Chapter 4
The whole story of how Peter got on the team was simple: Tony had been skimming through the daily feed FRIDAY was providing him, when he suddenly he spotted a few videos of a spider-like kid in spandex around the city.
It caught his attention immediately. And it wasn't because of the powers, although that played a part, but because of the way the hero carried himself about like saving people was the only thing he'd ever want in life.
Tony'd be damned sure to get someone like that to protect the world. Which, he did, and also managed to get the rest of the team in on it, too.
When he met Peter, he was a nervous thing packed full of the typical worries any teenager would have. He had homework, friends to worry about, and apparent lego sets to build. The only difference was that he stayed in a mask for the better part of his days, swinging about the city and oddly being despised by a lot of the cops.
Fuck the police department officials. Tony knew them personally; they weren't to be made an assumption about the rest of the police team-- who did nothing more than protect people when the Avengers couldn't, mind you-- but they were big enough assholes to steer him and his whole industry away from even trying.
Who needs a person in a blue uniform telling a billionaire and a spider-kid what to do?
No, Steve didn't count on that. At least that guy was generous about it.
So, after a few meetups in Aunt May's apartment, which eventually morphed into late-night lab sessions, Peter was officially apart of the Avengers’ team.
It wasn't announced yet, even though the discussion about that was spoken months prior, but Tony had been assured that it didn't matter so much because Peter was still going to be there when the world needed him. And if not the world, then the local cat Oliver who got stuck in a tree every week.
He added a whole new layer to what used to be a bunch of highly-skilled, old people moping about until a meeting sprung up or some sort of danger was tearing through.
Steve went from generally protective, to I'll kill anybody who dares try to hurt his kid with my bare hands in a matter of a week. Sam, Nat, and Bruce, on the other hand, just treated the new recruitment as a fellow person to pick on and tease—aside from Bruce, who spent a few couple of times talking about the webbing fluid Peter had developed. And Thor was never really around to meet the kid, anyways, along with Wanda and the walking USB drive.
Tony had to admit it, he was impressed; and for good reason, too. The kid was fifteen and knew about as much as he did back when being smart in your twenties was considered shocking—it still is, come to think of it.
Clint slowly became more like an annoying dad over time. As soon as he got word of there being a person on the team younger than eighteen, he went full force with dad jokes and collectively drove everyone out of their goddamn minds.
The worst part? Peter enjoyed them. He even added flame to the fire by quipping in his own lines, giggling evilly in the cutest way one could without seeming crazy.
He was still a baby, even if he strongly denied it. Hell, Steve and Bucky were twice Tony's age, but having Peter around set off every sign that all ended in one conclusion: He was way older than he felt. And that was that.
~
The lab was in it's usual, messy state when Tony entered it, coffee cup in hand and zero fucks in the other. He had woken up after spending copious amounts of hours talking with Barnes, who somehow managed to get in his head more often than actual, important stuff that Tony needed to focus on.
Planning out Stark Industries next move with Pepper seemed impossible now. How was he going to keep his head attached when there’s an incredibly charming super-soldier off in the same building as him? He wasn’t. That’s the truth, and it was irritating as all hell.
Tony was used to things going fast, don’t get him wrong, but not being able to think straight after spending a little more than a month getting to know somebody was just ridiculous. Everybody on the team caught onto it, too. Sam didn’t think he’d know about all the side glances and suggestive comments, but oh boy was he wrong. Tony’s got eyes and ears everywhere, thanks to FRIDAY and his ability to get people talking.
Steve was always the easiest one to, as Peter says, “spill the tea.” He got all red in the face the first time Tony brought up that someone was stealing all the oatmeal, and history just played out from there.
Nat was a different story: She’d flash that tiny, wicked smile of hers, raise her eyebrows, and then talk to Tony like he was some sort of five-year-old asking about Santa Claus.
It was annoying, cut off any accusation he could ever make and he knew—Jesus Christ, did he know—that was exactly what she was trying to get at. He wouldn’t even be surprised if Nat learned that outside of the Red Room, nor would he be if she taught Clint the trick.
He lives in a building full of witty idiots and spent the entire time pretending not to lose his mind.
Which brings him to the plan for the day: Avoid everyone until he gets a meeting over with, swing by Barnes’ room for the hell of it, and maybe get some coffee into his system.
Yeah, coffee sounds real nice right now.
Tony turns, grumbles about how his hair is a mess, then trudges his way into the communal kitchen for some much-needed caffeine. He’s got a robe on, and underneath that, a simple black shirt, accompanied by sleep pants with little Iron-Man heads on them. They were comfy, and who could really blame him? If he was going to be a so-proclaimed hero, then he will damn well get a use out of the merch, even if he never approved of these.
It’s a little after four in the morning, and the only people who are really awake by now are him and some other Avenger, according to the half cup of cold coffee on the counter. It’s in an odd place, like someone gave up on the drink before even trying to awaken.
Weird, Tony thinks, pressing the button to start up the coffee machine. There’s no sound, no beep to go along with the action, and it makes the tension in his shoulders a little more noticeable.
He presses again, waiting, and when it’s finally deemed as broken, he sighs.
Great, now Tony'll have to spend thirty minutes of his precious, un-caffeinated time prodding at the thing with various tools. He could just buy another one, but who has time to wait a full day for Amazon? Not him.
When he turns the machine to its side to inspect the power cord, there's a small sticky note there, scribbled in terrible handwriting. He contemplates just tearing it in half and moving on, but curiosity gets the best of Tony more often than it doesn't.
If you're reading this, then that means the coffee maker stopped working.
He squints, turning the note over.
Good luck. -Clint.
“You've got to be kidding me,” Tony all but sighs out, crumpling the note up with annoyed look on his face. “Good luck”: how is that helpful in any way? It’s a cover-up for breaking the damn thing, he knows, but that doesn’t make it any less irritating. Leave it up to the genius to fix all their problems, apparently. Though, now that he thought of it, not having coffee was more of Tony’s problem than anything.
Steve doesn’t drink it, doesn’t need it, and neither does Handsome-face Barnes. That leaves the rest of the people in the building with a need for coffee—and yeah, Tony’s had his fair share of Sam’s rant on how bad it is to drink all it the time, but goddamnit, he’s not going to stop now. Maybe later, when he’s got other things to do instead of saving the world, but stopping cold-turkey might be the death of him.
That is, if he fixes the machine in time to spite over his eventual coffeeless death.
“Need some help there?” Came a voice behind Tony that had him nearly jumping out of his skin. He turns, ready to glare holes into whoever scared him, but instead freezes up when he comes face-to-face with Bucky.
He’s smiling, a little fuzzy, and has his hair up in a bun that’s easily tumbling out in strands. The metal of his arm glows in the morning light from the window when it shifts, and it takes everything in Tony not to stare.
“You think you know what you’re doing?” He eventually asks, acting real casual-like for the blush staining the tips of his ears.
“I reckon I can try.”
“Well, you sure could wreck something,” Tony huffs, rubbing at his eye as the other hand waves about. He doesn’t even realize that he’s spoken out-loud until the amused look on Bucky’s face doubles. Fuck. This is the exact reason why he shouldn’t be around people without having his coffee.
“I mean, your arm. It’s—strong. Could do… damage.” He clears his throat. “Anyways, this might be a little too advanced for you. It took your pal Spangles longer than a week to figure out how to use a microwave.”
“That’s ‘cause he’s an idiot,” Bucky muses, already pushing past to get his hands on the coffee maker.
“And you’re not?”
Tony doesn’t get the answer he was expecting. Instead, Bucky just winks at him and then turns back to whatever he was doing as if that never happened—as if Tony’s not gawking at him like an artist looking at Mona Lisa.
He stays considerably silent for the rest of the time, and when Bucky actually manages to fix it, he just carries on with his grumbling from earlier, hurriedly downing a fresh, steaming cup of black coffee. How dare him, turning Tony into this big of a mess. It should be illegal to look and sound that good.
Very, very illegal.