The second that Peter got home, he delivered the good news to Morgan, who let out a small squeal and disappeared into the bedroom. Aunt May gave Peter a calm smile, then went to bed with "a small headache, nothing to worry about dear." Of course, Peter worried. He made scrambled eggs and toast for himself and Morgan for dinner, then went to their bedroom to listen to Morgan's compositions.

She was getting good on the keyboard-keyboard, and was already composing a piece using the software Peter had jerry-rigged. She was almost vibrating with excitement, and had used a ruler to pencil out a diagram of the keys. Peter's heart swelled, wondering if this was the opportunity Morgan needed to get into a better school.

The money…Peter still didn't know how to bring it up. It sounded like the internship would be a real internship. But Mr. Stark hadn't said anything about payment. Yet. Just thinking about asking for the money was making his stomach turn. He pulled out his phone and did some googling…Intern Salary. Young Intern salary. US Labor Laws.

Something stuck in his throat when he read the results on the labor laws. Everything he read said that Mr. Stark paying a 14-year-old was illegal. But at the same time, Peter's spidermanning was also not…strictly…legal. A million things were running through his head, and he stared at a textbook he had left on the dinner table, trying to muster up the energy to pick it up and study again.

Instead, he grabbed a notebook and began sketching. His webshooters needed an update if Peter wanted them to stand up to the epic suit Mr. Stark was making. Morgan was on the computer, headphones glued to her ears as her fingers moved rhythmically on the keyboard. She looked up briefly and smiled at Peter as he climbed onto the top bunk. He sketched a few versions, but eventually feel asleep, pencil in hand and notebook resting against his chest.

The next morning, Peter woke up to Morgan still on the computer. "Mo, did you sleep at all last night?"

The eleven-year-old grinned, a slightly crazed look in her eyes. "I'm writing a concerto to play for Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts. I want it to be perfect to thank them for letting me play their piano."

"I'm sure it will be awesome, But like…you don't know how to play piano, do you? So it won't be totally perfect. But that's okay!"

Her face pulled into a frown. "I looked at videos online and read a bunch of articles. Apparently, some people can just play an instrument without any practice. And you said I'm good at music, right? So I think that's what is going to happen."

Peter sighed. "Morgan, you've been listening to me too much. Not everything needs to be perfect. You don't need to worry so much…you need to go to bed, actually."

Morgan shrugged. "Yeah, probably."

Peter tucked her in and went out to the kitchen, but frowned when he noticed May had not gotten up yet. It was seven AM, so Peter tried to convince himself that May was just sleeping in. His spider sense wasn't kicking up at all so logically he knew there wasn't anything wrong, but to quell his anxiety, he peered through the cracked door.

Aunt May was sat up in bed, staring out the window at the city being bathed in sun. She looked peaceful, Peter thought, but a little sad. He knocked lightly and came in, climbing into bed next to her. "Seen any good birds this morning?" Peter murmured.

Aunt May wrapped him in a hug and pulled up the covers over his legs. "You know, the fattest pigeon I've ever seen came and sat on the sill."

Peter smiled. "Morgan stayed up all night working on a song for Mr. Stark. I sent her to bed, so I was thinking I could run and get donuts for us. It's early enough that the place on 17th usually has some day-olds for sale. Does that sound okay?"

"I suppose so. Be safe, and take your phone so you can reach me if anything happens." She smoothed his bedhead and gently lifted Peter's chin. "You're such a good brother Peter. Morgan and I are lucky to have you."

He laid his head on her thin shoulder. "Not as lucky as I am to have you." He paused for a second, then sprang up. "I'll be back soon."

Almost a week later, on a Tuesday night, Peter got into a spot of trouble. He had been patrolling a hotspot on the eastern edge of Queens when his spidey sense tingled. He swung to the edge of a building and stopped, surveilling, when he noticed two police cars pulled into an alleyway, the four officers talking lowly. One of them walked around to the back of the squad car and pulled a middle-aged man from the back seat.

Peter gasped as the officer forced the man to his knees and trained his gun on the man's temple. Peter took one split-second to look at the other cops, before realizing that the only way the suspect had a chance was if Spiderman dropped in.

Despite Peter's senses and lightning-fast reflexes, four against one wasn't easy, especially when the four fighters were trained cops with weapons. Peter had landed a few webs and a few blows and had managed to subdue one of them, but when he was checking the restraining webs he heard a humming in the air. Time slowed as he turned to look at the source of the sound, and later Peter would swear he could see the Taser's two copper darts as they flew towards his chest.

There was a moment when Peter wondered if the Taser would even affect him. Then the current hit him, sharp and debilitating. Peter dropped to the ground and felt all his muscles contract, pulling every tendon taught. As he regained his senses, the first kick slammed into his stomach, then second quickly followed to his head. There was laughter as a hand went to yank his hood down, but that only aggravated Peter, and he came up off the ground swinging, knocking out the officer who had almost revealed his identity.

But Peter was flagging, his eyesight blurry and senses screaming. Noticing the suspect had run off, Peter decided to pull back, and he scrambled up the wall, swinging away quickly. He landed on the roof of his apartment, swaying slightly before falling into the seat of an old camping chair he had pilfered from the apartment trash. He leaned back and closed his eyes as he fought to catch his breath, still feeling his nerves tingling.

A Taser…that was new. And dirty cops…also new. He dragged his mask off over his head, scrubbing it against his forehead a little to get rid of the sweat and a little blood that trailed down his face from a small cut over his eye. Now that his vision was clearing, he plucked the Taser darts out of his chest, yanking a little to get out the barbs on the ends. Two prospects loomed at the forefront of Peter's mind, neither one of them good. The first was that until now, Peter had relied on the cops to arrest people and bring them to justice. The second, and more immediately concerning, is that he would have to come up with a valid excuse for the cut above his eye that definitely wouldn't heal by the next day.

He had experience lying to May and Morgan—he was a klutz before the bite, and stayed a klutz after— but Mr. Stark would absolutely ask, and the man was a wild card when it came to Peter. So, it might be better to lie, but Peter was also dying to ask the inventor about making sure his suit was also taser-proof. He might be imagining it, but his tongue still felt like he had licked a 9-volt and his toes were tingling.

With a deep sigh, Peter hauled himself out of the chair and changed out of his suit. His ribs and head ached a bit as he swung to the window he always left open in the common hallway and peered in. As always in the middle of the night, the hallway was clear. Peter eased himself through the window and unlocked the door, locking it again behind him before falling onto the couch. Morgan's lullaby from the week before was playing in his head, drowning out the noise of the city as he fell asleep.