Peter's last class before lunch was Art, which he wasn't generally doing well in—it seemed, though, that Mrs. Kramer had a lot on her mind, and she accepted the essay Peter had written in lieu of a cubism project, which she never had done, before, without challenging it way more. Peter hardly dared believe he'd just escaped a fight about it, maybe he'd even be able to swing a B- in her class, instead of the C she'd threatened last week—

"You know, the whole point of cubism is to question how we view the illusion that is an image on a surface of the canvas, and it represented freedom to a lot of painters who lived under very controlled styles of paintings for generations."

Peter jumped, somehow not surprised that Michelle Jones was right there, and actually speaking to him.

She speared him with an indifferent look, holding a sketchbook in front of her, instead of an easel, or pastels, or whatever mediums the rest of the class were using to do their own work—Mrs. Kramer had just kind of let them go ham, since tomorrow was the last day – and when Peter glanced at it, she didn't even hide that she'd been sketching him.

"That's—" Peter started, before she interrupted him.

"I'm starting a collection. 'People in crisis,'" she said plainly.

"Oh. I'm not—"

"You totally were. You were a nervous wreck."

Peter shut his mouth against another denial, frowning, instead.

"Mrs. Kramer isn't coming back next year. She has a mom with a brain injury. Lives in Tucson. Mrs. Kramer is going to move there, this summer. So you don't have to worry about her giving you a hard time next year. I mean. If you're gonna take Art again. Which. I mean. I dunno why you'd bother. You're kind of a science…guy," Michelle said matter-of-factly, but still almost completely monotone. She gestured at Peter's atom shirt, which he looked down at, and then back at her.

"I don't—I mean—I can—you," Peter sputtered; this was so random. What do you even say to that?

"See? Distress," Michelle intercepted smoothly, arching an eyebrow at him as she looked back down at her sketchbook…and continued to draw him.

"You…saw that? She was—she's been on my case the whole semester. I thought it was just me or something," Peter mumbled, as his brain processed what she'd actually said.

"It was. A little. Art's about abstract. Feelings, and junk. You're…not. You're about fact. Dealing with emotions isn't your jam," Michelle said—and Peter realized, she said everything kind of the same way: as a statement of fact.

And she was right, of course. Peter repressed to the extreme, rather than deal with his emotions.

But…how had she just…known that?

He didn't even know her.

(How could she see through him so easily?)

"Oh," he said stupidly.

"I'm not obsessed with you or anything," Michelle said, after a beat, and Peter thought that maybe she sounded…a little defensive? "I just…see things. People don't think I do. But it's not hard."

Peter nodded. "I…see things too," he agreed.

There was silence, then, and Michelle seemed content to draw him quietly.

Peter pulled more papers from his backpack, deciding to sort through some things now, instead of later. He hooked a nearby trashcan with his foot, starting to unceremoniously chuck things in that he no longer needed to keep. The note from Josh, from earlier, reminders about things that had already happened last week. He found gum wrappers and ancient, rock-hard Tootsie rolls, he found assignments marked in red, already put into the system.

Trash, trash, trash.

There were other things he had to keep ahold of. A signup sheet for the summer internship he already had. (A 'necessary formality,' the guidance counsellor had insisted. 'Just make sure you get a signature. Miss Potts already forwarded hers yesterday.') A few power bars. A water bottle.

He carefully made sure to work around the. Ahem. Item of clothing. He'd shoved unceremoniously into his bag.

At least, he thought he had.

"Dude. It's July. Why do you have a glove in your bag?"

Peter whirled to look at Michelle, who hadn't even looked up from her sketching, and then back to his bag, where, indeed, a slightly conspicuous hand of the costume had poked out where anyone could easily see it.

Thankfully, red with black lines ringing the fingers looked…fairly normal. Sporty, even. He didn't have to explain the spider emblems on the front and back, or the shape of the eyes in the mask.

"I just. Uh. Forgot to take it back out of my bag," Peter said quickly, stuffing the costume deeper, ensuring it was out of sight. "I was. Um. I was on a retreat. For my new internship? It was, uh. A gift. From my boss."

Peter actually warmed a little at his own words, because…for all intents and purposes, they were true.

"Sweet," Michelle said monotonously, subbing out the pencil she was working with for a fat grey eraser, which she seemed to be using for blending, rather than erasing.

The bell rang, then, and Peter scrambled to repack his things to go to lunch, and when he looked up to say something to Michelle—anything. Goodbye? Good luck with the portraits of people in crisis?—she had already left.

Still, though. She didn't know he was Spider-Man, even if she knew…weirdly specific things about him. And Mrs. Kramer had accepted his paper without giving him a hard time.

Things were going very smoothly, and Peter was having a pretty good day.

-o-

Tony waited as long as he could possibly procrastinate before making the call.

"Stark Industries, this is Bambi," came the no-nonsense voice of Pepper's assistant.

"Bambi Arbogast, you're sounding…what's a good word. 'Pert.' Are you feeling pert?"

"Mr. Stark, Miss Potts is in a meeting, I'll inform her of your call. Would you like to hold?"

Tony swallowed the glib comeback that automatically formed on his lips. This was for Rhodey. "Um. Listen, Bambi, have you…seen the news? I need to talk to her. This is. Uh. This is kind of important."

"Of course, Mr. Stark. One moment," she said, and it was…gentler. Than before. God. Maybe she really had seen the news. It was probably really depressing.

She blessedly didn't put him on hold with the awful music, just…maybe set the receiver aside. He had no idea what she would say to Pepper; he had no idea what kind of relationship Pepper even had with her assistant, other than the fact that Pepper called her by her first name.

She'd been with the company for years, Tony knew. God, he'd been the new CEO when she came on. She'd worked as a receptionist-turned-secretary under Pepper, who he'd hired on as his personal assistant on a whim. (There was a whole story behind it that he liked to tell because he had met her, hired her, and given her her nickname in the space of a minute.)

She was efficient, she was well-spoken, and very discreet; the image of professionalism.

(Natasha liked her, too. Bambi had screened and hired her on during her stint as 'Natalie Rushman.')

"Tony?"

And it was Pepper.

And Tony knew they'd both agreed to take a break, and he knew that things between them were very amicable, and that they hadn't entered into the decision lightly, but they had made the decision, and this was a breach of that, this wasn't just a thing of a casual email asking her authorization to be rushed in getting Peter squared away with an internship for real, not just as a cover, and he'd been forwarded on those interactions, which were to the letter of professionalism and poise, though he was pretty sure Peter actually still had to set up a direct desposit and he hadn't done that, Tony would have to tell Aunt Hottie—But this was about Rhodey, now.

Tony didn't have family left. He had built a new one, like the mechanic he was, and that had broken, too. And who he had left in his corner, he knew cold, were Harold Hogan, James Rhodes, and her. Virginia Potts.

And Tony heard Pepper's voice. And he just talked.

He told her everything. Everything he should have been open with her about from the off. His feeling of betrayal, about the whole damn Accords nonsense. The goddamn Winter Soldier. His fucking broken face. And the debacle that had been the highlight reel of this whole thing. The image he couldn't get out of his head: the kid. Peter.

The skittish way he'd sat next to Happy, so fucking anxious because of seeing Tony drunk—drinking—that he'd busted up his hands tearing chunks out of the seats of Tony's plane. Happy's report of the kid having a serious Asthma attack at the hotel. Tony knew he also had to call Aunt Hottie about that. May. Mrs. Parker. Ugh. But he hadn't been able to think of a way to come clean to her without mentioning her nephew's secret identity, which he apparently was insisting on keeping.

So Tony talked. And Pepper let him.

God, he missed her.

She knew him so well. She knew his thought processes. His guilt. The work he'd been doing to promote the September Foundation in the first place, his personal work with BARF.

And even in his imperfections, she knew he was trying. And she commended him for it.

"Tony, you have to give yourself a break. You knew this sort of thing would happen. Relapses happen. It doesn't mean you're back to square one. Not really. You already know what to do, and you're doing it. You're just so impatient."

Tony let out a surprised laugh. "I just gotta be patient. That's what it boils down to?"

Pepper laughed in return. "When you break it into manageable pieces…yeah. That's what it boils down to."

Tony let the silence stretch, and Pepper seemed content to let him. Finally, though, she did sigh. "Look, I have a meeting I've been postponing. Thank you for calling me. Are you gonna be all right?"

Tony shook his head 'no.' "Yeah, of course," he said quickly. "Um, I had a project for. Um. For Rhodey. Braces. For his legs. But I'm under some…I dunno. Tony Stark is a piece of shit protocol? I guess? And I need an override before FRIDAY will let me into my lab."

Pepper laughed, longer than Tony thought she would. "O-Okay. Okay. Um. I'm. I'm gonna clear some time, come up to the Compound. Um. Can FRIDAY hear me?"

"Of course, Miss Potts," FRIDAY interjected cleanly.

Tony scowled.

"FRIDAY, I'm allowing a 3-hour recession to Phase 1, Override code: Twelve Percent."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Really?"

"The code changes, by the way, into any one of at least twenty-five combinations of phrases, and never the same one twice in a row. So don't try making changes to the protocol without me there," Pepper said firmly.

"Twelve Percent?"

"Go play in your lab," Pepper said in a bossy way. "I'll let you know when I'm on my way."

Tony smiled. "Thanks, Pep."

"Well, you're welcome, Mr. Stark," Pepper said teasingly. Then, in a more serious tone, "Give Rhodey my love."

"Yeah. 'Course."

They said their goodbyes, and Tony hung up, immediately pulling up FRIDAY. "So I can go to my lab now, right?"

"That is incorrect. You have doctor's orders to follow before the override can be verified," FRIDAY corrected him.

Tony groaned. "You're gonna bench me for Ibuprofen?"

"Following doctor's instructions supersedes override codes."

"Of course," Tony muttered.

With no other choice, he groaned, and made his way toward the parking garage. He apparently had an errand to run.

This was shaping up to be a pretty damn terrible day.