Next morning, Peter woke up to his basic routine of early morning practice followed by a shower that eventually led into breakfast. No one said anything about his disappearance from last night's practice, but it may have been too early for Powers to come up with a scathing remark. No one bothered him and Peter tended to himself, slurping up the breakfast provided to him. It was when he finished eating his bowl of oats that the big man named Happy arrived.

He told Peter to follow him. Peter took his last few bites before he put up the tray and went with Happy. The man had something in his hand, but Peter couldn't see it with the man fast-walking ahead of him.

When they got to some random door on some random level, did Happy stop to face him. "Here you go," he handed Peter whatever was in his hand. "Boss wants you to practice a bit."

Peter was handed his web-shooters. The new ones. "Did you go through my room?"

"Well, yeah," Happy grumpily answered. "How else did I get them?" He opened the door for Peter to step in. "Tony thinks you'll find this adequate spacing to give your web-shooters a go."

Peter stepped further into the room, scanning all around him. It wasn't big like Mr. Stark's workshop nor did it come with any furnishing. It was a simple and empty room. Basic and unassuming.

He turned back to Happy, who stood by the door. "Are you supposed to be, um, helping me with this or…"

Happy snorted. "Me? Teach you? Yeah. Right." And Happy backed out, holding onto the doorknob to close. "Practice your web shooting thing here, okay? Later."

And Happy closed to the door. Peter didn't hear the door lock.

Not trapped. Free to leave if he wished. Peter looked away from the door and stared back down at his web-shooters. Maybe it was a good idea to give it a test run. It's been a while since he was swinging from building to building.

Peter attached the web-shooters on his wrist and felt them activate upon touch, the metal warming his skin a bit. Time for a refresher course as he turned to unleash his first stream of webbing.

Holy guacamole! These web-shooters were awesome!

Mr. Stark delivered on his promise and Peter barely contained his joy when he noticed that half of the combinations were of his own designs.

He faced the blank wall and practiced each combination set in his new web-shooters.

"Ricochet web," Peter read aloud the small print and he threw it at the wall.

Big mistake. The ball of web hit the wall and returned right for his head like a bullet. Peter ducked in time to avoid being tangled up in a web-net.

"Whoa!" he muttered in a surprised gasp, drawn to the possibilities of using that particular web. "That's… so cool. What else you got?"

Peter fired every web combination at the wall ranging from web grenade to splitter web to taser webbing. The blank canvas room soon resembled a haunted house with all the webs latched to its walls and corners. Although, none of them stuck onto Peter and he walked through the mass webbing with no problem.

The whole thing was brilliantly bizarre! He admired his craftsmanship, thinking of all the possible things he could do as Spider-man with the new gadget.

And then he remembered. He was never going to be Spider-man again. The streets of Queens were far away from him. There was no chance of swinging from building to building, flying up in the air like a roller coaster. Feeling a thousand butterflies in his stomach as he whooshed into action, saving lives and helping people. That was gone.

He was only Peter Parker. A boy trapped in a massive compound, surrounded by confusion and cruelty. Forced into a training regimen with others to become something he's not.

Peter looked down at his web-shooters. They were his. Yet, tainted with something Peter didn't want to accept.

He sighed and flickered his gaze up to the cob-webbed ceiling. "Um... FRIDAY?"

She never answered him before, but he hoped maybe she would now.

"Yes, Peter?" came the Irish voice in response. "How may I help you?"

"Oh! Um… " Peter was thrown by FRIDAY's answer. And that she knew his name. "Do you know where I can find Mr. Stark? I need to talk to him."

"I am not allowed to divulge Boss's location," came FRIDAY's quick response.

"It's just to talk to him," Peter tried to get through to the AI.

It didn't work. "I'll let him know you wish to speak to him."

And that was it. FRIDAY may or may not pen him into Tony Stark's busy schedule, but it didn't matter. Peter understood the message. Peter huffed at the dismissive treatment and decided he would leave a message anyway for Mr. Stark or Mr. Happy to find.

He unlatched his web-shooters from his wrists and dumped them to the floor, right by his feet. Without hesitation of regret or longing, Peter marched to the door.

"Peter?"

The AI called to him, but Peter kept going.

"You forgot your web-shooters."

Peter wrenched the door open and walked out.

Peter apologized for his tardiness when he arrived at the make-shift classroom ten minutes late. He gave no excuse. Only a polite apology before he sat down for his five-hour school day. From the point on, the day blurred into the rest of his days. He desensitized from one activity to the next. Peter barely even remembered what he did. His therapy session was a bore. Dr. Samson kept talking about sports in another drastic attempt to connect with him. Luckily, Simon was no longer there as her enforcer, so Peter sat and said nothing.

Training remained the same. Although, he noticed Mr. Reynolds was far kinder than the previous times. Almost behaving as he was prior to Peter's escape over the fence. He asked how Peter was doing. He didn't pair him at all with Powers and offered Peter the option to sit out on the last circuit run. Peter didn't. He would rather run a thousand miles than sit alone with Mr. Reynolds. Peter was certain the man wanted to talk to him, but he wasn't going to give him the chance.

When another day ended, Peter pitter-pattered back to his room. His wet hair laid in clumps on his forehead, keeping his forehead cool. He should have dried his hair off, but Peter didn't wish to linger longer in the locker room. No need to torture himself with Powers' constant insults. Some subtle and others outrageous directed.

He slumped against the wall by his door and jabbed the code. The door opened and Peter rolled off the wall and into his room, about to spring onto his bed.

"There he is!"

Peter froze.

Inside his room was Mr. Stark and the man named Happy.

Mr. Stark sat on his twin bed, looking relaxed despite wearing a three-piece suit. He wore glasses, tinted orange, making it hard for Peter to read his face. Happy stood off to the side, leaning on the dresser. He looked the same as he did that morning, albeit, a bit grumpier.

Peter looked between the two in confusion. "Um—"

"How are the web-shooters?" Mr. Stark interrupted him. "Work out all right? Need any adjustments?"

Peter swerved his head to Happy. The man said nothing nor did he even look in Peter's direction. "They're fine," he answered, looking back to Mr. Stark. "They worked really great."

"Yeah? Happy, here, told me that it looked like the nest of Shelob," Mr. Stark remarked. "And that he also found these."

Mr. Stark reached his hand behind him, revealing the web-shooters Peter disposed in the room. Mr. Stark looked at him for a response, a reaction of some sort, but Peter remained passive. He thought it was a loud enough statement for everyone to know.

"FRIDAY said you forgot them, but that's not the case," Mr. Stark said, putting the web-shooters aside. "She also said you wanted to talk. So—what's up? Something is clearly bothering you."

A lot of things bothered him. One of the biggest was Mr. Stark. The man had no regards for anyone. Everything revolved around him. Whatever best suited him. Well, Peter had no interest in indulging the man.

"I can't sleep."

Both men both wore puzzled expressions and then darted to one another, wondering if the other person understood.

"What?" inquired Mr. Stark, hoping for clarification.

Peter pointed to the twin bed that Mr. Stark occupied. "You're sitting on my bed."

Mr. Stark's face contorted into a flurry of odd expressions. Almost like he couldn't decide how to react to Peter. It took Mr. Stark a moment, but he eventually rose up from the bed. However, he still blocked Peter's path, making it almost impossible to get to his bed.

"Okay—I see," Mr. Stark said. "Is this the whole teenage hormonal rage thing? I read that teenagers go through a—"

"Going to stop you there," Peter cut the man off. He didn't need to hear him yammer on about that. "I'm tired and I have early morning practice."

"Kid—it's nine. You can spare at least another thirty minutes."

"No, I really can't," Peter replied as he moved to go around Mr. Stark to his bed. "I had a really tiring day. I just want to sleep." He got to his bed and sat down, dropping his shoes on the floor. "Sorry if that doesn't fit into your schedule."

That remark triggered something in Mr. Stark. It was like a snap sounded off in his head, a connection between everything coming before him.

He turned right around to Happy. "Give us a minute here."

Happy needed no encouragement. He left and Peter was alone with Mr. Stark.

Mr. Stark didn't move from his position, but he drew his hands into his coat pockets. His chin lowered, but Peter couldn't see anything through those glasses.

"It's nothing personal," Mr. Stark broke the silence between them.

Peter raised his head up. "What is?"

"Ignoring you," Mr. Stark answered. "I was forced into sitting in on a conference call with the UN. Not really my thing, but Rhodey said I had to because they were upset I was ignoring them – which was on purpose.

"It kept me busy all day," Mr. Stark went on. "I would have spent it testing out the web-shooters than sit around fat politicians. Listen to them bicker and act like geniuses. It's nauseating."

The man paced, his hands constantly squeezing nothing. "Point is, I'm here now," he said, coming to a halt. "Tell me what's bothering you."

Peter crinkled his face in exasperated abhorrence. The man's nonchalance attitude irked Peter. Aunt May never treated his feelings with indifference. "Nothing," he said, rumpling up his blanket and tugging it back to go to bed. "I'm really tired, Mr. Stark."

"Nah-ah," Mr. Stark grabbed the blanket and pulled it back over the pillow. "Nope. You wanted to talk." He parked right by the headboard, keeping Peter from sleeping. "Spill, Spider-ling. What's wrong?"

Peter bristled at the cool swagger tone. "What's wrong?" he repeated with more force. "How about this? All of this!" He madly gestured around the four bedroom walls that appeared to cave in on him. "Kidnapping people and forcing them to fight for you like… like… we're your personal army!

"Because you're Tony Stark!" Peter shouted on. "You can do whatever you want and I—"

He stopped, trying to breathe. It was hard. All the emotion building up within him, taking his heart and strangling into a compressed disaster. Was he breaking? Were the pieces he desperately tried to keep together finally crumbling? Was this what it felt like to lose even an ounce of dignity? When one is nothing more than a simple prop in a world played by others.

Peter dejectedly shook his head. "Just toy soldiers marching to your drum," he depressed, "because if we don't…"

They go to the hole. Whatever that was. Something bad to scare people. Scare everyone.

When Peter lifted his gaze back to Mr. Stark, he realized he may have taken a step too far. After all, Peter was a nobody. Mr. Stark was a somebody with a lot of money and a lot of power.

Mr. Stark reeled back from Peter's outburst, head tilted at an odd and questionable angle. His easy presence was gone. Wiped away and replaced with the defensive posture of a man who didn't take an accusation lightly.

"Excuse me?"

Peter pressed his fingers into his palm, an unknown confidence rising within him. "You told me last night that you cared," he said, remembering last night, "but… none of that was true, was it? You don't care about anything unless it's something you need or want. To hell with everyone else, right?"

The spur of Mr. Stark's sudden movement frightened Peter to scuttle to the foot of the bed. He grabbed the ledge, muscles ready to spring into action. Mr. Stark didn't charge at him. Instead, the man removed his sunglasses. Peter saw the dark eyes staring right at him. Those irises drilling into his own with strict attention, searching and analyzing that Peter averted his gaze to the soft blue blanket.

"You hungry?"

Peter snapped his head up. "What?"

How could the man ask for food after being insulted and accused by him?

Mr. Stark stood up from the bed, buttoning his jacket. "I could really use a burger. Hardly ate at all today," he said. "Again… those dumbass politicians never give a break. Come on! Looks like you could use a burger as well. Fries too? Probably throw in a milkshake or two. How are still alive looking like skin and bones?"

Mr. Stark headed to the door, leaving Peter stupefied on the bed. What was happening?"

"Kid? You're coming?" Mr. Stark asked as he reached the door.

Peter's mouth gaped open and then closed, like a fish out of water. He had no idea what was happening. Did he somehow skip time? Fast-forward into the future?

"I-I… I can't."

Mr. Stark's brows furrowed in confusion.

"I have… practice in the morning," Peter mumbled his pathetic excuse.

The billionaire genius rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," he said. "Hurry up. Put your shoes on."

"I'm serious!" Peter argued. He didn't want to go anywhere with Mr. Stark. "I can't go wondering around—"

"Kid?" Mr. Stark interrupted him, tired of Peter's whiny excuses. "Do you want answers or not?"

Peter's lip quivered. "Y-Yeah. I do."

"Then put your shoes on and follow me," Mr. Stark ordered. "Because thirty minutes isn't going to cover this conversation."

Peter did not expected to be seated across a coffee table from Mr. Stark. When the man said he was hungry and was going to order burgers, Peter expected a trip to the cafeteria. Have the discussion there.

Instead, Peter was brought to one of the more private sectors of the Compound. Somewhere he never gone and imagined that this was what Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons meant by "upstairs". Everything was sleek and clean, like in one of those sparkle-clean aids. The couch itself looked and felt like it was worth Peter's entire existence. He kept moving and adjusting his seat, afraid to leave a butt imprint on the fine sofa.

Mr. Stark hardly took a glance at the exquisite luxury around him. He ordered ahead, and shortly upon arrival, there were hamburgers, fries of all shapes and sizes and milkshakes covering the coffee table. Mr. Stark dug in, eating a hamburger and working on his bag of fries. Peter didn't touch the food, but the aroma made his stomach stir in hopes and wishes. Peter had a feeling that Mr. Stark over-ordered to share with Peter, but he wasn't going to be tempted. He kept his eyes away from the food and on Mr. Stark.

Mr. Stark reclined into the cushion, relaxed and humming in bliss. He popped another fry in his mouth and looked back up to Peter. "Fry?" he offered, holding up his bag.

Peter shook his head. "No, thank you," he said as Mr. Stark shrugged and put the bag down on the table. "You promised answers."

The man adjusted his posture and wiped his hands clean on a napkin. "I did."

"Tell me."

The man stayed relax, not at all flustered by Peter's demands. Almost like he was happy to be sharing the information that had been hidden from Peter since his arrival. As if it didn't matter at all and the secrecy was nothing.

"Everything you said from before is completely false," Mr. Stark asserted. "None of that is remotely true."

Peter's mouth fell open, chaffed by the transparent lie. "That's—"

"Adult is talking," Mr. Stark cut him off, forcing Peter to go silent. "Every single person here has come voluntarily."

Peter felt the microchip vibrate underneath his arm. "Liar."

Mr. Stark shook his head. "Not lying. Cross my heart," he said making the gesture across his chest before he grabbed another fry. "Every single person here came because they wanted to."

It was a lie. Another lie! It wasn't true. They were all held against their will. Like him.

Mr. Stark saw the doubt pass over Peter's face. "Tell me, short stuff," he said, nonchalant but it lacked the normal snarky arrogance. "Did you hear anyone saying they don't want to be there?"

Peter opened his mouth to respond with a definitive answer, but then he realized something. None of his teammates ever complained. They griped about him, but never the situation. The predicament they found themselves in.

"See anyone chained to a wall?" Mr. Stark went on. "With a ball and chain? Behind bars? Wearing a collar and held by a leash?"

Peter rolled his eyes at the sarcastic repartee, but he raked his mind to find evidence to support himself. He came up empty. There was no recollection of his teammates ever wearing the bracelet he was forced to wear. No one in the cafeteria or in the locker room or hallways. No one. He saw no one else wear what he had to wear every day.

Then again, he wore a microchip now. "I do," he said, lifting his arm up to Mr. Stark. "I bet others do too. I just don't know about it."

"Very few do," Mr. Stark replied quickly, unconcerned. "Not to keep them from running though, but to keep them in check. Dangerous and distrustful individuals are microchipped to protect others here at the Compound. Not everyone here is as friendly as you.

"They agreed to it," Mr. Stark explained. "Accepted it as part of the arrangement to stay at the Compound. Be microchipped and get to train with the big boys."

Peter scrunched his face, thinking who would outrageously agree to be microchipped. He wanted to claw his out. And would do so if he knew he wouldn't be zapped into unconsciousness. The microchip was a constant reminder of how little control he had of his own life.

"I didn't get that choice," Peter murmured, looking at his arm. "It was forced on me."

"Yeah, well, in your case, you were unreliable," Mr. Stark responded, shoving in a small handful of fries into his mouth. "You're like a puppy. Can't be trusted to stay put and behave."

"So, you activated a microchip that would track my every move and send electrical shocks to knock me down?" Peter questioned, feeling less and less like a human being. "Like a shock collar for a puppy?"

"Well, if we are going to go with that metaphor, then I suppose the answer is yes," he reluctantly agreed to the metaphor. "Didn't want to, but kind of have too after you ran off like that. Couldn't risk you getting loose again."

Peter's nostril flared at the belittled treatment he had become. He went from a person to a dog. Trained to be a good boy and follow instructions. Learn to attack on command and be the stiff, obeying dog to its master.

Peter's stomach hardened and his waistline cramped. He folded his arms over it, wishing he stayed back in the bedroom.

"Back to the point of this discussion," Mr. Stark clapped his hand together. "Everyone here came voluntarily and accepted the terms. They stayed and are happy to keep doing this because they know how dangerous the world is. They know that there is something much bigger on the horizon, lurking in the shadows, and like me, they want to be ready.

"Earth needs defenders," Mr. Stark pressed on with more gravity than Peter ever heard that he actually listened more closely to Mr. Stark. "The Avengers were once that, but not anymore. Those days are in the past. We need to focus on the future, because up there," He pointed up to the ceiling, but Peter figured he was pointing at the sky. Space and the great beyond, "that's the endgame, kid. That's what we need to worry about. They all know that. And they all accept it as their rightful duty to protect Earth from another repeat of New York."

A quiet moment tremored the room. A crack that split the air and left Peter even more uncertain about the world around him. He remembered that day in New York. When a hole opened the sky and all these ugly menacing monsters dropped on New York in a hellfire of fury. He saw it through a window. A horror shot straight from the television. People were afraid. People were running. People were dying. And Peter watched from his window, wondering if anyone could save them.

When Peter got his powers, he fantasied being a member of the group who did arrive and defeated the aliens. He saw himself fighting alongside Captain America, swinging around buildings with Iron Man flying next to him and he visualized himself picking up Mjölnir and using it to defend a fallen Thor. He wanted to be one of the good guys. To be one of the heroes his younger self prayed for when New York was under attack.

He guessed everyone else thought the same thing.

But, if they had no problem with recruitment, why the sudden swarm of restraints on him? Why the need to be microchipped and followed? Why? Why? Why?

"If you had people volunteering then… why did was I kidnapped?" Peter began his questioning with hands flat on the seat cushions, "Why do you need me?"

"Hm?" Mr. Stark hummed.

"Why do you need me?" Peter repeated. He needed to know. Too tired being kept in the dark and told to blindly follow. "What do you want from me?"

Mr. Stark let out a haggard sigh. He too was tired. Exhaustion dug deep into the man's skin and hung off his bones. "I don't want anything from you."

"Then why did you bring me here?" Peter demanded, though it sounded more like a whine than a manly objection. "Why did you take me away from my home? My family?"

"I didn't."

"Yes you did!" Peter shouted, eyes burning and he was upset all over again. "You kidnapped me… a-and brought me here. Against my will! A-and you won't let me out. Or call my aunt. And—"

"Kid!" Mr. Stark called, his voice overtaking Peter's rant. "I didn't bring you here nor did I ask you to be brought here. I never even knew you existed until that day I met you."

Peter blinked away the angry tears, stumped, but also disbelieving the man. "Liar."

Mr. Stark furiously shook his head as he raised his hand up in a subdued manner, like he was trying to ease a childish tantrum. "No, that's the truth," he swore to Peter before he turned his head askew. "You really don't remember what happened?"

Peter didn't, but Deadpool filled in some of the missing gaps for him. "I know you hired Deadpool to kidnap me."

He watched Mr. Stark's face convert into a disgusted mien. His lips twisted in scowl. "I didn't hire that psycho to kidnap you," Mr. Stark rebuffed the accusation. "Deadpool is a member of the United Nations enforcers unit. They're like—bounty hunters! They go off and try to collect as many enhanced individuals they can and bring them in. Deadpool caught you and turned you into the UN. When I discovered you were a kid—Jesus! I tried to fix the situation, but they already put you in the system."

"The system?"

"The Accords!" Mr. Stark accentuated, madly gesturing with his hands. "You said you followed the news, right? The Sokovia Accords. Enhanced individuals – like you – must register with the UN and provide biometric data such as fingerprints and DNA samples. They have you in the system, kid. Everything from blood samples to birth certificate to school records. They have everything!"

Peter squirmed at the sudden violation, wrapping his arms around him in a pathetic attempt to comfort himself. No one else would.

"It put us in a delicate situation," Mr. Stark continued on, wagging a finger between him and Peter. "A fifteen year old kid. Half the age of our youngest adult recruit. What the hell am I supposed to do with a kid?"

"Could have let me go?" Peter replied, dryly

Mr. Stark somberly shook his head. "You're not getting it," he said, disappointed. "You are in the system! There's no setting you free. Not with the UN knowing about you. They can't have some fifteen year old kid, who can stop an out-of-control car with his bare hands, running around playing hero unsupervised! That's the fucking reason they created the Accords. Culpability and responsibility for the actions of enhanced individuals. And letting you just go on your merry way would make them look bad."

"And that's why they had Deadpool kidnap me?" Peter said, crossed. "Because they didn't want to look like idiots?"

"No! You're not—" Mr. Stark crushed his fingers into a ball on his face. "Listen—Deadpool and other enforcers hunt enhanced people who haven't made their decision on the Accords. They capture them to force them to make that decision. Deadpool found you and got you. That's all. There was no order about kidnapping you. He saw an opportunity to make money and took it."

Peter was only a commodity. A paycheck for someone else while they get to live freely and he got to waste away in a small room, away from everyone he loves. The longer he stayed in the conversation, the less human he was to everyone.

He wanted his aunt. She would treat him like a person. Love him like a person too.

Mr. Stark ran his fingers through his hair, making it more disheveled and less groomed than the perfect Stark standard. "It put me in a tight spot," he said, holding his hands out, palms up. "I had Ross and politicians on one end and… you at the other."

He sounded despaired. Guilt weighed heavily on his slackened shoulders as Peter watched those dark eyes drift to the floor. The man looked drained, as if all the work and attempts to explain the situation to Peter burrowed into his skin and settled on his bones.

Another breath released a bundle of stress from Mr. Stark. "I was faced with a hard decision," he said, uncharacteristically as if he truly hated the position he was forced into, "but I made the best choice for you."

Peter thought back to all those best choices he suffered. Because of them. Because of Mr. Stark. "I can make my own choices," Peter claimed.

"Not this time, kid."

"Why?" Peter threw back at Mr. Stark. "Everyone else got a chance to decide! Why not me?"

"Because."

Peter irritably shook his head. "That's not good enough," he contended. "I have the right to make my own choices! Especially when it's my life!" There was a bit of heat returning to his cheeks. A desperate thirst to make his own rules and have his own voice. "I want to go home! Okay? That's my decision."

Mr. Stark looked on with repentance, but firm in his stance. He was not going to be moved by Peter's speech.

Peter clutched the edge of the sofa. "Take me home!"

Mr. Stark said nothing.

It unnerved Peter. "I want to go home! I want my aunt! She's probably worried sick about me and…"

Peter suddenly remembered Mr. Stark's words from before, something about taking care of his aunt. "What did you do to her?" he demanded to know, lunging forward so suddenly that Mr. Stark jerked back. The last he heard about his aunt was from Nat and he hadn't seen her ever again. "Where is she? Does she know what you're doing? Does she know where I am—"

"Your aunt has been taken care of," Mr. Stark assured him, but that sent a rock into Peter's gut. "She's been informed of the situation and she's being well taken care of."

"What… what do you mean by that?"

"I mean you don't have to worry."

"I am worried!" Peter shouted. How could he not? "I don't trust you! Any of you!"

"Peter—"

"No!" Peter shot up from his seat, backing away from Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark didn't jump up after him. He stayed seated, watching Peter freak out.

"You can't do this! It's wrong!" Peter cried, trying to reach the man's heart. If there was one. "I'm a kid! Not a solider! Or a dog! Or—"

"You don't think I know that?" Mr. Stark uttered in prickled rage from the constant charge. He got up from his seat now, moving along the edge of table to get around it. "I know you're a kid, Peter! Everyone here knows! But we're doing our best. I am doing my best to make this whole situation go away and get you back to your aunt."

That… that surprised Peter. He didn't expect that response at all. "What?" he said, breathlessly. Did he hear what he thought heard?

The man's whole body sagged. "I didn't want to get your hopes up," Mr. Stark began, shoulders slouched as the man slowly paced in front of Peter. "Since you came here, I've been working endlessly to try and find a way to get you back to your aunt without any consequences. That's why I haven't been around the Compound. That's why I've had Reynolds, Simon, Nellie and Vision looking after you. Keep you safe and secured so that I can return you in one piece back to your aunt.

"Granted—you made that really hard with your reckless behavior," Mr. Stark added as a quip. "Jumping out of the building and then running wildly and aimlessly in the woods. Then, you nearly gave me a heart attack when I found you fighting Deadpool at that gas station!"

Peter perked up at that long ago memory. He recalled his brief fight with Deadpool. He remembered the katana, swinging over his head and then… bolts of lightning spazzing his muscles into submission. His senses dying on him. The last sound of metal groaning and a cool touch on his cheek.

"You."

Mr. Stark stopped in his tracks. "What?"

Peter stared wide-eyed at the man. "It was you!" he pointed. "You captured me at the gas station. Not Deadpool!"

"Yeah, it was me," Mr. Stark confirmed, circling back around the table and dropping into his old seat. "And I'm glad I found you when I did. Deadpool is psychotic. And not only that, if he caught you, you and I wouldn't be having this conversation right now."

"Why not?"

Mr. Stark shrugged, flicking his hand dismissively. "It doesn't matter why because it didn't happen," he said. "I found you and got you out of there. Brought you back here where it was safe for you to keep living."

Peter raised his brows in a questionable arch. "I think you and I have different definitions of the word safe."

"Be as that may, it was a very good thing I found you when I did," Mr. Stark defended his action to attack a child. "Otherwise, you would never see your aunt again. They would make sure of that."

"I don't see my aunt now," Peter refuted. No calls. No letters. No communications whatsoever. "I want my aunt. I want to go home."

"You will."

"And I don't believe you," Peter fired back, feeling small and childish for calling for his guardian. For being afraid and wanting her to hold him. He was a teenager and still wanted his aunt. "You won't let me call her. You won't let me see her. How can I know that I ever will? I've been here for… I don't even know how long I've been here because no one tells me anything!"

"Because I'm telling you that you will!" Mr. Stark swore as if his decree were the words of God. Final and in stone. "Peter—I'm trying to find a way to get you back to your aunt. You think I want you here? Surrounded by assholes and power-hungry fools?"

Peter wanted to scream yes, but seeing the serious consternation on the man's face made him pause. There was deep tension in the man's face. The kind that scarred a man's aura, leaving a long shadow in its wake. Mr. Stark had heavy bags that drooped his eyes down and his hair kept getting messier and messier for the constant finger rakes. And when Mr. Stark spoke, there was a rawness to his voice.

"I want you to be home! I want you to be able to walk out of these doors, back to your aunt, without worrying about Deadpool coming after you or the UN," Mr. Stark grounded out in some desperate reasoning. "Where you can go back home to your relatively normal life of home and school. Okay? But you gotta give me a little more time. That's all I need."

Peter hesitated in his answer. More time. Peter didn't have time to offer him. Mr. Stark had all the time. All Peter had were wishes and those weren't useful except to help him sleep. Otherwise, they antagonized him. He wanted to go home. Now! But, Mr. Stark said that impossible at the moment. All because of the Accords and the United Nations.

Maybe Peter had it all wrong. All this time, he believed Mr. Stark to be his jailor. The one holding him against his will and keeping him from his aunt. Maybe that wasn't the truth. Maybe everyone was right when they said Mr. Stark spared his life. From what Mr. Stark told him and his brief observations, perhaps the true culprit to Peter's pain was not Mr. Stark, but the Accords. And the United Nations council. They were the ones with the power. They were the ones that wrote out the Accords. They were the ones that sent out Deadpool. They did it all. It was them.

Mr. Stark wasn't Peter's jailor. He was his cell-mate. Both at the mercy of politicians who thought knew best.

"Peter," Mr. Stark grabbed his attention again. "I will get you back home. Once I get Ross and the others to renegotiate the Accords and make the amendments, you'll be free to go back to your aunt. Hell—I'll let you even call her the second it's over. Order a car up here to take you both home. Together."

It sounded very enticing. All he had to do was wait a little longer for Iron Man to fix the problem and he could go back with his aunt. But…

"Does that mean I still have to train?" Peter asked, not enjoying the idea he would still have to follow the training regimen. "Do I have to listen to Mr. Reynolds?"

A little smirk picked up the man's goatee. "Yeah… no. Not necessarily. I still think it's a good idea for you to train. After all, you are Spider-man. It won't hurt to hone your powers to better yourself. I viewed some of your fighting skills. Not exactly pro. An old boxer could wipe you flat."

"I don't—"

"I know. I know," Mr. Stark said with a hand to calm him down. "You're tougher than you look, but still. You could do better." The man gave a long, drawn sigh. "As for working with your team. I get it. I know a thing or two about cruel teammates."

He was talking about Captain America. What happened between the two that dissolved them into this chaotic resentment? Peter heard bits and pieces from the news about Captain America's refusal to cooperate with the government and something about harboring a killer, but that didn't make sense. And there was Iron Man, working alongside the government and building this new world of organized superheroes. The world Peter stepped into didn't make sense. But it happened because the two former friends clashed.

The world changed for good all over again.

"You know what though?" Mr. Stark interrupted Peter's dismal thoughts. "I'll pull some strings. See if I can get you out of a few team bonding exercises. Maybe you can come and tag along with me? Help me out in my lab. You're a mechanical genius. I could use a second pair of eyes while I build. Does that sound good?"

"What about my freedom?" Peter asked. That sounded better than good.

Deep crevices formed along Mr. Stark's forehead. "I will give you that too, Peter," he said, "but while I'm battling out with politicians, you gotta do something. Not hide out in your room." Mr. Stark scooted closer to the edge of the couch. "Look—you told me you want to save everyone, right?"

Peter nodded.

"Then take use of what's available to you. Learn more about yourself. Your powers. Get stronger in them. Learn a new skill!" Mr. Stark encouraged, sounding a little lighter than earlier. "You wanna be just Spider-Boy? Wearing an onesie and saving kitties? Or do you want to be Spider-man and do more good in the world?"

Peter picked at his cuticles, smashing them down to the point a few began to bleed. He always wanted to do more. Secretly, he dreamed of joining the Avengers when he got a bit better at being Spider-man. Was it worth it? All the abuse and the degrading? Just to get stronger? And Peter can't even use his web-shooters during those practices. There was no place for him to practice swinging from building to building. All of it was combat fighting or endurance training. None of it was adjusted for Spider-man training.

That meant little compared to what he truly wanted. Yet, Mr. Stark claimed it would take time to free him without collateral damages. He remembered from politics and history classes that negotiations and amendments took a long time. Did Peter have that time? Or would his mental state break into nothing?

"Kid?"

Peter slowly lifted his gaze back to the man.

"I'll admit I did a crappy job looking after you these past few months," Mr. Stark started his apology with an admission of guilt, the words heavy with shame. "I guess I trusted others to do what I would have done, but I keep forgetting they aren't as smart as me. Anyway, I'll be more open to you. I won't shut you out, kid. I promise. If you ever want to speak to me or need something, tell FRIDAY. Okay? I'll come."

Peter's hands squeezed his side, hugging himself for a sliver of comfort in the face of a life-changing decision. "What about the Accords?" he asked. "How are you going to fix them? How long will it take for me to get out of here?"

Mr. Stark sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. "Hopefully, not too long," he said. "Really got to get those politicians' asses in gear. Once I revoke money or threaten to go to the press, things will work faster. But, need to reach a compromise first. Been working on it from the start, so… I want to stay positive and say… soon-ish."

Peter crinkled his brows forward. That was not a definite time nor answer. "Soon-ish?"

"Give or take," Mr. Stark offered up as a secondary answer. "All I know is that I will work hard on getting you released. Once the i's are dotted, t's crossed and the ink dried, I'll let you be the first person to know. Deal?"

He wanted to say no. Say absolutely not. But that was the petulant child in him again. Mr. Stark wasn't the bad guy. He was a victim of the system too. The man was doing everything in his power to get Peter out of the situation. The least Peter could do was not antagonize him anymore. Cooperate if it meant he could get home quicker. Back to Aunt May.

"Okay… I guess," Peter answered, stiffly. Not happy, but not upset. "But once that happens, I get to call my aunt."

He needed that agreement to be honored. That was the most important thing to Peter.

Mr. Stark nodded. "You can call your aunt," he affirmed. "The minute we get this taken care of, you can call her and I'll order the fanciest vehicle to take you and her both home."

Peter eyed Mr. Stark, needing more than a simple nod. "You promise?"

"Promise."

Peter relaxed. He had Mr. Stark's word. The second the UN freed him, Peter was going to call his aunt. Go back home. Hug his Aunt May and see his friends. Everything would go back to normal. All he had to do is wait it out. Wait for Mr. Stark to clean up the disaster that happened because he was not the age everyone thought Spider-man was.

The silence between them was less tense. There was a surge of understanding and acceptance between the two. Both were in position they hated, and they were going to do their best to get out of it.

They could do it. Peter believed it.

Mr. Stark held out his bag of near-depleted fries. "Fry?" he offered again.

Peter looked at the greasy fries, limp in the bag. The conversation burned him out. All the knowledge and obstacles exhausted him, but also made him a tad hungry as well. After all, his dinner wasn't as appetizing as he wished and he ate little of it.

He eyed the French fries, thinking. It was only one fry.

Slowly, Peter reached over to the outstretched bag and plucked a fry from the bag. "Thanks," he said to Mr. Stark and he retook his seat, settling into the soft cushion.

"Help yourself to some more," Mr. Stark waved at the full table. "Got most of it for you anyway."

Peter nibbled on the fry as he eyed the juicy burger in the corner. One meal with Mr. Stark wouldn't hurt.