There are no upgrades for Peter's suit when they arrive in Germany.
There is, instead, a whole freaking new suit.
Peter didn't sleep much on the plane—or at all, actually. He wants to think it was because of the little noises coming from the wings and the cargo hold, as whatever luggage they were carrying shifted slightly (Peter hadn't wanted to admit he'd never been on a plane before, so he'd bitten down on his anxious questions) but somewhere around hour four he had to admit that it probably wasn't just the plane, which had remained steadfastly airborne throughout. As much as he hated to realize it, Happy was the reason he couldn't close his eyes, the reason he kept catching himself gripping the armrests on his chair so hard he left finger-shaped dents in the leather. Peter didn't like the feeling of being so close to another person, thousands of feet in the air, even if that person spent most of the trip snoring louder than the jet engines.
Recognizing this has filled Peter with guilt and shame. Happy hasn't done anything to him. Happy even dug a pillow and blanket out of an overhead bin and handed them to Peter with a grunt when he woke up mid-flight and saw Peter sitting ramrod-straight in the corner, clearly wide awake. Happy works for Iron Man. He's one of the good guys.
And even though Peter knows all of this, he still couldn't bring himself to close his eyes.
Considering how little he slept the night before the plane, Peter is just shy of exhausted by the time they arrive at the hotel. But that exhaustion disappears the moment Happy hands him the suit.
"Oh my God," says Peter. "Oh my God, is this—are you serious? Is this for me?"
"Did you seriously think Tony was gonna let you fight Captain America looking like that? Now put it on. We've got places to be."
Thankfully, Happy leaves the room to allow Peter to change.
The moment the door clicks shut, Peter rips his old mask off and runs his hands over the sleek new one. He can feel wiring, light and subtle, within the fabric, which is like nothing he's ever felt before, sleek and cool and soft but supple and flexible at the same time. Immediately, Peter is itching to get a better look inside, to figure out what it's made of, what it does, how it works—but not as eager as he is to get it on. He barely notices that he is bouncing on the balls of his feet as he struggles out of his grubby, stained, patched-up sweatsuit and yanks the sleek mystery fiber on in its place, gasping when it automatically tightens to a perfect fit.
"Holy crap," says Peter. "Holy crap, this is the best day of my life."
And it only gets better from there.
Peter fights Captain America.
He actually fights Captain America. Never mind that that was what he came here to do in the first place: until he was actually holding the actual Captain America's actual freaking shield, Peter didn't realize how much he was doubting that any of this was actually real. But it is all real: Peter is actually in Germany, actually fighting the Avengers, actually wearing a suit made by Tony Stark and taking orders from the man himself while dodging Steve Rogers' physics-defying kicks and punches and shield.
Peter doesn't even care when Captain America drops a jet bridge on him: if he died right now, he's pretty sure he would die the happiest kid in the world.
And maybe it's because he's so happy, for the first time since… well, forever, or maybe it's because he's holding up what is probably a literal ton of weight with his bare hands, but that's the moment Peter has his first slip up: When Cap asks where he's from, Peter answers automatically, "Queens."
He feels his face, already crimson from the effort of holding the bridge, deepen to puce, feels his heart quicken. But Cap just grins—almost cheekily, like they are playing a game of touch football instead of having an epic, superpowered battle—and says, "Brooklyn."
And then he takes off.
Peter gets out from under the bridge eventually. He takes a deep breath. Of all the people he could have revealed his actual neighborhood to today, Steve Rogers is probably the one he has to worry about least: he and Mr. Stark are clearly not talking.
He shakes it off, and rejoins the fight.
Peter's second slip up is more serious.
In his own defense, it comes right after something genuinely mind-blowing happens: the new guy—the other one—has just suddenly expanded to roughly the same size as the 747s sitting on the tarmac.
Peter, who has just fought the Falcon and the Winter soldier at once—and successfully, he might add—should probably be a little cooler about the whole unbelievable-things-happening-everywhere vibe of the day, but when he runs out to help Mr. Stark and Colonel Rhodes take the giant guy down, he totally loses his chill. Because he knows what to do. He knows what to do right away, because of all the old movies he and Uncle Ben used to watch together, Star Wars had been his uncle's absolute favorite. Peter has seen them more times than he can count.
So the idea comes instantly—and when Peter gets an idea in his head, it always makes its way to his mouth sooner or later. Sooner, in this case.
He's running along the top of a plane, dodging blows from a man whose hand is twice the size of his body and already leaping into his potentially-a-little-half-baked plan when he shouts, "Have you guys ever seen that really old movie, Empire Strikes Back?"
"Jesus, Tony," says Colonel Rhodes across the comm link, "how old is this guy?"
Peter's heart leaps into his throat so fast he'd probably choke on it if he weren't still concentrating on avoiding the giant guy's fists. It rises a little higher when Tony replies, "I don't know, I didn't carbon date him. He's on the young side."
(He knows, he knows, he knows, you're done for Peter you're—)
Peter swallows the panic. He forces himself to keep talking.
"You know the part where they're on the snow planet? With the walking thingies?"
He might already be in hot water, but he's not going to sink deeper by revealing that he is, on top of being fourteen, a total nerd. He doubts Mr. Stark and Colonel Rhodes would know what AT-ATs are, anyway.
And, miraculously, it works—at least for a moment. As Mr. Stark cottons on to Peter's plan, he seems to forget all about Peter's age, turning his attention, instead, to coordinating his next maneuver with Colonel Rhodes. Peter turns his own attention to angling himself so his next swing brings him around the huge guy's knees. And when the huge guy starts to fall, wrapped in Peter's webs, Peter forgets too.
"That was awesome!" he shouts, flinging a thumbs up as he swings in a wide arc above the slowly-toppling giant. "That was—!"
And then the giant's hand rises out of nowhere, and everything goes dark.
He's only out for a second, but it's enough that when Peter wakes up, it takes a moment for him to orient himself, to remember where his is and what he's doing there, and in that moment Peter feels a terrible pressure in his chest, an aching darkness in the back of his skull. There is a phantom whiff of beer and foul breath on the air, and he has to get out of here, has to run, he can't do it again, he can't—
His eyes snap open, and his fists fly up.
"Woah, hey, hey." Someone grabs his wrists, wrestles him down. "Same side, remember?"
Peter freezes. That's not Skip's voice. That's Mr. Stark's.
The darkness sloughs away. He's not lying in his bed in Skip's apartment—he's lying on the tarmac at an airport in Germany, amidst the remains of the half dozen wooden boxes he pulverized when he fell. And Mr. Stark is crouching over him, suit on but faceplate retracted, wearing an expression that Peter can't immediately place.
"Oh," Peter says sheepishly, "hey man. That was—that was really scary."
Mr. Stark releases him, and Peter's hands immediately fly to his mask. It's risen above his mouth, but not more than in the sandwich shop; still, he yanks it down as he tries to sit up, his head spinning, senses returning.
"Yeah," says Mr. Stark, "you're done."
"What?" He's already getting rid of me? "No, I can still help, I gotta get the—"
"Stay down," says Mr. Stark, pushing him down as he tries once again to rise. "Stay down, chill out. You did good, kid, just take a breather."
Something grinds into place in Peter's brain. Mr. Stark isn't reprimanding him, or trying to get rid of him. The expression on his face isn't anger, either. It's… concern.
Peter's brain goes utterly blank. He hasn't seen that look on an adult's face in over a year.
He stops trying to get back up.
Mr. Stark glances over his shoulder. The fight is moving away from the tarmac, but it is still going on. He has to get back to it.
He looks back down at Peter.
"Seriously, stay there," he says. "Happy'll scoop you, got it?"
"I can—"
"Let mommy and daddy finish their fight, kiddo. We'll catch up later."
And just like that, Mr. Stark is gone.
As he disappears, so does the adrenaline that has been keeping Peter moving. Though he still has half a mind to disobey Mr. Stark and try to rejoin the battle, his body has other ideas: he lays back, woozy, and wraps as arm around his left side ribcage, where at least a few ribs are definitely cracked. He hisses as he probes them, and then—grins.
Peter lets his head drop back onto the asphalt.
"Best day ever," he says.
And he promptly blacks out.
The second time Peter comes around there is, once again, a man standing over him. Once again, the man is not Skip, but this time it's not Mr. Stark either. It's Happy, looking exasperated as he snaps his fingers in front of Peter's nose.
"Hello," he says, as Peter startles awake. "Hello. Hey. Yeah, you. Nap time's over. Are you alive? Do I need to take you to the hospital?"
Peter scrambles to sit. His ribs scream their protest as he does, but he bites down on the pain, pastes on an unnecessary smile underneath the mask.
There is no way he's going to the hospital.
"Hey, Happy," he says. "Uh—fancy seeing you here. Nope, no hospital needed. All good here. Just, um, just taking a breather, as ordered."
He gives a nervous laugh, but the ruse works: Happy huffs, rolls his eyes, and gets to his feet, offering Peter a hand to help him to his. When Peter stands, his head swims: a cheeky grin does not actually make up for a truck-sized fist to the ribs, nor does a brief unconsciousness on the asphalt make up for the fact that he has barely slept for two days—or eaten, now that he thinks about it—but he still forces himself not to sway as Happy leads him away from the wreckage of the battle and to a waiting car, into which Peter crawls without a word of protest.
"What happened?" he says as he lays down across the back seat. Happy climbs in front and turns the car on. "Did we win?"
"Oof." Happy starts to drive, but Peter can't bring himself to sit up and see where they're going. "You were out of it. Did you not see the quinjet blasting off with Captain Goody Two-Shoes and his brainwashed BFF? No? Well, that's what happened while you were hitting the snooze button on the ground there."
"We lost?"
"Hey. Tony Stark doesn't lose, kid. It's not over yet."
"So Mr. Stark went after them?"
Happy grunts. "Not yet. There was a—uh—a complication. He's taking care of it now."
"Is everyone okay?"
"No. Yes. They will be. Has anyone ever told you you ask way too many questions?"
"Yes." It's true: too many questions used to be the common refrain of every one of his teachers. Before Ben died, anyway. "So he is going after them? Does he need my help? Where does he think they went? Do you think it's—"
"Did I not just say to nix the questions, Spider-Man?" says Happy, with more than a hint of irony.
Peter's stomach clenches, as memories of his battle-loosened tongue return to him. Did Mr. Stark say something to Happy? A dozen explanations bubble into his throat, but he bites down on them, clamping down on the ghoul at the same time: he has no proof that they know anything. He just has to play it cool and wait to see if they do, in which case he'll just—
Okay, so he doesn't know what he'll do. Run for it, probably. Of course, he'd probably make it about three feet before Mr. Stark caught up with him—he is Iron Man, after all—but he'd have to at least try.
Because the alternative, whether it's back into the system or worse—back to Skip—is not an option.
Peter is still stewing on this unpleasant notion when they arrive back at the hotel. Only when he climbs out of the back seat, gingerly, does he recognize a potential flaw in the plan to just run for it: They are still in Germany.
Well. Maybe he could make it work. Peter likes strudel. The toaster kind, anyway.
But Happy isn't acting like he's about to reprimand Peter for his youth, or pack him onto a plane to send him back to CPS. He just walks Peter into the hotel through the same back entrance they used earlier, then back to the room where Peter changed into the suit a few hours ago.
Once they're inside, Happy gestures to the walls.
"No cameras," he says. He points at the door. "That has a lock, and you" —he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a key card, and hands it to Peter— "have the only key. So if you want to stop being a total weirdo and take off the mask, you can. But by the way, this is all redundant. Tony sticks to his word. He's one of the few people left who still does."
Happy starts to leave.
"Wait!" Peter is still reeling, still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Happy turns back. "So you—so I'm not in trouble or… or anything?"
"Trouble?" Happy raises an eyebrow. "Kid, Tony said you did great. He doesn't say that a lot." Happy gives Peter a sweeping look. "Still can't say much for his fashion sense, though. Get some rest, guy. We'll take you home in the morning."
And with that Happy leaves Peter alone.
Peter stands still at the center of the room for a long time. His heart is still pumping, his ribs searing, but these sensations are muted under the warm glow that is emanating from somewhere at the center of Peter's body. It's the same feeling he got when he let Mickey go, except amplified a hundred times over. It takes Peter a second to recognize it as pride.
"He said I did great," he murmurs.
Eventually, Peter remembers that he can—and should—move. Or rather, his body remembers for him. His knees lock up and he stumbles, catching himself against the dresser.
"Whoops," he says, pushing himself upright. "Right, taking it easy. Resting. No problemo."
Peter makes it the two steps to the king-sized bed and lowers himself to sit on it, pulling the mask off as he does. Peter's not too worried about his ribs; he's cracked more than a few crashing into buildings, especially when he was still getting used to web-slinging, and they usually more or less heal overnight, stop being tender after a day or two. He just has to sleep it off, which should be easy in this gigantic bed—the first one he's had for three months. The sticky, cloying bitterness at the back of his throat when he thinks about climbing under the covers is just fatigue and excess adrenaline from the day's events, he's sure of it. He just has to lay down.
Before he can force himself to, however, Peter notices a paper shopping bag at the foot of the bed. It has his name on it. Well, it has "Spider-Man" written on it, with the quotation marks in an especially bold hand; still, there's no mistaking who it's meant for.
Peter picks it up, opens it. Inside is a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, jeans, sneakers, and three t-shirts, all in his size, all brand new. He pulls out the topmost shirt and holds it up: printed on the front is the periodic symbol for iron, followed by the word "MAN."
Inexplicably, Peter's eyes fill with tears. Or maybe it's not inexplicable: this is exactly the kind of shirt Ben would have bought for him. It's just that the tears are silly. It's only a shirt, after all.
Peter wipes them away. He grabs the pajama pants, the Iron Man shirt, and heads into the bathroom, where he showers first, then fills the enormous tub almost to the brim, turns out the lights, and soaks for a while, waiting for his side to stop throbbing.
It's nice. It is, undoubtedly, the nicest bath Peter has ever had, and the absolute, undeniable, best-ever day. And yet, from the moment he looked at that dumb t-shirt, the prickle in his eyes and the back of his throat doesn't go away. He finds himself battling tears as he towels off and pulls the clothes on, and then again when he heads back into the bedroom and sits on the bed, facing the blank TV screen and realizing he has no idea what to do with himself.
He can't sleep. He's too giddy, too wound-up, too—something. Back in his warehouse he would normally be going through his nightly routine about now—fold the suit, count his money, check the stash, then lie awake in his blanket nest and listen to the sounds of the city grow quieter, until everything felt still and distant and safe. There's not much noise here, at least—just Happy, snoring in the next room over—but beyond that Peter can't calm himself, not even enough to turn on the TV. He's itching to take a closer look at the suit—neatly folded on the chair by his bed—but now that the battle is over, thinking about it makes whatever weird anxiety is keeping him in his seat quadruple.
(It's not yours, Peter. What do you think Mr. Stark will do if he catches you rifling through his things without permission? Or did you not learn your lesson at the halfway house?)
"Shut up," Peter mutters, but the reprimand is lost when his stomach gives an almighty growl.
It's only then that he realizes he hasn't eaten since the airplane, where Happy had given him a sandwich and a Coke. That's probably why his side is still hurting so badly—that, and the lack of sleep. He's noticed that his accelerated healing is considerably less accelerated when he's hungry, or very tired, but a quick search around the room reveals only a minibar full of ten-euro packets of peanuts and m , and if the suit gave him halfway-house flashbacks, the minibar is ten times worse. He slams it shut without taking anything. He'll have to go out—except he doesn't have any German money. Or any money. Or any idea how to navigate Berlin with nothing but his burner phone.
Okay. So that's—okay. He'll just wait until tomorrow. He's gone longer than this without eating, even in the time since he's been living on his own.
(But it's not the not eating, dummy, it's the not knowing. You have no idea when they're going to feed you again, which is exactly why I tell you never to put yourself in this position, you're never supposed to rely on other people to take care of what only you can guarantee.)
Unconsciously, Peter launches himself off the bed once more and begins to pace.
(What if something else goes wrong, huh, Peter? What if Mr. Stark doesn't come back tomorrow? What if you just wait and wait and they never feed you again, never put you back on that plane so you can get back to the place where you can feed yourself? You should have thought of this before you just ran off to another country without a thought in your head, but here we are, right back where we started before: with you, helpless.)
The ghoul has not been this loud since he left Skip's. Normally Peter can shut it out, distract himself with Spider-Man, but tonight there are no distractions. He is all alone.
(That's right, Peter. You're all alone. Because this is what happens when you trust people: they use you for what you're good for and then they throw you out like garbage, like the Arlingtons did, like Skip did. And you won't learn, you won't—)
"Shut up!"
Right as the words leave his mouth, there is a knock at the door. Peter jumps so hard he almost ends up on the ceiling; he only remembers to grab his mask at the very last second and then, trembling, goes to unlock the door.
Behind it is Mr. Stark, dressed in the most casual outfit Peter has ever seen him in—jogging pants and a matching jacket—with an eyebrow raised over the black eye he's been sporting since Peter met him.
"Having a nice chat with yourself?" he says. "Or shouting match, it sounds like?"
Peter, still stunned, mumbles something about the TV.
"Uh-huh," says Mr. Stark. "I see we're still doing the mask thing. Are you gonna invite me in or what?"
Peter nearly trips over himself in his haste to step aside.
Mr. Stark, on the other hand, doesn't falter as he strides into the room. It's kind of incredible, actually, how he can just walk in anywhere and look so at ease, like he automatically owns the place. It occurs to Peter then that Mr. Stark could very possibly own this hotel, and he is suddenly embarrassed. Even dressed in the new clothes Happy gave him, he feels very small, very shabby. It's the first time he's been in Mr. Stark's presence without his suit.
But the impression of grandeur lasts just a second: with a long-suffering sigh, Mr. Stark flings himself face-down on the bed.
For a second he lays there—long enough that Peter starts to wonder if he's passed out—and then he rolls onto his back, arms splayed out to his sides, and says to the ceiling, "I am getting way too old for this, kid."
Tentatively, Peter makes his way back into the bedroom to stand closer to the bed. When he doesn't say anything, Mr. Stark raises his head, then sits up.
"How you doing there, uh, Spider-Man? God, that sounds weird in a non-superpowered-showdown type setting. Are you sure you haven't got a real name for, you know… black-tie events? Pizza parties? I genuinely don't know what you do with your free time, so I'm just spitballing here."
"Just Spider-Man," says Peter.
Mr. Stark quirks a smile.
"All right, Spidey. I can work with what I've got. Pop a squat kid, let's chat."
Nervously, Peter shuffles around the edge of the bed, shifts the suit from the chair to the floor, and takes its place. Mr. Stark watches him with an amused half-smile that suggests he expected Peter to sit on the bed, but he doesn't comment.
"Um," says Peter, "is everyone okay? Happy made it sound like someone might have gotten hurt."
Mr. Stark's smile fades.
"Rhodey took a hit," he says. "That's where I was, he's been in surgery."
"Is he—?"
"He'll be fine." Mr. Stark's voice is tense, makes Peter tense too, even though he doesn't think it's directed at him. "Or—fine-ish. Don't worry your potentially-pretty little head about it, okay? I'm taking care of it." The harsh edge disappears from Mr. Stark's expression as he glances around the room. "So, what's for eating, Spidey? I'm not a big bratwurst fan, but if you're doing the whole 'when in Rome' thing, I can get on board."
Peter's neck burns red. Did he miss something? Some food or some money? Was he pacing around the room shouting at himself like an idiot because he didn't look closely enough?
When Peter doesn't reply fast enough, Mr. Stark raises an eyebrow again.
"You haven't eaten yet?"
"I… didn't bring any money?"
"What? Is this some weird pride thing? Do you think we're gonna bill you for the room? No offense, kid, but you don't look like you're good for it. This here is an all-expenses paid vacation—you know, of the illegal, border-hopping, secret-identity-smuggling variety. Grub's on me, kid. What's your poison?"
Without waiting for a reply, Mr. Stark grabs the phone from the bedside table, puts it to his ear, and says something to the person on the other line in rapid-fire German.
Peter's brain seems to be short-circuiting. The ghoul is still jabbering, but it's lowered to an incomprehensible hiss at the back of his mind, and the flip-flopping between extreme emotions has rendered his actual, intentional thoughts incoherent. He can't think why Mr. Stark is here—surely there are better restaurants in Germany he could have gone to, ones that don't include awkward conversations with masked vigilantes?—until the man in question hangs the phone up and turns to Peter.
"All right. Let's see it. Hup hup."
He makes a gesture with his hands like he wants Peter to pick something up. Peter looks around.
"The ribs, Spidey. Suit says you're injured. So show."
Peter doesn't move. "You put medical scanners in the suit?"
"I put everything in your suit. Med alerts, heater, parachute, the works. Don't worry," he adds, as though he can read Peter's expression under the mask, "the trackers are emergency-activated, I'm not trying to renege on our promise. It just means you can't lie to me as easily as you lied to Happy back on the tarmac. If you need to get looked at—"
"I don't," says Peter hastily. "It's fine, I've had way worse."
"Uh-huh. Well, from one prideful, breakable superhero to another, it never hurts to have a second opinion on what's 'fine.' So…"
He once again gestures to Peter's shirt.
The ghoul starts to shriek.
When Peter still doesn't move, Tony says, "Unless you have a birthmark in the shape of your own face under your left nipple, I doubt I'm gonna identify you from your ribcage. Same side, no broken promises, yadda yadda yadda, remember? Just—"
He makes the gesture again, more impatient this time.
He's worried, Peter realizes, with the same surreal unfamiliarity he felt when he saw Mr. Stark's concern at the airport. He's worried about me.
The thought is enough to quieten the instinct that is screaming at him to do the opposite of what Mr. Stark is requesting. Not all the way—just enough he is able to get to his feet and, hands quaking, pull the left-side edge of his t-shirt up over the offending ribs.
Mr. Stark hisses when he sees the deep purple bruise, leaning forward to get a better look. Peter flinches, bites down on another flight impulse—but Mr. Stark doesn't touch.
"Are you sure—"
"I heal," says Peter. "I heal fast. Really fast. It's really okay."
He drops the shirt back down, tries not to shiver with relief when he is fully covered once more.
Mr. Stark leans back slowly, looking doubtful.
"How'd you get your powers, by the way?"
"Um." Peter lowers himself back into his chair. "Radioactive spider bite?"
Mr. Stark stares at him for a solid ten seconds. Then he bursts out laughing.
"Fine, fine," he says, "keep that secret too. I like you, Spider-Man. You're funny. And the Star Wars thing? Not bad. Oh—and it's called an AT-AT, by the way. Your walking thingie."
Peter opens his mouth, but before he can formulate a response there is a knock at the door. The room service has arrived.
Mr. Stark has ordered the works. Literally—it looks like he just told them to bring the whole menu. And it's not bratwursts. Not just bratwursts, anyway. There is American food too: burgers and pizza and cake, and even some fresh fruit, though that's not where Peter's eyes go first.
Peter half expects Tony to just take his portion and turn in, but he doesn't: it appears he means to eat with Peter. He even lets Peter take first dibs, which he does, albeit with some difficulty: with the echoes of his minor freakout from twenty minutes ago still in the back of his brain, he has to quell the urge to hide half of his portion.
But he does quell it. And then he sits and eats his food, alongside Tony Stark, in a hotel room in Germany, having just done battle with the Avengers. Most of them, anyway.
Peter has known for a long time now that life is unpredictable. But he's come to expect to be unpredictable in a more… predictable way.
This is totally out of his wheelhouse.
Mr. Stark doesn't talk much as he eats. Once the food is divvied up the humor leaves his expression, replaced by one that is more contemplative, more serious. So Peter follows his lead, staying quiet, forcing himself to chew slowly and watching the older man out of the corner of his eye, trying to get a read on him. Why is he still here? What does he want? More help? Maybe he's going to ask Peter to help him go after Captain America. He said Peter did well, didn't he?
(Or maybe he wants something else.)
The thought is so unexpected, so intrusive, and so disgusting that Peter can't stop himself. He hisses, "Stop it."
He hisses it out loud.
Peter immediately clamps his mouth shut, but too late: Mr. Stark looks up from the remains of his burger.
"You do that a lot, don't you?"
Act like a crazy person?
"Talk to yourself," Mr. Stark goes on. "You were doing it at the airport, too."
"I was?" says Peter raspily.
"It's not an accusation," Mr. Stark says mildly. "An observation."
"I guess. I guess sometimes it's just nice to, um. Process out loud."
"Not too many people to talk to in your line of work, I guess."
"I guess not."
"It's lonely when no one knows who you are," says Mr. Stark. "Hell, it's lonely no matter what, but to do this on your own, without anyone who knows both sides of you… I only lasted about fifteen minutes before I, you know, revealed myself to the world or whatever." He leans toward Peter again. "Are you really sure the mask is the way to go, kid?"
For a second—just a second—Peter lets himself imagine what it would be like to take the mask off. To let Mr. Stark see him for what he is: a fourteen-year-old kid who talks to himself not because he's lonely, but because he doesn't know any other way to get his brain to shut up when it starts to go haywire. Who can't even calm himself long enough to enjoy what is undoubtedly the most incredible day he's ever had. The most incredible day any fourteen-year-old has ever had.
For once, he tries to see the best possible outcome, instead of all of the terrible ones. He imagines Mr. Stark being shocked, then angry, then shouting at Peter for a while for all the lies. And when all that was done, maybe Mr. Stark would help him find a new foster family. Maybe he'd look in every once in a while, to make sure they were treating him okay. And that could be fine: what kind of person would mess with a kid who had Iron Man checking up on him? Even Skip wouldn't be so bold. Probably, anyway.
But even this best-case scenario has an enormous downside: he can't see any way Mr. Stark, or a new family for that matter, would ever let him keep being Spider-Man.
And since Spider-Man is all he has, it just isn't an option.
Peter nods.
Mr. Stark sighs and gets to his feet.
"In that case I'm gonna need the suit."
Peter's heart sinks, but it's not like he wasn't expecting this. He sets his plate aside and stands, picking the suit up as he does.
"I don't know what Happy did with my other one, um, I'll need—"
"Nah, keep the mask. The mainframe is all contained in the main body, upgrades sync with the mask when you put them both on. You're into tech stuff, right? I can show you sometime, once this whole debacle is over."
Peter is as boggled by this as he was by Mr. Stark's initial appearance. Numbly, he hands the suit over, leaves the mask on.
"Upgrades?"
"Just one, for now. If you're gonna keep 'processing out loud,' you might as well have someone to talk to."
Peter doesn't know what this means, but he's too afraid to ask in case asking somehow breaks the magic of what he thinks is happening.
What he thinks is happening is this:
"I get to keep the suit?"
"What, you thought I was gonna send you back out on the streets in your long-johns, Underoos?"
Even though he can't see it, Mr. Stark correctly guesses at Peter's look of disdain, and he grins as he drapes the suit over one arm and heads for the door.
"To be fair, you did tell me to stop calling it a onesie," he says. "You did good today, Spider-Man. See you tomorrow?"
Peter nods dumbly.
And, with a wink, Mr. Stark takes his leave.
Mr. Stark and Happy do, in fact, take Peter back to New York in the morning. Peter is fresher the next day: he finally managed to sleep once he pulled the blankets off his bed and made himself a much-cozier copy of his bed at the warehouse, and with the room service and the rest, his ribs are more or less completely healed by the time he boards the plane. His mood sinks, however, when he realizes that Mr. Stark once again will not be joining them for the flight. Happy grunts something about him meeting them in the city, but does not elaborate, which leaves Peter to spend the eight-hour flight berating himself for getting his hopes up.
Still, even with the many, many talks he gave himself while Happy dozed on the other side of the private jet, Peter can't help the little thrill of excitement he feels when Mr. Stark meets them at the airport in New York. It's enough that he's able to suppress the discomfort that comes with climbing into a car with not one but two grown men so that Happy can take him back to the library.
The excitement fades as they drive. Mr. Stark is more subdued today, less talkative. He keeps checking his phone, sending messages to unknown parties, and snapping at Happy about the traffic. It makes Peter want to say something clever to lighten the mood—to make Mr. Stark say he's "funny" again, maybe—but he's too nervous to think of anything.
They arrive at the main branch of the New York City Public Library in silence.
When Happy brings the car to a halt, Mr. Stark finally looks up from his phone.
"Great," he says. "Is this it? You all good? Do you need me to fake a doctor's note for your—for whatever it is you do when you're not lassoing criminals and saving children from trees?"
"Kittens," Happy says.
"Don't correct me," says Mr. Stark. "The kid and I are talking. Keep your eyes on the road."
"We're parked."
"You know, I think the idea of this promotion has gone to your head. You're being unusually snarky." He turns to Peter. "Did Happy tell you he's vying for Head of Asset Management? He's been blowing me up about it for months—"
Happy turns in his seat, indignant. "That was personal. You know it's hard for me to talk to you about that stuff, you—"
"Anyway," says Mr. Stark, while Peter stares awkwardly between them, "I believe this belongs to you."
He hands him the heavy metal case containing the new suit.
"And this."
He hands him a duffel bag. When Peter opens it, he sees it contains the remaining clothes they bought him in Germany, as well as his old suit.
"Mr. Stark," he says as he looks up, his voice wavering, "I really don't know what to say. This whole thing has been—"
"Ah ah." Mr Stark holds up a hand. "I'm actually not super great with the whole feelings thing, kid, so can we just, you know—put her there?"
He aims a finger gun at Peter, who gulps, nods.
"Great. Well—"
Mr. Stark leans forward. Like he's about to hug Peter.
Peter snaps backward so fast his head whacks against the window, his whole body going rigid. Mr. Stark backs off immediately, holding his hands up, while in the front seat Happy turns around more fully to stare at Peter. Peter, who can feel shame rising in his cheeks but can't seem to get his body to relax, even as Mr. Stark stares at him like he's just suddenly caught fire.
"Did I not just say I'm not into the touchy-feely stuff?" he says. "Not a hug, just—reaching for the door. We're, uh, not quite there yet."
Peter could die. He could actually die, right here in this town car.
He fumbles for the door handle and practically falls out of the car in his haste to be free from the confined space.
Mr. Stark recovers more quickly than Peter does.
"Great," he says. "Go forth, young buck. Go do—whatever it is you do."
He starts to close the door, but Peter grabs it at the last moment.
"Wait," he says. "What if—I mean, I'm around, if you need me again."
Peter is surprised at his own tenacity. This was never the plan—he can't join the Avengers and keep his identity secret at the same time. Germany was supposed to be a one-off, to gain some clout and maybe some brand recognition, and then get back to his life of, as Mr. Stark said, lassoing criminals and saving children. And kittens.
But something happened on that tarmac, and in the hotel room after. He remembers what it felt like to see that look of concern on Mr. Stark's face. What it was like to have someone tell him he did great.
He wants more of that.
"Yeah," says Mr. Stark, already distracted by his phone again. "We'll call you."
He slams the door shut. The car takes off.
Peter stands alone on the sidewalk in the waning light, clutching the suitcase and his duffel bag, and not even caring that he is drawing stares in his mask and his Iron Man t-shirt. He watches until the town car disappears.
"They're gonna call me," he says.
The notion wipes out Peter's former embarrassment. Gleeful, he heaves the duffel over his shoulder, adjusts his grip on the suit, and heads in the direction of home.
But it seems Peter's return to New York also signifies the return of the sort of unpredictability he is accustomed to:
They never do call him.