Always say yes to food.
Ned first heard the whispers on his way to lunch.
“No really, I swear it was them. They were both wearing sunglasses and carrying a large manila folder and Morita looked like he was going to shit himself.” “I’m serious. What do you think they want?” “Gosh, he’s gorgeous. Do you think we could get him to judge our science fair?” “C’mon Abe, it’s for the school newspaper. Just go up to the office and ask to see them. Don’t be a wuss.” “Obviously, they heard how much smarter I am compared to you losers. I’m sure he’s going to ask me to be his personal intern. My dad is good friends with him, you know.” “She’s the first female CEO to run a multi-billion-dollar enterprise, Sarah, she’s not going to give you an autograph.”
Ned was pretty sure it wasn’t the chili dogs making his stomach hurt. His palms were sweaty and he looked around the cafeteria to see if anyone was watching him (not likely—he had now been at Midtown for almost a month, and had yet to talk to another student). He pushed his tray to the side and jumped on his phone, trying to see if the bot he set up yesterday was still operating. There were several more emails in his inbox ( and holy toledo, was that one from Captain America?? ) and the automation he had running was now sending photoshopped images of Iron Man and Hawkeye dressed as Princess Leia and Chewbacca.
He was currently rethinking that.
Exit strategy…exit strategy…
Most likely, they would be waiting for him in the office. Heck, maybe they weren’t even there for him. They couldn’t actually prove he was the one who called the hotline. And he could pass off the email thing as an immature prank. “Sorry, Mr. Stark, Iron Man, sir, just testing my hacking skills. Please don’t arrest me again.” Yeah, that would work.
Edward Leeds to the Main Office. Edward Leeds to the Main Office.
The announcement barely registered over the din of students making their way back to class, and Ned slipped into the packed hallway, walking quickly in the opposite direction of whatever fate Iron Man had in mind for him.
Ned banked on the assumption that they didn’t know about the music-turned-storage room and its unlocked door, which opened into an alleyway behind the school. Patting himself on the back, he walked past the dumpsters, towards the busy street ahead. A limo sat blocking the alleyway entrance, and as Ned went to maneuver around it, a very recognizable figure stepped out in front of him.
“I’d argue I’m more of a Han Solo guy, than Princess Leia, but you wouldn’t know that, would you?” He sounded annoyed and tired, and not at all like Ned expected him to.
“Kidnapping’s illegal, you know.” Ned had a horrible case of foot-in-mouth disease, and he only realized what he said after he saw Mr. Stark’s face cloud with fury.
“Better than anyone else, I’d think. Get in, kid.” He brokered no argument, and Ned felt the tendrils of panic grasp at him. He backed up. Mr. Stark stayed still. “Please, Mr. Leeds. A moment of your time.”
Looking back, he didn’t know what made him do it. Probably some messed-up hero worship lingering in the back of his head, unable to look the actual Iron Man in the eye and tell him “no.” So he gulped and nodded once and got into the limo, the billionaire following behind.
It wasn’t until he got settled in his seat that he realized they weren’t alone. Mr. Stark clapped his hands together. “Introductions, then. These are my friends, Col. Rhodes, Agents Natasha Romanoff, Clinton Barton, James Barnes, and my wife and boss, Virginia Potts-Stark. My driver and bodyguard, and amateur but very good boxer, Harold Hogan is up front. I would love to tell you all about them. How about a trade, Mr. Leeds? A story about my friends, for a story about yours?”
Ned’s throat felt scratchy and his mouth seemed to be filled with cotton. Ms. Romanoff ( the Black Widow) smiled serenely and handed him a water bottle. His hands shook as he tried to unscrew the cap, until finally, someone had pity on him ( War Machine!!! ) and helped him open it up.
Mrs. Stark threw Tony a severe look, but her eyes softened when she looked at Ned. She smiled kindly. “You can call me Pepper. Ned, honey, we need your help. I know this may seem a little dramatic,” Mr. Stark scoffed, “but honestly, we’re not trying to frighten you.”
Ned let out a strangled acknowledgement of that statement. He sounded like a choked donkey. Mr. Stark brought out his phone and pressed a button. Ned heard his own voice fill the car—an audio recording of the hotline call he made after Peter missed their third check-in. Everyone kept staring at him.
“Um…I…that wasn’t me…I mean, I don’t sound like that.” It was a poor attempt at denial even to his own ears and no one acknowledged it. “Anyway, I thought those were supposed to be anonymous.” That was acknowledged.
Mr. Stark seemed to be holding back on saying several things as Mrs. Stark put her hand on his knee. Mr. Col. Rhodes leaned over and looked at Ned seriously.
“Son, if you know where Peter is—if you know Peter at all—it is important that you tell us. We’ve been looking for a very long time.” He gestured at Mr. and Mrs. Stark who were staring intently at him. “ They’ve been looking for a very long time. Ten years. They want their son back, Ned. I want my nephew. We love him very much. We need to make sure he’s okay.” The last part was choked out, and Ned got the feeling he was seeing behind a curtain no one else had ever been invited to before.
Ms. Romanoff handed Ned a photo. It was taken at the bus station in Grand Junction—timestamped six months ago and it was a very clear picture of his best friend. He remembered that night vividly. He helped Peter steal the pliers from the principal’s office—had helped him turn off the tracking without setting off the medication injection that was hidden in their bracelets. Ned was put on Isolation for two weeks after Peter went missing—but he would’ve done it a million times over to see Pete out of that hell-hole.
“Ned, was this boy your roommate?”
He looked at the picture. The bruising didn’t look as bad under the streetlamp as it had in real life. He nodded.
Ms. Romanoff went on. “What was his name?”
He stared at the picture. Was Peter really that skinny? Was he even skinnier now?
“P…Peter.” It was whispered. It felt like a betrayal and relief wrapped in one.
“Peter what?” Ms. Romanoff’s voice was soft and kind. Ned could tell they were hanging onto his words.
He stared at the picture. Three months without a check-in and then one, lousy email telling him to wait another week. It sounded hurried and stressed. The bruising really was a lot worse in person.
“P..Peter S..Stark.”
Someone was crying. He felt a hand on his back.
Oh.
It was him.
“It’s okay, kid. You’re ok. You did good.”
Peter’s dad was a good hugger. Ned’s dad sold him to a work camp.
“Ned. Thank you for telling us that.” Mrs. Stark’s eyes were bright. “Will you come back and have dinner with us? We can let your grandmother know where you are.”
He nodded, “Y…yes, ma’am.”
Mr. Barnes spoke into the heavy silence that settled. “Have you talked to him recently?”
The secrets Peter had trusted him with felt like they weighed a million pounds. His body was thrumming with tension. ( “Dude, Italy will be amazing. I can finally relax, you know. And my family will be so much safer. I can’t believe I’m telling you all this, Ned. I haven’t had anyone to talk to about this stuff ever in my whole life. I mean, I trust you so much, you know?” “Course, dude. What else are brothers for?” )
He didn’t answer the question verbally, just shook his head half-heartedly. He missed the way the spies in the car exchanged looks.
“Ned, did Peter ask you not to tell?” Mr. Barton spoke knowingly, and Ned looked up quickly.
“I-you–it’s just—you don’t understand. He said it’s not safe.” He turned to Mr. Stark, speaking a little quicker. “I promised him. It’s not safe. I can’t get you all killed. Please. Gosh, he’s not going to ever forgive me. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
“Breathe, kid. Head between your knees, there you go.” As Iron Man coached him through a panic attack ( what even was his life? ), Ned stared at the photograph in his lap and wondered if he just made a colossal mistake.
Meanwhile…
Most kids start reading at age five, but Peter started a bit earlier than that. By the time he was seven, he was reading (and somewhat understanding) college-level textbooks. It didn’t impress his uncle too much ( “Your dad was writing these by your age. It’s cute you think you even come close.”) , but it was the one thing he could do growing up without causing trouble ( “You can’t help yourself, can you? Jesus, I’ve never met a bigger screw-up than you. Thank God, you’re not around to embarrass your parents like you embarrass me.” )
Reading came naturally to Peter—more so than breathing (though he could blame that on the asthma)—and Peter’s favorite thing to read became the newspapers and magazines he snuck out of his uncle’s study. They were usually crumpled and ripped up—interviews with his mom and dad, announcements about him—articles about foundations and investigations and anniversaries. There were headlines about his disappearance and about the company and, later, about Iron Man.
Evidence of his uncle’s displeasure with these things was palpable, but even though the papers always made him mad, he never removed them from the trash. Peter took that as an invitation, of course, and hoarded them under his bed and pillow and dresser drawers. After his uncle was particularly triggered by a feature in Newsweek, Peter took the hundreds of pieces from the shredder and painstakingly taped them back together. It took three days, but it was so worth it.
He knew his parents probably didn’t actually mean all the things they said in those interviews ( “They have to keep up appearances, boy, they can’t come out and say how happy they are to have you gone, think of what it would do to the stocks.” ), but Peter still indulged in the fantasy now and then.
After his uncle died, and Mr. Beck begrudgingly agreed to give him room and board in exchange for doing chores and other odd jobs, he thought, once, about what would happen if he broke the most important rule that both Uncle Obie and Mr. Beck set for him. What if he really called his mom and dad? His dad was Iron Man, and he was pretty sure a superhero wouldn’t break his arm if he made him mad like Mr. Beck or throw a glass bottle at him when he got drunk like his uncle.
Mr. Beck wasn’t as careless with his trash as his uncle, so finding any information about himself got a lot harder after he turned eight. On his ninth birthday, he almost worked up the courage. He waited until Mr. Beck left for groceries, picked the lock to his bedroom door, and walked quietly into the living room. Mr. Beck had no cell phones in the house ( “Just a precaution, buddy, we wouldn’t want you getting any ideas in that cute, empty brain of yours.” ), but he did have a landline. He picked up the phone and went to dial the hotline number he memorized, but a headline from the paper on the kitchen counter caught his eye: Stark Family Prepares for Birth of Second Child; Is America’s Golden Family Finally Moving On After Son’s Disappearance?
After a few seconds of contemplation, Peter hung up the phone and walked back to his room, locking himself back in. He knew, in his heart of hearts, that he would do everything in his power to fade into the background of his family’s lives—a tragic backstory, but ultimately history. He was sure his sister would be perfect (all the articles said so) and he couldn’t imagine taking their attention away from her.
(Now, Peter had a much better grasp on reality then he did at five or seven or nine. At fourteen, his understanding of the threats both Mr. Beck and his Uncle Obie leveled against his parents—and, later, Morgan—was crystal clear. And he would not be the cause of their deaths just because he thought it would be cool to meet them again.)
This was a lot to think about as he flew over the handlebars of his bloody, most-likely-gang-owned bicycle, but as he watched his backpack hit the concrete, and his binder of old articles and clippings come tumbling out, the panic that hit him had nothing to do with his potentially broken nose and definitely broken glasses. Hands tried to restrain him as he dove for his backpack and grabbed wildly at all the papers that went flying.
“Whoa, whoa, son. It’s ok. Calm down. Just sit here for a second. Roy! Can you help me out here? That damn cat.”
The man’s deep cadence was inexplicably soothing, and Peter sat still as he made out blurry figures and shapes around him. Someone handed him his backpack ( “I put everything back that I could find, Parker.” “Thanks, Roy.”) , as he felt the soothing-voice-man gently put his glasses back on his face. Peter winced, some of the gravel stuck to his forehead falling onto his ripped jeans. “Just take a second, son. That’s good. Breathe in, breathe out. Roy’s getting water. Roy! Get water!” ( “Calm your pants, Parker.” )
Peter blinked, head swimming. “There’s a good one, that’s right, another breath, son. Here’s some water. Now, can you get up with me?” The voice became a hand, calloused and strong, against his elbow, helping him stand.
As the blurriness slowly dissipated, Peter recognized the man helping him cross the street as the same man he spilled coffee on yesterday. Ben.
“Step into my office, young man. It’s not much, but a helluva lot nicer than the road.” He smiled warmly and led Peter into a small garage. “Parker’s Auto” was painted in purple and surrounded by daisies. Ben saw Peter looking at it and just laughed. “My wife took a class.” He shrugged as if that explained it, and directed Peter to an old, leather couch. “Now, I know I have a first aid kit around here somewhere. Roy! Get the first aid kit! ( “I swear, Parker, if you yell at me one more time!” )
“We met yesterday, huh? Peter, right?” He handed him a wet, but clean washcloth.
Peter nodded as he began patting his face. “Um, y…yes, sir.”
“No need to call me sir, son. I’m not old enough for that shit.” He cracked a grin again, and Peter thought anything but a smile would look out of place on this kind man’s face.
“Sorry about Murphy. I keep telling Delmar to put a leash on that devil, but apparently, I’m the grump for suggesting it. You sure took a spill though. How’s your head?”
It hurt a lot. “It’s great! Thanks.”
Ben looked at him knowingly and hummed. “Well, this is the best I can do. I’m a mechanic not a doctor, though. Does anything feel broken, son?”
Peter shook his head. His bike was wheeled in ( “Thanks, Roy!” )—the front tire had caught some road trash and blew out. Ben clucked. “I should make Delmar pay for that.” He looked Peter up and down. “Well, Pete, there’s nothing for it, you’re just going to have to come with me.”
“Wha—what?”
“Just for dinner! My wife is a nurse and I wouldn’t feel good if she didn’t check you out, too. It’s probably going to take Roy a few hours to bang out the dents and add a wheel and realign everything since he’s still finishing up an oil change. Roy! Fix the boy’s bike. ( “Shut up, Parker!” ) Really, son. I insist.” He said it so kindly, so easily. Maybe it was the confident way “son” rolled off the man’s tongue that made Peter agree. Maybe it was because of the concussion.
But as Peter walked with Ben Parker to his and his wife’s apartment, he wondered if he was making a colossal mistake.