Chapter 9
Lately, it seems like Peter's life is a cycle of continuous patrolling. He wakes up from dreams that are more often than not about patrols, gets ready to patrol, patrols, sometimes stops by Mrs. Carter's to earn money and for a mid-day snack as a substitute for lunch so he can continue patrolling without passing out, patrols some more, then conks out at the end of the day only to awaken a few measly hours later to do it all again. Sometimes he throws in a little visit to Midtown Tech, Aunt May's apartment, or the library, but his days are centered around Spider-Man.
That's why it doesn't come as a surprise when the news picks up more stories about Spider-Man and he starts seeing blurry pictures himself of on the billboards of Times Square. At this point, Spider-Man is getting more media coverage than the Avengers are.
It's . . . odd, but it's not like Spider-Man was ignored before. It's just that, now, everyone seems to be on the same page that Spider-Man is a good guy. Obviously not everyone likes him—that'd be impossible—but the majority does. There isn't a hate group working at the Daily Bugle writing articles about how much of a menace Spider-Man is, or how he is only interfering with the law. They're actually praising him for his involvement.
A guy working in a food truck flags Peter down while he's swinging past, so he redirects his path to land in front of the truck. The man simply turns around, grabs a taco, and then turns back to Peter with the food extended.
"Thank you," he says, voice rough and harsh but his eyes shining with gratefulness, "for keeping the streets safer place."
Guilt devours his stomach as he accepts the taco because—to him, at least—he isn't keeping the streets safe. He hasn't done anything to deserve the man's gratefulness. Yet, Peter swings up to a rooftop after thanking the food truck guy and eats the taco in three big bites.
Does he feel like he deserves the taco? No. Not at all. There's already guilt swimming in his empty stomach from the fact that he isn't doing enough to keep everyone safe, but the guilt just stacks up higher because he couldn't turn down the taco, not when his hands had started to shake and the skyline started to tilt slightly.
What kind of neighborhood hero relies on the citizens for strength?
Peter pulls his mask back down over his chin and releases a heavy sigh. His eyes flicker up from his empty hands to gaze out at the slowly setting sun. It isn't one of those poetic sunrises that one would describe as a watercolor painting full of splashes of oranges and streaks of pink. Gray clouds conceal the little outline of the sun as it lowers into the horizon. There's no magnificent funeral, no great send-off to the day.
He isn't sure how long he stays there, staring at the horizon. It can't be too long because the sun is still visible, but his bottom is starting to get sore from sitting for so long.
A whir and a repulser whine from behind yanks him out of his thoughts as his whole body tenses. His legs, which were dangling over the side of the building, freeze.
There's a prickle at the back of his neck, but not one of danger.
He stands. Slowly turns around.
His heart clenches at the sight of the gold and red Iron Man suit as it lands on the roof across from him with a dull thud.
Peter watches, waiting for the face plate to pull back and reveal a face he hasn't seen in person for months, but the Iron Man face plate stays. Some part of him is grateful—he doesn't know how he would react to seeing Mr. Stark in the flesh again—but another part of him wants to yank it off himself so he can see his mentor face-to-face.
But he isn't his mentor anymore. He isn't his anything—it's not like they were all that close before, anyways. It was probably just Peter projecting his desire to have an alive father figure.
Standing there, Mr. Stark only a few yards away, Peter has to remind himself that they don't know each other. They're strangers.
So, he squares his shoulders and lifts his chin slightly. "Hey, Iron Man. What's up?"
"You know, for a guy in bright red and blue spandex, you're surprisingly hard to track down." His voice is mechanic, but undoubtedly Mr. Stark's.
Tony's, Peter mentally corrects himself. He isn't his Mr. Stark anymore, it's just Tony Stark—billionaire, superhero, philanthropist, celebrity, business man. Not mentor.
"I tend to move around the city a lot." Peter shrugs. He tries to keep his voice somewhat lower. "Did you need something?"
There's a pause. Then, the face plate opens up, and Tony's whole head is revealed.
Peter's thankful for the mask that conceals his eyes. Aunt May had always told him his eyes are window to everything that runs through his mind. And, right now, he doesn't want Tony to see the deep emotions that he's sure are swirling in his eyes.
Tony looks just the same as before. His beard is trimmed just as cleanly, his hair styled but slightly messy. There's some stress lines in his forehead, but from everything he's been through in his lifetime from his kidnapping in Afghanistan to the battle against the Chitari in New York, they've become a permanent feature of his face.
Tony's eyes narrow slightly as he studies Peter like he can see past the mask. But he can't—if he could, he'd think Peter was a crazy emotional little kid and not the Spider-Man he knows just as well as everyone else in New York.
Instead of answering his question, Tony says, "Big fan of your work around New York. Crime rates have been down 10% just in the past week."
Peter shifts and glances behind him at the skyline. His mind brings back all the times Tony has patted him on the back for his efforts as Spider-Man, and he can't help but feel a sense of nostalgia.
Thankfully Tony doesn't wait for a response. While Peter's mind is playing memories like a VHS player running through old tapes, Tony continues, "Anyways, that's not why I'm here. Well, sort-of. You ever hear of the Accords?"
"Yeah?"
"Is that a question or an answer?" Tony remarks, and Peter frowns.
"An answer, sorry, just—I'm just confused." Peter crosses his arms. "What do the Accords have to do with anything? I thought all the drama got resolved."
"It did," Tony confirms. "But that's not the issue. As helpful as you've proven to be, you're still an enhanced individual participating in extralegal vigilante activities, so you are directly violating these regulations. Now, I'm not usually a stickler for the rules, but I helped rewrite and amend the Accords to benefit parties on all sides for everyone's safety."
A spike of anxiety shoots down his spine. The only way he got around the Accords before was because he's a minor and Tony found him a loophole. But this Tony—well, technically it's the same Tony, just with less memories—doesn't know that he isn't eighteen yet. And, now, he can't know. "What am I supposed to do?"
"Easy," Tony quips, flashing his paparazzi smile. "Sign the Accords."
Everything in Peter's head screeches to a halt.
Yeah, no, that's not going to happen. If he signs on, he'll have to reveal his identity and let scientists analyze his powers through tests and observations.
He's not ready for his identity to be out to Tony, much less the entire world. And the whole test thing doesn't sit right with him.
Studying Tony in front of him, Peter asks, "What if I don't?"
Tony releases a heavy sigh and glances to the side. "Didn't you say you were familiar with the Accords?"
"I said I heard of them," Peter corrects, biting back from mentioning how Tony was the one who always made sure Peter wasn't worried about them.
"If you keep doing your vigilante thing without signing on, you can get detained indefinitely without a trial."
"That sounds unfair," Peter blurts, and it isn't until the words come out of his mouth that he realizes how pouty they sound. Under the mask, he blushes, hoping Tony doesn't think he sounds like an absolute child.
The annoyed look on Tony's face confirms otherwise.
"Look, kid—"
"I'm not a kid."
Tony's lips press into a straight line. "Anyone younger than twenty-five is a kid, and you can't be older than twenty-one, so."
Under his mask, Peter can't hold back the smile. That's definitely something Tony has said before—the thing about everyone under the age of twenty-five being a kid. Peter remembers saying something about how only old people think that, which earned him a glare.
"I get that you want to help grandmas across the street and stop bike thefts, I do," Tony says and Peter frowns, offended that his efforts have been denounced to random acts of kindness. "But you have to understand that as long as you're all masked-up and fighting crime on your own terms using powers no one knows the capabilities of, you are a threat to the safety of the general public."
"But I'm not even doing anything wrong."
"You're violating the Accords," Tony points out.
Peter glares. "By 'helping grandmas cross the street'?"
Tony rolls his eyes. "Okay, maybe that was an understatement—I've seen videos of you stopping a bus with your bare hands. The point is that you're operating illegally, and nobody wants to see our local Spider-Man get thrown behind bars, so I'm here as a warning before the police come knocking at your door."
"So you're not going to turn me in if I say no? You're just here to warn me?"
Tony slowly nods, but his brow pulls forward. "Why don't you just sign? You can continue doing your thing legally if you do."
"I wear a mask for a reason," Peter vaguely explains, voice polite but stern.
All these months, he's been dying to be with the people whose lives he has been cut out of. He wants Aunt May to hug him and fuss over how much he's not eating. He wants to stuff his face with pizza as he watches old movies with Ned. He wants to embarrass himself in front of MJ, to joke around with the rest of the Academic Decathlon team, to attempt to spar against Natasha and massively lose, to be teased by Clint and Sam, to be lectured by Steve, to laugh behind Steve's back at Bucky's stories from the 30s, to just . . . to be with everyone and at least acknowledged.
He wants Tony to clap him on the shoulder and say, "Good job, kiddo," when he tells him he aced an exam. As much as he would roll eyes and gag whenever Tony teased him about Aunt May being hot despite having a thing with Pepper Potts, he wants that back, too. He wants the approval on the man's face when Peter makes a good call during a mission.
But he doesn't think he's ready for Tony to know Peter Parker. There's too many variables, too much he could mess up. He's scared of messing it up so badly that he loses Tony all over again. It's hard enough grieving relationships he had, he doesn't need anymore to regret. Or—not regret, just . . . To look back on and wish he did more, said something else, hadn't said something.
It takes all of Peter's will to keep Tony's gaze as the man's eyes narrow.
"What are you trying to hide?" Tony finally asks.
Peter gulps. He opens his mouth, ready to argue that he isn't hiding, he is protecting, but it doesn't come out because he is hiding behind his mask.
"You've done your job," Peter says instead. "I appreciate the warning, but I'm good."
Tony shifts his weight back on his left leg, calculating stare flickering over Peter's masked face. He sniffs, looks away, then looks back and says, "I guess we're done here, then."
Peter uncrosses his arms. "I guess so. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Stark."
"Yeah." Tony's helmet rises and closes over his head. Peter stares into the cold, emotionless glowing eyes of the face plate as the man says, "I hope you change your mind, I've heard from some inside sources that the Raft isn't fun."
And then he's gone, blasting up into the sky towards the tower. Peter turns to watch Tony soar above the city. As soon as he's out of sight and he can't hear the whooshing of the suit cutting through the air, Peter expels a heavy breath and sets his head in his hands.
•
"Marge!"
The back door to the diner slams open, making the young ginger woman leaning against the wall with a cigarette between two fingers nearly jump out of her skin. Her sharp black eyes narrow on the plump man with a greasy apron as he throws a meaty thumb over his shoulder.
"Get your ass back in 'ere, you ain't gettin' paid to stand around."
Never breaking eye-contact, Marge lifts the cigarette to her lips. She takes a long, deep inhale, then blows out a billow of smoke. "I'm on my break."
"Break time's over," he snaps, then steps back inside and slams the door shut behind him.
The wall vibrates softly from the rough movement. Marge snarls mockingly and lifts a middle finger to the closed door while she flicks the cigarette to the ground to stomp on it. Her heel drives it into ashes against the uneven pavement.
Just as she's stepping up to the door, a voice she hasn't heard in nearly two hundred years stops her in her tracks.
"Mirage."
The voice—deeper than the journey to hell and rougher than its grating road—makes Marge's eyelids close and a bitter smile to curl her lips.
"Father." She spits the word out like acid on her tongue.
He doesn't even have to say anything else. Despite the gap of time they've spent distanced from each other, Marge finds herself already bending to his power.
She yanks open the door and marches into the steamy kitchen. As she passes through to the main dining area, she pulls her stupid fanny pack of straws and broken crayons off her waist and slams it against the counter.
The chef's head pops up. His bushy eyebrows form an arrow that sharply points to his flaring nostrils. "Hey! Where da hell do ya think you're goin?"
"Family emergency," Marge states matter-of-factory, never once slowing her pace.
The sounds of the chef's complaints are cut short by the front door of the diner shutting behind her.
Glancing around, Marge hisses, "Speak; I know you have something you want, otherwise you wouldn't have come to me two hundred years after exiling me to this stupid planet."
"Watch your words, Mirage. You know the power I hold, even locked up."
Her pace falters. Brow furrowing, Marge echoes, "Locked up?"
"Something happened. I will not delve into it now, but your aunts and uncle have turned on me. I nearly succeeded in my efforts to overthrow our creator, but, in a twist of events, a little mortal got in my way."
Marge glances over her shoulder and continues walking forwards. "Was it one of those assfuckers who sit in their ivory tower all day?"
"Assfu—? You've been immersing yourself in the human language and popular culture, I see."
"Again, it's been two hundred years."
"Right. Anyways, no, it was not earth's precious Avengers. Are you familiar with Spider-Man?"
"The little twerp with the webs that showed up out of nowhere? Yeah, why? You want me to kill him?"
"Under the mask is Peter Parker, and no, I do not wish for you to kill him yet. He has foiled my efforts and ruined everything. Before he can perish, he must first live a life of torture and pain."
Marge nods. "Right. So, what? You want me to kidnap him and torture him? Kill him real slow?"
"Stop interrupting me and I shall tell you what I want," Oblivion's voice booms.
Marge keeps her mouth shut.
"From my position, I am unable to do much damage on Earth myself, but I do have you. You shall be the vessel in which I carry on my revenge. Unlike many mortals, Peter Parker's biggest fear is not death. He has already lost so much, but not everything, otherwise I am sure he would have offed himself a while ago. And besides, my siblings are most likely protecting his life.
"Your task is to monitor him and find areas in his life to exterminate while I continue my work in the astral plane. Peter Parker's heart is his one weakness; drive a dull blade through it and twist slowly."
Marge pokes the inside of her cheek with her tongue. "What's in it for me?"
"I will lift your exile."
A slow smirk grows on her face. Tilting her head to her shoulder, Marge says, "Alright. Where's the little twerp?"
•
"Man, why couldn't you have just beat us up or something? My hand's starting to hurt, and I gotta get home before dinner or else mom's gonna whoop my ass," a kid—Charlie, as Peter has come to learn—complains as he scrubs against the fresh spray paint on the otherwise clean brick wall.
His friend, Jorge, pitches in a whiny, "Yeah, this sucks."
Peter chuckles and picks up a rag from the bucket. As he joins the two juvenile delinquents in washing their attempt at graffiti off the wall of an angry barber's parlor, he says, "You guys should've thought about that before you decided to vandalize Mr. Johnson's barber shop."
He leans back from the wall and eyes the unfinished piece.
"What is this supposed to be, anyway? A turtle?"
Jorge scrunches his nose, offended, and says, "Hey, I wasn't done yet, bro."
Peter shakes his head and bites back a smile. He continues scrubbing, amused by the banter that gets tossed between the two middle school-aged friends.
It reminds Peter of how he and Ned would bicker, but instead of nostalgic or bitter it just feels like grief.
Even though the kids can't see his face through his mask, Peter plasters a tight smile on his lips.
He hasn't seen Ned in, what, a week? The last time he saw him was when he last stopped by Midtown Tech for a supply run for the chemicals in his web solution, and he hasn't swung by the school to keep an eye on him since. Something about the whole interaction—as minimal as it was—three Peter off. He wants to see Ned again, but he knows he has a whole life without him. Ned's happy without him. Peter doesn't need to worry about him anymore.
He still visits Aunt May, though. Well, more like sometimes follows her to work to make sure that she gets there safely, or sometimes watches her on her way back after a late shift to ensure she makes it to her car in the dark safely.
This—interaction with two kids somewhat close to Peter in age—doesn't feel as normal as it should. It's like he has moved on from that part of his life as he only speaks with a handful of adults now.
As Peter's wringing out the rag over the bucket, the hairs on the back of his neck rise. His movements slow. Then, bells ring like firearms in his head and he snaps his attention to the end of the alley.
He turns just in time to watch as a car soars across the street. A second later, a crash.
Jorge and Charlie gasp from behind Peter and let out a low string of curses Peter certainly didn't use when he was their age, much less at his current age.
"What was that?" Charlie exclaims.
Peter, sending the two a quick glance, sets his rag down and starts towards the street. "Stay here, don't move unless you're in danger."
Neither boy argues.
As soon as Peter steps out of the alley, his ears are bombarded by screams of terror. He directs a middle-aged woman out of the street before turning back to the north end of the road.
There, standing in the middle of the intersection, is a mammoth lizard that's taller than the lamp posts. With a meaty claw, it swipes through the traffic lights and stomps on a blue minivan. It's eyes are yellow and glossy, it's skin scales and a putrid green.
As Peter runs up to it, he hears a distinct whir of a repulser and looks overhead to see Iron Man cutting through the sky.
Hovering around the lizard monster, Tony shoots beams of energy that seem to only piss it off.
Peter's running falters at the sight of the rest of the team, minus Clint and Natasha. It's late November, so the two are probably at Clint's family farm for Cooper's birthday.
In his wing suit, Sam soars down the street and then lands by a crowd of people and starts directing them away from the chaos. Civilian duty, Peter realizes. That was always his default job.
The others—Tony, Steve, and Bucky—attack the lizard.
For a moment, Peter stands there and considers letting the Avengers have it. They've fought the Chitauri and Hydra, surely they can handle an oversized lizard.
Right?
The lizard lets out a thunderous roar, it's razor teeth bared and split flying, and then nabs Tony right out of the sky. Like a rag doll, the monster flings him into Steve and Bucky.
Peter winces. Maybe they needed a little more help.
Without any more hesitation, Peter jobs towards the fight before shooting a web and swinging the rest of the way.
He makes his grand entrance by landing a strong kick to the lizard's face. It makes the monster stumble back, but ultimately doesn't do much harm.
As Peter lands in a crouch, Tony calls out, "Nice of you to join the party!"
Peter glances over. Steve is pulling Bucky off the ground, and Tony gives a little mock-salute.
"I was in the neighborhood," Peter calls back, springing back up and shooting a web that attaches to the lizard's fist. He pulls back on it hard. "Thought you guys looked like you could use some help."
The lizard sways, but before Peter can pull it to its knees, it roars and slices through the webbing with his other claw. Peter loses his balance and his back hits the ground.
Pushing himself back up, Peter calls out, "So what's the plan?"
It's not directed at anyone in particular, but Steve answers while shielding himself from a thrown car, "Try to get him held down! We've got the antidote!"
Antidote? Shooting more webs, he asks, "What's it gonna do?"
Before Steve can respond, the lizard grabs him from around the waist and throws him into the side of a building.
Peter turns to Bucky.
"It'll reverse the serum he injected into himself," Bucky fills in, grimacing as he watches Steve pick himself back up. He shakes his head. "Scientists are crazy."
"I heard that!" Tony calls out while flying by. Lifting his hands, he shoots out more energy blasts, this time directly aimed at the lizard's eyes. It screeches.
Peter turns to Bucky again and says, "We aren't getting anywhere."
The super soldier frowns. Looking Peter up and down and taking in his red and blue spandex suit, he asks, "Who are you?"
Ouch. That hit deeper than Bucky realizes.
"Spider-Man," Peter chirps, his voice taking on a lighter tone. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Barnes."
There's a crash. They both turn to watch as the lizard takes a bite out of a billboard.
"Well then." Peter gives Bucky a little wave then flings himself up to perch on a lamp post by where Tony's hovering. "Hey, Mr. Stark?"
"What, Underoos?"
Ignore the nickname ignore it.
"Have you ever seen The Empire Strikes Back?"
"What the hell are you—?"
"On Hoth, that snow planet, with the AT-ATs?"
"I'm in the middle of something!"
Peter groans. Tony picked up much faster back during the little squabble in Germany. Not having enough patience to explain his plan, Peter leaps off the street light and latches a web onto the legs of the lizard. Then, he begins to swing around, his web wrapping around its legs until they can do longer move.
Tony must finally realize what Peter was trying to say because he flies back a good distance away before soaring straight at the lizard's scaley chest.
It goes down like a domino. The ground shakes with a mini earthquake. Cars lining the streets—the ones that aren't already crushed—start blinking with high-pitched car alarms.
Before the lizard can get a chance to roll over and get back up, Peter gets to work. He shoots web after web to cocoon the large reptile to the road. He doesn't stop until both cartridges are empty.
Thankfully, what he has done is enough. The lizard roars as it tries to get up to no avail. It's head whips back and forth, eyes darting everywhere, and Peter watches with curiosity as Steve jogs up to it and stabs a thick needle into its neck.
Before his eyes, the lizard shrinks and morphs into a human. The webs sag and, thankfully, cover the man's lower half when he's fully human again. Although he's never seen it in person, he assumes this is what it's like for Bruce Banner to come back from being the Hulk.
A hand on his shoulder spooks Peter out of his thoughts. His head snaps to the right, and his shoulders loosen at the sight of the Iron Man suit.
"Good thinking, kid," Tony says, voice metallic from behind the faceplate. His hand on his shoulder tightens a little as it lingers, then he pulls away and steps towards Sam as he approaches.
Peter's frozen in place. The ghost of Tony's hand on his shoulder transports him back in time.
"Good job, Pete."
"You did good today."
"Hey."
Peter's eyes flicker to Steve as he limps up to him. Subconsciously, he straightens and lifts his chin a little.
Steve smiles lightly and says, "Thanks for your help today, we couldn't have done it without you."
Peter shrugs. "I was in the neighborhood." He glances over Steve's shoulder, expecting police cars and government trucks to pull up any second now.
His ears perk at the sound of an approaching siren.
Okay, time to go. He has no desire to get thrown into the Raft today.
Steve is talking, saying something about trust and teamwork or something, but before he can finish, Peter interrupts, "I've got to go, but it was nice working with you guys. It was also nice meeting you, Mr. Rogers. Big fan."
Something flashes in Steve's eyes, but Peter only catches a glimpse. Then, he turns, and he's swinging away.