Stop staring at the ceiling fan
Peter was up early the next morning, following the whims of his stomach before the sun had even risen. After talking a bit with Happy, picking out a few new sets of clothes, and eating under the supervision of Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner, he was sent to bed with the order to sleep. It felt like a more authoritarian version of bedtime for a preschooler, but he didn’t have it in him to argue, becoming dead to the world the moment his head hit the pillow.
He woke up with a line of drool on his cheek at around 3 in the morning, groaning at the clock on his bedside table and rolling out of bed to pee. He knew he shouldn’t be disobeying two doctors and a well-meaning head of security, but he didn’t know if he could fall back asleep even if he tried. His body was worn down, but it didn’t mean that his mind was; all night he kept having flashes of memories, tinted with the quality that all dreams contain. He couldn’t bring himself to wakefulness, and found himself drowning over and over again in the past, in events he couldn’t change, in moments he’d failed.
Steve Rogers was sitting at the table with a cup of tea when he shuffled into the kitchen, feeling like a little kid woken up from a nightmare. The man didn’t seem too bothered, though, making room for him at the counter and asking him if he wanted to join him for a morning run.
“I figured you might have trouble sleeping,” He’d commented over the lip of his mug, a book open in front of him, his finger keeping the place. “It would be better to get out and shake it off, at least before the rest of the world is awake. Less eyes on you, right?”
Peter sat next to him, his feet hooking around the legs of the chair, resting his elbows on the counter. “Speaking from experience?” He asked, and Steve gave him a tired little smile.
“Something like that,” He said, and after Peter found his own drink, they found him some sneakers and headed outside.
He wasn’t sure who came up with the idea of an entire track field planted in the middle of the Compound, but he honestly didn’t care, watching as the stars began to disappear above them, the sun poking through the horizon. Captain America ran to the left of him, but he was keeping a steady type of jog. Peter had never been much of a runner, preferring to swing and parkour around rooftops, but he hadn’t had any way to get rid of his energy, so he shot off like a bullet, passing the super soldier twice before beginning to slow down.
“Never had anyone do that to me before,” Steve called, a funny look on his face as Peter ran up, keeping his pace at last.
“Sorry,” Peter said, feeling the cool wind against his face, the muscles tensing in his legs and his lungs expanding, gulping the air. The sun had just begun to rise, so it was still that nice, summer cold, the humidity just gaining steam.
The Captain shook his head, and they crossed the starting mark again. “Don’t be,” He assured him. “It feels kind of nice,”
They ran until the doors to the Compound opened, and some of the other Avengers began to take advantage of the early morning air, not nearly as surprised as they should’ve been when they watched Steve Rogers and Peter race down the track.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Steve said, as they began to slow, making their way back to the doors, water bottles and towels sitting on the steps where they’d left them. “Your webs. How uh…how do you…”
“Swing?” He guessed, a bit distracted, trying not to trip over his shoelace, which had come untied after a few laps. “It’s not that hard. It’s all about momentum, like one big, high-stakes physics problem. It’s fun,”
Captain America nodded, still looking vaguely uncomfortable, and they had reached the stairs, a few other people walking out to the fields, doing double takes once seeing Peter’s face. At the moment, he could feel Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes staring at him, their eyes prickling along the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure if they were there to see what Steve was up to or if they were that dedicated to early morning jogging, but it didn’t really matter to Peter—he just wished they had more subtlety in their spying. “But…does it hurt?”
Peter blinked, wiping a bead of sweat from his face before it could fall into his eyes. “To swing?”
“To make the webs,” He said, his voice strained, looking anywhere but at his face. For a moment, Peter wondered if he had been in some horrific scene involving a high school lab and beakers, but then it hit him.
He pulled a face. “Oh. Ew. No. What?” He shuddered, remembering the organic web fluid that his counterpart had shot directly out of his wrists. “It’s synthetic. See?” He rolled up his sleeves, revealing the black bands around his wrist, tiny screws and a big mechanism shaped for his palm to shoot. At the moment, all of that was tucked away, but at the flicker of movement, he would be ready to fire. He hadn’t taken them off except for to shower, knowing that even as he relaxed, he might need them.
Steve looked panicked, then relieved, then curious. “Oh,” He replied, faintly, and Peter held out one of his hands so he could touch it. “So you don’t…”
“I was bitten by a spider. I didn’t become one, not all the way, at least, ” Peter reassured, and his shoulders seemed to relax.
He hummed, his fingers surprisingly light for someone with super strength, poking at the compartment for his web fluid. “So it’s your suit, right? The sticky hands and feet, that's another invention?”
Peter felt himself freeze, but the Captain didn’t notice, so he had a moment to grimace. He didn’t have the energy for this conversation. “Right,” He lied, quickly, bobbing his head up and down. “Of course. Sure,”
Before he could demonstrate how bad of a liar he was any more, a voice called from the top of the stairs. “The red and blue duo,” Tony dubbed them, and Steve looked up towards him, exasperated. Peter jumped a little, not expecting it, but turning to greet him all the same.
“Good morning,” Cap returned, good-naturedly, and Peter felt himself squinting past the sunlight, towards his mentor. He was holding a mug in one hand, wearing a weird amalgamation of sunglasses, slippers, and dress pants. Peter knew him well enough to assume that he had not just woken up, but that he hadn’t gone to sleep at all.
Peter began to collect his water bottle and the sweatshirt he had brought out, pulling it over his head as he climbed the steps to meet him. Tony was looking between him and the Captain, a puzzled sort of happiness soft on his face. “Yeah, yeah, morning,” He shot back, just as Steve took a seat, wiping his face with a towel. “Hey, kiddo, did you sleep at all?” He spoke more quietly then, just to Peter, and he contained an eye roll.
“Did you?” He replied, smirking a little at the offended noise he made. “I was up early, that’s all, Mr. Rogers invited me to run with him,”
“Is that something you do now?” Tony asked, looking a little amused, but something else was there too—the face of something bittersweet, as if not knowing about Peter and his new hobbies and whims was painful.
“Nah,” He shook his head, knowing it to be true, and relishing a little in the quick relief that clouded the features of the older man. “The most running I do is to the IRT line,” He decided not to mention all of the running he did during patrol, knowing that both of them would just place that in automatically.
“No early morning jogging?” Mr. Stark asked, teasingly, as if seeking confirmation.
“None,” Peter promised, just as they reached the kitchen. He was planning on changing his clothes and sinking into another hot-watered shower, but it seemed that Happy and Tony had other plans. His mentor steered him into a seat and Happy appeared from behind the fridge, an apron from god knows wear tied just above his belt.
“Hey Peter,” He welcomed, and he became very aware of the smell wafting around the room. Eggs, pancakes, bacon, the works. He stopped himself from drooling, but just barely. “Hungry?”
“I feel like you don’t even need to ask that,” The man laughed and he watched as Tony began to make up a plate. He set his water on the table, swinging his legs a little as he settled into the chair, confused but delighted at the prospect of food. He had woken up hungry but inevitably got distracted by Captain America and his offer of tea. There was a fork in front of him, and Mr. Stark slid the plate piled high with food across the table, keeping his own mug and a few pancakes as he sat across the table. “Thanks,” He managed to remember before digging in.
Happy kept a light flow of conversation as they ate, and Peter was glad that he seemed to get over the weirdness of the situation just as quickly as Tony had. He’d missed both of them, and the ability to have normal, comfortable conversation between people who actually knew him. He was finished before he knew it, and shook his head when Happy moved to scoop more onto his plate.
He knew he normally wouldn’t pass up the chance for seconds, or even thirds, but his stomach was already protesting, just beginning to get used to eating more than once a day. Both men exchanged a glance over it, but he knew they wouldn’t push him, and the concern felt nice.
“What’s on your schedule for today?” Happy asked, eventually, wiping the stove, a stack of dishes piled high in the sink to his right.
Peter chewed on his lip for a second, knowing exactly what he wanted to do, but knowing it wouldn’t be allowed. It never hurt to try, though, so he inhaled as Happy cleaned off his hands, taking a seat and facing his own breakfast at last. “Mr. Rogers said something,” Peter began, tapping his fingers along his arm. Tony didn’t look up from his tablet, humming in response, a noise of acknowledgment. He swallowed, looking at Happy, who seemed oblivious to his nerves, more focused on shoving eggs into his mouth. “About how sometimes it’s better to go out and shake off the jitters,”
“That’s what the track is for,” Tony commented, dryly, and he typed a few things with his index finger before reaching for his coffee. “We also have the training room, the pool, I bet we could scrounge up a boxing ring or tennis ball shooter if you’re really feeling it,”
“That’s nice,” Peter picked at his hoodie strings, knowing they were even but messing with them regardless—something to keep his hands busy. “But I…don’t know if I’m going to get all of those nerves out here,” He paused for emphasis, and when the older man continued to sip on his drink, he continued, “I think I need to leave the Compound,”
Tony choked, his tablet slipping from his fingers and hitting the table with an unpleasant sound. Happy looked up, alarmed, rushing to pound on his back as he coughed and heaved. Peter sat there, frozen, waiting for him to clear his airways.
“Leave?” He managed, speaking hoarsely through coughs. “What do you mean you need to leave?” Peter opened his mouth to respond, but his mentor was thunderous, his brows pinched. “Did Cap put you up to this? I know that guy is always on his little freedom kick but I swear to Thor’s complicatedly named hammer—”
“He didn’t!” Peter rushed to assure. “He didn’t really do anything. It was my idea. I’m just so…so…” He forced himself to sit all the way down, keeping his fingertips on the edges of the table as he drummed them, trying to find the right words.
“Antsy?” Tony offered, and he nodded. He still looked righteous, but his tone was gentle, so he figured taking responsibility had been the right play. “Look, Pete, I get it, I think we’re all feeling a little…restless. But I can’t just let you leave and risk someone spotting you,”
Peter knew, deep down, that he was being logical, looking out for him in a way no one had for a long time, but it didn’t mean he liked it. A small part of him remained stubborn, wanting to be selfish, knowing that being confined like this would only lead to him revealing something he might regret. Something he wasn’t prepared for.
He tried to push his desperation to the forefront of his mind, doing everything except pouting as he gazed at Tony. “So then I’ll wear a hat and sunglasses, or a mask, or whatever! Please, Mr. Stark, I feel like I’m going to go crazy,” The older man didn’t seem to be budging, even when he was listening so intently, obvious in his quest to sympathize. Peter sighed, finally bringing his hands into his lap, picking at his nails. “I don’t know. It’s just…I feel so weird, like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, and I know Dr. Strange said it would take time, and I know I don’t need to feel like this but…
“I miss the city. I miss being able to wander and I miss swinging and…I miss helping . I was always so busy and it’s barely been two days and I’m already losing it because I don’t remember how to relax, y’know? I don’t want to have to run in circles all day just to keep myself from…just to stop being so…and then … ” He pressed his thumbs together, holding them tightly in his lap. “Everyone is always staring at me,” He whispered, a quiet little confession.
Happy looked convinced, at least, even when it was obvious he was trying to hide it. “Tony,” He pressed, gently, the man next to him, who was stewing quietly. “Maybe we can just cover his face. You’ve done dumber things before, I’m sure we can figure something out—”
Peter looked to Tony, surprised at the support, knowing that Happy’s grumpiness was just an exterior precaution, but never really seeing such outright softness.
“I can be chaperoned,” He agreed, and Happy shot him a look, small and grateful. “And I’ll avoid crowds, and I’ll wear a hat. My hair is different than it was, anyways, so no one would recognize me immediately. I mean, no one did when I was over in Brooklyn, and…” He trailed off, watching as Happy nearly groaned, running a hand down his face, and he realized he had given too much away. “I mean, I only went to the library and then the cemetery, and no one spotted me! Except for that girl who helped me to the computers…oh, and Ned, but that’s alright, he can keep a secret—”
“You aren’t just going to run around the city willy-nilly!” Tony exploded, and Peter shrunk back a little, realizing a moment too late how quickly he had cowered. Mr. Stark didn’t notice, standing from his seat and whirling on him. “You’re supposed to be dead for Christ’s sake—” He cut himself off, exhaling harshly and rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Peter tried to collect himself, inhaling shakily and meeting his eyes. “I'm not going to leave again,” He meant for it to be a statement, simple but firm, except it came out breathy, just above a whisper. “I’ll come back,”
Tony’s expression didn’t change, the hardened resolve in his brows and frown pulling at the lines around his mouth. When he spoke, however, there was something that shifted, slightly, as his eyes softened. “You can’t leave. Not…not until we get some more things figured out. I’m putting my foot down, kiddo,”
He deflated. “Fine,” He suddenly felt the urge to point out that he was technically a legal adult, able to vote and no longer required to attend formal schooling, but he bit his tongue. “Fine,” He said, louder, lifting his shoulders and then relaxing them.
He gave Tony a long, cold glance, hoping that all of his frustration lingered there. The older man held it, his own reservations clear along the ridge of his brow. He got up quickly, heading towards the door, but a hand caught his arm, and he turned.
“Give me your web shooters,” He said, firm and quiet, and something inside of him clenched. His breaths came harshly, and his fingers shook as he reached for his wrists, staring at his mentor, as if waiting for him to reveal the joke to him.
“Now,” He reiterated, his mouth pulled into a line of pity and stubbornness, one that made his stomach churn. He unclipped the bands from his wrists, watching as Tony took them from him, gentle but precise, a flicker of regret painting his features when Peter pulled away as soon as his hand was removed. Happy was sending him an apologetic look, but it just washed over him, ignored, his focus on the bright panic that began to build without the weight on his wrists.
Tony let Peter go, finally, as he passed him quickly and disappeared into the hall.
He knew that if he asked, FRIDAY would tell him that all the doors and windows had been locked. At least, to him they would be.
He avoided Tony like the plague, sticking to his room and pacing until the posters on the walls made his skin itch and his vision hazy. It was before noon when he decided to wander the halls, finding an empty room to sit in, sitting in a chair closest to the window, spanning from floor to ceiling and showing off the gates. It felt off-putting, knowing he wouldn’t be able to make it past them now that he was on lockdown.
It was barely an hour before the door creaked open and Harley Keener poked his head in, looking nervous but friendly when he spotted Peter, curled at the furthest edge of the couch, eyes glued to the cars passing in and out.
“What’s gotten you so glum, sugarplum,” He jumped over the back of the couch, the cushions bouncing with his weight, forcing Peter to look at him with the disruption.
He tried to remain angry, passive, but Harley looked genuine in his question, so he sighed, offering a small sort of smile. “I’m on house arrest per Stark order,” His gaze flickered back towards the window, but he forced himself to pull his eyes away, focusing on the boy next to him. “I asked to go back to the city for a while but it’s too dangerous. Or it would be too much for Tony, I guess. He does have a heart condition, you know,”
Harley sort of laughed, sort of hummed at him for a moment, then glanced behind him before leaning forward conspiratorially. “Just sneak out,” He whispered, miming the action with his fingers, walking them across the back of his hand and then gesturing towards the nearest door. Peter looked at him blankly, and he clicked his tongue. “What, you’ve never been grounded before? Never disobeyed your parents to go to a party or a concert or something?”
“I don’t have parents,” Peter said, evenly, and Harley looked rightfully chastised. “And whenever I did get grounded, it was actually grounded. Like no longer able to leave the ground. No Spider-Man,”
“Harsh,” Harley managed, after he had blinked a few times, trying to process the image Peter had helpfully gifted to him. “I mean…there’s a first time for everything?”
“I'm pretty sure sneaking out of your parents house is easier than sneaking out of a multimillion dollar compound with a high tech security system and personalized A.I. that is quite literally watching us right now,” He pointed to the ceiling vaguely as if to prove his point, and he knew that FRIDAY was holding her tongue more for Tony’s sake than courtesy.
Harley puffed up his cheeks, sinking further into the couch and then exhaling. “I don’t know,” He said, after a pause, raising an eyebrow as he looked up at Peter, who was sure that he looked unimpressed. “I think two super geniuses can figure something out,” Peter continued to stare at him, and he grinned, the edges sharp and his eyes glinting with mischief. “You don’t need a suit to stick to the walls, right?”
Maybe it was the boredom, or the months alone where he had sunk into a morally gray area of his life, but something bubbled up in Peter’s chest, and he found himself smirking back. “Don’t tell Captain America, I told him it’s my shoes. I’m playing the long game,”
Harley absolutely beamed.