Chapter 12
“Let’s go out for breakfast,” Bucky sleepily suggests over a cup of coffee one morning.
Ever since the ordeal involving the Doombots a few days ago, everyone has been in surprisingly decent moods. The Tower has been cleared of decapitated robots, the shattered glass from the windows has been swept up and repaired and the burn marks have been scrubbed off the wall and ceiling. There is no evidence that they ever broke into the building other than the memories the incident left behind.
Tony had decidedly kept the most salvageable Doombot and it’s in his workshop now, gathering dust as it awaits further investigation for anything that could be of use -- for wires, for parts, for video feed, for anything that could clue them into wherever these swarms were coming from. He’d insisted that there would surely be some sort of homing device or traceable tracker within their networks.
The first thing Sam recalls thinking when he’d seen the mess left in the communal living room is ‘how is Peter perfectly okay after this?’.
The kid had walked out if it all with nothing more than some minor bruising from where he’d apparently vaulted over a sofa for cover and landed hard on his back. Which, to be fair, is understandable in Peter’s case; if there’s one thing he’s learned about the kid, it’s that he’s definitely fast on his feet. There are certainly no doubts that he could outrun Sam if he really wanted to.
But it’s a little abnormal, he thinks, to not even be so much as shaken by that sort of experience. That kind of incident isn’t the sort that leaves the victim perfectly alright -- he could have died. If he hadn’t moved fast enough, those burn marks on the ceiling would have been on him. Surely, Peter is smart enough to know that. Does he really have so much exposure to similar situations that he just blows them off his shoulder like this all the time? Is there something he’s hiding?
He’s noticed over time that Bruce has been suspicious, too. The doctor hasn’t actually voiced this, so to say, but Sam is much too trained to miss the way he observes Peter out of the corner of his eye whenever the topic surfaces in conversation; the way he squints and purses his lips as if he’s deep in thought whenever Peter uses the ‘I’m a New Yorker, I’ve seen this sort of thing so many times before’ excuse in order to justify his casual attitude towards the whole ordeal. That sort of nonchalant demeanour is only consistent in people with day jobs alike the Avengers’.
But, for now, Sam dismisses his thoughts in order to enjoy his morning. The cheery air surrounding the Avengers (plus Peter) is muted, everyone somewhat sleepy and still waking themselves up with mugs of steaming coffee. No one is eating, likely waiting either for Sam to get up and start making them food, or for someone to direct them to a place to go and get it.
“McDonalds for breakfast?” Tony says, looking vaguely hopeful.
The resident billionaire isn’t one to show up for-- well, anything, but he’s been getting better at it recently. Something tells Sam that Peter has something to do with the sudden spike in attendance. His face is worn and his hands are wrapped around his coffee as if his life depends on it, but there’s this warmth about his eyes that Sam soon decides is the look of a man who is, at that very moment, content with his life.
“Not McDonalds,” Steve warns around his own mug.
“But Dad,” Clint grumbles, slumping in his seat like a disgruntled toddler. The sharpshooter has been relatively bouncy all morning, and so DUM-E had been instructed to make him a hot chocolate instead of a coffee in order to avoid ramping up his energy even further. It doesn’t seem to be working -- if anything, the sugar in his drink has just made it worse.
Sighing dramatically, Natasha slides off her barstool, leaving her empty coffee cup in the sink. “I’ll go on a Subway sandwich run. What does everyone apart from Steve want?”
“Why apart from me?”
“Because I know what you want anyway. You always have exactly the same thing. Italian bread, chicken, no cheese, toasted, lettuce, cucumber, no sauce.”
Steve shoots her a pair of fingerguns. “You got me there.”
“No, that isn’t what I meant,” Bucky says, waving his hands around his head to get everyone’s attention. He pauses to drain what’s left of his coffee like it’s a shot and throws DUM-E his mug, who catches it with trained ease and puts it in the sink beside everyone else’s. “I mean we should go out to eat breakfast together. As a team.” His eyes flit to Peter, who’s looking a little less dead and more attentive to the topic at hand. “And Peter.”
At this proposal, Bruce brightens up considerably. He’d finished his herbal tea a while ago and has been reading this morning’s paper since, his salt-and-pepper curls unruly around his ears. He pushes his glasses up his nose and squints over the top of his newspaper. “I agree. I don’t think Peter has been outside ever since he got here. The kid’ll die of vitamin D deficiency if we’re not careful.”
“Let’s get him clothes while we’re at it,” Sam suggests, side-eyeing the teenager slouching next to him. “I’m tired of Peter wearing all my stuff. It reminds me of how twiggy I am when a shortstack like him can fit into them.”
(He doesn’t miss the way Tony’s lip twitches at that.)
Peter collects the energy to look offended. “I’m not short,” he says ignidantly.
“Yeah, and pigs can fly.”
“On Asgard--”
“Shut up, Thor.”
The God looks away, grinning into the swirling cinnamon brown of his coffee cup. “You hurt my feelings,” he murmurs to Sam, who just claps a hand on his back.
“So, we’re going out for breakfast?” Natasha says from where she lingers in the doorway of the communal kitchen, running delicate fingers through her ponytail. Donned in black leggings, a tanktop and a pair of crimson trainers, she looks as if she’s ready to go out for a morning jog. “Any idea where we’re going, then?”
“How about Westway?” Steve suggests helpfully. “I’m craving their egg and bacon English muffins -- you know the ones that Marcie makes us, with the little triangle flags in the top?”
“Ooh.” Tony gives his empty coffee mug to DUM-E, who is more than happy to put it in the sink (they have a dishwasher, obviously, but Steve and Bucky seem to like doing the dishes themselves) for him. “Those are good. The egg yolk with the salt tastes so great when it’s all runny and warm. I could do for one of those right now.”
“Me too,” Clint murmurs, starry-eyed.
Bucky adds, “I’m fond of her pancakes.”
Picking up his hammer and tossing it from hand to hand, Thor loudly declares, “I quite enjoy their vanilla milkshakes. Do you think I can get a vanilla milkshake with my egg and bacon English muffin?”
“You sure can, Sparkles.” Tony grimances and rubs at his ear with a finger.
“And there are clothes shops right around the corner from Westway, right? We can go get some breakfast and then go buy this kid some clothes for himself,” Sam inputs, grinning over at Peter, who is biting his thumb and looking around at the Avengers with a sense of warmth in his cinnamon eyes. That is an expression he recognises clear as day -- he’s finally growing to understand what it’s like to have a family again, after spending so much time fending for himself in the street.
“This is so exciting!” Clint also gives his hot chocolate cup to DUM-E and stands up off his stool, smoothing the creases in his shirt. “I’m really glad you suggested this, Buckaroo. I can’t remember the last time we went out and got breakfast together. Tony is so rich that he just orders everything in all the time.”
“What else am I going to do with all my money, huh?”
Bucky is smiling. “I’ll do the dishes while you guys shower and get dressed. I’m not going to be seen with you when you all look like sweaty apes. Except for Natasha… who always seems to look immaculate, for some reason.”
The SHIELD agent in question tilts her head and looks at Bucky with a comfortable sort of venom in her eyes. “That’s because I shower regularly.”
Peter gives his mug to DUM-E and gets up to leave the kitchen. “I am not a sweaty ape,” he gripes from down the corridor.
.
The journey to Westway is only fifteen minutes on foot and so the team (plus Peter) collectively decided the walk would be good for them. Everybody seems to be in good spirits under the brilliant gold of the early morning sun that bounces off windows and leaves pools of light to warm the pavement. Even Natasha -- who is somewhat reserved and serious at the best of times -- chatters with Bruce and Thor nearer to the front of the group and Clint thinks that it’s good to see that she’s comfortable.
And though he shares that refreshed mood, the marksman finds himself gradually gravitating towards Sam and Peter, who walk side-by-side nearer to the back of the group, not so much as talking but instead enjoying the tranquillity of each other’s company.
He falls into step on the other side of Peter. The kid acknowledges his presence with nothing more than a timid smile, but he doesn’t say anything. Just crams his hands into the pocket of Sam’s hoodie like the anxious teenager he really is.
Clint takes this chance to look Peter over. Though he’s still skinny as a stringbean (it doesn’t help that Sam’s clothes are too big on him, either), he’s looking to be a weight that is less unhealthy and more average for a kid of his size and age. The professional haircut that Tony forced him into has really done him good regarding his looks; where his hair previously curled around his ears and brushed the back of his neck, they’ve shaven the underside short and left it long on top, giving him a flare of charm that even Bucky begrudgingly admitted the look suited his face well.
Not only does he look better, but Clint begins to recognise a new, distinct look about his eyes; complete and utter contentment.
It makes him happy to know that the kid is doing alright.
But seeing him so comfortable also makes him wonder how permanent his position in the Avengers Tower is. He knows for a fact that every single Avenger are more than happy to house Peter. There is no reason to think otherwise, after all -- everyone, out of pure affection, has gone out of their way to make the kid feel comfortable and welcome in their living space. They’ve made sure he feels included. They’ve made sure that he knows he can come to them for help. They’ve made sure that he knows that he’s not so much an outsider from the group anymore. Steve’s suspicions have reportedly lessened over time and he thankfully never enlightened Peter on them. Tony even gave him access to his most private workshop (only when he’s in there, too, but it’s more than what everyone else has). That’s not what people do when they want someone to leave, is it?
Only, his legal guardian is still the woman who booted him from his previous home -- Clint doesn’t care to remember her name -- and so it’s not like they can just decide where he can live, no matter what Peter wants. Though she was heartless enough to kick him out, the woman still has full legal rights over his custody. They have no right to decide that Peter can take permanent residency in the Tower unless they get explicit permission from the woman or get legal custody over him.
Even if they get that sorted, there is still the matter of convincing the law that they’re capable of having custody over a minor. Their lifestyle isn’t exactly kid-friendly at the best of times, what with the danger that accompanies their jobs -- not to mention the fact that he could become a potential target used to manipulate the Avengers if some sort of evil power were to gain knowledge of the Tower’s newest resident.
With that in mind, the idea of having Peter living in the Tower permanently seems distant.
And it sucks, it really does. He doesn’t know whether Peter wants to stay -- it’s too early to ask and the team hasn’t really discussed it extensively as of yet -- and he’s finding it increasingly difficult to rely on his observations in order to gain insight on the matter. Peter is generally content, but he’s determined to stay out of everyone’s way when he thinks that it’s what everyone wants. Hell, the kid hasn’t even moved out of the infirmary despite being given an offer to do so, which can only mean that he’s expecting to be asked to leave soon enough. That thought in itself is really quite saddening.
(He’s been kicked out of his home by the last of his living family -- that kind of heart-wrenching betrayal just doesn’t leave anyone perfectly okay no matter how strong they believe they are. It leaves emotional scars. Gives you underlying fears that, the moment you think you’re going to be okay, it will happen all over again. Knowing that the kid is going through that does not sit well in his stomach.)
There are no doubts that Tony is already preparing his legal team to start on the case soon enough. Really, Clint wouldn’t be surprised if someone were to tell him that they’re trying to contact Peter’s legal guardian right now.
“You ever been to Westway before, Pete?”
Peter owlishly blinks up at Clint. “No,” he murmurs, running a hand through his hair, “but if you guys like it, then I think I will too.”
“You think so?”
“They have pretty a good breakfast menu,” Sam adds, shrugging. “It’s a wonder we haven’t been here with you yet, Peter. We go quite a lot.”
“Oh.”
The silence drags on. Ahead of them, the others fill the space with chatter Clint can’t understand and laughter that could light up the entirety of New York. Even Bruce -- somewhat quiet, reserved Bruce who prefers to only add his two cents upon matters that are important -- is taking the chance to get out of his shell a little more.
The teenager stretches his arms above his head like a sleepy cat, blissfully closing his eyes against the golden freckles of sun that break through the thick wisps of cloud. The winter cold nips at the tip of his nose. “It’s nice to be outside again,” he comments after a while.
“It’s nice to see you outside again,” Sam agrees fondly.
.
The Doombot is disturbing to look at, propped up in one of those old armour stands.
Tony knows all too well that they’re nothing more than an inconvenience on the best of days and yet he cannot help the sick feeling that crawls in the pit of his stomach as he regards the Doombot from across the room. It’s powered down, head lolling to the side and that glaring red previously alighting the rectangular slits of the snuffed out by their thumbs -- and, in a sick, twisted sort of way that even he can’t comprehend, it looks even more intimidating when it’s dead.
It’s well and truly dead, too. Tony’s repulsor left a hole in the very centre of its chestplate so wide that he could fit his arm up to his shoulder through it. The edges of the hole are melted inwards and black from the heat of the repulsor blast. He’d have decapitated it to make sure, but he figures that the wiring in the head is probably the most important part of the whole thing.
He kept it so he could take it apart. Underneath those flimsy sheets of metal, from that shitty network of wires and pulses inside of the helmet, he figures that there’ll be something he can salvage. A homing device of sorts would be useful -- maybe they’d finally be able to figure out where these fuckers are coming from and take them on at the source.
“J, where do you think we should start?” he calls out.
“I believe the head would be most efficient.”
“Head, it is.”
Ten minutes later and he’s collapsing into his swivel chair, observing the mess of frazzled, twisted wires he ripped out from under the thing’s breastplate with half-hearted interest. There’s nothing vaguely useful in it’s networks. Even the lifeless powersource, which he set to the side to get a closer look later, could serve little purpose to him. With technology as advanced as his, there’s no reason why he should have anything less so.
Maybe just to laugh at.
(He did. Quite a bit.)
“Hammer, DUM-E,” he orders, and the robot obediently pauses it’s sweeping to pass it to him. He picks up the disembodied head (it took quite a bit of effort to get it off with his hands, but he just about managed without the Iron Man suit) and hits a dent into where the faceplate attaches to the main exterior of the scalp, which essentially weakens the joint and lets him pull it off with little more than a soft tug. DUM-E helpfully collects it from underneath his chair and puts it on the table before returning to his original job.
The wires inside rip out easily and they join the mess on the table. With them gone, the shell of the head is nothing but an empty cavern, and it doesn’t take long for Tony to spot the homing device tucked into the circuit of the inside surface. He takes the tweezers off the only empty space on the table and uses it to pull it out.
He studies it in the light. It’s a delicate piece of technology; a small, yellow chip that looks like it could fit into a phone and not numerous killer robots. Now this is the sort of progress he’d been hoping to make.
“JARVIS, can you tell me where the homing signal for this is coming from?” he says into the air, holding it up higher above his head so the AI can pick up the readings that little bit easier.
“This isn’t a homing device, Sir.”
Tony flinches. “Really? It isn’t?” he murmurs, somewhat disbelieved that he labelled it incorrectly. “What is it?”
“It holds the camera feed, sir. I believe there’s a camera between the eyeholes.”
He picks up the faceplate with his free hand. Right where JARVIS said is a small circle of black in the silver metal -- a tiny camera lense, he recognises immediately. How could he have missed something as obvious as that? Has he slept so little over the past few days that he can’t find the easiest of details?
“Camera feed, huh?” he says to no one, smiling and peering into it more. This is bound to give him what he wants -- a camera will let him know where the Doombots are coming from for sure. He slots the chip into the nearest computer with a thumb. “Put it on the big screen, J. Let’s watch a movie.”
He can only hope the camera feed starts when the bots turn on.
Only, it doesn’t.
Tony blows out his cheeks and leans back in his swivel chair. The beginning of the feed shows that it’s flying over New York and he can hear the sound of Sam’s wings cutting the air behind it, meaning that the camera feed turned on halfway through the fight and not on it’s way over to it. “This hasn’t been tampered with?” he says to JARVIS.
The AI replies, “not that I can tell.”
“Which means it hasn’t.”
Doom must have thought ahead and adjusted the cameras so they started recording at a certain point instead of when the bot itself turned on so as to protect the location in which they come from. He glares toward the empty shell of the faceless helmet. There must be some sort of homing device still jammed up in there somewhere -- it’ll just take some time to find it, is all. That’s only two days of lost sleep, probably.
He continues to watch the footage. The different point of view is actually rather interesting -- seeing the fight in the perspective of the enemy is something that he doesn’t see very often. He watches it dodge his repulsors; watches it shoot it’s gun at where Clint is crouching on the edge of a rooftop. The marksman doesn’t so much as flinch when the shot of light flies past his ear, only tilts his head the other way so it doesn’t singe the edges of his hair. That man is really something else.
It’s not long before he loses interest in the video, instead choosing to divert his attention to finding the homing device in the head of the Doombot. There’s so many tacky little pieces that he has the right mind to think that Doom put half of this shit in just to confuse anyone who tries to tamper with it. He wouldn’t be surprised if that were really the case. It’s always the annoying villains who tend to be the most slippery.
With the amount of focus he’s putting into his task, the sound of the video gradually fades into the background. It’s only brought back to his attention when he hears the jarring sound of a shattering glass panel.
This is a bot he picked up from the communal living room. Of course it would show this section footage.
He watches Peter vault over the sofa with the grace of a gymnast, and then hears his muted groan as his back hits the floor. The Cheetos he’d been eating had been thrown in a random direction in the panic of the ordeal and there’s a rip in the seam of the beanbag he’d been slouching in from where his foot had broken into the fraying stitches, the inside spilling out like sand through one’s hands.
Even though this isn’t live footage and he’s aware that Peter gets out of it with nothing more than mild bruising, Tony feels his heart hammering against the metal casing of the arc reactor. He knows all too well how terrifying it is for your peace to be broken so suddenly like that, but he cannot imagine it in Peter’s perspective. He’s just a kid -- he doesn’t have any kind of experience with any of this no matter how ‘used to it’ he insists he is.
He watches the bot advance forward toward the sofa in slow steps that echo throughout the empty walls of the communal living space. Smashed glass crunches beneath the wide area of its feet. The whole swarm of Doombots seem to be moving in the same direction -- for the couch.
They saw Peter before he hid.
Tony feels the knife in his stomach twist. God, this must have been scary.
The camera comes to a stop at the base of the sofa. The bot is momentarily stuck in a pregnant pause, and though he knows otherwise, Tony finds himself hoping that it would forget about Peter and try and find someone else -- anyone else -- to harass.
His hopes are expectantly snuffed. The camera feed shifts forward and over the edge of the sofa so that Tony can see Peter look up, skin visibly whitening as he registers the situation, coffee eyes wide and glossy with present fear, staring like a deer in headlights into the barrel of a whining gun.
And then he--
“What?”
Tony raises his hand and JARVIS obediently pauses the video. Discarding the head onto the floor over his shoulder, he gets up off his chair to get a better look at the screen. “What the fuck? What am I-- what? What am I looking at?”
“I believe Peter is on the wall, sir,” JARVIS offers helpfully.
“Yeah, no shit,” he snaps, combing shaking, oil-stained fingers through his hair.