The cool air of the vents greets me. I shuffle forward on my hands and knees, the grille swinging open behind me.

I like the vents. They're cool and silent and lonely. Someplace to think. Sometimes it's a tight squeeze, but I deal with it. The tunnels run all around the tower. Sometime I wonder if they were made so large on purpose, or if it's only a coincidence.

I keep shuffling forward, the familiar twist and turns of the maze before me. I'm up here a lot. I discovered the network when playing hide-and-seek, oddly enough. It takes a lot of persuading, and Mr. Stark pretty much just counts to 30 and then got F.R.I.D.A.Y to tell him where I am. But it's nice that he even pretends.

I'm nearly to my room when I hear grunting ahead. Freezing, I shy away from the noise, yet curious to who it is.

"Jesus, when...did..these dam vents...get so tight?" Then a muttering of Russian expletives.

I crawl forward to see a half-in, half-out Natasha Romanoff. bn her head bobs oddly as she struggles through the vents.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Блядь!" She shrieks. Her foot kicks back and I can hear the chair she's balancing on clang to the floor.

"Are you okay?" I ask, concerned.

"Yeah. I wanted to see if you were alright," she pants, pulling herself up. I reach out a hand, helping her.

"Why?"

"You're just a kid." she shrugs. She tries to compose herself, huffing a clump of hair out of her face. "And I do have a maternal side, no matter how much I hide it." she rolls her eyes, easing of of the sudden awkwardness away.

I blush darkly, "I'm not a kid!" I repeat.

She raises her eyebrows seriously, "You kinda are."

I growl. "Fine. But no more, it's bad enough Mr. Stark calls me Underoos."

Natasha's eyebrows raise up to her hairline, "he calls you Underoos?" she repeats, crazy grin spreading over her face.

"No.." I mumble, blushing again.

"He does! Oh my god, Clint is going to die when he hears that!" she laughs,

"No! Please don't tell Mr. Barton!" I protest.

"Okay, okay, I won't," she pauses dramatically, a devilish grin spreading over her face. "But, you owe me a favor."

"Deal, but-" I am unknowingly cut off by the recognizable voice of Tony Stark.

"Nat!" he raps on the door.

I motion a wild 'move' gesture at her, and she drops to the ground, right as Mr. Stark walks in.

There's a pause, then, "why were you on the ceiling?"

"I lost my earring." she lies easily.

I can practically hear his suspicion, but apparently it's not strange enough an event to warrant investigation. That itself speaks volumes. "Okay, whatever, I need to talk to you."

"About what?" Natasha asks, I shuffle forward as quietly as I can, peering down into the room.

"Peter. He's just a kid, and I need you guys to go easy on him. Okay?"

Natasha raises an eyebrow. "What qualifies as 'go easy on'?"

"No murdering—"

He's immediately cut off by Nat, "No murdering Peter or people around Peter?"

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead, "the fact that you even have to ask—"

She groans, "Just tell me which."

"Both." he fixes her with a stare.

"Okay, I got it. Go on."

"Second, no mentally scarring him: no gruesome recounts of past missions, no bad morals, no making out with Clint in plain view—"

"What! I don't make out with Clint!"

"Firstly, you need to stop interrupting me, second, we all know you have a thing."

"Fine, and we don't!"

"Third, no embarrassing him, god knows I do that enough."

"...Embarrassing?"

"No picking him up from school, no nicknames - that's my thing, no dragging him into disputes, no posting pictures, no beating up bullies - he won't let me so you don't get to, no scenes, no mentioning him in press conferences. No anything." He finishes finally.

"Why would I pick him up from school?" she inquires, sounding confused. "Or any of that actually." she adds, as if a second thought.

Tony raises his eyebrows, "That's what I thought, the kid grows on you." From my vantage point I see Natasha lift her head ever so slightly, eyes flicking to the vents above where I'm hiding.

"Yeah. I can see that."

Tony moves to leave, opening the door and half-stepping out. Before he does, he calls out: "I know you're up there, Peter."

There's a moment of silence, then I stick my head out of the vent, grinning in both a mischievous and apologetic way. "Sorry, Mr. Stark,"

His eyes are masked behind iconic yellow ray-bans. "No problem, kid."