On Monday, June 27, 2016, Peter woke up confused. He had fallen asleep at his desk but was now in his bed. His alarm had gone off like it was supposed to, his phone was plugged in and fully charged, and he felt…refreshed. Rested.

Huh. Weird.

So, he got up, and started to get ready for school.

He had missed the last day to turn work in (he'd picked a bad time to miss a day of school for an Avengers field trip) but hoped that his teachers would be in a forgiving mood, since tomorrow was the last day of school, and he didn't make it a habit to turn stuff in late, usually.

(He had been slipping a bit, lately, as Spider-Man patrols sometimes bled into his homework time, or as his homework time often bled into his sleeping time, but that was nothing some better time management wouldn't cure.)

He made sure his new suit was buried in the bottom of his backpack before piling his completed homework assignments on top of it, and making sure he had other essentials, like his headphones and a few of the power bars Happy had given him. (Peter had found at least twenty more that had been packed into the bag from his trip, and had to admit they were effective, if not delicious, being oatmeal-raisin flavored. He usually felt at least a little hungry, most of the time, because of his new super-metabolism. But he didn't, now. And he hadn't, yesterday. So that was a plus.)

He slipped out of the sweater he'd fallen asleep in and into a t-shirt proclaiming atoms were not to be trusted in bold print on his chest, and a similar bold text on his back that read, 'they make up everything.' He put his iPhone in one pocket of his jeans, and the Stark phone in the other, along with his fine tool kit, since he'd started taking it apart last night to see how it worked.

He opened his door once he had his wallet and keys in hand, slipping them into their respective pockets, and carrying his backpack to the couch before making his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth and do something to his hair.

The apartment was quiet, meaning May had ended up working the 6AM shift. (She'd waited up for him the other night, and still had to go to work so early, Peter felt bad.)

Peter performed the mechanics of brushing his teeth and hair at the same time before rinsing his mouth and devoting both hands to his hair, which he usually gelled into submission to keep it from floofing ridiculously and making him look even younger than he usually did.

(May called his curly hair 'adorable.' Peter called it 'stupid.')

(Skip had liked Peter's hair. So. So Peter…didn't.)

Peter didn't feel like sitting in the apartment eating cereal, so he pulled out one of the power bars from his backpack before sliding the bag over his arms and exiting, locking the door firmly from the outside with his key, giving the door an experimental jiggle as gently as he could, just to make sure the mechanism had caught properly.

(Peter had already accidentally been the cause of having to replace the entire goddamn doorframe, and now Phil, the maintenance guy, looked at him whenever he saw him, but tenants weren't in charge of paying for damages to their doors that couldn't have reasonably been caused by them, and looking at Peter, it was rather obvious that he couldn't have broken the doorframe that badly. (And Peter hated to encourage the façade that he was a weakling (Puny Parker) but he knew they couldn't afford a nice replacement, and besides, Phil had needed projects to do to keep him busy, he was trying to quit smoking, his wife was pregnant.))

He took the elevator, using the extra time to plug his earphones into his phone and pull up music. (It did nothing to muffle the sounds of an argument a few floors down. Especially when it came into the elevator with him when he reached the third floor.)

(Peter did appreciate and encourage how discreetly nonchalant he could appear to be, earphones in his ears, looking at his phone. He'd been taking Spanish, though, and committed a few of the exchanged phrases to memory to look up, later. He was almost positive these guys were in the mob.)

After finally settling on a music station, Peter pulled up his email, starting his regular morning routine as he walked the three blocks to the nearest subway station.

He looked at subject lines and senders, deleting a few without even opening them if it was clear they were junk, then proceeded to open the others and scan their contents.

There was school stuff: responses to stuff he'd done online. He read through the one-liners, deleting them afterwards, and skipped over the longer ones to reply to later.

Then there were a few written in legalese: leftover things from Stark Industries, informing him that his school had been notified of his internship, then a copy of a form signed by…Happy? Designating him as the official person who was allowed to pick up Peter for SI purposes.

That…was kind of cool.

Something from 'Infiniti HR' instructing him to set up a bank account with his parent or guardian. Whatever that was about. Delete.

Something from a woman named Bambi Arbogast, asking when he was available to answer questions, and giving him two options in a little under a week from now. One on the 5th of July, the other on the 7th. The SI logo and signature was below her name, so Peter shrugged and picked the one on the 5th, adding a notification to his calendar to remind him about it.

A group text message from a number he didn't know popped up; something about setting up regular academic decathlon practices through the summer. Must be the new captain. Bart Cranz had graduated. Peter replied with something vaguely committal, though making sure to mention he had an internship he had to prioritize.

Almost immediately he got a response. He frowned. It wasn't the captain. It was Flash Thompson.

Yeah right, Penis. Summer internship requests closed last month, and your name wasn't on the waiting list. Quit lying.

(Even if Peter hadn't saved Flash's number by virtue of being on the decathlon team with him, he would have known it simply because of Flash's stupid nickname for him.)

Peter just frowned and closed the thread, returning to his email.

The newly elected drum major for the marching band, Chris Buongiorno, reminding the pep band about the 4th of July parade next week, and an attachment of the Band Camp schedule to start rehearsals for the new field show they were doing for competitions next year. The Robotics club didn't meet in the summer but sent a reminder email to "keep sharp" because they would have events as early as the second or third week of school next term.

Peter didn't do 4th of July. He didn't like it.

(It was just like how he didn't like swimming, or popsicles, anymore. Or the loud booms from fireworks that reminded him of gunshots.)

Peter had already told his section leader, Josh Scarino, that he wouldn't be able to make it to the parade, and Aunt May had come with him during parent-teacher conferences last term to explain to Mrs. Drozdo, the band director, parts of why Peter didn't like to participate in 4th of July events.

(You don't have to tell everyone. And you don't have to tell everything. But Peter, telling people is helpful.)

He'd done an extra credit assignment, instead, and handed it in last week, along with his trumpet, which was a rental, and he could pick it up again when he started Band Camp in August.

Delete. Delete.

Another notification popped up in the group chat.

Hey, Peter, this is Liz. I told Flash that name-calling and being rude wasn't okay in the group message. Sorry about that.

Working around your internship schedule will be fine.

We're going to meet at Corona Park for fireworks on the 4th if you wanted to come.

I think everyone can do Wednesdays, so we'll start meeting on the 6th. Once a week should be fine for the summer.

See you soon!

Peter's eyes widened, and his face heated, a little.

This was. This. This was Liz Toomes.

He smiled.

This was looking to be a pretty good day, so far.

-o-

An alert buzzed in Tony Stark's AI interface—which looked just like his regular sunglasses, unless you knew better—informing him that, having been awake for longer than 36 hours, he had breached protocol, and steps were being taken.

"What protocol is this? FRI? Who authorized it?" he murmured, trying not to alert Happy, who had insisted on driving him to the Compound, like he wasn't perfectly capable of doing it himself. Or. You know. Making FRIDAY do it.

"The protocol 'Anthony Edward Stark You Workaholic Piece of Shit' was created jointly and authorized by Natasha Romanov and Ms. Potts in 2010 under JARVIS' supervision. It was recently uploaded into my database."

Tony blinked. Well. Okay then. "Kind of on the nose, don't you think? Any reason I wasn't informed?"

"The protocol designates that informing you is unnecessary, unless breached."

"Of course, it does. Okay, FRI. Override code—"

"Your override codes do not work on this protocol. Initializing phase two."

"What do you mean, my override codes—"

"What's up, boss? Everything okay?" Happy asked from the front.

"What happens in phase two? What happened in phase one?!" Tony asked in annoyance, no longer bothering to talk in a soft voice.

"Should I pull over?" Happy asked, and Tony waved him off, waiting for FRIDAY to answer.

"Lab access is restricted, until such time as you sleep for at least six hours and eat two meals, or the override password is given," the AI informed him coolly.

"Who has those codes, FRI?" Tony asked, fingers going automatically to the bridge of his nose to apply the kind of pressure that was relief to tension headaches, which he often carried behind his eyeballs. He winced and swore when he aggravated the bruise there—FRIDAY had told him it was basically a fracture, he needed to see if Helen could look at it—and glanced up at Happy who had, thankfully, just made the turn into the Compound.

"Since you have banned Natasha Romanov from my servers, just Ms. Potts."

"What about Vision?" Tony tried. "You could let him in, tweak some things, he probably still has JARVIS rattling around in there somewhere—"

"Vision is not currently available."

"Who is currently available?" Tony asked, refraining from snapping. Taking a tone with FRIDAY wouldn't do much to change things, anyway. FRIDAY learned, Tony thought, very quickly, and interpreting anger or sarcasm right now could very well trigger a calming protocol that Tony wouldn't be able to override. (Those kinds of things were supposed to be in place for when (if) Bruce came back. Tony remembered thinking it was a good thing, to have the AI learn about calming strategies and instructing healthy coping skills. Too bad FRIDAY had started using them on him, to help ground him when he had panic attacks, and notifying his therapist, sending data points, like a traitor.)

"Colonel Rhodes is in the recovery ward, and the medical bay is fully staffed, per your instruction."

Tony nodded. Sighed.

"What's up?" Happy asked again, having completely turned around, peering at Tony through the opened screen.

"What time is it in LA?" Tony asked, which didn't answer Happy's question. But Happy had been with him for years. He knew they'd eventually get around to what Happy wanted to know.

"Like…Five. Five-thirty. Why?" Happy answered.

Tony groaned. "Probably need to loop Pepper in."

Happy nodded. "Do you need the—" he fumbled in an inner suit pocket, withdrawing a ring. It was. It was an engagement ring.

Tony looked at it, then at him. "Hap, I love you, just not in that way," he said after a pause.

Happy nodded. "Not the time. I got it. Okay," and he stuffed the ring back in his suit.

"You just. You carry that with you?" Tony asked incredulously.

"You don't need it right now, that's fine. But I have it. For when you do," Happy said simply. "Besides, if you were in charge of it, you'd lose it," he added, shrugging.

Tony's mouth opened, a bluster of shock and offense. "I would not!"

"Or you'd distract yourself inventing some kind of way to replicate it in nanites so you wouldn't have to hold onto it," Happy added.

Tony's mouth closed. "Now there's a thought," he said, and Happy scoffed.

"Besides. I'm good at managing your assets," Happy continued, and seemed to take that as his last word, opening the door and sliding out of the driver's seat, coming around to open Tony's door for him.

"Oh my God, again with the asset manager. I would have nothing for you to manage. You'd be inventing the job for yourself. And why? You want a raise? Fine. I'll give you a raise," Tony bickered, stepping out of the car.

Happy hurried ahead to open the door to the Compound—that was left over from his days of being Tony's bodyguard. He always got to the doors first—and Tony wordlessly waited the obligatory moments until FRIDAY synced.

"Initiating phase three," FRIDAY said immediately from a speaker in the ceiling upon completing the sync with the Compound controls.

"Mute, FRI. Interface," Tony tapped his sunglasses to adjust their opacity as appropriate for indoor lighting, shaking his head at Happy's questioning look as he read what phase three entailed on the lenses.

Doctor Cho would be informed, being Tony's current general physician.

Meh. He could live with that. He probably had a broken nose, anyway. He should get it looked at.

But all in all, this wasn't looking to be the best day.