We're heading into the woods, folks.
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Combustion
As it turned out, pancakes were going to be a part of Peter's near future regardless of whether he made them or not. The smell of frying batter had been enough to wake him, and rubbing his eyes blearily, he followed his nose into the kitchen. Ms. Potts was standing over the stove, her back facing Peter as he slipped into the kitchen. She spoke softly with Mr. Stark, who was leaning against the counter beside her.
"What about before six?" Mr. Stark asked.
"I can't. In between stopping to pick up take-out and the cake, there won't be enough time." Ms. Potts said, flipping a pancake. It landed with sizzling crackles.
"You know you got a personal assistant to do all that stuff, right? Uhhh… Sandra, wasn't it?"
"No, I don't. Samantha is gone and I haven't been able find someone among the applicants who I trust enough to replace her position." There was a pause before she added defensively: "And even if she was still alive, she's not my gofer. I would never waste her time running around the city, doing my petty errands."
Mr. Stark opened his mouth to respond, but then noticed Peter out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he smiled crookedly as his gaze flicked up to his floofy, unkempt bed-head.
"Morning, kid. Happy Birthday!"
Peter struggled to smile, as his stomach turned queasy. The result was weak. Sorry, Samantha, he thought sadly, and moved on. He stifled a yawn behind his hand. Ms. Potts threw a fond look over her shoulder and chimed in her own happy birthday wish before turned her attention back to the stove.
"Thanks," Peter said tiredly but sincerely as he walked to the fridge. He was surprised to see Ms. Potts home at this time of day, when she was normally at work. He nearly asked about that, but held himself back as the obvious answer came to him; she'd taken time off work for his sake again. Except this time, she'd apparently planned it.
It was her choice to make, Peter supposed as he pulled open the fridge. No matter how he insisted that she didn't need to bother with him, she did anyway and that was… fine. He had made his feelings clear, to reiterate it again was just redundant… and maybe a bit insulting. He didn't want to come across as unappreciative. He silently loaded various condiments and beverages in his arms.
"There's no shame in making two trips," Mr. Stark said as Peter backed away carefully from the still open fridge. The jar of strawberry jam tucked into the crook of his elbow threatened to slip, and the pinky finger that he had hooked through the plastic handle of the syrup bottle was beginning to ache. But it was okay. He had this.
"I can make it, don't worry. I believe in me."
"Well, I believe that you're about to drop apple juice on the floor," He said, plucking the teetering carton out of Peter's arms. "I mean, if you want to start your birthday by mopping a sticky floor, I guess that's your business. Who am I to stop you?" He closed the fridge and followed behind Peter to the table. The cutlery and plates were already laid out. Peter awkwardly set the load down and smiled proudly when nothing tipped over.
"See? That's skill and years of practice, right there."
"Oh, I don't doubt," Mr. Stark said lightly while helping to arrange the condiments in the center of the table. "Now, the real question is how many casualties got splattered on the floor while honing that skill? I'm gonna ball park guess between five and ten."
Peter an indignant noise, but before he could think of a good come back, Ms. Potts joined them carrying a large, steaming tray of pancakes. Any retort he had was instantly chased from his mind. They sat down and ate, and it was… nice.
Mr. Stark was like a completely different person. It was almost as if the other day hadn't happened. Instead of cautious reproach, he rambled and threw jokes out between bites of pancakes. Peter ate his own quietly, while trying not to appear outwardly perturbed. The change back and forth was jarring, and Peter floundered to get a handle on the situation. Ms. Potts, the blessed saint that she was, knew just when to fill the conversation when Peter didn't know what to say.
"So, I was thinking that after this we'd head out," Mr. Stark said cheerfully, waving his fork vaguely over his plate. Peter blinked, confused by the glaringly obvious oversight in his plan. He glanced at Ms. Potts for help, but she quietly sipped her tea.
"Ummm… most places are closed," he gently said, as though he were disclosing a secret. Like Mr. Stark hadn't been outside in months and wasn't aware of the abandoned business dotting every street.
"Key word being 'most'," he countered. "Some businesses have managed to recuperate and I happen to know for a fact that there is a sweet looking arcade open on west 74th street."
Peter knew the one. It was the same empty arcade that he had walked past a few weeks ago. The one that he'd imagined himself and Ned walking into and wasting all of their money with their very limited impulse control. He tried to imagine Mr. Stark in there instead of Ned. He thought of him playing a racing simulation game. The mental image of him, in his fancy Tom Ford suit and sunglasses, sitting astride a neon coloured, plastic motorcycle nearly made him cringe.
"Oh, they reopened? Last I saw, it was abandoned. Good for them," he rambled, his voice a bit too high. He took a sip of his apple juice and thought quickly of how to phrase, as politely as he could, that he didn't want a pity hang-out. Having no friends would make his birthday quiet, but it was preferable to Mr. Stark (and maybe Ms. Potts too?) pretending to enjoy kid stuff.
He was at a loss. There was no kind way to say that, and he was taking too long. Mr. Stark was looking at him impatiently.
"So, it's settled? We're going to the arcade?"
Peter bit his lip.
"I don't know if-"
"Or we could go out and see a movie," said Mr. Stark before Peter could finish. "But I figure we do enough of that just sitting around at home, right? I own a private theater so we could be immersed in a galaxy far, far away in comfort. That's on the table."
"I don't-"
"Or we could go to the beach. We haven't really gone out at all this summer, and you opted out of going to Hawaii with Pepper and me. What about Coney Island?"
Peter inhaled deeply and suppressed the urge to yell just to be heard.
"Like the beach or the amusement park?"
"Either. Both. Yeah, we could do both," he offered enthusiastically. "Or maybe it would be too hot for that? These past few weeks have been scorching. Can't have either of you getting heat stroke. Doing something indoors would mean having AC, but if you really want the beach-"
"Tony, give him a chance to think," Ms. Potts murmured before reaching over and clamping a hand firmly over his. She gave Mr. Stark a meaningful look, which seemed to derail his stumbling speech. Peter saw his fingers give Ms. Potts' a quick squeeze. Refocusing her gaze on Peter, she said: "We don't have to do anything if you would rather stay home. There's no pressure to go out if you don't want to."
Peter's shoulders dropped. It hadn't occurred to him that there would be an option to not celebrate. But as Ms. Potts presented the out, he was surprised to feel a knot loosen in his stomach. He hadn't fully realized how deeply he'd been dreading this day, and what would've been expected of him, until it had been removed.
"I'd rather stay in… if that's really alright."
Ms. Potts smiled warmly and Peter couldn't help but smile back. Then he caught sight of Mr. Stark's troubled face, and his heart sank. Suddenly, he wasn't hungry anymore.
"May I be excused?" he asked abruptly. Both of his guardians looked equally surprised.
"You're done already?" Mr. Stark sounded bewildered. "You've only had three. Who are you, and where's the kid with hollow legs?"
Ms. Potts shot her husband a sharp look, and Peter was certain that if they were sitting closer, she would've elbowed him in the ribs.
"I'll put the left-overs in the fridge, in case you get hungry later."
Peter mumbled a thanks, rinsed his plate and utensils and put them in the dish washer. He moved to help clear the table, but Ms. Potts reassured him she'd take care of it. As he rounded the corner into the hallway, he saw Ms. Potts giving Mr. Stark her trademark exasperated look. She rolled her wrist in a circular motion, gradually slowing the pace of each rotation. Mr. Stark sighed and dropped his head in his hands.
"I know, I know. Told you I'm not great at it."
Peter frowned, confused, but kept moving. It's not like he had anywhere to be, but an ominous feeling spurred him on. His walking pace almost felt like a sprint.
With nothing to do and no one to talk to, Peter soon found himself climbing the walls of his room (figuratively, of course. He had only just cleaned his finger prints off of the paint). Throwing on a fresh t-shirt and his jeans from the day before, he fell back on his bed and stared blankly at the ceiling. He reached over to his bedside table and closed his fingers around his phone. He lifted it up above his face and nudged the button on the side. The lock screen picture of himself, Ned, and MJ, sporting yellow blazers at decathlon regionals lit up. The time lay over top of them:
10:25 am.
Dinner was after six. That was almost eight hours to slog through on his own. And he would have to do it all over again the next day, and the day after that…
Even with Peter's lukewarm plans, realistically speaking, it would likely take a long time for him to iron out the kinks. He still had no clue what he was walking into and he would need to do a substantial amount of research before he attempted to find the Sanctum. Anything less would be stupid and dangerous, even by his standards. His cheeks puffed out. Dropping his phone beside him, he blew out a long, tired breath.
God. This was torture.
In the corner of his window, the light glinted off of the metal patchwork FRIDAY bracket. Its green light remained off. No one would know if he left. For a moment, he thought of filling those hours with a Spider-Man patrol. But Karen had already proven herself to be a tattletale and Peter was certain that if he put on the suit that Mr. Stark would be needlessly concerned about him feeling the need to work on his birthday.
He sat bolt upright. Pulling open his bedside table drawer, he snatched out the two thin metal squares resting in there. He threw one at the underside of his pale wrist and watched it unfold and encircle it. He did the same to the other one and climbed up his window before he could second guess his decision. In one fluid motion, he slid the glass pane open and leaped out into the warm air.
He plummeted and felt his heart in his throat. A grin overtook his face as he shot out a web. He suppressed the urge to shout and laugh like a maniac. He was out of his suit… he couldn't draw attention to himself. Instead he silently soared through narrow allys, weaved through skyscrapers, and jumped across low rooftops.
Adrenaline coursed through his veins, but without a motivator it didn't last. No one was chasing him, nor was he pursing a criminal. The short-lived rush was ebbing away, taking with it his desire to do much of anything. He found a flat roof of an old warehouse and settled on it. In between a tall air duct and the door leading from the roof he strung up a hammock made of his webs.
He laid back and gave a content sigh. The sky was cloudless. The hot sun beat down on him. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the light. One of his legs slung over the side of the hammock and the toe of his shoe lazily scraped against the roof, back and forth. He reached into his jeans' pocket and pulled out his phone again…
11:02 am.
"You gotta be kidding me! It hasn't even been half an hour? How?" He groaned and flung his arm over his face. He recoiled in disgust when his nose buried into his sweaty elbow. "Ugh! Yuck…"
Thoroughly disgruntled, he turned on his side and cast a half-hearted glare at the city skyline. A few streets over, a large patch of greenery sat surrounded on all sides by tall buildings: Central Park.
'I come to Central Park to read whenever the weather's nice. This is my thing. I'm acting normal. They're the ones who're crying over a bunch of damn rocks.'
Peter wondered if Gwen was there now, refusing to give up her happy place and pissing off the mourners with her bright colours. The thought made him smile even as his heart squeezed.
Isolation was suffocating, regardless of the fact that it was self-imposed. He wanted company, but not from anyone who was invested in his life. Some light conversation without any deeper meaning would be a nice break from the pitying looks he'd grown used to seeing. With Gwen, there wouldn't be any heavy topics to dance around. He could go for some asinine chatter about B rated trash entertainment. Really, he needed to find that, but he also refused to set foot in Central Park again. Gwen might not be there anyway.
Thank God for social media, he thought as he sat up. Sitting cross-legged, he hunched over his phone and began his search. Finding the right Gwen Stacy wasn't difficult, and in no time at all Peter found himself scrolling through her public Instagram.
There were pictures of her with friends, all of them dressed in grey and blue school uniforms. Pictures of her, middle school-aged and with longer hair, gripping drum sticks and grinning from behind a drum set that dwarfed her. Pictures of her and a little boy standing on the deck of a sailboat in New York harbor. It was night time and she leaned against the railing with the boy clinging to her leg. Above, fireworks exploded red, white and blue, but the tall blond man next to them wasn't looking at the show. He was staring at the kids with such clear adoration that Peter knew instinctively that he was Gwen's dad.
A blush that had nothing to do with the weather crept up Peter's face. He felt like he was intruding on a private moment, despite the picture being public. He averted his eyes down. They landed on a picture of Gwen and a teenaged boy, who Peter recognized a moment later as Harry, playing chess on one of those concrete tables with the built-in chess board. It was Central Park. The old Central Park. How it used to be before it was turned into a memorial. Gwen was playing white and Harry black. Gwen had captured a few black pieces, while Harry had a much more substantial pile of the white ones. That might account for why Gwen was pouting and Harry was smiling smugly.
Peter forcefully pushed it all from his mind and refocused himself. He wanted company, even if it was only through a phone screen. Quickly, before he could give himself a chance to chicken out, he sent Gwen a DM.
'Hey'
He stared intensely at the three-letter word, already regretting his decision. He was halfway through typing out a lame and absolutely transparent 'sorry, wrong person,' damage control text when the three dots appeared on her side of the conversation, followed by:
'Hey, who is this?'
He could bail now. That was totally an option.
'Peter' He wrote. And then a second later added: 'Peter Parker'
'Oh, hey. What's up?'
Peter's shoulders sagged and his fingers tightened nervously. He considered her words and started to type:
'It's my birthday today' He stopped and hastily deleted it. 'All my friends are-' he deleted that even faster. What was wrong with him? That was way too much information, not to mention Gwen likely didn't care about his poor, little feelings. He settled on: 'Not much. You?'
Her reply came quick.
'Kind of bored tbh.'
'Wanna hang out?' Peter sent, and then froze in horror. Oh, God, why did he do that? They were acquaintances at best, of course she wouldn't want to see him! Plus, they were only talking because Peter had hunted her down online… that probably didn't speak in favor of his character. His thumbs flew over the keyboard and he had typed out: 'Sorry. That was weird. I don't know why I-', when she replied back:
'Yeah, sure.'
Peter's mouth fell open. He worked it open and closed confusedly a couple times before snapping it shut and sitting up a little taller.
'Where do you want to meet?' he asked. A moment later, she sent him the location of a bubble tea shop in Brooklyn.
Peter hopped up excitedly and nearly fell on his face when one of his feet became tangled in the hammock. He staggered but managed to keep his balance. His phone wasn't so lucky. Wincing, he righted himself and reach down to pick it up. The crack in the bottom corner had grown a bit, but overall, it wasn't too bad. Could've been worse.
He gave the pinged location one last look before pocketing his phone and taking a running start for the edge of the warehouse. His webs caught him and he swung a few blocks when his phone buzzed against his leg.
'I need a few minutes, but I'll be there soon. Get a cold drink so you don't melt away.'
Under that, she sent him a kawaii ice cream cone gif. It was melting painfully, with its face silently screaming under dripping ice cream while its stick arms writhed in agony.
Peter smiled as his free hand tucked his phone away. Glancing up again, his heart shot into his throat when he nearly swung headlong into a widow. He swerved frantically out of the way, somersaulted midair and caught himself.
'Focus up, Parker!' he berated himself. With his nerves subsiding, he focused on the location he was headed, and the best way to get there undetected. Idly, he wondered what had come up for Gwen but pushed the distraction from his mind.
The bubble tea shop was small and cheery. There were only six tables inside, each separated by a gap so narrow that Peter felt vaguely claustrophobic just looking at it. Book shelves lined the walls, shrinking the appearance of the interior even further, and colourful spines of comic books and manga novels enticed him to stay and read. A doorbell sounded over the low radio when Peter stepped through the doorway. A man behind the counter perked up at his arrival. He was the only person in the shop.
"Hi! Can I get you anything?" he greeted with a desperate smile. Peter smiled wanely. He placed his order, his meager fifteen dollars and twenty-five cents whimpering pitifully as he selected from the pricier side of the menu. This poor guy clearly needed the business.
Peter watched the barista making his drink, when a thought occurred to him: he didn't know what Gwen wanted to drink. He pulled out his phone and brought up their message thread, but then hesitated. Out of courtesy, he should get her something, right? That was the decent thing to do since he was the one who'd invited her. But… what if she misconstrued the gesture as him making this a date? It was most definitely not a date. But if he didn't get her anything, that would be kind of rude, wouldn't it?
He scrolled up hurriedly and reread their conversation thread, trying to find any unintentional double meaning from his side to suggest that this wasn't a casual meeting of… aquaintance-ish friends. Staring at the final message, he weighed his options for too long and finally his phone screen gave up on him and went dark. The barista set his drink down, and Peter took it with an absentminded 'thanks'. A second later, the doorbell beeped and Peter turned to see Gwen crossing the threshold.
"Hi," he said too loudly for the small and quiet space. His voice came out all high and panicky and Gwen gave him a startled look.
"Hey." She waved at him with her free hand, the other held a grocery bag. Pointy box corners strained against the thin plastic and Peter eyed it curiously. "The usual for me, Grady, thanks," she said to the barista and strode to the table that was furthest away from the counter. Peter followed behind her.
"You have a usual?"
She shrugged her purse off of her shoulder and set the grocery bag gently on the table.
"I won't lie, I chose to meet here for philanthropic reasons. Grady's just reopened, and I'm trying to support local business in this newly garbage-ified economy."
Peter hummed and took a seat while Gwen went to fetch her drink.
"Thanks for coming," he said when she rejoined him. She sat opposite him and flapped a hand flippantly.
"No problem. I needed to get out of the house."
Gwen set her cup down and stabbed a straw through the seal in the top. She seemed to be purposefully ignoring the grocery bag that sat next to it and took up the majority of the table space.
"What's in the bag?" Peter asked politely. Gwen glanced up with a devious glint in her eye, as though she'd been waiting for him to ask. Rolling down the rustling plastic, she revealed various packets of candy resting on top of a white bakery box.
"Happy Birthday."
Peter blinked and Gwen's smile broadened at his shock. She swept the candy packets off of the box and on to the table.
"How do you know it's my birthday?"
Her smile faded, and Peter saw something somber flicker across her face. It was gone as she lifted the lid to reveal two fairly large vanilla frosted cupcakes.
"I thought it was kind of weird that you contacted me out of the blue like that, so I did some light social media digging and the plot thickened." She glanced up at him seriously then, as though she were picking her words carefully. "I get it. This sucks. No need to explain why it sucks," she parroted his words from that day in Central Park, and then shrugged. "I thought maybe cupcakes would help it suck less."
Peter stared, too stunned to do anything but blink. The moment stretched out too long and Gwen's confidence seemed to wilt.
"Thank you," he said quietly, but sincerely, and Gwen's diminished enthusiasm perked up again. She reached her hand in the box and placed one of the cupcakes in front of him.
"The bakery section of my local Safeway only had sad, boring vanilla. So I bought these to spice it up." She gestured to the many candy packets littering the table.
Peter considered the array thoughtfully, and contemplating how best to utilize them. In between sips of tea and munching on M&Ms, he and Gwen bounced ideas back and forth. It was decided that they'd have a contest to see who could build the best scene on top of their cupcake.
"It can be from anything," said Gwen. "Movie, book, tv, or just made up. We'll decide between us who's the winner."
And with those incredibly loose rules, they set off. Peter wracked his mind, and after some thought, decided to recreate a scene from Cast Away. The one where Tom Hanks escapes a deserted island, but in doing so lost his only friend to the ocean (never mind that the friend also happened to be a volleyball).
With tunneled focus, he fashioned a raft out of pretzel sticks. He lay a gummy bear version of Tom Hanks in his icing ocean and pealed a Red Vine apart to create a short, thin rope tethering him to the raft. In his mind he could hear 'Wilson!' as he debated on whether to represent the volleyball using a gobstopper, for the spherical shape, or a severed gummy bear head, for the face.
He glanced up, and stifled a laugh when he saw Gwen's cupcake.
"Are those Sour Patch Kids summoning Satan?"
Gwen had also pealed a Red Vine into thin ropes, and arranged them in the shape of a pentagram. On the tip of each of the five points, a Sour Patch Kid stood partially sunk into the icing to keep them up right. On the table, Gwen had placed gummy worms, cut in half to shorten their length and with pretzel sticks pushed in one end like a pike. She was in the process of sliding the pretzel sticks into the center of the star and the effect made it appear as though the worms were emerging from the depths of the cake.
"No, they're summoning Cthulhu. The gummy worms are his tentacles. See?" Her tone suggested that Peter should've been able to guess that. When she glanced up from her work, smirking playfully, her gaze landed on Peter's creation. She frowned. "What's yours supposed to be?"
Peter, making a snap decision, placed the gobstopper in the ocean.
"Cast Away," he said with equal seriousness. "That scene where Tom Hanks loses Wilson in the ocean and he floats away."
"Mmmm… I see it now." Gwen nodded appreciatively. A muffled 'ting!' sounded from inside her purse, but she ignored it. "We'll call this one a tie."
The bag 'tinged!' again. Peter glanced between it and Gwen, but she seemed content to ignore her incoming texts.
"Do you need to go? You don't have to stay if I'm keeping you from something."
Gwen shook her head irritably and slouched in her chair.
"No, it's just Harry being… Harry," she sighed. "Don't get me wrong. He's my closest friend and I love the guy, but he's always been super high maintenance. I didn't mind so much when I had my own home to go back to but now that we live together, it's exhausting."
"Oh." Peter popped a few Reeces Pieces in his mouth and chewed them thoughtfully. "So you're hiding out from him?" He could understand that. After all, he was hiding out from his guardians. He regretted his choice of words when Gwen's jaw set firmly.
"No, I'm not! I just need a break sometimes," she shot back.
"I'm sorry, that came out wrong. I didn't mean to offend you. What I meant is…" he trailed off, not knowing exactly what it was that he meant. He could sympathize with her plight, but having confronted the fact, even only to himself, that he was hiding from Mr. Stark made him feel… uneasy. "I don't know. Never mind. I Should probably get back soon anyway. My guardians took time off of work to be with me on my birthday and I don't want to be rude and ignore them but… things have been weird between us, y'know?"
"Mmm, yeah. Me better than anyone, I think," Gwen said ruefully and took a sip of her tea. "Harry's family is nothing like mine and as grateful as I am to have a place to stay, living with him and his dad has been, like, culture shock. Or at least social class shock. My dad was the NYPD chief of police and we weren't poor but, damn, living in the top one percent financial margin has been a trip. And not the good kind."
Peter cocked his head, trying to process the odd direction that the conversation had turned.
"So… the bad kind?" he asked lamely, just for the sake of saying something. Gwen snorted a laugh and pushed a hand through her hair.
"Something like that. More like the highly impersonal and cold type, I guess. Harry's used to it, but I'm not. It's a learning curve that I never wanted to be set on."
Peter winced. He wanted to ask more, but didn't want to come off as prying.
"Your right. That doesn't sound like a good trip," he said lightly. That didn't seem to be that answer that Gwen was expecting. A long second passed, but he didn't say anything more. Her blond brows knitted together.
"Is that not the sort of weirdness that you're talking about?" She asked.
"I- no? Not really. I mean… I get feeling lonely in a new household, but what you're talking about is kinda specific."
She smiled sheepishly and busied her hands by swirling her cup.
"Guess I just needed to get that off my chest. There's no suitable person to vent that to in my life, so I'm afraid you might've been promoted from 'guy I kinda know' to 'guy who gets to hear about my hang-ups with the Scrooge Mcduckian lifestyle'."
Peter's brows shot up. The character, though fictional, shed some light on the situation.
"Jeez. Scrooge Mcduck? That's next level," he said. "Is Harry's family really that rich?"
"Well, yeah." Gwen said through a mouth full of tapioca pearls. "They own Oscorp."
Peter's mouth pressed into a tense line. His heart sped up. Gwen, taking in his expression, swallowed hard as she choked on her laughter.
"What's with that face? You look like you're ready to faint on chaise lounge."
Peter did feel a little faint, even as he ordered his body to stop panicking. There was no reason to panic. Just because he was going to attend the same school as the son of the guy who owned the company that mutated him, that didn't necessarily mean anything. It had been nearly three years since that day at Oscorp. If something was going to happen, surely it would've by now. He got the impression that Harry didn't like him anyway. Maintaining a safe distance wouldn't be hard.
What was he thinking? Why was he being so paranoid? There was no reason to think that Mr. Osborn would… what? Target him? Harm him in some way? Even in his own mind, that sounded ridiculous. Peter's cheeks heated.
"Don't tell me you're intimidated." Gwen continued sounding amused. "You live in the stratospheric upper class too. I'm sure Tony Stark has introduced you to folks that are way more wealthy and powerful than Norman Osborn."
Peter froze. His heart stuttered in his chest.
"What?" he squeaked.
"I mean, I get that Norman Osborn isn't as charismatic as Tony Stark, or at least not as charismatic as his public persona appears to be, but he's not that bad."
"What?" he asked again, and Gwen seemed to finally notice his distress.
"What?" she asked back.
"How do you know about me and Mr. Stark?"
Gwen's mild confusion suddenly turned aghast, and Peter felt cold dread seep into his veins like poison.
"Oh, shit… you don't know do you?" She mumbled.
"How do you know about-?"
"Mhmm, I heard you the first time." She dug her hand into her purse and fished out her phone. After a few taps, she flipped it around so that the screen was facing Peter. He took it with shaking fingers. Above of a thumbnail of a balding news anchor in a navy blazer was the headline:
'Tony Stark's Secret Son?'
Peter's breathing hitched. He forced himself to calmly and rhythmically inhale and exhale. He glanced up. Gwen's usual open friendliness had turned pitying. Taking a deep breath, his nerves hardened. He glanced nervously around the shop. Grady had disappeared into the back and there was no one else there. Even so, he felt compelled to mute the audio and turn on the closed captioning before pressing the play button.
The anchor, J. Jonah Jameson, spoke silently with pointy, accusing fingers and exaggerated hand gestures. Most of what Peter read was purely conjecture. They got the basic information right, like his name and age. But the rest? It was baseless speculation that he was a product from Mr. Stark's wilder pre-Iron Man days. That Mr. Stark supported him financially while staying out of his life. That Peter's internship at Stark Industries was just a cover for them to spend father-son time together. That his family had disappeared in the snap, so Mr. Stark had adopted him out of necessity as his only living parent.
A snippet from Mr. Stark's public announcement to retire flashed on screen. The words '…take time to be with my family…' were highlighted obnoxiously in yellow. Finally, there was a video recorded shakily on someone's phone. Peter recognized it immediately. It had happened just earlier that week. He and Mr. Stark had gone out for DQ blizzards after his exam. The camera caught Peter's blank face as the person recording had passed by. Mr. Stark looked happy, speaking animated, though too quietly it would seem for the recording to pick up. Peter knew, because he was there, his exaggerated enthusiasm was really just compensation for Peter's lack of interest. But to the world, the evidence was certainly damning.
The video ended. Numbly, Peter handed Gwen her phone back, and she took it wordlessly. She eyed him sadly, but seemed to be waiting for him to speak. Peter wasn't sure if he could. There was no one else in the room, but he suddenly felt exposed.
"This isn't right," he bit out. She hummed sympathetically.
"I know, I feel terrible, but I really did think that you already knew about-"
"No, I mean this video is wrong," he rushed out. "The information is inaccurate. He didn't adopt me and I don't want to be adopted. I'm not his biological son either. I'm Peter Parker."
"I figured," Gwen quickly agreed. "The Daily Bugle isn't really known for their commitment to journalistic integrity. It's a trashy tabloid website whose primary goal is to rile up Boomer conspiracy theorists. Everyone knows that. Look at how many times this Jameson guy used the word 'allegedly'. That oughta tell you everything you need to know." She smiled hesitantly, and when Peter didn't return it, her look became wary. "Hey, it's okay. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together can tell this isn't true."
"You thought it was, and you got plenty of brain cells."
"No, I just read between the lines of what you told me and… well… there is a video of the two of you eating ice cream together. That's hard to argue with."
Peter rested his elbows on the table and leaned on them heavily. His head hung and he stared vacantly at the wood grain, bits of candy, and his gummy bear who had run away from his island and gotten lost at sea.
If he got May back, he could explain this to her. He had needed somewhere to live, and by close proximity he'd been sucked into the lime light. She would laugh. Peter would laugh. But there was no undoing the damage. Even if he managed to publicly set the record straight, the internet wouldn't forget. Anyone who did a quick google search of his name would see this. They were permanently linked now, he and Mr. Stark.
Peter grimaced. How could anyone care about celebrity drama right now, given everything that had happened? It was just his crappy Parker luck striking again. Of course, someone would decide to take away his anonymity just when he was working himself up to quietly remove himself from the Starks. Why was he surprised?
"I gotta go," he said, getting to his feet.
"Peter-"
"Thanks for all of this." He gestured to the table littered with candies. "It was really nice of you, but I gotta…" he jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
Gwen stared, her expression unwaveringly sad and guilty.
"Alright," she said and picked up his cupcake. "Take gummy Hanks for the road?" Peter hesitated, and the moment's pause urged Gwen to say desperately: "Please? It would help me feel like a slightly less awful person for totally ruining your birthday if you took it."
Peter's eyes widened and he quickly grabbed it from her.
"Oh, no, no, you didn't ruin anything. I would've found out at some point. It's okay, really."
His reassurance didn't seem to do anything. Her eyes seemed to implore him to understand, and Peter found himself feeling strangely guilty for inadvertently causing her to look at him like that.
"I swear, I didn't know this article was basically outing you as a former 'rags to riches', new money kid like me. I didn't realize you and Stark were being all secretive about it."
Peter laughed at that.
"Rags to riches? I thought you said your family wasn't poor."
Gwen gave a small, relieved looking smile.
"We weren't. But anyone who makes less than $500k a year is basically a peasant to these people."
Peter couldn't agree or disagree with that. He'd never known Mr. Stark to look down on anyone as Mr. Osborn apparently did.
"Do you need a ride?" She asked and tipped her head towards the store front windows. Peter recognized the car parked on the street as the one that she'd been sitting on in the student parking lot.
"Nah, I got my own way of getting around." He felt the collapsed web shooters resting in his jeans' pockets. "But thanks."
By the time that Peter returned to Mr. Stark's apartment, it was late afternoon and a dull soreness had leeched into him. He didn't want to come back. His plan had been to stay out and distract himself for as long as possible. But it was hot, and all of the Red Dead Redemption speed runs and cute puppies of the internet couldn't make him forget what he'd just seen.
'Tony Stark's Secret Son?', looped through his head and nothing could push it out. A tightness had filled his chest, and after a while, he had noticed that the muscles in his shoulder and neck had begun to ache. Not badly enough to hurt, but enough to irritate him. Then a headache sneaked up on him and nagged with subdued persistence. It was around that time that Peter decided to throw in the towel.
He crawled in through his window and was met with the sounds of Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts going about their day. Their voices resounded warmly throughout the apartment, completely indifferent of Peter's absence. They chit-chatted and joked around lovingly as Peter wandered into the bathroom and pulled a bottle of pain-killers (specifically manufactured for him and designed to surpass Peter's metabolism), down from the cabinet.
The hiding out continued, except Peter contained it to his bedroom because… where else was he gonna go? After a few more hours, he heard Ms. Potts leave and come back. Soon after, Mr. Stark was knocking on his door. Peter, taking a few measured breathes, plastered on his best 'happy and totally not freaking out' face.
It was Thai food again, from the same restaurant as last time. Peter was struck with an odd sense of déjà vu as he filled up his stomach with his favorite food and made an effort to engage in conversation like a normal person. If for no other reason, he wanted to pass the remainder of their time together as pleasantly as possible.
After dinner, they had cake. Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts sang Happy Birthday with an awkward rhythm that suggested that they hadn't done that in quite some time. Peter smiled and forced himself not to squirm under the attention. He had never liked it when people sang to him like that, as was tradition on birthdays. It was no use to bring that up now. This was the first and only birthday he'd be spending with them. Pointing out that particular quirk would only dampen the mood.
All throughout the meal, Peter noticed Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts shooting each other conspiratorial looks that left Peter on edge. 'Surprise party', was his first heart-sinking thought. But that couldn't be true, he reminded himself. A party implied that there would be guests, and there was no one that his guardians knew of who would attend such a thing for him.
Still, there was something going on. He just knew it. After they were all done eating, Mr. Stark looked at him intently and Peter knew his suspicions were correct.
"C'mon, kid, let's get outta here."
"Where're we going?" Peter asked while Mr. Stark urged him to his feet.
"For a drive," he said innocently. He didn't elaborate any further despite Peter's obvious piqued interest. Instead he clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered him towards the front door. Ms. Potts waved them off as she gathered the empty take-out containers.
It was quiet as they got in the elevator. They descended to the parking garage in a similar silence. Finally, Mr. Stark sent him a strange look over the roof of the car as they stood at the doors on opposite sides.
"You're seriously not going to ask where we're going?"
Peter shrugged and pulled open the passenger side.
"I know you're not gonna tell me anyway. Why bother?"
He ducked into his seat and kept his gaze fixed on the windows. Mr. Stark pulled out of the underground parking, and Peter squinted in the contrasting bright sunlight. The drive was short, only a few blocks. It was barely long enough for Peter to form any theories of where they could be headed. Soon, Mr. Stark eased into a parking space in front of a closed mechanic's garage. Peter's head cocked to the side as he took in the front of the building. His eyes flicked down to the dash board to see if the check engine light had come on. It hadn't. Mr. Stark pulled the keys out of the ignition, and turned to him with an ecstatic grin.
"Here we are," Mr. Stark said. "Ready?"
"For what?" He asked nervously. Mr. Stark's beaming completely overshadowed Peter's underwhelming response. He got out and Peter trailed after him. He watched as Mr. Stark pulled a set of keys out of his pocket, bent down, and unlocked the heavy padlock securing a roll-down door. He threw it open with vigor.
The inside of the garage was dark, but Peter could make out a few large shapes silhouetted in the weak light. Mr. Stark ushered him in with impatient, beckoning hands. Then, a light switch flicked on and the space was bathed in florescent lighting. Again, Peter blinked rapidly while his eyes adjusted. When his sight cleared, he stood wide-eyed and rooted to the spot.
In front of him were two cars: a junky-looking beater that looked as though it might've been stellar eye-candy at some point in time, and a sleek Audi. Standing between the two, Mr. Stark grinned and threw his hands out to the sides, like a showman at the height of a grand reveal.
"Surprise, kid!"
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little tube, popped the top, and released an explosion of compressed confetti. Peter, who hadn't moved a muscle save for blinking, suddenly remembered something from the depths of his sleepy memory.
Ms. Potts was right. Two was excessive.
He might've laughed if his voice hadn't shriveled up in his throat. Mr. Stark fingers fluttered anxiously over the empty tube before he tossed it casually on the cement floor. It rested among its colourful, shimmering contents. His eyes roved over Peter before his waning smile lifted determinedly.
"So, just to clarify, I'm not giving you two cars. Not really. Here, we got the practical car," he gestured to the Audi, "which you'll be driving for now to get you from A to B." He shifted his focus to the other side and made a grand, sweeping movement with his hand. "And over here we got the actual gift; the fun car. Someone's done this beauty wrong. Poor thing was neglected and in need of a good home when I found her." He patted his hand gently on the dented roof, as if he were comforting it in its injured state. He said to it: "Not to worry, dear. We're gonna treat you right and restore you to your former glory. How does that sound?"
He glanced back at Peter, who did nothing more than stare back at him. His smile faltered.
"I know it doesn't look like much now, but with a little TLC she'll shine up nice. I got faith in our skills and we got a lot to work with here," he paused and looked at Peter expectantly. Silence followed, and he continued hurriedly: "I was thinking it'd take maybe… three weeks? Yeah, three weeks if we go hard on the repairs. Five or six weeks if we take our time to really savor the experience."
Mr. Stark's attention remained solely on him, but still, Peter said nothing. His eyes shifted from one car to the other. He looked around and noticed that the tall, red toolboxes and various pieces of automotive equipment that were scattered about seemed to be brand new and unused.
"Kid?"
What were the chances that Mr. Stark happened to own a small garage only blocks away from his current and temporary residence? It was too convenient to be believed.
This was all for him. Hundreds of thousands of dollars had likely been sunk into this single gift. That couldn't possibly be normal, not even for Mr. Stark's warped perceptions of worth and value. This was clearly over the top. Something was being bought, and Peter wondered with rising dread, if it was his compliance.
Peter's stomach clenched. Could he still be justified in his anger when Mr. Stark had given him two cars? And tools? And a garage? And a spidersuit? And shelter? And food? He knew that he could, just as he knew that no one could hold those things over him if he didn't accept them.
"You don't like it," Mr. Stark said. His disappointment was apparent, though Peter could tell he was trying to hide it. Peter crossed his arm, gripping his elbows tightly to brace himself, but he didn't back down.
"No. I don't."
"Alright, I get it." His eyes had a frantic glint in them, and he nodded his head quickly as if trying to convince himself of something. "Restoring a car is a lot of work, and I did pick out the gnarliest fixer-upper I could find. Maybe it's a bit too rough around the edges? A bit too time consuming. If you're not up for the work, I can find one that's lives somewhere in the middle ground between complete overhaul and spit shine glossing."
"It's not that."
Mr. Stark stared.
"You don't want to do it, do you?"
Peter shook his head mutely. A lump was forming in his throat.
"Okay. That's fine. I just thought..." he trailed off, defeated. Peter's heart twinged. His resolve nearly broke, and for a fleeting moment he felt the urge to take the gift just so he wouldn't look at him like that. But then Mr. Stark composure slid smoothly over him. He gave Peter a fake-looking smile and clasped his hands with crisp sounding 'clap'. "New plan, your gift is the Audi! I installed Karen in it already so-"
"I don't want it," Peter said roughly. Mr. Stark gaped at him, completely dumbstruck.
"You… you don't want-?" he started in faint disbelief. He scoffed then, shaking off his stupor. "C'mon, don't give me that. What kid your age doesn't want a car? You don't wanna be that one senior whose parent still pick him up from school every day. That's lame, even if the parent is someone as cool as me."
Peter's hands squeezed painfully around his elbows.
"I'll take the subway."
"But you don't have to, that's what I'm saying!" Mr. Stark shouted. "What the hell is this? Why do I need to sell you on a gift that most people would be thrilled to get? Just take it!"
"It's not about the car!" Peter yelled back.
"Then what?" Mr. Stark frustratedly threw his hands up. "What's this really about? The maintenance cost? You don't have to worry about that. Everything, including the insurance, has already been paid for."
"So you keep it then!"
"For Christ's sake, Peter! I'm trying to do a good thing here! Why won't you let me? I just wanna get my kid a new set of wheels for his birthday, how's that a bad-?"
"I'm not your kid!"
The air dried up.
Mr. Stark flinched like he'd been hit. Peter felt tears prickle the corners of his eyes. He could hear his pulse thrumming desperately in his ears.
"Peter…"
"Just stop it!"
"Stop what?" Mr. Stark asked softly.
"All of this!" He waved his hands around at their surroundings. "I don't want anything from you! I'm not your kid and you're not my dad!"
Mr. Stark became very still. In an instant he seemed to have aged tremendously. Peter had seen Mr. Stark's serious expression many times before, but he'd hadn't seen him wear such sad resignation since… since day twenty-two.
Peter's heart spiked. He felt sick. He wanted to stop, like the weak voice inside him begged him to do. But something stronger, more hateful and corrosive, was fueling him.
"I'm not trying to be your-"
"Yes, you are!" Peter snapped. "Ever since I moved in you've been trying to be my dad and I don't want you to be! I had a family, and they're gone now! I don't need you and Ms. Potts playing house with me until I'm eighteen!"
"We're not-"
"I never asked for any of this! I never wanted you to take me in!"
Peter's mouth snapped shut, his eyes wide. He trembled under the gravity of instant, shuddering regret. He had bitterly thought that statement many times in the past few days, but he'd never intended to actually say it out loud. That, for him, had been the ultimate line in the sand. The thing that he wouldn't say no matter how mad he got. But he had said it… and Mr. Stark was leaning against the rusty beater car with a raised hand pinching the bridge of his nose.
God, what was wrong with him?
"I'm sor-"
"That's it. I'm done," Mr. Stark ground out. He pushed off of the car and stood firmly on both feet. The look that he leveled Peter with was hard and resolute. "I've been turning a blind eye to your shitty attitude because I thought it was all a part of the healing process and you needed to get something out of your system. But Jesus, kid, I'm not your damn punching bag, and neither is Pepper. I'm not going to put up with this anymore."
There it was. The moment that Peter had been baiting into fruition for so long. He had asked for this to happen, but he hadn't expected to feel so small when it did.
He paused only long enough to scrub a hand furiously over his welling eyes. He had no right to cry when this had all played out exactly as he knew it would.
"Well, I'll be gone soon and you won't have to put up with me anymore," he muttered thickly and turned on his heel.
"That's not what I-"
He ran into the street. Reaching into his jeans' pockets, he pulled out two metal squares.
"Hey! Peter!"
He snapped them on to his wrists.
"Get back here!"
But he was already gone. Throwing himself high in the air, Mr. Stark's shouts faded below him.
He didn't look back.