It was midnight when the family of three finally wandered into the penthouse of Stark Tower. Though Peter's Dad hadn't lived there in years, he did have the tendency to spend the night when he was working on something in the lab, and so he had kept the quarters maintained. JARVIS flipped on the lights as they entered.

"Welcome home, Masters Stark and Rogers," JARVIS spoke. The penthouse was a spacious area with a fantastic view. All the furniture and artwork was modern, sleek, and flashy. Peter recognized it for what it was—an area belonging completely to his dad, with none of Pops' influence. But Peter knew that already. He'd stayed overnight in the penthouse on several occasions, usually when he was working late with his Dad in the lab. His room was in the back, and Peter went straight there.

The room, which had functioned as a safe location for his S.H.I.E.L.D. approved babysitters (all weighted down with several heavy duty non-disclosure contracts) to look after him when his parents were away. As such, the room had never really grown up with Peter. It stayed frozen in time, the Captain America duvet still on the under-sized racecar bed, which was itself painted in shiny Iron Man colors. Peter had thought that his parents being superheroes was the coolest thing ever. Well, he still thought that. Old toys were boxed up in the closet, along with clothes now far too small for him.

Pictures of himself with his Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. family peppered the walls as this was the only place he could display those photos. This was the only place Peter had never had to hide who he truly was, who his parents truly were. Outside these walls—even on the next floor down in Stark Tower—he had to be no one for his own safety. Usually he didn't mind, but it was at times like these that he did.

Peter dumped his duffel bag at the foot of his bed and collapsed on top of it, not even bothering to change out of his jeans or even try to curl up to fit properly on the bed—he laid at an awkward angle, his feet and half of his shins sticking out the side, but he was too exhausted to care. He closed his eyes, but the next moment Pops was gently shaking him awake.

"It's morning, Peter," Pops said softly. He smelled like soap—he must have already gone for his run and showered. Super-serum or no, Peter still thought his Pops was weird for being a morning person.

"I didn't do my calculus homework," Peter mumbled into his pillow.

"It doesn't matter, Peter," Pops said. Peter's eyebrows knit together.

"Mr. Responsible doesn't care that I didn't finish my homework?"

"You got kidnapped yesterday, Peter," Pops said, his eyes searching his face. "Do you remember that?"

"Of course I remember that. Big green guy on a glider had some hare-brained never-would-have-worked-anyway plan and then Spider-Man came in and kicked some serious ass," Peter said. "I mean, really, he was awesome." Pops smiled a little but still looked at him in concern.

"Well, your Dad and I would like it if you could get up soon. There's breakfast waiting and we need to talk to you," Pops said. Peter felt unease settle into his stomach, and his whole body tensed.

"Talk about what?" he asked. Pops just rubbed Peter's shoulder briefly.

"Stuff. Just come out when you're ready for breakfast," Pops said. He gave Peter a small, reassuring smile before leaving his room and shutting the door behind him. But he'd left Peter with a tight feeling in his chest. We need to talk was never a good phrase. It never meant, 'we need to talk to you about all these good grades you're getting' or 'we need to talk to you about how we're getting you a puppy'. In Peter's experience, 'we need to talk' meant either 'you're in trouble' or 'something awful has happened'—usually the latter. And since awful things had already happened this weekend, Peter was feeling far too drained to deal with anything else. He stared at the walls of his room for a minute.

The picture closest to him was of him and his Uncle Bruce, the day that all of the Avengers had gone to Disneyland for the day. Dad had flown them all out there and made a big production of it, of course. He'd bought the park for the day for just the Avengers and members of S.H.I.E.L.D. and their families. Steve usually hated it when Tony did things like that, but it was Peter's sixth birthday and he hadn't minded making an exception. It wasn't like they could invite kids over from his school for a party.

Needless to say, the lines had been essentially nonexistent, and Peter had gotten pictures with every single Disney character. Peter had been having a great time, but Bruce, who had neither children nor a date, had looked rather forlorn. Peter could remember him staring wistfully at the Dumbo ride. He'd let go of his dad's hand and gone right up to Bruce and taken his, demanding his uncle take him on the ride. Bruce had been a bit baffled at first, but as the ride went on, he was grinning and laughing along with Peter. Tony had snapped a shot of them flying through the air on the Dumbo ride, hands up and hair blowing in the wind.

Some of the other photos on the walls were from that particular Disneyland visit—one with him and his dads all wearing Mickey Mouse ears, one with Clint and Peter posing with pretend bows and arrows with Robin Hood—but not all of them. One, Peter's favorite, was with all of the Avengers in their costumes, laughing and smiling inside the Triskelion, with Peter hoisted on Pops' shoulders. The Avengers had been called in, but the threat had turned out to be a false alarm, so the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent kwho'd been babysitting Peter brought him by to see all his heroes in their full glory. Peter couldn't remember who'd cracked a joke right before the picture had been taken—it was probably Dad, Peter thought, or maybe Pops or Thor saying something out of place—but nevertheless, they'd all ended up cracking up just as the flash went off.

Peter sighed. It had been a while since he'd seen them all that happy. Years of hard crime fighting did nothing to lighten one's mood. Although, Peter reflected, Thor only seemed to grow more cheerful when he had more bodies to pummel with his hammer, but that was just Thor. Peter rolled out of bed and opened his door—he needed to shower and change before school, but he thought he'd rather have breakfast and get this conversation over with first.

He padded down the hall, still dressed in clothes from the previous day. Both of his dads were sitting at the breakfast table in uncomfortable silence. Pops pretended to be very focused on his scrambled eggs, and Tony likewise had a very interesting mug of coffee. Peter pulled out a chair and both of his dads looked up, startled. They must have been deep in thought, and that thought gave Peter no comfort.

"Ok, let's get this over with," Peter sighed, slumping into the cushy seat. "What's going on?" His dads exchanged awkward, almost guilty glances.

"I guess we should get straight to the point, Peter…we know it's your senior year, but after this kidnapping incident we don't think Midtown High is going to be safe enough for you," Steve said. "We've laid out your new uniform for you there." Steve pointed to the seat beside Peter. He looked over at the folded garments—black pants, white shirt, and a navy coat and tie. The coat bore a Hawthorn tree and three latin words: Doctrinaeue, Honorem, Fortitudo.

"You're sending me to Hawthorn Academy?" Peter groaned.

"It's for the best, Peter—" Pops began.

"It's for rich kids that can't get in anywhere else!"

"They have security personnel stationed at every door. All faculty are sworn to secrecy about who attends—"

"It's my senior year—"

"You've never been attached to Midtown before, and besides you've been getting into fights—"

"Is that what this is about? God, I said I'm sorry—"

"It's about your safety Peter," Pops said firmly. "And you can complain about this all you want but it doesn't change the fact that tomorrow you start at Hawthorn."

"Tomorrow? What am I supposed to do today?" Peter asked.

"Happy will take you to Midtown to get your things from your locker, and then the day is yours to do with as you please, though I would suggest getting some rest," Pops said. Peter just looked at him.

"So that's that, then? No discussion, no input from me, just 'you're switching schools, sucks for you'?" Peter asked. Pops frowned at him. "Are you going to say anything about this, Dad?" His dad looked at him for a moment, then sighed.

"Your Pops is right. It was both our idea," Dad said. "You'll be better protected there, and it's closer to the penthouse, anyway."

"Don't you think that Joe Nobody going to a school like Hawthorn might raise some eyebrows? That it might make me more conspicuous?" Peter argued hotly.

"The staff is sworn to secrecy."

"The students aren't!"

"Actually, they are, to an extent," Dad replied. "But you're right, it would just raise eyebrows. It would set you apart from the others. Which is why we've decided that at Hawthorn you won't have to hide. You've been enrolled under your birth name, Peter Stark." Peter blinked for a moment, speechless.

Never had there been a time in his life when he didn't have to hide who his parents were or where he came from. The few friends he'd had over the years hadn't ever been privy to the information—Peter would go over to their houses to play, and Tony would drop him off with his motorcycle helmet still on. He'd never had a proper birthday party, had never had his friends over after school. He'd never hosted a sleepover, and certainly had never had his parents come for Career Day at school. Lying low was the price of Peter's normal life, and Peter had learned to accept that. He hadn't ever thought that this might be a possibility.

"Shouldn't it be Peter Stark-Rogers?" was the first thing that came out of Peter's mouth. Pops shifted uncomfortably, and Dad avoided his gaze.

"That's…that's not on your birth certificate," Dad said.

"But that's what it should be," Peter insisted.

"We're…not equipped to handle the implications of releasing that name, Peter," Pops said in a strained voice.

"…Are you leaving again?" Peter asked. There was only tense, uncomfortable silence in answer. "You are! You're leaving again!"

"It's just for—"

"A couple of days, sure," Peter said acidly. "Which is why I can't be Peter Stark-Rogers, because it's such a temporary situation."

"Peter, my leaving has nothing to do with that," Pops said. He put a hand on Peter's shoulder, but Peter batted him away.

"Then what does it have to do with?" Peter asked, but Pops stayed silent, just staring at him with sorrowful eyes. But Peter didn't care—he was far too angry. "So that's it, then? I'm Tony Stark's son and that's all that I am? I can be half honest about my life—or is it actually being honest? Is that all that I am? Is that all I've ever been to you? Tony's kid?" Peter stood up and stormed out of the room, too angry to care about the deeply hurt expression on his Pops' face. He went to his room and slammed the door behind him, curling back up on his bed and pulling the blankets tight around his shoulders. He shut his eyes, wanting to go back to sleep, wanting for everything to just go away.

Peter didn't hear the door open, and he didn't hear Pops' footsteps, but he did feel the bed depress with his weight as he sat on the edge, and he felt Pops run his hand through his hair, stroking it gently, soothingly. Peter opened his eyes.

"Did your dad and I ever tell you about the day you were born?" Pops asked. Peter shook his head. They never talked about the circumstances surrounding his birth. What Peter knew was only what he'd managed to piece together over the years.

"I was still mad at Tony," Pops began. "I was mad at him for cheating on me with some random woman from his company. I was mad at him for some of his behavior following finding out about her pregnancy. Most of all, I was mad at myself for expecting him to change, for trusting him at all, for being a fool.

"I got a call about a week after having a huge blow-out fight with him in the middle of a battle with the rest of the Avengers. There was talk of disbanding the team, or at least removing either myself or Tony from the mix. It was a mess, and Fury was—well, furious. But I got this call, and it was Tony on the other line, and frankly I'd never heard him sound so panicked. He said Rebecca was in labor, and that he didn't know what to do. I don't think we ever told you this, but Tony was seriously considering giving you up for adoption. He wasn't ready for a kid, he said. He'd only screw one up, he said. The child would be better off without him, he said. I'd tried to talk him down from it, and by the time Rebecca went into labor, he still hadn't decided what to do. And he felt alone—he was alone.

"I couldn't let him make a decision that he would regret. So I dropped everything I was doing at the Triskelion and drove over to the hospital to meet him. Tony hadn't called me until almost the end of Rebecca's labor, so by the time I got there, you were already born. Tony was babbling on at me, he was so nervous. They led us into the newborn care unit to see you, and Tony just kept babbling on. He said that you just cried when he tried to pick you up earlier. And sure enough, when the nurse put you in his arms, you were silent for a moment, but then you just burst out wailing. And Tony just looked at me, and he looked more helpless than you did.

"'You see?' he told me, 'He just cries! I don't know what to do—here, you try—' I meant to tell him no. I meant to tell him off for dragging me into his problems, meant to tell him to man up and take care of his son himself, to accept his new responsibility as a single father, but I hesitated because of that look on his face, and before I knew it you were in my arms.

"You were so tiny, but already I could tell that you were Tony's. You had his lips, his jaw, and his eyes. And you looked up at me with those big brown eyes, and you stopped crying and smiled instead. And that was it. Nothing else mattered. I just wanted you to keep smiling, from that day until long after my death. That day at the hospital, Tony and I got over ourselves and worked things out. Two days later, we took you home together.

"For six weeks you'd only quiet when I held you, only sleep when it was me who rocked you. You have always been my son as much as Tony's. And you know that." Pops finished his story, looking very seriously at Peter.

"If I smile now, will you stay?" Peter asked quietly. Peter didn't think he'd ever seen Pops look so sad. He enveloped him in a hug, which Peter returned, clutching at his Pops like he never wanted to let go.

"Oh my little boy," Pops said wearily, "It's not so simple as that."

"Why not?" Peter muttered into Pops' shoulder.

"It's not Tony who's screwed up this time," Pops said gently. He kissed Peter on the forehead and released him from the hug. Peter let go reluctantly. "Take a shower and get dressed. I'll take you to clean out your locker at Midtown."

Freshly showered and in recently laundered clothes, Peter walked down the halls of Midtown High, an odd feeling haunting him as he realized it would be his last time doing so. His dads were right, he'd born no great love for Midtown. Any friends he'd had in school had long since moved or ditched him for cooler crowds.

Peter didn't care much for the contents of his locker, either. For the most part, it was full of textbooks that belonged to the school. He only owned the shelves and a few magazine clippings of the Avengers that he'd put up at some point the previous year. In fact the only real reason he'd come was because of—

"Gwen!" Peter called when he spotted her. Gwen clearly saw him, and she promptly turned in the other direction. Peter hurried after her. "Gwen, I am so sorry about yesterday, but—"

"I saw the movie. Batman dies at the end."

"Oh, wow, ok, spoilers much?" Peter said, then he nearly smacked himself. He'd gotten his mouth from his Dad, and this wasn't the first time he mourned that fact. "I mean—"

"I called you. Six times."

"I know, I—"

"You could have at least had the decency to call and say you couldn't make it, or that you didn't want to."

"I would have if I could have but—" Peter broke off. What was he going to tell her? That he was kidnapped? Oh yes, that would go over very well. "—uh, my Dad caught me texting and took away my phone. Because I was grounded. And uh, I didn't have your number anywhere else so I couldn't use the house phone. And I tried to tell Dad that I needed to call you but he just said too bad."

"Peter Parker, I don't think I've ever met a worse liar than you," Gwen said flatly. Peter groaned internally.

"Gwen—"

"You could at least be honest with me," Gwen said, sounding more hurt than angry. Peter felt a guilty pang.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you the truth," Peter said honestly. Gwen still looked skeptical.

"Try me," she said. Peter looked around the crowded hall. Some people were looking their way, eavesdropping in to catch all the latest gossip.

"Not here," Peter said quietly. "But—if you want to know, then meet me in front of the Stark Industries building at five o'clock. I'll explain, and we can have dinner, on me. I'll cook. And we'll have the best view in all of Manhattan, I promise. And if you want to stand me up like I did to you, then I totally understand and here's your chance to get revenge." Gwen searched his face for a moment.

"You're really…mysterious, Peter Parker," she said finally. Peter grinned a slightly crooked grin.

"I know. Oh, I should probably mention that I'm transferring schools so this might be the last time we see each other. You know. It's up to you," Peter said. Gwen rolled her eyes.

"You're awful, you know that?" she said. She started walking away.

"I'll be waiting!" Peter called after her. She glanced back at him once before continuing on her way. Peter smiled. He was pretty sure she'd show. Now he just had to get things ready.

"What are you cooking for? We could just order out," Dad said, glancing over at the boiling pot of pasta Peter was diligently stirring. Pops had already packed his duffel and left—Peter had tried to ask Dad what Pops had done wrong, but Dad was silent on the subject.

"I'm cooking for Gwen," Peter said. Dad's eyebrows went up practically past his hairline.

"A girl?" he asked.

"Yes, a girl. A girl I really, really like. A girl I accidentally stood up yesterday. And she's coming up here to have dinner," Peter said. He didn't think his dad's eyebrows could go any higher, but somehow they did.

"She is, is she?" Dad asked.

"Yes, she is," Peter said. "I think that since you're making me transfer schools and I was recently kidnapped, having a friend over for dinner is the least I can get away with." Dad put his hands in the air.

"I'm not stopping you!" he said. Peter felt a knot in his chest loosen. He hadn't been sure what his dad's reaction would be. He'd never been allowed to have friends over before but…well, everything was changing. "Is she pretty?"

"Dad."

"She's smart, then."

"Dad."

"Well, in that case, I hope she's at least got a great rack."

"DAD!" Peter nearly knocked over the pot of pasta. Dad just chuckled and grabbed an apple from a bowl on the counter.

"I'll order in. You kids have fun. Be safe," Dad said.

"I was going to say you should introduce yourself, but now I'm thinking the opposite," Peter said, scandalized.

"Oh-ho, meeting the parents? That serious, huh kid?" Dad asked, a suggestive expression on his face. Peter just stared back, expressionless.

"You get so worse without Pops around to temper you," Peter stated. It was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. The teasing light disappeared from Dad's eyes.

"I'll say hello, Peter. Until she shows up, I'll be in the workshop," he said, and before Peter could apologize, he was gone. Peter sighed. Couldn't he do anything right, lately?

He drained the pasta and set everything up on the table. One good thing about the penthouse was that all the walls were just giant windows, so he moved the table closer to the window that faced the setting sun. He glanced at his phone for the time—ten 'til five. He changed quickly and then took the elevator down and scurried out the lobby and onto the street.

New York City was hitting its first wave of rush hour (though, truly, Peter felt like rush hour never really stopped or started at all), and people walked past Peter without paying him any heed. He looked around to try to find Gwen but he didn't see her. The crowds passed, the sun set further. The next time that Peter looked at his watch, it was 5:30. Peter could feel disappointment setting in. He couldn't blame her for wanting to stand him up, but he was still sad about it. He turned around to go back in the building when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Sorry I'm late," Gwen said from behind him, "but to be fair, you were later." Peter turned. He felt his stomach flutter at her smile.

"True. Very true," Peter agreed. "Unfortunately, dinner might be cold by now."

"You know, I hear there's this crazy new invention called a microwave that warms things up," Gwen teased. "So where exactly are we going?"

"Inside," Peter replied, pushing open the door. Gwen looked at him oddly.

"Inside…Stark Industries?" Gwen asked. She followed him in. He brought her into the elevator and scanned his card to get him to the penthouse.

"We're going up pretty far, aren't we?" Gwen asked after a while. Peter smiled.

"All the way to the top," he said. "I promised you the best view in Manhattan, didn't I?"

"But…isn't the penthouse of Stark Industries owned by Tony Stark? Isn't it kind of Iron Man's house?" Gwen asked, puzzled.

"More lately than usual, yes," Peter said. The elevator doors opened, and Peter heard Gwen gasp.

"This place is…incredible," Gwen said. "How—how did you get access? How are we up here?"

"Well, I got kidnapped yesterday so until we find a new house in a secure location, this is home," Peter said frankly. Gwen just stared at him.

"You—you live here? Do you know Tony Stark then?" Gwen asked. Her eyes roamed over every surface of the penthouse—Peter assumed she must have been too overwhelmed to notice the pictures hanging up.

"Well yeah. He's my dad," Peter said.

"Wait—what? But…I thought…I didn't know he had kids," Gwen said, baffled. Peter laughed.

"Well, you wouldn't. Billionaire superhero with children? It kind of paints a big red target, doesn't it? Hence the kidnapping," Peter said. Gwen's blue eyes widened.

"Wait, you weren't joking about that?" she asked. "Oh my God, you were actually kidnapped?"

"Yeah, though I can't tell you who by. It's all very hush-hush. But it's why I missed our date yesterday," Peter said apologetically.

"Are you ok?" Gwen asked.

"Yeah, no, I'm fine. This isn't the first time, don't worry about it," Peter said.

"So…you weren't kidding about transferring schools, either, were you?" Gwen asked.

"No, I wasn't," Peter replied. "I'm getting sent to Hawthorn 'for my safety'. But let's not worry about that—dinner's getting colder by the minute!" He led Gwen to the table and pulled out a chair for her which she took gladly. After a minute in the microwave each, both of their dishes were hot again.

"You made all this?" Gwen asked, twirling spaghetti around her fork.

"Well, the sauce is from a can, but I did actually make the meatballs. They're my Dad's recipe," Peter said.

"It's delicious," Gwen said. She looked around. "You know, this kind of explains the whole first-place-in-the-science-fair-since-we-were-eight thing."

"Hey, I earned those," Peter said.

"Oh, I have no doubt that you did," Gwen said, "but it explains how you got hold of advanced robotics parts when we were nine to make that little flying thing."

"That wasn't the science fair, that was the egg-drop project."

"You were supposed to make a container that would keep it safe."

"Hey, that wasn't specified in the rules, and it's not like I just picked up a toy helicopter from radio shack—I built that sucker," Peter said proudly.

"Yes, but it explains the distinctly Iron Man-like flight stabilizers and lack of helicopter-like propulsion," Gwen replied.

"Well, all right, I'll give you that," Peter conceded with a sheepish smile. Gwen smiled back. She had a lovely smile, Peter thought. Overall she just looked beautiful, especially in this light, with the soft orange glow of the sunset raining down on her and casting a strawberry tint to her bright blonde hair. And before Peter even understood what he was doing, he was leaning forward, and so was she, and their lips collided. Peter's heart raced, faster than it had ever raced, faster than it had beat when he was kidnapped, faster even than when he was soaring through the air. Her soft lips tasted like bubblegum chapstick and spaghetti sauce—a peculiar combination, but Peter didn't mind, because he was kissing Gwen and it was the most amazing feeling in the world.

At least, it was amazing until he heard a very loud cough. They broke apart. His dad was standing nearby, a cup of coffee in his hand. Well, Peter thought, coffee was better than bourbon, at least.

"Did you make meatballs?" he asked. "I saw the spaghetti, but you didn't tell me you made meatballs."

"Because you would have eaten them all," Peter said. His dad scoffed.

"I would n—well, yes. Yes I would have," he said. "And then there wouldn't have been any left for this lovely lady, and that would be a shame."

"Dad, this is Gwen Stacy. Gwen, this is my dad, Tony Stark," Peter introduced them.

"Enchantee, mademoiselle," his dad said with a dramatic bow.

"It's nice to meet you too, Mr. Stark," Gwen replied.

"And now you've been introduced," Peter said pointedly.

"You know, Gwen, Peter was the cutest baby—I've got an album around here somewhere—"

"Dad!"

"All right, all right, another day," his dad said. He swiped an extra fork off the table and grabbed a meatball with it. "I'm going. It was nice to meet you, Gwen. And I hope Peter remembers that you can ask our chauffeur, Happy, to drive you home—a young lady shouldn't have to walk these streets alone at night."

"Oh, that's very kind of you to offer, Mr. Stark—"

"It's just common courtesy. You kids have fun—but not too much fun—and don't stay up that late, it is a school night," Dad said, and then he left the room.

"We should finish the meatballs before he comes back," Gwen said conspiratorially.

"Ohh, that's just cruel," Peter said with a wicked grin.

Later that night (at around three in the morning) an overly-caffeinated Tony would discover that there were no meatballs leftover and, fraught with grief, would send Happy out for ingredients and make more himself. Peter, for his part, would be sound asleep, dreaming of perfect sunsets and bubblegum flavored chapstick.