Part Two
The Deal
"Are you going for a world record, kid, or did Alejandro not explain we don't pay you by the bag?"
Peter, crouched on the floor beside a rack of off-brand potato chips, grins up at Mr. Delmar, who is standing with his arms crossed at the end of the aisle. Mr. Delmar's look of exasperation, Peter knows, is mostly for dramatic effect.
"You got a problem with efficiency, old man?"
The corners of Mr. Delmar's mouth twitch, but he holds his expression.
"If it weren't for that mouth of yours I'd almost think you weren't a Queens boy, you little smartass. Does your uncle know you sass your elders like this, huh?"
Peter holds a hand up in a half shrug while the other continues to shove bags on the rack, rapid-fire.
"Seriously, kid, you do know you're hourly, right? I appreciate the effort, but maybe drag it out a little."
"Yeah, but I got places to be. Things to do."
"Seems like you've always got places to be. Things to do. Isn't it summer yet? Don't tell me you're starting the summer homework already."
"Nah. School's boring. I got better things to do."
"Stay in school, kid. Otherwise you'll end up like me."
Finished with his shelf, Peter gets to his feet, and holds his arms open, indicating the cramped bodega where he has worked stocking shelves nearly every morning for the past two and a half months.
"This is great," he says. "But, like I said, I, uh, I got—"
"Yeah, yeah, you got places to be. You got time for a paycheck before you head off to your mysterious places?"
At the promise of money, Peter manages to stop twitching with restless eagerness as he follows Mr. Delmar to the front desk.
Peter's paycheck is not a check. It never has been. The shelf-stocking is all under the table, off the books. It's a job Peter found by pure luck—which did not, at first, seem like luck. Peter used to come to Delmar's with Uncle Ben, when he still lived in the immediate neighborhood, and when he stumbled in on a particularly cold day at the end of March, he was only thinking it might be nice to warm up somewhere that was familiar, had even spent five precious bucks—taken from his then-dwindling stash of saved allowance—on a toasted sandwich, thinking there was no way Mr. Delmar would recognize him: how could he, when Peter had been a different person the last time he'd set foot in the shop?
But recognize him Mr. Delmar did, and, save for a brief flash of terror at what the recognition might mean—(can't go back to Skip, can't)—it turned out, for once, that luck was on his side.
"Haven't seen the Parkers in here in forever," Mr. Delmar had said. " I was starting to think you'd abandoned me for Sub Haven, you traitors. You tell your uncle to come say hi, yeah?"
And then, hearing Peter's stammered insistence that their loyalty remained true, Mr. Delmar had given him the sandwich for free.
The realization that his uncle's death, which had seemed to Peter like the end of the entire world, had not so much as registered for most of the people in that world, was a surreal mix of renewed pain and, even more strangely, relief.
Relief, because when he walked into Delmar's again a week later, he was able to ask for a job with the addendum because my uncle could really use some help at home and watch as Mr. Delmar's expression shifted from doubt to pity, pity to acquiescence.
Who was going to refuse a job to a fourteen-year-old kid trying to help his only remaining family get by? Not Mr. Delmar, apparently. And besides, it was only half a lie. Peter does need the money to help out at home. That his home is not a home, per se, is sort of immaterial. That he no longer has an uncle… well, he has a feeling—a hope, anyway—that Uncle Ben would forgive him this one.
"One hundred fifty bucks," Mr. Delmar says, counting the bills into Peter's hands. "And you say hello to your uncle for me. Tell him to swing by sometime. I promise my lips are sealed."
Peter's stomach squirms a little bit, just as it always does when Mr. Delmar mentions Ben. But he nods, pockets the cash.
"Same time tomorrow?"
"You know it, kid. Try to have some fun in the meantime, got it?"
The grin finds its way back as Peter exits the shop. He might not have his uncle anymore, or a real home… but fun, at least, is never in short supply.
The abandoned warehouses and factories on the river are a secret that keeps itself. Most New Yorkers know they exist—they are the final vestiges of the industrial powerhouse that was the New York of the early twentieth century, part of the city's history—and that includes the homeless population, among whom Peter has counted himself for nearly three months now. When he came here that first night, having wandered, much like he did the day he got his powers, until the cold got the better of him, he had expected to find encampments, drug dens, all manner of frightening people huddled in the relative shelter of these crumbling storerooms. He had, in fact, braced himself to sneak through the fray, to protect his stash of food and clothes, thinking he would just get out of the early spring winds for the night and then regroup somewhere safer, more secluded.
Instead, he'd found himself alone.
The reason for this became apparent when, upon approaching the first likely-looking hideout, Peter had found a set of chains and a padlock that must have weighed as much as he did and a sign that read Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted to the Fullest Extent of the Law.
There were also, upon closer investigation, about two dozen security cameras peppered around the area, which Peter must have missed that first day in his distraction. In another ironic twist, it was the cameras, meant to deter intruders, that tipped Peter off to the relative safety of the buildings. If there was so much security, why had no one come for him the first time? Sure enough, an even closer look revealed that the security cameras were, though numerous, entirely fake.
A broken lock, a trip up a creaky flight of stairs, and Peter found himself in what would become his fourth home since Uncle Ben died.
If he has any say about it, it will be the last.
It is this home to which Peter now heads, having crept out of Delmar's on high alert (Ned sometimes walks to and from school that way: Peter has glimpsed him, once or twice, from between the shelves of snacks and toiletries, and has ducked his head to avoid detection, telling himself the weird tug he felt in his gut each time is just because he rarely eats breakfast before his six am shift). He scales the chain link fence and heads around the back of the building: they replaced the padlock, a few weeks ago, but it hardly matters; a quick glance over his shoulder and then Peter scales the outer wall to the third floor, where he crawls through the window to his "bedroom."
Said bedroom is what Peter suspects was once the foreman's office in this old textile factory. There is a dilapidated desk in one corner, and rusting filing shelves lining one wall. Since Peter moved in there is now a nest of blankets and pillows under the desk and in the filing cabinets—
Peter yanks a rusty drawer open. There is a pile of ancient paper inside, congealed into a hard lump by fifty years of moisture and smelling strongly of mildew, but the real treasure is underneath: he shifts the paper aside to reveal his backpack.
The backpack holds almost everything that remains of Peter's worldly possessions: in the front pocket, the burner phone, unused but fully charged; in the larger pocket, a mess of crumpled bills, rubber banded together according to denomination.
It is the larger pocket that Peter opens now, extracting this week's pay as he does. With this week's wages, he has nearly a thousand dollars. There was a time not that long ago when a thousand dollars would have been an unthinkable amount of money—the electronics he and Ned could have bought! the games!—but now Peter is extra careful when he extracts a five and three ones from the pile, rifling a few of the stacks before he zips the bag shut again, as though they might have shrunk in the night.
One hundred and fifty dollars a week. Eight dollars a day for food. If he plays his cards right, he can have enough saved by the time he's eighteen to rent a place of his own, maybe even go back to school eventually.
It's just three years. Three years spent alone, sure—but alone means no Arlingtons, no halfway house… no Skip.
Three years is nothing. Three years is easy.
And in the meantime, Peter has Spider-Man.
The drawer above the money and the phone holds what remains of Peter's stash of food—which is most of it, since he still prefers dipping into his meager budget over reducing his food resources, still gets a tight knot in his stomach when he thinks of running out—and the one above that holds his suit.
His lunch secured, his money tucked away, Peter opens this drawer now. His goggles stare up at him from within, and even though he has seen this same sight every day for almost three months now, it still lights a little flame of excitement in his chest when he looks down at the suit.
"Hey Spider-Man," says Peter. "Let's do this thing."
If someone had told Peter, a year and a half ago, that he would eventually break off his friendship with Ned, drop out of school, and run away from home to live on the streets, he would have easily bet everything he owned that person was wrong.
If that person had gone on to tell him it would be the best decision he ever made, Peter would have laughed in their face.
And yet when Peter swings back into lower Queens some forty-five minutes after he left Delmar's that morning, not as Peter Parker this time but as Spider-Man, he feels the same elation he always feels, the same excitement, the same possibility… he does not, however, feel an ounce of regret.
Sure, the first month was hard. April, when winter hadn't quite melted away and the nights were long and dark and cold—had been, to put it mildly, horrible. But Peter eventually scrounged more blankets from the shelters, along with as some well-worn but warm clothes, and once the days started to lengthen and the nights no longer dropped below freezing, Peter found himself doing something he had not done in over a year: sleeping through the night.
Turns out, sleep does wonders for a guy's mood. And so, apparently, does having free reign over his newfound superpowers.
With nothing left to distract him—no more school, no more Skip—Spider-Man has become Peter's full-time job. Ten weeks have gone by in a whirlwind of car thieves and muggers, cats stuck in trees, tourists snapping pictures, and little old ladies asking for directions to the J train.
Peter has loved every second of it.
When he's stocking shelves at Delmar's or counting his money in the abandoned factory—or even when he is curled up under the desk at night, waiting for sleep and wondering if anyone is looking for him (is it worse if they are, or if they aren't?)—at those times he's still Peter Parker. Still fourteen years old, still a runaway, still a truant, and still stomach-churningly aware of what will happen if anyone figures any of this out. But when he puts on the suit…
When he puts on the suit, Peter becomes something else entirely. It's like all the strength that is locked away when he is just himself gets unleashed all at once; all the fear and uncertainty and loneliness just… falls away.
Spider-Man is different. Spider-Man is better. Spider-Man has saved him.
So, no. No regret.
Just freedom.
That's not to say, however, that his time as Spider-Man is always interesting. Sure, he's taken out a few back-alley thugs, dropped in on a drug deal or two, but most days his stats tend to lean more toward the kittens in trees and the old ladies—like, for instance, today.
By the time afternoon rolls around, sticky and hot, Peter has helped a stranded motorist change a tire, helped a frantic woman look for a lost wedding ring, and done backflips for a group of elementary-age kids until he started to feel dizzy—no mean feat, these days. All in all it's not a bad way to spend a morning, but around one pm is when he starts to feel antsy: he's found the best way to make sure he doesn't go over budget on his food is to keep himself on a strict schedule, and lunch isn't scheduled until two. In an ironic twist, Peter's time at the halfway house has served him well on the streets; he can get through pretty much any hunger so long as he knows the hunger has a timeline, an end date. That doesn't mean, however, that he doesn't need an occasional distraction during the wait, preferably something bigger than a lost wedding ring.
His stomach is growling and there is a weird hum in his ears—which might be lingering discombobulation from the backflips but is probably because his blood sugar is dipping—so when, upon clambering to the top of a three-story building after finally disengaging from the demands of the schoolchildren, the back of Peter's neck starts to tingle, he follows the instinct without question.
It takes just a few leaps between rooftops to see where the tingling was leading him: there is an area on the street below where the sidewalk narrows, forcing those few bicyclists too nervous to ride on the streets to dismount. Right at this juncture stands a guy dressed all in black, his hoodie pulled up and his head ducked low.
Now, Peter learned long ago that a hood means very little in terms of a person's criminal activity: he himself has learned the value of a raised hood on the rare occasions when he is in his street clothes during the day: still being somewhat undersized, and with a wardrobe consisting mainly of thrift-store finds that are about four sizes too large on average, Peter tends to draw some curious glances. Hiding his face hides his age. Keeps him safe.
But any doubts about this particular hooded figure's intents are washed away when a young woman on a pink bike draws to a halt beside him and dismounts.
Before the woman can comprehend what's happening—before she is fully off the bike, even—hoodie guy yanks it out from under her. She falls, lands hard on her backside, and the guy takes off just as she starts to scream.
Peter is in the air in a moment, revelling the sensation of falling for a hair of a second before he slings a web and catches himself inches above the ground. The hum in his ears seems to increase as he slings another, but Peter ignores it, his senses honed on the bike thief. The thief turns down an alley, out of the crowd and away from the woman's screams for help and—
Peter lands on the asphalt in front of him.
The hooded thief slams on the brakes too abruptly: he goes flying over the handlebars. Peter flings web to catch him before he hits the ground, yanks him upright, and slings another to bind his ankles together before he can think to run.
There is a moment where the thief's arms windmill almost comically as he tries to keep himself upright. But it's no good: he half falls, half sits on the damp ground, then immediately buries his head in his arms, signalling defeat.
It's not exactly the fight Peter was gearing up for, but it'll do.
"Why do I have the sneaking suspicion this bike isn't yours?" he says. "It's not like a sexist thing, man, but somehow pink just isn't your color."
"Fuck you," says the bike thief into his knees.
"Hey, woah," says Peter. "I'm not the guy knocking ladies off bikes in the middle of the day, dude. I mean for real, I get the hostility, but I gotta say I think it's misdirected. I dunno, maybe save it for the cops?"
The humming is getting louder. It seems to be coming from above rather than within, but Peter doesn't have time to investigate, because at the mention of the cops the thief's head snaps up, and Peter's heart sinks.
Underneath the hoodie is not the twenty-something, tattooed criminal Peter was expecting. Instead, a round face stares up at him with wide, shining eyes, cheeks streaked with tears, lower lip trembling. The kid must be about Peter's age. Maybe even a little younger.
Immediately, Peter shoves the bike aside. He crouches down next to the kid, who flinches back.
"Woah, hey, hey, it's okay." Peter holds his hands up. "Look, kid, I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm sorry I knocked you over, I didn't realize you were, um…"
The thief's expression goes hard.
"I'm not a fucking kid," he says.
"Okay. Uh, what's—what's your name, then?"
Defiance is joined on the thief's face by confusion.
"Aren't you gonna throw me to the cops?" he says. "I've heard of you, man, you're one of those justice vigilante freaks, aren't you? So why would you need my name, huh?"
Peter swallows. Glances over his shoulder. The hum is still there, but it seems to be their only companion in the alley; no one on the street saw their brief tussle.
He reaches down, tears the webs off the thief's ankles.
The thief gapes.
"Dude," Peter says, "do you have any idea what happens to kids who steal bikes? Whatever it is you think you're doing here, it's not worth it. It's really, really not. Go home, man."
The thief doesn't need telling twice. He scrambles to his feet and takes off down the alley, nearly gone before Peter has resumed his own feet.
But then, at the mouth of the alley, he pauses. Turns around.
"Mickey," he says.
"Uh…"
"That's my name." A pause. "You're an okay dude, Spider-Man."
And Mickey disappears around the corner.
And there it is: that little swell of pride, that enduring warmth. It's the same warmth he felt the night he saved Felipe, the same warmth he feels every time he really saves someone who needs it—really needs it, not just like, needs a favor.
The mask is good for a great many things: one of those is hiding the flush that creeps into Peter's cheeks as he picks up the stolen bike, and the grin that comes along with it.
By the time he makes it out of the alley, however, the grin has faded: the hum has not disappeared on the rush of adrenaline, like he thought it would have. It doesn't disappear when he returns the bike to its owner, either, nor when she pulls him into a spine-crushing hug.
"Do you hear that?" he asks her, but she is too busy sobbing into his shoulder to answer.
When Peter finally manages to disentangle himself from her grateful embrace—a little hastily, maybe, but even with time and distance from Skip, he still hasn't quite gotten to the point where he welcomes hugs from random strangers—he is starting to feel slightly nervous, and a little lightheaded. It's only one-thirty, but he figures that's close enough to warrant a street taco or two if it means his head will stop humming: he waves goodbye to the woman and a few onlookers, then launches himself onto the nearest rooftop.
Peter's intention is to gather himself briefly and then head off to Midtown, where he can grab a bite and hopefully clear his head, but as soon as lands on the gravel flat-top, the hum gets even louder, almost as though it is approaching him.
Too late, Peter realizes that the noise isn't coming from his head.
"Wha—augh!"
Peter nearly loses his balance trying to spin around and cover his surprise at the same time. He staggers, heart jackhammering, as Iron Man lands with a soft clunk on the rooftop beside him.
"I'll be sure to cross 'eloquence' off your list of potential superpowers." The suit opens. Tony Stark steps out. "Though it's not the least coherent greeting I've ever gotten."
There is a brief moment where Peter thinks he should maybe run for it, and then all thought is washed away by a static stream of disbelieving reverence in the form of, That's Tony Stark. Tony Stark is right in front of me. Tony Freaking Stark is standing three feet away.
"Uh," says Peter's mouth. "Huh—um—"
Tony Freaking Stark raises an eyebrow.
"What—" At last, Peter finds some words, remembering at the last second to drop his voice an octave or two. He coughs. "What are you doing here?"
"And a hearty hello to you too, Webs."
"I mean. Yes. Hi. Hello. Mr. Stark. I mean. Iron Man. Hi."
"Yup, definitely nixing eloquence." Mr. Stark glances around, adjusting the sleeve of his suit jacket and regarding the New York skyline like one might regard a lesser piece of art in a dark corner of the Louvre. "So, are we gonna introduce ourselves, or should I just move right into my commentary on that getup? Because I have a few notes."
Peter is blessedly relieved that his "getup" covers his violent blush.
"I know who you are," he says.
"Most people do. It was kinda your name I was looking for."
Peter says, "I'm not Spider-Man."
"No one said you were. But ironically, now I'm thinking you are . Also, is that the name you're going with? Spider-Man? Not… Spiderling? Spider-Master? You know, hearing myself I'm remembering why I have a team of people who usually name stuff for me—don't get me started on BARF—but even so, as a veteran in the hero business, I feel obliged to warn you the first brand tends to stick."
"I said I'm not Spider-Man."
His brain is slowly catching up to the situation. The hum from the Iron Man suit is the same one he heard when he was apprehending Mickey in the alley below, which means Mr. Stark might have seen him let the kid go. Which means…
Peter has to get out of here.
If Mr. Stark puts the suit back on Peter doesn't have a chance. But if he can make a quick getaway while the man is out in the open, he might be able to get out of sight before he can re-engage.
Peter takes a step back.
Obligingly, Mr. Stark steps forward.
"Okay, not-Spider-Man," he says. "How about your real name?"
Another step.
"That's private. I'm, um, I'm a private citizen, man. I got a right to privacy."
"Uh-huh. Such a private guy you spend your Wednesday afternoons leaping between buildings in a giant red-and-blue onesie?"
The blush deepens. Peter stumbles on the next step, but Mr. Stark doesn't seem to notice. He's still following him.
"It's, uh, it's for Comic-Con?"
"Comic-Con," Mr. Stark deadpans. "On this rooftop. In the middle of June."
"Is… that what month it is…?" says Peter lamely.
"So," Mr. Stark says, and Peter stiffens when he reaches into his jacket. But it turns out he's just reaching for a StarkPhone, which he uses to pull up a hologram of—
Of Peter. Dressed in exactly the same clothes he's wearing now, leaping in front of an SUV that's inches away from t-boning a bus.
I'm on YouTube? Peter thinks, but the faint thrill is muted by Mr. Stark's raised eyebrow.
"That's you , isn't it?"
Another step.
"That's—that's all online, right? I mean, you can do anything with special effects nowadays."
Peter's calves jar against the lip of the rooftop. He stops.
Mr. Stark nods at the steep drop at Peter's back. "You gonna special effect your way out of this one, Spiderling?"
"Man," Peter corrects, then curses himself. "Look, du—sir, I don't—I don't want any trouble, so maybe we should just, uh, leave it at that."
Tony Stark shrugs. Sniffs.
"Okay," he says, "we can do things the hard way."
And he shoves Peter off the roof.
Peter falls for less than half a second before instinct kicks in and he slings a web. He barely has time to comprehend what happened before he's landing on the rooftop, skidding to a halt a few feet away from Mr. Stark's triumphant smirk.
"Dude!" he says. "What if I wasn't Spider-Man?"
"Calculated risk," says Mr. Stark. "They tend to pay off when you're me." He gives Peter a sweeping look. "You look like you could use a sandwich, Spider-Man. And I have a proposition I'd like to discuss with you."
Did Peter think getting superpowers was surreal? Hanging upside-down from a warehouse ceiling pales in comparison to sitting in a Brooklyn deli, eating a hoagie underneath his half-raised mask while the world's most famous billionaire-slash-superhero polishes off a Cuban less than three feet away. To add to this sense of surreality, said billionaire has rented the entire restaurant; besides the shell-shocked-looking kid behind the register, they are completely alone.
Peter sympathizes with the cashier's wide-eyed gawp. He is so nervous he doesn't even have to force himself to eat the sandwich—which is the biggest meal he's had in three days—slowly. Mr. Stark finishes first, therefore, and leans back in his chair with his arms crossed, watching Peter finish his own with one eyebrow raised over a black eye: the only part of his appearance that is not immaculate.
"You're really not gonna take the mask off?" he says.
Peter shrugs. "That's kinda the point of a mask."
The hoagie has worked his tongue loose. Now he feels more like he does just before a decathlon, the nerves making him bolder.
"Yeah, but we're partners now," says Mr. Stark. "Kinda rude not to show your face to the man offering you fame and fortune."
Peter perks up. "There's money involved?"
"Woah, cool it there, Wall Street. You haven't even accepted my offer yet."
"It's not really an offer though, is it?" Peter finishes the sandwich, licks his fingers, and wonders for a second if it would be rude to ask for another before deciding that it probably would. "You're asking for my help. And you haven't even told me what I'd be helping with."
"I'm Iron Man. When I say, 'I need your help,' the 'to save the world' is implied."
Peter raises an eyebrow, remembers Mr. Stark can't see his face, and crosses his arms over his chest instead.
"Yeesh," says Mr. Stark, "and here I thought the neighborhood hero of Queens would be amenable to, you know, all kinds of righteous do-goodery. I think I liked you better on the rooftop, when you were too starstruck to stutter my name."
Peter feels a confusing mix of embarrassment and pride. I'm standing up to Tony Stark, he thinks. Then, panicked, Holy shit, I'm standing up to Tony Stark.
He uncrosses his arms.
"I'm not saying no," he says slowly. "But, um… why me? I mean, you're an Avenger. You have all the other superheroes in the world on speed dial and I…"
"Fight crime in your big-boy jammies?"
Peter scowls and yanks his mask over his mouth. "I work on a budget," he says.
"Sorry, sorry." To his credit, Mr. Stark does look sorry. "It's not all lo-fi," he concedes, nodding to Peter's web-slingers. "Who manufactures your webs? The tensile strength on those things is insane."
"I do."
"And the…?"
He gestures to the goggles.
"Yeah, those too. Ever since—I mean, my powers are kind of… intense, sometimes. They help me filter everything out. Focus."
Mr. Stark nods, and Peter realizes with a pleasant twist in his stomach that he's impressed.
"So," Mr. Stark says, "why?"
Peter falters.
"Uh… I don't know, I guess I need to be able to… see?"
"Not the goggles, smarty-pants. Why bother with this at all? The crime-fighting, the costume. What's the motivation?"
The sandwich calcifies in his stomach.
Why? How the hell is he supposed to explain why to someone like Tony Stark?
Because the world is such a shitty place that my best efforts as Peter Parker only dug me deeper and deeper, but Spider-Man can't be buried.
Because I'm terrified of what would happen if I stopped.
Because if I didn't have this, I wouldn't have any reason to keep going at all.
But he can't say that to Iron Man.
And what's more, it's not the whole truth. Peter realizes this only when the words start to pour out of him.
"It's like… I have these powers, right? But before that… I was just, you know, I was just a regular… a regular guy. And when you're a regular guy, you can do… things, to—to help people, but you can only do so much, because you're just one person. Bad things just… happen. And that's" — unbearable — "okay. But when you can do the things I can do and you don't … then, when the bad things happen, they happen because of you."
("Responsibility is not a choice.")
Mr. Stark looks at him without a trace of humor.
"So you're looking out for the little guy."
"Yeah. Yeah, exactly. Just… looking out for the little guy."
"Can I ask you a question?"
Peter gulps, nods.
"Why'd you let the bike thief go?"
Peter's fingertips go numb.
(He saw, he saw, he's going to turn you in, you're gonna go back to Skip or maybe somewhere worse and you have to get out now get out too close too close too close—)
He forces the ghoul on his shoulder to be quiet.
"I just… I didn't think" —he swallows another dizzying rush of panic— "I didn't think the guy's life should have been ruined because of one mistake. Sometimes… sometimes things aren't so black and white."
Mr. Stark sits very still, staring at Peter. Peter forces himself to stare back, even though Mr. Stark can't see his eyes underneath the goggles.
Suddenly, Mr. Stark sits up straight. Peter jumps, has to bite his own tongue to stop from leaping onto the ceiling.
"You ever been to Germany?" says Mr. Stark.
Peter's mouth tastes like ash. "I—what?"
"Germany. Sausages. Beer. Lederhosen. That last one might be Swiss, but you get the point."
"You want… you want me to go to Germany?"
"Uh-huh."
"To save the world."
"That's the end game, yes."
Germany. He's never even been out of New York City. The idea is a match-flame of potential, of excitement.
Peter thinks, What have I got to lose?
The ghoul responds, (Everything, if he figures out who you are.)
Because the only reason Mr. Stark could possibly be sitting in front of him right now is that he has no idea his recruit is a fourteen-year-old dropout, runaway, and, according to his record, juvenile delinquent.
So Peter does some calculating. Sure, refusing might make Mr. Stark more curious, but Peter's gotten better at sneaking around, and he'd be even more cautious if he knew he was being watched. The proof that he's already done a good job of keeping his secret is right in front of him. He could stay here and stay (relatively) safe from prying questions, keep stopping bike thieves and knocking out purse-snatchers…
Or Peter could go to Germany. He could work with Iron Man, thus fulfilling like, every fantasy he's had since his parents took him to the Stark Expo when he was seven.
He could save more than just himself.
"I have… I have one condition."
"I'm actually not in the business of paying for samaritanism. Heroes-for-hire are just tacky. But if it's money you're after, maybe we can find a back door. Those web thingies might warrant a September Grant."
For a flash, Peter thinks what it would be like to have the sort of petty cash a Stark scholarship would afford, but it's an idea quickly dropped. He'd need a bank account for one. And to have a bank account, he'd need an identity.
Which is the opposite of what he's after.
He shakes his head.
"Not money," he says. "If I help you, you have to promise I can keep my mask on. And… you have to swear you won't try to figure out who I am."
Mr. Stark leans back.
"Secret identities," he says, "cause more complications than they solve."
"No offense, Mr. Stark, but your house got blown up because you don't have a secret identity."
"Touché. But the complication I was referring to was me, actually. I'm also not in the business of working with strangers."
The disappointment over a lost opportunity that Peter did not, until twenty minutes ago, know existed, is surprisingly sharp.
Peter gets to his feet.
"Then it was nice to meet you, Mr. Stark, but—"
"Wait. Wait, wait, wait."
Peter sinks slowly back into his seat.
"You're serious?" says Mr. Stark. "You're really gonna turn me down if I try to figure out what's under the onesie?"
"Yes. And maybe stop calling it a onesie?"
Mr. Stark heaves a sigh that turns into a groan. He buries his face in his hands, then quickly removes them.
"Alright, Spider-Man," he says. "We have a deal."
He offers his hand. Peter forces himself to take it, and hopes his unexpected—partner? boss?—doesn't notice the tiny shudder that runs through him as the flesh exposed by his fingerless gloves meets Mr. Stark's bare hand.
"One amendment, though."
Peter jerks his hand back.
"That wasn't the deal."
"It doesn't affect the terms, relax. I have a reputation to protect." He looks Peter up and down. "If you're gonna run with me, Spider-Man, you're gonna look the part."