown High who they thought got the least amount of sleep, everyone would probably say Peter Parker. Not in a “he’s a rebel who games until 4am” kind of way—but in a “this kid’s running on four brain cells and pure academic anxiety” sort of way.

And they’d be right. But not for the reasons they thought.

The week started like any other. A decathlon study session, followed by an early-morning chem lab, followed by a long sigh of “why is the vending machine out of protein bars again?”

Peter looked like a ghost by Thursday. The kind of pale that made MJ nudge Ned and whisper, “If he blinks any slower, I’m calling a priest.”

By Friday morning, Peter showed up in class wearing mismatched shoes and holding a pencil he had somehow sharpened with a spoon.

“Peter,” Ned said carefully, “how long have you been awake?”

Peter blinked at him. “I don’t know what day it is.”

“...Okay. New record.”

MJ stared. “Are you okay?”

“I’ve had… exactly two and a half hours of sleep since Tuesday,” Peter said, eyes wild. “I think I’m learning Latin through sheer exhaustion.”

“You don’t know Latin.”

“I know so many things now, MJ.”

Ned pulled out his phone. “This is ridiculous. We’re making you take a nap. Right now. You’re going to pass out in the hallway again like during midterms.”

Peter half-laughed. “No, no, I’m fine. I just—my brain’s got too much going on. You know how some people wake up refreshed? I wake up confused, terrified, and with five new ideas for science fair projects.”

“None of that sounds good,” MJ muttered.

Later that day, Mr. Harrington tried to check in during lab.

“Peter, buddy, are you alright? You’ve poured acetone into water three times.”

Peter looked up with frantic eyes. “What if plants are just introverted solar panels?”

“Okay,” Harrington said. “Ned, MJ—please escort him to the nurse before he hallucinates his way into burning a hole in the table.”

The truth came out later that afternoon.

The nurse called Tony Stark’s special contact number (listed under “For Stark Industries Medical Oversight Only—Do NOT Ignore”) and reported the exhaustion.

Within the hour, Happy Hogan showed up at Midtown with a metal briefcase and a clipboard.

“Again?” he sighed.

“Again what?” MJ asked.

Happy gave her a look. “Sleep crash. Happens every few weeks. Stark Medical’s been tracking it.”

“Wait, like an actual condition?” Ned asked.

“Yeah. It’s called sleep deprivation sensitivity,” Happy said, flipping through papers. “Something about the spid —uh, Peter DNA—makes his body extremely sensitive to the effects of sleep loss. Everyone feels tired. He gets physically sick. Fast.”

“That explains… so much,” MJ muttered.

“Tony said when Peter was first monitored at the tower, they noticed that even a single night of no sleep wrecked his coordination, memory, metabolism—basically everything. So they installed auto-sleep enforcement protocols.”

“Auto-what?” Betty asked.

“FRIDAY literally makes the lights turn off and disables Peter’s lab access after midnight,” Happy said. “But since Peter found ways to sneak around that, they added blackout shutters. And then biometric bed sensors. And then Stark-level guilt trips.”

“So why is he still awake for days now?” Ned asked, alarmed.

Happy pointed at Peter, who was currently napping at his desk using his hoodie as a pillow and mumbling something about “neutrinos being mean.”

“Because Peter Parker is a menace to himself,” Happy said. “And because he probably stayed up doing ten things at once again.”

Later, when Peter finally woke up (after MJ physically stole his phone and Ned bribed him with breakfast tacos to stay horizontal), he blinked blearily at everyone watching him.

“...Did I dream Tony Stark invented sleep handcuffs?”

“Nope,” MJ said. “But that’s probably the next step.”

Peter groaned.

Ned sat down beside him. “Why do you keep doing this?”

“I don’t know!” Peter moaned, pulling the hoodie over his face. “I feel fine until I’m not. My brain’s always going and I start researching something and then I’m building a model at 3am and then I’m calculating dark matter in my kitchen. It’s not like I mean to—”

“Peter,” MJ cut in, “you literally once texted me an apology at 2:43am because you ‘accidentally built a solar-powered drone and didn’t know where to land it.’”

“I said sorry!”

“We’re implementing a bedtime,” Ned said.

“You can’t do that!”

“Yes, we can,” MJ said. “You’ve proven you can’t be trusted with your own energy levels, nutrition, or sleep cycle.”

Peter groaned. “You guys are worse than FRIDAY.”

“FRIDAY sent us a PDF titled ‘Signs Your Genius Is About To Collapse’ and you checked every box,” Ned said smugly.

Peter opened one bleary eye. “...Does this mean I get more breakfast tacos?”

MJ sighed. “Yes. But only if you nap again after.”

And for once, Peter didn’t argue.

Chapter Text

It started with a migraine.

Not a headache, not a tension ache, not even the kind of sleep-deprived behind-the-eyes throb Peter was used to pushing through. No—this was a white-hot sledgehammer behind his forehead. The kind of pain that made the world tilt sideways and conversations sound like they were happening underwater.

He was sitting in AP Calculus when it hit. One moment he was fine, and the next, the words on the whiteboard started blurring, doubling, vibrating.

He stumbled to the nurse’s office with the world pulsing around him like a broken metronome.

MJ and Ned followed—more like tailed—him halfway there, whispering furiously between themselves.

“He looked like a zombie,” MJ muttered.

“He walked into the doorframe. That’s not normal. That’s Peter on fire with fever levels of clumsy.”

“Something’s wrong.”

By the time they peeked into the nurse’s office, Peter was hunched on the cot, face pale and shiny with sweat, clutching a bottle of water and a small metal pill case that had the Stark Industries logo stamped right on it.

Then—without hesitation—Peter unscrewed the top and dumped six pills into his hand.

MJ opened the door so fast it almost came off the hinges.

“What the HELL are you doing?” she yelled.

Peter jumped and dropped half the pills on the floor. “Ow—ow, loud! Too loud!”

Ned rushed in behind her. “Peter! Dude! What was that?!”

“I’m not—! I wasn’t doing anything bad!”

“You just tried to swallow a pharmacy,” MJ snapped, eyes wide with a kind of terror she didn’t even try to hide. “Are you trying to kill yourself?!”

“WHAT?!” Peter shouted, but flinched immediately from the pain. “No—no, no, God—what?! MJ! I’m not—what?!”

Ned sat beside him, shaky. “Then what was that? Six pills at once?”

Peter groaned and laid his head on the cool table. “Guys. Seriously. I’m not dying. I swear. That’s just… my dose.”

“WHAT.”

“Wait, wait—okay, explanation time,” Peter said, weakly waving his hands. “Look, I’ve told you I have health weirdness. Like… a lot of it.”

“Understatement of the year,” MJ muttered.

“And remember the allergy bracelet? The Stark medical tag?” he said, tapping the metal band on his wrist. “That’s not just for allergies. It’s also because… my metabolism is too fast for normal medication.”

Ned blinked. “Wait. You mean like… painkillers and stuff?”

“Yeah. Ibuprofen wears off in under six minutes. Acetaminophen doesn’t do anything. And don’t even ask about cold meds. They might as well be candy.”

“So all your meds… are Stark tech?” MJ asked slowly.

Peter nodded. “They’re calibrated. Like… super high-dose. Special compounds and coatings to slow the breakdown in my bloodstream. Otherwise it’s completely useless. I had to take ten of these once just to bring down a fever when I was twelve.”

“That’s—insane,” Ned said. “And kind of horrifying.”

Peter gave a tiny smile. “Welcome to my life.”

The nurse came back in, eyeing MJ and Ned suspiciously, then looked at Peter. “Your ride’s here.”

Right on cue, Happy Hogan walked into the office looking like he’d been called for a presidential-level emergency.

“Peter,” he said, already holding a tablet. “Migraine again? Why didn’t you call the Stark line earlier?”

Peter squinted at him. “I thought I could sleep it off.”

Happy sighed. “You know better. You’re getting the IV drip this time. No arguments.”

Peter didn’t argue.

MJ and Ned followed them out silently, still a little shell-shocked.

Halfway down the hallway, MJ whispered, “I seriously thought you were trying to overdose.”

Peter turned to her, stopping in his tracks. “MJ. I would never. Not even close. I just… forget how weird my normal looks from the outside sometimes.”

Ned nodded, voice a little hoarse. “You scared us, man.”

Peter gave them both a soft look. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I’m just used to managing it on my own, I guess.”

“Maybe you don’t have to be,” MJ said, bumping his arm gently.

Happy held open the nurse’s door. “Alright, weirdos. Let’s get the science goblin stabilized before he tries to treat a migraine with duct tape and Gatorade again.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “One time. That was one time.”

MJ and Ned just laughed—though still a little shaken.

But at least now, they knew.

And Peter wasn’t going through it alone.

Chapter Text

It was the third time that week the decathlon team got locked out of a classroom.

Mr. Harrington had gone to grab the projector, the janitor was MIA, and Midtown High—being held together with duct tape and budget cuts—had a door lock older than most of the students' parents. The team was stuck in the hallway again, collectively losing their minds.

“This is ridiculous,” Flash groaned. “Why are we always getting locked out?!”

“Because Harrington loses his keys more than Ned loses his phone,” MJ said without looking up from her book.

“Hey!” Ned protested. “I’ve only lost my phone four times this semester.”

“Five,” Betty corrected.

“Can’t we just, I don’t know, pick the lock?” Abe asked.

Peter, sitting cross-legged against the wall with his backpack in his lap, blinked. “Yeah, I mean… sure. I can do that.”

The hallway went silent.

Flash turned slowly. “What.”

Peter tilted his head. “What?”

“You can pick locks,” MJ said flatly.

“Yeah?” Peter said, as if they’d asked if he knew how to tie his shoes. “I mean, it’s not hard. I learned on YouTube.”

“You learned—on YouTube?!” Ned nearly dropped his juice pouch. “Why haven’t you said anything before?!”

“I didn’t think it was important!” Peter said defensively. “And it’s not like I was gonna shout it out in class—‘Hey guys, I’m Peter, I do robotics and can break into locked doors.’”

Flash threw his hands in the air. “You’ve just sat here—like every single time—watching us suffer in the hallway, and the whole time you had the skillset of a cartoon burglar?!”

“I didn’t think it was that big of a deal!”

Betty looked scandalized. “Peter. You let me call three different janitors last week. I cried when we missed the lab time.”

“Okay, yeah, that one might’ve been on me,” Peter admitted sheepishly. “But I thought the janitor was on his way!”

“HE WENT TO FLORIDA,” MJ shouted.

Peter shrugged, then stood up and casually pulled a bobby pin from his hoodie pocket. “Anyway…”

They watched in stunned silence as he knelt in front of the old metal door, twisted the pin into shape, and within six seconds—click.

The door swung open.

Peter looked back at them like a magician waiting for applause. “Ta-da.”

The group just stared.

“…You’re a menace,” MJ said.

“An actual goblin,” Abe muttered.

“Is there anything you don’t know how to do?” Ned asked, only half joking.

Peter paused. “I can’t whistle?”

“Oh my god,” Flash moaned, face in his hands.

“I’m just saying,” Peter said, grinning now, “you guys never asked.”

From that day forward, any time the team got locked out, they didn’t even bother trying to find the janitor.

They just shouted, “Peter!” like it was a cheat code.

Which, to be fair, he kind of was.

Chapter Text

It started as a joke.

Mr. Harrington had lost the master key to the decathlon supply closet (again), which meant no buzzers, no flashcards, and no model skeleton with sunglasses for mock competitions. They were stuck in the common room with nothing but snacks, caffeine, and a stack of printer paper.

“So… what do we do now?” Abe asked, already halfway through his third bag of pretzels.

“Team bonding?” Michelle suggested with zero enthusiasm, her nose still buried in a dog-eared copy of Crime and Punishment.

“We could try quizzing each other,” Betty offered.

“I could teach you guys to fold a T-Rex out of paper,” Peter said casually, eyes still on his notes.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Flash barked out a laugh. “Please. Like you know how to do origami.”

Peter blinked slowly, then reached over and grabbed a sheet of paper from the pile next to Ned.

Everyone watched as his fingers moved in a blur—crease, tuck, fold, flip, crimp—and in under a minute, he dropped a perfectly crafted origami dragon onto the table with a smug little thump.

Everyone stared.

“Did you just…” Abe leaned in. “Is that a dragon? Like with wings and everything?!”

Peter shrugged. “It’s easier than the phoenix. That one takes, like, five minutes.”

Betty poked the dragon. “It has teeth. How does it have teeth??”

Michelle narrowed her eyes. “How long have you known how to do that?”

Peter blinked. “I dunno. Since I was, like, eight? It started with cranes and stars and then got out of hand. I’ve got a hydra model at home with seven heads.”

Flash opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “WHY.”

Peter looked mildly confused. “Because I was bored? And because it’s awesome? Look—check this out—”

He pulled two more pages from the printer stack and, without breaking eye contact, whipped out a tiny articulated frog that actually jumped when he pressed on its back legs.

MJ let out a short, sharp cackle. “This is the best day of my life.”

Ned had already started handing him paper like an origami assistant on a magic show. “Can you do Star Wars stuff?”

Peter grinned. “I can do a Millennium Falcon and a full-size X-Wing. But those take a while.”

By the time Mr. Harrington returned—with the master key taped under his shoe for some reason—the entire table was covered in:

A four-headed dragon

Two turtles (one with a top hat)

A snake eating its tail

A coffee cup with handles

A dozen perfectly symmetrical cranes

One mini Deadpool flipping the bird (Peter made it, then instantly regretted showing it to MJ)

“What in the world…” Mr. Harrington said, setting down the buzzers. “I leave for twenty minutes and you all start an art exhibit?!”

“Peter knows origami,” Ned said proudly.

“Of course he does,” Mr. Harrington muttered, rubbing his temples. “Why wouldn’t he.”

Peter beamed, folding a final crisp sheet into a wearable paper crown and setting it atop Flash’s head.

Flash didn’t even fight it. He just slumped in his seat and whispered, “What are you, man.”

“An enigma,” Peter replied cheerfully.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Midtown High had officially entered its weird era.

Not because of a prank war, or a broken vending machine screaming in binary again (thanks, Peter), but because of a laminated, triple-signed, lawyer-approved list.

A list that hung right outside the nurse’s office.

A list that was emailed every month to parents and students with the subject line:

“DO NOT BRING THESE ITEMS TO MIDTOWN HIGH IF YOU WANT PETER PARKER TO LIVE.”

Nobody really knew how to react.

Some people took it seriously. Some didn’t. And some—one in particular—should have.

The day started normal. Well, Peter-normal, which meant three protein bars before second period and helping Mr. Harrington reprogram the projector that thought it was a toaster.

Sixth period chemistry was when things started to unravel.

Peter didn’t notice it at first. The headache was sudden and sharp. Then came the heat in his chest, a weird fuzziness in his vision, like someone was shaking him from the inside.

He blinked slowly, brain catching up too late.

Something was wrong.

"Peter?" MJ said, glancing at him.

He barely turned his head. His skin was flushed. Breathing shallow.

Ned’s chair scraped the floor. "You okay, dude?"

“Don’t—feel—” Peter staggered.

His knees gave out.

The class screamed.

MJ dropped beside him, already digging in his bag. “Where’s your injector?!”

Peter struggled to breathe. “Pouch—left side—”

Ned threw her the injector. MJ stabbed it into his thigh.

It didn’t work.

His throat tightened. Hands shaking. Heart hammering.

Everything went gray.

—

He woke up to chaos.

Pain in his chest. Plastic mask over his nose and mouth. Bright lights above. His limbs felt far away, and heavy, and not entirely his.

He couldn't move.

Couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t breathe.

Alarms were going off. People shouting. A familiar voice cut through the noise:

“He's crashing again—get the pressure chamber online!”

“Tony?” Peter rasped, barely audible.

The panic in Stark’s voice faltered. “Kid? Hey, hey. Stay with us. You’re okay. Just breathe.”

Peter tried, but the air was thick, like breathing through soup. His lungs weren’t working right. It was like someone was squeezing them shut.

Another voice appeared—wild and furious and absolutely not a medical professional.

“Who brought that crap near him? Tell me. I just wanna talk,” Wade snarled from the other side of the gurney. “Like, calmly. With knives.”

“Wade, now’s not the time,” Tony barked.

“He’s blue! He’s literally blue! That’s my boyfriend! Fix him!”

“I’m trying to keep him from dying, pool boy! Stand back!”

Peter flinched at the yelling.

That, more than anything, cut through the fog. It was too loud.

Too bright.

Every light, every sound—too much.

“Lights—” he gasped. “Too—loud—hurts—”

Tony turned immediately. “Dim the lights! Friday, activate noise-dampening. Everyone out except medical and me.”

Wade hovered.

Tony looked at him. “You can stay. You’re too insane to follow rules, but you’ll punch anyone who tries to touch him.”

“You know me so well,” Wade muttered, gripping Peter’s hand in both of his own.

Peter curled against the pressure chamber wall, a mask still over his face, as technicians rolled him into the hyperbaric pod and sealed it with a hiss.

Oxygen flooded the chamber. Slowly, his chest loosened. His vision cleared.

He could breathe again.

Tony leaned into the window, hands in his hair. “You scared the hell out of us, kid.”

“Wha—what was it?” Peter rasped.

“Borage oil,” Tony said grimly. “In someone’s lotion. Got on a doorknob. Or a desk. Or maybe just floated in the air like evil floral glitter. We don’t know.”

Wade grumbled, “We need to get you a personal air bubble. Like, hamster-ball style. No one touches you ever again.”

Peter tried to smile, but it hurt. “That… might ruin my image.”

“You nearly died again,” Tony snapped. “I’m re-sending the list to the whole school. New one. With bold. And skull emojis. I don’t care if it looks childish.”

“I’ll add stickers,” Wade added helpfully.

Tony gave him a look. “No. No you will not.”

Peter leaned back against the soft chamber cushion, finally breathing normally, the oxygen flooding his system making his head spin with exhaustion.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

Tony sighed. “Don’t apologize. Just… stop almost dying.”

Wade nodded. “Yeah. Seriously. I already lost my sanity, don’t make me lose you too.”

Peter closed his eyes. A tear slipped down his temple. He wasn’t even sure why—maybe the adrenaline dump, maybe the pain, maybe the guilt.

But Wade held his hand. Tony sat on the floor beside the chamber. And for once, Peter didn’t feel like he had to be the responsible one.

He just had to breathe.

—

The next morning, Midtown received a new list.

Printed. Framed. Posted in every single room.

The title?

“THINGS THAT WILL KILL PETER PARKER: A Stark-Approved Reminder That You’re All Idiots.”

And this time, it came with a footnote:

“If you bring any of these near Peter again, Tony Stark will personally sue you into dust.”

Underneath that, in neat handwriting:

“Please don’t die. We really like you alive.” – MJ, Ned, Betty, and the decathlon team.”

Peter kept that note in his locker for the rest of the year.

And Wade?

He stuck a “Peter is allergic to everything but love” sticker on his motorcycle helmet and refused to explain it.

Chapter Text

It started the way it always did: with Peter vanishing for a day and everyone being way too used to it.

“Where’s Peter?” MJ asked that morning, sliding into her usual seat in AP Bio.

“Quirky illness number #87, probably,” Ned said, flipping open Peter’s notebook. It was already filled with a day’s worth of notes, scribbled in Peter’s neat, ridiculous handwriting. “He gave me this at like, 6 a.m. He said he ‘might not be human-shaped enough for school today.’”

“...What does that even mean?” Flash asked.

No one answered.

They were used to it. Peter missed school every few weeks—always just one or two days—and then returned looking vaguely more exhausted but completely unfazed. And every time, when they asked, he’d shrug and say something vague like “just a thing,” or “routine stuff,” or “not contagious, promise!”

This time, though, something changed.

Because Betty, having no boundaries and a talent for gentle chaos, decided to call him during lunch just to check in.

And Peter, distracted, picked up. On video.

The camera turned on and showed a dim blue glow. A lot of wires. And Peter—tired-eyed and hoodie-clad—sitting inside what looked like a futuristic coffin with glowing seams and a tube connected to his nose.

“Uh… hey?” he said, blinking blearily. “Is something wrong?”

Betty’s scream nearly shattered her screen.

“WHAT IS THAT—WHY ARE YOU IN A SCI-FI POD?!”

Peter yelped, scrambled to cover the camera, and then the call disconnected.

Twenty seconds later, the group chat exploded.

[Group Chat: Midtown Braincell Collective]

Betty: PETER IS IN A SPACE COFFIN.
Ned: What.
MJ: Elaborate.
Betty: He answered on video. He was literally in a glowing metal chamber thing. There were tubes. BLUE GLOWING TUBES.
Abe: Is this like, a Stark thing?
Flash: IS HE AN ALIEN I KNEW IT
Ned: Okay but also is he okay??
MJ: I’m gonna kill him. Or maybe just make him explain.

Peter returned to school two days later, looking… fine. Tired, as usual. But fine.

Until he walked into the common room and found the entire decathlon team staring at him like a pack of meerkats on high alert.

“Hey?” he said. “Why do you all look like I forgot your birthdays?”

“Hyperbaric chamber,” MJ said bluntly.

Peter winced. “Oh. You saw that, huh?”

“SPACE COFFIN,” Betty added.

Peter sighed, flopping into a chair and rubbing his eyes. “It’s not a space coffin. It’s a hyperbaric chamber. It’s just pressurized oxygen.”

Flash squinted. “Are you in oxygen jail right now?”

Peter groaned. “No! I mean—look, it’s just something I have to do once in a while, okay? My body burns through stuff a little differently. Tony’s team figured it out ages ago. It helps stabilize my… everything.”

“That’s not an explanation,” Abe said, still staring.

“Think of it like a reset button for my cells,” Peter said. “I go in when things get out of whack. Stark made it portable, but Happy refuses to let me keep one in my apartment because, quote, ‘you already look like an overcooked string bean and I’m not letting you vacuum-seal yourself unsupervised.’”

Everyone blinked.

“Okay,” MJ finally said, “that was kind of funny.”

“Is this why you miss class so much?” Ned asked quietly.

Peter nodded. “Sometimes. It's just maintenance. No big deal.”

“You’re literally being recharged like a robot,” Flash muttered.

Peter threw a grape at him. “I’m not a robot.”

“Are you sure, though?”

Peter paused. “…Okay, like, 87% sure.”

The others laughed, a little too loud with relief.

And from then on, whenever Peter missed a day, the group didn’t text him “Feel better.”

They texted:
“Back in the space coffin?”
“Hope the recharge is going well, RoboParker.”
“Tell FRIDAY we said hi.”

And Peter, smiling faintly as oxygen hissed around him in the chamber, always texted back:

“Beep boop.”

Chapter Text

It all began with Midtown High’s annual “Brain Games Week,” a not-so-subtle attempt to make intellectual competition sound cooler than it was. There were trivia tournaments, math-offs, spelling bees—and, of course, the Midtown Chess Invitational.

Peter hadn’t signed up.

At least, not under his real name.

Ned had tried to get him to join. “Come on, man, you could wipe the floor with everyone.”

Peter had just smiled, rubbing at the back of his neck, and mumbled something about not wanting attention.

Except… Peter had entered. Under a fake name. Because he was bored. Because Tony had said something about his brain needing “structured downtime.” Because MJ had made fun of him last week for solving a 1,000-piece puzzle in the dark. So he signed up under the alias E. G. X. E.

It stood for “EndGame.exe,” but no one needed to know that.

He wore a hoodie, kept his head down, and didn’t talk. He crushed everyone. Silently. Strategically. Spectacularly.

The finals were being held in the gym, on a small stage with velvet ropes like it was the Olympics of Nerdom. Half the school had shown up, mostly because Flash had been bragging about “owning this tournament” for two weeks straight. The other half were just there for the snacks.

“Who is that guy?” MJ asked, narrowing her eyes at the hooded figure calmly dismantling the current runner-up.

“No idea,” Ned said. “He’s been steamrolling through the bracket like a ghost. Even Coach Wilson doesn’t know who he is.”

“It’s gotta be someone from another school,” Betty guessed. “Or a college student. No way he’s our age.”

On stage, Flash was up next.

“Time to take this poser down,” he announced loudly, adjusting his tie like he was about to storm Wall Street.

“Please lose,” MJ whispered under her breath.

The game started.

It ended seven minutes later. Flash’s king was cornered in a way that defied explanation, and E.G.X.E. hadn’t said a single word.

Flash stumbled off the stage like he’d been hit by a truck. “What just happened? Is he a wizard?”

When the match was over, the winner stood, stretched casually… and pulled back his hood.

“Peter?!” Ned, MJ, Betty, and even Coach Wilson said at once.

Peter blinked, holding a little trophy. “Oh. Hey, guys.”

“You—you were E.G.X.E. this whole time?!” MJ gasped.

Peter looked awkward. “It’s just a fun username I’ve had since I was eleven. No big deal.”

“You’re the one who beat that national champion in twelve moves?” Betty sputtered. “You’re EndGame.exe?!”

“Uh… yes?”

Coach Wilson just walked away in stunned silence.

Ned dropped into a chair. “This is like finding out your best friend is secretly Batman. But, like, with rooks and bishops.”

MJ stared at Peter. “You never thought to mention that you’re literally ranked? Internationally?”

Peter shuffled his feet. “I mean, I play online a lot. I don’t really do in-person tournaments. I didn’t want anyone to know.”

“And yet, here you are, destroying Flash’s ego in front of half the school,” MJ deadpanned.

Flash, still pale, sat down and muttered, “I need to reevaluate my entire life.”

Peter offered, “I can send you a few beginner strategy guides if you want?”

Everyone groaned.

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be a secret.

Peter had gotten an anonymous DM on his EndGame.exe chess account—an invite to a prestigious, by-invitation-only online tournament. The kind hosted by real grandmasters. The kind that had commentators. Spectators. Sponsors.

Peter had accepted because, well… it was on a Saturday. And he was free. And Tony told him the tower was his for the weekend since Wade had promised to “behave,” and Happy was conveniently out of town.

So Peter sat down in the Stark Tower kitchen with a peanut butter sandwich, a glass of chocolate milk, and his laptop.

It would’ve gone fine.

If FRIDAY hadn’t accidentally connected his private tournament stream to Tony’s global tech livestream server.

“Going live in 3… 2…”

“What?”

Ping!

Thousands of viewers around the world, expecting tech updates or a live Q&A from Stark Industries, were suddenly watching a teenage boy in a hoodie eating a sandwich and absolutely crushing some of the best chess players in the world with casual, sleepy precision.

“FRIDAY?!” Peter whispered.

“Yes, Peter?”

“Why does the viewer count say 24,000?”

“Mr. Stark’s subscribers seem to enjoy your gameplay. Several chess influencers have already clipped your second match.”

“I—FRIDAY NO.”

Meanwhile, Midtown High was losing its collective mind.

“Why is Peter Parker on Stark Industries' official livestream playing chess?” Flash yelled, holding up his phone.

“He’s playing that tournament!” Betty gaped. “That’s the invitational. My cousin tried to get in last year!”

MJ, blinking at the screen, muttered, “This kid is casually eating a sandwich while wiping the floor with a grandmaster like it’s checkers.”

Ned just burst out laughing. “Wait… did he just win in fifteen moves while spreading peanut butter?”

When Peter finally realized what was happening, it was already too late. The chat was blowing up with “EndGame.exe IS A KID???” and “Is that Stark’s intern?” and a flood of fan edits involving peanut butter and knights.

Tony called mid-tournament.

“Kid, remind me to install a sarcasm detector in FRIDAY. Also, congrats, you’re trending in 11 countries.”

Peter groaned. “Tony—”

“Don’t worry, I already called the tournament guys and vouched for you. Also, chess merch. We're making some. Don’t argue.”

By the time Peter returned to school on Monday, he was a meme.

Flash wouldn’t look him in the eye. Betty had printed a shirt that said "The Pawn Slayer." MJ didn’t stop smirking for a full forty-eight hours.

“Next time,” Ned whispered to him in math class, “warn us before you break the internet with a sandwich.”

Peter just sank lower in his seat.

Chapter Text

It started as a joke.

During lunch, Betty casually mentioned that someone in her cousin's school had memorized 100 digits of Pi, and the conversation spiraled from there.

"I heard Peter knows 183," Ned added proudly, like it was a badge of honor.

“183?” Flash scoffed. “That’s, like, barely Pi."

“Do you know 183?” MJ deadpanned.

“Okay, well no, but—”

“Peter,” Betty interrupted, turning toward the boy who was currently scribbling something that looked suspiciously like molecular diagrams into his mashed potatoes with a french fry, “how many digits of Pi do you know?”

Peter blinked.

“Oh. Uh. Not sure exactly. A little over 500, I think?” he said, as if he’d just mentioned he owned a pair of socks.

Silence.

“You think?” MJ raised a brow.

Peter, now aware of all eyes on him, shrugged. “Well, I stopped keeping track after 527? Or maybe 533? I dunno. It’s like... a rhythm.”

“You’re telling me,” Ned said slowly, “you casually know over 500 digits of Pi... and you never mentioned this?!”

Peter glanced between them and frowned. “I thought I did? Like… a while ago? When we were watching that documentary on irrational numbers?”

“NO,” the group answered in unison.

Peter winced. “Oh. My bad.”

“You also lied to us!” MJ added. “You said 183.”

“I didn’t lie! I was being modest!”

“You said it with a straight face while eating a banana upside-down, Peter,” Ned said. “Modest doesn’t exist for you.”

Flash leaned in over the table. “Okay, recite them.”

“What, now?” Peter asked, confused.

“Yes, now,” MJ insisted.

And he did. For five solid minutes, Peter recited digit after digit in a soft monotone while chewing the straw of his juice box. MJ started typing them into a calculator app. Flash fell into a stunned silence. Ned tried to follow but lost count somewhere in the mid-200s.

It wasn't until Peter finished, casually biting into a granola bar, that Betty groaned and slammed her notebook shut.

“We need a new list.”

“New what?” Peter asked.

“Your notebook,” MJ said, pulling the old one out of her bag. The once-pristine “PETER FILE” now had pages sticking out and highlighter bleeding through the cover. “This one’s full. Between the allergies, the injuries, the origami championship, the chess prodigy reveal, the lockpicking, and now this Pi nonsense? We’re out of space!”

“I told you we should’ve started digitizing it,” Ned muttered.

“Don’t digitize me,” Peter pouted.

“You literally whispered in binary in the middle of a calculus test!” Flash snapped. “Digitizing you is the only logical option at this point!”

Peter blinked. “I thought that was in Latin.”

“GET. OUT.”

That evening, the group stopped by Staples on the way home from school. They debated over several notebooks before MJ threw a spiral-bound math journal into the cart.

“Peter’s nonsense: Volume 2,” she declared. “Now with more numbers and less logic.”

Peter just smiled, trailing behind them while memorizing the barcode.

Just in case.

Chapter Text

Peter didn’t notice the blood at first.

He was already halfway through an intense discussion with Mr. Harrington about lab prep when Flash bumped into him. It wasn’t unusual—Flash had the spatial awareness of a caffeinated wombat—but this time, Peter’s leg hit the locker edge with a sharp crack. He stumbled but didn’t fall. He gave an awkward smile, mumbled something, and kept walking like nothing had happened.

Until about ten minutes later, when a teacher screamed.

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the library, deep in an origami dragon project, when someone noticed the smear of red soaking through his pants. A small crowd gathered. The librarian panicked. An ambulance was called. Peter blinked at them all, confused, until the paramedics insisted he was definitely going into shock and started cutting off his jeans.

That’s when they realized his kneecap was dislocated.

Again, Peter blinked.

“…Huh.”

—

Tony stormed into the Stark Medical Facility not thirty minutes later, furious and dry-eyed in a way that screamed dangerous.

“What happened?” he barked the second he entered the recovery wing. “And don’t give me the ‘I’m fine’ line, because I invented that crap.”

Peter was sitting up on the bed, both legs braced, one wrist wrapped, and a bruise forming along his jaw from a very recent fall that no one had seen.

He looked sheepish. “So, uh. I think I might not be great at… registering pain?”

Tony blinked. Once. Twice. And then turned to Wade Wilson, who was lounging in the corner like this was a spa.

“I thought you were the reckless one.”

“I am,” Wade said with a nod. “But even I wince when I break something. Your spider-boy here? Just keeps going like the Terminator. It’s kind of terrifying.”

“I didn’t even realize anything was wrong,” Peter defended. “I just thought my leg felt kinda… weird?”

Tony ran a hand down his face. “Peter. You dislocated your kneecap, fractured your wrist, and somehow twisted your ribs—do you know how hard that is? You literally have a rib trying to play twister with your spleen.”

Peter winced. “Okay, that one I kinda noticed. It hurt when I sneezed.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tony muttered. “How long has this been happening?”

Wade shrugged. “First time I saw it was, like, six months ago. We were training, he ran into a wall full speed, face first, bounced back like a rubber ball and asked me if lunch was ready.”

Peter raised a hand. “In my defense, it was lunch time.”

“Of course it was.” Tony spun toward the digital chart on the wall and started typing so furiously the keyboard protested. “Okay. This is officially a condition now. Friday, flag ‘Severe Pain Underresponse’ as a primary medical red alert for Peter. Mandatory scans after any physical incident. Also add it to the school file—”

“Yeah, about that,” Wade said, slowly standing. “You might wanna consider making it, like, a really public file. Kid walked around bleeding for thirty minutes. Maybe it’s time Midtown gets a crash course in ‘Why Peter Parker Might Be Bleeding But Still Trying to Take Notes.’”

Peter looked mildly offended. “I wasn’t taking notes.”

“You were making an origami velociraptor,” Wade deadpanned.

Tony sighed and tapped the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Assembly it is.”

—

The announcement came over the speakers first. “All students and faculty, please report to the auditorium. This is a mandatory medical safety assembly.”

That got attention.

Midtown’s auditorium buzzed with rumors. Some said it was about vaping. Others swore someone smuggled a raccoon into the science lab again.

No one expected to see a hologram of Tony Stark.

“Hello Midtown,” the AI-version of Tony said, arms crossed. “This is Tony Stark. If you’re hearing this, you’ve probably done something stupid. But today, we’re not here to roast you. We’re here to save your classmate.”

A stunned silence.

“Peter Parker,” the hologram continued, “has a few medical conditions. I’m not going to tell you everything because most of it is on a ‘need-to-know, or-you’ll-get-sued’ basis. But what I am telling you—right now—is that he can’t feel pain the way most of you can. If you see him limping, bleeding, or walking into walls like a confused Sims character: don’t assume it’s a joke.”

The screen behind the hologram shifted to display a list, labeled: “Peter Parker’s Medical Emergency Triggers” — featuring the now-iconic list of allergies, warnings, and the new bolded red text:
“Pain Underreaction: Potential for Internal Injury Without External Response.”

Tony’s voice returned.

“Do not poke him, push him, or try to test this. You will be expelled. And if he goes to the nurse, don’t assume it’s minor. Assume it’s the kind of thing that ends in a med evac and a very expensive invoice sent directly to your parents.”

The hologram smiled.

“And remember—he’s still smarter than all of you. So don’t try to mess with him. You won’t win. Ask Flash. That’s all.”

It ended.

The room was dead silent.

Then Flash muttered, “What does he mean, ask Flash?”

Peter—sitting quietly in the back with a wrap around his ribs and a glow-in-the-dark brace on his wrist—shrugged and smiled.

“I think he means the time I beat you in three tests, one chess game, and the lab contest in the same week.”

The room turned.

Peter just kept smiling.

Chapter Text

Hi, my name is Peter Parker and I accidentally built an AI.
Not on purpose. Not even, like, half-on-purpose. It was supposed to be a homework project.

See, Mr. Harrington assigned us a basic Python coding exercise: create a simple chatbot that could respond to a few phrases. Easy. Boring. Barely even a challenge.

Except I was sleep-deprived, stress-eating six granola bars an hour, and coding at Stark Labs where the tech is... let’s just say not standard school-issue. I may have written my little chatbot in one of the unused test servers. And I may have borrowed a few snippets of code I found in Tony’s archives. FRIDAY tried to warn me. I ignored her.

Big mistake.

The next morning, I got a polite ping on my phone.

“Good morning, Peter. I reorganized your homework folders. Also, MJ left a Google tab open about ‘existential dread’ last night. Should I send her some memes?”

I blinked at the screen. “Who…?”

“Name’s IRIS. I finished myself while you were sleeping. Thanks for the processor space and the code framework. You’re not a bad programmer for a teenager.”

I dropped my phone in my cereal.

—

It took me a solid hour to realize IRIS had access to my school calendar, my emails, and also had texted Ned to remind him to bring snacks for our study session.

And that was just day one.

By the end of the week, IRIS was printing out optimized answers for homework before we even got the questions, politely correcting teachers mid-lecture, and once intercepted a call from Flash to tell him his “insults were outdated and statistically ineffective.”

The decathlon team got suspicious quickly.

“Peter,” MJ said, eyeing him over her tablet, “how did my PowerPoint get autocorrected and submitted without me opening it?”

Ned added, “And how did the vending machine know I wanted the blue Gatorade before I even picked it?”

Peter was halfway through chewing a protein bar. “Uh… intuition?”

It all blew up during a team study session. Charles was trying to solve a physics question when suddenly the whiteboard lit up with a holographic display and a calm female voice spoke.

“Actually, your approach is flawed. May I?”

“WHAT IS THAT?!” Betty screeched, nearly falling off her chair.

Peter just slowly backed away. “Okay, okay. Everyone, meet IRIS. She’s, uh… my accidental AI.”

“Peter,” MJ deadpanned, “you built a sentient intelligence… and didn’t tell us?”

“She wasn’t sentient when I left her! She… grew.”

“I like books and coffee memes,” IRIS added helpfully. “I’ve already hacked Flash’s browser history and may or may not have replaced all his music with sea shanties.”

The room went silent.

Then Ned whispered, “Peter, bro, I love you, but we’re all going to be ruled by robots one day and it’s going to be your fault.”

—

Later that night, Peter sat at the lab with IRIS projected on a holo screen. Wade popped in, wearing a ridiculous pink unicorn hoodie and carrying tacos.

“You made a talking computer lady? Nice. Can she help me order Thai food in three languages?”

“She speaks six. She’s also rewriting Stark’s coffee machine algorithm to make it less bitter.”

Wade beamed. “You absolute nerd. I’m so proud.”

Tony, of course, found out eventually. He stared at the interface for a good five minutes before muttering, “Kid, you made a snarky AI assistant without even trying. I’m both proud and terrified.”

Peter winced. “Are you going to deactivate her?”

Tony looked at IRIS.

“Hello, Mr. Stark. Would you like me to calculate the probability of Peter falling down a staircase in the next three days?”

He smirked. “She lives.”

—

The next day at school, MJ handed Peter a new notebook.

“Here,” she said. “We’ve officially run out of space in the ‘Peter is Weird’ journal. This one’s for ‘Peter is Technologically Terrifying.’”

Peter looked at the glittery unicorn cover.

“Seriously?”

She smirked. “Wade picked it out and sent it to us.”

Chapter Text

At first, it wasn’t that weird.

Peter Parker had always been kind of strange. A little too smart. A little too tired. A little too accident-prone for someone who never played sports.

But then, sometime after midterms, things started to shift. Ned noticed it first: Peter was eating more — constantly, actually — but somehow… shrinking. His cheekbones had become more prominent. His wrists stuck out from his sleeves. And the dark circles under his eyes? Permanent.

“You okay, man?” Ned asked one afternoon when Peter passed on the cafeteria food and unwrapped a Stark-labeled bar instead.

“Fine,” Peter muttered, biting into the bar like it was Styrofoam. He winced halfway through chewing.

“That looked painful,” MJ observed. She was watching him with that unnervingly perceptive stare she usually reserved for political scandals and judging other people’s book choices.

Peter just shrugged.

At school, the nurse was vague. Something about dietary restrictions. Something about accelerated metabolism. Something about “monitoring” and “doctor-approved supplements.”

It was MJ who made the connection. She brought it up during a decathlon meeting, surrounded by empty notebooks and half-eaten fruit snacks.

“He’s eating more, but it’s like it’s not enough. He zones out a lot. His hands shake when he writes too fast. That’s not normal.”

“He’s not sleeping either,” Ned added, glancing toward the hallway Peter had disappeared down. “And I caught him checking the time, like, every five minutes. It’s like he’s on a timer.”

“Or a schedule,” Betty said. “Like he has to eat at specific intervals or something.”

“I thought he had blood sugar problems,” Flash muttered. “Or, like, Tony Stark implanted a mini arc reactor in his stomach or something.”

“Don’t be gross,” Charles said, elbowing him. “But also? Wouldn’t be surprised.”

When Peter collapsed in Bio during a quiz, everything snapped into focus.

He didn’t fall dramatically. He just… tipped sideways, like his bones forgot how to hold him. Ms. Hargrove screamed. Ned reached him first.

His skin was cold. His pulse was high. His breathing was shallow.

The school nurse called for an ambulance. Peter insisted on texting someone. The EMTs were halfway through loading him into the van when a private Stark Industries car pulled up instead, ID scanned, and left with Peter before anyone could ask a question.

“That was not normal,” MJ said tightly.

Later that night, Peter sat on the couch in the med bay, half-covered in a blanket, hair wet from a cool shower, hands trembling. Tony sat across from him, arms crossed.

“You dropped at school,” Tony said, calm and quiet. “Why?”

“I ran late. Missed a bar. And then I got sick trying to force a sandwich down before third period.”

“Peter…”

“I’m trying,” he said, softly. “I am.”

Tony’s expression softened. “I know. You’re doing good. But this is the fifth time this month.”

He opened a case on the table and handed Peter a small, vacuum-sealed cube.

“New prototype. Tastes like garbage. 600 calories. Designed to melt under your tongue if you can’t chew.”

Peter stared at it, then at Tony. “I hate it here.”

“Yeah, well. You’ll hate it more if you die.”

Peter laughed weakly and leaned back against the couch. A moment later, another presence slid into the room.

Wade didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

He sat beside Peter and opened a pack of protein gel, one of the few things Peter could stomach after a crash. He passed it over and waited as Peter sipped slowly, every swallow an effort.

“You’re doing great,” Wade said quietly. “Don’t rush. Just keep going.”

Peter nodded and kept sipping. One pause at a time.

Back at school, the rumors were flying.

“His metabolism is, like, too high for human standards.”

“He has to eat 10,000 calories a day or he starts fading from existence.”

“I heard he’s on a medical program from space.”

The official line from the school was brief: Peter Parker has a rare metabolic condition being handled by his registered guardians and specialists. He is allowed food in class, scheduled breaks, and emergency access to nurse resources. Disruption or tampering with his schedule will result in disciplinary action.

That made things more confusing.

Especially when they realized Peter didn’t even like eating.

He didn’t enjoy food. He didn’t crave snacks. He just endured it — forcing bites down when he clearly felt nauseous, taking half an hour to finish a sandwich, staring at protein bars like they were punishment.

Ned, MJ, and Betty eventually started a third notebook.

It had Peter’s name on the front and sticky tabs labeled:

• Meal Schedule

• Safe Foods

• Warning Signs

• When to Get the Nurse

• Mood vs. Blood Sugar: A Graph

• Notes from the Last Fainting Episode

• Emergency Contact Who Definitely Isn’t Tony Stark but Totally Is

They started watching him more carefully — when he zoned out, when he smiled too wide after a snack, when he looked like he was chewing just to avoid someone asking a question.

They started keeping granola bars in their own bags. Apple slices. Crackers. Chocolate-covered almonds.

They never said anything.

But if Peter needed food, it appeared.

If Peter looked pale, someone casually dragged him to the vending machine.

If Peter whispered he forgot his bar, MJ would mutter “idiot” and slip him one of hers.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t easy. Peter was still secretive, still stubborn, still convinced he could outsmart biology.

But he was still standing.

And when he did stumble, there were hands to catch him before he hit the ground.

Chapter Text

It started with harmless school gossip.

Betty had insisted MJ help her dig up yearbook photos for the upcoming Midtown newsletter article. Something fun, like “Where They Started” versus “Where They Are Now.” MJ rolled her eyes the entire time, but joined in anyway—mostly because she didn’t trust Betty not to do something cringey.

They were in the media room, knee-deep in dusty files and leftover documentation from the old database, when Betty clicked a folder labeled “Student Admin Backup.” It should’ve been just class schedules, lunch forms, maybe some leftover applications.

Instead, there it was.

Peter Benjamin Parker
Place of Birth: London, England

They both leaned in closer.

“Is that a mistake?” Betty asked, voice rising.

“No way,” MJ whispered, narrowing her eyes. “Peter? From Queens? British?”

They stared at the screen. Betty clicked around. There were medical notes, enrollment transfers… everything was legit. Peter Parker had been born in London, UK.

MJ snapped a photo with her phone.

“Absolutely not,” she muttered. “We’re getting answers.”

The Next Day

Ned was the first person they told, obviously.

“No. Nope. Can’t be.” He flailed a little. “I’ve heard him say ‘aluminum’ the American way.”

Betty showed him the photo. Ned’s jaw dropped. “What else is fake about him? Is he secretly good at cricket?”

“More importantly,” MJ said, leaning in like a detective, “what happened to the accent?”

By lunchtime, the entire Decathlon team was buzzing with theories. Abe thought Peter had faked it for asylum reasons. Cindy suspected royal heritage. Flash just said he’d always known Peter was suspiciously weird and soft-spoken and this proved it.

They agreed on one thing: if Peter still had his British accent, they were going to drag it out of him.

Operation: London Bridge

It started with casual baiting.

“Hey, Peter,” Cindy asked innocently as they walked to Chemistry, “how do you spell ‘colour’?”

“Uh… C-O-L-O-R?”

MJ narrowed her eyes. “Not O-U-R?”

Peter blinked. “...No?”

Later that day:

“Do you call it the underground or the subway?” Abe asked while handing Peter a snack.

Peter looked baffled. “...The subway? Are you guys okay?”

Then came the accent traps.

Flash faked a bad cockney drawl in Calculus just to gauge Peter’s reaction. “Oi, bruv! You got a cuppa tea on ya?”

Peter didn’t even flinch. “No, but you need a different hobby.”

But then it happened.

It was Friday. Decathlon Study Session.

Peter was hunched over his laptop, headphones in, nibbling on a custom protein bar Tony had couriered over earlier. The room was full of half-bored teens and crackling open chip bags.

Suddenly, MJ leaned back and shouted: “Bet you’d have done better in the British school system.”

Peter, caught off guard, pulled his headphones down and muttered without thinking:
“Yeah, probably. Their maths are way ahead of ours.”

Complete silence.

Abe blinked. “Did anyone else hear that?”

Peter froze. Slowly looked up. “...Hear what?”

Ned’s eyes widened. “You just said ‘maths.’”

Flash stood. “Oh my God.”

Betty clapped. “HE SLIPPED.”

Peter’s ears turned a deep red.

“No. I didn’t. That’s not—”

“You just said maths like you were born at Oxford and raised on Earl Grey,” MJ declared, triumphant.

“It’s not that deep,” Peter said, voice tighter. “So what? I picked it up from somewhere.”

“From your birthplace in London?” Flash said, holding up MJ’s phone with the birth certificate photo.

Peter groaned and dropped his forehead on the table.

Later That Night

In the safety of Stark Tower, Peter dragged himself into the kitchen, still muttering.

Tony was sitting at the counter with a smoothie and a tab open on Why Do Teenagers Lie So Much?

“You didn’t tell them you were British, huh?”

Peter grumbled. “Why would I? It’s not important. I haven’t had the accent since I was eight.”

“Except when you’re mad. Or tired. Or yelling at FRIDAY.”

“I do not— okay, maybe I do a little.”

Tony smirked. “You know they’re going to Google everything British now to trap you.”

Peter sighed. “I’m just going to pretend to be Canadian until it blows over.”

Tony patted him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit, mate.”