"You do not ghost Nick Fury!"
The footage switched to the exterior of building, decorated by a banner reading 'Homeless Support'. When the scene moved on, capturing the inside of the building, there were two people standing onstage—a woman and Spider-Man, facing an assortment of men, women and children clumped together in round tables.
“What the—” Tony blinked. “Oh. Hold on, is the one in the suit you, kid? ‘Spider-Man’?”
Peter nodded. “Yeah.” He hesitated. “Actually, you, uh, you gave me the suit, Mr. Stark.” If you’re nothing without the suit, then you shouldn’t have it. “It’s, heh, a lot more advanced than my old one. You, or my timeline’s version of you anyway, put a lot of safety protocols into the suit.”
Tony looked inordinately pleased. “Good,” he grunted. “Someone has to keep you safe.”
Peter flushed scarlet and looked away, a little embarrassed. But another part of him was also touched, because this version of Tony Stark didn’t know him, and yet still he seemed concerned about Peter’s well-being. “Y-Yeah,” he stammered. “You… you keep”—‘kept’, Peter, it’s ‘kept’ now—“me safe.”
“Oh my god,” Sam whispered suddenly in a burst of realization, cutting off anything Tony might have said in response. (Peter wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or not. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what Tony would have said to that.) Sam swung around and pointed an accusing finger at Peter. “You’re that punk from the airport!”
Peter froze. Not grateful, he decided. Not grateful. “Uh, yeah?” he said nervously, bracing himself for Sam’s reaction.
But Sam didn’t say anything, simply gawking at him in shock.
It was Bucky who spoke first. “Dude!” Bucky was looking at Sam like he was an idiot. “You just realized that? Honestly, Sam, keep up. He was shooting webs in Berlin, and his name is literally Spider-Man, you dumbass.”
“Oh, shit,” Sam blinked. He’s right. Jesus Christ, how did I miss that? More importantly, how did Barnes of all people come to that conclusion before me?
“Wait, Berlin?” Fury cut in. “What was Spider-Man doing in Berlin with you two?”
Peter, along with the majority of the Rogue Avengers, stiffened.
“Oh, it wasn’t just us,” Sam answered before he could notice the alarmed glare on Bucky’s face. “We were with—”
“Wilson,” Bucky gritted out.
Sam broke off, sparing Bucky a glance. He looked confused when he saw Bucky’s expression. “Wha… oh. Oh.” He reddened with embarrassment and chagrin when he realized his mistake. They’re not supposed to know about the Civil War, dumbass. The Avengers have barely come together in 2012. They're definitely not ready to hear about their potentially-impending dissolution. He wetted his lips nervously and tried to backtrack, “Never mind. Sorry. It’s not that important but it is a long story, and you know what, we’re already in the middle of Peter’s story, so.”
Bucky rolled his eyes at Sam’s attempts to dismiss the significance of the incidence.
Fury stared at Sam and Bucky both suspiciously, but eventually let it go, realizing Sam had a point. He doubted the story was actually as unimportant as Sam claimed it to be, but they were in the middle of going through EDITH’s documentary. There would be time to figure out what had happened in Berlin later, he decided, shooting Natasha a meaningful look. For now, he settled back in his seat and got ready to continue watching.
The woman, standing in front of the microphone, began to speak: “When I Blipped back to my apartment, the family that was living there was very confused. The wife thought that I was a mistress. The grandma thought that I was a ghost. It was,”—she broke off into a laugh—“it was really a mess.”
The audience laughed along with her. The frame zoomed in to capture the woman’s face, revealing that she was the same woman whose face EDITH had borrowed. That meant she had to be Peter’s Aunt May, they all realized. “Thank you all for coming out to support those who have been displaced by the Blip. And, of course, thanks to our very own Spider-Man!”
“Damn, kid, that’s your aunt?” Tony whistled, his brain-to-mouth filter failing him as he remarked, “I find it hard to believe that that woman is old enough to be anyone’s aunt.”
“Really, Tones?” Rhodey groaned, unimpressed.
“What?” Tony said defensively. “I’m just complimenting Aunt Hottie.”
“Tony!” Steve reprimanded, shooting Tony a scandalized look. His eyes slid worriedly to Pepper.
Pepper just snorted, raising her hands in surrender. “Don’t look at me,” she said simply. “I’m not insulted if that’s what you think.” And she wasn’t. Pepper was more than used to Tony’s eccentricities by now, and she knew Tony tended to make off-handed, harmless comments that usually came back to bite him in the ass. But they were just that: harmless.
“See, Cap?” Tony said smugly. “Pep doesn’t care. Maybe you need to remove the stick up your ass.”
“Well, she might not mind, but what about Peter?” Steve pointed out, graciously ignoring Tony’s snide utterance. “She is actually his aunt, you know.”
Tony paused, considering that. “You’re right,” he conceded grudgingly. He kicked himself for the careless compliment now—before today, he could count on one hand the amount of times he’d been in the presence of an impressionable minor for an extended amount of time. He hadn’t realized how inappropriate his words might have sounded, in Peter’s ears.
He sighed but gave in, turning to shoot Peter a quick apology. “Sorry, kid, I swear I didn’t mean anything by it,” he offered.
Peter nodded distractedly. He knew Tony hadn’t meant any harm. Tony was just like that, sometimes. He said stupid things, but that was what made him Tony.
Besides, it wasn’t the first time he’d heard Tony refer to his aunt as “hot.” In fact, Tony had made nearly the exact same blunder the first time they’d met in Peter’s timeline.
It’s so hard for me to believe that she’s someone’s aunt.
Might be a little dangerous. Better tell Aunt Hottie I’m taking you—
Hey, May. How’re you doing? What are you wearing? Something skimpy, I hope.
“—hey, hey, kid,” Tony was saying, a hint of panic in his voice. “Please don’t cry. I was just playing around. Honestly, I don’t even know why I said it, I just—”
What? Don’t cry? Peter thought to himself, confused. Why would he say that? Why would I be crying…?
“Oh,” Peter mumbled dazedly when he reached up to touch the underside of his eyes and met water. He brushed away the tears with the pads of his fingers. “I’m – I’m fine,” he reassured Tony, sniffling. “Really, I am. I just…”
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Tony repeated himself, concerned.
Peter shook his head with a quiet, miserable laugh. “No, no, that’s not—I mean, you didn’t offend me, I promise. You just…” he paused, breath shuddering on its way out. “You remind me of my Mr. Stark,” he said at last, drenched in honesty.
Tony fell silent, blinking dumbly at Peter. He didn’t know how to respond to that, or how to comfort Peter when it looked like the boy might be one strong breeze away from crumpling.
Peter laughed again, just as dejected, and waved away any attempts Tony might have made to console him. It wasn’t this Tony’s reassurances he wanted, after all.
“I see where you get your heroic streak from, kid,” Loki said quietly, drawing Peter out of his musings. Peter looked up and followed the god’s thoughtful stare to his aunt. “She strikes me as an honorable woman.”
Peter smiled proudly, his sorrow dissipating gradually at the thought of his aunt. “Yeah,” he agreed, not daring to take his eyes off May. “May is… she’s just great. She tries to help whenever she can.”
“I sense you two are a lot alike in that sense,” Loki hummed. “Am I right?”
Peter blushed. “I don’t…”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Happy jumped in before Peter could talk himself down. “They’re both unbelievably selfless. Peter’s the most self-sacrificing kid you’ll ever meet, let me tell you that.”
Loki’s smile was a quiet, serene thing. “I don’t doubt it,” he agreed readily.
The audience cheered and applauded as Peter waved stiffly. He stood in place for a long, extended moment, unsure how to proceed. In the end, May had to gesture at the microphone twice before Peter got the point and awkwardly made his way over.
Spider-Man cleared his throat. The microphone emitted a high-pitched squeal in protest. “Thank you, Ms. Parker, for having me,” he motioned at May. He paused, clueless as to what to say next, before he finally settled on, “And thank you, you guys, for having me!” Spider-Man took a tiny step backwards to signify that he had finished speaking, shooting the audience two thumbs up as he did so.
“Give me a break,” Peter grumbled before anyone could make fun of him. He could practically sense MJ’s amusement from all the way over where he sat.
(Inwardly, he locked up a mournful smile. If only he could go back to those times. Awkward as it had been, it was worlds better than being a fugitive. At least back then, he’d been admired and adored instead of feared and hated. And while he didn’t really care about Spider-Man’s reputation—“I’ve never been in it for the fame, Ned. That’s not who I am – that’s not who Spider-Man is. I'm not doing this for their gratitude. But how can I help people if they don’t let me? How can I save them if they don’t trust me?”—he couldn’t exactly operate if he was being hunted 24/7. He’d never forgive himself if someone died because they didn’t think he was dependable.
He’d made mistakes with Beck, mistakes that allowed Beck to continue painting him as the villain even now after he’d died. Beck was the one who'd twisted his words, but Peter was the one who'd been too gullible to see the truth in the first place.
And if someone died because he wasn't there… that would be on him.)
“And thank you, Spider-Man!” May took over smoothly, rushing back to the microphone after Peter had stepped away. “And he’ll be right back out to take photos and videos. Thank you!”
The two of them made their way backstage. May pulled the curtains closed as Peter’s mask disappeared, nanoparticles crawling back into the rest of his suit.
“Well, damn,” Scott breathed, admiring the show of what Stark’s technology was capable of. The sheer efficiency of the technology was obvious even to the naked eye; Scott had no doubt that Stark had streamlined Spider-Man’s suit as much as possible, creating a seamless functionality.
“You can say that again,” Tony agreed, looking shameless as he praised his own—or rather, his future self’s—work. He’d done a little work on nanotechnology himself, but he still had yet to quite nail it down—not in the way he would evidently one day achieve with Spider-Man’s suit, at least. Despite everything else he had seen so far, he found himself quietly excited to unlock those developments in technology.
Besides, the faster I can improve my tech and my suits, he reminded himself as the memory of being suspended in space, facing what he had been sure would be his own destruction, sunk into him like a parasite, the better I will be able to protect the people I care about.
“That was amazing!” Peter whooped with a bright, cheery grin. He turned around with a visible bounce to his step, holding his hand up for a high-five.
God. He… he looks so happy. He looks like all is right in the world.
Clint struggled to reconcile the cheerful teenager on the screen with the terrified one he’d seen earlier, unraveling under his memories. It seemed impossible that they were the same person; they looked worlds apart, and Clint wondered how anyone who’d been through the things Peter had could look so merry.
Looking at this Peter in EDITH's footage, it felt like a load off his chest to see him smiling, like the child he was. (Like the child he should be.)
When this was over, Clint decided, he was going to take each of his kids and his wife into his arms and give each of them the tightest, longest hug any of them had ever experienced. And then he was going to wipe away the tears, put on his suit, and do his damndest to help the other Avengers kick Thanos’s ass.
He’d do it for his family and his friends, and he’d do it for Peter. Peter, who deserved to have the chance to be a kid again.
And no kid should ever have to look the way Peter did as he’d tried to ward off Thanos and his own demise in his memories.
“That was great!” May agreed, her voice sing-song. She reached up and slapped his palm with her own seamlessly as they walked past one another.
Even though they’d only been onscreen together for a short while, it was obvious to everyone that they were like a well-oiled machine; this, they realized, was the reason why EDITH had chosen to impersonate May’s appearance. It went unspoken—implicit in his every action—but it was clear that Peter felt the most comfortable and at ease with his aunt.
“Ah—that was so cool. I was so nervous!” Peter gushed, the breath whooshing out of him in a speedy exhale.
“I’m sorry I was a little stiff,” May said, but the giddiness on her face contradicted her words. “I felt like I wasn’t in the pocket.”
“No, I thought you did great!” Peter didn’t hesitate to reassure May.
Peter smiled softly as he watched himself interact with his aunt. He had always been her biggest fan, and he’d never tried to hide that fact.
He wished she was with them here. He just knew that if she were here, she wouldn’t hesitate to engulf him in one of her signature crushing hugs, the kind that made him feel like he was invincible.
“Yeah, well I actually did think you were a little stiff,” May mentioned, pointing at her nephew.
Peter paused for a second, blinking, before he smiled sheepishly and nodded in agreement. “Uh, yeah, I felt that, too,” he conceded with a shrug. “I felt that, too.”
“It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine,” May dismissed with a little grin, clearly still riding the high of their public appearance. Peter barely had the time to breathe an okay before May plunged on, switching subjects effortlessly, “Did you get your passport?”
Peter nodded. “Yeah.”
“Mini toothpaste?” she checked.
“Yeah, I did.”
Coming from somewhere behind them, a rattling noise clanged through the room. The mask of Spider-Man abruptly reappeared around Peter’s head, who didn’t waste any time to turn around in alarm. May followed suit and twisted to look.
It ended up being Happy walking in the door, carrying a big check for the charity they were supporting. “Hey, sorry I’m late,” he apologized distractedly, offering them both a quick smile in acknowledgement.
“Happy?” Tony looked thrown. “What in god's name are you doing at a charity event? And with a smile on, no less?” This was the same guy who, without fail, would spend hours bickering with Tony whenever Tony announced his upcoming attendance at another charity gala, after all. (It’s way too public and way too dangerous, Happy would argue. You’d be putting yourself at risk. I’m just one person—I can’t secure all of the entrances, and there’s no way in hell I’m trusting an outside company with your safety.) Tony had never imagined he’d see the day Happy looked, well, happy to be at an event like this.
“I was showing my support while representing your company at the same time,” Happy shrugged, looking a little uncomfortable at Tony’s attention. He still couldn’t meet Tony’s eye. “Why are you so surprised I’m smiling? It’s a charity for the homeless. I’m not an asshole.”
“Uh-huh.” Peter raised a skeptical eyebrow at Happy. “That’s not why you’re smiling, and you know it.”
Happy flushed. “Shut up, kid,” he groused, one hand landing on Peter’s head and half-heartedly shoving him away as he tried to push down the embarrassed blush from his cheeks.
“Oh? Happy, are you blushing?” Tony looked intrigued. “Do tell. What is he hiding, kid?”
Peter grinned and opened his mouth—
Happy clapped a hand over Peter’s mouth unapologetically. “Not another word out of you, Parker,” he warned.
The mask disappeared once more. “Happy,” Peter welcomed, looking pleasantly surprised. “Hey.”
“Oh, you look lovely,” Happy addressed May as he came to a stop in front of them, completely ignoring Peter’s greeting.
“Thanks,” May replied cheerily, though the sheer excitement in her smile had softened to a more earnest joy. “You, too.”
Peter took a wary step backwards to assess the situation more clearly, staring at the two in bewildered confusion.
“Thank you,” Happy replied. He gave May another once-over and realized, “New dress?”
“Happy, are you… are you trying to flirt?” Tony exclaimed delightedly.
Happy looked away, blushing furiously, and refused to answer.
“Uh, yeah,” May answered with a grin. “Yes, it is.” EDITH’s footage perfectly captured Peter’s baffled, dumbfounded expression as he looked back and forth between them. “That’s a new beard,” May noted in turn, gesturing at her own chin.
“It’s my – my Blip beard,” Happy explained sheepishly. “‘Cause I grew it in the Blip.” Happy must have finally felt Peter’s gaze on him, because he turned to Peter, looking mildly embarrassed. “It’s a Blip beard,” he repeated himself.
“I see,” May said. She was smiling, still, but there was something about the smile that had changed—there was a sweeter, more inviting quality, maybe. “Yeah.”
“Of all that is good and holy,” Tony groaned, cringing from secondhand embarrassment. “I can’t believe I’m seeing this. Platypus, are you seeing this?”
Rhodey nodded, wide-eyed and captivated. He didn’t even bother to say anything sarcastic in response to Tony’s question (I’m sitting right next to you, of course I’m seeing it), instead saying, “I’m seeing it, Tones, but I don’t think my brain is processing it.”
Tony burst out laughing at that, his glee a full-blown cackle that made Rhodey smile fondly and blink back tears. “God, Happy, who knew that all it takes to render you speechless is one beautiful woman?”
“I wasn’t speechless,” Happy argued.
“Well, you were definitely something,” Tony rejoined. “Your Blip beard? God, I can’t even —” he muffled a sigh, still half-laughing, and shook his head. “What about you, kid?” he addressed Peter then. “How do you feel about Happy making eyes at your aunt? It must have been awkward to watch them go at it.”
Happy froze, choking on air, because he could take Tony’s teasing of his disastrous attempts at flirting—he could handle that. Besides, he’d missed Tony too much to actually get mad at him for something like this. Honestly, it made him feel all warm and sentimental inside to see Tony like this—smiling and jovial—as if all was well in the world.
But Tony’s nonchalant question dredged up an insecurity he hadn’t realized still existed. Truth be told, he didn’t know for certain how Peter felt about his relationship with the boy’s aunt. The last time he saw Peter face-to-face, right before Peter swung out to go on a date with MJ… well, Happy didn’t much like to think about that day—both the awkward semi-discussion, semi-confrontation with the Parkers, and everything that came after.
And yeah, he’d spoken with Peter on the phone occasionally since then, but those calls were mostly spent with Peter catching Happy up on how the whole identity reveal and “on-the-run-from-the-government” situation was going on his end, and vice versa. It wasn’t as if they never talked about how their personal lives were going, but either way, Happy had made a point to avoid any talk about his and May’s “thing” during his conversations with Peter.
So he didn’t know. He liked to imagine that he and Peter had grown close enough by now that the boy didn’t mind his bond with May, but he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that, in Peter’s eyes, he would never be deserving of May’s affection. He knew that Peter had adored his late uncle, and Happy had no intentions of replacing Ben Parker, but he also feared that he would never be enough. That, despite how much he cared about May and Peter both, he would never live up to Ben.
“Please never say that they’re ‘going at it’ to my face again,” Peter begged, nose scrunching up in horror. He paused for a moment then, looking thoughtful as he considered Tony’s question in earnest.
Happy swallowed, squirming anxiously in his seat, and endured an entirely new torture as he waited for Peter’s verdict. He felt a little like he was teetering on a tightrope, his budding relationship with May hanging in the balance.
Finally, Peter just shrugged, shooting Happy a knowing smile out of the corner of his eye. “To be honest, Mr. Stark, I can’t think of anyone who deserves to be with May more than Happy. I mean, yeah, it was weird to think about them together at first, but I have no doubt that Happy makes my aunt smile in a way she hasn't in a while. So, yeah. I’m glad they found each other,”—he paused, taking a moment to narrow his eyes at Happy in a warning glare—“so long as they keep their hands off of each other in front of me, that is.”
Happy rolled his eyes at Peter’s cheek but nodded obligingly, inwardly relieved and even a little thrilled. He knew May loved Peter more than anything—the two Parkers were inseparable, a package deal. May would move mountains for Peter; if Peter didn’t approve of their relationship, if Peter wasn’t comfortable with them as a couple, he knew May wouldn’t hesitate to put an end to their relationship before it had even really begun.
“Yeah, yeah, kid,” he agreed with a dismissive harrumph, pretending he wasn’t touched by Peter’s stamp of approval.
“Anyway,” Happy coughed, moving on and hastening to explain himself, “so, the reason I’m late is because this was misplaced at the office. Can you believe it? Because it’s enormous.” He paused, seemed to realize how that sounded, and quickly corrected himself, “I mean, not the amount—the size. The amount’s nice, too. They’re very generous.”
“I never thought I’d see the day. Happy Hogan, rambling because he’s got a crush. It’s adorable,” Tony cooed. “You’re adorable, Hogan. I knew you were just a softie on the inside.”
“I am not rambling,” Happy bit back in protest. “Peter’s the rambler. I don’t ramble. And who do you think you’re calling ‘softie’? Call me that again and I’ll show you ‘softie’, you—”
“Well,” Tony said smugly, “the evidence proves otherwise, rambler. Face it: you’re in denial, Hap.”
Happy objected with an angry splutter. He was not in denial.
Happy, seeming to realize he was only digging himself a deeper hole the longer he spoke, gave up and handed the check to May, who accepted it graciously.
Her eyes widened, and she laughed in surprise, when she finally laid eyes on the proffered amount.
“Holy smokes,” Sam whistled. “‘Generous’ is an understatement.”
Tony shrugged. “Stark Industries has money to spare,” was all he said, with complete honesty. He frowned. That probably means we’re not doing enough. He opened his mouth to make a reminder, before abruptly remembering that JARVIS wasn’t with him. He swallowed down the words, scowled, and continued the thought in the privacy of his mind, Note to self: look into a few charities when you get back. I’d say a few sizable donations here and there are long overdue.
Pepper, on the other hand, wasn’t focusing on the amount. Rather, she was fixated on the fact that that was her signature on the check, not Tony’s. It only reaffirmed her greatest fear that she would one day lose him to Iron Man, and it took everything she had to keep herself from collapsing then and there.
“Thank you,” May said, smiling earnestly up at Happy.
Happy shifted, squirming. “Pepper Potts said, sorry she couldn’t be here,” he offered.
May nodded. “I think I’m going to go change the Sterno under the vegan lasagna,” May excused herself, but didn’t leave quite yet; she looked back at Happy, whose gaze was already on her, and they stared into each other’s eyes for a prolonged second, clearly sharing a moment.
May shook herself out of the moment first, turning to Peter. “Spider-Man, go shake hands,” she instructed.
“Will do,” Peter saluted, though he still looked more than a little confused. As soon as May left the room, he turned to Happy with an accusatory look on his face. “What just happened?” he demanded.
Happy, naturally, deflected. “Head’s up,”—he nodded at Peter—“Nick Fury’s calling you.”
“What.” Rhodey’s voice was low, dangerous. A latent fury simmered in his gut. “What. I must be going insane, because you did not just say that Fury—of SHIELD—is trying to get in contact with Peter Parker.”
“Either we’re all hallucinating the same thing, or you’re certifiably not insane,” Pepper said. “Are you going to blow a fuse over this, because—”
“What the actual shit, Fury!?” Rhodey snarled before Pepper could even finish voicing her question, voice practically a yell, as the latent fury spasmed and exploded inside him. “What the shit. He’s a child, you asshole. You have no fucking shame, you—”
So that was a yes, then.
“In my defense,” Fury drawled, seemingly unbothered by Rhodey’s display of rage, “I haven’t actually done anything yet. And considering he fought Thanos, it’s clear that I won’t exactly be the first to bring ‘the child’ into conflict.”
Rhodey glared. “That doesn’t give you the right to drag him into your messes!” he snapped, refusing to back down. It didn’t matter that Peter had already been irrevocably entangled in a “big world-ending” disaster (in the words of Agent Hill) once before, thanks to Thanos’s attack. Thanos was a different situation entirely; Thanos had posed an irrefutable threat, one that had forced their hand. Against Thanos, Peter hadn’t had a real choice. Desperate times called for desperate measures, after all, and they’d never been more desperate than they were in the face of Thanos’s might. They’d all done what they had to to try to protect the Earth (even if it had ended up with them failing, disastrously).
But Thanos was gone in Peter’s time, and Peter finally had the chance to have a childhood again. There was no way in hell Nick Fury was taking that away from Peter, after he’d already had to give up so much of his youth to be Spider-Man. “Since when were you in the practice of condoning child soldiers, huh, because that’s what this sounds like to me!” Rhodey added scornfully.
Fury’s gaze darkened, the first sign that Rhodey’s accusations actually rattled him. “Again, I haven’t done anything,” he countered, schooling his expression once more. The offense faded, and in its place only a cool indifference remained.
“He’s right,” Natasha added. “There’s no use in attacking Fury. Believe me, I’d be the first to raise hell at the prospect of exploiting child soldiers,”—she sat straight-backed with tension, her nerves vibrating as she spoke, heart pulsing to the beat of welcome to the red room and we have no place in the world and kill kill kill—“but he isn’t guilty of anything yet, and… Peter clearly seems to be capable if he can stop crime as Spider-Man.”
“That’s different,” Rhodey argued. “He’s Spider-Man by choice.” He’d made sure of that: Rhodey had only ever brought up the issue of Peter’s age with Tony once, when he’d asked how the hell did he get involved in our world so young? It hadn’t been an accusation, not exactly, but it had stung like one and Tony had certainly taken it as one. Tony had looked at him for a long, long time, and then he’d shaken his head and said I didn’t think I’d have to defend myself, not to you. After that, well, Tony had avoided speaking to him for two weeks.
Rhodey shook his head now, the memory of Tony’s wounded eyes leaving him. “No one pushed him into taking up the mantle of Spider-Man. That isn’t the same as this,” he enunciated, the words sharp and unmistakable in their condemnation, because his Tony cared about Peter more than anyone (Tony himself included) knew, because his Tony would have lost his shit if he were here to see this. “Here, you’re approaching him first.”
Pepper planted a firm, placating hand on his arm, urging him to settle down. Rhodey looked down at her—he hadn’t even been aware he’d shot up to his feet while making his opinions clear—and ground his teeth together, displeased.
She shook her head minutely—they have a point, Fury hasn’t done any of this yet—and Rhodey sat back down with great reluctance, an annoyed puff of air escaping him.
Peter’s eyes widened with shock as all suspicions about Happy and May’s strange interaction left his mind. “Nick Fury’s gonna call me?” he spluttered in disbelief. He didn’t wait for a confirmation before pressing onwards, “Why?”
“Why? Because he probably has some hero stuff for you to do,” Happy explained like it should be obvious. “You’re a superhero. He – he calls superheroes.”
“Well, I mean, if it was really that important, he’d probably call someone else, not me,” Peter reasoned, his insecurity acting up. After all, why would the Director of SHIELD request the assistance of Spider-Man—a friendly neighborhood superhero at best, and a vigilante-slash-public-menace at worst—when he could call on the likes of Captain Marvel (if she’d finished her ‘errands’) and Thor?
Happy snorted derisively to himself. Yeah, right. The Avengers haven’t been seen in ages, and…
It was easy to forget, sometimes, that Peter was still relatively new to the superhero scene—or at least to the “major leagues,” as Tony would call it. Compared to some of the other Avengers who had been in this line of work (or a related one) for years longer, Peter was considerably inexperienced. He didn’t have Barton’s wealth of practical knowledge gained from his time as an agent, or even Rhodey’s extensive background as an army soldier; Peter was young and mostly untrained.
But even so, even without receiving a formal indoctrination to the superhero gig, Peter had yet to let them down. Peter never faltered, never buckled under the pressure of balancing his two lives. Perhaps even more crucially, Peter refused to fail, so determined was he to do the right thing and save others.
Peter thought his youth and inexperience made him a liability. Peter thought that meant that other superheroes were better suited to assisting Fury in an “important” Avengers matter.
Happy saw Peter’s innocence, saw Peter’s still-existent faith in the world where his seniors had long-since lost vitality, and thought there was no one better.
Even if the Avengers were still around these days, I’d put my life in your hands over theirs any day.
As if in disagreement with Peter’s statement, his phone started buzzing inside his bag.
Perfect timing.
Happy absolutely did not smirk smugly as Fury’s call unknowingly reinforced his thoughts.
He wasn’t petty, after all.
(Okay, yes, he was smirking, goddamnit. He completely blamed Peter’s influence for this. He’d always known hanging around with an immature teenager would be bad for him.
And no, he wasn’t going to stop associating with Peter, thank you very much.)
“Apparently not,” Happy noted, approaching Peter as he rifled through his bag and dug out his phone. Happy peeked at the screen from over Peter’s shoulder and nodded with a pleased grunt, as if he had all the information he needed. “See? No caller ID. That’s him.”
Peter looked up, wide-eyed, and shook his head at Happy. “I don’t really wanna talk to Nick Fury,” he stalled.
Happy heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Answer the phone,” Happy directed.
“Why?”
Happy growled. “Because if you don’t talk to him, then I have to talk and I don’t want to talk to him!” he snapped.
“Wow, Hap, that was very honest.” Tony’s eyebrows were arched in surprise. “So you’re afraid of the big bad pirate, huh? Fair, but I’m surprised to hear you admit it.”
“It’s Peter,” he replied, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did for him, but when Tony only stared at him confusedly, he gave a halfhearted shrug and said, “It’s easy to talk to Peter. Plus, I trust him.”
(No one noticed Peter’s shy, pleased smile.)
(No one noticed Fury’s disgruntled, narrow-eyed expression, either.)
Peter narrowed his eyes at Happy suspiciously. “Well, why don’t you want to talk to him?”
“Because I’m scared!” Happy answered in a rush, words jumbled together and barely coherent. It took him a moment to realize his own words, but when he did, he flushed starkly. He shook it off and said, almost pleadingly, “Just answer the phone!”
Peter didn’t deign to reply verbally to that. Instead, his only response was to hold up his phone and, without breaking eye-contact for even a moment, firmly decline the call.
Tony couldn’t help it: he started upright as he saw Peter’s remorseless expression, shoulders convulsing with breathless laughter. “Did you just – oh, geez, you did. You totally hung up on Nick Fury. You just made my day, kid,” he told Peter, grinning. “That was a treat.”
Rhodey shook his head incredulously. “You really are Tony’s mini-me, huh, Peter?” he said.
The Tony from 2012 looked stunned, but didn’t make an effort to deny it, looking back up at the screen with a contemplative hum. Rhodey didn’t bother to explain himself or retract his statement, merely following Tony’s gaze to the Peter on the screen.
In EDITH’s footage, Peter looked completely unrepentant as he stared Happy down, phone still boldly showing the declined call. It was a move so completely reminiscent of Tony Stark—so emulative of the trademark Stark Audacity-with-a-capital-A—that Rhodey found himself understanding exactly what his Tony saw in Peter Parker: all of his good traits, his intelligence and his wit and his boldness, but without the cynicism forged from years filled to the brim with betrayal and deceit.
You’ll like him, honeybear, Tony had once told him, before he’d ever even introduced Rhodey to “his kid.” Really, you will. He reminds me of myself, only—
Unable to help himself, Rhodey had interrupted Tony with a snort. You’re telling me I’m going to have to deal with another you? he’d teased. I think one Tony Stark is enough.
Rhodey had just been joking, of course, but Tony had taken offense anyway, his eyes slanting into an irritated glare. You didn’t let me finish, platypus. I was about to say: he reminds me of myself, only better. There had been no shame, no uncertainty, in Tony’s voice. He’d sounded soft, tender—Rhodey would go so far as to call his tone loving, even. And his eyes – his eyes had twinkled with pride; a pride that had gleamed brighter than the north star in a midnight sky.
And then, quietly, with more surety than Rhodey had ever thought possible coming from his distrustful best friend, Tony had added: He’s going to be the best of us.
And Rhodey had believed him. It would have been impossible not to, when Tony had looked at him like that—with utter conviction.
Peter, meanwhile, blanched, shaken by Rhodey’s declaration. Tony’s mini-me. Beyond the words, there was something about the quality of Rhodey’s voice—perhaps a hint of confidence, of expectation—that chilled Peter to the core. For some reason, Rhodey seemed to genuinely believe his own words. Rhodey believed Peter could one day measure up to Tony Stark’s legacy.
Peter didn’t; rather, he couldn’t believe it. (As far as he was concerned, no one matched up to Anthony Edwards Stark.) Unsettled, Peter looked away, overwhelmed by Rhodey’s assuredness (and the hint of Tony’s assuredness that carried through in his best friend’s presence; even from beyond the grave, Tony’s faith in him lived on and it killed Peter), pretending he wasn’t affected by the barely-there pride brimming in both Rhodey’s and Tony’s gaze.
Happy all but choked. “You sent Nick Fury to voicemail!?” he hissed, appropriately horrified, as his face contorted into an expression that was half-grimace, half-gawk.
Fury looked like he wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or impressed. I can’t believe this is what my life will come to, he lamented. The Director of SHIELD, chasing after a prepubescent teenager who dodges his calls. How glorious.
“The Great Nick Fury,” Maria teased. Clearly, she had no sympathy for his troubles. “Oh, how the mighty has fallen.”
“Watch yourself. I still own your ass, Hill,” he threatened, but she remained unperturbed—if anything, the broadening of her smirk indicated she was all too pleased with this turn of events—well aware that the warning came without any heat. Truthfully, even as he grumbled appropriately in response to Peter’s onscreen disregard for his station, he found himself begrudgingly charmed by this boy, who seemed to simultaneously possess great power—if this charity event’s favorable turnout was any indication—and yet be uncertain of his own footing.
Peter didn’t seem nearly as concerned as Happy clearly was. “Yeah,” he replied carelessly.
If Happy had been any less of a man, he would have flailed helplessly at Peter’s apparent indifference to his own actions. “You don’t send Nick Fury to voicemail!” he explained with a shake of his head and a groan that very loudly conveyed the fact that he thought Peter should already be aware of this.
“Did you hear that?” Peter cupped his hand to his ear, pretending to be listening to something. He took advantage of Happy’s momentary confusion to point behind himself towards the curtains and make up an excuse: “They’re calling me. It’s—I gotta go. I gotta go.”
Happy was not amused. “You gotta talk to him!” Happy countered, voice practically a cry for help as he called out to Peter, who was already backing away.
“I’m gonna call him,” Peter agreed. Without a word, a pair of metallic spider-legs emerged from the back of Peter’s suit, following the same color-scheme as the rest of his outfit. Peter didn’t even have to ask before the spider-legs were pulling open the curtains behind him. “I promise you, I’m gonna call him. I will,” he continued his reassurances, clasping his hands together.
“Wow, kid, you’re pretty good with that suit,” Bucky complimented, eyeing the way Peter’s spider-legs automatically operated to assist Peter with barely any prompting from Peter himself. He vividly remembered how difficult it had been for him to control his metal arm at first; even now, the prosthetic limb still didn’t feel natural to him. There were days when Bucky woke up and immediately felt heavy, as if the metal arm was weighing him down instead of helping him achieve the guise of normalcy.
Peter made it look effortless, somehow. Even though it was the suit, not him, Peter still managed to make it appear as if the spider-legs were just another extension of him. He seemed accustomed to it, if nothing else.
“Moving the spider-legs, I meant,” he clarified, voicing his observations aloud. “It looks like it comes naturally to you.”
Peter hummed, looking back on his own movements with a critical eye. “It didn’t always,” he confessed. “The nano-suit is still kind of new. When I first wore it, it didn’t come naturally at all.” The first time the spider-legs had unfurled from his suit, mere seconds before he could be sucked into the vacuum of space, he’d been caught off-guard, unable to do anything but rely purely on KAREN to maneuver the legs.
It was only afterwards, with the terror of staring into the galactic abyss and believing he was facing certain death drumming in his mind, that he’d drilled it into himself to expect the unexpected. Since then, he’d managed to get more comfortable with the Iron Spider suit’s new functions, but the rush of fear never quite faded.
“How long have you had the suit?” Bucky asked curiously.
The smile faltered on Peter’s face, and even before he could say anything, Bucky had a sinking feeling his answer had to do with Thanos. Sure enough, Peter replied stiltedly, “I received it the day Thanos invaded.”
“You do not ghost Nick Fury!” Happy hollered after him.
“I promise you! I’ll call him!” Peter stepped backwards, past the threshold, and his spider-legs yanked the curtains closed in front of him, effectively separating him from Happy. Peter turned away with a relieved sigh and whispered to himself, “After my trip.” With that, nanoparticles rushed up from the neck of his suit, engulfing his face in his mask.
“Exploiting loopholes? Like I said: Tony’s mini-me,” Rhodey reaffirmed, seemingly to himself, but there was no way Peter could have missed the cursory remark.
Peter stilled, unable to swallow past the sudden lump lodged in his throat. No, he told himself. He’s just thinking aloud. He doesn’t know what he's saying.
Mr. Stark would have been appalled to hear the comparison, if he knew how badly I messed up. Despite himself, despite his best efforts, Peter’s eyes watered slightly, stinging at the reminder of how disappointed his Tony would be in him. He’d been so naive, and it had cost lives.
He’d let SHIELD down. He’d let his friends down. (He’d failed Tony’s memory, too.)
If you were good enough, maybe Tony would still be alive.
Peter clenched his fists. Rhodey had no idea what he was talking about. He was nothing like Tony. Even as Spider-Man, he couldn’t hope to be good enough to make his late mentor proud.
“Hey!” Peter seemed to switch on his public Spider-Man persona with barely a second of thought, holding his hand out in a wave as he jumped up onto the stage. Unseen, the audience cheered, drumming up a thunderous response to his reappearance.
Back behind the curtains, Happy pulled out his own phone from the pocket of his suit jacket as it began to ring, a resigned look on his face. “Yeah?” he answered the phone, cradling it to his ear. “No, no, he’s not ghosting you,” he denied as he walked away to the sound of the cheering crowds.
Clint howled with laughter. “Time to face the music, huh?” he asked impishly, waggling his eyebrows at Happy.
Happy, for his part, kept his mouth shut, though he looked sorely tempted to flip Clint the middle finger.
Onstage, the press was cornering Peter as Spider-Man. Reporters, camera-men and -women alike crowded around him, all clamoring for his attention as the sound of camera shutters surrounded them.
“Okay, okay, one question at a time!” Peter called out, putting his hands up defensively in an effort to separate himself from the reporters.
The reporters didn’t seem to hear his request—or if they did, they simply refused to heed it—and eventually, overwhelmed by the ruckus, Peter was forced to point at one of them.
“What the fuck?” Happy was fuming. “Do they have no sense of fucking decency—”
“Whoa, Hap, chill,” Rhodey laughed lightly. “I’m glad you’ve decided to emulate an overprotective mother hen, but if Peter can go out as Spider-Man and fight crime, I’m pretty sure he can handle a bunch of reporters.”
“No, he can’t,” Happy hissed, voice strained, as his fingers curled protectively around Peter’s forearm. He evidently didn’t find any amusement in the situation. “They’re going to overwhelm him. His senses have been dialed up to eleven.”
“Oh, shit, that’s right,” Rhodey said in realization, wide eyes seeking Peter. Peter, for his part, was looking at himself on the screen with a strange look on his face. “Oh, kid,” he sighed, concerned and heavy-hearted now, any room for amusement gone, “Tony told me about your sensory overloads.”
Peter shrugged helplessly, a smile on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It can’t be helped,” he said, with the resignation of men twice his age.
The female reporter he pointed at, emboldened by his attention, shouted out her question: “Are you the head Avenger?” Though her voice rang clearer than the rest of the uproar, her words were still partially muffled by the din. The rest of the reporters finally hushed, the indistinct clamoring falling to a lull, as she repeated her question, “Are you the head Avenger now?”
“Why would a kid be the head Avenger?” Steve couldn’t comprehend the idea of it. “No offense, Peter, I’m sure you’re extremely qualified, but you’re still so young. Experience is a big part of the job.”
Peter didn’t take offense. Once upon a time, maybe he would have. But his time on the run had humbled him and opened his eyes to all of the worst parts of being a superhero—of being an Avenger.
Peter didn’t want to lead the Avengers. More importantly, he wasn’t ready to.
(Most importantly, he couldn’t think of stepping up as head of the Avengers—as the next Iron Man—without wanting to throw up. He didn’t want to see Tony be replaced, ever, even if it was by him. Maybe especially if it was by him.)
“Well, if they see the Man of Spiders as a candidate for the next leader of the Avengers, there must be a rationale behind it. He must be extraordinarily powerful,” Thor reasoned, because Peter might look young but Thor knew better than anyone that looks could be deceiving—
“How old were you when you fought Thanos?” Tony asked, his voice quiet and hushed like the calm before the storm.
Peter hesitated. He’d been afraid of this. “Sixteen,” he admitted finally, grudgingly.
Tony sucked in a breath like he’d been slapped.
“Jesus,” someone whispered.
“Sixteen,” Steve choked, sounding like he wanted to throw up. “Sixteen—“
“It’s not a big deal,” Peter argued. “I know I’m still young, but… I had the power to help, so I did. When you have power, it gives you a certain responsibility. A certain duty.” His Uncle Ben had always believed in that, at least. He believed in that. “Someone had to step up.”
And. Well. None of them knew what to say to that, but Steve couldn’t help but feel like he’d failed this stupid, reckless, honorable kid.
“Uh, no, I’m not,” Peter denied. He moved on to the next question, pointing at yet another woman.
The next reporter leaned in closer. “If the aliens come back, what are you gonna do?” she demanded with a sense of urgency.
Peter flinched, drawing back. “Does anyone have any neighborhood questions?” Peter pleaded, looking more than a little overwhelmed. His request only served to reopen the floodgates: the clamoring promptly started up again.
“Sean Wilford, Queens Tribune,” a male reporter called out suddenly, leaning forward. Peter leaned in as well, hoping that he would finally get a question he could adequately answer. But of course, Parker Luck dictated that Peter was never that fortunate, so instead the man’s question was one that hit home and hit hard: “What is it like to take over from Tony Stark? Those are some big shoes to fill.”
“Oh,” Tony murmured, sympathy swelling in his chest and making it difficult for him to breathe. He knew exactly how it felt to be compared to someone else’s hero, and he wanted nothing more than to reach through the screen and give ‘Sean Wilford’ a piece of his mind.
His father was gone, but Tony would never forget all the times Howard looked wistfully at a portrait of Captain America or shook his head scornfully at Tony or mumbled about if only Captain Rogers was still alive today.
From what he’d seen, Peter didn’t deserve to be treated like that. He didn’t deserve to doubt his own capabilities—to feel like he, Peter Parker and Spider-Man, wasn’t enough. To feel like he needed to be somebody else to satisfy the world.
In fact, from what he’d seen, Peter was already so much better than him. Still a teenager, and yet he was staunchly determined to fight back against crime and violence in order to save the innocent and look out for the little guy. He had no obligation to do so, but he did it anyway. Without fail, Peter put on the mask of Spider-Man, took up the mantle of a superhero—even though it was an unappreciated one—and did whatever he could to make the world a better place.
Peter had only been sixteen when he’d faced Thanos. Only sixteen, and he’d willingly stepped into an unwinnable battle in an effort to save the lives of billions—trillions—of others.
Even if it came at the cost of himself.
Peter doesn’t need to fill my shoes, Tony thought—knew—honestly. He’s already doing more than he needs to as his own hero.
But Peter didn’t seem to agree with Tony.
As Wilford’s words left his mouth, Peter froze solid. The question echoed over and over again in his head, like a broken record, as everything else became inaudible.
Peter couldn’t focus beyond the ringing in his ears, or the tunneling and waning of his vision. He felt a little dizzy, and a little like he was going to faint if he stayed any longer.
“What the hell?” Shuri marveled. “I thought EDITH took the footage from satellite cameras and CCTV cameras. How did she manage to recreate the sensation of a…”—she hesitated, sneaking Peter a tentative look—“a panic attack or an anxiety attack? How is this even possible?”
“I am an AI,” EDITH reminded, video pausing and dimming temporarily. “I also have full access to the AI in Peter’s suit—”
“Hold on, does that mean you’re not in Peter’s suit?” Tony interrupted. “I thought Happy said I gave you to Peter.”
“Happy is correct. However, in the event currently playing on the screen, Peter has not received access to me yet. In that event, Peter’s suit is housing another AI, which he refers to as KAREN. As I was saying—after communicating with KAREN, I was able to pull up Peter’s vitals during this moment, including his heart rate and blood pressure. With that information, I was able to piece together as accurate a visual representation of what Peter was feeling in this moment as possible.”
“Huh,” Shuri noted. “Interesting.” And EDITH did all of that intuitively, without the need to consult anyone’s instructions. Yet again, Tony Stark’s inventions had impressed her.
“I’m, uh, I’m gonna go,” Peter choked out, backing up even more. He barely remembered to utter a halfhearted word of gratitude—“thanks, everyone, for coming”—before he made his escape. He jumped up before the reporters could react, shooting out a web and swinging himself onto a rooftop.
It was only after the noise had faded that he finally allowed himself to relax, his mask disappearing as he fell into a crouch and rested his weight on the balls of his feet. Peter bowed his head for a while, breathing in and out deeply, while he fought to slow his beating heart.
Finally, after he had regained his breath, Peter lifted his head and looked out onto the city.
Oh, christ, Bucky thought, his throat unwittingly choking up at the sight of Peter, so young and terrified and small on the rooftop. And in that moment, as Peter shielded himself from the rest of the world simply so he could take a moment to breathe, as the last of Spider-Man slipped away, Bucky remembered that the Peter Parker he was watching was just a teenaged boy. Just a kid, really.
And looking at this tiny slip of a kid, taking refuge from the real world, Bucky’s heart broke in his chest. Kid, he thought, the word pulsing in his mind, overwhelming all else. Kid kid kid. It reminded him briefly of the trigger words HYDRA had used to play him like a marionette, except this time, instead of forgetting, Bucky was buried under an avalanche of memories.
For a moment—the briefest of moments—Bucky couldn’t help but look at Peter and see Steve Rogers as he’d been before the serum, before Captain America, before. Even then, when he’d yet to receive his enhancements, when he’d been but a stick of a boy, Steve had fought for justice.
As Captain America, Steve fought corruption in every HYDRA agent he vanquished, every alien, every enhanced criminal. As pre-serum Steve Rogers, Steve had fought corruption in the back alleys of Brooklyn, standing up to men twice his size until he was black and blue in the face. (Bucky couldn’t recall how many times he’d had to step in and save Steve’s ass from the bullies they both despised.)
The look in Peter’s eyes now—it wasn’t unlike how Steve used to look whenever Bucky patched him up and scolded him all in the same breath, like exhaustion and determination all at once, and a part of Bucky shattered.
Why? he asked himself, remembering vaguely Happy’s comments about how the Avengers hadn’t been seen in public recently—how they had abandoned a sixteen-seventeen year old boy to fight crime in a ridiculous get-up. He couldn’t understand.
Peter had so much fight in him. Bucky didn’t know Peter very well, but he knew that expression on Peter's face like the back of his hand; Peter was exactly the type of kid who refused to give up. The type of kid with a heart of gold and an iron will and a desperation to take matters into his own hands—to make things right. The type of kid who would suffer in silence, shouldering the weight of the world all on his own without asking for help. The type of kid who would do anything to protect his city.
He was good, Bucky could tell. Pure. And he deserved better.
How could the Avengers from Peter’s timeline—how could Bucky from Peter’s timeline—have just left him to twist in the wind? No aid, no back-up, no nothing. Bucky stole another glance at onscreen-Peter, looking so lonely on top of the world, and swore he wouldn’t let the same thing happen in his timeline.
Peter’s phone buzzed in his backpack. He reached inside and retrieved the device, but didn’t bother to answer. The buzzing faded.
“A teenager is actively, honest-to-God ignoring the director's calls. God, this is fantastic. Hands down, the best thing I’ve seen in ages,” Clint cackled gleefully. “Peter,” he called out, grinning maniacally. When Peter turned to look at him curiously, Clint managed to school his face and say, with utter seriousness, “You are my hero.”
Fury just sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.
Peter pivoted around to face the building to his left, only to find a mural of Iron Man staring back at him. The mural stretched out across the side of the building, immense and towering above Peter, a reminder of how Tony had always seemed larger-than-life. Peter blinked as he turned away, determinedly averting his gaze; EDITH’s cameras were advanced enough to catch the sight of tears as they stained his eyes red.
“Tony?” Bruce’s voice came as a whisper. “You okay, man?”
Tony blinked back at Bruce. Never been better, doc, he wanted to say, but he didn’t quite have it in him to joke around right now. He shook his head – the thoughts get it together, Stark and Stark men are supposed to be made of iron mingling in his mind – and opened his mouth, but no words left him.
He… he didn’t know what to say, he realized.
Maybe: I didn’t realize people cared enough about me to dedicate murals to me. I didn’t realize I mattered that much.
Or: I don’t know why Peter’s crying. I don’t know why he misses me.
Or: I’m not worth crying over.
Or: The way he looks at the painting reminds me of how I used to look at my father: with complete admiration. He looks at the painting like I deserve the world. Like I am the world.
Or: I don’t deserve his adoration.
Or: I keep wondering how it happens. I keep wondering if maybe Peter’s Tony Stark has finally gotten the karma he deserves—the karma I deserve. Some might say it’s poetic justice.
Or: I’m scared. I don’t want to die.
“I’m fine,” Tony lied, instead. “Just admiring my likeness. The artist has really done Iron Man justice, don’t you think?”
Bruce looked to be at a loss for words. “I… Tony…”
“Well, I certainly happen to think so. Actually, I think Iron Man looks very heroic,” Tony forged onwards, ignoring the pinched look on Bruce’s face. “In fact, I might just have to commission a mural for myself when we get back to our own timeline.”
Bruce just sighed. Again, Tony ignored it, resolutely looking back at the TV and avoiding Bruce’s worried eyes. He was fine.
He was.