A/N: I've had a couple of questions/comments regarding the time period of this story. I've done my best to give readers the timeline of the story without coming out and saying it, but I know it can be confusing. So for clarification:
The year is 2034. Steve and Tony got together two years after his time on ice (2014). Peter was born two years later in 2016. They were married three years after that, on December 5th 2019, and since Peter is 18 it's 15 years later, which puts us at 2034 in this story.
According to Marvel canon, this means that Tony is 62 years old in LID. Steve is (I think) 47—or 116 if you count all that time on ice. I hope this clears any uncertainties up and puts a few things in perspective.
Peter had never really been punished in his entire life. He was a good kid. He wasn't one to get into trouble. In fact, the closest he had come to being in trouble was recently, when Flash had the audacity to run right into his fist. But of course, his dads hadn't actually done anything about that, because what was there to be done?
And it wasn't as if Peter was a perfect little angel. He sloughed off his English homework more often than not and spent plenty of his time drawing sketches or contemplating how something might make a good photo, but he was never the type to get into trouble.
But now, Peter knew, now he was in trouble. He played the message over again.
"Hello, Mr. Stark, this is Kathy Manson from the Hawthorn Academy calling in regards to your son, Peter. This week Peter failed to complete many of his homework assignments and he earned a detention, which was to take place earlier today. Peter did not show up for his detention. If his behavior does not improve, further action will have to be taken. Please call me back at your earliest convenience, thank you."
Peter stared at his tablet for a minute, debating what to do. His Dad obviously hadn't checked his messages yet—if he had, Peter would probably still be sitting through a lecture. This left him with two choices. Choice one: he could come clean before his dad received the message, letting him know that he'd overslept and missed detention and that it would never happen again. Choice two: he could erase the message from JARVIS' database and pretend like it never happened.
Choice one was the responsible choice, Peter knew. But Peter also knew that his Dad would be mad at Peter for just getting a detention, let alone missing it. And if he asked why he wasn't doing his homework, what would Peter tell him? 'Oh, just been too busy being a vigilante in my free time, Dad'? No, that wasn't likely to turn out very well. 'Oh, just been hanging out with Harry Osborn a little too much, Dad'? No, in fact that conversation would likely be worse than admitting to his Dad that he was a vigilante.
Choice two was consequence free, at least for now and hopefully forever. Unless his dad figured out he was using override codes on JARVIS, in which case…well, Peter really didn't want to think about what his dad would do if he found out about that. Any way he sliced it, Peter was likely to get into trouble. But with choice number two, there was a small chance he wouldn't, so…choice number two it was.
"JARVIS, override code 3-2-6-5-Beta-1-4-9-Omega," Peter said.
"Override code accepted," JARVIS spoke.
"Delete the most recent voice message off the penthouse's database," Peter commanded. "And from anywhere else it might be."
"May I first advise that this course of action could have unpleasant consequences in the future, Master Peter?" JARVIS said.
"Just do it, JARVIS," Peter said uncomfortably.
"Very well, sir. Message deleted," JARVIS said.
"Thanks, JARVIS," Peter said. He thought he should feel relieved, but he didn't. The knot in his stomach was only tighter. "Override code 3-2-6-5-Beta-1-4-9-Omega deactivate."
"Override deactivated. Systems functions normal," JARVIS said. Peter put his tablet down on his desk.
He'd gotten detention, missed detention, gone out drinking and partying, stood up his own mother because he'd forgotten to call, and now he was hiding it all by physically banning JARVIS from being a tattletale. Peter wondered if this was the start of a spiral, or if he was already spiraling down faster than he could handle. Either way, Peter needed something to staunch the flow or put on the brakes. Luckily, he had just the thing.
He picked out his nicest pair of jeans, the only clean t-shirt he had (actually, it wasn't even his, it was Dad's old Black Sabbath shirt), and a heavy jacket for the cold. Despite the fact that it was now seven o'clock, his dad still hadn't returned from whatever mission he was on, and Peter wasn't about to wait up for him. He'd done enough waiting. He headed over to the movie theatre—he had a date, after all.
"Peter!" Gwen said with a smile as soon as he came into view. Gwen looked beautiful as always, in her knee-high socks, modest skirt, and sweater set. Peter couldn't help but smile when he saw her. She gave him a quick peck on the cheek.
"It's good to see you Gwen," Peter said, hesitantly putting an arm around her waist. To his immense relief, she leaned into his embrace.
"It's good to see you too, Peter," Gwen replied. "Biology just isn't the same without you. No one else makes fun of Mr. Stromberg's mustache with me." They walked over to the snack bar to pick up some popcorn and a single soda. Maybe it was the forties influence from his Pops, but the fact that they were sharing a soda made Peter as happy as anything else.
They finally sat down to watch the movie, and Peter realized suddenly that a superhero movie was probably the last thing that he wanted to see, but he sat his butt down in the chair and watched it anyway, because Gwen wanted to see it, and he wanted to be with Gwen. About halfway through, Peter realized that she was shivering—and if there was one thing that Peter had learned from Pops, it was chivalry. So he took off his jacket and offered it to her—and when she put it on, Peter decided that it looked much better on her, and he hoped she would keep it.
The movie, Peter thought, was decent enough, although he wasn't too fond of the lead actor, and he'd never been fond of the parallels between the fictional Bruce Wayne and his very real father, Tony Stark. His dad wasn't particularly fond of them either, which was why Batman movies had never entered Peter's movie repertoire as a kid. Nevertheless, he was smiling as the lights went up at the end of the credits. He looked over at Gwen to see what she thought of the movie, but he promptly lost his smile. She was looking at him in what could only be described as absolute horror.
"Peter," she breathed, "Peter, oh my God."
And that was the instant that Peter remembered that he was wearing a short sleeve t-shirt. His arms were peppered with bruises just like the rest of his body. Some were fresh and purple, others were yellow-green and fading, but it was pretty obvious that he was taking a beating on a fairly regular basis. He wished fervently in that moment that he had super-healing like his Pops.
"Uh," Peter said, unable to think of anything. Gwen looked him in the eyes and put a hand to his cheek.
"Peter," she said, "Peter, who did this to you? Who's—who's doing this to you? Why didn't you say anything?"
"It's…it's not anything to worry about, Gwen," Peter said. He was feeling awfully self-conscious now and he suddenly wished he had his jacket back.
"The hell it's not—Peter what's going on?" Gwen asked. The movie theatre employees were standing awkwardly by the door, waiting for them to vacate the theatre so that they could clean.
"Gwen—not here, please," Peter pleaded, glancing at the employees. Gwen, being perfect as usual, understood. She took off his jacket and handed it back to him. Wordlessly, he put it on and they left the theatre. It was raining outside, a miserable little drizzle that made the two of them walk faster towards the subway station and mirrored their moods. They were halfway to the station before either of them broke the silence.
"Is someone beating you Peter?" Gwen asked. "Is it someone at your new school?" Peter didn't answer. Gwen's voice dropped to an even lower tone. "Is it your Dad?"
"What? Oh, no—God no, Gwen nothing like that," Peter said with a frustrated sigh. He looked at Gwen, into her earnest blue eyes. He hadn't told anyone about his…condition. He hadn't even told his dads, and he told them everything. His stomach twisted with anxiety. He knew that he could trust Gwen with his secret, but how would she react? "It's…Gwen you're just going to have to trust me on this—everything's ok."
"No, Peter, everything is not ok, you look like you've been hit and shot at with a paintball gun repeatedly," Gwen insisted, taking a gentle hold of his wrist. Small caliber bullets, actually, Peter thought, but he didn't dare say it. The cloth armor might protect him from a penetrating blow, but it still left a bruise.
"Gwen, I know what I'm asking of you," Peter said honestly. "But it's really okay."
"Peter, I can't even begin to tell you how wrong it is that you think this is okay!" Gwen said. She gently ran a hand up and back down his jacketed arm—as gentle as the touch was, he couldn't help but wince. "Jesus, Peter." Peter grabbed her hands, taking them both in his and looked her right in the eyes.
"I'll tell you. I'll tell you—but not here, not now, not yet," Peter said desperately. Gwen just looked at him for a moment, but finally she shook her head and sighed.
"Ok, Peter but—promise me—promise me—that you're going to remove yourself from whatever situation you keep getting put into that results in—in this," Gwen said.
"I—I can't," Peter admitted. He couldn't lie to Gwen, couldn't look right into those concerned blue eyes and tell a bald faced lie.
"Peter, why? I don't understand. And I don't want you hurt," Gwen said. She brushed back a wet lock of his hair that was dripping water down his face. "You can talk to me, Peter."
Peter in that moment wondered how this girl had so quickly wormed her way into his heart that he opened his mouth and said, "I'm Spider-Man," without any hesitation or other thoughts in his head.
There was one panicked heartbeat where Peter wondered what he'd done, wondered if he could unsay it, wondered at all the damage this could do—but before his heart could start racing, Gwen just smirked.
"Well," she said, her fingers grazing a small, faded bruise on his collarbone, "then you're not doing a very good job of it yet, are you?" Peter just stared at her. She just grinned wider. And then she was laughing, and he was laughing and then they were kissing and Peter never wanted it to stop. But then it was raining in earnest, drenching them in an instant, and they were holding hands and running and laughing through the storm until they reached the station.
"So, where do we go from here?" Peter asked. Gwen smiled.
"My house. You look like you could use an ice-pack or twelve," she replied.
"Ok," Peter agreed easily, and they passed through the turnstiles and took the train back to her home.
Peter had expected something modest, something like what he had lived in up until a week ago. He had expected an almost suburban neighborhood near the outskirts of the city. He had not expected a fancy apartment building in the middle of Manhattan, complete with a doorman that raised an eyebrow at their haggard appearance (though he only had kind words for Gwen). They went up to the twentieth floor. Gwen carefully opened the door and peeked her head inside.
"Mom? Dad?" she called out. "I'm home." Only silence answered back. She opened the door wider and motioned Peter inside. "Coast is clear."
"I—what?" Peter asked as he found himself hauled inside by his jacket. "Are we—are we hiding from your parents?"
"What?" Gwen asked. "No! No! Not—yes, a little bit." She sighed as they walked into a spotless kitchen. She pulled out some ice packs from the freezer. "It's just—we're soaking wet and, well, you're not exactly…well, you're not dressed for dinner."
"I'm not—what?" Peter asked, bewildered as Gwen grabbed some medical supplies from a cabinet.
"My Dad he's just, he's really strict and I want his first impression to be a good one," Gwen explained. She led him to her room and had him sit down on her bed. She peeled off his jacket and Peter did his best to remember that Gwen was tending to his bruises.
"Oh. All right," Peter said. "I'll make sure to wear my best suit."
"And bring an umbrella," Gwen suggested. She grabbed the bottom of his shirt and gently lifted.
"What—"
"God, Peter, you're bruised everywhere," Gwen breathed. She tugged the shirt up further and Peter reluctantly helped her get it over his head.
"Pretty much," Peter admitted. "You were right about the whole 'not very good at it' thing." Gwen peeled off a large band-aid on his abdomen that was already slipping off from the rainwater, and she swallowed.
"Peter—"
"Just a surface cut, I swear it's not deep," Peter said. "I'm not stupid. I would—I would get help if it was really bad."
"Why do you do this to yourself, Peter?" Gwen asked.
"Because my Pops once told me that with great power comes great responsibility. I have a duty to help, because I can," Peter said. Gwen dabbed something at the cut and Peter hissed.
"Nope. Real reason. Out with it," Gwen demanded. Peter blinked at her. Real reason? That was the real reason. He had to help people, like his Pops and his Dad. He had to help them because who was he if he didn't? He was Peter Parker, the pushover science geek, or Peter Stark, (apparently) party boy and perpetual slacker. But Spider-Man was so much more than that, so much better than that. He was everything he'd ever wanted to be when he was swinging through the air, saving people.
"I do it because I feel more myself than I ever have before," Peter finally decided on. "I do it because I feel like I'm really a part of my family. I do it because I know that one day I might be able to help my parents instead of be a liability." Gwen put a new band-aid over the scratch.
"That's better," Gwen said. She gathered up his shirt and jacket. "I'm going to throw these in the dryer. You just keep those ice packs on."
Peter was grateful, later, that Gwen's parents hadn't shown up—it wouldn't have looked good, her half naked, beaten boyfriend sitting on her bed. As soon as his clothes were dry, his wounds had been cleaned properly, and the ice packs had lost their coolness, Peter left. After all, eventually someone would notice his absence. At the very least, JARVIS would be concerned. Well, as concerned as an AI could get. Peter checked his phone as he walked back to Stark Tower, and he was more than surprised to see a text.
POPS
I'm sorry I haven't called. My address is 1465 Barker St. Apartment 29B.
Stop by whenever you want, for as long as you want. I've got a room set up for you.
Peter swallowed. So, no more hotels for Pops. Had Dad served him divorce papers? Or was he just banking on this being a permanent separation? Either way, Peter didn't like it. What had happened to their perfect little family in the last couple of weeks? How did things go so sour so quickly?
Well, the answer to that was easy, Peter supposed. The rot had set in long ago, and only now was the wood finally breaking, the whole structure coming down. But how had he never seen it? That was the hard question.
Peter took the elevator up to the penthouse and walked through the door.
"Oh, hey Dad," Peter said, pleasantly surprised by the sight of the back of his Dad's head. He'd finally surfaced from the lab, and he wasn't out saving the world or anything either, so he was sitting on the couch, watching—well, nothing. Peter noted with equal surprise that the television wasn't on. His Dad's music, always obtrusively loud if he was listening, wasn't playing. As he got closer, he didn't see any mechanical parts on the coffee table, no plans or designs either. "Dad?"
"JARVIS said you were out," Dad said flatly. Something about him sounded…off.
"I was. And then I came back. Because we live here now," Peter said cautiously. He approached the couch so he could see better, and then Peter realized what was off. He had a glass of bourbon in his hand, the rest of the bottle on the floor, nearly empty. "You…are you ok, Dad?"
"JARVIS said you were out," Dad repeated. He took a long drink—so long he drained the rest of the glass. He put it on the coffee table with a loud clunk when he was done.
"You said that already," Peter said.
"You should be out," Dad said. It was then that Peter got the message, loud and clear.
"You know I meant to tell you that uh, Uncle Bruce invited me for dinner. But um, since it's late already I might as well just stay the night. He was cool with that," Peter said, backing away.
"Good," Tony said, hollow. "Good."
"I'm just—getting my stuff—" Peter said, and then he scurried back to his room. He threw some clothes and necessities into his backpack before returning to the living area. His Dad was pouring another glass. "Um, maybe you should slow—"
Tony's gaze fixed on Peter's. Peter swallowed and looked away.
"—uh, maybe you should text me. In the morning." Peter didn't wait for a reply. He high tailed it out of the apartment. He knew only three things: one, that his Dad was already very drunk, two, that he was angry, and three, that those things did not make for a good combination in any person, but probably least of all one Tony Stark. He'd never seen his Dad drunk, but he'd seen him angry plenty and he didn't want to stick around to see the two combined.
Peter made his way back down to the ground floor of Stark Tower, still debating what he should do next.
Going to Pops' apartment, while very appealing, was out. If Pops knew Dad was drinking, if Pops knew that Dad had basically told Peter to leave the penthouse, if Pops knew that the deadly quiet, glassy-eyed version of Dad had scared Peter half out of his wits, Pops would have another fight with Dad. Pops and Dad would get divorced, Peter was sure of it. If they had any chance of getting back together, arguing more now was certain not to help. He couldn't go to Pops.
But he couldn't go to Uncle Bruce, either. He would tell Pops what had happened, out of some noble concern for Peter or for Pops or for Dad or some other stupid bullshit. And he'd wreck everything with his well meaning intentions. So Uncle Bruce was out.
Uncle Clint and Aunt Tasha were out for similar reasons. They'd all tell Pops what was going on—worse, Uncle Clint and Aunt Tasha were almost certain to tell Fury what was going on, and Peter didn't want to think about the consequences for that.
Uncle Thor was a possibility, but he didn't trust him to stay quiet any more than Bruce, and even if he did, Peter didn't think Aunt Jane or Darcy would keep their mouths shut.
But someone had to take care of Dad. It just couldn't be Pops. And Peter had to stay somewhere.
Peter sat in the darkened lobby, wondering what would happen if he just slept here for the night. The leather couch was cozy enough…but, no, plenty of people came in to work even on a Sunday. Peter would get tossed out as a hobo or something. Peter picked up his phone, hitting the dial button. There were a couple of people he could trust to handle this.
"Tony, what number are you calling from? It's eleven o'clock, you're the only one who calls me past ten," Pepper answered, sounding scornful. "I know you're having problems with Steve, but—"
"Pepper it's Peter," Peter cut in.
"Peter? Why are you calling me?" Pepper asked. Peter didn't take offense—she was genuinely puzzled. Peter had never called Pepper before. He'd never had a reason to. He had plenty of Aunts and Uncles, ones who were often less busy than Pepper, and certainly ones he was closer with.
"I—um—well—Dad's drunk. Really drunk. And he's mad. And—"
"Oh my God, Peter he didn't…he didn't yell at you or…anything, did he?" Pepper asked.
"No, but—I didn't want to stick around and find out. But I'm worried about him, I mean, I don't want him to accidentally kill himself," Peter said.
"Where are you right now, Peter?"
"Ground floor of Stark Tower. If Happy's around—I know it's late, but, if he's around could you ask him to come pick me up? I could use a ride," Peter said. He'd finally decided where to go, the one place where no one would tell Pops anything. After all, Harry didn't even know he had two dads.
"Of course, Peter. Don't worry about your father, I'll handle it."
Peter wished he could breathe a sigh of relief, but he couldn't. Because none of this felt like an ending. It felt, horribly, like the start of something new.
"Pete. Peter. Stark." Peter opened his eyes and looked out at the world. It was still odd, waking up to a perfectly clear view when he was so used to waking up to a world with fuzzy edges. But Harry wasn't blurry at all. "Sorry to wake you up, but I think if you don't wake up now you'll have accidentally moved your sleeping pattern into a different time zone."
"What time is it?" Peter asked groggily.
"Noon," Harry replied.
"Mmmph," Peter replied, putting his face back down on the warm pillow briefly before realizing that was an awful decision. He sat up and rubbed at his eyes. He yawned and stretched. "Hey, thanks for letting me crash here for the night, Harry."
"Not a problem, Pete," Harry said. "Can't tell you how many times my Dad's gone on a bender and I've run off somewhere." Peter was a bit taken aback by the casual statement, but Harry didn't seem to think anything of it. He pulled a sweatshirt over his head. His hair was still damp from a shower—he'd obviously been up for a while, but Peter hadn't felt him get up.
Despite having a gigantic apartment, the Osbornes had only two bedrooms. Peter figured this said something about their opinions about having guests over, but he wasn't going to comment on it. Peter could have slept on the couch, but when Harry suggested they share his giant bed Peter wasn't going to argue.
"I guess I should get going," Peter said, almost reluctantly.
"Hey you don't have to," Harry said. "You can stick around as long as you want. I'm just going for a coffee run. We could go out later."
"No, I'm not really in the mood to go clubbing or something, Harry, but thanks," Peter said. He ripped off the blankets and got out of bed. He pulled on a shirt and started looking for his shoes. He'd tossed them off somewhere around here…
"We wouldn't have to go clubbing. We could go to a movie or something. That new Batman film is out—but maybe you don't like superhero movies, I would get that," Harry said. Peter found his converse shoes half under the bed and he pulled them on.
"Nah, I went to the Batman movie Gwen yesterday," Peter said dismissively. He didn't feel like doing much of anything today, although giving Gwen a call and seeing what she was up to sounded appealing.
"Gwen?" Harry asked.
"Yeah, my…girlfriend," Peter said, hesitating only for a half a second. She knew his secret, they were obviously dating—he was pretty sure he could call her his girlfriend now.
"Hey, how come you've never mentioned her?" Harry asked. Peter grabbed his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He shrugged.
"Never came up I guess. It's kind of a new thing, anyway. But I appreciate you trying to cheer me up, Harry," Peter said with a smile. "And seriously, thanks for letting me crash here."
"Yeah, no problem," Harry said. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yeah, see you tomorrow, Harry," Peter said with a smile. He left the room and the apartment, checking his phone on the elevator ride down.
Eight Missed Calls
21 New Texts
Peter swore. He really needed to remember to take his phone off silent.
DAD
Sent at 9am
Peter I am so sorry about last night. Please call me when you get this.
Sent at 9:30am
Peter I vaguely remember you saying you were staying with Bruce, are you at Bruce's?
Sent at 9:45am
Peter pick up your damn phone.
Sent at 10am
Bruce says you never went to his house. Peter where are you?
Sent at 10:05am
Ok. I called Happy. He gave me the address of the apartment complex where he dropped you off. But I am not happy.
Sent at 10:15am
Are you just mad at me? Is this a being mad at me thing?
Sent at 10:18am
I get it if you're mad at me. I shouldn't have done what I did last night.
Sent at 10:23am
Fuck me, who am I kidding, I've been practically ignoring you since your Pops moved out. Who am I to complain if you don't answer a few texts, a few calls?
Sent at 10:27am
I'm still going to complain about it though.
Sent at 11am
I'd really appreciate it if you answered your phone, Peter.
Sent at 11:15am
GPS says you're still in that apartment complex. Who do you even know in that apartment complex?
Sent at 11:16am
I'd know the answer to that if I hadn't been so self-absorbed lately, wouldn't I.
Sent at 11:17am
Does Gwen live there?
Sent at 11:18am
Oh God if she does I hope you're using protection.
Sent at 11:20am
Seriously I want no grandchildren in the near future.
Sent at 11:21am
I'm not old enough to be a Grandpa.
Sent at 11:22am
Ok scratch that that's beyond the realm of belief by now isn't it.
Sent at 11:23am
I am hoping that the sheer annoyance of your phone buzzing this frequently will get you to answer it.
Sent at 11:25am
Obviously this is an ineffective strategy.
Sent at 11:30am
Your phone is off, isn't it? Peter how DARE YOU TURN YOUR PHONE OFF ON YOUR FATHER
Sent at 11:31am
Rude.
Peter was torn between feeling anger, joy, indignation, and amusement. He settled for the last of them. He hailed a cab once he made it to the street, jumped inside asking to be taken to Stark Tower
I thought after the great sexplanation debacle of 2025 we agreed you would "never ever ever ever have any involvement with me (Peter) pertaining to the explanation and or discussion of sex and would leave all such matters to the commendable Captain Steve 'won't go to bed til I'm legally wed' Rogers, however so inaccurate that nickname may be, it doesn't matter because Peter doesn't want to know anyway"? I'm quoting directly, here.
DAD
Peter! What took you so long?
OUTGOING
I was asleep. You might try it sometime.
DAD
Sleeping is for wimps. And anyway there was a 'if Peter may be in danger of knocking up a girl Tony may intervene' clause somewhere in there.
OUTGOING
Liar.
DAD
Just tell me you used protection.
OUTGOING
I'm not sleeping with Gwen! I wasn't even at her apartment. I was at another friend's apartment. A MALE friend.
DAD
Even with a guy you still need protection.
OUTGOING
Are you SERIOUS right now? I'm not fucking anyone!
DAD
Peter, language. I just want to make sure you're safe.
OUTGOING
Coming from the guy who downed a whole bottle of bourbon alone last night! Don't pretend you didn't.
DAD
I'd rather have this conversation in person, Pete.
OUTGOING
And I'd rather have slept in my own bedroom last night.
There was a long pause and Peter knew Dad wasn't going to send him another text message. It was a conversation better to be had in person, he was right. But Peter was mad. Getting accused of having unprotected sex first thing in the morning will do that to a person, especially after the night he'd had.
He arrived at the Tower relatively quickly and headed up the elevator. His Dad was waiting for him. He was standing behind the kitchen's island. Peter blinked. On top of the island was a vast array of breakfast foods. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, coffee—were those crumpets?—strawberries, melon slices…of course, the pancakes looked burnt, the eggs looked runny, and the bacon was nearly black (Peter would probably eat it anyway), so it had obviously all been prepared by Dad. Peter felt his heart race in panic.
"Oh my God, Dad who died?" Peter asked, eyes wide. Dad never cooked breakfast unless something terrible had happened. It was always 'hey Peter, look I made breakfast, it's your favorite, pancakes—oh by the way I accidentally killed your hamster while you were away at camp' or 'hey Peter, look I made breakfast—sausages and scrambled eggs, the whole nine yards—by the way we Avengers all went on a horribly dangerous mission and now Uncle Clint is in critical condition and will probably die' or 'hey Peter, look I made breakfast—omelets and muffins and pancakes and cinnamon rolls and bacon—by the way we Avengers all went on a horribly dangerous mission and now your Pops is MIA, probably captured by enemy Hydra agents, and we don't know this now but we won't see him for more than six agonizing months, Merry Christmas!' Peter wasn't sure why Dad thought his cooking would be a comfort, given that it was always horrible and always accompanied by awful news, but Peter wasn't sure about many things regarding his Dad. One thing he was sure about was that this was a bad sign.
"No one you know," Dad said lightly. "Sit down, Peter, I made breakfast."
"Yeah, I see that, that's kind of the part that worries me," Peter said, approaching the island.
"My cooking's not that bad," Dad said indignantly.
"It's not the cooking that worries me, although I'm fairly certain I'll contract salmonella from those eggs," Peter said, sitting down on a stool at the island. "It's what comes with the cooking." Dad was silent for a moment. Peter waited. And waited. And waited. Finally he couldn't take it anymore.
"You and Pops are getting divorced, aren't you?" Peter asked bluntly. Dad looked at him for a moment.
"I won't deny that's a possibility right now, Pete," he said. "But that's not what this is about. Well. Not entirely." Dad sighed heavily, and for once it was easy for Peter to see all of his 62 years. "I fucked up, Peter. I fucked up on the team, and five people died because of it. I let my personal feelings get in the way, and now five people are dead. So I'm off the team. I've been expelled from the Avengers. Well, I expelled myself but it was only a matter of time before your Pops was forced to kick me out. And things are…things aren't looking good for me and your Pops, Peter. I won't lie to you about that. I know you're not an idiot. I know you know my ring isn't being cleaned.
"But despite all that…despite what happened yesterday, I shouldn't have gotten drunk in this house, with you living here. I shouldn't be failing you so completely right now. I know this has to be as hard on you as it is on me. But I guess that's the real Stark legacy, huh? Fathers failing their sons, failing their families. I'm going to make more of an effort to be here for you, Peter. I'm not going to promise anything, because you know I'm bad with promises, but I'm going to try," Dad finished.
Peter didn't know what to think. Peter didn't know what to feel. Dad had admitted he and Pops might get divorced and that just ate at Peter. But overwhelming this feeling of panic was concern.
"You kicked yourself off the Avengers?" Peter asked quietly.
"Five people, Peter," Dad said. He wouldn't look him in the eye. "Because I lost my cool with your Pops on the field."
"But…it was one mistake," Peter protested feebly. "You won't make it again. You've saved so many people in the past—"
"This isn't a game of scales, Peter," Dad snapped. "Being a hero isn't about putting the number of people you've saved against the number of people you've killed and hoping you at least break even. Because you never will. Because it doesn't matter if it's three thousand people on the saving side and five on the killed—the five will outweigh them every time." Peter must have looked startled because Dad breathed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."
"It's ok," Peter replied. He grabbed a piece of blackened bacon. Even burnt, it tasted good. Peter chewed and Dad stared off into nothing.
"Got any plans today?" Dad asked at last, but Peter could tell that he was still very far away.
"Thought I'd call Gwen, see what she's up to. Other than that…you know. Homework and stuff," Peter said. Dad nodded.
"Good. Good. I like Gwen, she's a nice girl. But whose this 'male friend' you stayed with last night?" Dad asked. Peter rolled his eyes.
"Just a friend from school, Dad," Peter replied.
"Name? I might know him. Or his parents, anyway," Dad said.
"I would tell you, but then I'd have to kill you. Hawthorne secrecy clauses and all that," Peter said. This time it was Dad's turn to roll his eyes.
"Fine," he huffed, "keep your old man out of the loop, see if I care." And Dad continued to whine about it for the next half-hour, but luckily he didn't press Peter on the issue. Eventually, Peter went to his room to call Gwen and do work, and Dad returned to his lab (or his 'bat cave' as Peter decided to call it, earning him a swat over the ears).
Peter threw himself on his bed and grabbed his phone. There were a couple of other people that he had to call, but the other two people he could think of, he really didn't want to call. He didn't really know what to say. So he hit the speed dial for Gwen and pushed them from his mind.
"Hey Peter," Gwen answered cheerfully.
"Hey Gwen," Peter said, a smile curling up the edges of his lips despite his morning. "What are you doing today?"
"I wish I could say I was free, Peter, but I kind of got called to an emergency babysitting job," Gwen replied. "Parents got called to some urgent meeting and they've been gone all morning. I'm supposed to get off at six, though."
"Do you want to do something? Together, I mean?" Peter asked, then kicked himself for sounding like an idiot.
"Sure," Gwen answered anyway. "I'll text you the address of where I'm babysitting—pick me up at six?"
"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds…yeah," Peter said. Gwen giggled.
"Ok, Peter. Bye then, I've got to make sure cookie dough doesn't get on every surface in the house," she said, and then she hung up the phone.
Peter had a few hours to kill, so he finished his homework, figuring any more black marks against his record would inevitably end up with a phone call to his Dad—maybe one that would actually reach him this time. But his homework didn't take that long so, between then and the time he had to pick up Gwen, he dawned his Spider-Man suit and took off through the city, stopping crime when he found it but otherwise just enjoying the feeling of soaring through the air and clinging to the sides of skyscrapers.
Well, that was until a crazy old man in some kind of giant vulture costume decided to rob a bank and cause a whole heap of trouble for Peter, sealing him in a water tank through which the only exit was a sewer. When he finally emerged from the sewer, defeated and stinking, Peter hurried back to Stark tower for a shower or six before his date with Gwen. He'd have to take care of the vulture later, or let the Avengers handle the weirdo.
He barely glanced at the address of the text before he jumped in the car and rattled it off to Happy.
"Visiting your Aunt and Uncle, Peter?" Happy asked. Peter blinked. He reread the address.
"Uh, not intentionally. Picking up Gwen for a date," Peter said. "She said she was babysitting. Oh. Oh, God, I hope they haven't covered her in finger paint or tied her to a chair or cut her hair or attacked her with nerf arrows—"
"I'm sure she's doing fine for herself, Peter," Happy said with a laugh. It wasn't long before they were pulling up outside of the Romanoff-Barton household. Clint's car was in the driveway. Peter knocked on the door—Natasha answered.
"Peter? What are you doing here?" Aunt Nat asked.
"Weirdly, picking up my girlfriend," Peter replied.
"You—you're the boyfriend?" she asked. "Oh, fantastic!" And then Peter felt himself being bodily pulled through the front door. Nat shut it behind them and ushered him into the living room. Clint was talking to Gwen while the terror twins innocently played Monopoly on the floor. Monopoly? Oh, they had to be up to something. They grinned when they saw him.
"Peter!" they cried. Ana instantly attached herself to his leg, and Will pulled on his arm, trying to show him a lego set he'd finished.
"Peter?" Clint asked.
"The boyfriend," Nat said, as if by way of introduction. It was a truly absurd feeling. "Isn't this great? Gwen, Peter, if you wouldn't mind, we're really in a bind here—could you both just stay and watch Ana and Will? We'll make it up to you."
"No, no, no, no, no," Peter answered staunchly. "Not again. Never again. We tried this once, remember?"
"We'll be good, Peter!" Ana pleaded. "Please stay!"
"Pleeeeeeaaaaaaase!" Will agreed, begging.
"You've babysat Ana and Will before, too?" Gwen asked.
"Once. But I'm kind of like their unofficial older brother," Peter said disdainfully.
"It would really mean a lot to us if you could do this," Clint said. "We're running out of new agents to haze."
"And we really, really need to continue our meeting," Natasha added.
"Yeah Dad told me what happened. Sort of," Peter said.
"Then you know why we really need to be at the Tri—at work right now," Clint stated, his eyes sliding only briefly to Gwen and then back to Peter.
"Of course we'll help, Mr. Barton, Ms. Romanoff," Gwen answered with a smile. Peter shot her a look of horror as the twins cheered. Ana detached herself from Peter's leg to hug Gwen's.
"Oh, fantastic," Natasha said with a sigh. "We'll be back as soon as we can be—thanks so much you two." She headed out the door. Clint ruffled Peter's hair.
"Thanks, Pete. Thanks, Gwen. Sorry to ruin your date night—we owe you one," he said.
"Yes, yes you do!" Peter called out as Clint left, shutting the door behind him. Gwen just laughed. She took his hand.
"Come on, we're playing Monopoly and I'm kicking their butts. How about we deal you in so I can crush you under my boot as well?" Gwen asked.
"You're not beating us!" Will said confidently.
"Yeah, we've got a secret plan!" Ana said.
"It's not a secret if you say you've got a secret," Gwen advised them. Peter just shook his head, sat down, and resolved himself to a night of Monopoly.
But hey, it was better than a night of getting finger paint tossed at him.
All in all, while it certainly hadn't been the night he'd planned, it hadn't been a terrible night, either, Peter reflected. He was curled up on the couch, Gwen in his arms. Her hair smelled like strawberries, and she had on an amazing perfume, the smell of which Peter couldn't quite place, but it was like vanilla. Peter could lie there for hours, he thought, just soaking in all that was Gwen.
"I can't believe those little monsters actually sleep," Peter whispered. On the other couch, Ana and Will had passed out, bellies full of hot chocolate. An old Disney movie, Brave, still played on the television.
"Oh, Peter," Gwen said with a chuckle. "You just have to know how to handle them." So Peter had discovered. He was amazed when they went through the whole game of Monopoly without any flinging of Nerf darts or finger paint or silly string, although will did throw his fake credit card at Peter's head at one point, hitting him right between the eyes with a practiced precision that Peter could only take to mean that he'd done the same to other babysitters many times before.
But every time they'd acted up, Gwen had insulted them.
"Oh, just can't take losing, can you?" Gwen had said after he'd thrown the card.
"I can so!" Will said. "And I'm not losing!"
"I hear you talk a big game but I'm not seeing anything to back it up, tough guy," Gwen said, swiping Will's card from Peter's lap.
"I've got a plan," Will insisted.
"One that doesn't involve flying bits of plastic? Because that's not going to win you the game, buddy," Gwen said, matter-of-fact. "Only brains count here."
"I've got plenty of brains!" Will said. He snatched back his card.
"Prove it!" Gwen challenged.
And that was it. No Nerf bows or slingshots or guns were brought to the game. There were no surprise silly string attacks or anything of that nature. Peter couldn't really believe it. And then afterwards (once Gwen had thoroughly trounced them all), Gwen and Peter had made hot chocolate and put on a movie, and Peter was certain they would start misbehaving, but nothing of the sort happened.
"You're amazing," Peter said. "I've never seen them so…normal." Gwen just chuckled again. Peter just breathed deeply and relaxed. His fingers ghosted back and forth over her arm. Her skin was so soft, and she was so warm, and she smelled so nice. He brushed back her hair so her neck was exposed, and then he couldn't resist. He kissed her neck gently, and Gwen sighed. A thrill went through him at the sound, so he kissed her neck again, and again, slowly trailing up towards her mouth. She moved to help him, until she was on her back and he was half leaning over her, and her lips were on his, and they were kissing more heatedly than they ever had before. It was then that Peter's pants suddenly felt uncomfortably tight. He felt his face get a little pink but he hoped she wouldn't notice. After a few minutes more of this Gwen finally groaned softly.
"If Ana and Will weren't on the other couch…" she trailed off, but then she sighed and sat up, and Peter had no choice but to follow her lead. Hoping against hope that she wouldn't notice the bulge in his pants, and wondering just what exactly she had been about to say. Just then a door creaked open.
"We're home!" Natasha called out quietly, and instantly there was about three feet of space between Peter and Gwen. Clint followed in behind her and they entered the living room.
"Wow, you got them to sleep and everything? Impressive," Clint whispered. Gently he picked up Ana, careful not to disturb her sleep. "Thanks for your help tonight."
"No problem," Gwen replied, getting up off the couch.
"I'll call Happy, he can drop us both off at home," Peter offered, getting out his cell. Gwen smiled. Clint and Natasha took their children upstairs and said goodnight. It didn't take long for Happy to show up, and Happy was more than happy to drive Gwen home as well as Peter.
When they felt the car stop, Gwen gave Peter a long, lingering kiss that spread a warmth all the way down to the tips of his toes. She smiled as she pulled away.
"Goodnight Peter Parker," she said.
"G'night," Peter said in a bit of a daze. She got out of the car and Peter watched her walk away. Happy chuckled.
"You're oozing puppy love out your ears, Peter," he said, but Peter didn't care.
Despite all the terrible things happening to his family, Peter still felt like he was walking on air when he went into school the next morning. But his chipper attitude was hardly appreciated.
"God, Peter, did you get laid last night or something?" Harry asked irritably halfway through the day. Harry's eyes were bloodshot again. He sipped at a cup of espresso he'd had Bernard bring him for lunch.
"No, just…had a good time, is all," Peter said with a smile. Harry just harrumphed. "What are you so grumpy about?"
"I'm hung over, can't you tell?" Harry asked.
"Yeah, I got that, but you seem especially irritable," Peter remarked. Harry opened his mouth to say something, but whatever it was Peter never found out, as just at that moment the rest of their friends arrived at the lunch table, jabbering on about the latest school gossip.
That afternoon when Peter got home, he briefly said hello to his Dad before suiting up and going on, what Peter was now starting to call, 'patrol'. He really wanted to find that crazy vulture guy again and, frankly, get revenge by lassoing him with web and leaving him for the cops.
While Peter did indeed find the Vulture again (robbing a jewelry store in broad daylight), he didn't succeed in his quest as at a crucial moment he was distracted by a voice suddenly in his ear.
"Avengers Assemble. The Captain is online," Peter realized with a start that it was the Comm system. He hadn't realized he'd turned the function on.
"Widow is online and copies."
"Hawkeye is online and copies."
"Thor is online and copies."
"We've got a situation at Central Park," Pops said.
"Goblin again?" Clint asked.
"No, I think it's Loki. The statues are coming to life—well sort of—they're not alive when you're looking it's when you look away they start moving," Pops said.
"Well, what are they doing when they move?" Natasha asked.
"Mainly just scaring the bejesus out of folk, but one snapped somebody's neck so—"
"Right, operation smash the statues," Clint said.
"No, contain them if you can, some of these are priceless old statues—"
"Contain them? With what? How? My magical forcefield?" Clint scoffed. "I don't have an arrow for that."
"Tie them up, if you can—"
"With what? How? I don't think rope's going to hold!"
No, Peter doubted that rope would hold up if a metal or stone statue tried to break free. But Peter knew exactly what would hold up under pressure.
Central Park wasn't far. It didn't take him long to swing all the way over there. From above, the scene looked crazy. There were people running around and screaming, but nothing was moving. A big, stone arm was closed around Natasha's arm. Peter swung into the scene, and then turned on one small modification he'd made to his costume—a voice changer. He then proceeded to coat the nearest statue with web, trapping it effectively. His web was strong enough to resist the penetration of a bullet—it should be strong enough to hold a statue.
"Spider-Man! Think you can round these guys up?" Pops asked.
"Just keep looking at 'em and it's not a problem," Spider-Man answered.
"Hear that? Everybody cover Spidey," Pops spoke over the comm.. Peter wasn't sure he liked his new nickname. Nevertheless, it felt beyond amazing to be there, doing his thing, with all of the Avengers (well, minus Dad) at his back. With him on the job, the whole mess was cleaned up in less than a half an hour.
Well, the statues were contained, anyway. The matter of dealing with Loki and actually fixing the statues so they weren't scary as shit and slightly homicidal was another matter entirely. One to be left mainly to Thor, Peter guessed. He felt a big hand on his shoulder.
"Good work, Spider-Man," Pops said warmly. "You really came through for us today. And I see you've finally found your voice."
"My snark was on the fritz last time, it was too embarrassing to speak without it," Spider-Man said. Pops chuckled.
"I know a couple people who would agree with you about that," he said. "You ready to have that talk with me yet about the Avengers Initiative?"
"Not just yet, Captain," Spider-Man spoke. There were no secrets in S.H.I.E.L.D. If ever he took up the Avengers banner, they would first have to know his identity. And Peter just wasn't ready for that yet. "But soon." Pops—Captain America—nodded.
"I look forward to the day, Spider-Man," he said. He gave an informal salute and then walked off, shouting instructions to the rest of the crew. Peter shot a web to the nearest building and swung on home, tired but proud. He changed quickly and quietly in his room. He took a shower and then headed out to the kitchen to get something for dinner, feeling pretty good about himself. Things were good with Gwen. He was helping out the Avengers without having to be one, and therefore avoiding what his Dads would have to say about it, and he was back on track at school, where he had friends for once in his life. The things out of his control—Pops and Dad fighting, Dad quitting the Avengers and all that—still felt awful but overall Peter felt better than he had since he got his spider powers. That was, until—
"PETER JAMES STARK-ROGERS WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?" Dad yelled, storming up from the lab. He held his phone in his hand, and it took Peter a second to understand, but then a voice started saying,
"Hello, Mr. Stark, this is Kathy Manson from the Hawthorn Academy…"
Oh, shit.