Chapter Four

All was quiet in the Stark-Rogers-Parker household. It was a rare occasion, but perhaps what was even more rare was that Peter was up at eight in the morning on a Saturday. Typically, Peter slept in, but eight o'clock on a Saturday was the perfect time. Dad would get home at a normal hour on Friday, and that night he'd catch up on all the sleep he'd lost through the week. Pops was usually up, but he tended to stay in bed with Dad, reading the paper or watching old movies on television that Dad had already seen a million times and had no intention of revisiting. Since Peter wasn't ever up, Pops didn't bother to make breakfast.

Peter slipped out of bed and gently padded over to the closet, carefully avoiding every squeaky floorboard. He changed into real clothes—well, jeans, a t-shirt, and a hoodie, anyway—and put on his sneakers. He slipped out his door carefully and tip-toed downstairs—but the front door creaked open.

"Peter?" Pops asked. "What are you doing up?" Pops was dressed simply in a t-shirt and khakis. He had a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and his hair was wet, clearly freshly showered. He'd already hit the gym and come back.

"Do you do this every Saturday?" Peter blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Has my childhood been a lie? Because I always thought you just stayed in bed with Dad, but do you—do you actually go out and do things and just come back?"

"…No…" Steve said. "…Do you?"

"No," Peter replied.

"So what are you doing? Are you going somewhere?" Steve asked.

"I…uh…well yeah…see, I've got this project that I have to work on for chemistry, and well, my lab partner, he uh, he's in sports so the only time he had free this week was nine o'clock on Saturday morning. Sucks right?" Peter said, his adrenaline going like crazy as his Pops looked at him hard. He always felt like Pops could see right through him.

"…What sport?" Pops asked.

"Oh, you know, he's a jock. He does pretty much everything," Peter said quickly. "Right now it's uh, football." It was football season still, right? "And um wrestling or something. I'm not really sure, I didn't ask too many questions."

"All right," Pops said slowly. "But next time, Pete, let your Dad or I know before you head out, ok?"

"I'll be back before noon," Peter assured him, but Pops shook his head.

"If I got up at nine-thirty and you weren't in bed, I'd have all of S.H.I.E.L.D. out looking for you before noon, Peter," Pops said.

"I seriously hope you'd try to catch me on my cell first," Peter said, a bit mortified. He could imagine uncle Bruce as The Other Guy, ripping through the city in search of him while he was just at the library or something equally stupid. Pops just chuckled.

"Probably not. But Tony would," Pops said. "I'll see you in time for lunch, Peter."

"Yeah," Peter said, slipping past him and opening the door. "Bye Pops!"

"Bye," Pops said, still following him with his eyes suspiciously. Peter shut the door behind him, a sense of relief washing over him. Pops knew he was up to something, but he didn't seem very bothered by it. Probably, Peter thought, he had enough to worry about already. He felt a bit bad about taking advantage of that fact, but hey, he needed to get out of the house.

Peter jogged down the street and got as far away from the house as possible. He couldn't risk anyone recognizing him. He flipped up his hood and ducked down a dingy alleyway. The street was still wet with last night's rain—some unfortunate soul had forgotten to bring in their clothesline, which now dripped rainwater onto the street. A few drops caught Peter on his cheek. He looked up the great red brick of the building. It was…tall. It was, more specifically, a very long way to fall from the top. Heart pounding again, Peter took off his shoes and his socks gingerly, avoiding the broken glass of a beer bottle near the dumpster. The pavement was wet and cold, and it gave him goose bumps all up and down his legs. Peter took a deep breath and touched the rough brick. He could feel his hand attach itself to the wall as he pressed a bit harder. He pulled himself up with his other hand and put his feet on the wall. Slowly, one movement at a time, Peter pulled himself up.

Half-way up the building, Peter looked down. It was the oddest feeling—he wasn't grasping anything, wasn't held up by any equipment, he was just stuck there. It was a good thing, Peter reflected as he climbed higher, that while he'd never been particularly fond of spiders, he'd never been afraid of heights. He climbed all the way up to the roof, pulling himself onto the flat surface of the building.

It certainly wasn't the highest place in New York, but Peter gazed across all the smaller houses with amazement. He could see his cozy little home far off in the distance, a quiet little place where his dads spent a sleepy Saturday morning, with no idea what their son was capable of. Peter's heart leapt with excitement—he felt like he was on top of the world. He looked across to the next apartment building—just what else had the spider altered? Peter backed up—he'd have to get a running start. He put on a burst of speed and leapt across the buildings. Peter flew through the air, marveling at the feeling. He was the Iron Avenger in that moment—and then he landed on the other building. His knees collapsed from under him and he fell hard to the ground, momentum rolling him over and over again, and then the roof wasn't beneath him anymore. His heart flew into his throat as time slowed down. He could see the sky above him, and a window slowly coming into view on his side. He was falling—he was going to die.

But instinct kicked in. Peter reached out for the ledge of the next building as he slipped away—and a web shot out. He grabbed hold and momentum swung him around. For a few moments, Peter let himself dangle from the web, swinging a bit wildly from side to side, before he slowly let out the web and lowered himself to the ground. He let go of the web and put his hands on his knees, breathing hard.

Shit, all those acrobatics were scarier than he'd thought they'd be.

But also about a thousand times more thrilling than any dream he'd ever had. And hey, practice made perfect, right? With a grin, Peter looked towards the center of the city, with all its skyscrapers and towers—including Stark Tower. Yeah, that looked like as good a place to practice as any—but he couldn't exactly do it with a hoodie and bare feet. Peter quickly walked back to his starting place and shoved his shoes back on. Before he really got to practice, he'd have to make one stop first.

On a Saturday morning at barely ten o'clock, Stark Tower was pretty much empty. Peter had only been in the usual entrance once before, when he'd had his 'allergic reaction'. But shortly after that, Dad had given him an all-access pass that he could use to get around in case any emergency like that ever arose again.

Peter slipped in the lobby, and he noticed the receptionist was the same one as the last time. The man's eyes widened and he quickly looked away—Peter guessed Pepper had attacked him with several non-disclosure forms shortly after the incident. Well, his reluctance to notice Peter's presence would only work in his favor. He swiped the card at the elevator. The door pinged and he walked inside. There wasn't a button for Tony's private floors (his lab and his home away from home), only one for his office, but Tony had instructed him in what to do. He pressed several different buttons in a specific order. The elevator pinged again.

"Welcome, young Master Stark," JARVIS' voice rang out through the elevator. Peter smiled.

"Hey JARVIS," Peter said. He was well acquainted with his dad's electronic home help. His dad had tried to get JARVIS installed in their home in Brooklyn on many different occasions, but Pops found JARVIS disconcerting and always put his foot down.

"You haven't been in the lab in several weeks, young Master Stark," JARVIS said. Peter had always found JARVIS' refusal to refer to him as 'Master Parker' or 'Master Stark-Rogers' entertaining. Peter suspected it in part had something to do with Steve's dislike of JARVIS and JARVIS' subsequent resentment of Steve. He was a very complicated computer program.

"Yeah, just need some stuff for a chemistry project," Peter lied. "Hey JARVIS—override code 3-2-6-5-Beta-1-4-9-Omega." The elevator pinged again.

"Override code accepted," JARVIS spoke. "What are you up to, young Master Stark?"

"I'm sorry, JARVIS, I just can't have you telling Dad what I'm doing," Peter explained. The override code should keep their correspondence secret—at least, it would until Dad found out he'd developed an override code at all. With another ping, the elevator doors opened, and Peter stepped into his dad's private lab.

Four Ironman suits lined the far wall. Tables heaped with equipment seemed to be in almost random placement around the room. Peter could hear a whirring—he looked around only to find Dummy 'looking' in his general direction.

"Hey Dummy, I'm going to need your hand in a minute," Peter told him. The robot whirred as if in agreement. Peter picked his way through the lab carefully, making his way to a set of steel drawers near the suits. He opened up the third drawer down and pulled out one of his dad's black underarmors. It wasn't just long underwear, as one might think, but actually it had tech of its own. Peter lifted the light material and ran his hands over it—it was light and supple, but Peter knew that it could slow a bullet, resist flames, and insulate from extreme cold. It was Kevlar microfiber. It was also high tech fabric, and it had communications systems built right in—just in case Dad got thrown from the suit. It could monitor vitals and independently call for aid in the event that the wearer wasn't able to. When Dad had made the first prototype, Pops had told him that he ought to make commercial versions for old people. Dad told Pops that he'd be first on that list.

Peter put the outfit down. He didn't want to take one of his dad's suits. For one thing, it would be blatantly obvious where he had gotten it from, and for another, his dad would be able to track it.

"JARVIS, is there any extra material left over from the underarmor?" Peter asked.

"Yes, Master Peter," JARVIS said. The top steel drawer opened. "All available scraps are located in the top drawer." Peter straightened up and looked through the drawer. There were only strips of black left, but there were whole swatches of blue and what looked to be an entire bolt of red.

"Well I guess that decides my color scheme," Peter said to himself as he picked out the fabric he needed, his mind spinning with design possibilities. He sat down at a work table and grabbed a tablet, drawing on the surface with a stylus.

"And what exactly is this for, young Master Stark?" JARVIS asked as Peter completed the sketch. Peter put the finishing touch on the sketch—a spider design, right in the center.

"My protection," Peter answered. "Now, where's the sewing machine…"

Tony Stark was luckily no hand at sewing, and so Peter was able to put his design and specifications into one of his father's inventions. After a couple of hours it was completed. Peter gingerly pulled the suit out, amazed at his creation. He'd put in a communications system that could sync up with the Avengers, but Peter was pretty sure his dad wouldn't be able to trace it. Peter quickly stripped out of his clothes and tried it out. The fabric clung to his skin. Peter put on his gloves and stuck his hand to the wall—it still stuck, just as Peter had suspected. The material was permeable enough to allow the small fibers that let Peter to stick to things come out. He slipped off the glove and put his clothes back on—it was the only way he'd be able to get it back home without his dads noticing. Just as he'd flipped up the hood of his sweatshirt, he felt a buzz in his pocket. Peter pulled out his stark phone.

Six Missed Calls

12:30 DAD

12:45 POPS

1:00 POPS

1:15 DAD

1:30 POPS

1:45 POPS

1 New Text

DAD

Pops said u would b home b4 noon where r u

Peter looked at the time—it was almost two o'clock. Woops. The phone buzzed again.

DAD

He's threatening 2 call SHIELD and I'm 100% behind him

Shit. Another buzz.

POPS

PETER WHERE ARE YOU GET HOME RIGHT NOW YOU SHOULD BE GROUNDED AFTER YESTERDAY AND I LET YOU OUT OF THE HOUSE AND EVERYTHING AND NOW WE DON'T KNOW WHERE YOU ARE GET YOUR ASS BACK HOME NOW

Super shit. That was what he got for putting his phone on silent. Peter quickly punched in a reply and sent it to his dads:

On my way home, phone on silent, lost track of time, sorry. Be home in 20.

Almost immediately his phone buzzed again.

POPS

YOU ARE SO GROUNDED

Peter sighed and jammed his phone back in his pocket. Now they'd be suspicious, watching his every move. It was the last thing that he needed right now.

"JARVIS, delete all evidence of the scraps I used from the inventory," Peter called out.

"Scraps deleted. Will that be all, young Master Stark?" JARVIS asked as Peter got into the elevator.

"Yeah, unless you can figure out a way to make my dads forget that I was supposed to be home two hours ago," Peter said, pressing the button for the lobby.

"That is not within my programming, young Master Stark," JARVIS answered.

"Yeah," Peter said, "I figured. Override code 3-2-6-5-Beta-1-4-9-Omega deactivate."

"Override deactivated. Systems functions normal," JARVIS replied. Peter rode the elevator all the way down to the lobby of Stark tower, and once he hit the sidewalk outside he broke into a run—here was to hoping he could make it all the way to back to Brooklyn in just twenty minutes. But hey, if he was running late, he could always take a "shortcut". Peter glanced up at the great glass buildings, gleaming in the sunlight. Next time.

Peter wished as soon as he had stepped through the door of his house that he hadn't. He could see Pops and his dad in the kitchen. Dad was sitting down his head in his hands. Pop looked up when the door closed and his face darkened with anger.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

"I told you, I had a—"

"Chemistry project to work on, yes, I know," Pops said. "What I don't know is why it took you six hours."

"It's a really delicate project, Pops," Peter said, joining them in the kitchen, "and—and it's like half of our grade. We were working really hard on it and I had my phone on silent and I didn't realize what time it was until we were finished. I'm sorry." Pops gave him a long look. Peter swallowed, an involuntary nervous reaction to that particular look. But then Pops sighed, the anger on his face dissolving. Peter hardly dared to believe that he'd get off so easily.

"Just…text next time Peter. And sit down, your dad and I have something we need to tell you," Pops said. Suddenly Peter's stomach twisted in a knot. Pops looked so serious, and Dad looked wiped out.

"What's going on?" Peter asked. "Is…is someone hurt?" Peter thought of all his honorary aunts and uncles, and his stomach twisted painfully again.

"No, Peter, no one's hurt," Dad said tiredly. "Sit down." Reluctantly, Peter pulled up a chair and sat down. "Rebecca called me on Tuesday morning." Peter blinked. Rebecca? Did they even know a Rebecca? Tony saw the confusion on Peter's face and quickly amended, "Rebecca Masters. Your birth mother, Peter."

Oh. Oh.

"Well…what did she want?" Peter asked.

"To talk to you," Dad replied. "She wants to meet you, Peter. But you don't have to do anything you don't want to—you can just tell her that you don't want to see her."

"She wants to meet me?" Peter asked. Peter couldn't place the emotion running through him. He'd never thought much about his birth mother. He had two parents who loved him, and a ton more honorary aunts and uncles. Sure, he'd occasionally wondered about her—were the bits of him that he couldn't recognize in Dad part of her?—but he'd never thought about seeing her before.

"She does but you don't have to meet her if you don't want to Peter," Dad said firmly. "We don't want you to do anything that you're not comfortable wi—"

"I want to," Peter interrupted, surprising everyone—including himself.

"Well, that's…Well…Uh," Dad said, unable to say anything more.

"That's your decision to make and we support you," Pops supplied helpfully.

"Yeah. That. Sure," Dad said, but he didn't look happy about it. Well, neither did Pops, thought Peter. But they hadn't looked happy in quite a while. Pops handed Peter the house phone and rattled off a number.

"She wants you to call today, if you want to," Pops told him gently. Peter stared at the phone.

"Ok," he said. He looked at Pops, and then at Dad. "Is…is everything ok?" Dad and Pops exchanged a glance.

"Everything's fine, Peter," Pops said, but Dad said nothing. Peter felt his stomach twist a little. Dad would never lie to him. But Pops…well, Pops was far more likely to put rose-colored glasses on Peter. Peter looked at the phone in his hand, and then got up from the table.

"Where are you going?" asked Dad.

"I'm going to go make a phone call," Peter said. He walked upstairs, feeling his dads eyes on him the whole time. He went into his room, shutting the door behind him. He sat on his bed, playing with the phone in his hands.

Peter had only once asked about his mother. Dad had told him that she was a woman with whom he'd had a brief affair, and that was the end of it. Peter didn't know the color of her hair, didn't know her personality, didn't know anything about her—except what he'd managed to glean from conversations his honorary extended family had had in his presence.

Peter knew that his parents had gotten together two years after his Pops' time on the ice—and he also knew that he, Peter, had been born four years after Pops' time on the ice. That had said enough to Peter that he decided not to ask about the circumstances of his birth. But it didn't mean that he hadn't been curious, both about what had happened and about his mother. He didn't want to ask his dads—but could he ask her? What would it be like to meet her, the woman who gave him half of his DNA? Would they be anything alike? Would she know he was her child instantly when she heard his voice or when she saw him?

Well, probably not, Peter thought. That didn't make much sense. It was a sentimental thought, but absolutely ridiculous. He took a deep breath and dialed the number. The phone rang once. Twice.

"Hello?" a melodic, pleasant voice answered. Peter opened his mouth but nothing came out. "…hello?"

"Um, is—is this Rebecca Masters?" Peter eventually croaked. His mouth was dry and something was stuck in his throat.

"Yes, this is she—who is this, please?" Rebecca, his mother, replied.

"Um—this—this is Peter," Peter said. There was a pause on the other line.

"…Peter? Peter, my son Peter?"

"Yeah I…yeah," Peter said.

"I didn't think you'd call—Oh, Peter I'm so glad that you decided to call," Rebecca gushed. And then there was silence. Peter didn't know what to say. "…so, I'd like to meet you in person. Would you like that, Peter?"

"I—I guess so," Peter said uncertainly. It was odd, but he suddenly remembered that this was a woman that he'd never met before. A stranger. Someone who had, in fact, abandoned him as a baby—though to be fair, she had known he'd have a good family. A whole range of emotions washed over Peter and he felt overwhelmed. Had he made a decision too quickly?

"Well, if you're sure, I'd love to meet you next weekend. Would next Saturday work for you? We could go get coffee—do you drink coffee?—or maybe dinner or something. Whatever sounds like fun to you," Rebecca said. Peter could detect a hint of nervousness in her voice, and he felt a bit relieved—it was good to know that he wasn't the only one who found the situation awkward.

"I like coffee," Peter said with a little smile, though he knew she couldn't see it. He could hear the smile in her reply, though.

"Great!" she said. "Well—did you want to talk or—or we'll talk on Saturday yes? So, coffee at…does ten in the morning work for you?"

"Yeah that…that would be good," Peter said. "It's…nice to hear from you."

"Peter, it's wonderful to hear from you. Thank you for calling," Rebecca said.

"Um, no problem. Ok so…bye then," Peter said.

"I'll see you on Saturday. Goodbye, Peter," she said, and Peter hung up the phone. He put it down and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The house was quiet, but it wasn't a good kind of quiet. It was the kind of quiet that Peter knew meant his parents were speaking quietly to each other, probably about him. Or about Rebecca. Or about whatever happened eighteen years ago. Peter's phone buzzed. A little startled, he pulled it out of his pocket.

1 new text.

BRUCE

Hey kiddo just checking in. Heard you got in a fight at school yesterday, wanted to make sure you're ok.

Peter sighed and texted back his uncle.

I'm fine. You should see the other guy.

Almost instantly his phone pinged again.

BRUCE

I didn't mean physically.

Peter flopped over on his belly, mulling over how he should reply. He didn't want uncle Bruce to worry, but then, Bruce had always been his confidante, and he'd never minded.

Lots of stuff going on right now. Weird/rough week.

BRUCE

Want to talk? You could come over for dinner. We'll get Chinese.

Peter smiled. He and Bruce always had Chinese.

Yeah sounds good. Will come if dads will let me out of the house.

BRUCE

Uh-oh. Grounded from the fight?

Among other things.

Oh, Peter. Just tell your Dad and give your Pops the slip.

Pops might kill me.

The Other Guy won't let him, trust me.

Be there at seven.

Peter put his phone back in his pocket. It was almost four, so he had about two and a half hours to kill before he needed to leave for Bruce's apartment. He opened up his computer and before he knew it, the time was gone. That was the magic of the internet. He closed it up and went down the stairs. His dad was sitting on the couch, watching television. That was a bit odd in and of itself—his dad was rarely sitting and doing nothing. But even weirder was that he was watching crappy reality television—it was super nanny or wife swap or something, Peter couldn't tell.

"Where's Pops?" Peter asked.

"Out," Dad said shortly.

"Out where?" Peter asked, puzzled. "The grocery store?"

"The gym, I think."

"But he went this morning."

"Doesn't seem to bother him."

"Ok, well…I'm headed to Uncle Bruce's place for dinner, is that cool with you?"

"Sure, Peter. Be back before eleven and call before you leave," dad said, but he obviously wasn't paying much attention to him. Peter didn't think his mind was occupied by the television, either.

"Yeah…ok dad. Try to remember to eat," Peter said. His dad was still staring at the screen blankly when he left.

Uncle Bruce lived nearby in Queens, so it only took Peter about a half an hour to get to his apartment. Bruce buzzed him up and sat him down on the couch. He'd already laid out all the Chinese food in cartons on the coffee table, and a rerun of Doctor Who was on television. They chatted easily about Bruce's latest research, debated whether or not the fifteenth Doctor was better than the tenth Doctor and whether or not either of them were better than the fourth Doctor, and happily ate Chinese food. But eventually Bruce set down his Chinese.

"All right Peter, what's bothering you?" he asked. Peter sighed.

"It's…I don't know, it's a lot of stuff."

"You could make a list," Bruce suggested.

"I won a contest on Tuesday," Peter said with a rather humorless laugh.

"What kind of contest?"

"Oscorp's Young Scientist competition. Thing is, I never entered it. My science teacher entered my science fair project from last year," Peter said, picking at his fried rice.

"But Peter, that's great," Bruce said encouragingly.

"Tell that to Dad," Peter replied with a snort.

"Don't tell me he took his grudge against Oscorp out on you," Bruce said, frowning.

"Sort of. I just mentioned the competition and he blew up. He went on a rant about how I wasn't allowed to even think about entering," Peter sighed. "And then on Wednesday I—" Peter stopped for a moment. He wasn't used to lying to Uncle Bruce. Things he wouldn't tell Pops or Dad he could tell Uncle Bruce. Bruce looked at him expectantly, but he just couldn't tell him. "—I went for a walk and had an allergic reaction to…to a bug bite or something. And on Friday Flash rammed his face into my fist and yes that is an accurate portrayal of what happened. And…and Dad and Pops have been fighting. I mean, really fighting. All the time. And then today they told me that my birth mom wanted to meet up with me so I called her today and everything's just so…weird. And I think Gwen Stacy asked me out on Friday but I'm not really sure." Bruce just looked at him. Then he picked his carton and chopsticks back up.

"Well your dad dropped a building on me on Tuesday, so I guess we're both having a rough week," he said. Peter grinned, and Bruce smiled back.

"A building? Really? How did that happen?"

"Well, we got word that this green lunatic on a glider was holding a bunch of people hostage…" Bruce took off from there, detailing his dad and his pops' fight that day. Peter figured that explained why they were at each other's necks in the first place—but only a little bit. They rarely took their work home—they rarely fought about stuff that happened with the Avengers in front of Peter, and to his knowledge they didn't let it affect their personal relationship. But something was different this time.

Nevertheless, Uncle Bruce seemed to know that the story was exactly what Peter needed to hear, and that he'd just needed to get everything off of his chest. But a weight still sunk there—the weight of his new abilities. Should he tell his dads? Part of him wanted to, but the other part….well, they had their secrets, right? So why couldn't he have his?

"And this Gwen—if she asked you out, what did you say?" Bruce asked.

"That I figured I was grounded," Peter said. "But she gave me her number and told me to give her a call."

"Then why haven't you called her?" Bruce asked, sounding scandalized. "What are you doing with your dorky uncle on a Saturday night when you could be out with a pretty girl?" Peter shrugged, feeling uncomfortable.

"It's just…not a good time right now," Peter said. He thought about that morning, about swinging through the air on a web. And then he thought about his parents shouting at each other while he tried to drown them out with his music.

"No time like the present, Peter," Bruce said. "Go home, get some sleep, and give her a call in the morning."

"Yeah, sure," Peter agreed, but he wasn't so sure he'd actually do it. "Thanks for dinner, Uncle Bruce."

"You should stop by more often, Peter," Bruce said, watching him carefully. His dads hadn't noticed that there was something he was hiding, but Bruce sure had.

"I'll try," Peter replied. Bruce walked him to the door, and then Peter walked along to get to the subway. New York was alive at night. Peter thought that it was even more alive than it was during the day. He got to the station, but a sign was posted outside. Severe Delays. Peter groaned. It would probably take him an hour or more to get home if the subway was badly delayed. It was absolutely ridiculous, he just needed to get to Brooklyn for crying out—

A thought struck Peter. He looked at his hands, and then up at the buildings around him. Severe delays, huh? He ducked down an alley. He checked to make sure no one was looking, and then he took off his clothes behind a dumpster, leaving only the red and blue suit. He pulled on his gloves and his mask, and then he stashed his clothes beneath the dumpster. He could come back for them later. He crawled up the wall of the building and jumped onto the roof. He looked out at the city—it was now or never wasn't it?

Peter took a leap of faith—and an actual leap. He jumped off the building, his hands extended outwards. His body instinctively knew what to do. A web shot out, hooking on the nearest building and swinging him towards Brooklyn. He extended his left arm, and a new web shot out, swinging him forward. He soared through the air, high above the people. He saw a couple of people point and stare, but he wasn't concerned, not when his suit covered every inch of his body. He was as unidentifiable as Iron Man—well, as unidentifiable as Iron Man was before his dad decided to just throw off the mask and admit it. At any rate, Peter sure felt like Iron Man. He figured that swinging through the city was just as good as flying. He experimented, trying a few flips and other daring moves. His body easily adapted to whatever he did—gone was the boy who tripped over soccer balls and his own two feet. He'd been replaced by something new, something that Peter didn't quite understand. But he reveled in the change.

That was, he reveled in it until the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and a cold chill ran through his body. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Peter heard a scream, and without thinking, he made his way towards the sound. He could see smoke in the distance, and as he got closer he realized a small apartment building was on fire. Most of the people had gathered outside, but one woman wouldn't stop screaming.

"My baby!" she screeched. "My baby's inside! Someone get my baby!" She was reaching out towards the building, but two firefighters held her back.

"It's too dangerous!" one of them shouted. "The building might collapse, we can't risk it. I'm sorry." Peter landed on the ground next to the woman and the startled firefighters. "Who in the hell are you?"

"I'm—uh, I'm Spiderman," Peter said, saying the first thing that popped into his head. "What floor is the baby on?"

"The fifth!" the woman shrieked. "Fifth! Apartment 5B! Please, please save her!"

"I'm on it," said Peter, and before any of the firemen could object, he was already shooting off webs and swinging into a window on the fifth floor.

Despite the fact that the suit offered protection from fire, it didn't help with the heat, which was almost unbearable. And that was to say nothing of the smoke. He rushed through the hall, jumping over places where the floor had collapsed. He found apartment 5B and kicked down the door. A baby wailed, and Peter found her in her bassinet. He quickly picked her up and ran out. A burning beam nearly fell on them both, but Peter swung out of the way with his webs. He jumped out the window, slowing his fall with a web, and landed next to the mother, who shrieked and grabbed her baby from his arms.

"Oh thank you," she sobbed, holding the crying infant close. "Bless you, Spiderman."

"It's no problem, ma'am," Peter said. The weight on his chest had gone, replaced with happiness at seeing mother and daughter reunited. Behind him, the building began to crumble like a sandcastle.

"Are you with S.H.I.E.L.D?" asked one of the firemen.

"Uh," Peter said, "not exactly." Without another word, Peter leapt up and propelled himself with his webs all the way back to Brooklyn, high from adrenaline and endorphins both. He ran across rooftops and climbed in through his bedroom window, quickly changing out of his costume and into his pajamas. He walked downstairs where he could still hear the television going.

His Dad still sat on the sofa, a glass of wine in his hand that had been nearly drained. Pops was nowhere to be seen.

"Hey Dad," Peter said. His dad started.

"Peter—when did you come in?" he asked.

"Just a couple of minutes ago. I said hi but you didn't seem to notice," Peter lied. His dad blinked.

"Oh. Sorry."

"Where's Pops?" he asked. His dad's eyes darkened.

"Gym, I expect," he said.

"It's eleven o'clock," Peter said. "He's been there four hours."

"Five. He left an hour before you did," his dad corrected. "I don't think he'll be home…until later…so why don't you just head on up to bed?"

"Ok," Peter said slowly, the knot in his stomach slowly returning as the high he'd gotten from saving that little girl began to ebb. He wanted to tell his dad all about it, wanted to spill his guts then and there, but it wasn't a good time. Pops wasn't home. Dad was upset. Everything just felt wrong.

Peter went to bed, feeling just as unsettled as he had the whole rest of the week.