Chapter 5
"G'morning, Pete."
Clint draws open the curtains and light floods into the infirmary, effectively blinding Peter as he tries to make sense of what's going on. Groaning, he lets his head fall back into his pillow limply and squeezes his eyes shut against the glare of the rising sun outside.
Across the room, Clint is laughing. "Did I blind you? Sorry," he chuckles, something somewhat fond in his sleepy voice, the bed dipping to his weight as he perches on it. "Bruce told me that he needs to check your ribs, but he thinks you should be okay to move more now that you've had a decent sleep through the night. Must feel great to be sleeping on a bed and not on a wall, huh?"
"Mmf," Peter confirms into the pillow.
Indeed, sleeping through the night on this bed has been pure heaven — even if it's just a medical bed and not a 'proper' one, it's been absolutely paradise compared to what he's used to. After so long of sleeping against walls and on the floor and occasionally on a bench, his whole body is singing to be on a proper bed with a mattress and pillows (more than one!) and a duvet.
Not to mention the fact that he hasn't slept as good as he did last night for a long, long time — he hasn't had a full night's sleep ever since he was kicked out of May's apartment. He's used to waking up exhausted out of his mind and with an ache all over that lasts for weeks, but today he feels fresh and comfortable as ever.
(It's going to be hard to get him to get up anytime soon.)
"Thought so," Clint murmurs, a smile evident in his voice.
Peter cracks open an eye to regard the archer. He must have only woken up a little while ago, because his blond hair is mussed up and he's still wearing old black sweatpants and a t-shirt. It's odd to see an Avenger — an assassin who's never missed a shot, who's killed countless without so much as batting an eyelid — looking so nonchalant and human. It's frighteningly domestic.
Realizing that Peter's eyes are open, Clint pokes his tongue out in the manner of a child. "Hello, sleeping beauty," he teases, tilting his head to the left and adjusting his seat. "You ready for Banner to come and check you?"
Peter nods, not finding it in himself to talk just yet.
The archer doesn't mention his silence, nor does he push him to answer verbally; just nods and smiles softly, as if to let him know that he understands. He says to the ceiling, "JARVIS, could you get Bruce to come up to the infirmary? He'll know which room and floor."
"Certainly, Mr. Barton."
While Peter didn't expect Clint to ask the mysterious voice in the ceiling instead of getting the doctor himself, he definitely isn't surprised to realize that Tony Stark has an AI (what else could it be?). Most likely, the most intelligent one created in the world; because everyone knows Mr. Stark has both the money and the brains to build it. He feels honoured just to hear it.
Clint must notice him eyeing the ceiling, because he claps a large hand on his shoulder and says, "that was Tony's AI. His name is JARVIS." His forehead creases and his brows furrow. "No one knows where the speakers are. I'm pretty sure even Tony forgot where he put them."
"It is nice to meet you," JARVIS greets.
Peter visibly flinches and Clint grins, shrugging. "He's always listening," he mentions.
The AI says, "that I am."
There's something incredible about the emotion the AI conveys despite it being entirely — as far as Peter knows, anyway — artificial. To Peter, it really highlights just how intelligent Mr. Stark really is. Even the smartest scientists in the world couldn't make anything as complex and as fantastic as him and whoever he works with can. And Peter is in the same building as him!
Part of him wishes he could do something like that someday.
While he's living out on the streets, there's never a moment where what he'll do in the future — once he's turned eighteen and old enough to be hired by employers (because no one hires underage homeless kids out of pity as they do in the movies. Unless it's for drug runs, of course) — ever crossed his mind. He's always so focused on where he's going to sleep and what he's going to eat that he hardly thinks of anything else.
He isn't sure how long he's going to stay in the Avenger's Tower; whether he'll be asked to leave, or whether they'll somehow convince Aunt May to take him back; but he's just glad that, for the first time ever since the first night he spent sleeping on a sidewalk, he doesn't have to think about all of that above all else.
It's just so refreshing.
The door to the infirmary opens, and Bruce's familiar smiling face steps in with a clipboard in hand. Just like yesterday, he isn't wearing his white lab coat — just a pair of jeans and a worn, grey sweater — and his hair is just as mussed up as Clint's is. "You're looking better, Pete. Good sleep?" he begins, his manner and smile as friendly and welcoming as ever.
"Yeah," Peter responds, quieter than he could have hoped.
"That's good." The tone of Bruce’s voice doesn't so much as waver, but he can tell by the way his eyes light up that he is happy to hear Peter speak. "I'm going to check on your ribs, yeah? Just to see how the bruising is healing. If it's still bad, I might have to put some more of that cream on it. Sounds good?"
"Sounds good," Peter repeats.
Clint, now moving from the bed, collapses into Bruce's swivel chair and lets it slowly drift across the room. He doesn't look as if he's going to be leaving the room anytime soon, just as if he's happy to wait until the doctor is done, and Peter is glad for his comforting presence. Although he's aware that Bruce isn't going to harm him, he feels a little safer with someone he knows around.
Which bring him to wonder where Sam is, because he's come to grow attached to attached to the guy and he's suddenly becoming very much aware of the lack of his presence. He opens his mouth to retaliate the query, but Clint, who seems to have adopted mind-reading abilities while seated on Bruce's chair, says, "Sam is still sleeping. "That man could sleep for a year and still be tired when he wakes up..."
"That's impossible," Bruce comments absently, his attention divided. "Pete, would you mind lifting your shirt?"
Clint bites his hand around his grin. "That... sounds disturbing out of context."
At this, Bruce's expression sours, though light-hearted humour remains in the corners of his coffee eyes. "You're going to destroy his precious, precious innocence," he says accusatorily, and then, turning to Peter: "let me check your bruises before Clint ruins you."
Having done this yesterday for Bruce, Peter obliges without hesitation. The shirt is one of Sam's; a black long-sleeve that's loose enough to not bother his bruises too much and so much more comfortable than the ratty t-shirt he's been used to wearing all the time. It's a little massive on his thinner frame, but it's better than having to wear his old shirt, so he's not complaining.
The doctor's fingers fly expertly over the bruises on his ribs. They haven't been bandaged, for Bruce had been confident that they would do little more than make him sweat, and they don't ache as much as they did yesterday.
"They're looking good..." Bruce's brows dip, "...the bruises are fading around the edges already..."
A dash of anxiety races through Peter's stomach. They know. They know about the enhanced healing.
Peter's always been grateful for his enhanced healing for keeping his mind at ease, even through the malnutrition and sleep-deprivation — but this is one of those rare moments that he wishes it simply didn't exist. Even if he tries his hardest to keep it from them, chances are that they'll find out anyway (because they're the Avengers, and it always seems to be the way these things work).
He doesn't want to necessarily keep it from them, so to say, but he can't even think of a situation where he can admit his previous second identity without it seeming awkward and forced. Spiderman hasn't been part of him ever since he got kicked out of—
—don't think about her—
—ever since he lost the suit. And, as easy as it sounds to suddenly think of Spiderman as part of him, it really doesn't feel so simple. Not yet.
Bruce's finger prods at an especially dark bruise, sending bursts of muted pain up his torso and to his chest. The sensation makes Peter's face tighten into a slight grimace and he shifts, subconsciously attempting to ease the pain. "Did that hurt as much as it did before? Do you think you could move with less pain?" the doctor questions, regarding him with a face of somewhat parental concern.
He wriggles around, testing his limits as best he can while lying in the dingy infirmary bed. There's little more than a throb when sits up, but a sharp twinge when he tries to twist his torso. "I think so," he replies, putting a tentative hand on his stomach where the pain had been the most severe. "just when I..."
"Twist?" Bruce thoughtfully taps a finger against his chin. "That's normal."
Slouching awkwardly in the doctor's swivel chair, Clint is beginning to grow fidgety. "You two want any breakfast when you're done? Sam said he's going to make some of them kickass pancakes," he says.
"He said that?" Bruce asks, turning away from Peter, who takes the liberty of pulling his shirt back down.
"No, but he will when I tell him he said it."
The conversation goes on, but Peter doesn't pay particular attention to what they're talking about. The only thing on his mind right now is breakfast — just the thought of it makes his stomach complain. He can't remember the last time he ate something that wasn't charity offers from old women (or Clint and Sam, but they don't count because he likes them) or terrible street food.
But the thing that warms his heart isn't the thought of eating a decent meal with a roof over his head for the first time in ages; it's the fact that they offered breakfast to him in the first place. And they didn't make a massive deal about it.
(Makes him feel like he's wanted, y'know?)
The sharp movement of Clint standing from the swivel chair catches the corner of Peter's sensitive eyesight. "I'm going to go wake Sam up now, or I'm positive he'll melt into the mattress," the archer announces with a finger placed dramatically in the air. He pauses to ruffle Peter's hair on his way to the door.
"You do that!" Bruce calls after him, just as his body disappears through the threshold and the door is left ajar behind him. Peter listens to his footsteps travel all the way down the corridor and the sound of what can only be an elevator door rolling open.
Damn enhanced hearing.
When Clint's movements are out of his (extensive) audible range, Peter looks back over to Bruce, who is scrolling on what he assumes is the newest model of the infamous StarkPad and furrowing his brows every so often as he reads. Something anxious places itself within Peter's stomach. "What is it?" he inquires, before he can take control of his immediate curiosity.
The doctor looks very conflicted when he looks up to meet his gaze, and Peter almost regrets asking. "It's... it's nothing," he stammers, sounding startlingly uncharacteristic for someone such as Dr. Banner. "Let's go downstairs and meet the others, yeah?"
.
Peter didn't realize what 'meeting the others' detailed until he strolled into the kitchen of the Avenger's Tower.
He isn't sure what he expected this situation to be like, but it sure wasn't as domestic and as nonchalant as it is turning out to be.
For starters, Tony Stark — Tony fucking Stark, who is famously one of the most intelligent man on the face of this plant and who he's looked up to for as long as he can remember — is fucking standing three meters away from him, pouring himself a mug of coffee in a pair of black sweats and a hoodie that has frayed edges on both sleeves.
Then there's Thor — a literal God with the power to control lightning itself, may he add — leaning on the island counter in a t-shirt that says 'the wearer of this shirt is no thordinary man', while drumming a nameless tune onto the surface with his fingers. And his hammer is sitting next to his (rather sizeable) mug of coffee, like it's a (thor)dinary houseplant instead of a literal weapon of mass destruction.
Inside, his entire mind melts into bubbling putty, because he's standing in the same room as fucking Tony Stark and Thor, and they're both in their fucking pyjamas , but in reality he just stands and half-smiles at Thor when he looks his way. He's been getting better at repressing his emotions lately.
Besides, having a nerdgasm in front of the fucking Avengers would be one of the most embarrassing moments of his life. He'd never be able to live it down.
"A child?" the God says, cocking a brow.
Behind Peter, Bruce moves to sit down opposite Thor. "He's a friend of Clint and Sam's," he states simply. "He's going to eat pancakes with us."
"We're having pancakes?" Tony spins dramatically on his heels, spilling half of his mug on the floor in the process. Then his eyes snap up to where Peter remains lingering awkwardly on the threshold and his expression wavers by a mere fraction. "You're awake! And you're so small."
"Indeed!" Thor agrees, his voice booming throughout the kitchen. Up close, he isn't as intimidating as he seems; but that may be because he's wearing an awful pun on his shirt and a pair of sweatpants instead of his armour and cape. There isn't a lot to be intimidated about when you look at him. He has kind, curious eyes and has that kind of air around him that radiates warmth and loyalty.
It makes him seem strangely humanized compared to how he's represented in the media - and that's an odd thought in Peter's perspective, because he technically isn't human at all.
Meanwhile, Tony Stark doesn't radiate the same kind of energy; he's got the kind of look on his face that makes you feel as if he's constantly analysing you; constantly judging you; watching your every move and calculating your way of doing everything. Just that piercing gaze alone makes Peter feel like the man is staring into his soul and discovering every secret.
Every secret.
Peter automatically shrinks back at the attention, but a familiar hand clapping onto his shoulder brings him back. "Good morning, Pete," Sam says jovially. His sudden appearance is a breath of fresh air for Peter's growing anxiety. "This is Peter, by the way. He's my friend, so don't traumatize him by being yourself."
"Morning," Peter says, waving shyly.
"Hello, Peter," Tony says, leaning on the counter, his head falling to the side as the billionaire regards him.
Sam seems to notice Peter's discomfort, because he gives Peter that certain smile he uses when he's trying to reassure someone. He steers Peter into the stool beside Bruce and then moves to put on the navy blue apron (that reads 'don't kiss the chef, please') hanging on the back of the kitchen door. "What do you feel up to: plain or chocolate chip?"
"Plain,” Bruce and Thor say in unison.
"Chocolate chip, you dumb fucks," Tony counters incredulously.
If looks could kill, Tony would be headless on the floor, because Sam can really glare when he wants to. "There are kids in the room, Stark," he snaps. Then, turning to Bruce and Thor waiting patiently on the island counter, "sorry, you two, but I was actually asking Peter. What is it, Pete? Plain or chocolate chip?"
He's never had a favourite and he couldn't care less about what he has either way, but Thor looks close to crying and Bruce has been so fucking kind to him that he says 'plain' anyway. Tony makes a dramatic sigh and his whole body slumps into the counter. "Your kid has a taste nearly as bad as yours, Sammy," he grumbles in the manner of a bitter old man.
"Plain it is!" Sam ignores Tony entirely.
"Plain?" Clint's voice says, and the owner of said voice follows with a spring in his step and brandishing a spatula as if it were his bow. "I'm going to guess that Tony isn't happy about that choice."
The billionaire doesn't say anything; just glowers at Sam and takes an ominous sip of his coffee.
Clint promptly hands the spatula to Sam, who busies himself with finding the pancake mix in the cupboards above the stove. "Hey, kid," the archer says as he slides into the seat next to Peter and fondly ruffles his hair. He looks up to glance at Thor, who is watching their interaction with mild interest. "I see you've already met a couple of these asses—“
"Language," Sam warns.
"God, you're spending too much time with Capsicle," Tony snickers, putting his mug down. As if a switch has been flicked, his previously bitter expression melts into a more relaxed, friendly one. "Where is everyone, anyway? I want to see their reaction when they see we have a kid living in the building. I bet Cap'll have a stroke!"
Peter may love the Avengers, but he doesn't think he can handle meeting them all at once. Even just meeting two of them just this morning has been a little close to the overwhelming side for him and they haven't even gotten to asking him questions about why he's here and who beat him up and why he got beat in the first place and who his parents are yet.
(Plus, he's positive that he'll end up having the biggest nerdgasm of his life if they all walked into the kitchen right now. If he wants to be cool with the Avengers, he has to be cool in the first place.)
"They're getting breakfast muffins because they think you're cooking," Thor says, drumming his fingers against the handle of his hammer.
Tony looks so genuinely heartbroken that Peter can't swallow his smile. "Is my cooking that bad?"
"Yeah." Clint casts Tony a glance of faux-sympathy. "Sorry to break it to you, but no one else likes their toast charred until it looks like the embers on a fireplace. Or their sausages basically raw. I don't understand how you can eat that and not die."
There's a moment where Tony — for what Peter assumes is the first time in his life, because he's a literal fucking genius — looks somewhat clueless, before his smug expression returns. "It's called... eating so much junk that your body becomes immune to it. AKA, science."
"That's not science," Sam declares, as he pours pancake mix into the pan with a steady hand. It sizzles and pops as it makes contact with the melted butter smothering the inside of the hot pan and a cloud of the most beautiful smell — absolute heaven to Peter's nose — floats throughout the kitchen. "That's just plain freaky. How have you not gotten food poisoning yet?"
"I'm going to throw my coffee at your head," the billionaire deadpans, picking up his mug.
"Do it, I dare you," Sam challenges fearlessly. He stops prodding at his pancake in the pan to point the spatula at Tony's head.
(And that's the moment that Peter realizes that he doesn't want to leave the Avengers Tower.)