It was going on 7:00 in the evening (according to the clocks here, anyway, which did military time and having to do mental math to figure out the time was…easier than Peter thought it would be. But it was still vaguely annoying to see a clock blaring 18.56 and not know what that actually meant, immediately.) when they pulled up to the plane. Happy had been keeping Peter's phone hostage since that morning, and Peter was equal parts annoyed and a little touched about it, because he knew it meant Happy cared. (But mostly annoyed, because he hadn't texted May since last night, and he just wanted to let her know he was on his way home, and he was still trying to come up with a plausible cover story for the huge-ass bruise on his face that hadn't healed yet. (Thanks, stupid asthma attack, stupid, unpredictable spider-powers, and stupid futuristic super-jet that made it so he couldn't even give her an ETA until they were closer to New York.))

Peter had employed his best puppy-eyes, which he knew to be very effective, and his best wheedling (and yet still respectful) voice, and he could finally sense that Happy was on the verge of relenting, as they walked up the steps into the plane—

—and Peter's eyes watered and he nearly choked on (what, to him was a quite strong) smell of

wood stain

alcohol; and there was Mr. Stark.

He was sitting on the floor towards the back of the cabin, amidst a veritable nest of piles of file folders as well as what looked like personnel profiles being projected…somehow…in his immediate vicinity; he was scrolling through one in particular with his left hand while the other nursed a tumbler three-fingers high of something

A cedar-y, sawdust-y something

a little like apple cider, in appearance, if not smell or consistency.

"Remind me again why we're not going with this…what…oh, that's his actual name. Strange? Fri?" he was saying distractedly, taking a gulp of the drink. (Peter wasn't about to try to discern what Mr. Stark's drink of choice was by color and smell alone, but he did intuit that…it was not his first.)

"Doctor Stephen Strange is no longer practicing medicine as of February of this year," came a voice, louder than Peter would have thought, as he assumed it would be coming from a phone speaker, but it seemed, in all actuality, to be connected to the plane itself.

"Can't we get him to…I dunno…reconsider that?" Mr. Stark challenged, draining the glass, seemingly unaware that he was no longer alone.

God, Peter could smell it through his eyeballs, which were actually legitimately burning.

"Let me rephrase: Doctor Strange is unable to practice medicine, due to injuries he sustained in a car accident that happened in February of this year," the AI corrected coolly. The voice was feminine, with a slight accent that Peter couldn't place. Hard /r/s and long /o/s.

Mr. Stark made a gesture and the screen closed, punctuated with a, "Goddammit."

"Hey, Boss. What's up?" Happy interjected, as closing the projected screen finally allowed Mr. Stark to recognize that he had an audience.

"Do you know how long everything fucking takes?" Mr. Stark said, looking at Happy. He still had the black eye he'd had a few days ago, and now it had been joined by a newer, tender-looking bruise at the bridge of his nose and bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes that Peter could actually see because Mr. Stark wasn't wearing sunglasses, for once. "They did scans, and then they had to wait. Forever. I think they had a guy chiseling out the images on a rock. And then the scans came and the doctor looked at them— for—for all of a single goddamn second, mind you— and recommended transferring to another hospital. So I picked it, at least; we're going to Columbia, if we can't get the Strange guy—yes, that's his name—at Metro-General. And they wouldn't let him go in my plane because it "hadn't been tested for that," or some shit. Their plane left at five, and we'll probably still fucking beat them there," Mr. Stark growled, getting to his feet unsteadily.

"Hey, kid? Wanna wait outside?" Happy muttered, pushing Peter's phone at him and relieving him of his bag.

Peter offered a surprised nod (Happy had told him several times he was not there to carry Peter's bag) and exited the plane, glad of the fresh air. He set to pulling up music, quickly locating his headphones and plugging them in his ears—Ben and May had raised him right, and just because Peter could listen in on the conversation, didn't mean he should. It was rude.

He also didn't think it would hurt to separate himself from the tension that had been building in the cabin; tension made Peter antsy. And Mr. Stark had been drinking. For a while, Peter guessed. That…made him a little antsy, too, if he was honest.

Certain kinds of alcohol were…woody. Peter vaguely knew this. And spiders were averse to Cedar. Peppermint, too. It was something he'd looked up, when he'd gotten these awful canker sores after taking some gum from a classmate, after the bite. That explained his weird reaction to the smell. He'd also had a shitty morning, which (probably) explained why his heart was still going so hard.

Aunt May and Uncle Ben hadn't really been habitual drinkers; Peter's only familiarity with the different smells of alcohol came from having to deal with drinkers making bad decisions to the point that he had to intervene, as Spider-Man. (Or else the deeper familiarity that came with the sorts of memories Peter didn't like remembering.)

He grudgingly started eating one of the power bars Happy had given him; one of the many that he'd stuffed into his sweatshirt pocket. He knew that he would feel more okay once he was home—Aunt May made him feel better, somehow. Her presence represented safety, in his mind, like almost nothing else did. And it didn't even matter that they'd had to move out of the house they'd lived in with Uncle Ben, or that Peter was pretty sure some gang members lived on the third floor of their current apartment, or that Peter kept this enormous secret from her, and kept keeping it. None of that mattered, because at the end of everything, Peter knew Aunt May was on his side. In his corner.

He thought, then, of how Mr. Stark's presence—his media presence, even—had affected his life thus far. Peter, eight years old, watching the news with his Aunt May as Uncle Ben finished Thanksgiving dinner, slack-jawed at the idea that someone could just…choose to be a hero. Peter, doing research in the only way he knew—by stealing Uncle Ben's phone while he slept off Thanksgiving dinner—flooded with tales of Stark Industries: former weapons dealers. The new direction Tony Stark was taking the company, following the man's own kidnapping, earlier that year.

Peter, almost nine, staring at a Hammer drone through the slats of his Iron Man mask—the only souvenir he'd allowed Uncle Ben to purchase for him (because he knew getting tickets to the Stark Expo must have been really expensive) –holding up his repulsor (the one he'd made himself, scavenging parts and letting Uncle Ben use the sawdering iron because it was too heavy for Peter to use safely, himself) knowing it didn't have the power to hurt anyone.(He couldn't ever build something that might hurt someone, even if it was a Hammer drone) Choosing to try, though, because he could choose to be a hero like Tony Stark, like Iron Man, and that…was the only real choice. (Because he'd already had to be a victim. And he'd hated it.)

Peter, nearly ten, talking about what had happened that summer, with Skip. (Like it had happened to someone else, that's dissociating, Peter) Thinking the whole time of Tony Stark, who had been a literal prisoner at that point. And now he was a hero. He'd chosen to be a hero. And Peter could choose to do this, too.

Peter, fourteen years old, climbing up a wall, two stories up. Three. Five. Ten. Twenty. Not quite able to believe he was doing it, telling himself he'd just climb one more story. Another. Last one. Until he reached the roof. And saw a billboard with a picture of the Avengers on it; it was old, from the first Avengers battle against the aliens that came out of the wormholes. The original text said "Thank You Heroes," but had since been graffitied over with angry yellow X's and hateful phrases, since the Ultron thing. Peter, standing, looking up at a billboard of heroes, wondering, not for the first time, if that really could be him, up there someday.

Tony Stark's presence in Peter's life, in short, had spurred Peter to actions he might not have taken, otherwise.

Happy had teased him, what seemed like forever ago, that the Hulk was Peter's favorite Avenger. And it wasn't true. Peter highly respected Bruce Banner as a scientist. And he was in awe of the sheer power of the Hulk. And Iron Man…was amazing. But…Peter had looked up to Tony Stark, first.

He'd respected and admired Tony Stark before even knowing who Iron Man was.

Tony Stark, more than Iron Man, had represented, to Peter, what "being a hero" truly meant. And that including owning what Tony Stark himself had referred to as his own "laundry list of character defects." That fact had helped cement it, for Peter. That Mr. Stark wasn't perfect. But he could still be a hero. Peter wasn't perfect, either. And he was trying to be a hero.

And Peter trying to be a hero didn't have to concern Mr. Stark, who was burdened with his own worries, and they were rather enough to be getting on with, without Peter adding to them with his own…baggage. (Like the low-lying dread, like a knot in his gut, borne both from knowing he had to fly again, even though he'd just done it, or perhaps the terror-slicked, half-repressed memories he associated with the alcohol-smells that Mr. Stark had unwittingly poked at.)

"Hey! Hey! Achtung! Was ist denn los?" came a muffled exclamation through Peter's music, cutting through his thoughts effectively.

"Bitte?" Peter pulled on the headphones, fumbling with the app to silence the music. (Peter had learned how to ask someone to repeat themselves in German. It wouldn't help. He still didn't speak German. But it was, at least, more polite.)

A man was walking toward the plane wearing an orange vest and a scowl. "Sie können Ihr Flugzeug nicht einfach hier lassen. Verstehen Sie? Ich muss meinen Zeitplan auch einhalten."

Peter blinked. "I'm…I'm sorry, sir, I don't understand anything you just said," he called out respectfully.

That…was apparently the wrong thing to say. The man threw his hands in the air and gestured at the plane. "Blöde Amerikaner! Verdammt noch mal! Bloody nuisance! You have told me bis 19 Uhr. Nineteen o-clock to hold the runway. It is vorbei. 19:25 Uhr. Nineteen and five-and-twenty. You must please leave! Lassen Sie mich von meinen Aufgaben kümmern. Please let me tend to my business!"

Peter nodded. He hadn't gotten it all…but he understood just fine. He ascended the stairs to the plane again, pausing before rapping on the side of the plane next to the doorway.

Happy appeared instantly, waving at the disgruntled man. "Touchy about schedules," he muttered. "And Tony…isn't. So." He pushed a button to make the door close behind Peter, who just nodded, unsure if Happy was actually talking to him or not.

"It's fine, kid," called Mr. Stark from his place in the plane, and Happy frowned.

"I'll get the pilot online. Go ahead and get settled," Happy instructed, pointing back into the cabin.

Peter located his bag and perched on the seat next to it, glancing at Mr. Stark, whose tumbler had disappeared as he engaged himself in closing down the screens and the paper files he'd nested himself into.

"We're running a little behind, so I let your Aunt know we'll be dropping you off a little after 10:00? New York time, obviously. We just have to check Rhodey into Columbia so they can get started on his new scans, which are run by my tech, and will be better than the ones they had here," Mr. Stark said with an air of casualness that belied the way he had snapped at Happy a few minutes ago.

"O-Okay, Mr. Stark," Peter said uncertainly, slowly locating his seatbelt and fastening it.

(He hadn't known it was that serious. Colonel Rhodes needed…scans? God. He'd been hurt, sometime while Peter had been concussed and complaining to Black Widow about not knowing where his phone was.)

"Anyway, that was kind of a shit-show. Fuck. I mean. Sorry. Supposed to keep it kid-friendly. Nat already yelled at me about that. That…could have gone better, huh? That bruise serious? Your super-healing is working on it, yeah? You good?" Mr. Stark gestured at his own face, indicating the bruise on Peter's face.

Peter mirrored Mr. Stark's gesture, wincing when he touched the bruise in question. Yeahyeahyeah, no," he conjured a smile. "It works better if I don't…mess with it," he said, like a liar. "I'll…be fine, Mr. Stark. Really."

Mr. Stark let out an exaggerated breath, cracking his own smile.

The smell wafted on Mr. Stark's breath,

wood stain and cedar and rot

and Peter didn't wince in any ways that counted, so Mr. Stark seemed none the wiser.

"We got a baseline for the suit. I'm sure you'll be pleased to know you did definitely have a concussion. Next upgrade we can look into a better way to integrate armor. I couldn't do too much with the fabric without weighing you down. Cramping your style. You're generally more…I dunno. Flippy?"

Peter nodded, smile still conjured, wishing he didn't feel so unsettled, wishing he could go back to before he'd smelled that

congealed sawdust

drink, before Mr. Stark had been one of the reasons for him to feel anxious.

Happy reappeared, choosing the seat next to Peter, to Peter's surprise, buckling his own seatbelt. Peter watched him give Mr. Stark a look. Watched Mr. Stark offer a pretty fake-looking smile in Happy's direction before pulling his own seatbelt across his lap.

"I'm just saying agility is definitely important for you," Mr. Stark said then, choosing to ignore the tension, rather than acknowledge it. "I had FRIDAY analyze your videos when we were choosing fabrics. When it comes to integrating stronger armor into a fabric, though, we could maybe ask our new ally for help—that Black Panther costume was something else."

The pause invited Peter to fill it, but takeoff had initiated, and Peter was too distracted to even pretend interest, because his heartrate had picked up, and he closed his eyes, trying to picture the feeling in his chest when he swung on his webs.

His thundering heart invited shaky hands, but those were easily hidden. He tucked them neatly under his knees, gripping the base of his seat, focusing on keeping his breathing steady. It would stop soon. And he would be fine. It would stop.

(Heart hammering. Hands shaking. Breath coming erratically around hiccupping sobs. It will be over, soon. It will be over, soon. It would stop. (He would stop))

"Kid? Underoos? You're breaking my plane, how about easing up that grip, huh?"

The plane leveled out. The pressure eased.

Peter opened his eyes, noticing a pain in his hands.

"Oh. Oh, God, Mr. Stark, I'm so sorry," he said quickly, releasing his grip on the seat, trying to hide that his hands were bleeding.

"It's f—oh, fuck. FRI? Run a diagnostic scan on Pete's hands. Stitches? Anything broken?"

And his hands…looked rough. Remembering how fucking strong he was since the bite was still something he struggled with: it was a constant exercise in restraint. He had squeezed his hands hard enough that he would probably have pierced his own palms with his fingertips…if the seat hadn't been in the way. As it was, though, the plastic had cracked (also hard to manage, that stuff was durable) and he'd managed to work some tiny splinters into his palms, and in one case, embed a sliver directly into his finger. Blood had seeped into a few of his nail-beds, and he winced, looking at the damage. "It'll heal, sorry, Mr. Stark," Peter said, mortified, even as a cool voice cut through his protests via the plane's speaker.

"Mr. Parker's healing factor is already at work. Cleaning and disinfecting is recommended."

"FRI, where's the First-Aid kit?" Happy asked, standing. He'd taken his seatbelt off. Mr. Stark, too. Peter wished he could maybe sink into the floor. Well. Maybe not now. He'd probably end up in a freefall, which he wouldn't enjoy.

"—the tweezers, he's got—"

"Damn, where are my glasses?"

"Scoot, old man, my turn."

And Tony Stark was—was holding Peter's hand? That…that was weird. Was that weird? He—oh, he was pulling out the sliver. "My mom used to do it with a needle. But if I could just—okay. Yeah, that was it. FRIDAY, does he have any more of those? Do we have to worry about—I dunno. Lay it on me." He muttered.

"Everything looks fine, Boss," that voice spoke again. The AI. FRIDAY. "Further data is needed in order to troubleshoot potential health ramifications."

"Happy, do the—spray the—"

"Ow! Geez," Peter hissed in surprise when Happy spritzed his palms with disinfectant, which stung.

"Sorry not sorry," Happy muttered, having found a thin pair of glasses that perched on the edge of his nose as he carefully applied the spray.

"Je—hosephat," Mr. Stark said awkwardly, trying to modify his swear, "what was that about, Kid?" he continued at length, finally letting Peter have his space back, sliding back to his own seat across the aisle.

Peter kept his hands still, palms up, on his lap, not moving, waiting patiently for his healing to kick in, and he found them fascinating, as he answered, and he could feel the heat in his face. "I just…um…don't…like flying?" he said at length. It was nearest to the truth, anyway. "I. Um. Had a…a rough morning. And, uh, my. My parents died. In a plane crash. So," he let his words die off into a mumble.

"Shit."

"Oh, fuck."

Two separate swears came from the two separate men simultaneously, and the tone was the same as when Black Widow had learned how old Peter was. Peter glanced up at the both of them. "It's—I'm fine, though. Now. I promise," he said quickly, "Not like…I can just…not fly, ever. It's something I'd have to get used to, anyway."

Mr. Stark didn't say anything, yet, and he just looked at Happy, and that tension was still kind of there. "Kid, you…" he started, then, looking at Peter. "Why did you come? If…if you don't like flying?"

Peter blinked, confused. It…should have been obvious. "Because…you needed my help. Because you asked me to."

"Oh, this falls under the 'gotta tell Aunt Hottie' category, doesn't it," Mr. Stark muttered. "Nat is gonna kill me."

"Not to mention the porn," Happy added.

"What?" Mr. Stark looked at him.

"What?" Peter looked at him, too.

Happy frowned. "Hotel bill is itemized. He bypassed the TV lock at two in the morning, what else am I supposed to think?"

Peter felt his face heat again. "Nonononono, I was just—I had a cappuccino, and I had to stay awake—"

"So you watch porn to keep awake? That's. That's weird," Happy said curtly.

"No, I didn't—I'm not—it was just 'Alien,' I swear, I didn't know I bypassed anything, it was all in German—"

"Kinky," Mr. Stark quipped.

So Peter had to spend much of the remaining flight trying to convince them both that he hadn't bypassed the TV lock for porn.

It was better, he supposed, than the tense atmosphere from the beginning of the flight.