Peter was glad it was lunchtime. He was glad for the break it gave him from the monotony of going to class, and he was hungry.
But he had to brace himself internally to enter the lunchroom.
After a day like he'd had yesterday (God, it was just yesterday), Peter knew he was tempting fate, exposing himself to so much…stimulus. He was headed straight for a sensory overload and he knew it. And on top of everything he already had put on hold to talk with May about…this would be just one more reason for her to be concerned.
And he didn't want her to be concerned. The both of them were just…predisposed toward being a bundle of nerves, all the time. Constant worriers. That was why when she freaked out, it made him freak out, and it wasn't fair, really, to dump that kind of responsibility on her—to make her have to set her own stuff aside in deference to him having a panic attack.
If that wasn't the most unfair thing Peter had ever heard.
But she just smiled sadly, when he mentioned this. 'Them's the breaks, kiddo. I'm the adult. And you're right. It's not fair. But being responsible and having to keep a lid on my own shit so I can take care of you? That's just part of being a grown-up."
But the alternative to the over-stimulating lunchroom was skipping lunch. And potentially not seeing Ned.
Not a good trade. At all.
Back in January, after Peter had finally been allowed to transfer in, mid-year, when a spot opened up, he'd…not had the best first impression on a few people. (He had the worst luck. Aunt May said Parker Luck should be a bad trademark, alongside Murphy's Law.)
He'd inadvertently made enemies with Flash Thompson when he'd been first to finish and turn in a Geography quiz—turning in work first was Flash's thing—and gotten a perfect score. And so, Flash had gone out of his way to harass Peter every passing period. Just. Stupid stuff. Peter had always been 'Pukey Parker' when he was younger, because of how easy it had been for him to get nauseous, or else 'Puny Parker' because of how scrawny he was. Well, now his nickname had changed with the times, and Flash had christened him 'Penis Parker.' Who knew why?
It was…well, it wasn't better, now, Flash could still be a dick, but Peter had been handling it better of late than he had back then. (The bar was pretty low, anyway. Handling it better than the kid he'd been in January, fresh grief from his uncle's death, powers he was still terrified of, so much so that his practices in restraint involved him learning to juggle with eggs, and still figuring out just how much he needed to eat, all the time.)
So, sitting by himself at a lunch table, trying to open his milk with fingers that were starting to go shaky from a mixture of nerves and hunger, Peter had met Ned.
There had been no preamble; just Ned, sitting down next to Peter, offering him his dessert in exchange for Peter's banana, saying something about coconut shavings always getting stuck in his teeth whenever he tried German chocolate.
Peter had wordlessly made the trade, Ned had smiled at him, and that had been that. Friends. At least, according to Ned, who had taken the action as permission to release the floodgates of questions that he always had about everything, and further, an open invitation to sit next to Peter every day at lunch.
The lunchroom was where they'd met. Where they'd become friends. And despite any of his feelings of being wrong-footed, today, despite any misgivings about wanting to avoid stressing himself out, when Peter saw Ned ambling over to the table he was already sitting at, the smile he felt on his face was genuine, and he felt relief seep through him, like a wave.
Ned just…had that effect. On Peter.
(It was the first time (since Skip) Peter had associated feelings of happiness, and home and safety with someone other than Uncle Ben or Aunt May.)
Ned set down his tray, and held out a hand, eyebrows raised in a question, and Peter grinned as they performed the well-known mechanics of their handshake.
And immediately, the lunchroom noise seemed to dull to a buzz as Peter focused on updating Ned on everything. And the act of updating Ned served as a reminder to himself on his accomplishments of his weekend, and of today, at least homework-wise; it allowed him to feel calmer, because he had done that stuff. He'd had a chance to talk to most of his teachers, to hand in his assignments, and check in on the online components to some of the classes, and even if he wasn't able to turn in his Math or his English, he still wouldn't be in danger of losing his scholarship, which required him to maintain at least a B average.
(One thing at a time, Peter. No matter how small. And pay attention: do you feel better? Or worse?)
Peter found himself smiling, giving the non-Spider-Man version of his weekend events, managing to convey an adequate level of excitement about the Stark internship, and letting Ned's natural enthusiasm bolster his own.
"So, wait, you got an internship at Stark Industries?" Ned said, obviously very impressed. "Wow. That's awesome. And you actually met Tony Stark?"
"Yeah," Peter said, feeling a kind of gentle warmth at Ned's approval. "I got to go on the company retreat and meet some cool people Mr. Stark works with."
Ned was practically star-struck. "No way! Like who? Have they found Dr. Banner?"
Peter laughed. "I asked that first, too! No, he's still missing. There were some cool people, though. Um. A King? Of Wakanda? King…T'Challa? I think that's his name. And, um, I got some emails and paperwork from, like, Pepper Potts."
At the last second, Peter realized that maybe he shouldn't mention meeting other Avengers, seeing as how the Avengers hadn't been at Peter's SI retreat, they had an alibi of being in Germany. With Spider-Man. Who Peter wasn't. Nope. Not the same guy at all.
"Oh, wow!" Ned said, offering his apple to Peter, who traded his own orange.
"I was never as good at world geography," Ned was saying, now, peeling the orange as Peter devoured the heaping of buttery broccoli that accompanied the slightly sad-looking turkey sandwich that was usually the choice for lunch this close to the last day of school. "Wakanda is in Africa, I know—is it, like, its own city? Like the Vatican? Or was it an island?"
"The Kingdom of Wakanda sits directly between Uganda and Kenya. It's landlocked, on the same side of Africa as the Indian Ocean."
Ned and Peter, as one, turned in surprise to see Michelle Jones at the end of their table.
How did she do that?
"How…do you know that?" Ned asked, and Michelle quirked an eyebrow, unimpressed. She was reading a thick paperback—a Hannibal Lecter, Peter thought—and occasionally bringing an apple to her mouth to take bites of.
"I like to know the answers to past Jeopardy questions," she answered in her monotonous way, eyes already seeking her page again, like the conversation bored her.
The rest of lunch was uneventful; Ned mentioned wistfully that he wanted to meet Tony Stark, but eventually started talking about something that had happened in his math class, and Peter brought up the movie from History class, which led the conversation on a tangent about Wynona Rider, and an upcoming Netflix show she was gonna be in, with Michelle sitting there, offering no input to the conversation, and yet Peter didn't doubt that she was still tracking it.
As the conversation shifted from plans for the next day's classes, to rehashings of epic pranks Seniors pulled, to how it was going to be, doing decathlon practices over the summer, which had never been a requirement under Bart Cranz, the atmosphere in the lunchroom made the usual shift from 'socializing' to 'expectant' like it always did right before the bell rang, and Ned and Peter stood, Peter still in the middle of his point that Liz Toomes doing things differently was going to be really helpful.
(Michelle was gone, like a ninja, and Peter didn't know when she'd left. She was. She was really good at that. Like. Seriously.)
Ned smiled at him and they did their handshake again in parting; he said something about texting Peter to see what his plans were for later in the week, and Peter grinned. Lunch was done—arguably the most stressful part of his day—and he just had one more class to go, and then he could do some patrolling with his new suit.
And if May worked early, it meant she'd be home for dinner, so maybe Peter could get started on it. He could make her a Parker Special, and maybe eat a few of those energy bars—the Parker Special reached its peak of goodness as leftovers, of which there would be none, if Peter was hungry enough. And he always was, since the bite.
Maybe he could even keep her from wanting to talk about his incidents yesterday. Resting Time could extend to tomorrow, or even the whole weekend, if Peter was attentive enough to his ability to keep her distracted.
Best. Day. Ever.
-o-
Tony stepped out of his car upon returning from his stupid errand (His R8 V10 was a sleek, ostentatious indulgence in a vibrant orange that Pepper refused to ride in, claiming she didn't want to "fill a stereotype," whatever that meant) and FRIDAY informed him that the override had been implemented, and asked whether a timer should be set to monitor the countdown for the 3 hours Pepper had allotted.
Tony took the glasses off in annoyance, partly because of the comment, partly because it was already 11 and he hadn't even started trying to do any sort of calibration with the prototype leg braces he'd put together for Rhodey, and partly, honestly, because of the big Avenger's 'A' symbol glaring at him because he hadn't entered by way of the parking garage, this time.
Tony, though, allowed his mind to compartmentalize. Efficiency was key. He was okay with using limited time efficiently. He didn't have to be a baby about it.
Besides. Keeping busy was a great helper in his sobriety.
(And if he really, really wanted a fucking drink, he needed any help he could get, he was in this weird place, between sponsors, not wanting to bug Happy, so just. You know. Buck up, Buttercup.)
Rhodey was, indeed, up—had been for hours, he said—and even felt relatively normal.
Except that he was still laying prone on a hospital bed when he said it.
Rhodey's measurements were all on file for regular maintenance of the War Machine armor, so really, the braces hadn't taken too long to put together.
With the help of the doctors, the x-rays, and Rhodey himself giving input, Tony used the first hour of his window making sure everything was supporting what it was supposed to and helping Rhodey maneuver himself into the prototype braces using different muscles than he was used to.
Vision showed up, at one point, offering assistance where he could, but then ultimately retreating to his own quarters when Rhodey made it clear he didn't want anyone there when he tried to use the braces for the first time.
Except Tony, who he said was the obvious exception.
It warmed Tony to hear, after everything.
A set of parallel bars had been set up by one of the doctors—a physical therapist who had helped the most in pointing out potential design flaws—and Tony noted that Rhodey held them tightly, even as he braved standing upright after being prone for so long.
"It's just the first pass," Tony said, mainly to fill the alarming silence as Rhodey's breath started to become labored, taking hesitant steps with the braces on, calibrating and sensing, trying to gather data points on where support was needed most.
"Yeah," Rhodey said in agreement, albeit a little distracted, still very much focused on the task at hand.
"Give me some feedback, anything you think of," Tony continued. "Shock absorption, lateral movement."
Without realizing it, he'd fallen into step beside Rhodey in worry, eyes constantly sizing up his invention, noting the fine sheen of sweat that started to paint Rhodey's forehead. Rhodey noticed, and moved one hand from the parallel bar at his side to Tony's shoulder, instead.
Maybe it had been too much. Too much, too fast, expecting Rhodey to do physical therapy literal days after his incident. But Helen had been hard at work repairing tissue along Rhodey's spine that otherwise would take weeks or even months to heal properly.
When his gaze found Rhodey's though, there was amusement in his friend's eyes.
"Cup holder?" Tony quipped, and was rewarded with a chuckle.
"You may wanna think about some AC down in—"
Tony gasped in alarm when Rhodey went down—he'd stopped paying attention to when the support from the bars would abruptly end, and fallen forward—but Rhodey was a soldier, first and foremost. Even with his surprised exclamation of pain, Rhodey landed on his hands, in a push-up position, supported mainly by his arms, putting a little weight on his knees.
Tony was down with him, on his knees on the ground, offering help immediately. "Let's go. I'll give you a hand," he said, but Rhodey waved him off.
"No, no. Don't help me."
Tony had to fold his arms to stop his hands from helping anyway, against his friend's wishes.
He watched as Rhodey laboriously shifted position, wincing as he twisted his waist, getting his feet in front of him, panting with the effort of the movement, relying on shifting so much weight to his arms in compensation for using his own leg and back muscles sparingly.
He ended up seated, arms behind him to support his weight, legs stretched out in front of him.
Like a little kid. A little kid, legs sticking straight out on a chair too big for him.
Rhodey looked over at Tony, then, and…God, he was beat. Tony could still see the sweat plainly on his friend's face, drenching the collar of his T-shirt.
And then Rhodey…laughed, again. But it was a…sad sort of chuckle.
"138," he said, and Tony knew enough to just listen. Rhodey sometimes…made up speeches in his head, and this had the sound of one. He wanted to say something important, and he'd cared enough about how to say it that he'd practiced, in his head, what it needed to sound like.
Tony had always teased him about it, simply because that was so…NOT how Tony operated at all. Any wise things Tony ever came up with were charming, accidental witticisms. Rhodey's wisdom came from careful thought and planning.
It was what had always helped Rhodey excel in a military career.
"138 combat missions," Rhodey continued. "That's how many I've flown, Tony." And he was speaking…to the floor. This…was hard for him to say. "Every one of them could've been my last, but I flew them." At this last, Rhodey did look at Tony, nodding. Before looking away again. "Because the fight needed to be fought."
Tony thought himself, of what motivated him, and it was…the same. While also different.
Tony didn't have the discipline to make it as a military man. He chafed at the idea of letting himself be constrained by the stern authoritarianism that had so defined his rocky relationship with his own father.
But Tony had fought, as Iron Man, and then as an Avenger, not because he had ever really wanted to be a hero.
But rather…because he knew that there were wrongs that he alone had the power to right.
Fights that needed to be fought.
"It's the same with these Accords," Rhodey continued. "I signed because it was the right thing to do."
Tony was still…processing the Accords. Teams of lawyers at SI had been going through the fine print and flagging items for revision (Again. They'd already done it once, when Tony first received the document, before he'd been advised either way whether or not to sign.), starting firmly with Tony's enraged explanation of Ross' Raft prison, which was inhumane, and most certainly quite illegal. (Especially when he'd seen how Ross handled enhanced prisoners. And he'd seen Wanda. Wanda, who he still kind of thought of as a kid. In a straightjacket and fucking shock collar. And he'd pictured what would happen if Ross ever got his hands on Peter, who was a literal kid.
Yeah, no.
"And yeah, this sucks. This is, uh…" Rhodey continued, and Tony gave him the respect of his attention, despite his mind wanting to whirl off into fixing and improving what it could fix and improve because it was who he was and what he did. "This is a bad beat," Rhodey finished his sentence, in perhaps the biggest understatement ever. But then, shaking his head, and looking straight at Tony, Rhodey went on. "But it hasn't changed my mind. I don't think."
And then Rhodey seemed to be done. Content to sit, and think, and stew.
Tony offered his hand again, and Rhodey took it this time, with a grin, managing that twisting motion that he was so hesitant to try, with a grunt and a grimace on his face.
"You okay?" Tony asked, and Rhodey just nodded.
"Oh, yeah."
There was a sound, then, and Rhodey's eyes met a point behind Tony, even as he turned to confirm what sounded an awful lot like…
It was…a FedEx guy. Knocking on the glass.
"Are you Tony Stank?"
Rhodey, holding back laughter, immediately offered an answer. "Yes, this is Tony Stank. You're in the right place. Thank you for that!" He called to the man, hand going to Tony's shoulder, a genuine smile appearing on his face as he looked at Tony. "Never dropping that, by the way," he added, turning carefully to tackle the parallel bars, again. "Table for one, Mr. Stank. Please, by the bathroom."
And Tony felt…a buoyancy. In his heart. That hadn't been there since his heart dropped like a stone, seeing Rhodey falling from the sky, and doing the math, knowing he wouldn't be able to reach him in time…
It wasn't until FRIDAY reinforced the protocol and Rhodey called it quits, calling for a shower, over Helen protesting that she didn't want her tissue implants to be stimulated by the hot water for another few hours, that Tony finally thought to actually open the rather light package, and read the letter inside. And look at the little flip phone curiously.
And see Steve's handwriting on the front of the envelope.
Freaking old-timer would send something via snail-mail that would probably work just as well if not better utilizing better (faster) technology.
Of course, to him, FedEx was faster. God help his 98-year-old soul.
And here he'd been hoping to turn this day around.
Looked like it would continue to be pretty terrible.
