Dark Matter

BATCHAT

Barbara (03:00am): The cell towers in Crime Alley just lit up with something weird

Barbara (03:01am): Electronic broadcast, but it’s encrypted, and surrounded by gibberish

Dick: (03:03am): What is it saying?

Barbara (03:04am): It’s hard to tell. I can only make out the word ‘Friday.’ Maybe a timestamp for today? I think it’s a distress call.

Dick (03:05am): Tell whoever it is to get in line.

* * *

When Peter enters sleep, his vision turns gold, and then gradually fades back into the view of that image of home the soul stone has built for him: a steady mix of his Aunt’s apartment, the dilapidated firehouse, and his parent’s home. The latter of which is fuzzy at the edges, not fully formed. As if he’s pulling it form a memory fading from overuse or crumbling at the edges. He stands in the living room.

He isn’t alone, of course. The room is full of gold tinged ghosts. All of the ones he’s carried with him into this universe. They’re vague shapes, but he can pick out different heroes the more he looks. Wanda and Dr. Strange look worse for wear, and stand separate from the others. Sam’s arm is strange; faded, from the elbow down. The others look normal enough, probably mimicking how they looked in life before they died.

“It’s time to get this started,” Loki says behind him. He already sounds bored. “We’ve put it off long enough.”

Peter turns to face Loki. “So, this is one of those memory things, right? I relive a memory and get better?”

“‘Better’ is very much subjective in your case. You’ll be less likely to go on a murderous rampage, at least, and you’ll be less at risk of the stone turning against you. And let’s not forget. We’ll all see this memory of yours,” Loki says.

Peter nods, looking at the array of heroes fading into view around him. Wanda, Dr. Strange, Hope Van Dyne, Sam, Bucky, T’Challa, Shuri, Peter Quill---

“What the fuck,” he says. He jabs a finger at the the forms behind Quill and past Mantis who gives him a cheerful, fond smile and wave. “Is that a tree?”

“I am Groot!”

“Oh, yeah,” Quill says. “That’s Groot. He had to sacrifice a part of himself to help Thor so he’s kind of just chilling right now.” He pauses for a moment. “Also we weren’t really sure if you could understand groot, and it’d be really weird to just hear ‘I am Groot’ out of context at random points while you were doing all of your everything.”

“I am Groot,” Groot says again, nodding and shrugging.

Peter pauses, takes in a deep breath, and decides to deal with that later.

“Okay. Moving on,” he says, and turns to focus on Loki. “How do we start?”

“Simple,” Loki says.

He flicks Peter’s forehead. Hard.

Peter’s vision goes black.

* * *

He wakes up inside of a memory. It’s a bit like blinking: one moment he’s standing in the middle of a group of heroes, the next he’s in a memory that feels as real as it did the first time he lived it. Except this time, he’s surrounded by indistinct figures of gold. Most of them shuffle to the periphery of his vision, doing their best to stay out of focus.

Peter is nervous as hell. Tony’s asked him to join him for some fundraising thing with Pepper, Happy, and Rhodey. He agreed, was promptly swept away for a suit fitting with Tony’s private tailor, and now he’s standing beside Tony in the kitchen of the of one of the event halls Stark Industries has sprinkled across New York City. There’s a massive crowd of the wealthy elite on the other side of the double doors leading into the hall, and Peter feels terribly out of place.

Tony notices. He steps up beside Peter and claps his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You good, kid?”

Peter jumps, coughs, and then clears his throat. “Um. Yeah. Totally.” He pauses for a beat. "No, absolutely not. How did you convince me to do this again?"

Tony grins, suave and self assured, spreading his arms. "By being me. And--" He points a finger at Peter. "--by reminding you that if we're making this internship a thing, that means you have to show up to Stark Industries events to sell the image. Quid pro quo, kiddo."

They had just finished taking pictures of Peter holding the Stark Internship certificate while shaking Tony’s hand a few days earlier. Peter had been too overwhelmed and distracted to realize what he was agreeing to. Which is something of a theme when it comes to their meetings, now that Peter thinks of it.

"I didn't realize that meant I'd be sacrificing a Friday night to whatever this is."

"A fundraising gala," Tony says, adjusting his tie in the refrigerator's mirrored surface

"You have more money than god, just fundraise whatever it is yourself."

"But it's more fun putting on a show and convincing other rich bastards to do it. Assholes won't give away money like that unless you bait them into it. They need a spectacle before they agree to help society."

Peter goes quiet for a bit, and then says, "I think I hate every part of that sentence, especially the sentiment. It kinda makes me sick."

"Smiling smothers your gag reflex, but if you have to hurl after talking to the elite members of society, at least do it on Norman Osborn's shoes. You'd be carrying on my legacy, and it would be absolutely hilarious to see him get pissy at you."

"I'm only staying for an hour," Peter says.

"Nope," Tony replies.

Peter stares at him. "What do you mean 'nope'?"

"You are my personal intern, kid. You're here for as long as I need you."

"You're hosting the gala, though,” Peter points out, frowning up at him.

"Exactly. I'll be here all night."

Peter stares at him. “You said I was only going to be here for the pictures.”

“Oh, yeah, I did,” Tony says. He smiles brightly. “I lied.”

Peter puts his head in his hands. "Oh my god, it's Germany all over again."

"You're still hung up about that, huh,” Tony says, adjusting his tie, and then his hair. “What's a little human trafficking between heroes?"

"That's it, I'm selling this story to the Daily Bugle," Peter mutters, fidgeting in his suit. “Tony Stark Kidnaps Innocent Child For The Second Time.”

"Nah, they don't pay enough. Sell it to the Times. They like pointing out all my flaws."

Before Peter can retort, Pepper Potts, dressed elegantly, pokes her head into the kitchen. "Tony, I need you." She stops when she notices Peter, blinks, and then smiles. "Oh, Peter. I didn’t know you were joining us tonight."

"Tony’s kidnapping me again,” Peter says, pointing an accusing finger at Tony.

"Didn't learn the first time, huh?" Pepper grins.

"You're marrying a child abductor,” Peter says.

"That's a step up from arms dealer," Pepper replies, checking her watch. "Tony--"

"Coming," Tony says. He grins at Peter. “You’ll do fine. Just imagine everyone’s in their underwear when you talk to them.”

Peter stares at him. “How on earth does that help?”

“Well, they’ve all seen me in mine, and they don’t seem very intimidated. Moreso aroused, actually--”

“Oh my god, please stop talking,” Peter mutters, mortified.

“See, you’re not nervous anymore,” Tony says, casually slinging an arm around Peter’s shoulders and guiding him towards the doors. "Just take it slow, kid. Consider this a chance to work on your schmoozing. You'll need that in college, trust me. And you’ll definitely need it afterward."

“Yeah. Got it. Thanks,” Peter says, wondering if he can leap out of the nearest window instead. He won’t, but like, the idea is there. Just in case.

Tony smirks at him, slides on his sunglasses and pushes through the double doors, stepping over the threshold and into the view of a crowd full of people who flash bright, empty smiles at him the moment they lay eyes on him. Tony’s ‘showman’ persona comes out full force, and he saunters over to the nearest crowd, arms wide.

“Norman! Glad you could make it. Hey, I like your shoes,” Tony calls out just as the doors swing shut behind him.

Peter makes a face at the door, loitering for a bit longer. He regrets agreeing to this. He’s only here because Ned’s out of town and completely out of reach. Peter can’t even send him plans for their next Lego build. Ugh.

Worse: FRIDAY is probably watching him, and set to alert to Tony if Peter sneaks out. Maybe he could sneak out through the kitchen--

“Oh, hello, Peter,” a kind voice says behind him. One of the golden shapes hovering at the edge of his awareness lets out a quiet sound; something caught between grief and shock.

Peter turns around and finds himself face to face with Vision. He relaxes. “Oh, hey. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I phased through the wall,” Vision says helpfully.

He’s now extremely envious of that ability. “That’d explain it.”

“Don’t let Wanda know,” Vision adds, heading towards the kitchen. “I do my best to remember to use doors these days, however it’s much more efficient to simply phase through the walls."

"Uh, well, that's not a problem," Peter says. “Since she’s kind of a fugitive at the moment. And we’ve never talked.”

Which is understandable. He was technically trying to arrest her in Germany. At the very least, he was meant to be an additional threat, something he’s still a little unsure of. Peter’s just glad he didn’t run into her. She probably wouldn’t have hurt him, but he’s had enough experience to see some truly desperate moves from people running from the law in his short time as a superhero.

“I wouldn’t have hurt you,” Wanda says gently, distracted. She’s focused utterly on Vision, drifting close to him. The grief from her golden shadow is near palpable.

“A temporary state of affairs,” Vision says idly, and with so much conviction that Peter believes him. The android idly searches through a few cabinets around the kitchen, outright phases his head through one of the doors, and then finally finds what he’s looking for: a simple recipe book, bound in red leather. He grabs it and turns to face Peter, setting the book down on the kitchen island between them. One of the golden shapes hovers right beside him.

"Please tell your Aunt May that I’m thankful for her help with baking," Vision says, his tone polite and fond. "And that I appreciate her taking the time to answer my emails when I have questions."

"Sure. Aunt May loves having someone to talk baking with. And she’s always happy when a hero shows up at FEAST to help out." Peter pauses for a moment, thinking. "Hey, can you sneak me out of here? I promise I’ll get her to teach you her wheat cake recipe."

"I'm afraid not. Mr. Stark asked me to be here so that I could stop you from leaving, in fact," Vision says politely.

Peter stops to consider that. He sighs. "God, he's such an ass sometimes."

That’s something he’d never say directly to Tony, of course. He’s pretty sure Tony wouldn’t be offended by it, but he knows Tony would gladly snark at him for that kind of comment, happy to enter a verbal slap fight with his young mentee. Peter doesn’t always have the patience for that kind of back and forth, and he’s still a little wary of offending one of his heroes with a careless word.

"Yes," Vision agrees.

That gets a snort of laughter from one of the golden shadows hovering nearby. It sounds suspiciously like Sam.

“Good luck, Peter,” Vision says and smiles, warm and friendly, before he turns towards the wall, phasing right through it.

Peter huffs, quietly regrets not charging his phone before coming to visit, and slips into the event hall. Maybe this won't be so bad.

* * *

Two hours pass. The nearly empty event hall gradually begins to fill as the rich and famous attempt to show up fashionably late, trying to outdo each other’s entrances. Every last one of them stroll in with easy grace, brilliant smiles, and an almost manic kind of cheerfulness that comes from people desperate to make good impressions on their peers. Or to show off in front of them.

Peter is bored out of his fucking mind. He’s wandered around the edge of the crowd, watching curiously, but warily. It’s only now that he notices things that otherwise passed by his notice the first time he lived through the Stark gala. Nick Fury makes a brief appearance, hidden among the crowd despite his size and signature eye patch. Maria Hill is a much more subtle presence beside him. Both briefly glance at Peter as he wanders past in search of something to do. The look is brief, but Peter knows they were watching him from the corners of their eyes long after that brief glance.

"You guys knew him before?" Sam asks.

"We were aware of him," Fury says.

“We asked about him and Stark warned us off before using his AI to nuke all of the servers that had Peter’s information on them. Including every backup,” Hill remarks. “It sent a pretty clear message.”

"There he is, one second. Hey, kid! Come here!" Tony calls out, waving him over. He's standing with two others: a middle aged man and a teenager who could be a carbon copy of the man beside him. The older man has the most severe widow’s peak Peter’s ever seen, and the teen is already starting to show a similar fate for his own hair.

“Peter, meet Norman Osborn and his son, Harry. Norman, Harry, meet Peter, my intern.”

Harry startles, clearly surprised that Tony remembered to include him in his introduction. Norman regards Peter closely, almost coldly at first, and Peter’s senses twinge just a bit--and then he smiles, and he’s no more dangerous than any other CEO sauntering through the room. He offers Peter his hand.

“Peter, it’s good to meet you," he says, his voice carrying that fake tone of friendliness that seems to be second nature for the very rich. "Tony talks about you a great deal. He’s a hard man to impress, you should be honored.”

“He does?” Peter asks, taking the man’s hand. Another twinge of his senses makes his handshake unsteady. Norman smirks at that, and Peter’s mild unsettlement shifts to instant dislike. Something about Norman Osborn bothers him deeply.

“Of course I do,” Tony says, clapping his shoulder and grinning at him. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“You’re embarrassing,” Peter says after a moment, fighting back a smirk.

“I come by it honestly. Deal with it,” Tony retorts.

Peter rolls his eyes and offers his hand to Harry, smiling at him. Harry perks up and takes his hand, smiling at Peter uncertainly, and a bit nervously. No twinge of his senses there, but that isn't surprising. Norman is tall, with a swimmer's physique underneath his expensive suit. Harry is thin and unremarkable, pale to the point where he seems to be on the verge of sickness. Peter could sneeze and send this kid flying into the nearest wall.

“It’s nice to meet you, Peter,” Harry says, his tone perfectly polite, if a bit shy. That tone earns him a sharp look from his father; it’s a momentary thing, there and gone in an instant, but Peter catches it. “And it’s nice to meet someone my age at one of these things for once.”

Peter is seconds away from asking him something stupid. Something along the lines of, ‘seriously, how do you deal with this’ or perhaps something even more ill advised. Fortunately, Tony picks up on it and cuts in smoothly.

“Oscorp is working on some fancy new medical tech,” Tony tells Peter. Norman doesn’t quite preen; his expression shifts from pleasant curiosity to smug pride. “I know you’ve got an interest in bioengineering. You should check out some of the stuff they’re doing sometime.”

That catches Norman’s interest. His gaze sharpens for a moment. “Oh? I would have thought a Stark intern would lean more towards engineering.”

“Kid’s a real science whiz,” Tony says. “He’s a polymath.”

That really catches Norman’s interest. “Is that so? Perhaps when you’ve finished your internship with Mr. Stark, you could look into one of our programs, Mr. Parker. We’re always looking for new talent, and while Mr. Stark is quite generous, I think we can make an acceptable counteroffer.”

“Uh, sure, I’ll keep it in mind,” Peter says, unsure of how to respond exactly.

“Still chasing after impossible goals, Norman?” Tony says, amused.

“Always, Tony. I can’t let you have all the good toys,” Norman responds. There’s a bit more teeth to his smile when he grins at Tony. “I shouldn’t hog all of your attention, Tony. Peter, it was nice to meet you.”

“You too, Mr. Osborn,” Peter says. Once Norman and his oddly quiet son leave, Peter turns to look at Tony. “Did you just try to get me an internship with Oscorp?”

“Nope. I put your name in Norman’s mind. That’s a bit more important than whatever internship or job he’s planning on sliding your way,” Tony says. “Come on, walk with me.”

Peter manages to hide a slight wince, both from the interaction with Norman and the sudden interest he’s gaining from the other individuals in the room. He hurries after Tony, idly wondering if he should try to explain the whole Oscorp spider issue to him. They’ve never actually discussed how he became Spider-Man.

“Okay, so, you engineered this whole kidnapping--” Peter starts.

“Bonding time.”

“--don’t make it weird,” Peter says, and then starts again. “You brought me here. Why? This really isn't my scene, Mr. Stark. I have nothing in common with these people."

Tony scoffs. "It isn’t anyone’s scene, kid. Why do you think I used to come to these things drunk out of my skull? And don’t worry. We'll build up your tolerance and make it your scene.”

Something like horrified panic rises in him after Tony says that, and Peter has to fight off the urge to skitter up the nearest wall to hide in the ceiling corner. “Why would we want do that?”

“To make sure the right people have your name in their ears and in the back of their minds over next few years,” Tony says easily. "Think of it this way: every opportunity has a door blocking your way. All you need to do to reach that opportunity is open the door. And every person here leads to an opportunity."

“In my experience you need keys to open up doors. And not every door has a key for people like me,” Peter mutters, fidgeting in his suit.

“Then make one,” Tony says, shrugging easily. "Every door has a key, kid. If you can't find one, make it."

That sticks with him, for some reason.

"So, open every door I find?"

"See, that's where smart money comes in. You need to know which doors to open and which ones to close." He claps Peter’s shoulder. "And that’s why you have me."

“Right,” Peter says, letting his eyes roam over the crowd. His senses--still new and not entirely honed--ping against one particular individual. He stiffens, frowning in the man’s direction. Tony notices, of course, and looks over to the man Peter’s staring at.

"That’s Dr. Cross, current CEO of Pym Tech. I'm surprised he took me up on the invitation, to be honest. He's never shown any interest in coming to these things before," Tony says, half curious, and half wary. After a moment, he adds, "Take a look at the first door to keep shut. Stay away from him."

"What? Why?"

Tony shrugs. “There’s some tension between Stark Industries and Pym Tech. At best, it’ll be awkward.”

Hank Pym--a golden translucent shape hidden among the party’s crowd--scoffs.

“Really? Over what?” Peter asks, glancing at Tony.

"Old rich man bullshit, mostly. My dad pissed off Hank Pym a long time ago and, from what I hear, Pym's not all that impressed with me either.” He drifts for a moment, then shrugs. “Anyway, Dr. Cross used to be Pym's protege before they had some big falling out. I think it’s because Hank figured out Cross is a little nuts, and he’s only gotten weirder lately. Just stick to the people I talk to, okay?"

"Um, right. You don't think he's here to cause a scene? I'm getting a weird feeling about that guy," Peter says, not quite fidgeting. "Do you think Dr. Pym would send him here to cause trouble?"

Peter hears another distant scoff; Hank Pym apparently has an opinion or two on that particular thought. Tony mirrors that scoff, which surprises Pym’s ghost.

"No. If Cross does cause trouble, it'll be his own. Dad always said Hank was a good man. And from what I’ve seen, he's not someone who would dig up a decades old fight with someone else and use it to stir up trouble.” Tony takes a second look at the current Pym CEO, and rolls his eyes. “And you’re getting a ‘weird feeling’ off the guy because he’s drugged to his ears. See his eyes? And how his hands are fidgeting? Dead giveaway. I don’t envy his assistant. He’d better be paying her well.”

She's pretty, Peter thinks, looking at Hope Van Dyne. And she clearly knows how to fight, judging by her walk and the way she looks over the crowd. Peter makes a mental note to avoid her, too. She’s a little intimidating.

“Aw. You were afraid of me?” Hope asks in the distance, amused.

“Stark sounds frighteningly reasonable in this one,” Hank Pym mutters.

“He has his moments,” Nick Fury says, watching the memory. Most of the ghosts seem uncomfortable floating around inside someone else’s memory. Fury is one of the few who hasn’t looked away. He watches everything with deep interest, unblinking.

Tony nudges Peter’s shoulder. “I’ve gotta give a speech. Wanna help?”

“I would rather die.”

“Don’t do that, May would kill me,” Tony says absently, pulling out an index card with his speech notes from one of the pockets in his suit jacket. “And I’m not entirely sure Happy would do anything to stop her. Anyway, have fun, don’t get too drunk.”

“What do you think the legal drinking age is?” Peter asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Eighteen?” Tony ventures. At Peter’s incredulous look, he shrugs. “It was when I was your age.”

“Wow, you’re old.”

Tony rolls his eyes, smirks, and leaves for the podium. He starts his speech with the usual flair for the dramatic, and Peter is glad he decided to stay hidden among the crowd. A server passes by, carrying flutes of champagne on a silver platter. Peter grabs one; the man doesn’t even seem to notice, and judging by his distant, bored stare, he probably wouldn’t have cared if he did. Score.

He’s about to drink when Happy stomps by and snatches it out of his hand with a firm, “No.”

He disappears into the crowd, leaving Peter empty-handed. Peter huffs. He’s not even sure alcohol would work on him, and Happy just ruined a perfectly good experiment. He eyes the crowd, trying to trace Happy’s movements.

"What are you doing here, Peter?" someone asks beside him.

Peter startles, turning around to face the voice, and finds himself face to face with Rhodey. He’s wearing a clean, sharp suit, with his leg braces clicking and whirring quietly with each small movement the man makes.

"Tony kidnapped me," Peter says.

Rhodey grins. "Again? What’s that old phrase? Fool me once..."

"You're all terrible people," Peter grumps.

“You’ll get used to it, kid. Just make the best of the gala. It might even be fun.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“No, not at all,” Rhodey says cheerfully. “I’m planning on ducking out early, actually.”

“Take me with you.”

“Nope.”

“You’re the worst.”

Rhodey laughs, clapping his shoulder briefly before slipping into the crowd. He glances over his shoulder and says, “Just talk to a few people. It’ll make the night go by quicker, I promise.”

* * *

He does try. Honestly, he does. But he has as much in common with the men and women in this room as a roadrunner does with a vulture. Same kind of creature, very different environment. It doesn’t help that he’s just not that good at small talk. He doesn’t have Tony’s charm, Pepper’s elegance, or Rhodey’s cool and calm presence. He feels like a toddler, and it frustrates him.

Most of his attempts at conversation end on a flat note. The only person who happens to be vaguely nice to him is a dark haired woman in a sleek dress that’s nowhere near as gaudy or tailor made as the rest of the crowd’s outfits. With the benefit of hindsight and exposure to the soul stone, he realizes this is Maria Hill. The conversation is brief but pleasant, containing almost nothing of substance.

“Nice of you to throw the kid a bone,” Sam remarks.

“She was just gathering intel,” Bucky says.

“Not entirely,” Hill says. “He really did look a little lost.”

Having successfully achieved a positive human interaction, Peter makes a silent retreat. He ends up drifting into the far corner of the room, trying to figure out where, exactly, Happy is hiding, and how a man so bulky can move that quickly in a crowded room. He bumps into someone and startles.

“Oh, sorry--”

“It’s okay! I was kind of hidden over here,” Harry Osborn says. “Sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?” Peter asks, frowning. “I was the one who bumped into you.”

Harry is quiet for a moment, considers, and shrugs. “Dunno. It’s just habit to say it. My father isn’t really a fan of it.”

Peter’s starting to get the idea that Norman isn’t really a fan of a lot of things Harry does. “Oh. Well, you don’t need to apologize to me, but thanks. What are you doing in the corner?”

“Thinking. My father tells me that I need to learn something from each of these gatherings. He quizzes me on the limo ride home. I’m trying to think of something now so I can space off when he starts up the lecture,” Harry says.

“That sounds intense,” Peter says, feeling justified by his initial wariness about Norman.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Harry says, shrugging. “He’s just an intense guy. You get used to it.”

“Huh. Come up with anything yet?”

“Not at all,” Harry says glumly, idly swirling his drink in his hand. It’s an almost perfect mimicry of his father’s movements, and Peter idly wonders if Harry even realizes he’s doing it. “I saw Mr. Stark talking to you earlier. What was that about?”

“Also a ‘lesson’ but I’m not sure I got it.” Peter pauses and squints up into the air. “It was something about doors.”

Harry gives him a politely befuddled look. “Doors?”

“Doors,” Peter says, trailing off. He blinks, checks the time, and scowls. He could be at the movies with Ned, or patrolling, or doing half a dozen other much more interesting things. “Actually, a better lesson would be ‘never do anyone a favor, ever.’”

“My father might like that one,” Harry remarks dryly.

They fall into silence. Peter doesn’t quite brood, slowly going over his options. Most of them are boring and polite. He’s here until the gala ends, after all--

He stops.

Sure, he’s here until the gala ends. But what if it ends early?

“Hey, wanna help me slam shut as many doors as possible?” Peter asks Harry, grinning.

Harry eyes him warily, thrown off by the sudden shift in Peter’s mood. “Maybe. You’re not going to go insane, are you?”

“Nah, I’m just going to prove a point to Mr. Stark. You’ll get an easy lesson to feed your dad when I’m done. Promise.”

Now he has Harry’s curiosity. The other boy glances briefly at his father, and then back to Peter before shrugging and offering the tiniest nod of ascent. “Okay. What do you need?”

“Who’s the biggest asshole here?” Peter asks.

Harry thinks for a moment, and then points to a blandly handsome man so generic that Peter would struggle to pick him out of the crowd. The only thing that sets him apart from the others in the room is the smug smirk plastered across his face.

“Roxxon’s newest CEO,” Harry says. “His company’s built a new kind of battery for electric cars. He’s just become a multibillionaire and it’s kind of going to his head.”

“Perfect,” Peter says. “Watch this.”

Peter walks towards the man. After a few moments, Harry trails after him, curious.

Now that he’s not worried about making a good impression, his social anxiety drains away, and he finds it easy to introduce himself and start up a conversation. Harry hangs out nearby, not quite close enough to get involved in the conversation directly, but close enough to listen in.

The conversation starts normally enough. Peter simply says hello and expresses mild interest. The CEO, with almost no prompting from Peter whatsoever, begins to preen from the attention.

“It’s a Solstar S,” the man says, smugly proud of his new car. And, in his defense, it does look unbelievably cool; all sleek angles and polished steel, making it look like something caught between a military jet and luxury sportscar. “It’s supposed to be better than a Tesla. More exclusive, too. There are only two hundred in existence. I have the first.”

Peter frowns at the image on the man’s phone, feigning puzzlement before brightening up and snapping his fingers. “Oh, so it’s a new kind of Prius! My friend’s grandma drives one of those. She swears by it. Says it works surprisingly well in the snow.”

Behind him, Peter can hear Harry cough to cover a startled, disbelieving laugh. The man stares at him in something close to open mouthed shock and horror. The blow to his ego, from such a naive individual is almost more than the poor guy can take. He stares at Peter, mouth opening and shutting, before stiffly walking away.

Peter’s accomplished his mission, so he’s already seeking out a new target. He doesn’t shift his gaze from the milling millionaires even when Harry steps up beside him.

“So,” he says. “What was that about?”

“I’m proving a point to Mr. Stark,” Peter says. “Wanna help?”

“I think you’ve got this one handled,” Harry says, amused. “If you’re looking to really cause some trouble, the guy over there in the corner is a reporter for Front Line. It’s a conspiracy paper and rumor mill.”

“Wonder how he got in?” Peter asks.

“Tabloids always sneak someone inside,” Harry says. “It’s better to pretend to not notice them rather than get rid of them. They’ll just get sneakier.”

“That makes sense,” Peter says. “Thanks, Harry.”

Harry blinks, but chances a small smile in return. “Sure. Uh, have fun? I’d rather not get too close to that group.”

“Yeah, don’t blame you,” Peter says.

Peter makes the rounds again. The gala is still going strong, the party is going smoothly, and Peter is causing an idle stir among the guests. Enough that Tony’s starting to eye him from across the room. When Peter flashes Tony a brilliant smile, the man’s eyes narrow suspiciously.

The coup de grace doesn’t land until Peter pulls out the big guns. He tracks down one of the journalists circling the gala crowd like a hawk. He singles out a plain looking man in a well fitted but slightly worn suit and too quick eyes. Peter strikes up a conversation with him easily, pretending to mistake him for one of the elite members of society.

“And, of course, it’s kind of an open secret who I am,” Peter says, pitching his voice just loud enough to for the guy to hear.

“Oh?” the man asks, trying and failing to hide the eager excitement in his voice. “And who is that, exactly?”

Peter grins. If Tony’s going to act like a parental figure, he might as well get the full experience. “Well, we met when he just showed up at my apartment a couple of years ago--”

The memory fuzzes a bit. Peter honestly doesn’t remember the specifics of this conversation, but he remembers the gist of it: falsely claiming Tony as his father, to the hungry excitement of the tabloid reporter. Golden shapes drift around them, indistinct save for their voices.

“This kid is a menace,” Bucky says, amused.

“This is kinda great,” Quill says. “This party is boring as hell.”

“He is having fun,” Mantis adds. She sounds relieved, as if she’s able to stop carrying a heavy burden for a short time. “It is nice to see.”

“--yes, Tony Stark is, in fact, my father--” Peter says, the memory coming back into focus. He sees Tony walking towards him, eyes darting back and forth between the reporter and Peter. He almost stumbles when he overhears Peter’s words.

“And you’re saying he abandoned you and your mother?”

“Oh, yeah. He just split entirely, until he found me a couple years ago. That was weird, by the way, and remind me to tell you about the whole European incident--”

The reporter is still watching him, but his eyes snap to the side, and that eager excitement boils over.

“Colonel Rhodes, would you like to comment on this?” the reporter asks, grabbing the sleeve of Rhodey’s suit jacket as he passes by.

“What?” Rhodey asks, frowning.

“Is Tony Stark this boy’s deadbeat father?” The guy is practically salivating over this story.

Rhodey stares at the reporter, then at Peter, who smiles at him blandly.

Rhodey is Tony’s oldest and closest friend. His confidant, his brother in every way that matters. Their friendship is at least as strong as Peter and Ned’s, but seasoned by decades and world ending battles. He would take on an army by himself to save Tony from certain death.

He is also an asshole.

“Well, we all know how Stark men are,” Rhodey remarks before strolling off, ignoring Tony’s exasperated look. “Daddy issues kind of run in the family, you know?”

Peter manages to not grin and maintain his innocent facade, but only just.

The tabloid reporter turns back to Peter. Before he can speak, Tony says, “What the hell is happening here?”

Peter grins at him. “Just talking to people. Like you said.”

Tony stares at Peter, half in disbelief, half in exasperation. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Okay, let’s clear a few things up first--”

In the end, Tony manages to squash the tabloid reporter’s dreams (but probably not the story), and smooth over a few other ripples Peter’s left behind himself. Once Tony manages to shoo off the reporter, he turns to face Peter.

“Why are you the way that you are?” Tony asks. “Did tonight’s little pep talk mean nothing?”

“No, I got it,” Peter says, shrugging. “I’m just not a fan of it, that’s all. Besides, I’ve already kicked open the door to you. Pretty sure I don’t need anything else.”

Tony regards him for a long moment, narrowing his eyes before letting out a scoffing laugh. “Heartfelt and honest and with just the right amount of ass kissing to save my ego. You just might learn something from me yet, Mr. Parker. Now get out of here, I have a few dozen bribes to throw around.”

Peter is already sprinting for the door. “Thanks, Mr. Stark, this was fun, let’s not do it again!”

“No worries on that, kid!” Tony calls after him.

Peter winds his way through the crowd, pushes the kitchen door open--

* * *

--and snaps awake in his bed at the manor. After a few moments of fighting off a feeling as if he’s just fallen into his own body somehow, he sits up. The wound in his side from the bullet wound hitches for a moment, then settles into nothing. There’s a burning in his chest from the Joker serum, but it’s less than what it was, and using his inhaler silences it completely. He stands up, stretches, and his focus is drawn towards something on his desk. He steps over.

He finds a beautifully painted image on a small canvas, done in oil. It's a picture of a rabbit leaping through the night sky, with ears made of stars. Damian’s name is scribbled in the corner, along a date. A small note sits beside it: I'm keeping the rabbit book. -Damian

Peter, amused, scribbles out a note of his own: ask Alfred for a frame.

He feels good. Strong. Centered.

The storm outside is still raging. In the distance, he can hear last minute preparations for the gala taking place later today.

Peter puts on his suit, and goes to meet it.

* * *

BATCHAT

Dick (8:01am): What just happened to the sky?

Barbara (08:02am): Get out of there!

Barbara (08:03am): Nightwing?