Ideals

By: The Hatter Theory

Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to concepts or characters created by Marvel

AN: Hey look, the WSFVerse isn't dead! Working on a chapter, take a couple of these for my crappy update habits. Hopefully some clarity on Stark Resilient.


"He's not like Tony," Steve muttered, sullen.

Clint watched Steve watching Peter. The newest addition to the tower, not the first and certainly not the last, was doing his homework.

Homework.

"He's spastic enough," Natasha said, lack of concern radiating off of her in waves. Clint knew her, knew that she had made the comment carelessly because she had seen the same thing he had seen in that instant Peter had made a small discovery. It wasn't a noise per say, it was the quick, rapid fire movement as he scrambled for a pen and knocked his cup over, followed by the manic attempt to write whatever it was down down before he forgot and clean the mess at the same time(the former obviously taking precedence).

It had been a Tony moment.

"He's too young. This is, it's dangerous. Too dangerous for someone his age," Steve argued quietly.

Spiderman, an unofficial Avenger for over two months, had helped them a couple of times and done a fair job of keeping his own area of the city safe. And Steve had liked Spiderman.

Peter Parker, seventeen year old high school student, not so much.

"It won't matter. He'll keep doing it whether we claim him as one of ours or not. And with that asshat at the paper out for blood, he needs someone at his back. He's doing a good job," Clint told the man sitting at the table, hands clasped together on it's surface.

"He's too young. He can't do this," Steve tried again.

"I was younger," Natasha told him, and Clint felt his blood freeze because it was that tone, and that tone never boded well for anyone involved. He resisted the urge to duck under the table, because kindling never protected anyone. Better to take the high ground and pray the shield didn't make an appearance.

"Me too. Even when we got loose or were cut loose, we didn't stop. He won't either."

"But he's seventeen!"

"And in less than a year he'll be eighteen. Do a few months really make that much of a difference?" Clint asked.

"You know it's not about a few months," Steve growled, beginning to show the temper he kept held in check. Months of legal battles and work had left him with a harder edge, one that was becoming more apparent in the face of the Peter Parker Situation. Clint refrained from sighing when he realized the whole thing had gained capital letters when he wasn't looking. Damn.

"If he's not with us, then he is out there, alone," He finally said. It wasn't that he wanted the kid around, because, hell, kid. Child.

But in the few times he'd crossed paths with Spiderman, the kid had proven to be pretty smart, strong, and stubborn. There was something decidedly not kid-like about a teenager giving up all of his free time to fight crime. The shooting of his uncle slash father figure was probably at the root of it, and while most kids would have cried and moved on within a few years, Peter had created Spiderman.

It took a warped personality to choose to be a vigilante. Or a super hero. Or a spy. All paths were ways to try and cope with something, he knew that better than anything. No one in those sorts of professions was a whole person, and everyone had fractures before they started. The pressure of the job just made them more apparent.

Like Steve's.

"If we don't back him, SHIELD will," Clint said into the still air, knowing the exact effect it would have. Natasha had her tricks, he had his own.

"No. They wouldn't-" Steve said, sounding somewhat shocked, mostly offended, as if the notion that SHIELD was that ruthless hadn't occurred to him a thousand times before.

"They've recruited younger," Natasha said, voice back to it's normal apathy.

"Younger?" Steve asked, looking sick.

"And less useful," She added.

Clint felt bad for Steve, because it was a tough call. In the months since he'd been handed Stark Resilient, the corporation behind the Avengers, he'd been hell bent on creating a network of teams, on herding superheroes and making them work together. It was a good goal, one to prevent another death like Tony's. But just because it was a good goal didn't mean it was going to happen easily, was happening easily. Peter was just the most morally ambivalent snag so far.

"They're right," A voice said from behind Clint's shoulder. "I'm not going to stop. I haven't been a part of this club, and I don't need to be."

"It's not a club," Steve muttered, hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "It's a team, a responsibility. You shouldn't have to worry about this stuff right now."

"Ever. None of us should have had to worry about this ever," Peter told him, brow furrowed. Clint made a mental note to coach him on toning down his expressions, he was far too open for his own good. "But someone has to, and we do. I do."

Clint resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Well. Fractured, yeah. But in an idealistic way that was going to take a beating over the next few years, no matter who he was around. Even Captain America didn't shine as bright these days.

Then again, maybe the idealism wouldn't be bad for Steve to have around. It would grate on Natasha's nerves, and his own, but Steve had been hit hard by the loss and the subsequent baskets of bullshit the military kept handing him. If anyone else tried to serve any of them with subpoenas, he promised he was going to start finding perches and picking them off.

"You have to finish school," Steve relented.

"Duh," Peter huffed, as if the suggestion was so obvious it was stupid to remark upon. A Tony expression, the way his eye brows quirked. Maybe Peter was a result of his prolific oat sowing? It probably wouldn't hurt to have a full DNA profile done up by Jarvis anyway. For science.

"Good grades. No fighting on school nights. College."

"Yes mother."

Steve's shoulders sagged in defeat, and Clint smiled despite himself.

He wasn't Tony, but damn he had a way of reminding them of him. And it wasn't too bad a thing, as long as the twerp didn't break into the liquor cabinet.