Full Summary
A few years after Thanos is defeated, Peter drops out of MIT and walks away from his responsibilities as the future air of Stark Industries.
The world loses its mind.
As does Tony, which is Peter's number one reason for avoiding him and his phone calls. That's easy when the entire world thinks Tony is dead, but becomes significantly harder after Nick Fury places Peter under house arrest in Tony's secluded cabin after a minor infraction of the revised accords.
A/N: Welcome to my new story! This is in no way me abandoning any other story I have going on right now, but just what my brain wanted to write at the moment.
This is a Post-Endgame, Tony is still alive (because I'm getting nervous) and a slightly older Irondad and Spiderson relationship! Please enjoy, or not. It's whatever. Oh, and also want to point out this probably won't be that long. Maybe 7 chapters.
A hanger screeched against a metal bar as Peter struggled to free his clothes. He cringed at the sound, but he didn't stop wrestling with the bottom of his shirt, until it flew from the hanger with unexpected force and smacked him in the face. He threw it in the open duffel bag on the floor of his closet, then decided the clothes in the dresser were both easier and faster to collect.
Peter pulled them from the drawers in wads, shoved them inside the bag and began working on the zipper, tugging on it while it stayed stubbornly stuck on the tracks. He applied extra strength and paused to let out a low growl when that strength crushed zippered and rendered it useless.
It was just that kind of day.
Lately Peter just lived that kind of life.
He shouldered the bag without zipping it shut and marched out of his closet, out of his bedroom and into the large, breezy hallways of the Avenger's compound. As he maneuvered through them, he pushed wads of clothes further into the bag, preventing them from spilling out and over and onto the floor.
Peter turned a corner and stopped in his tracks when his eyes landed on Black Widow. He gripped the strap of the duffel bag tighter, considering his options. After a breath, he shifted his head down, to stare at the floor, kicked up his pace and hoped she hadn't noticed him or his bag.
This, just like the zipper, didn't work.
She fell in line next to him as he carried on with his escape.
"Where are you going?"
"Home."
"You can't go home," said Nat, although Peter disagreed. He'd already packed, and already told valet to bring up his car. "We have a debriefing in twenty."
"We showed up, fought valiantly and the bad guy still got away," said Peter. He pushed open the glass doors with his forearm, paused, then titled his head back to look at her. "You're welcome by the way. Now you don't have to go either."
He continued his exit, letting the door fall shut behind him, as he stepped out into sunlight that blinded him. Peter squinted, dropped his bag on the concrete, crouched down and began searching his disorganized mess of a bag for his sunglasses. He found them, on the very bottom, and when he pulled them out, clumps of clothes came with them.
Peter growled, again, as he shoved shirts and shorts back inside, and ignored Nat, as she stood above him, having followed him out into the glaring sun. She waited until he was standing up straight with his sunglasses on to continue with her lecture.
"You conveniently forgot the part where it's your fault we failed to apprehend the suspect, which is also why you're running away now."
"I'm not running away," said Peter. "And shouldn't you be harassing the sergeant about blame? He's the one dulling out orders, like we're all his little soldiers just standing by, waiting for commands." He swatted at a fly buzzing near his ear. "It's distracting."
Her eyes narrowed cut in at him and her frown deepened and those were both good signs that Peter was annoying her to the point where she would leave him alone. That was best with teammates, he had learned, to keep them at a distance to keep them from the truth.
Peter just needed one last push.
"Hey," he said. "Maybe you should let him know in your meeting that he isn't Steve."
"And you're not Tony," said Nat. "Quit acting like you have to do everything by yourself."
Peter looked away and watched as the valet driver pulled his car up to the front entrance where they stood. He didn't need any reminders that he wasn't Tony. It was clear to him, and everyone else, that he would never measure up and maybe didn't care to try. Peter wasn't Tony, but as he tipped the valet, he was sure he was Peter Parker, either.
Nat's stare stayed with him as he threw his bag over the driver's seat and into the passenger's seat.
"Peter."
There was something softer in her voice that caused him to hesitate, standing outside his car with his hand placed on top of the open door.
"Are you sure this is a good idea? Fury's already pissed, and you know Spider-Man isn't allowed to interfere in Queens."
"So I'm never allowed to go home again?"
"So you'll be tempted," she told him. "And you don't want to push Fury right now. I'm not sure you'll like the consequences if you do."
"I'll be fine, Nat."
He slid into the driver's seat and shut the door, adjusting the stereo before putting the car in gear and speeding away from the compound that wasn't his home, inside of a car he hadn't picked out or bought for himself.
He spared a look in the rearview mirror at Nat. She stood perfectly still, watching him intently, just like the rest of the world.
By the time Peter rolled into Queens, he had twelve missed calls.
He sat at his kitchen table, across from the chair that had Happy's suit jacket thrown over it and scrolled through them. Three were from the great Sergeant James Barnes, one single call was from Pepper Potts, a couple more were attached to unknown numbers, and the rest were from Tony.
Peter sighed and looked around the empty apartment. A few dishes sat in the sink. Happy's wallet and keys were on the counter, but there wasn't a soul in sight. He ignored his missed calls, dialed May instead and pressed his phone to his ear, letting his eyes trail over to the window where the sky grew darker with storm clouds as he listened to the rings.
She didn't pick up.
He looked away from the storm brewing outside and locked his eyes on Happy's liquor cabinet. Just seconds later he was on his feet, and searching through it, and not stopping until he found something pricey, something worthy to be found in Tony's collection.
Peter took a nice, long swig of the good stuff as he crossed over into the living room and sunk into the couch cushions. Finding the remote nearby, he switched on the TV, only to regret it immediately.
Annoying voices of news commentators blared through the speakers, filling the silence, and of course, they were talking about Peter. Ever since Tony's will leaked to the press, Peter Parker was all the twenty-four news networks could talk about. It got progressively worse when Peter made his decision to split from MIT a few days ago.
His inheritance, and as some of the more dramatic commentators claimed, the future of Stark Industries, depended entirely on Peter receiving a diploma from Tony's alma mater.
"…never seen such a thing, for someone to act so irresponsibly in the face of being given a multi-billion dollar company."
"Can we really be surprised, Chuck? This kid was handpicked by Tony Stark, and this is a stunt straight from his glory days."
Peter took another drink from the bottle.
His phone rang, and when he saw May's picture light up the screen, he muted the TV and answered.
"Peter?"
"Hey," said Peter. Wherever May was, it was loud, blasting with music, and reminded him of the parties back at MIT. "Where are you guys? I came home for the weekend."
"I'm sorry, Pete. You should have called first," she said. "Happy and I are away this weekend… well, it's actually kind of great. We're on a cruise."
"A – a cruise?"
"Yeah, you know Happy can be so romantic," she said. "And spontaneous."
"That's… awesome, Aunt May."
Peter took another drink from the bottle while he waited for her to add more to the conversation, but to his complete horror, instead of her replying, he heard Happy's voice boom through the music in the background, asking who was on the phone and demanding to talk to him.
Happy's gruff voice filled Peter's ears. "Are you outta your mind?"
He suppressed a groan, shut his eyes and let his head fall back against the back of the couch.
"Or just trying to give Tony a heart attack?"
"Can it be both?"
"It has to be both for you to quit school without talking to one of us about it first."
"In my defense," said Peter. "I didn't think you all would find out about it this fast."
There was a heavy, annoyed breath through the speaker. "With the way the media's been hounding you lately, you didn't think we'd find out about it?"
"Well when you put it that w – "
"Do you know who Tony calls when he can't get a hold of you?" asked Happy. "May. Then me, so do us both a favor and call him back so he'll leave us alone. Do you hear me, Peter? Call Tony."
Happy didn't give him another chance to speak. He had already passed the phone back to May, who insisted on keeping the conversation going in that same direction.
"He's worried about you. You know you'll both feel better when you call him," said May. "I'm worried too. You're okay, right?"
"Yeah, I'm completely fine."
There was some static on the other side, and Peter imagined she was readjusting the position of the phone on her ear.
"Peter," said May. "I love you, so much."
"I love you too."
The phone clicked off. May had hung up without saying goodbye, and Peter was alone again.
He didn't understand why everyone in his life, and even outside of his life, were acting so dramatically about this. Saying they loved him like he was terminal, asking if he was okay, if he knew what he was doing, all because he dropped out of school. Dramatic. All of them, and he planned to keep this in mind whenever any of them accused him of being theatrical.
Peter scrolled back to his missed call screen and hovered his thumb above Tony's name. He wanted, more than anything, to be able to call him. Especially after his hard day. He craved the comfort, the guidance, the person who would listen to all his Avengers related frustrations and be on his side, no matter what.
But that didn't exist anymore. He knew pushing that button was inviting just another lecture about MIT, and he couldn't hear that. Not at the moment.
He dropped his phone, traded it for the remote and switched the channel before unmuting it.
What greeted him wasn't much better than the previous station.
A report about recent disappearances around Queens filled the screen and the air. According to the info graph that flashed across the screen, it was getting worse. Peter leaned forward to get a better look at it, but instead, knocked the bottle of liquor by his side over, spilling it both all over himself and the couch.
Great. He'd have to clean that out of the cushions before May and Happy came home.
He looked back up at the TV just in time to see a sad, news anchor, staring right at him.
"It really makes you wonder, where is Spider-Man when we really need him?"
Peter switched off the TV. Enough of that.
Spider-Man was with the Avengers. Spider-Man obeyed the law, and stayed out of trouble, and helped out only when the Avengers were called for large scale threats. Spider-Man, like the other Avengers, was controlled by Nick Fury, just like Peter Parker was controlled by the last will and testament of Tony Stark, a man who was still alive to a select few but dead to the rest of the world.
According to Fury, and the document on which Peter signed away his life, Spider-Man the vigilante was both bad for publicity and unnecessary. Queens didn't need superheroes to help out with petty crimes. Queens didn't need a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, but the rest of the world needed him to take his feet off the ground.
So he became Fury's weapon, and at the same time, he became Tony's billion-dollar heir.
He was tired of both.
Thunder crackled outside, something glass shattered, a car alarm started to scream. It was the music of Queens, the sound that he had missed, and something he desperately wanted to protect. If people were going missing, and he did nothing except let it happen, well that seemed worse than breaking something he signed months ago to appease the government.
He stood, sending the now empty bottle of liquor on the floor, and marched back to his bedroom without bothering with the alcohol soaking the couch cushions. He'd worry about it later.
Peter suited up, and for the first time, in a long time, jumped out his window and into Queens, into the thunder and the lightning and the violence to protect the neighborhood he loved.