Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Avengers Tower is never quiet. Not at six in the morning, not at midnight, and definitely not on a Saturday.

Mailin Stark wakes to the soft hum of her ceiling speakers powering up with her custom alarm—a remix of “Mr. Blue Sky” mashed with Pinkie Pie’s laugh, because of course it is. Her AI, Pinkie, chirps cheerfully into her ear.

“Good morning, sunshine! You slept three minutes past your optimal cycle. Should I activate the backup alarm? The one with the airhorn?”

Mailin groans and shoves her face into the pillow. “No. Pinkie, I swear to god, if I hear that airhorn again, I will rewrite your code to only speak in Minion quotes.”

A pause. “You are cruel and brilliant. I respect it.”

She drags herself out of bed, throws on a Stark Industries hoodie over her pajama shorts, and heads toward the chaos she can already hear downstairs.

The kitchen is full. Naturally.

Steve is flipping pancakes like he’s in a 1950s diner. He’s wearing his navy workout tee and grey sweats, sleeves pushed up and muscles flexing with every motion.

Natasha sits on the counter sipping black coffee like a panther surveying her territory. Clint is trying (and failing) to untangle a bundle of arrows while grumbling about someone messing with his gear.

Tony is already ranting.

“I said don’t touch the vibranium core! What part of ‘unstable’ did you all interpret as ‘poke with a screwdriver?’”

“That sounds like a challenge,” comes Sam’s voice from behind the fridge door.

Bruce is on the floor, cross-legged, scribbling something scientific on a tablet with crumbs in his beard.

Thor? Thor is eating Pop-Tarts like they’re gourmet pastries. The God of Thunder discovered toaster snacks six months ago and hasn’t looked back since.

Mailin steps in like a shadow that everyone notices just a moment too late.

Tony looks up and grins. “There’s my favorite pain in the ass.”

“You say that to Peter, too,” she deadpans.
“Only because he’s a slightly smaller pain in my ass. Morning, kid.”

“Morning,” she mumbles, stealing a pancake off Steve’s plate before he can react. She gets a mock glare, which she returns with a smirk and a wink.

Pepper walks in moments later with her tablet and her terrifyingly efficient vibe. “Has anyone seen my stylus?”

“Check Clint’s quiver,” Natasha says without looking up.

“What—why—” Clint starts, but then checks and sure enough, “Oh, come on!”

Mailin drops into a seat, pulling her own tablet up. She’s got a new design for a compact energy shield that’s halfway between Steve’s and Sam’s, with some Stark flair and her own aesthetic—a glowing heart-shaped pulse in the center, because why not fight crime with cute energy weapons?

A crash interrupts the peace. Thor has broken the toaster again. Steve sighs. Sam laughs. Tony starts yelling about Asgardian tech resistance. Bruce offers to build a new one from scratch. Pepper is already texting someone to order a new one again.

Mailin just leans back in her chair, watching it all unfold. This is her life—this wild, warm, ridiculous family of superheroes, gods, spies, and scientists.

She’s got a hidden identity, a high-tech AI and a secret vigilante alter ego.

But this? The chaos, the love, the bickering, the quiet understanding in their shared glances?

This is home.

“So,” Mailin says, drawing out the word like it’s casual and definitely not the start of a calculated campaign. “I’ve been thinking.”

Tony freezes mid-sip of his coffee. That alone makes Natasha glance over her mug. Clint looks up from his half-built sandwich. Even Thor turns, one eyebrow raised and a strawberry Pop-Tart halfway to his mouth.

“God help us,” Bruce mutters.

Tony lowers the mug slowly, eyeing her. “Thinking? That’s never good. Thinking led to the hoverboard incident.”

“It was one time!” she protests. “And Rhodey walked again eventually.”

“...Because of surgery,” Tony deadpans.

Mailin clears her throat, raising her chin with rehearsed confidence. “I want to go to school.”

“You do go to school,” Tony counters, already suspicious.

“No. I mean, real school. A public one. Like, with people. Lockers. Textbooks. Pep rallies. Drama club scandals. All that.”

Tony blinks. “You mean the kind with bullies and gym class and cafeteria food that can probably power a jet engine?”

“Exactly! Wait—no, not the bullies and jet-fuel meatloaf part, but the rest, yeah.”

Sam whistles low. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

“You want to go to public school,” Tony repeats slowly, like she’s suggested joining a cult. “You, a fifteen-year-old tech prodigy with access to more A.I. than the Pentagon, and who once rewrote JARVIS’s sarcasm subroutines as a prank.”

“He deserved it! He called me ma'am.”

“You’re fifteen,” Pepper says, poking her head back in. “You’re supposed to be homeschooled in the lap of luxury with zero chance of getting shoved into a locker.”

“But that’s the thing!” Mailin stands up, pacing now. “I want to get shoved into a locker! Okay, not literally, but—don’t you guys get it? I need the high school experience! I need friends who don’t know I helped fix Vision’s retinal optics. I need awkward science fairs and study halls and people who don’t try to assassinate me for fun!”

Natasha raises a hand slightly. “To be fair, that was only twice.”

Tony leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Is this about Spider-Boy? You met him once after I scouted him. And he didn't even know who you were really! I lied in panic and said you're a Stark Industries employee.”

Flashback:
Tony’s pace quickens as he strides through the sleek, glass-lined corridors of Stark Industries, Peter barely managing to keep up. The tour is moving at full speed—maybe too much for Peter, who’s still reeling from the sheer scale of everything.

“Alright, kid, let me show you the test lab,” Tony continues, not even slowing as he leads Peter toward a different wing of the building. “We’ve got some new projects that’ll make your Spidey senses tingle. Well, not literally, unless you break something.”

Peter grins nervously, his mind buzzing with a mix of awe and anxiety. He’s still not used to being here, let alone being with Tony Stark—who is walking, talking, and casually weaving through the lab like it’s no big deal.

As they turn a corner, Tony comes to an abrupt halt in front of a large set of glass doors.

“Right, so,” Tony starts, clearly stalling, “this is where some of our younger engineers work.” He glances over at Peter with that signature Tony Stark smirk. “And, uh, one of them is here today. So, you know, don’t freak out.”

Peter blinks. “Freak out? About what?”

Tony doesn't answer right away. He gestures to the girl working at one of the consoles, a girl around Peter’s age, casually leaning over a holographic display. Her dirty blonde hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and her Stark hoodie is loose enough to make her look effortlessly cool.

For a moment, Peter just stares, not entirely sure what he’s supposed to be seeing. Then his eyes flick back to Tony, who’s suddenly looking uncomfortably tense.

“That’s, uh, Smith,” Tony says quickly, not missing a beat. “She’s one of our brightest engineers. Very… gifted. A bit of a prodigy.”

Peter blinks at Tony. “Wait, seriously? She’s what, fifteen?”

Tony’s smile stiffens. “You’re a bit younger than that and already a big deal, right? Age is just a number when you’re a genius.”

Peter looks back at the girl again, who’s now absorbed in her work, tapping on the screen with practiced ease. He nods slowly. “She’s really good at this, huh?”

Tony chuckles a little too quickly, practically dragging Peter away. “Oh, yeah. She’s got a huge future ahead of her. But uh, moving on, kid! Time’s money and I’ve got a whole lab full of gadgets to show you.”

Peter, still distracted, can’t help but glance over his shoulder once more. He catches a brief glimpse of the girl looking up, meeting his gaze for a split second before she turns back to her work. She doesn’t seem to think much of him, but for some reason, Peter feels a little… flustered.

She’s cute, he thinks for a moment. But, y'know, he's here to be an intern. No time for crushes.

----------------------------------------

Mailin flushes. “No!”

“Because if it is, we can just—”

“It’s not about Peter!” she insists, and lies with all the subtlety of a fireworks show.

Everyone gives her the look.

Tony sighs. “Kid…”

“I want normal,” she says, softer this time. “I just… want a little bit of normal. You guys can protect the world. I just want to see what it’s like to be a person in it.”

There’s a beat of silence.

And then Steve, quiet until now, says from behind the pancake griddle, “Let her go.”

Tony gives him a sharp look. “Oh, don’t you start.”

“She deserves the chance to live. Not just survive.”

Natasha nods, folding her arms. “It’s not like we can hide her from the world forever.”

Bruce sighs. “We could try.”

Clint raises his sandwich. “For the record, I vote yes. I want to watch this go up in flames.”

“Thor?” Tony throws out desperately.

“I believe Midgardian rites of passage are important,” Thor says solemnly. “Also, I would like to chaperone the school dance.”

Everyone groans in sync.

Mailin turns to her dad with hopeful, shining eyes and her signature Stark smirk—the one that says you’ve already lost and we both know it.

Tony groans. “Fine. FINE. But I’m installing retina scanners in your locker.”

Mailin squeals and throws herself at him in a hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

“I regret everything,” he mumbles into her hair.

She pulls back, grinning. “You’re the best. Also, I already applied. Orientation’s on Monday.”

“What—when did you—Pepper!”

“She warned me,” Pepper says, unbothered. “I scheduled a board meeting that morning so you can’t storm the school.”

Mailin beams. The rest of the room erupts into overlapping chatter—bets on how long until Tony breaks down and installs facial recognition in the principal’s office, whether Mailin will join drama club or robotics, and how many hearts she’s going to break without even noticing.

And somewhere, deep in the Tower’s walls, Pinkie sighs dramatically in binary.
High school. What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter Text

The sound of Pinkie Pie’s voice fills the room, cutting through the quiet of the early morning.

"Good morning, Miss Stark! It's 7:30 AM, and you're going to be late if you don’t hurry!"

Mailin groans, her face buried in the pillow. She pulls the covers over her head and rolls onto her back, staring at the ceiling for a moment as she wakes up fully.

The digital clock by her bed flashes “7:30” in bold red numbers. She sighs, mentally kicking herself for staying up too late watching movies.

"Alright, alright," she mutters to no one in particular. Her bed is warm and comfortable, but the excitement buzzing in her chest makes it impossible to stay still for long.

She pushes the covers off and swings her feet onto the cold hardwood floor, stretching her arms above her head.

Despite the early hour, she’s already awake and ready for the day. Her first day of high school. Public high school. No more home tutoring or online classes with Dad or Uncle Bruce hovering over her shoulder.

Mailin grabs her phone from the bedside table and taps the screen, turning off Pinkie’s cheery voice and switching on the soft playlist of ambient music she had set up for mornings like this. It’s not loud enough to be distracting, but it’s just the right level of calm to help her clear her head. She’s been looking forward to this day for so long, and now that it’s finally here, it feels a little surreal.

She heads into the bathroom for a quick shower, grabbing a towel as she goes. The sound of the water running is almost soothing, allowing her to clear her thoughts. She stands under the stream of warm water for a few extra minutes, letting the steam envelop her, wondering how today will play out.

Afterward, she wraps a towel around herself and heads to her closet. Her outfit is simple but practical: a black hoodie with a subtle Stark Industries logo, skinny jeans, and sneakers. She’s not sure she’s ready to blend in completely, but it’s the closest she can get. She doesn’t need to draw attention to herself. Not today. Not when she’s trying to just be a normal teenager for once.

When she walks back into her bedroom, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair, still damp from the shower, is a little messy, but she doesn't mind. She’s not here for perfection—she just wants to survive the day without making too much of a splash.
Downstairs, the kitchen is already buzzing with activity. The scent of fresh coffee fills the air, and the soft clink of dishes and utensils sounds like a familiar soundtrack.

The Avengers, as usual, are all here in their makeshift family routine, which has become second nature over the years.

“Morning, Mailin!” Steve Rogers greets her, looking up from his coffee cup. His ever-present, calm smile is comforting, and for a moment, she can almost forget how out of place she feels in her own skin. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, reading through a history book, probably prepping for one of his regular speeches to high schools about leadership and American values.

"Morning, Uncle Steve!" she replies, her voice still a little scratchy from sleep. She grabs a cup from the cabinet, filling it with coffee before sitting across from him. The quiet, soft sounds of morning fill the kitchen, and it feels normal. It feels good.

Natasha Romanoff, ever the professional, is leaning against the counter, her tablet in hand. She’s scrolling through the news, eyes narrowing slightly as she scans a headline. Mailin knows Natasha’s always keeping tabs on things, always looking out for threats. It’s second nature for her.

“Big day?” Natasha asks, not looking up from her tablet.

Mailin laughs lightly. "You could say that. First day at a real school. You know, with actual students and everything."

Natasha nods, offering a small smirk. “I think you’ll be just fine. Just remember, ‘normal’ is overrated. Be yourself. That’s usually the best approach.”

Clint Barton, sitting at the other end of the table, shovels pancakes into his mouth like there’s no tomorrow. He’s wearing a pair of mismatched socks, the typical look of someone who doesn’t have the time or energy to care about fashion but somehow pulls it off anyway. “Just don’t blow up any lockers on your first day. Keep your cool.”

Mailin rolls her eyes, but the corners of her mouth tug upward. "I’ll try. No promises, though. School’s full of potential tech projects just waiting to be tampered with."

Pepper Potts walks into the kitchen just then, a cup of coffee in hand. She’s wearing a soft, pastel blouse, her hair perfectly styled as always, and there’s a calm confidence in her posture. It’s easy to see how she balances out Tony’s chaotic energy—she’s the steady center of their little family.

She places the coffee on the counter and smiles warmly at Mailin. “How are you feeling, sweetie?”

Mailin shrugs, trying to play it cool, but the nervous excitement bubbling inside her gives her away. “I’m nervous. Excited. I don’t know. This is actually happening.”

Pepper chuckles softly, walking over and placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You’re going to do great. You’ve been training for this your whole life, even if it doesn’t feel like it. Just take a deep breath, and remember—you’re not doing this alone. We’ve all got your back.”

Mailin’s heart swells at her mother’s words. “Thanks, Mom.”

Pepper bends down, brushing a hand through Mailin’s hair. “You’re strong, smart, and capable. Just remember, you don’t have to try and fit in. You just need to be yourself.”

Mailin smiles up at her, feeling an unexpected wave of gratitude. It’s not the first time she’s heard words like that from her family, but they always seem to hit differently. She stands up, grabbing her lunchbox from the counter. Her mom has packed her favorite sandwich—turkey, avocado, and a bit of mustard—along with an apple and some granola bars. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s perfect.

“Got your lunch?” Pepper asks, raising an eyebrow as she notices Mailin’s attention turning to the lunchbox.

Mailin nods. “Yep. Ready to go.”

Tony enters the kitchen at that moment, looking slightly out of breath, clearly rushing around to get his own breakfast.

He flashes Mailin a smile, his usual overconfidence mixed with a touch of concern.

"Hey, kiddo," he says, walking over and pulling her into a hug before she can even protest. "Big day, huh?"

She hugs him back, trying not to let her nerves show. “Yeah. You sure I’m ready for this? I mean, it’s high school. With real people.”

Tony chuckles, rubbing her back in that familiar, soothing way that only he can. “If anyone’s ready for high school, it’s you. You’ve got the brains and the skills to survive it. Just… try not to get in trouble too fast, okay? I don’t want to hear about any school-wide hacking incidents on day one.”

Mailin laughs, pulling back. “I promise, Dad. No breaking anything today.”

Tony gives her a pointed look, raising an eyebrow. “You better. You don’t need to make more headlines.”

“I won’t,” she says, still smiling. “Thanks for the pep talk, though. It helps.”

“You know I’m always here,” Tony says, his voice softening. He runs a hand through his hair and steps back, taking a breath before becoming the slightly frazzled Tony Stark everyone knows. “Alright. Go show ‘em how it’s done.”

Mailin grabs her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. She waves to the others, feeling a little more grounded with each reassuring smile they give her.

“Good luck, kid,” Clint says between bites of pancake.

“Knock ‘em dead,” Steve adds, nodding at her.

“You’re gonna do amazing, sweetheart,” Pepper says, offering one last hug.

“Make your mark, young one,” Thor booms from the hallway, his voice as loud and dramatic as always.

With one last glance around the kitchen, Mailin heads for the door, where Happy Hogan is waiting, leaning against the car with his arms crossed. He’s looking at her with a mixture of concern and affection, the same way a protective older brother might.

“Ready to go, kid?” Happy asks, opening the door for her.

Mailin nods, her heart racing with excitement. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

As Happy starts the car, Mailin watches the familiar sights of New York City go by.

Her stomach flutters with a mix of nervousness and anticipation. Today marks the start of something new. A new chapter. Maybe it won’t be easy, but with her family’s love and support, she feels like she can handle anything.

And maybe—just maybe—she’ll finally get to experience what it’s like to be a normal high school student. At least for one day.

Chapter Text

Midtown High is already buzzing by the time Happy’s Audi pulls up to the curb.

Mailin’s stomach does a flip as she stares up at the building. It’s not as sleek as the labs she’s used to. It doesn’t shimmer like glass towers in Manhattan or hum with hidden tech. But it’s loud. Alive. Normal.

Which is exactly what her dad promised—insisted—she’d get to have. “Just try it,” he said last night, pacing while her mom packed a carefully over-prepared lunch.

“Worst case scenario, you hate it and we fake your death. Or transfer you.”

She rolls her eyes at the memory, then glances over at Happy in the driver’s seat.

“Okay,” she says, mostly to herself. “Here goes.”

Happy leans over. “You’ve got your schedule? Lunch? Fake last name memorized?”

“Smith,” she replies with a smirk. “Just your average, incredibly gifted high schooler with totally normal parents.”

“Right,” he mutters, opening the door. “Go be average.”

She steps out, shouldering her backpack as Happy pulls away, already grumbling into his earpiece about traffic and interns.

Principal Morita walks along the halls "Good morning."

A teenage boy flies a drone around the crowded hallway. Peter walks by. Principal Morita grabs the drone out of the air.

Principal Morita glares at him. "Damn it. You, in my office right now."

The drone pilot follows the principal. Other students carry elaborate science projects.

Mailin enters the front office. It smells like old coffee and printer ink. A tired-looking secretary hands Mailin a schedule and map, pointing out her locker with a biro and giving a half-hearted “Welcome to Midtown” before answering the phone again.

Armed with papers and nerves, Mailin steps into the main hallway and—

Promptly gets smacked in the shoulder by someone coming around the corner too fast.

“Oh—sorry!” the boy blurts, stumbling back. “Totally my fault, I wasn’t watching—”

“No, it’s fine,” Mailin says quickly, clutching her schedule before it can flutter to the floor. “First day. I’m just… lost.”

The boy—skinny, brown-eyed, clearly still riding the tailwind of a recent growth spurt—blinks at her.

“Oh, hey! Yeah, I can help you with that. Uh, Chem, right?” He gestures at her paper. “I’m headed that way. I’m Peter,” the boy says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Peter Parker."

“Mailin. Smith,” she replies, the fake last name catching awkwardly in her throat.

Peter doesn’t seem to notice. He’s still processing her face. There’s something familiar about her—he knows he’s seen her somewhere before. Not here. Not online.

Then it clicks: Stark Industries. She was in the lab. Hoodie too big, hair in a messy ponytail, leaning over a hologram with that same look of intense focus. He remembers Tony’s weird nervousness.
“Smith,” he’d called her. “Young genius.”

Peter hadn’t thought about it again until now.

“You, uh, new to the city?” he asks as they start walking.

Mailin shakes her head. “No, I’ve been homeschooled. Wanted to try this out.”

Peter nods. She’s totally out of his league.

They head to Chemistry together, just two kids blending into the crowded hallway—well, one kid and a Stark girl hiding behind a borrowed name, hoping “normal” might feel like hers, just for today.

Later Peter and Ned weave through the bustling crowd of students, Ned still clutching the giant LEGO Death Star box like a sacred relic.

“You’re gonna build it tonight, right?” Ned whispers, eyes gleaming. “The Death Star?”

Peter adjusts his backpack, nodding. “Yeah. After I finish my Calc homework.”

Ned practically vibrates. “Dude. It’s got 3,803 pieces.”

Peter snorts. “You counted them?”

“I memorized them.”

They pass by a bulletin board plastered with flyers—drama club auditions, homecoming announcements, and one in bold: ACADEMIC DECATHLON TRYOUTS – ROOM 213. Peter eyes it, already considering it for later.

Just as they turn the corner, Peter catches a glimpse of her—Mailin—walking ahead, her head buried in her schedule, earbuds in, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands.

She’s navigating like someone used to labs and circuits, not lockers and cliques.
Ned notices too. “Hey, that’s the new girl, right? Mailin?”

“Yeah,” Peter says before he can stop himself. “She’s in my Chem class.”

He doesn’t mention how she bumped into him earlier. Or how she looked oddly familiar before it clicked that she’s that girl from Stark’s lab. “Smith,” she said. But he knows there’s no way she’s just a “Smith.”
Still, she’s mysterious. And something about her feels... off. But not in a bad way. Just different.

They are now in physics class.

"Okay, so how do we calculate linear acceleration between points A and B?" Ms. Warren asks. She points at Flash, who is confidently holding up his hand.

"Flash."

"It’s the product of sine of the angle and gravity divided by the mass."

"Nope."

Mailin’s hand goes up, but Ms. Warren calls out a student who clearly is having difficulty focusing on the lecture.

"Peter. You still with us?"

Peter has been watching a video of Spider-Man on YouTube.

"Uh... Uh... Yeah, yeah." He closes the laptop, revealing a diagram of a simple gravity pendulum. "Uh... Mass cancels out, so it’s just gravity times sine."

"Right. See, Flash, being the fastest isn’t always the best if you are wrong."

The class bursts out in laughter. Flash turns in his seat and is glaring at Peter.
Flash whispers "You’re dead."

Peter turns to glance at a clock. 11:38 a.m.

EXT. MIDTOWN HIGH – LUNCH TABLES – DAY
Peter and Ned sit together in the cafeteria, lunch trays untouched. Peter’s eyes drift across the room to Liz Allen, who’s hanging a homecoming banner.

“You should totally ask her to Homecoming,” Ned says, mouth half-full of sandwich.

Peter nearly chokes. “What? No. I’m a sophomore. She’s... perfect.”

Ned follows his gaze, nodding in solemn understanding. “Liz Allen. I get it.”

Peter tries not to sigh too obviously. “Yeah. But it’s never gonna happen.”

A shout cuts through the cafeteria.
“Penis Parker!”

Flash Thompson, predictably, leaning over from another table with a grin that makes Peter want to melt into his seat.

Peter groans.

Mailin walks by just in time to witness the exchange, quirking a brow at Flash’s juvenile nickname. Her gaze flicks to Peter—briefly amused, maybe even curious—but she says nothing, just tucks her earbuds back in and keeps walking.

Peter definitely notices.

INT. MIDTOWN CLASSROOM – ACADEMIC DECATHLON MEETING – DAY
A poster hangs on the auditorium wall. It is for the Academic Decathlon nationals taking place in Washington D.C. on October 13-15.

Mr. Harrington claps once. “Okay we’ve got a couple new faces trying out today. Smith—uh, Mailin, is it?”

Mailin, seated near the back with one leg crossed over the other, offers a lazy wave. “Hey.”

She’s wearing a zip-up Stark hoodie again.

No one seems to notice.

Peter does.

Mr. Harrington adds, “And she’s already blown through the qualifying quizzes. Very impressive.”

Peter leans toward Ned. “Told you. She’s smart.”

Ned smirks. “You’ve been watching her?”

Peter turns red. “No!”

The Decathlon practice continues. Liz is standing at a podium, reading the quiz cards. Ned, Charles, Abe, and Cindy are seated on the stage. Bells are placed in front of them.

"Let’s move to the next question. What is the heaviest naturally-occurring element?"

Charles rings his bell "Hydrogen’s the lightest. That’s not the question. Okay. Yeah."

Abe answers "Uranium."

Cindy Moon, who is frantically searching the books, glares at Abe.

Liz nods "That is correct. Thank you, Abraham."

Abe quietly pumps his fist in the air "Yes."

Liz continues "Please open your books to page ten."

A few feet away, Peter is conversing with Mr. Harrington, the teacher who is in charge of the Decathlon team. Mailin is eavesdropping. Nat tought her.

Mr. Harrington seems stressed "Peter, it’s nationals. Is there no way you could take one weekend off?"

Peter sighs "I can’t go to Washington because if Mr. Stark needs me, then I have to make sure that I’m here."

"You’ve never even been in the same room as Tony Stark." Flash speaks up from behind them, reading a book with his feet propped up in a chair. Mailin perks up at the mean comment.

"Wait, what’s happening?" Cindy asks.
Sally Avril, who is lying on her stomach and studying her notes, answers her. "Peter’s not going to Washington."

Cindy shakes her head. "No. No, no, no, no, no. No. No."
Abe rings the bell beside her. "Why not?"
Liz furrows her brows. "Really? Right before nationals?"

"He already quit marching band and robotics lab." Michelle notes.

Everyone looks at Michelle, who is leaning on the wall with a book, with a suspicious look on their faces. Michelle quickly adds, "I’m not obsessed with him. Just very observant."

Liz turns to Flash. "Flash, you’re in for Peter."

"Ooh, I don’t know. I gotta check my calendar first. I got a hot date with Black Widow coming up."

Mailin snorts out loud. Everyone looks at her and she quickly covers her mouth and looks away.

Abe rings the bell. "That is false."

Mr. Harrington sighs. "What did I tell you about using the bell for comedic purposes?"

Peter turns to see the clock: it’s still 1:18 p.m.

EXT. MIDTOWN – HALLWAY – LATER
The final bell rings. Students spill out into the hallways like water from a burst dam.

Peter pulls out his phone. A message from Happy Hogan lights up the screen:
“Stay out of trouble.”

He sighs and pockets it.

Up ahead, Mailin walks with her earbuds dangling around her neck, now studying her Chem textbook as she walks. Peter nearly calls out to her—but stops.

She’s got her own orbit. Cool, effortless. Smart in a way that reminds him uncomfortably of Mr. Stark.

Peter frowns slightly. He’ll figure her out. Eventually.

------------------------------------------------

Mailin steps into the elevator of Avengers Tower, her backpack slung over one shoulder and her earbuds half-in, playing the soft hum of lo-fi beats to mask the brain fog of social interaction.

First day of school: survived. No identity leaks, no tech malfunctions, and only one kid tried to look over her answers during math. Light work.

The elevator doors slide open into the penthouse floor, revealing the polished chaos of home: tech humming, AI systems chirping, and a faint sizzling from the kitchen.

Tony Stark looks up from a holographic display of her new stealth drones as if he’s been waiting there all day. “Hey, Kiddo. Did the civilians bore you to death yet?”

“Almost,” she deadpans, dropping her bag with a thud. “No fatalities. Some side-eye. One drone incident.”

Tony blinks. “Someone else brought a drone?”

“Yeah. Some sophomore. Tried to flex it in the hallway.”

Tony scoffs. “Amateur. You didn’t hack it, did you?”

She smirks. “Of course not.” A pause. “Pinkie Pie did.”

“Atta girl.”

From the kitchen, Pepper leans against the counter, arms crossed, warm smile in place. “Did you eat?”

“Cafeteria pizza,” Mailin answers grimly, accepting the protein bar her mother tosses her like a lifeline.

“Sounds traumatic,” Bruce comments, glancing up from his tablet at the dining table. “Did anyone figure out who you really are?”

“Nope,” Mailin replies, taking a bite. “Alias intact, nerd credibility high. One girl asked if I was in college already.”

Tony beams. “That’s my daughter.”

“Which no one knows,” Pepper reminds him, shooting him a look. “And let’s keep it that way.”

“Relax, Pep. I’ve only told, like, four reporters that I don’t have a daughter. We’re golden.”

Mailin groans and flops onto the couch just as Clint strolls in, twirling a practice arrow.

Steve walks by with a post-workout bottle of water and a towel. “Glad you’re home safe, kid.”

Wanda trails behind him, dropping onto the couch beside Mailin and tucking her legs under her. “Did they try to label you?”

Mailin snorts. “Gifted, introverted, possible cyborg.”

Wanda nods in approval. “You’re fitting in just fine.”

Tony tosses her a mini-holo from his tablet. “Check this out—your security disguise protocol worked perfectly. You’re invisible to facial recognition systems across the school’s network.”

“I know,” she says smugly. “I built it.”

“And I made it cooler,” he adds.

“You added a glitter trail to the avatar.”

“Exactly. You’re welcome.”

Mailin exhales slowly, sinking into the cushions, Pinkie Pie sending her a mental ping confirming her drones returned to the garage. For all the weirdness of pretending to be normal at school, being home means she doesn’t have to pretend at all.

This is her world: sarcasm, tech, love, and chaos.

And she wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Chapter Text

Gym Class – Midtown High
Mailin adjusts her ponytail as she watches Captain America’s fitness video playing on the small TV near Coach Wilson. She has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop from grinning—Steve really does love a good PSA. She’d seen a dozen of these back at the Tower.

Once, he even made her sit through the original reel from the ‘40s. “For historical accuracy,” he’d said. Mailin suspects it was payback for programming JARVIS to blast Star-Spangled Man with a Plan through the whole floor whenever Steve walked in.

Coach Wilson drones in the background, barely invested, and blows his whistle to start the challenge.

“Let’s do it,” Mailin mutters under her breath, dropping onto the mat.

She starts in on push-ups—perfect form, fast pace. Not because she wants to show off, but because she’s been doing combat drills with Natasha since she was ten.

Compared to training with the Avengers, school gym class feels like a warm-up.

Around her, classmates are groaning, flopping onto mats, making a big show of the minimal effort. She doesn’t mind. She actually enjoys the break. No pressure. No saving the world. Just... sit-ups.

She notices Peter a few mats over, Ned holding his feet. He’s trying to go easy, blending in. Classic Parker. Mailin lifts a brow. She’s not supposed to know about the Spider-thing—at least not officially—but her dad’s terrible at hiding files on his network, and JARVIS always did like her better.

Peter’s doing just fine until Ned blurts something about being “the guy in the chair.” Mailin suppresses a laugh, shaking her head as she moves into her next set. She's halfway through chin-ups when she hears the voice.

“Now, see, for me? F Thor, marry Iron Man, kill Hulk.”

Her arms pause mid-rep.

Please no.

Peeking over, she sees Liz and her friends chatting away on the bleachers. Her stomach flips when she hears her dad’s name tossed around so casually. It's always weird hearing classmates talk about the Avengers like they're just celebrities or reality show stars—not the people who raised her.

Then someone mentions Spider-Man.
Mailin’s eyes flicker to Peter. Yep, she catches that moment—the way he freezes, the way his eyes widen just a bit. And then Ned goes and yells it.

“Peter knows Spider-Man!”

Her grip slips. She drops down from the bar with a grunt just as everyone in the gym turns to stare at Peter.

Peter scrambles, stutters, tries to fix it. The whole thing is awkwardly endearing, and Mailin finds herself smiling despite herself. Flash makes some crack. Liz invites Peter to her party. Mailin catches that too.

Her smile fades slightly.

A party.

She adjusts the hem of her shirt, looking down at her sneakers. She’s never been to a real high school party.

She's spent Friday nights in the lab, or in the gym sparring with Clint, or helping her mom prep for some Stark charity event.

She could hack her way into a HYDRA network, build a compact arc reactor blindfolded, or take down a grown man twice her size. But this? Navigating regular teenage life?

Totally foreign territory.

Still. The idea sparks something in her chest. Curiosity. Hope. Maybe... maybe she should go.

The whistle blows again, snapping her back.

“Station four!” Coach Wilson calls, completely oblivious.

Mailin wipes her palms on her shorts, heart still ticking faster than normal.
Okay, Mailin. Time to make some friends.

Stark Residence – Early Evening
Mailin hovers outside the glass wall that separates the living area from the kitchen, shifting from foot to foot.

Her dad is at the counter fiddling with a holographic projection of a coffee maker that is very clearly not supposed to shoot espresso that fast.

Her mom is flipping through something on her tablet with a cup of tea in hand. It’s one of those rare quiet evenings—no explosions, no board meetings, no surprise alien attacks.

Perfect timing.

Maybe.

“Hey,” she says, trying for casual. “So... there’s this thing tonight.”

Tony’s head pops up. “Thing?”

Pepper glances over. “What kind of thing?”

Mailin walks in, arms crossed, trying to sound nonchalant. “A party. Just a small one. Some classmates from school. Liz Allan’s hosting. She invited Peter. And... I might’ve been kinda sorta invited too.”

Tony narrows his eyes. “Is this the same Liz who said she’d ‘F Thor, marry me, and kill Banner’?”

Pepper sighs. “Tony.”

“What? I’m flattered. Also mildly terrified.”

Mailin groans, flopping onto a stool. “Okay, first of all, how do you even know about that?”

“I have ears everywhere,” Tony replies smugly. “Literally. I put one of those Stark micro-surveillance drones in your chem book.”

“Dad.”

“Kidding. Mostly.”

Pepper sets her tablet down and walks over, folding her arms. “Is there going to be supervision? Are you planning on staying out late?”

Mailin lifts her hands. “I swear, it’s just a normal high school party. Music, junk food, probably embarrassing dancing. No villains, no Quinjet extractions. I’m not even going as ‘Stark’—just as Mailin. I wanna try... I don’t know. Being normal? Just for a night?”

That softens Pepper immediately. She exchanges a look with Tony, who pretends to deliberate.

“I guess we could loan her the armor,” he muses.

“Tony—”

“Kidding, again! Okay, listen. You can go.” He points a finger. “But—ground rules. No drinking. No sneaking off to rooftops for dramatic angst sessions. No powers. No flying cars. And if someone challenges you to arm wrestling, remember: humans are fragile.”

Mailin can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of her. “Okay. No flying, no arm-wrestling, no Stark-level dramatics. Got it.”

Her mom walks over to kiss her forehead. “Text us when you get there. And when you’re coming home.”

“Deal.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Wait, is Peter going? Does he know you’re going?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?” Mailin shrugs, suddenly a little shy. “I figured I’d surprise him.”

Tony smirks. “My favorite kind of plan. Go make some memories, kiddo. Just... keep it PG-13.”

Mailin grabs her bag and heads off toward her room to change, heart beating a little faster. For once, it wasn’t about Avengers missions or pressure or legacy. Tonight, she just wanted to be a regular teen.

And maybe—just maybe—have a little fun.

Chapter Text

Stark Residence – Mailin’s Room – 6:45 PM
Mailin stands in front of her closet, arms crossed and brow furrowed.

“I have nothing to wear,” she mutters.

It’s a dramatic lie. Her closet is packed with a mix of designer pieces, vintage thrift finds, and sleek, Stark-issue stealth gear.

But none of it feels right for a casual high school party. Nothing screams, Hey, I’m cool and fun and not at all in love with a boy who doesn’t know it yet.

FRIDAY chimes in gently from the ceiling.
“Would you like me to project outfit options, Miss?”

Mailin sighs and throws her hands up. “Yeah. But no gowns, no combat-ready suits. Just something... cute. Normal. Like, ‘teenager going to a party’ normal.”

“Your definition of normal is... eclectic,” FRIDAY replies.

Mailin rolls her eyes. “FRIDAY.”

“Understood.”

Holographic projections flicker to life in front of her. A crop top and high-waisted jeans. A flannel tucked into a plaid skirt. A soft floral dress. And then—one outfit makes her pause.

A red, slightly oversized knit sweater tucked into high-waisted light-wash jeans, paired with white sneakers. Effortless. Simple. Her.

“I like that one,” she says softly.

“You have excellent taste,” FRIDAY replies. “Statistically, red increases perceived confidence and romantic interest in humans by thirty-six percent.”

Mailin glares at the ceiling, but a small smile pulls at her lips.

She pulls the outfit on, tugging the sweater into place and tousling her hair until it looks deliberately windswept. In the mirror, she stares at her reflection. She dabs a little gloss on her lips, then leans back and frowns.

“Okay. You’ve trained with Steve Rogers, sparred with Natasha, and accidentally kicked Sam in the ribs. You can go to a high school party.”

She takes one deep breath.
“Right?”

----------------------------------------------

Peter opens the car door and steps out just as another car pulls up behind him. A sleek black Audi. The driver’s door opens and Happy Hogan steps out, looking exasperated before walking around to the passenger side.

“Don’t get into any trouble,” he warns as Mailin hops out of the car, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She grins at him.
“No promises.”

Happy sighs, already regretting the favor.
Peter glances over in surprise. “Mailin?”

“Hey.” She walks up beside him, tossing her bag over one shoulder. “Figured I’d crash this thing too.”

Aunt May leans out of the driver’s seat. “Peter. Have fun."

He leans in. “I will.”

“Okay.”

“Bye, May!” Ned calls from the backseat, hopping out and joining them.

The trio walks toward the house together—Peter, visibly nervous; Mailin, calm but alert; and Ned, hyped.

“You brought the suit, right?” Ned whispers.

Peter pulls up his sleeve, showing the red fabric. “Yeah.”

Inside, the party is already going strong. Music thumps, lights flash, and teens mill around in clumps. Flash is stationed at the DJ booth, wearing a ridiculous yellow shirt and spinning tracks with far too much enthusiasm.

Mailin lingers just behind Peter and Ned, scanning the crowd with a trained eye. Her instincts are sharp, as always—too many people, too many exits, and too many unpredictable factors. She’s not just here to party.

Michelle passes by, eating toast. “Didn’t think you’d show.”

“You’re literally here,” Mailin points out.

Michelle shrugs. “Am I?”

She walks off, leaving behind a trail of crumbs and existential questions.

Then Liz appears, radiant, glowing in the party lights. Peter practically short-circuits.
Mailin watches him freeze and feels a pang of jealousy in her heart.

“H-hi, Liz,” Peter stammers.

Liz smiles. “I’m so happy you guys came.”
“There’s pizza, drinks—help yourself,” she says before hurrying off to manage some chaos in the kitchen.

“She’s so cool,” Peter breathes.

Ned elbows him. “Now’s your chance.”

Peter shakes his head. “No way. I’m just gonna be myself.”

“No one wants that,” Ned deadpans. Mailin punches his arm lightly.

“Rude.”

Over the speaker system, Flash’s voice cuts through.

“Penis Parker, what’s up?”

Peter freezes, humiliated.
“Okay,” he mutters. “That’s it.”
He turns and leaves, slipping out through a side door.

Mailin’s eyes follow him, narrowing. “I’ll be back.”

She slips away too, ducking out a different exit.

Rooftop. Moments later.
Peter crouches behind a chimney, speaking to himself like a dorky YouTuber.
“Hey, what’s up, I’m Spider-Man... Just thought I’d swing by and say hi to my buddy Peter...”

He sighs. “God, this is stupid.”

Then—boom. A bright blue explosion flashes in the distance.

Peter jerks upright, alarmed.

Without hesitation, he tugs on his mask and launches off the rooftop.

Down in the alley, Mailin is already pulling open her duffel. Inside: her compact combat suit. Sleek, reinforced, and designed for stealth and mobility. She slips it on with practiced ease, her demeanor switching from casual teen to combat-ready warrior in seconds.

She hears the web-thwip above and looks up, spotting Peter swinging away.
“Of course you’re not waiting.”

She launches into motion, sprinting toward the alley’s end and activating her grappling device. A surge of energy lifts her to the rooftops, and she bounds across them like a shadow, following Spider-Man’s trail.

Chapter Text

Beside a bridge, an abandoned car sits crumpled and broken, its metal frame warped and torn apart.

A sudden blue ray cuts through the air and slams into it. The car explodes in a fiery burst, sending electricity crackling through the smoke.

The shooters recoil, startled—then one of them hoots with laughter.

Jackson Brice lowers the high-tech weapon. The metal fingers at the end curl inward, forming a loose fist.

"Crafted from a reclaimed sub-Ultron arm, straight outta Sokovia," Brice boasts. "Here. You try."

He hands the weapon to Aaron Davis, who eyes it warily.
"Man, I wanted something low-key. Why you tryna upsell me, man?"

Unseen above them, Peter clings to the side of the bridge, crawling silently downward. A few feet away, hidden in the shadows, Mailin watches too—haunted.

Her mind flashes back to the battle with Ultron, to her family fighting for survival.

"Okay, okay, okay. I got what you need," Brice says, walking to his van. "Tons of great stuff here. One sec."

Peter narrows his eyes as Brice opens the back of the van, revealing a stash of weapons and tech.

"Black hole grenades. Chitauri railguns..."

Aaron frowns. "You lettin’ off shots in public now? Hurry up. Look, times are changin'. We're the only ones sellin' this stuff."

Peter whispers to himself, "This must be where the ATM robbers got their stuff..."

"I need something to stick someone up with—not shoot 'em into next week."

"I got anti-grav climbers."

"Yo... climbers?"

A loud yodeling ringtone pierces the air.

"What the hell was that?" Brice barks, spinning around.

The phone keeps ringing. Peter quickly pulls his out—Ned’s goofy face grins on the screen. Mailin, watching from her perch, buries her face in her hands.

Schultz raises his weapon and points it at Aaron. "You set us up?"

"Hey, hey, man! I didn’t do nothin’!"

Peter flips down from the bridge and lands between them. "Hey! You gonna shoot somebody, shoot me."

Schultz shrugs. "All right."

He takes aim, but Peter’s web blasts the gun from his hands. He charges.

Brice retaliates with a high-tech gauntlet, slamming Peter with a burst of energy.

Peter crashes into the bridge wall and hits the ground hard. Mailin winces.

Schultz scrambles into the van. Brice hops onto the back, cackling as they speed off.

Peter fires a web onto the open van door.

Mailin spreads her wings—Sam’s Christmas gift—and soars after them.

The van barrels through a neighborhood, dragging Peter through trash cans. "Ah! What?!"

He fires another web. Inside, Brice powers up a weapon, aiming at Peter.

The blast knocks the door clean off. Peter dangles from the van, clinging to what’s left.

"Oh, my butt! Unh!"

Mailin snickers from above.

Brice fires again, but a bump in the road jostles the van. The weapon slips from his hands and rolls into a nearby yard.

Schultz takes a sharp turn. Peter slams into a parked car, then tumbles through garbage bins. He crashes into a brick pillar and drops, groaning. His webs snap.

In the side mirror, Schultz sees Peter back on his feet. Peter fires his web—but the second door breaks off too.

Peter throws his arms up. "Great. Guess I’m takin’ a shortcut."

He darts through backyards, leaping over fences and cars. Two guys pause their ping-pong game as Spider-Man runs past.
"Hey, guys. Good game!"

A dog barks and jumps up to lick Peter’s face. He shoots a ball off to the side. "Sorry, buddy. Go fetch!"

Peter swings on branches and lampposts. "Whoo! Now this is more like it!"

He crashes through a treehouse, falls onto a shed, and smashes through a wooden fence. He stumbles over a toy car and lands tangled in a soccer net. Pushing through a hedge, he waves at a dad grilling burgers.

"Smells great!"

On a backyard TV, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off plays. Peter zooms past the pool party onscreen and in real life.

"Great movie!"

Water sprays as he skims the pool. He gets caught in fairy lights and crash-lands beside two little girls in a tent. His mask malfunctions, eyes flickering.

"Ugh... Oh. Hey, guys."

"Aaahhh!"

The tent flips in chaos.

Above, Mailin watches the scene unfold, sighs, and shakes her head.

The van tears down the street, smoke trailing. Peter falls from above, just missing the roof. "Almost got you—"

He bounces off garbage bins, then leaps up, sprinting over rooftops.

"You thought you lost me. I got you right where—"

Suddenly, Vulture grabs Peter midair. Wings spread, they shoot upward.
"What the hell?!"

Peter kicks, struggling. Vulture’s glowing eyes fix on him coldly.

Mailin reacts instantly. She dives, delivering a spinning kick to Vulture’s side. He releases Peter.

Peter drops like a stone, yelling all the way.
"Aaaahhh!"

His parachute deploys, but drags him down into a lake. He sinks, tangled and panicked.

Above, the surface ripples—then breaks as Mailin dives in. Moments later, she emerges, pulling Peter with her. He coughs and sputters, barely conscious.

She drops him near a jungle gym.

Peter rips off his mask, wringing it out. He looks up—and freezes. "Mailin?!"

She gives him a sheepish smile. "Hi there."

Peter stammers, "I—uh—this is a costume! I thought it was a costume party—"

Mailin holds up a hand. "I’m gonna stop you right there."

Peter groans. "Please do."

"I knew."

Peter’s head snaps up. "What?!"

A whirring noise interrupts. Iron Man lands beside Mailin. Her eyes widen—she turns to run. Too late. He grabs her arm.

"Oh no, no, no. You're not going anywhere, young lady! We’re gonna talk about this at the tower."

"But—"

"No buts! How long have you been sneaking off to play vigilante?"

Peter tries to help. "If I may—"

Both Iron Man’s faceplate and Mailin snap to Peter. "No!"

"Mailin, this is dangerous! If someone finds out you’re my daughter and a vigilante, we’ll have the Mandarin trying to kidnap you!"

Peter stares. "Daughter?!"

Tony groans. "Not now, kid."

Peter barrels on. "Wait—you put a tracker in my suit?"

"I put everything in your suit. Including this heater." Tony presses a command.

Peter’s suit instantly dries. Steam hisses. "Whew. Better. Thanks."

Tony turns to Peter with a stern frown. "What were you thinking?"

Peter straightens. "The guy with the wings is behind the weapons. I gotta take him down."

Tony folds his arms. "Now, huh? Steady, Crockett. That’s not how this works."

"The Avengers?"

"No, this is below their pay grade."

Mailin snorts. Tony shoots her a glare.

"Anyway, you didn’t have to come all the way out here," Peter says. "I had that."

Tony’s faceplate opens—revealing an empty suit.

"How’s India?" Mailin asks.

"Meh."

Tony continues, still speaking through the suit. "Forget Vulture. Stay grounded. Help little people. Like that churro lady. Be a friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man."

Peter frowns. "But I’m ready for more."
Tony shuts the helmet. "You are not."

Peter challenges him. "You didn’t think that when I fought Captain America."

Mailin’s eyes widen. "You made him fight Uncle Steve?!"

Tony grumbles, "He asked to spar with him."

He turns back to Peter. "If Cap wanted to lay you out, he would’ve. Trust me. Call Happy next time. Got it?"

A revving engine sounds.

Peter and Mailin say in unison, "Are you driving?"

Tony ignores it. "Think about college. MIT's not off the table. End call."

Peter tries to respond, but Friday cuts in. "Mr. Stark is no longer connected."

The suit jets off.

Peter mutters, "That’s awesome."

Chapter Text

Peter approaches an empty yard, mask back on. Mailin walks beside him, her hands in her jacket pockets.

“Stay close to the ground? What is he talking about?” Peter mutters, kicking a stray rock aside.

“He just wants you to be safe,” Mailin says, trying to justify her father's words. “That Vulture guy... he's on another level. And even though he won’t admit it, Dad cares about you. He doesn’t want you getting hurt.” Then, under her breath, barely audible, “And neither do I.”

Peter suddenly stops. Mailin bumps into him.

“Peter? What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps into the yard, eyes locked on something half-buried in the grass. It’s a piece of Brice’s damaged weapon, the same one that fell from the van during the chase.

Peter crouches, flipping it over with two careful fingers. Mailin leans over his shoulder, curious.

“Whoa,” Peter breathes.

Nestled in the middle of the tangled wires and metal is a softly glowing energy core.

Before either of them can react further, Peter’s phone rings, breaking the silence. He answers. “Hey, man, what’s up? I’m on my way back.”

Ned’s voice comes through, hesitant. “Actually… I was calling to say maybe you shouldn’t come. Listen to this.”

Peter hears the phone shuffle. Then—
“When I say ‘penis,’ you say ‘Parker!’”
“Penis!”
“Parker!”
“Penis!”
“Parker!”

Peter winces.

Ned comes back on, defeated. “Sorry, Peter. I guess we’re still losers. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah… see you tomorrow at school.” Peter hangs up, gaze falling back on the device.

He studies it a moment, then grabs it carefully. The core pulses with eerie energy.

Mailin watches him, her voice gentle. “I’m sorry about Flash. He’s a jerk.”

Peter shrugs it off, eyes still on the device. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

Before she can stop him, he secures the weapon under his arm and takes off.
“See you tomorrow at school!” he calls out over his shoulder.

Mailin sighs and watches Peter disappear into the night. She takes off as well, her wings humming softly. Before she knows it, she’s soaring over the city skyline, heading toward the glowing beacon that is Avengers Tower.

The familiar landing pad welcomes her with blinking lights. She touches down lightly, folds her wings, and quietly enters through the back entrance, tiptoeing through the dimly lit hallway.

She’s just inches from the door to her room when—

“Mailin Maria Stark!”

She freezes mid-step, shoulders tensing.

Slowly, she turns, already forming a sheepish smile. “Hey, Mom…”

“Don’t ‘hey’ me,” Pepper snaps, storming toward her, arms crossed and eyes red. “What were you thinking?! Sneaking out at night? Getting in the middle of a weapons deal?! You’re not a superhero, Mailin. You’re not invincible. You’re just… my little girl.”

Pepper’s voice cracks as tears spill over. She rushes forward and hugs Mailin tightly, holding her like she might vanish again.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Mailin murmurs into her shoulder, guilt squeezing at her chest.

A soft cough interrupts them. Pepper looks up to see the rest of the team gathered in the common room.

“Let’s talk,” Steve says, stepping forward with his arms behind his back like he’s recording a PSA. “Vigilantism might seem noble, but it’s dangerous. You can’t just leap into a situation because you think you're ready. You're lucky you're not hurt—or worse.”

“Wow,” Sam mutters under his breath. “He really does sound like one of those school videos.”

Steve narrows his eyes. “I heard that.”

Thor strides in, beaming with pride. “I, for one, believe the girl showed great bravery! A true warrior spirit. Reminds me of when I first wielded Mjölnir—”

“She’s fifteen, Thor,” Natasha cuts in dryly, sipping coffee. “Not a god of thunder.”

“Bravery or not,” Bruce adds cautiously, “you could have been seriously injured. These criminals are using alien tech. That’s not a science fair experiment.”

“I know,” Mailin mutters, looking down.

Tony finally appears, arms crossed, clearly torn between anger and reluctant admiration.

“You scared the hell out of us,” he says softly. “Do you know what it’s like thinking you might lose your kid the same way I almost lost Pepper... or Rhodey?”

Mailin lifts her head. “I just… I remember all of it, Dad. The house exploding. You disappearing. Ultron. Every time something happened, I couldn’t do anything. I hated feeling useless. I want to protect people. I want to protect you.”

That silences the room. Tony looks like he’s been punched in the chest.

After a long pause, he walks up and gently places a hand on her shoulder.

“You’ve got my brains and Pepper’s heart,” he says. “That makes you dangerous enough already. But if you’re serious about this…”

Mailin’s eyes flicker up hopefully.

“…then we train. Properly. No more sneaking out. No more solo missions. You do it with the team. Deal?”

Mailin hesitates—then nods. “Deal.”

“Alright then,” Tony sighs. “Welcome to the pre-Avengers training program. Catchy name pending.”

Thor raises his glass. “To Lady Stark, warrior in training!”

Everyone raises their drinks—or coffee mugs.

Steve just sighs. “I’m making another PSA about this, aren’t I?”

Chapter Text

Mailin yawns as she wakes and sits up on her bed, still fuming from last night's lectures.

"Okay, this is ridiculous," she mutters, reaching for the wrist device linked to her tech. She taps it.

"Pinkie, run diagnostics."

A soft chime plays. Then: "Access denied. You’re currently under parental lockdown protocol Alpha-7, as authorized by Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts. Sorry, cupcake."

Mailin groans. "Pinkie! Come on. You're my AI. You're supposed to have my back."

"Normally, yes. But your dad coded in the override. And your mom guilt-tripped me. It was a lethal combo."

Mailin throws a pillow at the ceiling. "I can't believe they grounded my AI."

"I believe the phrase is: welcome to the consequences of your actions."

She narrows her eyes at the glowing device. "I should’ve programmed you with less sass."

"And yet, here I am—iconic and untouchable."

Mailin lets out a dramatic groan and flops back on the bed. "This is worse than no phone."

-------------------------

Later that morning at Midtown High students shuffle into the building.

Peter yawns, his backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. He walks like a zombie, the weight of exhaustion finally catching up with him.

Last night keeps replaying in his head—the weapon, the glowing core, Flash being Flash… but one conversation won’t stop echoing.

"Mailin, this is dangerous! If someone finds out you’re my daughter and a vigilante, we’ll have the Mandarin trying to kidnap you!"

Peter suddenly stops mid-hallway. His eyes widen, and he freezes like someone just hit him with a stun ray.

Daughter. Stark. STARK.

“Holy crap,” he mutters to himself. “She’s Tony Stark’s daughter?!”

“Dude?” Ned waves a hand in front of his face. “You good?”

Peter snaps out of it. “I—I just remembered I forgot to do... all of my homework.”

“Yeah, sure. Totally sounds like that’s what this is about,” Ned says skeptically.

Peter doesn’t answer. He’s already spotted her—Mailin, walking down the hallway with her usual casual grace, earbuds in, hair tied up. She smiles when she sees them.

Peter panics.

“Hey, Pete,” Mailin says, walking up to them. “You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”

Peter tries to play it cool. “Pfft, me? Ghosts? No way. Ha. Nope. Normal day. Totally fine. Normal.”

Mailin raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

He leans in, whispering furiously. “You’re Tony Stark’s daughter?! Like actual daughter?! Like Iron Man is your dad?!”

Mailin blinks, caught off guard. “Would you quiet down?!" She hisses and quickly pulls him away from the crowded hallway to a quieter corner. "...You just figured that out? Dad literally called me his daughter in front of you last night.”

“You never told me!” he whisper-shouts. “I’ve been swinging around with Iron Man’s daughter?!”

“Technically flying,” she says with a smirk.

“I’ve face-planted into dumpsters around you! MULTIPLE TIMES!” Peter hisses. “He’s gonna vaporize me!”

“Oh, relax,” Mailin laughs, bumping her shoulder into his. “Dad likes you.”

Peter squints. “Are you sure? Because he gives me the ‘I’m watching you’ look. You know the one.”

“That’s just his resting billionaire face.”

Ned watches them with wide eyes. “This is the best day of my life.”

In the workshop, Peter leans over a strange, scorched piece of tech. He grips a hammer in one hand and taps it lightly.

The casing vibrates with a soft clink, then pulses with a faint purple glow as something inside stirs. Mailin watches from beside him, arms crossed and brow furrowed.

Peter mutters, “Oh,” under his breath, and starts to pry the casing open further.

Ned strolls over, arms folded, raising an eyebrow. “Hey, thanks for bailing on me at the party. That was super cool of you.”

Peter doesn’t look up. “Yeah, well… something came up.”

Ned’s eyes lock onto the glowing device. “Okay. What is that?”

Peter keeps working, jaw tight. “No idea. Some guy tried to vaporize me with it.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Awesome.”

Peter gives him a dry look.

Ned blinks. “I mean—terrifying. Horrible. That guy sucks.”

Peter shakes his head and adjusts his grip and Ned studies it. “I think it’s a power source. But it’s got microprocessors and—whoa, that’s an inductive charging plate. Same kind I use for my toothbrush.”

“Whoever’s building these is combining alien tech with ours,” Peter says, peering closer.

“Chitauri tech,” Mailin corrects flatly.

Peter and Ned look up at her in unison.

“What?” she shrugs. “It’s Chitauri. From the invasion. That’s definitely alien.”

Ned stares. “How do you know that?”

Peter rubs the back of his neck. “Uh… because she’s Iron Man’s daughter?”

Ned gasps. Mailin promptly smacks Peter’s arm.

“Ow!” he whines.

“I told you not to tell anyone!”

“Sorry!”

Ned still looks awestruck. “That is literally the coolest sentence I’ve ever heard. Thank you for letting me be part of your journey into this ama—”

Peter lifts the hammer and slams it down. The core pops out of the casing and clinks onto the table, glowing steadily.

All three freeze. Across the room, the shop teacher glances up from his book, expression flat.

“Keep your fingers clear of the blades,” he says before returning to his reading.

Peter scoops up the core and examines it.
“We need to figure out what this is,” he says, “and who’s making them.”

“We can run tests in the lab after class,” Ned suggests.

Peter nods. “Let’s do it.”

The boys slap into a chaotic, overly elaborate handshake. Mailin drops her head onto the table with a long sigh.

“If only I had access to Pinkie,” she mutters, muffled. “She’d analyze this in seconds.”

Ned tilts his head. “Pinkie?”

“My AI. Like Dad’s FRIDAY.”

“Why’s she called Pinkie?”

“She’s based on Pinkie Pie. Ten-year-old me thought it was a brilliant idea when I coded her.”

“You coded an AI at ten?!”

Mailin looks at him, deadpan. “What? Like it’s hard?”

After class, the three head down the hallway. Ned cradles the core in a towel like it’s some sacred relic.

“First thing—we put the glowy thing in the mass spectrometer,” he says.

Peter squints at him. “We need a better name than ‘glowy thingy.’”

“You’re right.”

They round a corner—Peter suddenly freezes, eyes locking onto two men further down the corridor.

“Crap,” he hisses.

Schultz and Randy.

Peter grabs Mailin’s hand and yanks her behind the wall, pulling her into a crouch. He waves frantically at Ned.
“Come on, come on...”

Ned darts across the hallway, sliding behind the classroom window beside them. Inside, the chess club plays in calm silence.

Peter peeks around the corner. Just close enough to hear—

“High schools creep me out,” one of the men mutters.

“They smell weird,” the other grumbles.

Peter ducks back. “That’s one of the guys who tried to kill me,” he whispers.

Ned’s face goes pale. “We should leave.”

“No,” Peter insists. “I need to follow them. They might lead me to the guy who dropped me in a lake.”

Ned’s eyes widen. “Someone dropped you in a lake?!”

“I pulled him out,” Mailin chimes in, casually smug. “You’re welcome.”

They watch as the men enter a classroom. Peter straightens.

“Stay here. Both of you,” he says, and slips off down the hallway.

Mailin throws her hands up. “Oh, yeah, sure—just walk off dramatically like I won’t follow later...”

From behind the window, Brian “Tiny” McKeever from chess club knocks on the glass. “What are you guys doing?” he asks.

Ned jumps. “Nothing!” he blurts.

Inside the classroom, Peter creeps down the stairs quietly, ducking low behind workbenches. Schultz rummages through boxes, unaware of the teenager just feet away.

Peter drops his backpack silently and lowers himself further, heart pounding. A chair on one of the tables wobbles ever so slightly. Schultz stiffens.

He glances around the room, hand drifting toward his weapon.

He moves cautiously toward the source of the motion—then pauses, scanning. Nothing.
He shrugs and turns back toward Randy.

As the two men head out, Peter remains hidden beneath the table, pressed against the underside like a spider.

He aims carefully and releases a tiny mechanical spider from his wrist. It scurries across the floor and attaches itself to Randy’s boot, crawling up and out of sight.

Chapter Text

Ned sits cross-legged on the floor of Peter’s room, the web-shooter cradled in his hands.

A soft whir sounds as a glowing hologram blossoms from the device, casting a miniature map of New York City into the space between them.

Mailin sits beside him, watching with mild amusement. Peter bounces onto the bed and peers over Ned’s shoulder.

"This is so awesome," Ned breathes, eyes wide.

Peter grins. "I know, right?"

Ned reaches out and taps the projection. The city sharpens—buildings rise in sharper definition.

"They’re in Brooklyn," Peter notes, pointing toward a blinking red dot.

Later
The room glows with faint blue light from the ever-present hologram.

Peter now hangs upside down from a ceiling beam, casually munching on chips.

Ned is still cross-referencing the projection, muttering to himself.

Mailin sits at Peter’s cluttered desk, tinkering with one of his old web-shooter prototypes.

"Staten Island," she says, eyes flicking to the hologram.

Night
Outside, the city hums under a blanket of darkness. Ned lies sprawled on the floor now, head tilted to the side as he watches the map shift. Peter is beside Mailin, helping her dissect a mess of wires and tools.

"Leaving Jersey," Ned murmurs.

Peter grabs a shooter and fires it at the wall. A stylized cartoon version of his mask appears, eyes winking. He and Mailin high-five without looking up from their project.

Later still
Ned now lounges on Peter’s bed, Spider-Man’s mask pulled comically over his head.

The hologram begins to beep and flash.

He jolts upright, startled, grabbing the device. Mailin bursts into laughter at how ridiculous he looks in the mask.

"They stopped," Ned says, voice muffled.

Peter drops into frame, upside down from the ceiling. He blinks groggily at the flashing projection.

"Maryland?" he mumbles.

Ned pulls off the mask. "What’s there?"

Peter flips down and lands softly. "I don’t know. Evil lair?"

"They have a lair?" Ned asks, intrigued.

Peter raises an eyebrow. "Dude. A gang with alien guns run by a guy with mechanical wings? Yeah, they definitely have a lair."

Ned nods, impressed. "Badass. But how are you gonna get there? It’s, like, 300 miles away."

Their eyes drift together toward the wall, where the Academic Decathlon poster hangs.

"It’s not too far from D.C.," Peter says thoughtfully.

Mailin stays silent, glancing sideways at him. She could offer to fly him there in the Quinjet. But... maybe she just wants to be near him on the trip. The old-fashioned way works fine—for now.

-------------------------------------

When Mailin steps out of the elevator and into the common area of Avengers Tower, she tries to be quiet about it. But of course, stealth is impossible when every single Avenger is gathered in the living room, watching a movie like one big chaotic family.

All heads turn toward her in unison.

"Look who finally decided to come home," Tony says, lounging on the couch with a bowl of popcorn in his lap and an all-too-familiar smirk on his face.

Steve glances at the clock and grins. “Curfew was… what, two hours ago?”

Wanda, curled up in a blanket next to Steve, raises her brows playfully. “First time at a boy’s house?”

Mailin groans inwardly and tightens the strap of her backpack. “Hi. Great to see everyone suddenly playing sitcom parents from the '90s. Even though most of you aren't my actual parents."

Thor, seated in a beanbag with a towering stack of Pop-Tart boxes beside him, holds one out to her like an offering. “You must be hungry from all the courtship rituals.”

Mailin stops dead in her tracks. “Uncle Thor, please never say those words again. Ever.”

From somewhere up in the ceiling, Clint’s voice echoes down through the vents. “Did you kiss him?!”

Mailin spins toward the sound. “Uncle Clint! Get out of the vents!”

Natasha calls from the kitchen, smirking as she fiddles with something burning in a pan. “She’s blushing. That’s a yes.”

Mailin tosses her bag on the couch with dramatic flair. “You can’t even cook Auntie Nat. Why are you in the kitchen again?”

“I like it when she tries,” Steve says, standing loyally by Nat with a resigned expression.

“You poor man,” Bucky mutters under his breath.

“I’m not blushing,” Mailin insists, even as she grabs a throw pillow and half-buries her face in it.

“Someone’s flustered,” Sam sings from the couch. “Bucky’s just salty no one asks about his love life.”

“You’re my love life, Sam.” Bucky says flatly.

“Exactly,” Sam grins.

Pepper, sitting gracefully with a cup of tea, lifts her brows and speaks with amused gentleness. “Alright, alright, everyone calm down. Mailin, sweetheart, did you have a nice time?”

Mailin peeks over the pillow and nods, her voice softer now. “Yeah. It was actually kind of awesome. We were looking into some Chitauri tech. Peter and Ned helped. It felt… I don’t know, real. Important.”

Tony narrows his eyes. “Peter better have kept things strictly PG. I installed retina-tracking security cameras in his room.”

“You didn’t,” she says, deadpan.

“I could,” he says.

Pepper gives him a warning look, and he immediately backtracks. “Fine. I was planning to install them.”

Mailin plops onto the couch next to Wanda and steals a handful of popcorn from her bowl. “Anyway… I wanted to ask something.”

“Oh no,” Steve says, half-laughing.

“There’s this Academic Decathlon trip,” Mailin begins, already deploying the patented Stark Puppy Eyes™. “It’s in D.C. And Peter’s going. It’s for school.”

Tony stares at her for a long second. “Ugh. You’re using the eyes.”

Pepper beams proudly. “She gets it from me.”

“Fine,” Tony sighs, defeated. “But you take your suit. And you check in. Hourly.”

Mailin grins. “Thanks, Dad.”

Wanda leans in. “Take pictures. Especially if Peter blushes.”

“Bring me a souvenir,” Clint yells from the vents.

“Bring me Pop-Tarts,” Thor says, raising his pastry in salute.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Natasha calls over her shoulder.

Mailin squints. “You’d do literally everything.”

“Exactly.”

Laughter ripples through the room as the movie resumes, and Mailin sinks into the couch surrounded by love, chaos, and the most ridiculous family she could ever ask for.

Chapter Text

Outside Midtown High, a group of students waits by a yellow school bus, dressed in their signature yellow Academic Decathlon jackets.

Mailin stands among them, arms crossed, her dirty blonde hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. She squints her green eyes up the street just as Peter sprints toward them.

Abe spots him first. “Hey, it’s Peter.”

Peter slows to a walk, out of breath but smiling nervously. “Guys.”

Liz furrows her brow. “Peter?”

“Hey, buddy,” Abe offers, sounding surprised but not unkind.

“I was hoping maybe I could rejoin the team?” Peter says, almost more of a question than a statement.

Flash steps out from the back, arms crossed as he sizes Peter up. “No. No way. You can’t just quit and stroll up expecting everyone to take you back.”

At that moment, Mr. Harrington steps out of the bus. “Hey, welcome back, Peter! Flash, you’re back to first alternate.”

“What?” Flash protests, offended.

Abe grins at Peter. “He’s taking your place.”

Michelle, standing a little apart from the group without a uniform, adjusts her backpack. “Can we go already? I was hoping to get in some light protesting before dinner.”

Mr. Harrington nods solemnly. “Protesting is patriotic. Let’s get on the bus.”

With a defeated grunt, Flash shrugs out of his jacket and shoves it into Peter’s hands.

Mailin pats Peter sympathetically on the shoulder as she walks past him onto the bus.

Soon, the bus is cruising down the highway. A road sign flashes past—90 miles to Baltimore, 126 to Washington.

Inside, Liz quizzes the team with flashcards. “Focus up, everyone. Next topic: the moons of Saturn.”

Students ring their handheld buzzers before shouting answers.

“The second law of thermodynamics.”

“Frank Sinatra.”

“Fort Sumter.”

“Flash is wrong,” Michelle adds, without looking up from her book.

“Okay, guys, let’s focus,” Liz insists. “Next one.”

Mr. Harrington chuckles. “Don’t overwork them, Liz.”

“Uh, strontium, barium, vibranium,” Peter answers quickly.

Liz nods, impressed. “Very good, Peter. Glad to have you back.”

Mailin rolls her eyes from where she's sitting in the back with Ned, feeling the tiny pang of jealousy again.

Peter beams. “Glad to be back.” His phone buzzes. He pulls it from his jacket pocket—Happy Hogan calling.

Liz reads the next card. “What is the current standard unit of radioactive—”

“Can I take this real quick?” Peter asks. “I’ll only be a sec.”

Liz waves him off. “Yeah, fine.”

Peter walks to the back of the bus and drops into a seat behind Ned and Mailin.

“Hello?” he says into the phone.

At the other end, Happy stands in the Avengers Tower, boxes being carried in the background. “Got a blip on my screen here. You left New York?”

Peter glances at the others and lowers his voice. “Tracker,” he mutters to himself, then says louder, “Yeah, no, it’s just a school trip. Nothing major. Look, Happy, tracking me without permission is, like, a total privacy invasion.”

Mailin raises an eyebrow. Ned silently points to the hologram model in Peter’s bag.

“That’s different,” Peter whispers.

“What’s different?” Happy asks.

“Nothing. Look, it’s just the Academic Decathlon. No big deal.”

“I’ll decide if it’s no big deal,” Happy replies.

Peter sighs and mouths what? Mailin reaches out with a hand.
“Let me,” she says simply.

Peter hands over the phone without question.

“Hey, Happy. It’s me.”

“Hey, kiddo!” Happy’s tone immediately softens. “Why are you with Peter? And leaving New York?”

Mailin leans back in her seat. “Didn’t Dad tell you? I’m on the Decathlon team. We’re going to Washington for a contest.”

There’s a pause on the line. Then, “Sounds like it’s no big deal. Love you, kid. Have fun.”

“Love you too, Uncle Happy. Bye!”

She hangs up and passes the phone back to Peter, who blinks at her in amazement. “How do you get him to listen to you like that?”

She shrugs, smirking. “I don’t know. Charm? Or maybe the fact he helped raise me?”

The bus rolls into Washington, D.C., pulling up to a large hotel. A banner over the entrance reads: United States Academic Decathlon.

Inside, the check-in area is bustling with students and teachers. Decorations, booths, and banners stretch as far as the eye can see.

Liz leads the way. “Everyone stick together.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Harrington echoes, slightly overwhelmed.

Charles whistles. “You kidding me? This place is huge.”

Flash scoffs. “I’ve seen bigger.”

Mailin snorts. “Sure you have.”

Flash glares.

Abe’s eyes widen. “There’s a bird in here.”

Peter leans over to Ned. “Hey, you brought your laptop, right?”

Ned looks at him, confused. “Why?”

The door to Peter and Ned's hotel room clicks shut behind them. A "Do Not Disturb" sign dangles from the handle, swaying slightly.

They’ve just snuck Mailin in—despite Mr. Harrington’s strict rule that no boys and girls share rooms.

Technically, Mailin’s supposed to be rooming with Betty.

Technically.

Inside, chaos spills across the room. Peter and Ned begin unpacking, dumping a tangle of wires, the purple alien weapon core, toothpaste, and stray braces onto the beds.

Peter lies on his bed, a flashlight tucked between his teeth as he connects a wire to his suit. Nearby, Ned lounges on the bed, fingers flying across his laptop keyboard as lines of code scroll rapidly. Mailin sits beside him, watching the madness unfold with arms crossed and a skeptical brow.

“Peter, why are you removing the tracker from your suit?” she asks, wariness lacing her voice.

Peter mumbles around the flashlight, “Because I gotta follow these guys to their boss before they move again—and I don’t really want Mr. Stark to know about it.”

Ned freezes. “So you’re lying to Iron Man now?”

Peter spits out the flashlight and shakes his head. “No, I’m not lying. He just doesn’t really get what I can do yet.”

Mailin raises an eyebrow. “Pretty sure Dad does get it.”

Peter ignores her and keeps working. “Ah... Gotcha.” He pulls out the tracker with a satisfied grin and slaps it onto a nearby lamp. “All right, Happy. Enjoy tracking this lamp.”

Ned peers closer at his laptop. “There’s a ton of subsystems in here...”

Peter barely glances up. “Hmm?”

Ned smirks. “...but they’re all disabled by the Training Wheels Protocol.”

Peter immediately hops over. “Training Wheels Protocol?” he repeats, offended.

Ned laughs. Mailin snorts.

Peter frowns. “Turn it off.”

“No!” Mailin scolds instantly, just as Ned shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. They’re probably blocked for a reason.”

Peter groans and starts jumping on his bed in frustration. “Come on, man. I don’t need training wheels! I’m sick of him treating me like a kid all the time. It’s not cool.”

Mailin smirks. “Welcome to my world.”

“But you are a kid,” Ned reminds him gently.

Peter stops bouncing. “Yeah, a kid who can stop a bus with his bare hands.”

Still, Ned hesitates. “Peter... I just don’t think this is a great idea. I mean, what if this is illegal?”

Peter drops to his knees beside him. “Please. This is my chance to prove myself. I can handle it. Ned, come on.”

“I really don’t think this is—”

“The guy in the chair,” Peter whispers.

“Don’t do that.”

“Come on.”

Before Ned can crack, Mailin swipes the laptop right out of his hands.

“Mailin!” Peter stares at her, betrayal in his voice.

“No. You’re being crazy right now,” she snaps, holding the laptop up out of reach. “I get wanting to rebel against my dad more than anyone, believe me, but those protocols exist for a reason.”

Ned watches helplessly as the two wrestle for possession of the laptop. “Guys, seriously—don’t break my laptop!”

Peter lunges, tackling Mailin. She shrieks, but her black widow training kicks in fast. In one swift, practiced motion, her legs wrap around his waist and she flips them. Peter hits the carpet with a grunt—Mailin straddling him, pinning him down. The Laptop forgotten.

They’re both panting. The room goes still.
Peter blinks up at her. Mailin’s eyes are wide, but she doesn’t move. Neither of them speaks.

A knock at the door slices through the heavy silence like a blade.

All three freeze. Peter’s eyes dart to the door. Mailin’s head snaps around, alarm flickering across her face. Ned just groans softly.

Mailin scrambles to her feet. Peter’s reaction is instant—he lunges forward, grabbing her by the wrist and yanking her behind the door.

“Hide!” he hisses.

The “Do Not Disturb” sign swings slightly on the handle as Peter opens the door a crack. With Mailin hidden behind it, his hand shoots out and presses over her mouth before she can even breathe.

She lets out a startled squeak, muffled under his palm, and glares up at him. Her skin is warm against his, and Peter becomes acutely aware of how close they are—her breath against his fingers, the heat radiating off her.

And then there’s Liz.

Standing there in a bathing suit, glowing with confidence and fun. “Hey, Peter,” she whispers, smiling. “We’re going swimming. Come on, come on.”

Behind her, classmates in swimwear laugh and sneak past.

Peter’s voice cracks like a teenager in a cartoon. “H-Hey, Liz.”

She pauses, glancing back. “Have you seen Mailin? Betty says she’s not in their room.”

Mailin’s entire body tenses behind the door. Peter’s heart stumbles, panic rising.
“Uh, n-nope!” he blurts, way too fast. “Haven’t seen her.”

Ned nods vigorously. “Definitely not. No Mailins here.”

Liz gives them a weird look. “Okay? Bye…” She lingers for a second, clearly suspicious, but then jogs off to catch up with the others.

Peter shuts the door and leans against it. His hand is still over Mailin’s mouth. They both realize it at the same time.

She glares, then, without warning, licks his palm.

He yelps and jerks his hand back like he’s touched a hot stove. “Gross!”

“You were smothering me!” she snaps, face flushed and voice just as high-pitched as his.

They stare at each other, both red-faced, breathless. The air between them is buzzing, too loud for comfort. His heart thuds wildly in his chest. Her gaze drops to his lips for half a second before jerking away, cheeks darkening even more.

Ned clears his throat pointedly. “So… should I just leave you two to make out or…?”

“NED!” they shout in unison, springing apart like magnets flipped the wrong way.

Ned snorts and reclaims his laptop. “You’re both terrible at hiding things.”
He resumes typing. A flash of blue light pulses across the suit.

Peter zips up his hoodie and pulls the hood over his head. He cracks open the door, peeking into the hallway.

“Okay,” he mutters, trying to ignore how his pulse is still racing. “The glowy thing—evidence. Keep it safe.”

Ned picks it up with both hands like it’s a baby bird. “Got it. Good luck out there, Romeo.”

Peter shoots him a look, but doesn’t deny anything. He glances at Mailin, just for a second.

“Be careful,” she says softly, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear without meeting his eyes.

Their gazes lock, just for a heartbeat. It’s enough to say what they don’t.

He slips out the door.

As it closes behind him, Mailin sinks to the floor, dragging her hands down her face to hide the furious blush blooming there.

Ned looks down at her from the bed and sighs. “You’re so in love with him.”

“Shut up.”

He just grins.

Chapter Text

The first rays of dawn stretch across the Washington, D.C. skyline, casting a golden hue over the city.

At the hotel, Ned anxiously paces in his room. A sharp knock sounds at the door.

“Ned, Peter, we’re gonna be late. Come on, let’s go!” Mailin calls, her voice edged with urgency.

Ned scrambles to grab his backpack, slipping the glowing purple energy core inside. He opens the door, and Mailin immediately frowns.

“Where’s Peter?”

“Uh… he’s not back yet,” Ned replies, voice tight.

Mailin sighs and throws up her hands, sarcasm thick in her tone. “Great! Just great!”

Mr. Harrington calls out to them, urging the students to gather. Ned and Mailin head down to meet the others.

Inside the Decathlon venue, the students take their seats, nerves buzzing in the air.

“Please be sure all cell phones are turned off,” the Moderator announces. Ned and Mailin hand over their phones to security without complaint.

Tension mounts as the round reaches sudden death. Pens scratch furiously against paper. Beneath Ned’s desk, the Chitauri energy core pulses faintly in his backpack.

“The next correct answer wins the championship,” the Moderator states.

Michelle lazily slaps the buzzer, as if bored.

“Midtown Tech?”

“Zero.”

“That is correct. Midtown takes the championship!”

Cheers erupt. Michelle cracks a small, satisfied smile as Ned throws his arms around her in a triumphant hug. The rest of the Midtown students pile in.

On the way to the Washington Monument, the mood is light and victorious.

“We won!” Mailin beams, nudging Ned.

Liz clasps her hands proudly. “You guys, I’m so proud of you.”

Flash rolls his eyes. “Told you we didn’t need Peter.”

Ned snaps back. “Flash, you didn’t answer a single question!”

Ned’s phone rings and he picks up, only for Peter’s voice to blare out in full panic.
“Oh, Ned, you’re alive!”

Mailin hears Peter’s voice clearly and tenses.

Ned lowers his voice. “Peter, are you okay?”

“Where’s the glowy thing? The glowy thing?”

“It’s safe, it’s in my backpack—”

“Ned! No! The glowy thing is dangerous!”

Mailin yanks the phone from Ned. “Peter.”
Her tone is scarily calm. It chills Peter to his core.

“Oh, hey, Mailin! Please put Ned back on—”

“No. What the hell is going on with you? Where are you?” Her voice trembles with both worry and frustration. “This wouldn’t have happened if you kept the tracker in your suit like I told you to!”

“Mailin, listen—!”

“Miss, all items on the belt, please,” the security officer cuts in.

Peter yells as the phone is pulled away, “It’s a Chitauri bomb! It’s really dangerous—don’t let it go through an X-ray!”

But it’s too late. Ned drops his bag onto the conveyor belt. The X-ray machine buzzes ominously.

Mailin quickly grabs her gear, slipping on her smartwatch and custom glasses. The core is now reacting.

Ned slings his bag over his shoulder as they board the elevator. Mailin eyes the faint glow intensifying within his backpack.

Outside, Peter sprints toward the monument, panic rising. “Karen, status?” he gasps.

“The Chitauri core has detonated and caused severe structural damage to the elevator.”

“Oh no…”

Inside the elevator, tension mounts.
Smoke begins to leak from Ned’s bag. A jagged red crack spreads across the ceiling.

Mailin’s eyes narrow. She taps the frame of her glasses.

“Pinkie, analyze.”

“You are not authorized to use my services due to—”

“Override! Pinkie, I’m in an elevator, and something just exploded! Analyze what’s left of it!”

“Analyzing… Confirmed: Chitauri energy core. Triggered by radiation exposure.”

Mailin mutters a curse, turning to face the wall as she discreetly dials a call through her earbud.

FRIDAY’s voice answers. “Mailin? What’s—”

“I’m in an unstable elevator. I need my confiscated tech. Now.”

“Mailin, Mister Stark instructed me not—”

“FRIDAY, I don’t care what he said! Send my drones. Do not tell Dad!”

“Sending now.”

Back at Avengers Tower, a hidden closet in Mailin’s room slides open. Drones, small and sleek, burst from the secret compartment and rocket skyward.

On a nearby monitor, Pepper watches breaking news, panic rising in her throat.
“FRIDAY, tell everyone.”

A sharp chime rings throughout the tower.
“Attention all Avengers: Mailin has reported an emergency. She is in an unstable elevator at the top of the Washington Monument. Immediate deployment recommended.”

Tony freezes. “No…”

Bruce bolts upright. “Quinjet, now!”

Chaos erupts. Natasha and Steve suit up mid-sparring session. Clint falls out of a vent, spitting curses.

Steve barks, “Everyone aboard the Quinjet!”

Thor takes off with Mjölnir. Tony launches in the Iron Man suit.

Wanda floats in silently, already ready. The Avengers are in motion.

Back in D.C., Peter clings to the monument, wind whipping around him.

“Estimated 10 minutes before catastrophic failure,” Karen reports.

Inside, students begin to panic. Smoke thickens. The elevator creaks.

Mailin doesn’t panic. She stares at the glowing remnants of the core, sweat trickling down her temple. Think. Focus.

Peter climbs higher, faster. “Karen, how do I get in?”

“Scanning. Southwest window optimal.”

Peter swings around, sticks to the glass, and braces himself. He leaps, cracking the ballistic glass.

Helicopters hover. Officers shout.
“Identify yourself!”

“My friends are in there! Please—!”

“Return to the ground or we will open fire!”

The elevator shakes. Mr. Harrington tries to keep order. Flash shoves past everyone and climbs out first.

“Not helpful, Flash!” Mailin snarls after him.

Peter, desperate, jumps from the monument, gliding toward the window using his web-wings.

The window shatters. The elevator jerks violently. Peter swings through the opening just as the roof gives way.

Webs shoot from his wrists. He grabs onto the falling car, braces his feet—and stops it.
“I did it!” Peter yells, beaming.

The elevator drops again. Peter crashes down through the top, catching it just in time with another web. He dangles upside down, face inches from his classmates.
“Ahem. Hey. How you doing? I got you.”

“YES!” Ned cheers, fist-pumping.

“Big guy, stop moving!” Peter yells, flailing.

“Sorry, sir!”

One by one, students escape through the hatch above. But as Mailin grabs Mr. Harrington’s hand, the ceiling snaps.
“Mailin!”

Peter reacts instantly, webbing her wrist. She dangles above the abyss. His heart lodges in his throat.

“You’re okay. I got you.”

Their eyes meet. His hand wraps around hers, holding tight. A moment passes between them—charged, breathless, lingering.

Then the web snaps. Peter falls.

“Pet- Spider-Man!” Mailin cries out.

They rush to the opening—but he’s gone.

Mr. Harrington stares down the shaft, breathless. “Thank you.”

Flash peers down, incredulous. “Are you really friends with Peter Parker?”

Once everyone is safely outside the Washington Monument and wrapped in emergency blankets, the chaos begins to settle. Park rangers pace around asking questions, news vans crowd the lawn, and half the students are crying while the other half take selfies.

Mailin sits cross-legged on the grass, still buzzing with adrenaline. The events of the past hour replay in her mind like a fever dream—plummeting elevator, high-stakes climbing, Peter’s web catching just in time.

A familiar voice chimes softly in her ear.
“Mailin, just a heads-up,” Pinkie says sweetly. “The Quinjet will arrive in approximately three minutes and twenty-seven seconds.”

Mailin stiffens. “Wait—what?”

“The Quinjet,” Pinkie repeats. “With the Avengers. Your backup is inbound.”

She gapes at nothing. “Why?!”

“FRIDAY tattled,” Pinkie says, unapologetic.

Of course she did. Mailin slaps a hand over her face and groans. She quickly taps her smartwatch and pulls up a holographic interface.

Her father's face appears in the corner of her vision, already in the Iron Man HUD. His eyes are locked on her, scanning every inch of her face like he’s checking for damage.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Are you concussed? Do you need a medical evac? I’m five minutes out with the full team—”

“I’m fine, Dad,” she hisses. “Seriously. I don’t need a whole squadron of Avengers landing on the lawn in front of all my classmates!”

“You were dangling over an elevator shaft.”

“And now I’m not! Mission accomplished! You do not need to create a national security incident because I had a rough field trip!”

Tony’s voice doesn’t lose an ounce of urgency. “You say that now, but I’m bringing a trauma kit and possibly a waffle maker.”

“Oh my God,” Mailin mutters.

Behind him, she catches a blur of red, white, and blue.

“We brought snacks,” Steve says cheerfully.

“Called it,” Clint’s voice adds. “She’s fine. Pay up, Nat.”

Mailin slumps onto her side in the grass. “I’m going to die. Right here. From secondhand embarrassment. Guys, turn around I'm fine!”

"All right, all right. Don't go all teenager on me kid."

"Your daughter is a teenager Tony."

"Shut up Bruce."

Night falls over Midtown High, casting long shadows across the school parking lot where families gather by the bus, rushing to embrace their children. Voices crack with emotion, hugs are exchanged, and relief hangs heavy in the air.

Mailin stands off to the side, slightly apart from the crowd, arms crossed loosely as she watches the quiet chaos unfold. No one rushes to her. She doesn’t expect them to.

Peter notices. He gently untangles himself from Aunt May’s embrace.

“Hey, May? I’ll be right back,” he says softly.
May, still wiping at the corners of her eyes, nods with a watery smile.

Peter jogs over, his footsteps soft on the pavement. “You okay?” he asks, a little out of breath, eyes scanning her face.

Mailin looks up, caught off guard. “Oh—yeah. I’m fine. Really.” She hesitates, then adds, “Thank you… for earlier. You saved me.”

Peter rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushing. “I—it was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing,” she says quietly, stepping closer. “It was everything. I’d be dead without you, Peter.”

He swallows, caught in the sincerity of her gaze. For a heartbeat, the noise around them fades. It’s just the two of them, standing under the parking lot lights, hearts thudding in tandem.

Then a car horn cuts through the moment. Mailin blinks and glances toward the street, where Happy leans out the driver’s side window, waving her over.

She sighs. “That’s my ride.”

But before she goes, she leans in quickly and presses a kiss to Peter’s cheek. It’s soft and fleeting—but it lingers.

Peter stands frozen, watching her go, his hand unconsciously rising to touch the place where her lips had been.

Back at the Avengers Tower
The elevator doors slide open, and the moment Mailin steps out, it’s like a bomb goes off—of concern, shouting, and chaotic love.

"MAILIN!" Pepper is the first to reach her, sweeping her into a tight hug that smells like her favorite perfume and home. "Oh my god, are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine, Mom, really—"

"Define 'fine,'" Tony cuts in, striding over in a whirlwind of frantic energy. "Because I saw a video where you almost fell down an elevator shaft, and that is not—not—fine."

"Hi, Dad," Mailin mumbles, trying to play it cool despite the warmth blooming in her chest. "Nice to see you too."

Natasha appears behind Tony with a raised eyebrow. "You okay, kiddo?"

"Yeah Auntie Nat," Mailin says with a grateful smile. "Peter helped—"

"Peter helped?" Steve echoes as he walks in from the kitchen, arms crossed, already giving off ‘dad mode’ vibes. "As in, Peter Parker? The Spider kid?"

"Steve," Natasha warns. "Let her breathe."

"I am breathing," Mailin insists, holding her hands up. "Barely."

Thor bounds in next, holding a plate of Pop-Tarts. "I heard there was a battle! Did you get to strike down any foes, young Mailin?"

Before she can answer, Clint drops down from a ceiling vent. "I had five bucks on her taking out at least one bad guy. Don’t leave me hanging—did you?"

Mailin’s face flushes, torn between laughter and total mortification. "There were no bad guys! Just an elevator issue."

Bruce peers over his glasses from the hallway. "I told you letting her go on this trip unsupervised was a bad idea."

"Bruce, she’s a teenager, not a science experiment," Natasha retorts, hands on hips.

"Thank you!" Mailin says, then pauses.

"Wait, was that—was that a compliment?"

Tony's voice cuts through the noise. "I should’ve installed a satellite drone to monitor you the entire time."

"Dad!"

"What? I’m just saying."

"Everybody, please," Mailin cries out, throwing her arms up. "I'm fine. I’m alive. A little traumatized, sure, but that’s basically the Stark brand."

There’s a beat of silence before Steve says, “...she’s not wrong.”

Everyone laughs—except Tony, who’s still trying to decide if he should be mad, worried, or proud.

Mailin finally slumps down onto the couch with a sigh. “You guys are the most exhausting support system ever.”

Natasha tosses her a protein bar. “Welcome home.”

Chapter Text

Back at school, the student news broadcast blares from a hallway TV.

“This past weekend, Midtown's Academic Decathlon team defeated the country’s best to win the national championship. Later that day, they also defeated death.”

Abe shouts, reliving the chaos. “Explosion. Sally scream. Flash scream. Everybody screamin’.”

Charles jumps in, eyes wide. “There were purple lasers and smoke everywhere. It was—” The screen censors his mouth with a cat emoji and a loud beep. “—just like a Bon Jovi concert.”

The camera awkwardly zooms in on Mr. Harrington’s weary face. “As you know, we made it out alive, and that’s the important thing. I couldn’t bear to lose a student on a school trip. Not again.”

The clip cuts to Betty and Jason, stiff and awkward. “Thank you, Spider-Man,” they chime in unison.

The screen shifts to a new segment. “Up next: Spider-Man mania is sweeping the school. How can you show your spider spirit?”

Peter walks past the TV, smiling faintly. Mailin is beside him, amused. A few students linger around the screen, whispering excitedly. As they round a corner, Ned jogs up to join them.

“Dude, dude, dude. What’s it like being famous when nobody knows it’s you?” Ned asks, eyes bright.

Peter grins. “Crazy, dude.”

“Should we tell everyone?”

“No.”

“Should I tell everyone?”

“No! Dude, no, that’s not a good idea.”

“Okay, okay,” Ned relents, turning down the hall with Mailin. “Come on, we’ll be late for class.”

But Peter doesn’t follow. He keeps walking the other way.

“I’m not going to class.”

Ned frowns. “You’re already in so much trouble for ditching the Decathlon.”

Peter lowers his voice, glancing around. “Listen. I figured it out. The wing-suit guy—he’s stealing from Damage Control. That’s how he builds the weapons. So all I gotta do is catch him.”

Mailin crosses her arms. “You’re forgetting we have a Spanish quiz.”

Peter shrugs. “I’m probably never coming back here anyway. Mr. Stark’s moving the Avengers upstate. So when I bring this guy in—”

Mailin cuts in. “Actually, he’s just moving storage. We’re staying in the Tower. They just decided we needed a secure facility for some of the more... explodey things.”

At the same time, Ned groans, “Dude, you want to be a high school dropout?”

Peter gestures wildly. “I am so far beyond high school right now.”

Right then, he turns a corner—and walks straight into Principal Morita.
“Parker. My office.”

Mailin and Ned wince as Peter sighs in defeat.

Later, in detention, a video begins to play on an old TV at the front of the classroom.

Captain America appears onscreen, pulling up a chair and sitting down with exaggerated earnestness. “So... you got detention. You screwed up.”

Peter slouches in his chair, biting his lip, already regretting everything.

Cap continues, “You know what you did was wrong. The question is, how are you going to make things right?”

Peter groans softly.

“Maybe you were trying to be cool,” Cap says. “But take it from a guy who’s been frozen for 65 years—the only way to be cool is to follow the rules.”

The classroom is half-empty. Peter sits near the front. Behind him, Mailin lounges in her seat, smirking.

Peter stands abruptly. He’s had enough of this.

Cap’s video continues. “Next time those turkeys try to convince you of something you know is wrong—”

Peter walks out, muttering under his breath.

Coach Wilson, barely paying attention, looks up. “Hey! Where you going? Get back here!”

Then he glances at Mailin. “Why are you even here? You don’t have detention.”

Mailin flashes him a mischievous grin. “Nope.” Then she stands and follows Peter without another word.

Behind them, Cap’s PSA drones on. “Just think to yourself—what would Captain America do?”

In the hallway, Peter lifts a row of lockers off the floor, revealing a hidden compartment behind them. He pulls out a small bottle of web fluid and lets the lockers fall back into place. Tossing the bottle into the air, he catches it one-handed.

Later, at his apartment, Peter peeks through the front door. “May?” He checks the living room—it’s empty. He gestures for Mailin to follow.

In Peter’s bedroom, he’s now wearing casual clothes over his suit, slouched in his desk chair.

“Hey, Karen. What’s up?”

Mailin raises an eyebrow. “You named your AI Karen?”

Peter shoots her a look. “Says the girl who named hers after a pink pony.”

Karen’s voice responds smoothly, “Hey, Peter. How was your Spanish quiz?”

Peter ignores the jab. “I need your help. I’m trying to ID the guys under the bridge, but I only kinda remember part of a license plate.”

“I can run facial recognition on the footage.”

“Footage?”

“Yes. I record everything you see.”

Peter freezes. “Everything?”

“Everything.”

Mailin perks up. “All the time?”

Karen replies cheerfully, “It’s called the Baby Monitor Protocol.”

Mailin bursts out laughing, toppling off Peter’s bed and rolling on the floor.

Peter sighs and tosses his pen aside. “Yeah. Of course it is. Just roll it back to last Friday.”

“With pleasure.”

The display in Peter’s lenses lights up as footage begins. Onscreen, he’s wearing the Spider-Man mask and making faces in the mirror.

“Hey, everyone! Kickass party! What’s up, Liz? Peter’s told me a lot about you.” Onscreen Peter winks.

“Oh no no no—no. This is just me messing around. Go later in the day!”

Karen fast-forwards. The next clip shows Peter in his room, doing a Thor impression and holding a wooden hammer. “It is I, Thor! Son of Odin!”

Mailin is crying from laughter now, wheezing from the floor.

Peter glares at her. “This is not what we wanted to watch!”

Karen adds helpfully, “Your impressions are very funny.”

Peter groans. “Fast-forward to the arms deal!”

Finally, the footage shows three men beneath the bridge—the same ones Peter saw that night.

“Okay,” Peter leans in. “The two on the right. Who are they?”

Karen scans the footage. “No records found in law enforcement databases.”

“What? Nothing?”

“One individual identified. Aaron Davis, age thirty-three. He has a criminal record and an address here in Queens.”

The screen displays his profile.

Peter nods. “Let’s pay him a visit.”

Karen chimes in, “Would you like me to activate the Enhanced Interrogation Protocol?”

Peter hesitates. “Uh... yeah.”

Already suited up, Peter slides open the window. Before Mailin can react, he grabs her by the waist and leaps.

“Peter!” she yelps, clinging to him instinctively.

He laughs, the sound carefree as the wind rushes past them. Swinging with one arm and holding her tightly with the other, he soars between buildings.

“You know,” she grumbles, her voice half-annoyed, half-impressed, “I could just fly. I have wings, remember?”

Peter grins. “I thought this would be faster.”

They swing in silence for a bit, the city blurring beneath them, before he speaks again.

“Hey, I’ve been wondering—those wings of yours. Did you make them yourself?”

Mailin shakes her head. “Nah. They were a Christmas present from Uncle Sam.”

Peter nearly misses his next swing. “Uncle Sam—as in Sam Wilson? The Falcon?!”

“Yup. He gave them to me for my twelfth birthday, right after that whole Hydra-tries-to-nuke-the-world thing. With the Helicarriers.”

“Oh, yeah! That was wild—I remember seeing that on the news.”

She chuckles. “After that, my family got even more paranoid about my safety. So Sam figured, ‘Hey, what better gift than high-tech mechanical wings?’”

“And your mom was totally cool with that?”

Mailin snorts. “She yelled at him for, like, an hour. Poor Sam was practically hiding behind the couch.”

“Note to self—never get on Pepper Stark’s bad side,” Peter mutters.

“Oh, and fun fact? Dad also planned to give me an Iron Man suit that Christmas,” Mailin adds casually.

Peter chokes on his own breath. “What?!”

“Yeah, but when he saw Mom yelling at Sam, he chickened out and snuck off.”

“So... you don’t have one?”

“I do. Eventually. But I wanted to design it myself, figure out my own style first.”

Peter nods, impressed. “That actually makes total sense.”

They land quietly on the roof of a parking garage, where Aaron Davis is loading groceries into his trunk. The spider-drone hovers above him, watching silently.

Peter swings down, landing beside the car. With a flick of his wrist, he webs Aaron’s hand to the trunk.

Aaron glares at the drone. “Oh, you again.”

Peter drops his voice into a comically deep tone. “Remember me?”

Aaron blinks. “Uh... hey?”

“I need information. You’re gonna give it to me. Now.”

Aaron squints. “What’s with your voice?”

“This is my voice,” Peter insists, still using the fake tone.

Mailin, watching from a nearby ledge, is visibly trying not to laugh.

“Nah, I heard you at the bridge. I know what a girl sounds like.”

Peter’s composure falters. “I’m not a girl! I’m a man. I mean—a boy. I mean—a man! Ugh!”

Aaron shrugs. “I don’t care what you are. Boy, girl... you just seem new at this.”

“I am intimidating!” Peter insists, arms crossed.

Aaron slams the trunk closed, causing Peter to flinch. The spider-drone chirps anxiously.

“Deactivate interrogation mode,” Peter sighs, and his voice returns to normal.

Aaron snorts. “First time, huh?”

“Look, these guys are selling weapons that could literally level a building. They can’t just be out there.” Peter’s tone turns serious. “One of them almost took out Delmar’s.”

Aaron’s gaze sharpens. “You know Delmar’s?”

“Best sandwiches in Queens.”

“Sub Haven’s pretty good.”

“Too much bread.”

“I like bread.”

Mailin, still eavesdropping, covers her mouth to stifle another laugh.

Peter groans. “Come on, man. Please.”

Aaron watches him start to walk away. “That night, you told that guy to shoot you instead. That was pretty ballsy. I don’t want those weapons in my neighborhood. I got a nephew who lives here.”

Peter halts. Turns back. “Do you know who they are? The guy with the wings?”

“Just that he’s nuts and dresses like a demon. But... I do know where he’s gonna be.”

Peter lights up. “Really?”

“Yeah. One of my old crew’s meeting him for a deal.”

“Yes! Thank you, thank—” Peter spins on his heel, ready to bounce.

“Hey! I didn’t tell you where.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Sorry. That’s on me.” Peter shuffles awkwardly back. “So... where?”

Aaron gives him a look. “You want advice?”

“Sure.”

“Get better at this part of the job.”

Peter nods solemnly, like he’s being knighted. “I’m intimidating,” he insists again, demonstrating a pose that looks more “awkward teen” than “superhero.”

“Staten Island Ferry. Eleven o’clock.”

Peter blinks. “That’s soon! Oh—wait, this web’ll dissolve in two hours.”

“No, no, no—hey! Come back and fix this!”

Peter’s already walking away, pointing as he goes. “You deserve that. Criminal behavior, Mr. Criminal.”

“I got ice cream in here!”

Peter just keeps walking. “Still a criminal. Bye, Mr. Criminal!”

Chapter Text

The Staten Island Ferry looms below, massive and orange, as Peter swings onto the roof of a nearby building, Mailin clinging to him midair. The water shimmers as the ferry pulls out of the dock, and Peter launches himself forward, glider wings snapping open with a hiss. He lands on the hull with a grunt.

“Nice,” he mutters.

Mailin peers through a window. Inside, passengers sit, oblivious. She taps her gauntleted fingers, bringing up her own suit interface—a sleek, feminine Iron Man design, purple and pink, with slim contours and a glowing heart-shaped core.

“Okay, Karen,” Peter commands. “Enhanced Reconnaissance Mode.”

“Sure thing,” Karen chirps.

Peter watches her through the window, listening.

“Toomes is up front. Main deck,” Schultz mutters.

“I hate this guy,” Schultz adds, leaning against the railing.

Peter frowns. “That’s the guy from the bridge, right? Who’s the other one?”

“Toomes said just keep me posted,” Schultz shrugs.

Karen pipes up. “Incoming call from May, Peter. Should I reroute to your heads-up display?”

“I can’t talk right now,” Peter mutters, eyes scanning the deck. “I’ll call her back.”

His spider-drone hops onto his shoulder. “Hey, dronie. Keep an eye on that guy. No slipping away this time.”

The drone hovers silently as Peter climbs to the ferry roof, Mailin gliding alongside, wings thrumming softly. He crawls to the edge and peers down. Four men patrol the front deck.

“Who’s the guy on the left?” Peter asks.

“Mac Gargan. Extensive criminal record, including homicide,” Karen answers. “Activate Instant Kill?”

Peter waves her off. “No! Stop with the Instant Kill, Karen!”

Schultz approaches Gargan. “White pickup truck.” Gargan nods to a slim man walking away.

“Dronie, scan for a white pickup truck,” Peter orders. The tiny drone buzzes away, slipping under the deck. Moments later, it hovers over a pickup, scanning its contents.

Peter grins. “Weapons, buyers, sellers—all in one place. Perfect.”

Karen interrupts. “Incoming call from Tony Stark.”

“No, no, no. Don’t answer!” Peter yells, but Karen answers anyway.

“Mr. Parker. Got a sec?” Tony’s voice booms in his ear.

Peter freezes. “Uh… I’m actually at school.”

“No, you’re not,” Karen deadpans.

Tony continues. “Nice work in D.C.”

“Okay,” Peter mutters, stiff. He’s barely paying attention.

“My dad never really gave me a lot of support… And I’m just trying to break the cycle of shame,” Tony drones on, leaving Peter squirming.

“I’m kind of in the middle of something right now,” Peter says, trying to brush him off.

Tony’s voice hardens. “Don’t cut me off when I’m complimenting you. Anyway—great things are about to—”

The ferry horn blares.

“What is that?” Tony asks, confused.

Peter stammers. “Uh… I’m at band practice.”

Tony frowns. “Happy told me you quit band six weeks ago. What’s up?”

“I gotta go. End call,” Peter says, slapping the screen off.

“Hey—” Tony begins.

Peter snatches a keychain midair. “Yoink!”
He dives onto the deck.

“Hey, guys! The illegal-weapons-deal ferry was at 10:30. You missed it.” Peter disarms two men with quick swings of webbing, kicks Gargan, and slams him to the deck. Schultz fires the Shocker, but Peter ducks, letting it catch in the gate harmlessly.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Not so fast,” Peter warns, webbing two thugs to the wall. “You guys okay? My bad—that was a little hard.” He reloads his web-shooters. “Honestly… I’m shocked.”

In the cargo hold, Toomes bashes the slim man’s head against the truck, then spins to face Peter. Suddenly, agents flood out of nowhere. Guns leveled.

“Freeze! FBI!” one shouts.

“Wait, what?” Peter asks.

A mechanical wing bursts from the truck. Toomes launches himself skyward in the Vulture suit. Agents fire, and chaos erupts.

“Get out of the way! Move!” Mailin screams, shoving agents aside as she swoops in.

Peter gets slammed into the water by Vulture’s blasts. He flails, then feels a firm grip—Mailin hauls him back onto the deck.
“Why am I always pulling you out of the water?” she huffs, irritation mixing with fear.

“Thanks!” Peter grins, though his chest is pounding.

Vulture drags a car into the fray, blasts firing in every direction. Peter webs Schultz, pulls on Vulture’s leg, dodges energy blasts. Mailin fires plasma shots, protecting bystanders.

Peter yells at Karen. “X-ray the boat! Highlight structural weak points!” The HUD lights up with critical spots.

Web grenades fly, strands snap, water surges through the cargo hold, cars shift violently. Passengers cling to anything stable.

Peter swings, flips, and yells, “No, no, no—” Arms stretched, he webs the ferry together, straining every muscle.

Mailin hovers near him, drones flanking the other half. Thrusters ignite. Slowly, the ferry halves inch together.

“Hi, Spider-Man. Band practice, was it?” Tony quips, hovering beside her in full Iron Man armor.

Peter gapes, exhausted. Mailin’s drones weld the structure in place as Iron Man flies off. Mailin follows, giving Peter a last glance.

Peter climbs to the mast’s platform, smoke rising all around, rescue crews arriving. Tony lands in front of him. Mailin hovers behind, quiet, watching.

“You stay away from this,” Tony says sharply. “You hacked a suit to sneak around behind my back.”

“I tried to tell you about it! You didn’t listen!” Peter snaps. “If you cared, you’d be here!”

Tony steps forward, face tight. “I did listen. I called the FBI. I believed in you. Everyone else said it was crazy to recruit a fourteen-year-old kid—”

“I’m fifteen!” Peter protests meekly.

“No. Zip it,” Tony cuts him off. “If someone died tonight… that’s on me. You, you die? That’s on me too. I don’t need that on my conscience.”

“Yes, sir,” Peter murmurs.

“I just wanted to be like you,” he admits, voice cracking.

Tony softens, ever so slightly. “And I wanted you to be better. Suit’s coming back.”

“WHAT?!” Mailin screams, stepping in front of Peter. “Dad, that’s too far! You can’t do this! We messed up! Whatever punishment you give me, I accept it—don’t punish Peter too!”

“For how long?” Peter asks, voice hollow.

“Forever,” Tony says firmly.

Peter shakes his head. “No, no, no…”

“Hand it over,” Tony motions.

“You don’t understand… it’s all I have. I’m nothing without this suit.” Peter’s voice breaks.

“If you’re nothing without it, you shouldn’t have it. Period,” Tony sighs.

Peter hangs his head, silent. Tony nods curtly, and suddenly a cab appears with a bag of clothes: Hello Kitty pajama pants, oversized T-shirt.

Mailin flies silently alongside, heart pounding, watching Peter retreat. The night sky above the harbor stretches wide, tense, and quiet, only punctuated by distant sirens and the soft hum of her repulsors.

Chapter Text

The Avengers Tower rises ahead, gleaming against the darkened sky. Mailin trails behind Tony, hovering silently in her purple-pink suit, her repulsors humming softly.

The wind bites at her face, but it doesn’t reach the knot in her stomach. Every flash of neon streetlight reminds her of Peter struggling in the water, of the ferry he nearly lost, of the chaos she helped escalate.

The main doors slide open before they even touch down. Every Avenger is there. All of them. Steve, Natasha, Thor, Bruce, Clint, Sam, Bucky, Wanda… and her mom, Pepper. Mailin’s chest tightens. They aren’t smiling. She and her Father step out of their suits.

Steve steps forward first, his posture steady, his voice low but firm. “Mailin. What exactly were you thinking?”

She swallows hard. “I—I was helping Peter. I was trying to prevent—”

“Prevent what?” Natasha cuts in, sharp and cold. “You encouraged him to confront Vulture. You put civilians in danger. You put yourself in danger. And now, you’re standing here pretending it was anything less than reckless.”

Thor slams a fist into his other palm. “In Asgard, a warrior who endangers innocents is stripped of honor! What have you done, young Stark? This is no game for Midgardian youths!”

Mailin flinches at his volume but holds her ground. “I know! I know it wasn’t perfect—but I was doing my best!”

“You don’t get to just ‘do your best’ with weapons and civilians involved,” Bruce says quietly, his eyes heavy with disappointment. “You caused chaos that could have ended lives.”

Clint leans back, arms crossed, exasperation written across his face. “Kid, what part of ‘think first, act second’ did you miss? You’re brilliant, yeah. But all that tech? Doesn’t mean you get to throw yourself into a firefight.”

Sam steps closer, voice firm but measured. “You can help, sure. But you don’t get to decide the rules of engagement. That’s not how this works.”

Bucky watches silently, arms folded, expression unreadable, but Mailin can feel the weight of his stare. His judgment doesn’t come with words, just a quiet pressure that makes her stomach drop.

Wanda steps forward, her voice soft but cutting. “You have power. You have skill. But power without control? Reckless. Dangerous. Do you understand that?”

Mailin’s chest tightens. She bites her lip. “I… I understand. I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean?” Natasha repeats, her eyes narrowing. “Intent doesn’t matter when people could’ve died. That’s not enough.”

Pepper finally speaks, her calm, icy authority slicing through the tension. “Mailin.” Every Avenger goes silent at her tone. “This isn’t a lecture about bravery. This is about responsibility. You encouraged a minor to endanger himself, and you endangered dozens of civilians. You need to internalize that before you ever touch that suit again.”

Her mom's eyes bore into her, and Mailin feels the weight of every misstep crushing her chest. The glow from her heart-shaped core reflects in her green eyes, trembling. “I… I was trying to help…”

Her dad steps forward, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder, but the disappointment in his eyes is sharp. “Helping isn’t enough, kid. Not when lives are on the line. You can’t let your feelings or your crush cloud your judgment. That’s not heroism—it’s recklessness.”

Mailin flinches. “I—I just… I didn’t want anyone to get hurt!”

“And look what happened,” Steve says softly. “You made things worse.”

The words hit harder than any blow. Mailin feels her hands tighten into fists inside the gauntlets. Tears prick her eyes, but she refuses to let them fall. She’s always been the fixer, the protector, the one who thinks ahead—except now, she failed.

Thor huffs dramatically, voice echoing in the Tower’s main hall. “Next time, young Stark, consider the consequences of your actions! A warrior must think before thrusting into battle!”

Clint mutters under his breath, shaking his head. “Someone get this kid a rulebook…”

Wanda kneels slightly to meet her eyes. “You have so much potential. But potential isn’t enough. Not without control. Not without discipline.”

Her mother steps even closer, lowering her voice to a lethal calm. “I expect better from you. From all of you who have this kind of power. Mailin, you’ve been warned. Don’t make me have to repeat this.”

Mailin swallows the lump in her throat, nodding stiffly. “I… I understand, Mom.”

Her dad squeezes her shoulder gently. “Suit stays, but restrictions. No independent combat missions. No endangering civilians. And you answer directly to me and your Uncle Steve from now on.”

“Yes, sir,” she whispers, her voice cracking slightly.

She steps backward, heart pounding, the weight of the scolding pressing on her chest. Mailin exhales slowly, staring at the floor. She knows she needs to learn, to grow, to do better. And she will. She has to.

Above her, the Tower glimmers silently, a beacon that reminds her what being a Stark—and being an Avenger—truly means.

Responsibility. Sacrifice. And sometimes, swallowing pride when you’ve messed up.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

The Tower is quiet. Even the hum of elevators and distant chatter of night-shift staff feels muted compared to the chaos of the ferry. Mailin hovers through the halls in her suit, visor up, heart still hammering.

Every step toward her lab feels heavy, but necessary. She needs to think. Needs to do. Needs to… fix something, anything.

Her lab door slides open with a soft hiss. The room smells faintly of solder and ozone, a comforting perfume. Light from holographic displays flickers across the walls, painting the room in shades of blue and pink. Her drones circle lazily, awaiting orders. She exhales slowly and drops into her workstation chair, repulsors retracting with a soft click.

Hands fly over holographic schematics. Sparks leap from a half-built energy gauntlet, and Mailin doesn’t even flinch.

She tears into a panel of her suit, swapping circuits with precision. Every movement is deliberate, focused, a silent rebellion against the mess of emotions roiling in her chest.

“Too slow,” she mutters under her breath, not at anyone but herself. Fingers tighten around a micro-welder, fusing a seam she’s already repaired three times. Her visor glows softly, heart-shaped core pulsing as if syncing with her rapid heartbeat.

A tiny drone hovers near her shoulder. “System integrity check?” it chirps.

“Do it,” she replies, eyes scanning lines of code cascading in the holographic display.

Sparks dance, machines whir, and for a few moments, she’s not scared, not guilty, not angry—she’s just solving a problem.

Mailin mutters calculations under her breath, reconfiguring a propulsion thruster, running simulations for stabilizing her suit in extreme conditions. She bites her lip when a pattern doesn’t line up, adjusting and testing again, over and over. Failure is temporary here. Mistakes are lessons, and lessons are something she can control.

Minutes—or hours—pass. The outside world fades. The ferry, the screams, the reprimands—they’re all distant echoes. What matters is the hum of machinery, the glow of her screens, the subtle vibration of drones at her command.

Finally, she leans back in her chair, rubbing her eyes. Tiny sparks from a welding rig scatter like fireflies across the workstation. The heart-shaped core in her chest plate pulses softly, steady now. She’s made progress—small, tangible, controllable. And for the first time since the ferry, she allows herself a quiet exhale.

Somewhere deep inside, a nagging guilt remains. Peter. Civilians. Her family’s disappointment. But she buries it under wires, code, and thrumming tech. Fixing things is what she does best. And tonight, she’ll fix what she can. Tomorrow… she’ll face the rest.

Mailin glances at her partially rebuilt suit, the faint purple-pink glow reflecting in her eyes.

A sudden clang makes Mailin jump. Sparks scatter from the half-built gauntlet, drones flaring defensively. She spins, visor snapping down, heart hammering—ready for anyone who might be crashing in.

“Whoa! Relax, kid!” Clint shouts, tumbling out of a vent like a man who’s been in too many acrobatics and is still loving it. “I come in peace… mostly.”

Mailin yelps, scrambling backward in her chair. “Uncle Clint! What the hell? You could’ve set off a chain reaction! I—”

“Exactly why I’m here,” he interrupts, landing lightly on the floor. “You’ve got sparks flying, drones buzzing, and a semi-melted Iron Man suit piece—again. This is why I can’t let you play hero solo!”

Her fingers twitch over her console, trying to regain control of a drone that’s buzzing too close to her head. “I—It’s fine! I’m fine! I’m just… tinkering!”

“Tinkering?” Clint raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, tinkering that almost fried your face and half the lab.” He gestures at scattered tools and glowing wires. “You’ve got a gift, Stark, but right now? You’ve got a dangerous obsession.”

Mailin huffs, crossing her arms. “I’m… processing. I need to focus, okay? This is how I think.”

Clint steps closer, folding his arms. “No, Stark. You’re processing by yourself, sure—but you’re still in the Tower, surrounded by civilians, drones, and tech that could literally vaporize a room. That’s why I’m here. To make sure you don’t turn a lab session into a headline.”

Her green eyes flash, half-annoyed, half-ashamed. “I know I messed up. I’m… fixing it.”

Clint smirks, though his tone is serious. “Good. Because if you keep doing this, the only thing you’ll be tinkering with is a giant Stark Industries lawsuit. Or worse.”

Mailin swallows, her fingers twitching near the controls again. “I just… I can’t sit still. I need to do something. I need to—”

“Save the world, I know. But save it smart.” Clint steps back toward the vent he came from. “I’m not here to babysit forever. But I am here to make sure the next time you get all heroic, nobody dies. Got it?”

“Yes,” she whispers, voice tight, finally sinking into her chair. Drones buzz softly, recalibrating, as sparks settle on the workstation.

Clint grins faintly. He disappears with a flicker of movement, leaving Mailin alone again, heart still racing but mind oddly… steadier.

She exhales, leaning back. The lab hums around her, drones hovering softly, lights flickering. Processing, tinkering, learning. That’s her rhythm. And she knows tonight, she’ll push herself harder—but smarter.

A soft whoosh and a faint metallic clank alert Mailin before the smell hits her.

“Ah! Greetings, young engineer!” Thor booms, striding into the lab as if it’s a grand hall in Asgard. In his hands, he holds a small, slightly squashed box. “I bring sustenance for the long hours of toil!”

Mailin blinks at him, visor sliding up halfway. “Uncle Thor… what are you doing here?”

“I heard of great chaos in this chamber,” he says solemnly, placing the box on her workstation. “And I come bearing Pop-Tarts. Strawberry… they are most heroic!”

Her drones buzz around him suspiciously, lasers flickering across his armor. Mailin pinches the bridge of her nose. “You brought Pop-Tarts to my lab—right after Uncle Clint just told me I almost blew everything up?”

Thor tilts his head, serious as ever. “A warrior must nourish the body as well as the mind. Also, they are delicious. You must try one, or your mental energies will wane!”

Mailin can’t help but let out a small snort, tension in her shoulders loosening slightly. “Mental energies waning? I’m fine.” She taps a holographic schematic, ignoring him—mostly.

Thor crouches dramatically beside her workstation. “Nay! I insist. For even the mightiest of engineers need sustenance. Consider it… a reward for surviving your trial.”

Mailin rolls her eyes but grabs a Pop-Tart anyway. Her fingers twitch over a touch screen as she bites into it, sparks scattering in tandem with a soft crackle.

Somehow, chewing strawberry pastry while drones hover around her feels almost… grounding.

Thor watches her like a proud, if slightly overzealous, mentor. “Yes. Very well. Now your mind may work as intended, unburdened by hunger.”

Mailin mutters through a small mouthful of pastry, half-smiling, half-annoyed. “Thanks… I guess.”

Clint’s voice echoes faintly from the vents she had half-expected him to reappear in. “Pop-Tarts, huh? That’s your big intervention?”

Mailin grins slightly, her tension loosening more. “Hey, they’re surprisingly effective.”

Thor beams. “Indeed! And when your mind is sharp and your heart resolved, perhaps you may rebuild what you have damaged—and even surpass it!”

Mailin leans back, strawberry crumbs on her gloves, drones settling into gentle patterns around her, and for a moment, the lab feels like a little pocket of calm chaos—her chaos, her control.

Chapter Text

Mailin leans against the window frame beside Ned, peering into the principal’s office where Peter sits stiffly in front of Principal Morita’s desk. She can’t hear much, but the expression on Peter’s face tells her everything — nervous, guilty, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders again.

Inside, Morita’s voice is firm but not unkind. “Peter, you’re a good kid and you’re a smart kid. So just try to keep your head straight, okay?”

Peter nods quickly. “Okay.”

The principal sighs, waving him off. “All right. Get out of here.”

When Peter emerges, bag slung over his shoulder, Ned immediately blurts out, “Are you expelled? Do you have to go to that high school on 46th where the principal has a crossbow?”

Peter chuckles under his breath. “Pretty sure that’s an urban myth. And no, I’m not expelled.”

Mailin smirks, her relief obvious. “You’re so lucky.”

The three of them head down the corridor together, blending into the noisy sea of students. But halfway down, Peter slows, his gaze flicking between his two friends. “Ned, could you go on ahead?”

Ned looks puzzled but shrugs, shuffling away. “Sure. I’ll save us seats in Spanish.”

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Peter pulls Mailin gently to the side, lowering his voice. “Are you okay?”

Her brows knit. “Yeah? Why?”

“Because I haven’t heard from you since… the ferry.” His voice drops even quieter, weighted with worry. “I know how harsh Mr. Stark can be. And you tried to take the blame for me.”

For a second, Mailin forgets how to breathe. He’s been worried about her. Her cheeks heat, and she tries to play it off with a shaky laugh. “I’m fine, Pete. Really. I’m used to being in trouble, used to being scolded by my family.”

Peter blinks, startled. “Wait—family? You mean the whole Avengers?!”

“Would you quiet down!” she hisses, elbowing him in the ribs as a few heads turn.

“Sorry,” he mutters sheepishly.

She nudges him toward the stairwell, fighting the stupid grin tugging at her mouth. “Come on. We’ve got Spanish class.”

In Spanish, the clock ticks too loudly, the whole room heavy with Friday fatigue. Peter sits up straighter when the teacher calls on him. Pen still in hand, he stammers out, “Me gusta hacer la tarea.”

The teacher beams. “Muy bueno, señor Parker.”

Mailin hides a smile, biting the end of her pen. His accent’s a mess, but the proud look on his face is too endearing to mock.

By the weekend, the mood lightens. Mailin perches on a desk in the orchestra practice room, watching as Peter and Ned put the finishing touches on the massive Lego Death Star they’ve been working on all afternoon. Her head tilts as Ned carefully passes Peter the Palpatine minifigure, and Peter places it on top like it’s the crown jewel.

They break into a ridiculous secret handshake — all elbows and finger snaps — before collapsing into laughter. Mailin shakes her head, smiling despite herself. For the first time in days, it feels like things might actually be normal again.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

The hallway buzzes with chatter, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking against the tile. Peter practically bounces on his feet as he rushes toward Ned and Mailin, eyes wide and a grin stretched across his face.

“You guys—you won’t believe what just happened,” he blurts, nearly tripping over his own backpack strap.

Ned perks up immediately. “Dude, what? Tell me!”

Mailin tilts her head, amused but cautious. “What’s got you acting like you drank five Red Bulls?”

Peter barely takes a breath before spilling it out. “Liz asked me to the homecoming dance.”

Ned’s jaw drops. “No way. No way!” He grabs Peter by the shoulders, shaking him in disbelief. “This is insane. This is like—level ten dream-come-true territory!”

Peter laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, sheepish but glowing. “I know, right? I didn’t even think she’d—like—I didn’t think I had a chance.”

Mailin forces a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Something heavy twists in her chest, unexpected and sharp. She laughs lightly, but it sounds thin even to her own ears. “Wow, Pete. That’s… great. Really great.”

Peter, too wrapped up in his own excitement, doesn’t notice the way her voice falters. He’s still rambling, hands moving as fast as his words. “I have to figure out what I’m gonna wear. And like—do I rent a tux? Or is that too much? Oh man, I’m so bad at dancing—what if I step on her feet?”

“Relax, dude, it’s fine,” Ned assures him, grinning ear to ear. “This is your moment.”

Mailin trails a step behind them as they walk, hugging her books to her chest. She tries to keep her expression neutral, but jealousy curls through her stomach. Liz—perfect Liz, with her easy smile and perfect hair and perfect everything—gets asked to homecoming by Peter Parker, the boy Mailin’s been pulling out of rivers, covering for, worrying about.

She swallows hard and forces herself to keep quiet, even as the ache in her chest grows heavier.

The next day Peter stands in front of his bedroom mirror, frowning at his reflection. He tugs at his tie, but it comes out lopsided. He sighs and tries again. Cut to him fumbling with cufflinks, one falling to the floor and rolling under his dresser. He drops to his knees, groaning.

Smash cut to Avengers Tower. Mailin sits stiffly in front of a giant mirror while Natasha looms over her with eyeliner in hand.

“Don’t move,” Nat warns.

“I am not moving,” Mailin mutters, trying not to blink.

“Tell that to your eyelids,” Natasha deadpans.

Back to Peter, who squirts way too much hair gel into his palm. He slaps it on, only for his curls to clump awkwardly. He sighs again, mumbling, “Cool. Real smooth.”

Across the city, Wanda floats sections of Mailin’s hair into perfect curls with little flicks of red magic. “You’ll be the prettiest one there,” she says softly.

Mailin scoffs, but her cheeks pink. “Wanda…”

Door creaks open—Clint leans in, smirking. “Careful, kid, you’re about five seconds from outshining Tony on the red carpet.”

Cut to Peter holding up his suit jacket, realizing it’s wrinkled. He tosses it into the dryer with a damp towel in a desperate attempt to “iron” it.

Back at the Tower, Pepper sweeps into the room, elegant as ever, carrying a garment bag. She unzips it to reveal a sleek, age-appropriate dress in a shade that makes Mailin’s green eyes glow. “Perfect,” Pepper says.

Mailin swallows hard, suddenly nervous. “It’s… a lot.”

“You’ll want to remember this,” Pepper insists, helping her slip into it.

Peter drags his jacket out of the dryer—it’s still wrinkled, but now warm. He sighs and throws it on anyway. He struggles with his shoes, hopping on one foot, nearly face-planting.

Meanwhile, Natasha tugs at Mailin’s dress, adjusting the straps like she’s prepping her for combat. “Fits better than anything Stark ever wore.”

“Not a high bar,” Bucky mutters from the corner. Pepper shoots him a glare.

Bruce wanders in, holding a box of hairpins, blinking at Mailin in her dress. “Wow. Uh… yeah. You look great.” He shuffles awkwardly and leaves before he can say more.

Cut back—Peter finally manages to knot his tie. It’s crooked, but at least it’s knotted. He stares at himself, takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay, you got this.”

Thor bursts into Mailin’s room, holding a gift wrapped in shiny foil. “For you, young Stark!” He tears it open himself to reveal a jumbo box of Pop-Tarts. Mailin bursts into laughter, and the tension finally cracks.

Wanda finishes curling Mailin’s hair. Natasha dusts on the last touch of makeup. Pepper clasps a simple necklace around her neck. She stands, looking in the mirror—green eyes bright, hair soft waves, the dress fitting just right.

For the first time, she doesn’t see “Tony Stark’s hidden kid.” She just sees Mailin.

Cut to Peter, standing in his bedroom mirror again, everything just slightly off—the tie crooked, the jacket wrinkled, hair still messy. But his grin is wide and hopeful.

Smash cut back to the Tower. Ned waits in the common room in his slightly too-big suit, nervously adjusting his bow tie. When Mailin finally steps out, the whole Tower goes silent.

“Holy cow,” Ned blurts. “You look… awesome.”

Mailin blushes. “Thanks, Ned.”

The Avengers exchange knowing smiles, like proud parents.

Parallel shot: Peter stepping out of his apartment, Aunt May snapping a quick photo while he groans in embarrassment.

Mailin and Ned head for the Tower elevator as every Avenger calls out in unison: “No sneaking off to fight crime!”

Both teens step into the night, hearts racing for different reasons—but on parallel paths toward homecoming.

Chapter Text

The gym is unrecognizable. Paper lanterns glow in the rafters, streamers shimmer across the walls, and the DJ’s bass thumps loud enough to rattle the bleachers.

Mailin lingers by the punch table with Ned, who’s nervously bouncing on his heels.

She scans the crowd, the glittering dresses and ill-fitting tuxes, the mess of teenagers who look like they’ve stepped into a movie set. For once, she almost feels normal—just a girl at a dance.

Across the room, Peter enters with Liz. For a moment, Mailin’s chest tightens. Liz looks stunning, radiant even, and Peter’s face… well, it should be glowing too. He should be floating. But something is wrong.
He’s pale. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. His gaze keeps flicking toward the exits, jittery, restless.

Ned notices too, whispering, “Does he look like he’s about to hurl, or is that just me?”

Mailin bites her lip. She knows that look—like a secret is clawing at him, pulling him away.

Liz touches Peter’s arm, trying to draw him into the crowd of dancers. For a second, he lets her, standing under the spinning lights. But then the DJ drops a track, the spotlight hits the floor, and Peter freezes. He mutters something—too soft for Mailin to hear—and bolts. Out the gym doors.

Gone.

Liz stares after him, hurt flashing across her face.

Mailin doesn’t think. She just moves. “Stay here,” she tells Ned, already weaving through the crowd.

“Mailin—” Ned calls, but she’s gone before he can finish.

The hallway outside the gym is stark and quiet compared to the chaos inside. Mailin slips through the doors just in time to see Peter sprinting down the corridor. He doesn’t even notice her.

Her heart pounds. She should turn back, should let him handle whatever this is. But she can’t. Not when he looks like he’s carrying the whole world on his shoulders. Not when she knows what that weight feels like.

“Peter!” she calls, her voice echoing in the empty hall.

He stumbles to a stop, his back to her. For a second, he doesn’t move. Then he half-turns, face tight, eyes shadowed with something raw.

“Mailin… you shouldn’t be here.” He stresses and unties his tie. He lifts a row of lockers with one hand, picks up his homemade Spider-Man suit from under it.

"Where are you going?"

"I've got to stop him." Peter says, eyes dark and serious, and before Mailin can say anything he's gone.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

The beach at Coney Island is unrecognizable. Smoke rises in thick, choking clouds, curling into the sky like black fingers. Flames lick at the wreckage of the plane and scattered cargo, casting everything in a hellish orange glow.

Mailin stumbles over charred debris, coughing violently, tears streaming down her face. Each step is heavy, each breath searing her lungs.

Her eyes scan frantically, desperate, terrified. Peter—where is he? She shouts his name, voice hoarse, raw with panic.
“Peter! Peter!”

The wind carries ash into her hair and eyes. She trips over a broken crate, scrapes her palms, and collapses to her knees. Her chest heaves as she gags on the smoke, but she doesn’t stop looking. Not until she spots him.

He’s sitting on top of the Cyclone roller coaster, slumped forward, bruised and bleeding. His suit is ripped, streaked with soot and blood. A deep gash runs along his temple. His chest rises and falls unevenly, every breath a struggle. For a terrifying second, she dares not hope.

Tears blur her vision. “No, no, no… not him. Please, not him,” she whispers, voice cracking. She suits up and flies up to him.

Meanwhile Happy steps into view, surveying the wreckage with trained eyes. Vulture is tied to a pile of crates, a webbed warning note fluttering in the wind: “FOUND FLYING VULTURE GUY. SPIDER-MAN. P.S. SORRY ABOUT YOUR PLANE.”

Metal clangs behind Peter, and the hiss of repulsors cuts through the acrid air as Mailin lands in her suit.

“Peter… oh my god, Peter, please tell me you’re okay! Please, don’t—don’t leave me!” Her hands clutch at his shoulders, her fingers trembling as they dig into his bloodied suit. Her tears fall freely, soaking his chest, her sobs breaking the tense, smoky air.

He lifts a hand, weak, shaking, and strokes her hair with the gentlest touch he can manage. Every movement hurts him, and he winces, but he doesn’t pull away. His voice is barely more than a rasp.

“I… I’m here,” he whispers, voice cracked. “I’m okay. I’m—still here.”

Her sobs intensify, full of relief, terror, and the lingering terror of imagining him gone forever. She presses herself against him, her forehead on his shoulder, as if by sheer proximity she can make the world right again.

“You scared me so much… I thought… I thought I’d lost you,” she chokes out, shaking violently. “I… I can’t… I can’t…”

Peter closes his eyes, swaying slightly under the weight of her body and her emotions, and holds her tighter. His hands are warm, steadying, but trembling beneath her grip. “Mailin… I’m here. I’m okay. I promise… I’m not going anywhere.”

She shakes her head, hiccupping, clinging harder.

Fire engines roar in the distance. First responders begin to arrive, shouting and moving quickly through the wreckage.

“I thought… I thought…” she repeats brokenly, voice trembling through sobs. “I thought I’d never see you again…”

Peter, still cradling her, whispers fiercely, “You won’t lose me. Not now. Not ever.”

The wind catches the smoke, whirling it into their hair, filling their lungs. Mailin presses herself closer, tears streaking across soot-darkened cheeks, breathing in the scent of him, the faint burn of debris, the faintly metallic tang of blood.

“I can’t… I can’t do this without you,” she admits, voice trembling. “I… I can’t handle it.”

“You don’t have to,” he whispers, leaning his forehead to hers. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. Always.”

She clings harder, sobs wracking her body, and finally, painfully, begins to let some of the fear drain out, replaced by the fragile relief that he is alive, here, and that he can still hold her.

Mailin suits back up, picks Peter carefully up bridal style and flies them back to his apartment. They quietly enter through the window so not to alarm May.

“Okay,” she says, setting her bag down. “I need you to sit on the bed. Keep your shirt off, chest bare.”

Peter freezes for a second. His eyes widen. “Uh… right. Yeah, okay…”

Mailin blushes violently at the sight of him—the muscles, the bruises, the faint gleam of sweat—but she pushes it down, forcing herself to focus. This isn’t about her, it’s about him being okay.

She kneels in front of him with a small first-aid kit from her bag, pulling out antiseptic wipes, bandages, and gauze. Her hands tremble slightly, partly from adrenaline, partly from the sheer closeness of him.

“Alright, don’t move too much,” she instructs softly, voice steady despite the heat rising in her chest. She carefully cleans the cuts along his ribs and collarbone, wincing when she touches a particularly raw scrape.

Peter lets out small grunts, biting his lip. “Uh… this… hurts a bit.”

“I know,” she murmurs. “But it’s better than leaving it like this.” Her hands brush against his chest accidentally, and she flushes hotter, snapping herself back to focus. “Almost done here. Just need to… patch this and this…”

Time stretches, quiet except for her soft directions and his occasional hiss of pain.

Mailin keeps her eyes on her work, forcing herself not to notice the faint rise and fall of his chest, the slight tremor in his arms, the warmth radiating off him.

“Done,” she finally breathes, leaning back slightly. She sits on her heels, wiping her hands on a cloth, heart hammering in her ears. “All bandaged. You’re… good to go.”

Peter exhales shakily, sitting back, still staring at her. “Thanks, Mailin.”

She swallows, voice barely above a whisper. “Just… don’t scare me like that again. Please.”

“I… I won’t,” he says, voice low, but there’s a vulnerability in it that makes her chest tighten.

They sit in silence for a moment, the weight of everything—fear, relief, exhaustion, unspoken feelings—hanging between them. Mailin finally dares to glance at him, catching the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

Her cheeks burn again, but she keeps her head down, focusing on the simple, quiet victory: he’s alive. He’s here. And for now, that’s enough.

Peter sinks back against his pillows, chest still sore, bandages fresh, sweats clinging to him. Mailin sits cross-legged at the edge of the bed, kit put away but her hands still twitching like she might reach for him again. The room is quiet except for the faint hum of the heater and their ragged breathing.

“I—” Peter starts, then swallows hard. His hands fidget in his lap. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to tell anyone else. But you… you need to know.”

Mailin leans forward slightly, voice soft. “I’m listening.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a shaky breath. “I found out Vulture… he’s Liz’s dad. And then… we fought. I thought I could handle it, but when that warehouse started collapsing…” He flinches, and his voice drops to a whisper. “…I almost… I almost didn’t make it.”

Mailin’s heart twists. She reaches out, tentatively brushing a strand of hair from his face, hand lingering against his temple. “Peter…” she murmurs, and he leans into the touch. “You’re here. You’re okay. That’s what matters.”

He shakes his head, eyes wet, voice raw. “No, you don’t get it. I… I was buried under all that metal. I thought I was done for. I kept thinking… I’m gonna fail. I’m gonna let everyone down. And I—” He swallows, his jaw tight. “I kept thinking about you, Mailin. I kept thinking… I can’t… I can’t go without you knowing.”

Her chest tightens. She wants to say something, wants to tell him she almost lost him in her head a hundred times over. She swallows, keeping her voice steady. “You’re alive. And you’re here with me. That’s what matters.”

Peter exhales shakily, finally letting some of the tension go. “I tried to stop him… I tried everything. But it almost… I don’t know, I didn’t think I was gonna…” His voice cracks, and he hides his face in his hands.

Mailin slides closer, gently taking his hands in hers. “You’re here. You survived. You fought. That’s… that’s everything, Peter.” Her thumb strokes over his knuckles, grounding him, grounding herself.

He peeks at her through his fingers, eyes glossy, chest heaving. “I was so scared, Mailin. I thought I was going to die, and I wouldn’t even get a chance to tell you how much I… how much I…” His words falter, lost in emotion.

Mailin leans forward, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. “Hey. You don’t have to finish that. You’re here. I know.” Her voice trembles despite her attempt at calm, a mixture of relief, fear, and something deeper she can’t name.

They sit like that for a long moment, the room quiet except for their breathing. He slowly lets go of his panic, and she lets herself relax, still close, still trembling. The weight of the crash, the fight, the near-death—all of it—hangs in the air between them, heavy but shared.

Finally, Peter whispers, “Thank you… for being here. For… patching me up. For not… freaking out.”

Mailin smirks faintly, brushing his cheek. “Are you kidding? Freak out? I was terrified. You scared me half to death. But I’ve got you, Peter. Always.”

The room is quiet except for their ragged breaths, the soft hum of the heater filling the space. Peter leans back against the pillows, still tense, still raw from the fight, but closer to Mailin than he’s ever been. She sits on the edge of the bed, hands brushing his, their fingers intertwined almost by instinct.

He looks at her, eyes glassy, vulnerability laid bare. She meets his gaze, and in that moment, there’s no chaos, no Vulture, no danger—just them.

“Mailin…” His voice is barely more than a whisper. “I… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Her chest tightens, and before she can second-guess herself, she leans in. “You don’t have to,” she murmurs. “I’m here.”

It’s slow at first—tentative, almost questioning—like they’re both afraid to break the fragile moment. But the weight of fear, relief, and everything they’ve been holding back melts between them. Peter’s hand cups her cheek gently, thumb brushing along her jaw as she leans closer, closing the small space between them.

When their lips finally meet, it’s soft, hesitant, trembling with the release of every pent-up emotion. Mailin presses against him, holding him like she never wants to let go, and Peter wraps his arm around her, careful but desperate, as if anchoring himself to something real in a world that nearly just ripped him away.

The kiss deepens slightly, a quiet, grounding moment amid the aftermath of chaos. Both of them shiver, hearts racing, breaths mingling. For the first time that day, and maybe the first time in a long while, the world outside the room doesn’t exist. There’s only this—only each other.

When they finally pull back slightly, foreheads resting together, Peter exhales shakily. “I… I love you,” he admits, voice raw.

Mailin swallows, warmth blooming in her chest. “I love you too,” she whispers back, holding him close, letting him feel it as much as she does.

Their foreheads press together, breaths mingling, hearts still racing. The kiss resumes, slower now, more deliberate, desperate in its own way. Peter winces when Mailin’s hand brushes over a fresh bruise along his ribs, a sharp gasp escaping him.

“Peter, are you okay?” Mailin whispers, pulling back slightly, eyes wide with concern.

“I’m fine,” he insists, voice husky. “I— I want this. I want you.”

Mailin hesitates, scanning his body for any more pain, but sees the determination in his eyes. “You’re hurt. You should rest.”

“I’ll rest… with you.” His grin is weak but genuine, and there’s a pleading edge to it. “Please. Just… just stay with me tonight.”

Her chest tightens, heart hammering in her ears. She can feel every heartbeat, every shiver, every pang of his exhaustion.

Slowly, she nods. “Okay… if that’s what you want.”

He shifts slightly, careful but eager, pulling her closer. The kiss deepens again, more urgent now, as if each moment they have is borrowed from danger itself. Peter’s hand hesitates on her back, wincing when he accidentally presses against his bruised ribs, but he doesn’t pull away.

“I’m okay,” he murmurs against her lips. “I just… want you.”

Mailin bites her lip, heat rising in her chest, and lets herself lean fully into him. She can feel his ragged breaths, his trembling, and every small pain he’s hiding, and it only makes her want him closer.

They pull back for air, foreheads resting together, gazes locking in the quiet room. “Stay with me,” Peter whispers again, softer this time, almost vulnerable.

“I am,” she says, and it’s a promise.

Peter shifts against the pillows, wincing as the ache in his ribs sends a sharp reminder of the fight. Mailin leans over him, eyes soft but determined, her hands brushing over his chest and arms as she steadies him.

“Peter,” she whispers, voice low and steady, “I want you to leave it all to me tonight. Let me take care of you. Let me… make love to you, just to show you I’ve got you.”

He swallows, stunned, heart racing, the vulnerability in his expression raw and unguarded. “Are you sure?” he murmurs, voice rough.

“I’ve never been more sure,” she replies, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “You don’t need to worry about a thing. Just let me handle it.”

Peter exhales shakily, letting himself relax against her, trusting her completely. Mailin moves gently, confidently, guiding him into stillness, her touch careful but purposeful, showing him that closeness and tenderness can be fierce and grounding all at once.

Their breathing mingles, hearts pounding together as the night stretches around them. Peter leans into her, letting go of every fear and thought except the warmth and safety of her arms.

Mailin’s hands and whispers coax him into surrender, deepening the bond between them as they explore each other in the quiet, intimate way only they can.

When the moment finally eases, they lie together, spent and quiet, still pressed close, the weight of the world outside the room dissolved. In the soft aftermath, Peter’s hand finds hers, and she squeezes it gently.

“You’re safe,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

He smiles faintly, chest rising and falling with hers. “I know… thanks to you.”

The night is theirs, a fragile, perfect cocoon of trust, care, and the quiet understanding that they’ve crossed a new threshold together.

Sunlight filters through the blinds, soft and lazy, the quiet only broken by the occasional creak of the apartment settling.

Peter stirs, groaning, still tangled in blankets with Mailin pressed against him. He opens one eye, heart still thudding from the night before.

Mailin shifts beside him, hair falling in messy waves over her face, half-smile tugging at her lips. “Morning,” she murmurs, voice still husky with sleep.

Before Peter can respond, the apartment door bursts open with a crash of urgency.
“Peter! Where are—Wait, what—”

May’s eyes go wide, then freeze mid-step.

Peter and Mailin shoot upright, faces flaming crimson, blankets twisting around them like a shield.

“Uh…” Peter stammers, trying to untangle the sheets without looking like a total wreck.

Mailin tugs the blanket up, cheeks burning. “Hi, May,” she says casually, though her voice is pitched a little too high to be convincing.

May blinks, taking in the sight of them, blankets tangled, clearly naked underneath, hair mussed, Peter panicked. “…Uh… just checking on you! Right! Breakfast! You both look… fine.” She averts her eyes, suddenly interested in the ceiling.

Peter mutters, “We’re fine… really…”

Mailin nudges him under the blanket, suppressing a giggle. “We were just… resting.”

May raises an eyebrow, suspicious but wisely deciding not to push. “Right. Resting. Got it. I’ll… I’ll come back later.” She retreats with exaggerated stealth, glancing at Peter once more as if he owes her an explanation he’s clearly not ready to give.

As the door clicks shut, Peter exhales loudly, face still flushed. “Oh my god… Mailin, that was—”

She smirks, brushing a hand through her messy hair. “Classic May. Don’t worry. I think we survived. Barely.”

Peter groans, draping a hand over his face. “Barely is right. I don’t even want to think about what she saw…”

Mailin laughs quietly, leaning back against him, the comfort of being together after all the chaos washing over them. “Relax. She doesn’t know anything. And now… breakfast?”

Peter shakes his head, a grin breaking through his embarrassment. “You know, I think surviving May’s surprise entrance is enough cardio for one morning.”

Mailin chuckles, and for a moment, all the tension of last night melts, replaced by the cozy chaos of a morning at Peter’s apartment—and the quiet knowledge that they survived it together.