It wasn't Peter's fault.
His science project had actually been completed three days before it was due. Next to the seriously wild alien-and-human hybrid technology that had been demanding his attention lately, playing electrician on a little foam house and connecting all the rooms to a self-made battery was easy. He'd modeled his house after the Death Star, naturally, knowing nobody but Ned would appreciate it.
Good thing Ned had had the opportunity to appreciate it at length the previous afternoon, because the little model Death Star was probably now orbiting some jerk's fire escape after going the way of so many of Peter's backpacks. He'd even hidden it with special care after ducking in an alley to start his usual extracurriculars, intending to return before dark to retrieve it.
Two purse thefts, an attempted carjacking and a treed cat later—the ungrateful cat had taken twice as long as the rest—Peter had swung into the narrow alley to get his stuff back only to find it all gone. He could only hope the thief at least had an appreciation for Star Wars. He needed to start leaving these things on roofs.
Showing up without the project had netted him a detention delivered with the crisp disappointment he was beginning to hear from his teachers all too often. It was putting the edge on a reality he'd put off considering: was he really going to finish high school this way, by the skin of his teeth? Move on to college, go through it all again? When the same thing that waited for him now was where he'd end up eventually anyway?
The detention got the attention of Principal Morita again, who pulled Peter out of third period the next day.
In the movies, detention made you cool. In reality, and especially in the academically cutthroat Midtown High, it added a little more ridicule to what was already a healthy supply. Peter walked past the classroom's collective disdain and went to the tiny office made the smaller for the depressing flourescent lighting that threw the principal's frown into sharp relief.
Lame excuses died on his tongue as Principal Morita raised a hand to forestall them. While they lingered in a silent moment, Peter's eyes nervously found the framed photograph of an American doughboy that sat on the cabinet. Morita was the spitting image of his—grandfather? Father?
"Peter, I'm not going to lie," began the principal gently. "When you were awarded the Stark internship six months ago, it would have been hard to name someone more deserving. You are not the student you were then."
In truth, Peter was not the student he was a year ago, when he'd looked into the eyes of his uncle's murderer and been at a loss for what to do. The internship had just been a timely excuse for what had become chronic untimeliness.
"I'm sorry, Principal Morita, I am," said Peter, and he meant it. School was wrapped up in the big bundle of things he couldn't bear to jettison en route to the Avengers, and he hated that it was still sliding to the wayside. "It's just—I have a lot going on."
"A few months ago things were looking up, Peter. Then they started to decline again. Is everything alright at home?" the principal asked, frowning.
The genuine concern in his face made Peter squirm uncomfortably. Even though he spent his nights doing everything he could to help people, he couldn't escape the miserable moments when he felt that he was still letting them down. "It's fine."
"Your aunt says that you are still working for Stark Industries, despite their move upstate."
Oh God, he'd already gone to Aunt May. Yet it offered a sudden amendment to an excuse that had begun wearing thin. "That's right!" he babbled. "Since uh, they moved upstate and all, I have to travel a lot. That's it. It just gets to be a lot. Because I travel."
Principal Morita leaned back in his chair, considering. "Don't they have any offices left in the city?"
Peter was ready for this one. "Yeah, but it's like accounting and stuff. Departments I have nothing to do with." It sounded good to him, and he was pleased at saying it without the tattletale stammer.
"I see." Morita studied him for a moment. "Is it worth it?"
"Worth—worth what?"
The principal swept his hand. "Upending the rest of your life. Don't get me wrong," he held up a hand again to the protests Peter was beginning to make, "I know what an opportunity this is. Anyone would jump at it, and maybe another teacher wouldn't bother asking. I'm asking."
"It's worth it," said Peter quietly.
Morita paused and seemed to think over his next words. "Stark—Tony Stark, I mean—is a charismatic guy. I imagine it's a little like working for a rock star." Though he said it with a smile, something in his phrasing was cautious. "And it may feel like a joyride there's no graceful exit from. To be honest, Peter, I don't know that it's an internship fit for a high school sophomore."
"There's no parties," Peter insisted. To be accurate, there were plenty of parties, glitzy stuff he doubt he'd ever see.
Principal Morita shook his head. "I don't mean parties. I mean—" again the caution— "it's not the most stable environment. Especially if you interact with the Avengers like I'm hearing." Ned and his big mouth, Peter thought sourly. "These are larger than life figures. Literally. It would overwhelm anyone, let alone a teenager."
He wasn't strictly wrong. Peter shrugged and hoped it looked nonchalant. "I only saw them in passing like once or twice. I just do my work."
"And what does that work entail, exactly?" Principal Morita didn't notice how Peter froze in his seat, but leaned forward and clasped his hands together. "Because, Peter, I'm not convinced you should be spending so much time as Mr. Stark's intern."
Peter thought rather a lack of Stark's time was the main problem, and then the principal's meaning caught up to him. "Mr. Stark's not a bad influence," he said. Aunt May had an entirely different opinion, which she hopefully hadn't volunteered over the phone.
"He might be badly influenced," muttered Mr. Morita, catching Peter by surprise.
Again, his discomfited glance landed on the framed photograph, and when it clicked a second later he practically jumped. The familiarity in the face there wasn't only because of its resemblance to the man in front of him. He hadn't made the connection before…
"Is that—"
Principal Morita followed his gaze and smiled at the photograph. "Jim Morita, Howling Commando and my grandfather. Yes, it is. I keep it there to see which students are paying attention in history class."
Peter smiled weakly. He had been paying attention, and not just to history class.
After the Avengers battle royale at the Leipzig airport, Peter had done a little extra credit and researched the Commandos beyond what he'd learned in sixth grade. It made him feel a little guilty, as though he were fact-checking Tony Stark's version of events, but it was stuff in the textbooks anyway and he felt he was owed at least a little more knowledge of the two surviving Commandos he'd done his best to bruise.
To see Private Morita's face staring out of the photograph—and from the principal—was more than a little spooky, like the specter of the Commandos was reaching out yet again with a ghostly hand to stir things in the present. Peter was so used to thinking of the galaxy as such a larger place, he'd forgotten how small the world still was.
"So your grandpa knew Captain America," he murmured, a little awed. It was one thing to steal a shield, and another to fight beside it.
"Yes," said Principal Morita with a note of pride.
Eyes on the photo, Peter said absently, "Is that why you still show so many of his speeches in school?"
After Cap had landed on the Most Wanted list, many schools had removed his videos from the fitness curriculum and homeroom lectures. Others had stubbornly kept them as a manner of silent protest, reflecting a divide in public opinion that Peter was gradually becoming more aware of. The issue had actually been raised at the legislative level, with states unequivocally rejecting a mass ban on the material. Not everyone had jumped on board with the official story, and there was more sympathy for Captain America than the Secretary of State knew what to do with.
Principal Morita glanced sideways. "What do you know about the events that caused the split between the Avengers?"
"No more than anyone else," said Peter, shifting on his chair. He was starting to wonder how long he'd be kept out of class. "They fought over the Accords. No one talks about it to me." Which was more truthful than he would have liked.
"Over the Accords," agreed Mr. Morita, "and over Sergeant Barnes. My grandfather knew him, too."
"Su-sure," said Peter, with the flash of guilt that Barnes's name conjured whenever it came up.
It wasn't long after he'd been dropped off back in Queens that the word had slowly filtered out: a different man, some Sokovian, had bombed the UN and Barnes was a—what had they called it? A Munchurian something. From some old movie. Brainwashed. Hacker geeks online had spent frenzied months decrypting a lot of the Hydra files that Black Widow had released, and much of what they'd uncovered was horrifying.
Peter would have felt better about all this if it had come from Mr. Stark himself. It hadn't. He never said a word about any of it. Or rather, he said quite a lot of words about it that told Peter nothing at all, and just left him with an uneasy feeling. Something had gone down in Siberia.
His leg was bouncing nervously and he tucked it under the chair to stop.
"I don't know what they've told you, but Barnes's story is a longer and sadder one than you know. From what my grandfather has said, and from what little I have witnessed myself, I'm not surprised that Steve put himself on the line. I think any of the Commandos would have."
Witnessed himself? 'Steve?' "Have you…have you met him? Captain America?"
"After Captain Rogers was rediscovered," said Mr. Morita, almost to himself, "he went looking for any familiar faces he could find. My grandfather had passed away not two years before, which I think broke his heart a little, to have so nearly missed him."
Peter did not know why he felt so sad just then, looking at Private Morita smiling from the cabinet. He wondered whether the Avengers had ever really been a replacement for what Steve Rogers had lost.
His own and only introduction to the legendary Commando had been on the Leipzig tarmac, and he wasn't sure what the principal would think of his allegiance. He didn't like to think that Mr. Morita would have felt let down, when Peter was so sick of letting people down.
"So yes, I show the tapes in gym and homeroom, and I will until I am ordered to stop." In New York, likely no one would dare.
In a way, both them stood on the outside of history looking in. It was a weird connection that came at a weird time, but Peter found himself taking comfort from it.
Principal Morita looked at him intently. "How closely are you working with Stark?"
Caught off guard, Peter squeaked, "Not that closely. He travels a lot."
"So you're not being exposed to anything dangerous?"
"No!" Peter said wildly. His hands unconsciously gripped the bottom of his sweatshirt. "No, I'm just an assistant. In the lab and stuff. They just, they sign me to a nondisclosure contract. So I can't say much."
Unconvinced, Principal Morita sat quietly. Peter's skin crawled under the scrutiny. Why couldn't he control the pitch in his voice? He was the only damn Avenger (in training) with a truly secret identity and he could not lie to save his life. Shit. Suddenly he wondered if this pleasant, neatly suited public school official was in contact with the international fugitive Captain America. He didn't think so, but as his senses had been dialed up to eleven, so had his paranoia.
Steve Rogers wouldn't come after him. He had better things to do, and somehow Peter knew he wasn't the kind to bear a grudge like that.
But still…shit shit shit. Did Mr. Morita suspect? After both Stark and Toomes puzzled it out, Peter wasn't about to think no one else could start putting things together. He'd been doing his best to disguise his tracks, using Ned to give him alibis whenever he jetted off, but until Stark Industries got in the cloning game he just could not be in two places at once.
As if on cue: "Is there anything I should know, Peter?"
Too quickly, Peter faked a laugh and said, "No, no, I'm really sorry about everything, sir. I'll figure it out."
Ms. Friedman stuck her head through the door, almost sending Peter through the roof. "Flash Thompson's mom just called about his pre-calculus grades."
Principal Morita paused and seemed on the verge of rolling his eyes. Sitting there, Peter couldn't help a tiny smirk. "Does she recall I don't teach his pre-calculus class?"
"I think she's kind of launching the attack on all fronts."
Hiding a nervous giggle, Peter twisted back around to face the principal as the door snapped shut behind them. Something in the tension had broken, and he breathed a bit easier.
"You're not going to give up this internship, are you?" sighed Mr. Morita, picking up his bifocals.
Peter could only shake his head with a rueful smile.
Principal Morita cleaned the lenses with the edge of his tie, but his tone was still serious. "Then please, Peter: if things get to be too much, at least communicate with your teachers. They want to help you, and they can't do that if you don't talk to them. Maybe you can compromise on the workload, merge it with some of the things you're doing at your internship. Nondisclosure notwithstanding."
"I'll ask, Principal," said Peter dutifully. Maybe he'd ask Mr. Stark for something to show for all this time he was supposedly spending there.
"All right." The studious look was back. "And remember, we have resources at the school to help with other things. If you're stressed, Mrs. Janowicz's door is always open."
Mrs. Janowicz was the school counselor, and indeed her door was always open. Peter imagined walking through it and sitting down in the chair, saying, You see, I have this double life…
Possibly some of the irony in his expression was too obvious, because Principal Morita shook his head. "I haven't met a student yet who didn't think no one would understand what they're going through, but I can tell you: stress is universal. Every person has their own fears and responsibilities, and they all matter. It's important to have someone to talk to."
"I do," said Peter, suddenly very grateful for Ned.
Even so, Peter harbored doubts in his heart he'd never spoken aloud. Not to Ned, not to Aunt May, especially not to Tony Stark.
With most of the Avengers in the wind, Peter felt adrift. What if Mr. Stark was called away on some mission and Peter had to hold the fort, alone? New York was a big, big fort, and a favorite target for general no-gooders. Much as he desperately wanted anonymity, the isolation could be lonesome. He'd gone along with everyone else, maintaining the fiction that the Avengers team was on a kind of hiatus, that they'd inevitably mend.
On the train he'd catch himself imagining that just once Captain America would give him an approving nod, and Black Widow would be impressed by some daring feat. He wanted to belong there, with them, but they were gone. What if they never came back?
It figured.
He surprised himself by saying aloud, "Sometimes I just don't think I'll ever fit in."
Principal Morita's smile was sympathetic. "People will just about get themselves killed to win others' approval," he said, and Peter was truly startled by the reflection. Was that him?
"But," the principal continued, "I think one day you'll find there is more value to having heart—" Again, a ghostly echo of the Captain's words in Germany— "and persevering. The people who matter, really matter, will know you by that."
It was strangely comforting, and after a few beats Peter nodded.
He knew he was dangerously close to having a heart-to-heart with Principal Morita, and he could not afford to…even though part of him wanted to, for the first time since he'd become Spider-Man. He liked the stern-yet-genial principal, but too many people knew about Peter already. Too many. Every time he thought of it, panic rose in his gut and made his hands sweat. He'd managed no more than six months of total anonymity, and since Tony Stark that had begun falling apart.
Small wonder so few of the Avengers had ever bothered with secret identities: the stress of protecting his own was a constant vise on Peter's heart. If he didn't stem the tide now, it would flood past his outstretched hands.
"I understand," said Peter. "I'll do better." He meant it.
At last Mr. Morita said, "All right. You'd better get back to class." He raised his eyebrows. "And you still have detention."
Peter laughed. He could probably use the time to catch up on homework. "Okay."
With a last glance for Private Morita of the Howling Commandos, he left through the glass-windowed door. Mr. Morita's thoughtful eyes followed him out.
.
.
a small thing. I liked the movie.