Yes, I still walk the earth. Thanks for bearing with me. It won't be nearly so long for the next update.
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Spill Over
All Peter had wanted was one goddamn minute alone. Just some time to sit and process and catch himself before the flickering tendrils of his panic snagged him first. Pressed against the bricks of his apartment building wall, his red and black webbed hands adhering him to the surface, he listened with rapt attention to the voices floating from his open window. He hadn't cared much that he'd been shamelessly snooping, it was just how he got his information these days. With so much uncertainty in the air, and most of it concerning him directly, Peter's found all the secrecy completely unfair. Armed with that justification, the guilt had long since vanished.
Straining his hearing, picking up and dropping the odd softly spoken word, he'd hung motionless to the wall for a few confused minutes. Then… he'd heard enough. He understood.
Quicker than his mind could keep up with, months of simmering apprehension hardened into something concrete. Sickening dread, which had never fully left him, sunk claws into him and pulled.
Ideally, he would've had some time to adjust to the whip-lash; his whole world shifting yet again. But apparently, Karen couldn't resist sticking her binary coded nose into his business.
'Peter, your heart rate is escalating at an alarming rate.'
'Yeah, I know.'
'Shall I call Mr. Stark?'
'No, don't do that.'
'I believe it would be in your best interests to inform-'
'I don't care what you think are in my best interests, Karen! I said leave it alone!'
He had known, deep down, from the moment Karen suggested it, she was going to make that decision for him. But that didn't stop him from fighting her.
He swung through narrow streets with no destination in mind except getting away from here, and eventually his thoughts refining themselves into a general idea; Up. Something about the relative quiet of the city, only found above a certain altitude, always helped to clear his head. He wanted to be somewhere with a vantage point where he could look out and see the city sprawling in all directions.
It was then that he'd seen the Chrysler Building, and he decided it would do the job.
Total and absolute solitude.
It couldn't be found anywhere really. To be completely detached from everyone without means of being contacted was impossible at the apartment, on patrol, even just walking around the city outside of his suit (he suspected that Mr. Stark had long ago installed a tracking app in his phone). He had never before wanted so badly to not just be alone but also out of reach. To sit some unknown and forgotten, hidden away from all the meddling and best interests, with no one but himself calling the shots on his own life.
The idea made him grimace, in spite of his longing.
Maybe, being physically away from Karen with his suit off-line was the closest he could get. Awkwardly shimmying out of his iconic red and blues, sitting on a protective layer of aerogel with his wrists tethering him to the roof, he had the vague notion that these measures might be a bit extreme. It was promptly drowned out by the memory of Mr. Stark's voice:
'I haven't even drawn up the blueprints for the house. Hell, there's still trees on the site that need to be cut down.'
Peter's stomach bottomed out, just as it had when he'd been resting against the bricks. From here he could see New York stretching out for miles and miles in a forest of skyscrapers… not trees. There were hardly any of those in sight, and the greenery that did sprout up here and there was strategically placed for urban decorative purposes. Forests which could be bought and leveled were non-existent in this concrete jungle.
They were leaving.
Mr. Stark, Ms. Potts, and Morgan.
Peter had been right all along. Ever since those first few weeks, when he'd been unable to sleep while he worried incessantly about his future, this was the driving force behind his insomnia; Abandonment by choice. He had seen it coming, and yet stupidly, still managed to fall for the trap. Unlike he had expected, it would occur at a time when Mr. Stark was no longer legally obligated to be in his life.
Somehow, that compromise made him feel both better and worse.
He closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyelids just hard enough to see little starbursts in the blackness. He remembered fleetingly and in quick succession: the feeling of Ms. Potts' cheek pressed against his temple as she'd hugged him and told him that he was a good kid. Mr. Stark's arm over his shoulders, making him feel small but safe in his med bay hospital bed. The taste of his favorite Thai food, which came before news of Morgan's existence…
He opened his eyes again and squinted through stinging wetness at the painfully bright sunlight. A few tears spilled over and he angrily brushed them away before they could escape the valley below his eye.
Why had Mr. Stark tried so hard to make him fit in his life? If his time with them was temporary, as he'd always suspected it would be, what was the point of making space for him? If he had known that all of this time together was for nothing, he would've preferred they'd kept a cool distance. It was painless to let go of people he hardly knew. But now they'd had Saturday night movies, banana bread, fireworks, massive strawberries, and DQ blizzards, and it would hurt… goddamn it… it would hurt so much to let it all go.
That time had meant the world to him, even if he couldn't always say how meaningful those quiet moments were. Every single day since Thanos tore the universe apart was different. Some days were better for Peter, some worse. But he had found that though he never knew what to expect in himself, moment to moment, living with Ms. Potts' fond annoyance and Mr. Stark's fast-paced wit helped. It had taken him a while to put his finger on why, but eventually he'd realized how comforting their consistency was. Even as everything else collapsed, Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts remained the same odd couple that they always had been.
Moreover, Peter liked them more and more as the months had passed. The banter that had initially made him feel uneasy now made him smile. He recognized the friendly and kind sentiment hidden behind the snarky jokes and back-handed compliments. He had come to know the variations of their different selves, from 'boss Ms. Potts' to 'mom Ms. Potts', and 'mentor Mr. Stark' to 'lame-dad-joke Mr. Stark', and he liked all of them.
But he would've traded it for solitude if it meant that he wouldn't have to miss it when they were gone. All at once, he wished he could do these past few months over. He would've done it all differently if he had known what was coming. He should've insisted harder in the compound med bay that he didn't need Mr. Stark. He should've gone with his initial instinct to legally emancipate himself, quit school, and get a job. He would've struggled but it all would've been worth it because he wouldn't have to miss this; the last of something irreplaceable. Something that he'd thought had vanished in its entirety with May.
It had vanished with May, Peter realized with a sinking feeling. All of those times when he'd felt well and truly at home with the Starks, it really had been all in his mind. The familial feeling he'd sometimes get when Mr. Stark would hesitantly ruffle his hair or clap him on his shoulder had been imagined after all. He had spent so long trying to pick apart the two; real or imagined. Trying to determine what was really happening in the bizarre circumstances that he'd found himself in. It was just his stupid Parker luck that he'd picked wrong.
But maybe… that wrong choice wasn't entirely on him. Because Mr. Stark was one of the smartest people that Peter knew, and he always seemed to know what he was doing. And he knew that Peter had already had to leave two families. He should've known what leaving a third would do to him, and yet he chose to do it anyway. Just as he'd chosen to make him feel wanted despite knowing his welcome had a shelf life.
'Was it all an act?' Peter wondered bitterly. No sooner had the irrational thought crossed his mind that he pushed it aside. There was no way that was true. In his life, Peter had been the butt of the joke a truly unfair number of times. Whether he was being screwed over by uncontrollable forces or by people, he'd felt the sting of humiliation more times than he'd cared to admit. There was no way that Mr. Stark would ever hurt him intentionally.
Peter knew that, but that didn't stop an aggressive heat from rising within him. Blood rushed in his ears. A headache budded behind his eyes. A stifling pressure weighed on him as if gravity had increased, and burrowing deep into his consciousness, the unanswerable question: How could Mr. Stark do this?
And that was the state in which Mr. Stark had found him. Or rather, Iron Man did.
Because, of course Karen wouldn't listen to him. Why would she? It's not like Peter was his own person and capable of making his own decisions. And, of course, her totally unnecessary SOS call brought the one person that Peter couldn't stand to see.
The same person's whose soft probing questions, delivered metallically from behind plated metal, were making Peter silently seethe. They were insufferably gentle and kind. In the months passed, Peter had been fine with pretending. With obeying his self-imposed command to play along, because he'd hated the idea of disappointing Mr. Stark with his inability to cope. Especially when he had seemed to be so concerned with Peter's happiness.
That was over now. He wanted no part in this charade.
Persistently, but with waning patience, Mr. Stark tried again and again to fish the truth out of him. Peter begrudgingly told him half of it and easily buried the lingering guilt that always accompanied his lying. It wasn't like he owed Mr. Stark any answers. If anything, Peter felt that the opposite was true.
It went on like that for a while. Questions rallied by clipped, curt responses. Peter watched with an unsettling sense of satisfaction as Mr. Stark's frustration grew with each failed attempt. Finally, when it appeared that he had exhausted Mr. Stark's patience, he started to throw desperate jokes at him. They held none of the charm that they had before.
Then, in a moment of antagonized bluntness, Mr. Stark might've let it slip that he was worried that Peter might chuck himself off of the certain death drop sized building. Or maybe he thought Peter might fall by accident? His meaning wasn't entirely clear, but of all the things that he could've said, that was perhaps the only thing that would've broken through his anger as it did.
Peter thought of the man he had saved just an hour or so before, plastered safely to the Brooklyn Bridge. He wouldn't say that the others that he'd saved from a similar death were countless, because he remembered them all and could never forget the rising number.
He'd never meant to frighten Mr. Stark like that. Sure, he was pissed at him, but he wasn't heartless. No one should have to worry for someone's life like that. It was cruel. Shame bubbled up in him and stained his cheeks red. For a moment (but only a moment) he regretted coming up here. He hadn't really been thinking of how this might look to Mr. Stark when he'd done it. But then he remembered that Mr. Stark wasn't supposed to be here. Peter hadn't wanted him here and he'd tried everything to get him to stay away.
"You didn't have to come get me," Peter muttered, his sharp bitterness emboldened by his embarrassment. To his annoyance, Mr. Stark laughed, as if any part of this was funny.
"Yeah, I did, kid. Don't know if you got the memo, but I'm sorta responsible now for your wellbeing. I got the paperwork to prove it and everything."
A brick slid into Peter's stomach. He said nothing, but kept his gaze fixed on his own reflection in the gleaming gold face plate. On either side of his tiny figure, rectangular eyes bore their blue-white light into him.
'Why did you do this? What was the point?' he wanted to ask, but didn't because those glowing eyes intimidated him. A frown pulled at his face as he instead wondered: 'Why did I let this happen?'
Mr. Stark was trying again to coax him off the roof, and Peter, determined to prolong his time alone, defiantly held up one of his anchored wrists. But then, Mr. Stark just had to go and make a joke about parachutes stuffed up butts, and for some stupid reason it made Peter smile. He didn't want to smile. He didn't want to laugh. It equally amazed and aggravated him that Mr. Stark had the power to make him do that, even when he was furious with him.
It was clear that he wasn't going to get what he wanted. Resigning himself to defeat, Peter stood and carefully squirmed back into his suit. A steadying metal hand held his shoulder with an unnecessarily tight grip. He barely heard the passive-aggressive telling-off that Mr. Stark directed at him. His grumbling fizzled into static in Peter's burned-out mind.
"Sorry," he muttered when he realized that it was his turn to speak. It came out stale, like predictable lines in a tired, rehearsed sketch.
"Are you?" Mr. Stark asked skeptically.
'No,' he thought and just barely managed to hold himself back from saying it aloud. Instead he pulled his mask down to hide his scowl.
Mr. Stark hadn't actually done anything wrong. It was good of him to give Peter somewhere to stay for the last year before he was legally an adult. It wasn't his fault that Peter had gotten too attached. He was reminded all at once of the awkward hug he had once given his newly self-appointed mentor. In hindsight, it was obvious that he was just opening the car door. But Peter could never seem to see clearly in the moment… only in humiliated retrospect.
He tried to hold on to that and let rationality ground him. But even as those thoughts looped through his mind, his throat squeezed painfully. Speaking suddenly became a secondary concern to breathing.
"You know what? I think you're done for the day," Mr. Stark said while letting go of his hold on Peter's shoulder. "The citizens of New York will have to get over their disappointment that you're turning in early."
The finality in Mr. Stark's tone rang with an unmistakably parental authority. It made Peter's stomach twist, and the flimsy composure that he'd been clinging to finally crumpled. Reflexively, he turned his face away, even though his mask hid his expression.
Broken buildings stretched out in front of him in the same orderly chaos that he'd become used to. Their varying heights enticed Peter to jump, to swing, to leave Mr. Stark behind. For a half second, he really considered it. Mr. Stark had his suit, but maybe Peter could out-run him. There was a chance that he would let Peter go and then he could disappear into Greenwich Village.
It was the place where all of this started. The deceptively unassuming city that was actually home to New York's magic. Peter knew that somewhere, concealed within its streets, a secret sanctum stood waiting.
Peter's breathing hitched. His lenses snapped wide in exaggerated mimicry of his eyes. A surge of pure, desperate energy coursed through him, and for a moment he was stunned into stillness. He opened his mouth to speak, his mind struggling through his excitement to find the right words. But a strong, armored hand grasped his shoulder before he could make a sound. Again, Mr. Stark shook him, and Peter felt as though he was trying to physically reign him in.
"C'mon, kid. Let's go home."
Despite Mr. Stark's gentleness (or maybe because of it) Peter tensed under his touch. He remembered every instance when he had brought up the infinity stones, undoing their damage, or somehow being able to fix this and bring everyone back. Mr. Stark had always been so quick to shut him down, and always with that same tired and weary air.
Why did Peter think that this time would be any different?
His mouth clamped shut. Mr. Stark shook his stiff shoulder again, and Peter shrugged out from under his hand. He jumped before Mr. Stark could say anything and felt the thrill of the freefall.
Thwip.
He turned east despite every instinct screaming at him to go west. With so much work laid out in front of him, the task suddenly became daunting.
He needed a plan. He'd bide his time, get his questions together, sleep, and figure out the best way of going about this. And then maybe…
Peter grinned as a new kind of thrill consumed him. One that had nothing to do with the height and rushing air. Nothing had changed, and yet everything looked different. The same broken world that Peter had observed from the Brooklyn Bridge zipped past him, but it somehow seemed less bleak.
He knew that this world wasn't sustainable. He also knew that this forced dynamic between himself and his mentor wasn't meant to last. Mr. Stark had his own life, and Peter's presence in it was rocking the boat. It had threatened to tip since he stepped on board, and Peter knew that he had to leave before he capsized it.
'Your place is here.'
No. It wasn't. And it never would be. That lie must've come out of Mr. Stark's best interests for him. Peter swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. It didn't matter anyway because Peter would make this right. He'd take back his place in the world by restoring it. He'd do it alone if he had to.
That remainder of the night passed in a rush of hopeful and speculative planning. Shut up in his room, alone but too busy to feel lonely, Peter spent hours mapping out possible plans and tactics. With a goal in sight, a rekindled purpose fueled him and harried energy carried him through the night.
He hadn't been absorbed like this, in work that was entirely his own, for quite some time. Not since that gray period after Ben and before Mr. Stark had he been able to work solo, without anyone else's input. Back when Peter had May, but because of the nature of his double-life, had often felt that he only really had himself.
Self-reliance really was the best way to go. It hurt less. He had come to learn that the hard way.
Peter was aware, of course, of Mr. Stark's and Ms. Potts' cautious presence prowling just outside of his closed door. He could practically feel their concern saturating the apartment. He'd entered his room via window in a graceless heap of limbs and webs. Not long after that, he heard Mr. Stark come through the front door. Ms. Potts' urgent whisper, 'What happened? What's going on?' was met with silence and Peter assumed they had started a text message conversation for the sake of privacy.
He didn't pay it any mind. Yesterday, he would've felt guilty for causing so much worry, but all that had changed now. Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts had their own secrets between them, and now, so did Peter.
Hours of secluded work were periodically punctuated with interruptions; Ms. Potts' nervous knocking on his door followed by a hesitant question delivered with such soft sensitivity that Peter had found himself gritting his teeth in annoyance.
Was he okay?
Yes.
Did he want to talk?
No.
Could she come in?
Not now, please.
Dinner was ready. He needed to eat. Would he come out?
That last one wasn't really a question that Peter could refuse, so he sat and ate hurriedly. Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts traded silent, worried glances over the table, which Peter pretended not to see, and asked innocuous conversation-starter questions, which he gave short answers to. Then he'd left and thrown himself back into the thick of it.
He schemed and he planned, wracking his brain over for every aspect that he needed to cover:
He thought of when he would go.
(There are three weeks before the school year starts. If I hurry, Ned and MJ won't get held back a year).
He thought of what he would need.
(My street clothes would make me more discreet, but what if there's something dangerous out there? That's dumb, of course, there'll be booby traps! What is this, amateur hour? Get your head in the game, Parker. What kind of magic funhouse doesn't have traps? Suit up, for sure).
He thought of who he would need with him.
(Dr. Banner could be a big help. He's the leading expert on gamma radiation. Couldn't hurt to bring him in on this. Plus, he's got the Hulk to protect him if things get ugly).
All of his thoughts tripped and came to a halt when Peter remembered that he didn't actually know where the sanctum was.
Slumping back in his desk chair, He rubbed his fingertips over his tired eyes. He kinda knew where the sanctum was, but admittedly, he only knew the general location. The fighting had started in Greenwich Village, and Mr. Stark said that he had immediately left the sanctum to get in on the action that was ripping the city apart.
Behind closed eyes, he saw the glittery gold circling sparks and he remembered the tingly sensation that came with passing through it. Leaping through great distances like it was nothing. His eyes snapped wide and he groaned.
What if the sanctum wasn't in Greenwich Village at all? What if Dr. Strange portaled himself, Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner from a different part of the city? Maybe it wasn't even in New York. What if he portaled them from a completely different city? Or state? Or country? Mr. Stark hadn't really specified where he had been. Maybe he didn't know. If that was true, the sanctum could be anywhere.
What if it wasn't possible to find it through non-magical means?
Peter's heart hammered against his ribs. He felt sick. But then he reminded himself that Mr. Stark had been there before as Iron Man, and his heart began to slow. Even if Mr. Stark hadn't known where he was, his suit's tracker did. It would be simple enough to access its logged locations… but that also meant that he would have to let Mr. Stark in on his plans.
With a heavy sigh, Peter leaned further into his chair. The flexible back gave slightly under his weight. Letting his head fall back, he stared blankly at the ceiling while that unpleasant inevitability settled over him. Those logs were probably being kept on Mr. Stark's private server, along with all of the processes that made up FRIDAY. For a brief, daring second, he wondered how difficult it would be to hack into it (Ned had managed with relative ease. Just a couple taps on his keyboard. It would be so easy), but then the profound wrongness of what he was considering caught up with him. His heart sank.
That was a line which Peter would not cross. Though he was desperate to avoid Mr. Stark, and at this point loathed the idea of asking anything from him, that was beneath him… and possibly something that he couldn't be forgiven for when he was caught. And he would be caught, Peter had no doubt. No one broke into Mr. Stark's secure servers and got away with it. His face grew hot and he buried his head into his arms on top of his desk.
'I wanna do right by him.'
Peter truly believed that Mr. Stark had been telling Ms. Potts the truth. He really meant to do his best, even if his best was sometimes misguided. Peter knew his heart was in the right place. If he really wanted to do right by him then he would help Peter get his family back. Mr. Stark was missing his own people too, even if he had given up on getting them back.
Peter remembered how angry he had been when he had realized that everyone had given up. Captain Rogers had released an official apology on behalf of the Avengers. Everyone else had parted ways from the compound. Mr. Stark had gone into retirement without even telling Peter that he was going to hang up his mask. Peter had been so angry with all of them. He'd never thought that he would've given up too. Turns out, all it took was a couple months for him to forget all about what he had lost.
Tap, tap, tap.
"Peter?" Ms. Potts' gentle voice came through the closed door. "It's late. You need to go to bed."
"M'kay," said Peter, muffled through his arms. He wasn't even sure if he was loud enough for Ms. Potts to have heard him. Regardless, a second later her feet padded away and Peter was left to his worries.
Sleep came in frustratingly short fits and bursts. Like a cat that didn't know if it wanted to be outside or inside, Peter's mind weaved between awake and asleep. Staring into his dark bedroom, he couldn't get his mind to shut up. It chugged along and threw new questions at him, new facets to consider, and most troubling of all, how to bring up the idea of going back to the sanctum to Mr. Stark.
It was hard to tell where the divide was between worrying in his conscious thoughts and worrying in his dreams. The transition was hazy. In the former, he thought that Mr. Stark might be resistant to his idea, in the latter, he laughed disparagingly until Peter woke in a cold sweat.
In between one of those bouts of waking and sleep, muffled voices lured him into consciousness. With some difficulty, his eyes peeled open and he winced against the pale sunlight filling his room.
"… might be too extravagant. Peter doesn't strike me as the type-"
"Nah, it'll be good. Trust me, Pep. There was wistfulness in his eyes. And this sort of restoration is basically just big Legos, which the kid is nuts for. This'll be a slam dunk, I just know it."
Peter turned his head to look at his bedroom door. Pushed up against the wall next to it, Ben's old suitcase sat zipped closed.
"I guess you haven't played with Legos in a long time if you're this far off the mark-"
"Literally decades at this point, but that doesn't make me wrong."
"Okay, fine. But two is kind of excessive, don't you think?"
"You're really asking what I think is excessive?"
Ben's faded initials caught the weak, rising sunlight. Peter closed his eyes tiredly, as though that would shut out the noise. Blindly, he reached for his bedside table and closed his fingers around the familiar shape of his headphones.
"No, I'm not. That was rhetorical."
"Yeah… yeah, I get what you're saying, but-"
He slipped the noise cancelling headphones on, effectively cutting off Mr. Stark's early morning rambling. He wondered dully what they were talking about. Why was Mr. Stark awake so early anyway? That wasn't like him. It didn't matter, he decided. Instead, he turned over and went back to sleep.
Some hours later, Peter woke feeling lousy all over. Laying in his bed, his eyes itched from fatigue but he was too jittery to try to force himself to sleep. He still hadn't figured out how he was going to confront Mr. Stark. Restlessness fought against his bone-deep fatigue, urging him to do something even as every fiber of his being ordered him to stay in bed.
There were dust moats floating through the air. Peter followed them lazily with his eyes until he turned his head and resettled his gaze on the navy-blue suitcase next to the door.
B.F.P
Ben's old suit case that held Peter's old things. No, he thought sullenly, that wasn't right. It held his only things. Because the truth was that Peter was lying in Mr. Stark's bed. He was wearing Mr. Stark's clothes. He was living in Mr. Stark's apartment. It had been a while since he'd thought of it in such bleak terms. The sharp awareness of his circumstances rubbed him the wrong way.
Nothing in this apartment held permanence, save for what had come out of that suitcase. With that reminder at the forefront of his mind, it became clear to Peter what he needed to do.
He exchanged the clothes he was wearing for one of his old, worn, science pun t-shirts and a pair of jeans that was faded from too many trips through the wash. He emptied his dresser drawers on to the floor. Then the contents of his closet joined it. He separated the clothing into two piles: his and Mr. Stark's. Then, scooping a small mountain of clothes into his arms, he set out for the laundry room.
Mr. Stark watched him from the living room. Peter could feel his eyes following him as he wandered back and forth from his bedroom to the laundry room with heaps of clothing. Peter avoided looking in his direction, and Mr. Stark didn't come to him. It was for the best. Even with an entire night to think about it, Peter still didn't know what to say to him.
Peter mulled over his words as poured detergent into the washer.
(So… you remember yesterday when we had that weird moments on top of the Chrysler Building? Well, I had an idea – No! That's stupid. Don't be so casual about wanting to save the world. He won't take you seriously if you're too chill about it.)
He pulled the vacuum from the hall closet, rolled it to his room, and listened to the loud whirring.
(I know you're retired, but this is important. Like really important, and I don't think anyone has gone back to the sanctum yet, and it seems like a really good place to start with researching magic. So maybe we should – No, be more polite. – Can you please come with me? – That's pathetic. Be more confident. How's he supposed to believe in your half-baked plan if you don't?)
He hung from the wall next to his tall windows. Damp rag in hand, he aggressively rubbed Windex over his smudgy finger prints.
(Okay… so I don't actually know what I'm looking for in there. And yeah, maybe it's a long shot, and it could be a waste of time, and you're probably gonna say 'no' because you got things happening in your life. But my idea is good right? It's better than what we got, isn't it?)
He put the wet clothes in the dryer and dumped in a new load in the washer. Breathing in the warm scent of dryer lint and soap, he felt a knot ease inside his chest. He placed his hands flat on top of the dryer and soaked in the warmth from the vibrating metal.
(Please, Mr. Stark. I need your help.)
He would understand, Peter was sure of it. Once Mr. Stark understood how important this was to him, how their dwindling time together brought closer a future alone… he would help. Of course, he would.
Comforted by that thought, and unable to ignore his empty stomach any longer, Peter timidly stepped into the common area. He avoided looking at Mr. Stark as he crossed through the adjoined living room and into the kitchen. Silently, he pulled out a bowl, spoon, cereal, and milk and settled himself at the kitchen island. He kept his eyes down, but was acutely aware of Mr. Stark moving behind him. The coffee pot slid off the burner. Coffee poured and made soft splashing sounds in a mug. The stool next to him glided on the floor and Mr. Stark seated himself with a sigh. Peter kept his eyes fixed on his Count Chocula.
"Nice shirt."
Peter froze with his spoon in his mouth. Having forgotten which shirt he had thrown on, he glanced down at his chest. It was the one with a trigonometry equation on it. Find x was printed above a scalene triangle. An arrow in red pen pointed towards the hypotenuse. Scrawled in red handwriting were the words: I found it. All in all, a solid joke, Peter thought. He smiled around his spoon and pulled it out of his mouth.
"Thanks," he mumbled through cereal.
"I don't think I've seen that one among your collection of nerd chic Tees. Did Pepper pick it up?"
Mr. Stark sipped from his mug and Peter shook his head.
"No, it's an old shirt. I just forgot about it for a long time..." His throat grew tight and he was suddenly hit with an inexplicable pang of sadness. He coughed, and pressed on: "Actually, I found it."
"That might be your worst joke yet."
"What?" Peter threw Mr. Stark a questioning look. Mr. Stark starred at him strangely, as if he were trying to decide if Peter was being stupid on purpose. He rolled his eyes and pointed at Peter's chest. Peter glanced down again, and - "Oh, yeah." He gave a flustered laughed to counter his embarrassment. Mr. Stark smirked. "I pulled this out of the school's lost and found years ago."
Peter remembered, a second too late, the exact circumstances that led up to that incident. He snapped his mouth shut and stirred the rapidly softening coco in his bowl. The milk was beginning to turn chocolaty.
"I'm waiting for the part where you get to why you did that."
Peter bit the inside of his cheek.
"Uhhh… I needed a shirt."
"Because...?" Mr. Stark prompted. When Peter didn't answer he sighed. "Seriously, kid, this is storytelling 101. You got me on the edge of my seat, follow through with the reveal. Don't leave me hanging, that's just rude."
Peter considered lying. It would surely save him a headache but… there was enough secrecy between the two of them without Peter adding one more to the pile. Plus, it happened so long ago, Mr. Stark might not even care. He sighed and let his spoon rest in his bowl.
"A beaker exploded and acid ate through the shirt I was wearing," Peter rushed out and then winced when Mr. Stark's face did the surprised/angry/concerned thing. Peter's gut twisted and he smiled nervously. "Rest in peace 'the many faces of Darth Vader'. Spoiler alert, they're all the same face."
"Wait. Back it up a second. Were you okay?"
"Oh, yeah," Peter reassured flippantly. Mr. Stark didn't look convinced. "I washed the acid off of my skin at the sinks in the back of the chem lab. I got some light chemical burns, but no biggie. It's not like I could walk around with a holey acid wash shirt. No one would've believed I was trying to bring grunge back. Someone was bound to get suspicious."
Mr. Stark's eyes flickered critically over his face, arms, and hands, as though expecting some old, overlooked scars to appear out of nowhere. Repressing the urge to sigh again, Peter reluctantly stretched out his arms and twisted them so Mr. Stark could see for himself the unblemished skin.
"See? It was nothing, really," he added, which was apparently the wrong thing to say, if Mr. Stark's pinched brow was anything to go by.
"I'm gonna make an educated guess based on my past experience with your antics and say that by someone you mean 'members of the faculty', and by suspicious you mean 'get my dumb ass suspended or maybe even expelled from school for screwing around in the chemistry lab unsupervised while handling the big boy acids that are apparently strong enough to eat through shirts and burn the skin underneath it?'"
Peter blinked, unsure of what to say to that, and felt more than a little bewildered that he was getting into trouble for something that happened nearly three years ago. Wasn't there supposed to be an expiration date on that sort of thing?
"Why weren't those kept in locked cupboards anyway?" Mr. Stark grumbled while taking a sip of coffee. "Your school is well-funded. What, are they too cheap to spring for a couple padlocks? What the hell is your tuition paying for?"
Peter's cheeks reddened. The cupboards had been locked, but riding the high of his newly super-powered state, it had taken him a while to realize his own strength. He'd gambled and lost in his attempt to jimmy the lock, which resulted in him accidentally crushing it in his hand like a pretzel. Mr. Stark didn't need to know about that, though, and Peter elected to keep that information to himself.
"I didn't say I was unsupervised," he said instead, purposefully excluding the rest.
"You didn't have to. Why else would you pull someone else's dirty shirt out of the lost and found? This whole story reeks of clandestine tomfoolery," Mr. Stark looked thoughtful at that, and added: "Peter-foolery? Yeah, that has a nice, personalized ring to it."
"Please don't call my screw-ups 'Peter-foolery'," he whined. Mr. Stark smirked.
"I won't call them that out loud. How's that for a compromise?"
An awkward lull fell over them as Peter chewed his mushy cereal. All the while wondering why he'd opened his stupid mouth in the first place.
"Well, while I'm here confessing things, I guess I stole this shirt. Seeing how it's not mine and I never put it back." He plucked at the neckline with his fingertips.
"Why didn't you call me?"
Peter's spoon froze en route to his mouth. He frowned, confused, and met Mr. Stark's stern gaze.
"Why would I?"
It wasn't often that Peter saw Mr. Stark flustered. It was short-lived, only about a second, where Peter could see him scrambling to fix his mistake. Then his composure returned and he said smoothly: "I mean Happy. You should've called him. His head of security, 'I ain't got time for this crap' shtick was all bravado. He would've made time for an injured teenager under my protection."
"This happened before we met," Peter clarified gently while marveling at how easily Mr. Stark could've forgotten how different things were back then. In true Mr. Stark fashion, he didn't stay fazed for long. He shrugged nonchalantly.
"Oh, so freshman Peter-foolery." Peter shot him an annoyed look. Mr. Stark didn't seem remotely sorry. "I didn't know your rebellious streak stretched back that far. Shouldn't be surprised. You've got a knack for it."
He might've had a point there. Peter had never thought of himself as 'rebellious' exactly, but then again, they'd only met because Peter was leading a secret double-life. Back then, the secrets kept from May had felt necessary… until they'd been revealed and Peter realized that they weren't. The thought made him shift uncomfortably in his seat.
"Did you at least call your aunt?" Mr. Stark asked flatly, like he already knew the answer. Peter shook his head.
"I didn't want to bother her at work," Peter justified weakly. "And, you know, I wasn't supposed to be in the Chem lab. If she found out, she'd freak out then I'd freak out, then she'd ground me forever and I didn't want that. Obviously." Mr. Stark snorted into his coffee and rolled his eyes. "No one was there besides me and I cleaned up the explosion, so I don't think anyone ever found out about it."
"Until now."
Peter nodded his head awkwardly in confirmation. There were dregs of semi-solid cereal in his bowl. He gulped them back hastily and stood to put his dishes in the dishwasher.
"Well… that laundry isn't gonna fold itself," he murmured despite there still being at least forty minutes left on the dryer's cycle. He'd wait it out in the laundry room if he had to. Anything to escape this impromptu grilling that he'd somehow managed to bring upon himself.
"Hey, hold on a sec."
Mr. Stark quickly stood as Peter turned to leave. Bracing himself, Peter turned and saw the man rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes were unfocused in a way that Peter recognized as him struggling to wrangle his thoughts.
"Kay, so…" he drawled hesitantly, "I know better than anyone that sometimes things just happen. Bad ideas don't always seem so bad until after you've done them. But you should know, I want that call – the one you didn't make - if you're sitting at school with chemical burns or chilling on top of the Chrysler Building with basically no protection..." he huffed then in tense frustration. "Seriously, kid, what was that all about?"
Peter stood stalk still. It didn't seem like Mr. Stark was truly expecting an answer but… there was his opening. A chance to talk through his scattered thoughts, to voice his dilemma, to share his plan that was really only a couple steps above of an idea.
(So, Mr. Stark, I got a plan. Kinda. Maybe like one third of a plan and I don't think it's a bad idea. First: Find the sanctum. Second: Smash Ctrl Z. Third: Bring everyone back.)
Mr. Stark's eyes turned shrewd, as though he could see the cogs turning in Peter's brain.
"Something on your mind, Pete?"
"Mhm… yeah. I've been thinking about some stuff since yesterday." He crossed his arms, gripping his elbows tightly to hide how his hands were starting to tremble. Mr. Stark's eyes widened in surprise, giving Peter the distinct impression that he'd expected him to say 'no'. Given everything that'd happened, it was a fair assumption. Glossing over that thought and the uneasy feelings it incited, Peter continued: "So, you know how we're scientists?"
Mr. Stark smiled encouragingly, albeit a bit perplexed. Peter was too nervous to return it.
"Scientist in training for you, my young intern, but go on."
"Right. Ummm… what I'm getting at here is that we research the stuff we don't know. It's our thing. It's what we do." Peter could see the spark in Mr. Stark's eyes trying and failing to predict where Peter was going with this. He took a deep, bracing breath. "We didn't do that this time, though, with what's happened." Apprehension began to trickle into Mr. Stark's face like a cracked flood gate. It broke when Peter said: "With the infinity stones."
The effect was immediate. Tired aggravation and pity, all rolled into one, hit Peter yet again. It chased away the light moment and all the tentative security that came with it. Everything inside Peter clenched and he regretted saying anything at all. Mr. Stark scrubbed a hand over his face.
"Kid…" came out muffled by his passing palm.
"No, no, here me out!" Peter nearly shouted, desperation pitching his voice high. "There's still so much we don't know, and you can't solve a problem if you don't understand the question. We're scientists and we're geared to think one way, but Jane Foster said that 'Magic is just science we don't understand yet', that was, like, the hook of her doctoral dissertation. So maybe understanding it – magic, I mean - will give us an edge. There's gotta be more people than just Dr. Strange who understood it, and if we can find out where-"
"Enough!"
Peter stood, stunned, with his mouth hanging open. Mr. Stark rarely ever raised his voice, and while Peter didn't think he had really meant to shout at him, he had. The effect it had on him was startling. It rendered him still and at the same time, tense. Mr. Stark's hardened expression sternly conveyed a message. Peter had finally hit the limit of his patience, just as he predicted he someday would. His heart fluttered in his chest.
"You're not the only person whose thought of that. Right now, Natasha and Steve are hard at work dispensing my money and resources to track down any and all leads. Both magical and non-magical. But there are two cold hard facts to consider here. One, they've been tracking for months have nothing to show for it. Two, no one with any information has come forward, leading us to believe that they are all either dead or as clueless as we are."
"But we haven't-"
"We have." Mr. Stark's tone brooked no argument. The finality of that simple statement surpassed Peter's own stubbornness. Peter shifted his gaze to the oven clock, for no reason other than to avoid looking at Mr. Stark. There were thirty-five minutes until his clothes were dry.
"Hey, look at me." Peter didn't want to, but he obeyed the gentle command. When their eyes met, Mr. Stark pointed up at his own face. "Is this not the face of a guy who throws in everything and the kitchen sink into finding the solution when the problem is this serious? When I was dying of palladium poisoning, do you know how many permutations and combinations of other known elements I went through to find a replacement? All of them. Every. Single. One. You know what saved me? Dumb luck and my dad's hand holding from beyond the grave."
What?
Dying? Palladium poisoning? When did this happen? Mr. Stark seemed to realize that Peter hadn't been privy to that bit of information. He smiled sheepishly at Peter's horrified expression and shrugged as if to say 'Whoops. Thought you knew'.
"Is that why you discovered badassium?" Peter blurted out, his enthusiasm leeching through his concern. Mr. Stark smiled fondly at the mention of one of his greatest achievements.
"My old man theorized it, I just cooked it up in my humble, little lab. Credit where credit is due, kid, never forget that. And I appreciate you calling it by the name I wanted to patent it by, not the name those humorless white-collar stiffs bullied past the courts."
They stared at each other for a moment. Peter with lingering shock and horror which made Mr. Stark's smile fade. He leaned back tiredly, one elbow against the kitchen island.
"So, why am I telling you this grim, buzz-kill of a story about my brush with death? Good question. Glad you asked." He waited for a split second, as though expecting Peter to laugh. When he didn't, his face fell. "I need you to understand that some things are out of your control and it doesn't matter how much you care or how much time you spend obsessing over it. If the information and resources are not available to you it doesn't matter how much brain power you expend on it. If SHEILD hadn't deigned me worthy of my dad's old stuff, I'd be pushing up daisies right now. Simple as that." He rubbed a hand over his chin, his eyes suddenly becoming much more focused and determined. "What I do know is that the stronger you hold on to something that isn't there, the more miserable you'll be. And I don't want you to be miserable. I want you to live your life and be present for it. Your gonna graduate high school soon and start college, and those will be some of the best years of your life-"
"Okay, I get it."
Mr. Stark frowned at Peter's tone.
"I just don't want you to miss out. Obsessing like this isn't healthy-"
"I said I get it," Peter repeated curtly and turned on his heel.
"Hey, Pete," Mr. Stark called out behind him. "C'mon don't leave."
Peter ignored him. Instead, he ducked into the laundry room and shut the door firmly behind him. Sinking to the floor, his back pressed against the warm dryer, Mr. Stark's tired expression filled his mind. His gentle but firm tone that pitied Peter made his stomach squeeze.
'Are we really starting this again?'
He didn't even get to his point, what exactly he wanted from Mr. Stark, before he had shut him up. It was clear, he didn't want to talk about this again. He wanted Peter to give up, but he wouldn't. This just clarified for him what his options were. That was something at least.
I'll think of something, he thought and dejectedly thumped his head back against machine.
Peter scrubbed furiously at a tiny red splotch. The splotch mocked him as it faded to a pinky orange hue and did not disappear. It stubbornly refused to budge despite the formidable line up of stain removers that he drowned it in. The game plan from this morning had been simple; Clean and put away everything that didn't belong to him. He didn't account for weeks old pizza sauce stains on white cotton when formulating his plan.
That night after Mr. Stark's wedding, he'd had more fun than he'd had in a while. Playing N64 games with Rhodey, he'd been so relaxed, he could've almost forgotten the reasons why he was there in the first place. Peter just wished he had been more careful. If things went well, he could remove himself from Mr. Stark's life and go back to living the one he belonged in. If he did it soon, Mr. Stark wouldn't even have to tell Peter about his plans to move out to the sticks. He could just go and raise his family. Maybe, one day, he might even share with Morgan the funny story of that one weird summer where he beta-tested his parenting skills on his intern. Honestly, that sounded like the premise of a cheesy family-friendly comedy (the kind that May liked and Ben pretended to enjoy). Someday, Peter would look back on this whole ordeal and laugh.
Probably.
If only he could get this flipping stain out.
Peter huffed through his nose and stilled his hand. The strong, sweet scent of various detergents were starting to sting his nose. He was scrubbing circles with too much force. The white fabric under his cleaning toothbrush was loosening its tight weave. He didn't want to owe Mr. Stark any more than he already did. Soon, they would be out of each other's lives, and Peter imagined that he'd rarely see Mr. Stark anymore. He'd get caught up in his life, his family, and the physical distance between them. Paying off a debt with all that in the way would be… uncomfortable. So, he'd make the amount as small as possible. Scrubbing again with renewed vigor, he cringed at the thought of how much money he'd have to shell out for just this one shirt.
Over the sound of the washer's spin cycle, Peter heard the doorknob behind him squeak.
"Oh, wow. Did you use enough detergent?" Ms. Potts wheezed between coughs. Peter turned around and was surprised to see here standing in the hall, swinging the door back and forth to air out the little laundry room. Peter hadn't realized how woozy he felt until that fresh air hit him. He rubbed the back of his hand over his snuffling nose. Ms. Potts stepped inside, leaving the door open behind her, and peered at the button-down shirt in Peter's hands. The sleeve cuff, soaked in a combination of Tide, Shout, and Spray n' Wash, made her expression turn half wary, half amused. "I think you've done all you could for this. Any more elbow grease and you'll rip it."
Peter narrowed his eyes at the offending stain. He had half a mind to tear it to shreds out of pure frustration… but that would be counter-productive.
"What are you doing here?" He asked. Ms. Potts quirked a delicate eyebrow at him and Peter realized, this being her home and all, how stupid and rude he sounded. "I mean, you're not normally home so early."
Ms. Potts shrugged and leaned her hip against the washer.
"There's some perks to being the boss, like I can leave whenever it suits me."
Peter cocked his head.
"You wouldn't do that…" he drew out hesitantly. The corners of Ms. Potts mouth quirked up.
"Wouldn't I?"
"No," he said with more confidence. He had sneaking suspicion that he already knew what had happened. "That sounds like something Mr. Stark would do."
Ms. Potts smiled, though Peter thought he saw a knowing look pass through her eyes.
"Well, when you're around someone constantly for the better part of two decades, I suppose some mannerisms will start to rub off on you."
Peter wasn't swayed. He knew that Ms. Potts' integrity didn't bend. She wasn't the type to ditch work without a solid reason, and Peter couldn't shake the nagging feeling that she was purposefully misleading him. He knew that she was capable of lying by omission. After all, it was her idea, not Mr. Stark's, to keep Peter in the dark about their intentions to move out of the city. There might be other things she was keeping between the two of them. Things that pertained to Peter. He frowned and persisted.
"He asked you to come home, didn't he?" He meant to ask that lightly, but it came out like an accusation. He curled his fingers tightly into the shirt in his hands. Ms. Potts smile became wooden, and Peter knew he had guessed right. For a moment, it seemed like she might deny it and carry on with handling him with kid gloves. She and Mr. Stark had been wearing those gloves all summer, why take them off now? But to his surprise, her smile fell and her demeanor shifted.
"Yes, he did."
Peter said nothing for a moment. He fiddled a button between his fingertips. He really hadn't expected her to be honest with him, even when confronted with the truth. She was eyeing him calmly, in the way that made Peter feel like she was waiting for him without any expectation for him to hurry. That look always made him feel guilty. Like he was wasting her time.
"Because of me, right?" he asked even though he already knew. His cheeks grew hot. "You didn't have to come, Mr. Stark's just overreacting."
Ms. Potts didn't agree or disagree with that. Honestly, Peter was surprised that she didn't immediately jump into the 'Mr. Stark's overreacting again' camp. She complained about his overbearing nature enough for Peter to feel justified in thinking that. Instead she turned her attention away from him and gestured to the large stacks of neatly folded clothes piled up on top of the dryer.
"What's all this about?"
Peter's mouth went dry, though he wasn't sure why. He swallowed thickly.
"Tryna get this stupid stain out," he mumbled bitterly and tossed the shirt on to the stacks. The toothbrush landed on the dryer with a tiny clang.
"I can see that, but why?"
Peter looked at her curiously.
"What do you mean, 'why'? It's dirty."
"I mean that you're about as neat and clean as the average teenager gets. But Tony tells me that you've been busy all day, intensely cleaning the apartment, and now I suspect that you might be covering up a murder."
Oh, so they were talking about him, were they? It must've been another text conversation, because Peter didn't hear them having a hushed, gossipy phone call. His arms crossed over his chest.
"Are you seriously getting mad at me for doing too many chores?"
"No one's mad," she said softly, "but I'm not going to pretend that it's not concerning to see you get so upset about a stain."
"I'm not upset."
Ms. Potts hummed lightly, like she was humoring him with her agreement. From anyone else, that would've felt insulting, but Ms. Potts had a way of mollifying disagreement without being patronizing. She was looking at him patiently again, like she had all the time in the world to speak with him. It made Peter nervous.
"Peter," she murmured. "Did something happen?"
A weight sank into Peter's chest.
'I don't know, you tell me.' he thought irritably. He was tempted to say it too, but he'd held himself back. The urge to demand from her – from both of them – why they thought it was okay to gate-keep vital information from him, grew fiercer the longer he stewed on it.
'We'll tell him later when he's gotten more comfortable around us.'
But what if he never got comfortable with them? Would they never tell him? If he hadn't found out on his own, when would've they gotten around to it? Before Thanksgiving? Christmas? The new year? What if they made up some other bullshit criteria to justify their secret keeping? Peter was an orphan from a lower-middle class family with virtually no financial assets and he had no current paying job. He would've been screwed if they'd decided to drag their feet and not tell him until the end of the school year.
He bit his tongue and tucked all that away. Ms. Potts was looking at him sadly, and as angry as he was with her, he couldn't stand to see her looking like that. He forced a smile which felt painfully out of place on his face. Judging by the look Ms. Potts was giving him, he probably looked constipated.
"There's no dead body in the closet, I swear."
"Good to hear," she said, deadpan, and completely unphased by his humor. It took Peter a second to remember who he was dealing with. Ms. Potts tangled with Mr. Stark on the daily. His deflections had no power here. "You know you can talk to me, right? I get that you and Tony are your own little team, but if there's something you need to talk about that you can't with him, I'm here."
Peter nodded his head vaguely, while silently wondering in what world he and Mr. Stark could be considered a team. He kept that to himself too, knowing how disappointed Ms. Potts would be if she knew how hollow all of this was. Her sincerity was genuine, if not misplaced, and Peter couldn't help but be moved by it despite the fact that he had absolutely no intention of spilling his guts to his mentor's wife. That would be a whole new level of pathetic. Ms. Potts seemed to sense his reluctance. Her expression became contemplative, as though she were weighing her next words carefully.
"I know these past few months have been difficult – more than difficult - and especially now with your birthday coming up… it's probably bringing up a lot of complicated feelings-"
"It's not that," Peter rushed out. His heart gave a sickening jolt. It wasn't that he had forgotten his birthday – he had been thinking about it on and off for weeks – but it had temporarily slipped his mind. Even though Peter knew it was the day after tomorrow, to have it acknowledged outside of his own thoughts made it feel… imminent. His pulse hastened. His palm grew clammy. Ms. Potts was looking at him with a timid sort of warmth.
"No? Then what is it?"
Peter stared back at her, wide-eyed and defiantly silent. He imagined that this is how a raccoon must feel when confronted with headlights. The moment stretched out and Ms. Potts, who had never directed her frustration at Peter before, murmured in sad desperation: "What happened?"
Peter knew what she was thinking of: the Chrysler Building, his moodiness… all of it. This entire summer. He knew he was being unfair treating them like this. Especially Ms. Potts who, having met Peter only once before, had opened her home to a literal stranger. Peter knew that Mr. Stark didn't make unilateral decisions. If Ms. Potts wasn't okay with the idea of guardianship, Peter wouldn't be here. The compassion that motivated her choice was awe-inspiring. Ms. Potts deserved so much better than what Peter was.
But they were also being unfair to him. Peter's brash temper was getting more unruly with each passing day. It had been the source of his guilt for weeks as he failed to keep it contained. He was being a dick, but he had thought that he was the only one. As it turned out, he was just the louder dick. Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts were more subtle about it. Before yesterday, he'd had no idea that he was being strung along. That they'd be cutting ties in less than a year. That seemed to be way more unfair than what Peter was doing, but that reassurance did very little to ease his twisting stomach.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"I know," she said. "But nothing's going to get better until you do."
Ms. Potts' hand twitched then, as though tempted to reach out to him before she thought better of it. Her hand landed lightly on the washer. Peter followed the quick action with his eyes, wishing that she hadn't restrained herself. It was strange that he still felt that way, and he wondered how he could even after everything that had happened.
"You don't have to talk to me, or Tony, but you should talk to someone about this."
Ahhh, there it was. The thing that Mr. Stark – and apparently Ms. Potts – wouldn't take no for an answer. Peter nodded his head vaguely.
"Yes, ma'am," he mumbled sullenly, already annoyed by the topic. He didn't expect Ms. Potts to straighten up as though she'd been electrocuted, and to level him with crackling, narrowed eyes. Peter took a tiny, involuntary step back.
"I draw the line at 'ma'am'. You're not my employee, you're-" she cut herself off and Peter saw her swallow the rest of her words. She sighed and ran a hand over her head. Her hair didn't move an inch from its sleek ponytail. "I'd prefer that you call me 'Pepper', but seeing as how you're not comfortable with that, 'Ms. Potts' will do. 'Ma'am' is much too formal. I won't have you calling me that."
Peter nodded again, this time with a little more vigor. It was disarming, to be reprimanded with such kind ferocity. It reminded him of May and the way that he would get on her last nerve while knowing that she wouldn't stay mad for long. He kind of wished Ms. Potts would just yell at him for being a brat and then storm off and leave him alone. That would be much simpler for both of them. Peter wouldn't have to dodge her sympathy at every turn and Ms. Potts wouldn't feel obligated to interrupt her life to deal with him.
'Win-win,' he thought and then winced. It really didn't feel like winning. His arms relaxed and dropped to his sides.
"I'm sorry I make your life hard."
Ms. Potts shook her head.
"Don't be sorry. You make it interesting, not hard," she corrected. Peter smiled shakily at her kind rewording. She shrugged one shoulder and added: "All the best people in my life share that trait. I find that keeping things interesting is worth it for the adventure, even if I do get a headache. If the time comes that you make things a bit too interesting then I'll let you know loud and clear that you owe me an apology."
Her warning was accompanied with a smile that carried an air of seriousness. Peter pressed his lips together. He could feel thin ice cracking under his feet.
"Alright," Ms. Potts said around a yawn. Her hand settled absentmindedly over her rounding stomach. "I need sandwiches. Peanut butter ones to be exact. And then maybe a nap… and yes, I would be napping anyway even if Tony hadn't called. That's why there's a couch in my office." She winked at Peter, who was barely listening to her. His mind was fixated on what she'd said… when she'd lumped him in with her best people. Ms. Potts eyes searched his expression. "Think I can tempt you away from the murder cover up long enough for a late lunch?"
Peter had best people of his own, and he'd nearly given up on them. He'd grown too comfortable, he realized, as his insides knotted. It had frustrated him before, feeling isolated in Mr. Stark's life. But he had finally done it, he'd gotten comfortable in the Stark's lives… and in doing so he'd become comfortable with his loss. He didn't want one at the expense of the other, but it was unavoidable. He'd allowed this to carry on for so long that he'd become one of Ms. Potts' best people.
"Peter?"
He'd loved May. He'd lost May. And in a disgustingly short amount of time, he'd replaced her.
"I'll bring you one," Ms. Potts murmured, but then paused and scrunched up her nose. "Actually, I'll bring you two. And an apple. You really don't eat enough fruits and veggies."
She turned to leave and Peter's heart clenched.
'God, Pep. Nothing about this is easy. Not a damn thing.'
She made it a couple of steps before Peter threw his arms around her middle. A tiny, surprised 'oh' escaped her as she stopped suddenly and Peter's chin bumped against her shoulder. She let out a huffy laugh and reached a hand blindly around her body to clumsily patted his cheek. Peter tilted his face so it was hidden in her shoulder.
He loved Ms. Potts too. He wasn't exactly sure when that had happened. It had crept up on him when he wasn't paying attention. He knew what was coming. He knew he would lose something special when the Starks moved on without him. He would miss them, and yet from here, the regret didn't sting quite as badly as it had before.
'Bye,' he thought and squeezed his arms tighter.
The next day, Peter went out into the city without telling anyone. That was an impressive accomplishment in and of itself because Mr. Stark had been watching him like a hawk; aloof, scrutinizing, and from a distance. Though he hadn't really told Peter not to leave, there was a sort of unspoken understanding between them: stay put. He'd heard a few snatched words here and there, whispered between him and his wife: 'strange', 'erratic', 'don't know what to do, Pep', to name a few.
It was fine. Okay, it was mildly irritating to be constantly talked about, but it was fine because Peter knew what to do even if Mr. Stark didn't. He repeated that to himself as he disengaged the patchwork FRIDAYs that were framing his window. It was necessary, because he and Mr. Stark didn't see eye to eye on this… and now he wasn't willing to talk about the problem anymore. Mr. Stark was content with things as they were now, and why shouldn't he be? He'd managed to keep nearly everyone he loved. But Peter knew he'd never be happy again in this world. Not when that meant forfeiting his family. Without any remorse, he fiddled with the brackets and watched the little green lights flicker off.
With the amount of stealthy sneaking it took to slip away, it was almost anticlimactic for him to set foot in something as boring as a second hand electronics store and walk out with an external hard drive.
As far as hard drives went, it was cheap, but it still managed to put a sizable dent in Peter's savings account. He cringed as he handed the money to the cashier, reducing his account balance to fifteen dollars and twenty-five cents, but it was gratifying to know that it was bought with his money not Mr. Stark's. The credit card that Mr. Stark had given him nearly a month ago remained untouched and sandwiched in his wallet between his driver's license and a Pinkberry gift card.
When he got home, he removed all of his files off of the sleek, duct tape free laptop that Mr. Stark had given him. He wiped it, set it back to its factory settings, and set it down on the desk. Good as new and just as it had been when it was given to him.
He'd swiped a pair of scissors from the kitchen and cut the credit card over the trash can beside his desk.
From his shelves, he carefully pulled his and Ned's Lego car down. He slid his English notebook and May's cook book out from the bookshelf. He took Ben's glasses out from his bedside table drawer. Perched on his knees with the open suitcase in front of him, he nestled them among his folded clothes. He closed the lid and took a moment to survey the room.
Perfect. Orderly. Not a hair out of place. It was almost as if Peter hadn't lived there at all.
Tap, tap, tap.
"Peter?" Mr. Stark's voice, muffled through his door, was thick and groggy. "Damn, kid, why're you still up? Anything that needs to be done at three in the morning can wait. Go to bed."
Peter glanced at his alarm clock. Bright numbers, 3:12 am, prickled at his tired eyes.
Whoops. How did that happen? He staggered to his feet.
"Sure thing, Mr. Stark," he called quietly so as to not disturb the silence in the apartment.
The shadows of Mr. Stark's feet darkened the gap under his door. Sitting down heavily on the bed, Peter watched them and waited for him to leave. A long, awkward moment passed and the shadows remained motionless. Peter was about to ask what he wanted when Mr. Stark said: "Happy Birthday, Kid."
Peter closed his eyes, letting his head fall back on the pillow. It was past midnight and in to the early hours of August tenth. He was finally seventeen and May was still dead. He let out a long breath and heard Mr. Stark's heavy footstep walking away.
"Thanks…" he trailed off, too late for him to have heard. From the kitchen, he heard the faucet turn on and a glass fill with water. For a moment, Peter thought to follow him. He couldn't sleep anyway, not with this looming over his head. He needed to keep busy and 3am pancakes sounded pretty good right about now.
He sat up, excitedly, but then as his feet landed on the floor, he became frozen to the spot. Mr. Stark had cautioned him, hadn't he? He'd told him not to hold on to something that isn't there… and 3 am pancakes really didn't help the 'cool distance' thing that Peter was going for. That was his choice. All or nothing, and he had to stick to one or the other.
He stood and flicked off the lights instead. In spite a million frazzled nerves, he crawled into bed crashed before his head hit the pillow.