Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

(Prompts inspired by https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/)
Day 1: Dancing
Day 2: Hunger
Day 3: Eye contact
Day 4: The Promise
Day 5: Stray Animal
Day 6: Come to Life
Day 7: Greeting
Day 8: Eavesdropper
Day 9: Addict
Day 10: Admiration
Day 11: Frozen
Day 12: Trial and Error
Day 13: Left out
Day 14: Coffee & Tea
Day 15: Hiding Spaces
Day 16: Dirty
Day 17: Museum
Day 18: Photograph
Day 19: From the rooftops
Day 20: Stop and Stare
Day 21: Caught Red-Handed
Day 22: Interview
Day 23: Social Network
Day 24: Liar, Liar
Day 25: Convenience Store
Day 26: Green Thumb
Day 27: Transportation
Day 28: Cure
Day 29: Rushing
Day 30: Night Owl

Chapter Text

„Aunt May, you have to help me!”

Nothing in the couple of months that Peter had been friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man could have prepared him to go to Homecoming, with Liz of all people. Sure, the radioactive spider might have given him increased strength, speed and flexibility, which would most likely help if he ever wanted to become a ballet dancer, but standard dancing? There were books on it, Peter was certain, that covered the correct steps and appropriate songs, but then again, book knowledge did little to prepare him to crime fighting—and dancing was, in his eyes, so much harder than webbing up shoplifters and car thieves. So, Aunt May would have to do her job as his legal guardian, because, well, preparing her protégé for a homecoming ball was also part of the job description, wasn’t it?

And that is how he found himself in their kitchen-slash-living room, hands on her hips, awkwardly shuffling to her instructions.

“How comes you score straight As in P.E. classes?” May laughed when he stepped on her foot for the third time, ruffling her nephew’s hair—it curled adorably whenever she did that, no matter how much hair product he’d slapped in it. “This is so difficult! Like, I need to put my hands in the right spot, and then coordinate both of my feet and navigate you and observe my surroundings so I won’t bump into anything! And the steps and hand placement are different for most of the dance styles,” Peter blurted out, ducking away from the offending hands to save what little order he had managed to introduce to the usual mess on his head. “Maybe you should take an actual dance course at some point,” his aunt offered helpfully, “I’m fairly certain that Midtown High has a club for it. Didn’t Mr Cooper lead one last year?”

As much as Peter appreciated her help and attention to the various leaflets his high school sent out with the beginning of each term, this time he couldn’t suppress the defeated groan. “Yeah—yeah, he did, but I heard Flash talking about joining to impress his date, and so I thought it might be better not to go…” He trailed off, catching a glimpse of Aunt May’s disdained expression, but it immediately eased into a warm, supportive smile as she closed her arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. The sharp scent of disinfectant from the hospital blended with the softer, flowery fragrance of her perfume, creating a mixture that to him signalled warmth and safety and home.

“Will you promise me something, Peter?” He nodded from where his chin rested on her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her slender waist in return. “Don’t you ever let anyone dictate what you do with your life.”

“Not even from you?”

A quiet chuckle tickled his hair as she pressed a kiss to the crown of the teen’s head—of course he would have a cheeky answer. “Not even from me. But don’t let that get to your head.”

Chapter Text

Peter’s stomach contracted painfully, forcing him to bend over to fight the wave of nausea that followed.

Hungry, the voice in his head growled, ringing in his ears even though there no physical body attached to it. Hungry, once more, insistently, dragging his unwilling feet towards the edge of the roof. There were people down there who enjoyed the celebrations for July 4, Independence Day. Peter could smell them through his mask before he even saw them, a concoction of scents, all different and yet similar, mixing with the tantalizing aroma of hotdogs and popcorn and the exhaust from rerouted traffic several blocks away. His toes curled against the ledge, the persistent pull causing him to sway, dangerously close to plummeting down into the clusters of people milling about like bustling ants.

“I—I can’t, can’t do that—” His voice sounded frail even to his own ears, uncertainty bleeding through, prompting a dark chuckle from the tempter that resided in his head and now crept through his veins, chilling him, to form a painful knot in his stomach.

You’re hungry, too. We’re hungry. We need to eat. Feast on live, fresh meat. It offered images to the words, and sensation; the crack of bones in his ears, the tangy, metallic taste of blood on his tongue, the sinewy texture of meat between his teeth. Peter felt like he might throw up.

Would you judge a lion for hunting an antelope? A wolf for catching a deer? His eyes fixated on one of the people down on the street in particular, lingering at the edge of the festivities, seemingly alone and isolated from the others—an invitation almost too perfect to pass up. We are a predator. We prey on those weaker than us. We need it to survive, as the lion needs the antelope.

Black substance embraced his hands, slithering up his arms, then over his torso. A tendril cupped his jaw, tilting his head to the side to stare into the milky white eyes, rows of teeth—so many teeth, sharp and slick with spit—in the face that formed to hover next to his shoulder. The tendril moved further up to caress his cheek, wiping away a lonely tear that had fallen from his lashes.

It’s alright, the monster soothed, we’ll be with you all the way to the end.

Black matter encased him fully, and they took the last step off the roof.

Chapter Text

The first time their eyes meet, Peter bumps into the stranger on the subway, a mere brush of shoulders, followed by a shy, apologetic smile. The stranger smirks back, curling his lips back to reveal pearly white teeth, and claps him on the shoulder as he moves past him through the crowd.

Peter does not lay his eyes on the handsome stranger until three months later, even though he watches the people on his subway to work attentively, hoping against all odds that this is the stranger's regular train as well. He sidles next to him in Peter's usual Starbucks, chuckling at the sight of him with two cup carriers for Stark's R&D department. "Good enough for errands, huh? I'm sure you've got better qualities, baby boy." This time Peter lingers long enough to catch his name when the barista calls out a caramel Frappuccino with triple cream for "Wade".

The third time, Wade does not notice him, even though Peter spotted his familiar bulk from two buildings away during his after-university patrols, creeping along the glass and steel. He follows him for two blocks until the blonde vanishes into a shady building that reads "Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children" on the crooked sign, looking like no school Peter has ever seen before. He hovers around the entrance, but Wade does not emerge again.

The fourth time, Peter finds himself on the wrong end of Wade's gun, shielding the man cowering on the floor behind him with his red-and-blue-clad body. "Whoa—easy there, mate! Yeah, stalking is wrong, but you can't just walk around shooting people!" His voice squeaks worse than during puberty, probably ruining his reputation as Spider-Man (Mr Stark still calls him Spiderling, whenever he is displeased with his work, despite him being an Avenger for six years now). Wade tilts his head, piercing brown eyes gazing at him, taking in the mask, seemingly transfixed by the expressive opaque eyes, while his lips quirk to that amused little smirk that Peter already found attractive the first time he met him on the subway, but his stance does not relax.

"Stalkers are the worst, baby! And this particular sack of meat put 'stalking associate at Stalking Inc.' into his CV." He lowers the gun, at least, when he steps closer to him, prompting Peter’s lithe body to seize up in a defensive stance. “Relax, baby. Not gonna hurt you, you’re probably really cute underneath that mask, huh? I don’t hurt cute people. Unless they want me to.” Peter’s cheeks flush at the words, but he puffs out his chest, standing his ground against the stranger. Wade, his mind offers helpfully, though he is smart enough not to use the name that Spider-Man doesn’t know.

“Look,” he raises both hands, palms out, opting to appear harmless instead of threatening despite being ready to intervene and take the bullet, “I don’t want any trouble, and I’ve already had my, um, my assistant call the police, so you could just leave the guy alone? I’ll web him up and some nice officers will pick him up and lock him away.” The blonde seems to contemplate that, finally putting the gun away, tucking it in the waistband at the back of his jeans. Not the safest place for a gun, unless he wants to blow his perfect ass off by accident.

“Right, fine, but only since you say so, cutie.” Peter’s face is hot enough that his mask will catch fire any second now, if Wade kept talking like that. He does not follow him when he turns around to leave, not before blowing a kiss in his direction.

On the fifth time, it is Wade who spots him first in his favourite Starbucks store where he is buried in his coursework, plopping into the seat across him, trademark smirk in place. He places his steaming cup of pumpkin spice latte—the distinctive scent reaches Peter’s nose even before he raises his gaze to look at the newcomer—down on the table, gingerly navigating it to sit between the books, sheets of notes and Starkpad. He completely misses Peter’s distracted hum of protest, snatching one of the dog-eared books off the table. “Advanced Nuclear Physics? Gosh, should have known you’re a nerd, baby boy.”

Their hands touch when the brunette reaches over the table to retrieve his book, flipping it open to a page marked with a blue post-it. “It is generally considered rude to sit with a stranger without asking for their permission, you know?” Finally he lifts his head to narrow his soft, brown eyes at Wade, who looks like he couldn’t care less about asking for anything in his life. “But baby boy, I’m not a stranger!” he protests, leaning forward in his chair. “You’re,” at this he squints at the paper cup in front of Peter, “okay, no, you’re not a Peter, you’re definitely more of a Petey, and I know that you’ve been lurking around to get a glimpse of my name on the cup last time we met here. So, no strangers here!”

There are first semesters with better logic than this guy possesses, so Peter merely rolls his eyes at him before frowning back down at the notes that he scribbled in pencil at the side of the page. But Wade is persistent, nudging the book and batting his lashes as he pouts at him. “C’mon, don’t ignore me, baby boy. That’s kinda rude, don’t you think? And I’m sure you’re not a rude person, you apologised so nicely when you bumped into me on the subway a couple months back.”

Apparently, Peter is not the only one who remembers that incident as clear as day, who thinks back at how their eyes met that very first time. With a sigh he closes his book, accepting that he would not get any work done for a while. “Fine. What do you want from me?”

A massive, child-like smile blooms on Wade’s face, reaching all the way up to his sparkling eyes that hold his gaze captive. “What would you say to a movie, dinner, then heading to my place?”

Well, Peter muses, after all the staring into those eyes, it would be rude to say no.

He blushes delicately, nevertheless, when he accepts the offer.

Chapter Text

„Promise you won't sneak away from your hotel room again like you did in Washington, alright? I want you to be safe.”

At that time it had been easy to nod enthusiastically in agreement to Aunt May’s words, happy that her finding out about his secret after-school activities did not stop her from letting him join the academic decathlon team for their practice weekend out of town. Of course, she had only agreed because Happy—of all people—had promised to keep an eye on him via the reintroduced baby monitor protocol that now not only covered his suit, but had instead been expanded to track the movements of his new phone as well. Not that he would leave the suit behind upon leaving town. At least that way he would have Karen around to keep him company, too, seeing how Ned had been unable to come due to a nasty cold.

Now he found himself dressed in his suit, perched on top of a broadcasting tower on a flat office building in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, about half a mile away from the Franklin Institute that they had spent the day discovering, breaking that exact promise he had made to his aunt.

“Karen, activate the enhanced reconnaissance mode, please? I want to hear what they are saying.” With the lenses zooming in and his ears filling with the voices of the people sat in the van parked halfway on the sidewalk, Peter leant forward, watching intently as the sensors scan the vehicle to reveal the figures of two men.

“—will arrive at 0300, dropping off the package for us to deliver back at HQ. No idea why they sent him, he’s useless,” said one of the men, the taller one, as far as Peter could tell. “Well, picking that thing up is the easier part,” the other one commented, stretching lazily in his seat, “it’s the delivery that’s going to be a problem. You know how the boss is—one minute late and he’ll have your head. Best to leave it to us than having to clean up the mess.”

“Running voice recognition,” a quiet voice with an Irish accent interrupted helpfully, pulling up a small window in the bottom right corner of Peter’s HUD. “Searching law enforcement and Damage Control databases.” The boy hummed in response and crawled down the side of the tower to get closer, pressed firmly against the steel beams in order to remain unnoticed. “They’re obviously waiting for someone delivering something that must have been acquired illegally, judging from their, uh, shadiness.” With Ned being unavailable to be his man in the chair, it was relieving to have the AI to talk to, especially while he was stuck waiting for anything to happen. “Has any break-in been reported in the vicinity? Any alarm going off?”

“Scanning.” A second window opened in the corner opposite to the first one, green text scrolling down too fast for Peter to catch anything; apparently Karen was going through the police emergency protocols of the night. The search came up empty. “No burglary has been reported tonight in a radius of four miles,” the AI explained. “A teenager broke the window of a grocery store five block away but was immediately detained. Perhaps the item was acquired earlier, or further away.”

“That makes no sense.” Peter frowned before inching further down, stopping in a low crouch, his back bent to flatten his body against the side of the tower. “Why would they not deliver the item to their evil lair right away?”

The men have fallen silent so only the creak of the car seats whenever they move and an occasional cough or annoyed sigh were audible over the built-in headphones of Peter’s suit. The driver quietly tapped away to what must be some song in his head on the steering wheel, apparently nervous or annoyed with their wait for whoever would come to drop off their delivery. It was quiet enough that Peter jumped, losing the grip of his right foot against the metal, when Karen announced a match of her voice recognition algorithm. “One of these men is named Sam Neill.”

“The actor?” Peter asked, incredulously, trying to picture the man from Jurassic Park as a criminal. “Sam Neill, born January 13 1972 in Denver, Colorado.” If Karen had the capability, she would have probably snorted at him, but she definitely sounded amused. All of Mr Stark’s AIs managed to at least gently make fun of their users, or so it seemed. “Seven years in the United States Marine Corps, dishonourably discharged after murdering a fellow soldier, broke out of prison and officially vanished off the radar four years ago. Police lists him as armed and dangerous; approach with caution.” The AI paused, seemingly hesitant while she ran a more detailed background check, cross-referencing the name with additional databases. “There is a possibility that Mr Neill was recruited by HYDRA during his last deployment, according to the old SHIELD file storage, and that one of the remaining active cells broke him out of prison. This delivery may well be connected to them.”

Karen did not have to prompt him further. Peter thought back to the promise he made to Aunt May before heading off to the school bus that had taken them to Philadelphia.

“Hey, Karen,” he piped up in her awkward silence. ”How about we call Mr Stark and watch from a safe distance as he handles this?”

Chapter Text

Tony’s phone is the first to ring on the nightstand, insistently, disturbing his thus far deep and perfect beauty sleep. Not that he needs any. He turns over with a groan, pressing his face into the pillow as if that solves the problem of his phone playing Back in Black next to his head. After a while, the noise stops—whatever the issue must not be all that pressing because for one, that was his private phone ringing, and two, FRIDAY remained silent, signalling that this is no Avengers business that would require him to get up at fuck-o-clock.

Little more than two minutes later, the phone on the other side of the bed starts to ring.

Maybe Tony would have ignored that sound, too, because the soft classical tunes are a lot more discreet than AC/DC inches away from his face, but the owner of the phone apparently knows little concern for regular sleeping hours and rolls over to answer the phone quietly.

“Yes?”

Screw wizards and their seemingly non-existent need for rest.

Tugging the pillow over his head, Stark attempts to drown out Stephen’s voice. While the memory foam does one hell of a job at keeping the totally not age-related problems with his cervical spine at bay—he may be liaised with a former doctor, but living a relatively pain-free life still beats the occasional massages he receives—it does little to ease him back to sleep. Even though Strange barely has said anything just yet, apparently listening to whoever woke them up.

The first actual word the wizard utters has him sitting upright, pillow and sleep forgotten.

“Peter—”

Tony snatches the phone from him, pressing it to his ear.  At first he can barely make out the voice of his favourite crime-fighting vigilante slash intern slash spider son because the boy seems to not even be close to his phone—which means that he is not wearing the suit, which means that he may well be in actual trouble without any way of fighting back.

“Peter, is everything okay? What is going on? Are you in trouble—are you hurt?”

His overactive brain is already conjuring worst case scenarios—Peter with broken bones, or stabbed, or shot, bleeding out on the sidewalk; and with a quick wave of his hand he gets FRIDAY’s attention. “Fri, get me a location of his phone. Now.”

So far he still can barely understand what Peter is saying, shuffling and scratching noises further distorting the sound of his voice. After another agonizing few seconds, there is a muffled bang, then Peter’s voice rings clear as day in his ear.

“Dad—Dad, I’m fine, I—ow, stop that—”

More shuffling and a suppressed cuss that Tony ignores for the sake of making sure the kid is fine follows. “That doesn’t really sound like fine to me, kid. Damnit, what is going on? Talk to me!”

Stephen motions for him to put the phone on speaker, and Tony obliges; at the same time, he begins wriggling free of his blanket, leaning over to grab the clothes he dropped next to the bed the evening before, starting to put them on so he can come to the rescue.

“So, so I was on the way back from patrol, and I—I really shouldn’t have called you, I mean, I should be able to deal with that kind of thing on my own—”

“Peter, were you mugged? It’s alright to tell us, just talk to us,” Strange cuts in, and in the low illumination the phone screen offers, Tony can see the worry etched into his features.

“Mugged? Oh my God, no, no!”

Well, that is a relief, at least. Stark finishes slipping his jeans on, picking the phone back up. “What’s going on, then? Tell us, kid, please. You have us worrying, okay?”

“So—there I was, after patrol, already back in my usual clothes and on the way home to you and Papa, and, uh—There was that dumpster, and there were weird kind of noises coming out,” Peter rambles at about a million words per minute, more scratching in the background. “And there was this dog, a golden retriever, you know I love them, and it was so hungry and I bought it a burrito and now it’s following me and Dad can we keep it please I promise I’ll take good care of it!”

Tony’s face twitches.

They exchange an exasperated—though faintly relieved—look.

After a moment of silence both on theirs and Peter’s end of the line, it is Stephen who speaks up first.

“Young man, you will come home right now, no objections, and if you are not back within twenty minutes, I will open a portal and drag you here by your ear, do you understand?”

They end up adopting the dog anyway, because neither of them has the strength to resist Peter’s kicked puppy look.

Chapter Text

The first thing that comes back to Peter is his sense of smell, registering the sharp scent of disinfectant that sometimes clings to Aunt May’s skin when she returns from her hospital shift for a late goodnight kiss. He cannot move, which seems odd, because his last memory involves moving around a lot, and rather swiftly.

The light shining through his eyelids is the second thing he notices. As pale as it is, it still pierces with enough force to wake the dull throb of a headache, eliciting a pained groan from him. His voice sounds foreign to his own ears, as if he was underwater or listening from far away. He can however make out movement next to him, prompting him to carefully crack one eye open, then the other.

A sterile white ceiling greets him together with a second wave of pain in his head. A hospital ceiling. At least that explains the smell of disinfectant. A shadow blocks the shine of the neon lamp glaring into his eyes, but for a moment he fails to recognise the face peering apprehensively down at him. When he does, his body finds the strength to move again, shooting halfway upright.

“Mr—Cap—Captain Rogers, sir!”

Blinding pain tells him that maybe sitting up was not such a good idea after all; this time originating not from his head, but from his side: sharp and piercing and white-hot. He barely registers the gentle hands easing him back against the mattress, pinning him securely so he would not attempt moving abruptly again.

“Hey, easy there, kid. You have to rest, okay?”

Peter reaches out blindly, distractedly realising that there is a drip attached to the back of his hand. He manages to find Cap’s right arm where it holds him, absent-mindedly petting his biceps. He is touching Captain flipping America, his mind registers. Wow. And he has absolutely no idea whatsoever how he ended up in the same room with him.

“What,” he clears his dry throat when his voice cracks, then tries again, croaking. “What happened? Where am I?”

His vision has cleared enough to recognise the friendly, slightly concerned smile on Steve’s face, even though the light is still almost too much for his enhanced senses and beginning migraine. Peter attempts to remember, but his mind remains comfortably blank; all that he comes up with is the Spanish quiz he took, and then the call, and then—

Ah. The call.

A mission; his very first with the reassembled Avengers team.

“You’re at the Weill Cornell Medicine. You’re in good hands here, Peter.” Well, if Cap says so, then he must be. Once Peter has dropped his hands back on the duvet covers, the Avenger drops back on the chair next to the hospital bed, but he leans forward to continue smiling reassuringly, much like in those old propaganda videos that Peter watched maybe one too many times.

“Do you remember the mission?” The teenager recalls a little, at least. Nodding weakly, he tries to piece what little memory he has together. “It was…something with aliens, right? Happy picked me up at school, and we fought and—oh my God, I met Thor, didn’t I? He was there. And we all fought those aliens together!” Searing pain in his side or not, excitement bubbles in his chest at the memory of meeting the Avenger from Asgard, if only briefly. “I must have hit my head a little, and maybe broken a rib or two. But everyone else is fine, right? And—oh no, I have a biology presentation due tomorrow!” Ned is counting on him for that one, because it was his job to care for and observe the plants they were experimenting on. He’ll need to finish the last few data plots for their slides, but—now why would Cap look at him with that pained expression?

“Kid,” Steve starts, then looks down at his hands, then back up at him, his smile strained. “Peter. You were out cold for two weeks, we weren’t—we were afraid there might be permanent damage.”

Well.

That would explain why his upper body feels like it is on fire.

Peter shakes his head as if that would clear the fog of confusion, blinking owlishly up at the Captain. “I don’t understand. Two weeks; how could that have happened? My enhanced healing factor would have done quick work of any injury I might have sustained!”

Steve rests a hand on his upper arm, awkwardly stroking a thumb over the cold skin peeking out from underneath the sleeve of Peter’s hospital gown. “You didn’t just hit your head or break a few bones, kid. You took a direct hit from an energy weapon.” The smile returns warmer than before, and it must be a trick of the light because Peter could swear that it wobbles a little. “You were shielding Bucky with your body.”

That definitely sounds like something he would do in a fight, Peter decides, even though he still has no recollection of it. It also explains the sad look in Cap’s gorgeous blue eyes.

“But, but Sergeant Barnes is safe and sound, right?” he asks, drawing his brows together. He’d have done a pretty crappy job at shielding him if he wasn’t. To his relief, Steve nods, rubbing his palm over his arm with a little less insecurity now. “He’s fine. He actually visited a few times, while you were still asleep. Your aunt spent the most time here, when she didn’t have to work; she was really worried. We all were.”

Peter’s head spins. Of course Aunt May would be out of her mind worrying and fretting over him. What was he thinking?

“Will she be back soon?” He needs to apologise for putting himself in harm’s way, even when it was to protect a fellow Avenger. After all, he promised to be careful whenever he gets to work with them, to return home with all limbs attached.

His inner turmoil must be showing on his face because Steve abandons his place on the chair again to sit on the bed instead, firmly taking one of his hands between his own. It looks small in comparison.

“She’s not angry, Peter. You put yourself in danger, yes, but no one blames you for what happened. Alright, maybe Tony will yell at you a little when he finds out that you’re awake, but only because he was so shocked that he dropped everything to rush to your side when you went down.” If that was meant to make him feel better, it doesn’t work, and Steve realises his error quickly when he spots of horror on the teenager’s face. “Not that he’s angry, either! It’s just his way to show he cares, you know?”

Peter groans, using his free hand to cover his face. Well, at least Bucky was alright.

For a moment neither of them speaks, but Cap does not move from his post on the bed either.

“Thank you for saving Bucky, kid. That was very brave of you, and—I don’t appreciate you putting your life in danger, really, you’re still a child—but still. You saved my friend.”

Peter peeks out from between his fingers, offering a lopsided grin. Captain America just thanked him. Maybe getting yelled at in the near future was worth that. And, of course, saving a life.

“You’re welcome, sir.”

“Steve,” comes the gentle correction.

“You’re welcome, Steve.”

Chapter Text

“So, uh—You’re an Avenger now, too, that is so awesome!”

When Tony had sent Peter down to pick up the newest addition to their team, he had been proud at his attempt to look calm and collected. Anyone who knew him, however, would be able to see through his façade and notice the nervous energy, obvious in the way he drummed his fingers against his faded black jeans while he waited. Now the poor newcomer, clutching a backpack and a large duffle bag that suspiciously looked like it contained a weapon arsenal meant to outfit a small army, was defenceless against the onslaught of excited questions.

“Did you have a good flight here? How was the drive? The campus is amazing, isn’t it? How is Capt—”

Bucky silenced him with as little as his raised free hand, but he could not help the amused twitch of his lips when the boy flushed with embarrassment.

“Easy there, kiddo. You’ll run out of air and faint if you continue like that, and then Steve will give me an earful.”

Peter, feeling thoroughly chided, kept silent as he was motioned to, rocking nervously on the balls of his feet as he wrung his hands together. He was talking to the Winter Soldier, whom he had read so much about in history (because, given his obsession with Captain America, it was hard not to stumble upon James Buchanan Barnes’ stories), and this time they weren’t even throwing punches at each other. He’d need to give Mr Stark a hug for sending him to greet Barnes.

The twitch of Bucky’s lips widened into a full-blown smile. Fist of Hydra or not, he must have succeeded in keeping his charms, be it for lovely women or handsome men, or, in this case, an overly excited teenager that looked young enough to be Stark’s son, and definitely not like anyone belonging into Avengers’ HQ. He would need to enquire Steve later about the relations between the engineer and this kid. For now he settled for trying to calm him down, because he sincerely looked like he might die from either excitement or embarrassment. Maybe from both.

“You got a name, kid?”

The question tore Peter from his wide-eyed, awed staring, and after a cough and clearing his throat he managed to reply, a little more slowly. “Park—Pete—It’s Peter. Parker. Peter Parker.” Well, now that was smooth. If the floor would open to swallow him, he would send praise to whichever God decided to spare him any further second of this moment of shame.

At least Barnes appeared to understand just how awkward he felt, standing there, antsy and excited, as he took pity in him and extended his free hand to offer it up for a shake. The human one, Peter realized once he overcame his bout of nerves and grasped it a little too tightly. It felt warm and calloused against his skin, very unlike the smooth, icy metal that he made quite intimate contact with during their fight in Leipzig a year ago.

“Alright, Peter it is.” Bucky waited for another few seconds for the boy to let go of his hand, but when he merely continued to clutch onto it as if his life depended on it, he gently pried it free. He had been afraid of this moment, of how the other people on the team—especially Stark—would react to an ex-Hydra asset joining them, discussing night after night with Steve about whether it would be better to give them more time. Contemplating, during the whole flight and even the drive to the compound, whether he should run and hide as he did before, somewhere no one would find him. He’d called Steve from the airport, but merely reached his voicemail—the chipper tone in which he promised to call back in the automated message for once had done little to soothe his uneasiness—suggesting that he had yet to return from his mission in Brazil. In his desperation he had phoned Sam instead, who had offered the reassurance that everyone was anxious to meet him, but then again this was Sam who also believed that everyone loved vanilla ice cream and corgis were the most adorable dogs in the world. (Pistachio would always beat vanilla and Sam had obviously never seen a golden retriever puppy. Or the way Steve looked at said pup.)

But here was that doe-eyed, subtly freckled kid that shook his hand too long and looked up at him in such adoration that he could not bear to turn around and run away from his responsibility again. Indeed, he decided, he would murder any person who dared lay a hand on the boy in the most painful way he could imagine. Not in front of him, of course. Shouldering his bag, he motioned to the elevator.

“Why don’t you lead the way, kid?”

Chapter Text

“Look, I don’t think that’s a good idea—”

Peter stops in his tracks on the way to their communal kitchen upon picking up the heated argument going on inside. Cap and Mr Stark have been going on and off at it for the past three days, exchanging harsh words and fierce glares yet falling silent the moment Peter entered the room. They refused to look at each other while he was around while pretending that everything was fine, but with his enhanced senses he could overhear them picking up where they left off once he left, the argument carrying on all the way into Tony’s bedroom.

“He’s taken down that alien weapon bird guy, he’s uncovered the fraud at Oscorp, taken care of the hostage situation at Roosevelt High; if I say he’s ready, he’s ready, Captain Scaredypants!” That is Mr Stark’s voice, spiteful and stubborn. He rarely ever insults Steve anymore, at least not when he assumes no one else can hear. Normally, Peter would beam at his praise for Spider-Man—it is more than he usually receives to his face; pleasing Mr Stark is hard and receiving a compliment even harder—but eavesdropping two of his favourite human beings fighting clenches on his stomach like an icy fist.

“Tony, he’s a kid, you can’t send him out in the field on his own! Send Natascha or Clint or me, not Peter!”

The anxious padding indicates that Cap is pacing barefoot, most likely still damp from taking a shower after his morning run. Peter can picture him wearing the grey sweatpants he barely goes without in their private rooms in the tower; maybe along with the form-fitted navy v-neck that clings to his pectorals and biceps in a way that has Thor staring at them. The others were merely better at hiding their admiration slash envy.

In the brief silence that follows, Peter inches closer. The kitchen, divided only by a counter that houses the stove and a small not-so-secret alcohol stash for the adults, opens to their living room with enough couches and armchairs to seat every Avengers member for their regular game or movie nights. Had he returned from his full-night patrol via elevator as he usually did, Steve and Tony would already have spotted him. This time, however, he took the route via his bedroom window that he left cracked open for this exact purpose, and these days FRIDAY never announced him anymore since his coming and going was becoming more and more usual. The apartment laid in eerie quiet when he removed his suit and changed into regular clothes, the silence all the better carrying the muffled argument to his ears, prompting him to sneak along the corridor and hide near the doorway next to the brushed steel kitchen unit itself, invisible to the quarrelling couple.

“Peter is an Avenger just like the others,” Stark throws in sharply, putting a stop to Steve’s pacing. Peter barely has to concentrate to catch the hitch of breath—most likely Cap’s—at the notion. If he closes his eyes, he can tune his ears to the faint creak of joints, then the rustling of stiff fabric under someone’s palm. Cap must have grabbed Mr Stark’s arm, he realises, to catch his attention, or to keep him from speaking; however, Tony continues nevertheless. “Yes, I know; he refused the offer to join the team even though he did decide to move in here while he prepares for college. That doesn’t matter. Deep down he’s more of an Avenger than a lot of us that carry the fancy logo, Steve.” There is another pause, some shuffling, a slide of skin against fabric that Peter fails to place, then Tony sighs. “We’re getting old. And by we, I mean I’m getting old. I can’t carry the torch for much longer. Sure, I’ll always be able to hand out tech and little knick-knacks and make sure that your uniform fits like a glove, but one day I won’t be fit to do field work anymore.”

No matter how hard his mentor attempts to hide it, Peter has noticed just how tired Tony looks whenever he returns from a mission or even just a meeting with some member of the security council. Sure, he still throws a crooked smile in his direction while throwing his bag down in the living room, ruffling his hair where he is sat to work on some project that he took upstairs from the lab, but the bags under his eyes betray him, and the lines on his face grow deeper with each of these missions or meetings or whatnot. Both his coffee and alcohol consumption have almost doubled, leaving him at a level that alarmed Clint to have a talk with him in which Tony, of course, pretended that it was nothing. But right now, in front of Captain America of all people, he lets his guard down, in hushed whispers that no one else should hear.

“I want him to take my place.” Steve makes a pained noise, probably scrunching up his face like he always does whenever he is torn between wanting to scold and hug someone at the same time. Peter barely manages to clutch a hand over his mouth to keep quiet because all he wishes for is to leave his hiding place, to run up and wrap his arms around both of them and never let go. He cannot make his presence known, though; after all their fighting, this must be a crucial moment for both of them, where Tony lets his guard down and allows Steve to touch his finger on what is truly going on behind the wall of heat and snark that he pulled up during the past few days.

“One day I’ll be gone, and Peter should be the one—” Steve must have done something to silence him, judging how he broke off mid-sentence, but all that Peter can make out are muffled, faintly wet noises that he cannot decipher with his hearing alone.

“You’ll still be around for quite a while, Tony. You won’t just leave me to deal with this mess of a team, will you?” Cap huffs a laugh, but it is not the amused chuckle that he does sometimes when he stumbles upon some weird tweet about him on his phone, or the open, unguarded laughter during the mock fights with Sam or Natascha. It sounds…sad. Peter remembers him telling about how most of the Howling Commandos died while he was in the ice, about losing Bucky, about how Peggy slipped further into dementia with each day until she barely remembered his face. And now Mr Stark was talking about—what, growing old? Dying? It must break his heart.

Shaking his head, he retreats into the hallway, tiptoeing until their voices are just barely audible and his hand finds the handle to his bedroom door. He can’t bear listening any further, but the thought of leaving them to their musings is worse. Squaring his shoulders, he silently opens the door, then throws it closed loudly, announcing his presence with heavy footsteps when he treaded lightly earlier.

He enters the kitchen, smiling as cheerily as he can, to find Steve discreetly rubbing his face with the heel of his hand while Tony pours himself a coffee, back turned to both of them.

“Mr Stark, Captain! Patrol was really exhausting; can I have some breakfast before I take a nap?”

Steve smiles right back at him, fondly. He’s wearing grey sweatpants and a navy v-neck, but grabs the apron embroidered with his shield that Peter gave him for his last birthday, and ties it around his waist over the sweats.

“Sure, kid. Eggs and bacon as usual?”

Chapter Text

The surge of power was highly addicting. Peter could feel their muscles rippling as he jumped further than he ever could have with only the powers he inherited from the spider bite, aided by the black substance encasing their body and forming an impenetrable shell around their skin. He landed hard enough to bend the metal beam underneath their feet, their reinforced joints easily taking the brunt of the impact, and paused there, head tilted back to breathe in the mild summer air. The symbiote was silent in the back of his mind for once, but he could feel its familiar presence as a faint pressure at the back of their skull, right above the first vertebra where the cervical spine connected to their skull.

When they had first connected, the pressure had often mounted to agonizing headaches that left him blind and disoriented, helpless to submit to the needs and wants of the symbiote, losing any sort of control over their shared body and movement. It had taken weeks of seductive coaxing from the symbiote and almost desperate pleading from Peter until they had finally agreed to a middle ground that would give them both what they needed: fresh meat for Venom, hunting down criminals for Peter. Most often, they found ways to fill their belly and remove a criminal from the streets.

Taking another whiff of the fresh air, Peter sorted methodically through the different scents the city produced. Fume from cars mingled with the scent of fresh fish, the day’s catch being processed at the nearby docks over night. One of the few restaurants still open at this hour served shawarma and spicy chai, piquing the interest of the symbiote nestled at the base of his skull. Peter ignored its famished growl even as it had their stomach rumbling, reminding him once again how the line between what is his and what belonged to the parasite had blurred until it was impossible to tell where he ended and Venom begun. Instead he focused on the scent he was looking for: the heavy musk of expensive cologne, lamb’s leather, a faint hint of cotton and fabric softener. He closed their eyes, long tongue whipping in the air. There.

Crawling along the metal beam, Peter followed the scent, the blackness of their skin melting into the shadows on the rooftop. He jumped gracefully over the gap towards the next roof, again pressing close to the ground to remain hidden from sight as he picked up the trail. With each roof he crossed, the scent grew stronger, urging him to run faster, leap further, drawing every ounce of strength from their body. He could almost feel the satisfying crunch of bones between their teeth, taste the blood gushing into their mouth.

When he landed on the roof of an abandoned office building, Peter stopped, crouched low. The source of the scent he had been tracking was directly underneath, trailing up through the cracks in the glass ceiling. A net of slender steal beams held what remained of the panels, the broken glass reflecting light from further below. Careful not to tread on the fractured panels or make any noise, Peter crept forward, toes curling against the metal to find secure hold.

Kill him.

Venom poured the words into his mind, but it did not attempt to take over, satisfied with taking the backseat and watching while Peter expertly navigated their body through the darkness.

I will. Soon. Peter hummed quietly without even using his voice, but the vibration carried over their mental link. The lazy curl of tendrils inside their veins was enough of a reply. As much as the symbiote seemed to enjoy how he would follow its lead, it grew impatient; eager to sink their teeth in the weak human body right under them.

There were other people down there, along with the man they were hunting. They smelt of blood and gunpowder, harsh and sharp in comparison to the heady, alluring scent their prey was emitting. Hired guns, Peter noted; doing the dirty work for anyone paying enough to hold their leash. They were talking, not bothering to speak quietly, believing foolishly that there was no one around to hear. Something about a delivery they were meant to accept and protect. Peter huffed quietly in amusement, lips peeling back to reveal their rows upon rows of sharp teeth. That delivery was cancelled, he knew; he had made sure that it would not reach its destination, efficiently destroying the scientific equipment and neutralising the chemicals he found within the crates. The mercenaries were afraid they would be blamed. Peter could smell their fear, hear their weak protest.

The melodious voice of their prey cut in. The man barely had to raise his voice, his tone and dark eyes enough to silence a room and bind the attention of anyone listening. When Peter had first spoken to him, he had been awed by the man’s intellect, his philanthropy, his wit. He had so easily fallen under his spell, starstruck and naïve. Now he knew better, knew that the man put on a mask every single day, and behind it slumbered a monster, hiding a rational cruelty with a charming smile and handsome face.

The man was more of a monster than the symbiote would ever be.

Venom was growing restless. Heat simmered in their chest, and Peter knew that he would not be able to hold the parasite back for much longer. Swiftly he moved towards a large gap between the steal network, slipping through it to hang upside down and scout the room, unhindered by the broken glass panels. Someone had put up a few stationary lamps to light the large room two stories under them, which had possibly been some sort of atrium or an open-space office before the company had been forced to close down the building two years ago after a fire. Two of the mercenaries carried flashlights, every now and then nervously scanning the perimeter, but their beams remained trained to the walls and floor, darting over rubble and concrete, never shining further up. All four of them were armed, carelessly concealing their weapons. Peter counted seven handguns in total, possibly a few knives, and one of them had a taser rod strapped to his leg. Even without the symbiote, he would have been able to take them down.

His eyes narrowed on their prey.

He was dressed in a charcoal suit, wool, from the scent of it, his hands covered in black leather gloves, dark hair casually swept to the side. Even in the dim light, he was as handsome as ever, but he was not smiling now. Displeasure and impatience radiated from him, carried in the timbre of his voice. His plans had been delayed by the destruction of the shipment, and someone would need to pay for it.

He will pay for it, Venom fed into his thoughts, their thoughts. Pay for what he has done. To all those innocent people. To us.

Peter let go of the steal girder, adrenaline rushing through their body at the brief sensation of free fall. He landed hard on one of the goons, their weight enough to plummet him to the floor and crush their ribcage with a wet, delicious crunch against the concrete.

Humans. Such poor design.

A bullet crashes into their back as a flurry of movement broke loose, the remaining mercenaries drawing their weapons and firing for their dear life, but Peter had no eyes for them. He disposed of them swiftly, barely even casting a glance as black tendrils shot out of their body, tearing into flesh and ripping bodies apart as if they were made of tissue paper. Their mouth watered from the metallic stench of blood and intestines, waking the parasite’s appetite, yet their eyes remained locked on the man in his dark grey suit who had taken a few steps back when the carnage ensued and nevertheless got spattered with blood that glistened in the cold light of the lamps surrounding them. He seemed unsure of whether to run or stay, survival instincts battling the morbid fascination of a scientist discovering a new species. Peter made the decision for him, the very same tendrils that had effortlessly taken down three armed men seconds before wrapping around the man’s forearms and ankles, rendering him incapable of fleeing.

Their obscenely large mouth peeled back to reveal Peter’s face, cheeks glinting with sweat and brown eyes burning furiously as he narrowed them, tilting his head as if he was watching a butterfly that he had pinned to a cork board.

“Good evening, Dr Drake.”

The man in front of him smiled courteously, seemingly unfazed by the situation even though there was a spray of blood covering his face like clusters of red freckles and a blotch of cerebral matter stuck in his immaculately styled hair.

“Why, Mr Parker. It is such a pleasure seeing you, as dire as the circumstances may be.” After everything that had happened, Drake’s voice still struck a chord in Peter, heat rising to his cheeks and desire simmering low in his belly. Venom’s growl rattled his skull, a warning to remind him why they were here, what they would have to do in order to set an end to the Life Foundation and their gruesome human experiments.

Cut the head off the snake and watch the body wither.

Peter suppressed the urge to do exactly that; to let the symbiote take over, open their maws wide and sink their teeth into the soft column of Drake’s throat. Patience. Willing the black, sticky matter except for those tendrils holding Drake to sink back into his skin to fully reveal his own body, he did not stand taller than the scientist anymore. He was instead of similar height and build, slender with the faintest hint of muscles visible underneath his ripped jeans and washed-out red MIT hoodie.

“We’ve been hunting you, Dr Drake.” Peter leant in close to his neck without the intention of biting down just yet, his nostrils picking up the citrusy scent of orange blossom, floral jasmine and neroli, mixing with musk and sweet vanilla¹. His own breath ghosted over the skin as the man subconsciously tilted his head to the side, causing arousal and hunger to spike. It would be so easy to tear into his carotid artery, or tear out his vocal chords, then watch him bleed out on the dirty floor, surrounded by dead men and debris. A sad metaphor for what Carlton Drake had left behind on his path to greatness.

“You’re hard to find alone, but here you are.” Darkness crept along the edges of his vision, retreating slightly when he blinked repeatedly, then returning. A warning that Venom was there, eager, willing to force Peter to take the next step if he did not dare to do so himself. “How many people have you experimented on? Innocent people?”

Drake possessed the audacity to laugh, little more than a huff of breath. The sound nevertheless echoed in the space around them. “They all signed the very same contracts that you were handed before the series of experiments, Mr Parker, designed by our legal team to ensure they could not be contested in a court of law. What the subjects have endured is a necessary step to the evolution of mankind itself. You’re a scientist, Peter—tell me. What do you see when you look at the world?” With what little leeway the tendrils wrapped around his wrists offered, Carlton Drake opened his arms to gesture around them. “War. Famine. Overpopulation. Natural disasters. The biosphere integrity, the biochemical flows—the natural boundaries of this planet²—severely endangered. Earth is at the very brink of collapse.” His dark eyes shone feverishly in the low light. “What the Life Foundation—what I am doing Is meant to ensure the survival of humanity. Sacrifices must be made along the way.”

Little was left of the inspiring scientist Peter had admired enough to apply for and internship when the opportunity opened up. Of the charismatic man who had him wrapped around his finger, who would sit with him for nights while they worked on innovative projects in the lab or over a cup of coffee in the empty cafeteria when everyone else had gone home already. Of the tender lover who had worshipped his toned body, kissed each starburst of freckles and faint scar on his skin, and had told him that he had a bright future ahead.

All that he could see now was the monster that locked him in a room with an alien life form and watched from the safety behind a wall of bullet-proof glass while the parasite forced its way into his body.

Black matter crawled up Peter’s fingers, slithering over his arms and bleeding out of the skin on his neck. Rows of teeth emerged, framing his face in the mock of a Glasgow Smile.

“You are so right, Dr Drake. Sacrifices must be made.”

The tendrils around Drake’s legs dragged him closer until he was pressed against their body, but now Peter towered over him, the tar-like substance covering their body. He curved their back, an animalistic growl rumbling through their chest.

“And you will be our last sacrifice.”

It was not only the power that had become an addiction to Peter, but also the sweet taste of blood that he craved every single waking moment and that haunted his dreams.

Finally, finally the darkness lurking in the corner of his eyes filled his vision, and along with the symbiote he opened their maw, tongue whipping out before they sank their teeth into the soft flesh of Drake’s neck.

Chapter Text

“This is by far the best day of my life,” Ned whispers into Peter’s ear, eyes glued to Tony fudging Stark droning on about the capabilities and construction of his new repulsors to the Midwest High Academic Decathlon Team. “Even better than being my guy in the chair for the very first time?” Peter shows less interest in the presentation, instead watching Ned’s excited face with no little amount of amusement; after all, not only has he held that exact same presentation to a group of scientists from MIT the week before, but he has been the one to build them.

Ned squeals along with the other group members as Tony uses the repulsor glove to shatter the half-filled glass of water in front of him, shards and water flinging everywhere. “Yes,” he exclaims, not even bothering to remain quiet. “So much yes.”

“I’m hurt,” Peter mutters, but in truth he is not, understanding that unfettered admiration for his mentor quite well himself.

After the presentation and answering an onslaught of questions by the group that ranged from enquiries about the material of the glove to the usual “so what is it like to be an Avenger”, Tony stops by them. He discreetly hands Peter a data card to pocket and amiably ruffles his hair, the highest amount of affection he will display for him in public, while the rest of the group is too busy poking and prodding the non-functional model of his repulsor glove that he left with them. “Make sure you and Mr Leeds stop by at the penthouse for dinner once your day here is over, okay, kiddo? Steve is coming over and he promised to bring that weird meatloaf dish that you inexplicably love so much.”

Peter does not need superhuman hearing to catch Ned’s high-pitched squeak when Tony slaps both of their shoulders before swaggering off to whatever meeting Pepper put into his schedule next.

“Think we can sneak away and go see your lab?” Ned asks when they are sitting in the noisy visitors’ canteen on the fifth level, munching on their sandwiches along with MJ. “Sure,” Peter replies around a mouthful of rye bread, salad and bacon, “I got high enough clearance to get you in, but I gotta make sure there are no confident projects lying around. Gotta check in with FRIDAY first. Next up is a visit to the financial department, according to the tour plan, which is boring as fudge anyway. We can lose the group on the way there.”

Half an hour later, they manage to conveniently miss the elevator the rest of the tour group is in, instead taking the next one up to level thirteen where Peter’s lab is located. He keeps an eye on his phone to watch his robotic assistant AVA, the improved version of Dum-E that he built with Mr Stark instead of taking the lab safety seminar required of new interns, clear away any projects too confidential for his friends to see during their ride up. They pass another pair of interns in the hallway, both greeting Peter with enough excitement that MJ elbows him in the ribs and grins. “Guess Stark is not the only one who’s got female admirers here,” she comments, sending blood rushing to his cheeks. Instead of protesting—and giving her more of a reason to tease him mercilessly—he slaps his key card on the scanner, shooing Ned and MJ into his personal lab.

The inside is organised in the same manner as his room—a system May jokingly calls ‘chaotic genius’—but with equipment that is definitely worth a lot more than the whole content of their comfy Queens apartment. Even MJ is speechless, though only briefly. “That dude sure is your sugar daddy.” Nevertheless, she wanders over to have a look at the holo-projecting table that Peter uses to design new products, and occasionally play virtual air hockey against Sam Wilson whenever he stops by to have his wing pack checked.

“This is awesome, dude!” Ned is drawn to the scanning electron microscope in the corner, fawning over it but refraining from touching anything. Almost every inch of the table around it is covered with sample trays and petri dishes, each labelled carefully with Peter’s scrawly handwriting or a computer-printed slip of paper. AVA has done a terrific job at clearing away the more sensitive projects but left the rest of the items untouched, giving MJ and Ned enough to sift through. “What is this for?” Ned gestures towards the samples around the SEM.

Peter strolls over, dodging AVA as it rolls by, carrying a stack of blueprint sketches. “We’re currently working on a new metal alloy for the Winter Soldier’s arm, seeing how the one the Russians gave him sucks.” He picks up one of the petri dishes, holding it up for Ned to inspect. “The problem is finding a balance between flexibility, sturdiness and weight, and making sure that he’s not allergic to it. I’ve done fracture analyses over the past few evenings with different alloys.” He hands the petri dish to his friend, laughing at how gingerly he accepts it.

MJ, meanwhile, has made her way over to the smartboard on the wall, squinting at the gradually shrinking formulas and figures on it. There are at least three different sets of handwriting on it; Peter’s spidery letters and numbers, the flamboyant scrawl that she knows as Stark’s writing from the Christmas cards he sends out to Peter’s friends each year, and another one that he does not recognise. “So, who else do you get to work with here?” she enquires, tapping the unfamiliar hand.

Peter tears his eyes from the seemingly disorganised samples to move over to join her at the smartboard, almost tripping over the wires spilling from an Ultron torso sitting propped up against a table. “Mr Stark, of course. A few other interns sometimes help me with the experiment preparation and execution. And once in a while Dr Banner stops by when we’re stuck with a problem that requires a fresh mind, or a person with seven PhDs.”

He can spot something close to reluctant admiration on her face. The moment is ruined by someone rather loudly swinging the door to his lab open, startling all free of them. They stare back at the equally confused face of Chad Gartner, their tour guide for the day. “Uh,” he starts, staring at the plaque next to the lab door indicating that this is the office of one “P.P., Lvl Alpha Research Associate”, then back at Peter. “I wasn’t aware that—weren’t you just with the group—what are you doing there?! This lab is closed to the visitors without a guide!”

Screw Tony and keeping their relations mostly secret to the public. Peter rolls his eyes in annoyance, rubbing his temples as he senses a migraine approaching. Behind the tour guide, he spots the rest of the team, their expressions ranging from dumbfounded (in Abe’s case) to smirking (Flash, most likely assuming that he is in so much trouble for breaking in here). “This,” he generally waves his hand at the lab equipment, tables, stacks of paper, AVA trying to make itself scarce in a corner, and boxes of material, “is my lab. I work here, four evenings per week, and random weekends.” Peter flicks out his key card to hand it to Gartner, displaying the photo of his very disgruntled face and an alpha clearance mark. “Sorry for sneaking away, but I already had a tour of the financial department when Ms Potts took me there, and no disrespect to her, but it sucked. I figured this was more interesting than staring at random sales figures for thirty minutes.”

The facial expression of the tour guide slips even further into terror, and Peter almost feels bad for him. He feels considerably better when he catches Flash’s dazed expression as his least favourite team member realises that not only is he an intern here, but also one with a private lab on the R&D floor. Ignoring the pressure between his temples, he straightens up, forcing the confident smile to his lips that Tony taught him for exactly this kind of situation.

“Maybe I could show all of you what I am currently working on?”

Chapter Text

“You do realise that he cannot hear you, right?”

Peter looks up from the newspaper article on the pro-mutant rights rally that he has been reading aloud, gingerly setting the StarkPad onto his lap.

“I know,” he replies, swallowing his annoyance, “Dr Cho told me that, explaining the science behind cryosleep as if I didn’t know already, and Happy told me twice when he picked me up for my ballet lesson with Natascha, and Mr Stark said that if I slept here again he’d take away my lab privileges. The only person who hasn’t reminded me yet is Aunt May, but maybe she’ll tell me, too, when she stops by to drop off my lunch.”

The pained look that crosses Steve’s face almost makes him regret the words, realising that they came out a lot harsher than he intended. He pulls another chair close, sitting down next to Peter. For a while, neither of them says anything, both staring at the transparent cryosleep tube standing in front of them. The dark-haired man inside is pale, his skin and scruff covered with frost, ice crystals blooming in a geometric pattern over the sleek vibranium arm at his side.

“Captain, I’m sorr—”

“Peter, I shouldn’t have—”

They both speak at the same time, breaking off with an awkward laugh. “You first,” Steve indicates with a nod, clapping a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry for what I said. He’s your friend, and I know that you’re worrying, and it wasn’t fair of me. I shouldn’t let out my irritation of everyone telling me what to do on you, Captain.” Peter looks thoroughly ashamed of himself, rubbing the back of his neck. Steve cannot help it, allowing his gaze to drift down to the faint ring of bruises around his throat, black and purple having faded into yellow and green, yet still not healed despite Spider-Man’s enhanced healing factor. A reminder of just how hard the metal had clamped around his neck.

“It’s alright, Peter. You’re a good kid, it’s nice to see you caring so much for Bucky, even after—” Steve swallows hard, clearing his throat before he diverts his gaze. “It wasn’t his fault, Captain.” Bringing his chair in closer while still balancing the tablet in his lap, Peter leans against his side, dropping his head to rest on the supersoldier’s broad shoulder. The body contact that seems to come so much more easily to the teen, now that he has overcome his starry-eyed awe for him despite still not dropping the Captain, helps dissolve the lump in his throat.

He wraps an arm around Peter. “I wish he’ll believe you when the doctors clear him for being ready to be taken back out of the ice.”

Peter’s scream was silenced by the metal hand clamping down on his throat, cutting off both oxygen and his blood flow. The world spun around him. One moment they had been fighting some human dumpster fire with an exoskeleton and skull mask, holding him off until their requested back-up arrived, and the next the guy had said something to Bucky that he hadn’t caught, and he found himself pounded into the floor by 6 ft, 190 lbs of ex-assassin. He thrashed desperately, pulling his legs up to kick him into the stomach, but Bucky merely clocked him across the face with enough force to loosen one of his front teeth and send blood spurting from his nose. The metal constricted unyieldingly around his throat and even though his sticky fingers found traction on the smooth surface he failed to get a proper angle to pry the bruising grip off his neck. Colourful supernovae burst in front of his eyes. The last thing he saw before he slipped into darkness was Cap’s shield knocking full-force into the Winter Soldier’s side.

"I’ll be around when he’s thawed out, Captain. If you’d like me to, I mean. And if you think that’s a good idea.” Steve rests his cheek against Peter’s head, mulling over the promise. On one hand, there was the possibility that having the kid around when they wake Bucky up might trigger another episode, and a selfish part of him would prefer to keep that intimate moment to himself. But the rational half of his brain agrees with the idea; after all, Peter was the first person to crack Bucky’s tough shell when he joined the team, and more than once his friend admitted just how much the teen reminded him of Steve, before the serum, when he was young and fierce and recklessly picking fights with people twice his size for justice.

“Yeah,” he sighs into Peter’s mop of brown curls, wrapping his arm tighter around his waist, “that might help with the post-cryosleep confusion. To see another familiar face, beside mine.”

When they wake Bucky from his forced nap a week later, the first thing he does before even uttering a single word is to hum the melody to Star-spangled Man with a Plan. Peter is certain that the team will never cease their light-hearted teasing after having watched the security feed of him singing the song to Barnes.

Chapter Text

Peter hit the mat hard, the impact knocking the wind from his body. He tried to will his bruised limbs to move, but found that all energy had left him along with his breath, and grudgingly tapped out.

“Yield,” he managed to choke past his teeth, tasting blood from when he had taken a direct hit in the face. Natascha stood over him, slightly out of breath, but in an arguably better shape than him. She bent to offer him a hand that he gratefully accepted, allowing her to pull him to his feet where he swayed for a moment before stabilising. Peter held still while she inspected his face, then his upper body, and finally his legs for any injuries worse than cuts and bruises, only moving once she gave him the thumbs-up.

“You fight well, Petya.” Natascha smiled at him, openly, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder to guide him towards the bench sat against the wall of their training room. Peter merely groaned, sitting down heavily, and grabbed a bottle of the isotonic drink stored underneath the bench. He dropped his head against the wall while he drank greedily, closing his eyes for a moment as he waited for his breath and heartrate to slow to a normal level. He could sense Natascha sitting next to him, picking up a bottle of her own.

Once he had screwed the empty bottle shut and flung it away, Peter turned his head to watch her. Her breathing had normalized already, and if it wasn’t for the faint shimmer of sweat on her forehead and a few unruly strands of red hair, no one would have figured that they had been training for more than an hour.

“I still haven’t won a single fight against you, and we’re at it for weeks.” He tried to mask his frustration and disappointment, but managed no more than to sound like a petulant child. Scrubbing a hand over his damp face, Peter picked up another bottle. Natascha laid her hand over his before he could open it, a gentle touch, but her face was solemn, almost stern. He gulped, lowering the bottle, captivated by the way she looked at him.

“Petya,” she started, then corrected herself, “Peter. There will be times when you find yourself outsmarted, or outgunned, or generally overpowered by an opponent. You need to learn to get up when you’ve been beaten down, when you’ve tried and failed, and start over again.” Natascha offered a little smirk. “It’s not a shame for you to lose to me, anyway. After all, I don’t pull my punches with you like Steve does.”

That managed to draw an amused snort from Peter, albeit a quiet one. “Yeah, I know. You’re right. But what can I do to become better and maybe, some day, defeat you?”

Pondering for a moment, Natascha took another swig from her bottle, then threw a wider smile in his direction.

“How about I teach you some ballet?”

Chapter Text

He had smiled when Ned and MJ cancelled because they wanted to spend their annual Star Wars marathon weekend out in Springfield to go to Ned’s cousin’s wedding, wishing them an amazing weekend and asking for photos of them in a tux and dress.

When Steve had excused himself, planning to join Bucky on his mission to Cuba, he had laughed the matter off, promising to watch Alien with him once he returned, reminding him to take care and not forget to bring another fridge magnet for their collection.

Pepper at the very least had possessed the decency to truly look apologetic when she had announced that she and Tony would visit Rhodey at his new position in Washington DC where he had begun training a team of Patrioteers, kudos to a generous donation of suits by Stark Industries. She pressed a goodbye kiss to his forehead, giving her word to send as many photos as she could sneak past the NDA’s restrictions.

That’s how he had ended up with his head on Hawkeye’s shoulder, a bottle of pale ale clutched in his hand, watching some incredibly dull cooking show.

“I don’t understand how you can watch this shit,” Peter complained for the third time, tongue loose from the alcohol and maybe meeting up with the handsome blond merc he got to know a few weeks ago a little too often. But this was Clint, not Steve; and instead of chiding him, he merely grunted in response. “Not my fault that you can’t appreciate the fine art of cooking,” he replied, absent-mindedly leaning away to grab another bottle of ale for himself, causing Peter to tip dangerously.

Peter rolled his eyes but regained his balance quickly, pushing himself up with one hand and carefully holding up his bottle with the other. “I can appreciate good cooking when I’m on the receiving end of it. But there’s nothing entertaining in watching some bloke chopping onions for two hours.”

“They’re shallots, you savage.” Clint elbowed him in the side, but his smile took the edge off his words. “Not like you got anything better to do, or you wouldn’t be staying home sulking. Your boyfriend stood you up or what?”

Peter’s face flushed, and the words left his mouth faster than he could think them over. “Wade’s not my boyfriend!” The knowing smirk he received in return had him groaning, but he dropped back against Hawkeye’s side. “Fuck you, Barton,” he mumbled, nursing his ale. After having been left out of the fun weekend activities by his favourite humans, he had considered calling Wade; but then again he did not want to appear all too needy. One day the merc might get fed up with him wanting to come over whenever he had a little free time between university, work and avenging people.

Clint studied his sullen face for a moment before he turned back to the chef on TV chopping yet another ingredient before adding it theatrically to the pan. They watched in silence, both of them sipping their beer every now and then. Technically, Hawkeye wasn’t even allowed to have any alcohol as it might upset the injuries he had received during his last mission, but he was too old to have some doctor tell him what to do, and Rogers wasn’t around to scold either of them for drinking with their feet on the coffee table anyway.

“They’re not doing it on purpose, kid. Sometimes people just have stuff to do that doesn’t involve you. Don’t take it personally.”

That earnt him another eyeroll and a huff of not a kid anymore, idiot, but he ignored it in order to drape an arm around the younger man. “Jesus, to think that I’d one day be the voice of reason around here.”

Peter snorted against his shoulder, startling him slightly, the noise briefly echoing with a static crackle in Clint’s hearing aid. He seriously needed to have it checked out after the weekend. “Yeah, the voice of reason, who also lets me drink in the common room when Steve explicitly told me not to.”

“Gotta make you feel better some way, and I’m growing too old for playing fetch with you in the roof garden. Not to mention too sore.”

Peter used the subtle emergency webshooter on his wrist to yank the TV remote towards them, catching it effortlessly. “That,” Peter pointedly jabbed the device in the direction of the TV screen, “is not making me feel better. How about we watch Alien instead and rub it in Steve’s face when he’s back from Cuba?”

Chapter Text

Peter rushes into the spacious office, one cupholder in each hand and his security badge snugly secured between his lips. His spider senses warn him about the imminent collision with Kevin, their other intern who helps documenting his experiments and writing up reports and research papers, urging him to swerve sharply to the right to miss him by just a hair’s breadth. The blond man, two years older than Peter and almost a foot taller, squeaks indignantly and clutches the stack of paper more tightly to his chest with one arm, but he recovers to use his free hand in order to snatch the paper cup marked with his name from the cupholder.

“Jesus, Peter, look where you’re going!” He shakes his head hard enough to send his ponytail flying, yet huffs out a good-hearted chuckle at the brunette’s hurry. Once he has placed both his own coffee—black, two shots of hazelnut syrup—onto his nearby desk, he helps Peter by taking one of the cupholders to place the remaining two cups in it onto the empty desk next to his own and the one across from it. Dr Clara Jenkins—caramel frappuccino, no whipped cream—is planning to speak at a conference in Atlanta by the end of the week, presenting their results on portable energy shield technique, and is still running between the lab to collect last-minute results, administration to have her flight reimbursed and HR to complain about administration’s incompetence. Peter made sure to add a smiley face onto her cup to cheer her up. The second cup goes onto the desk of Adam Haynes—triple espresso, no sugar—who announced to be even later than Peter today due to stopping by for a talk with his PhD advisor. Kevin chucks the empty cupholder into the trashcan with ease before plopping back down in his swivel chair to watch while Peter shifts the security badge to his now free hand and gives out the remaining cups.

“You wouldn’t need to hurry as much if you didn’t stay up all night and then missed your train in the morning after sleeping in, pal,” Dr Alan Garcia throws his way when he receives his large vanilla latte. Peter mentally cringes at the jab. Between university and the job at Stark Industries, his night-time Spidey activities completely ruin his sleeping schedule, leaving him tired and disoriented and late in the morning. So far, though, his colleagues merely taunt him because he still does a fricking good job, you’re welcome. Beverly Cheng rolls her dark eyes at her colleague from behind her two computer monitors, absent-mindedly adjusting the modern spectacles that threaten to slide down her nose. “Ignore him, you know how he is before his first dose of caffeine.” She tears her eyes away from the simulation running on her screen barely long enough to offer an apologetic smile and pick her cup—flat white, one sugar—to place it next to her keyboard in the mess of post-it notes that she uses to sort her ideas and thoughts. “Dr Banner is in the group lab. You know the lab safety rules; no beverages anywhere near the instruments, or worse, inside the sterile chamber; no matter how much he looks like he needs it.”

“Got it, Bev.”

Peter does not stop to drop his own coffee—large white chocolate mocha—off on his own desk sitting in a group of three with Garcia and Cheng’s, instead heading directly towards the sliding door that separates the largest of the three labs their research group calls their own (minus Tony’s that he also gets to use, though in secret). Dr Banner stands with his back towards him, bent over the screen that monitors the sterile chamber, his whole posture tense. Peter stands to watch him for a moment, admiring how the older man is able to focus on his work and forget about the existence of basically everything else around him. He appears to be unaware of the whirring of the cooling systems, the faint hum of power generators that shield the sterile chamber—or rather, the person standing in front of it—where a glob of slick, grey substance is currently floating mid-air, visible both behind the transparent, bullet-proof glass and on the camera image that Banner is pouring over. Peter announces his presence with an awkward cough, not wanting to accidentally startle the scientist. He almost winces at the faint twitch he elicits nevertheless, forcing himself to smile brightly to mask his embarrassment. “I’ve got your tea, Dr Banner.”

Stepping over to the small table sitting against the wall—the only area they actually dare to place beverages at all, and even then only because no one outside of their research group ever sees this lab—Peter carefully sets the paper cup onto the surface. Chamomile, liquorice root, cinnamon: Dr Banner remains the only person in their lab who abstains from caffeinated drinks and orders a different type of tea with each coffee run Peter does to the small, hip coffee shop two blocks down on his way to work.

“I will never understand how you can drink that,” Banner muses, taking a sip of his own steaming, warming beverage, but he points at Peter’s cup, now the last in the cup holder. Peter shrugs in response, rubbing the back of his head. After his initial excited nervousness when he started working under Bruce Banner, he has grown much more comfortable around the scientist, secretly preferring his quiet, steady presence in the lab over the powerful crackle of electricity that is Tony Stark when he is focussed on a task.

“Guess it’s everything that keeps me awake after…y’know.” Peter gestures vaguely, finally giving in to the urge of drinking from his own cup, the creamy, chocolaty-sweet taste filling his mouth. “Rough patrol last night?” Banner asks, nodding sympathetically when the young man merely shrugs. With their colleagues safely on the other side of the sound-proof wall, they can speak openly about his side job as a crime-fighting spider and part-time Avenger. Bruce pulls a chair over, motioning for him to sit. “You carry great responsibility, Peter. But your health and safety should come first—I know what it’s like when I ignore mine; Tony didn’t build the basement just for Rhodey to test new suit features.” He studies Peter from behind his cup, taking in his pale face and the still flushed cheeks. “Look, I know I told you I needed your part of the June report by lunch, but for now, you can lie down in my office for a few hours and then finish it afterwards.”

Of course, Peter almost immediately straightens up, shaking his head in protest. “Dr Banner, that’s not necessary, I can work, I swear!”

Banner raises a hand to silence him, levelling him with the sternest look he can muster. It is not very effective on the other Avengers—in fact, Tony once told him it was more indignant than stern or even intimidating—but it works on Peter, who shrinks in his chair, pulling his shoulders up to his ears.

“Alright, Dr Banner,” he mumbles, eyes cast downward. “But please don’t tell Tony, okay? He’s still kinda overprotective since that incident with me getting stabbed from behind. He’ll take the suit away.”

“Don’t worry, Peter. Not a single word.”

Chapter Text

He promises that he would stay safe and guard the perimeter to warn them of anyone approaching, and to call an ambulance and the police once the building is clear. He never truly meant it. He believes Wade’s warning that he would not want to see what’s in the basement, but he cannot linger at the side-lines while Wade is out there, trying to do good. But he smiles and lies, tells him that he will make sure everyone would receive medical attention, and presses a kiss to the merc’s creased brow to ease his worries.

Then he is alone, his black suit melting into the shadows on a nearby rooftop, observing the building to plan another way in.

Two minutes and twelve seconds later, the audio feed of Wade’s radio cuts off, and Hell breaks loose.

In the end, Peter manages to pull seven small corpses from the collapsed building. He has yet to find Wade’s mangled body.

The mirror shatters under his first punch, enough force behind it that he cracks the dirty tiles behind it as well, dust and shards digging into his knuckles. He leans over the sink, clenching his trembling, bleeding fingers against the ceramic until they turn white underneath the smears of red.

When he finally exits the washroom, hands cleaned up and tucked into the sleeves of his oversized sweater, he smiles at Wade sitting at the bar and lies through his teeth.

I’m fine.

He has never been a good liar, but Wade is love-struck and blind to his deceit.

Another regular at Sister Margaret’s School for Wayward Children, however, is not as easily fooled.

Peter hears the heavy fall of Cable’s steps even before the door to the roof opens, the grind of rubber tread against the metal steps that blends into crunching gravel once the mutant steps onto the roof. He pauses there, shuts the door with an audible clank, mis-matched eyes boring into Peter’s back hard enough that he feels it physically, raising gooseflesh all the way down his spine. They both remain silent while Cable moves again, stepping closer to where the younger man sits on the low wall surrounding the roof, dangling his converse-clad feet over the edge.

“’m sorry,” Cable grinds out, voice quiet. He rarely barks or yells at him like he does at Wade, but he is never so quiet, careful, almost as if he is uncertain of what reaction he would get.

Peter barely knows how to react, either; and so he lies again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Nathan.” He kicks his feet against the wall, watching how the worn rubber soles bounce off the concrete. There is a small hole at the toe of the shoe, revealing faded yellow socks that clash with the red fabric of the Converse. He’ll need to join Wade on one of his paid jobs again in the near future to buy a new pair, but he likely won’t throw these away; they were a present from Tony after all.

Cable steers clear of the ledge as if not to spook him, standing closely behind him with his intent stare still on the figure before him. The back of Peter’s neck prickles, a faint brush of something hot on the inside of his temples having him shudder and spin around. He crouches on the knee-high wall, knees bent and back arched, as if ready to attack.

He craves to.

To bruise his knuckles on something softer than a mirror or a wall; something that would yield and break and bleed.

He cannot attack Cable, though; as much as he would like to. So Peter merely snarls up at the taller man, lips drawn back to reveal a flash of teeth, and hisses.

“Get the fuck out of my head, asshole!”

The mental connection breaks with a pop of Peter’s eardrums, yet Cable remains where he is, crossing his human and metal arm in front of his chest. Metal grinds on metal and the mechanics whirr when he moves the arm that has already been converted by the techno-virus, but the impatient drum of his fingers on the toned biceps of his human arm is a soft tap-tap-tap that drives Peter crazy.

“What is your fucking problem?”

Peter rises to his full height of five foot seven, but he shifts his feet apart, almost subconsciously. Cable is not much taller than him, only two or three inches, but he has a broad chest and fists that can punch through walls, and even with Peter’s enhanced strength it is difficult to find a good angle to break out of the deadlock of his arms on a good day.

Lately, all that Peter has had are bad days, gifting him with a presence that crackles like lightning and wakes the fight-or-flight reflex in a lesser man. He is not afraid. He is angry, and his anger needs an outlet. Punching Nathan Summers in his grim, scarred face would do to blow off some steam.

For a moment, neither of them moves. Then Cable shifts his weight, the small pebbles crunching underneath the sole of his heavy combat boot, the sound barely audible but ringing like a gunshot in Peter’s ears.

He launches himself against the mutant, fist connecting with his prominent jaw hard enough that he can feel the bone crack. Cable must have expected him to move, because he blocks the second punch swiftly with his metal arm. The sharp pain that travels from his knuckles all the way up to his elbow barely registers in Peter’s brain. Instead of relenting and retreating to circle and find a better angle, he delivers a series of blows and kicks, all aimed at Cable’s face and neck—a direct hit and he might kill the mutant.

He does not care.

Each attack drives Cable back, forcing him to catch or deflect the blows and sidestep to dodge and swerve, gravel spraying under the impact of his feet. He does not want to hurt the boy, no matter how intent he seems on fatally injuring him, but he has to wear him out for a chance to get through to him. Not far from them, down the alley that Sister Margaret’s is located in, the nightly traffic hums, late partygoers huddling in groups to shield themselves from the cooling September air, yelling and laughing cheerfully unaware of the fight on the roof.

A feinted kick towards his head has Cable stagger back and make a grab for Peter’s leg, but instead the spiderling bends his other knee to go low, catching the mutant’s ankle when he rolls over his shoulder and hands in one fluent movement. Unable to regain his balance, Cable goes down, breath punched from his lungs while his head crashes painfully onto the rooftop. He defends the next hit blindly, more hearing than seeing Peter’s smaller fist, acting fully on autopilot.

The bones in Peter’s forearm crack under the unyielding clench of his metal fingers.

The cry of pain follows belatedly after seconds of complete silence, high-pitched, sharp; piercing the cold autumn air. Peter stills above him.

Using his weight and the brunette’s pained daze, Cable throws a leg over his waist and flips them over to revert their positions, straddling Peter’s lap to pin him down with his full weight. He shifts his grip on the broken arm, gripping onto the biceps with his human fingers while the metal hand closes around the other wrist, and locks his knees around the spider’s sides, riding out the buck of his hips. The boy could easily shake him off, awkward angle or not—he could stop a bus with his bare hands and barely break a sweat—but his struggle grows weaker, less coordinated, until he stills underneath him.

Cable pants, loosening his tight grasp carefully, searching for any sign on Peter’s face that he might find the strength to fight back if he lets go. He finds none; his skin is pale and damp and he bites his quivering lip until it bleeds, averting his brown eyes.

“You’ve got every fuckin’ right to be angry, kid.”

Sitting back on his heels, he slips off the younger man’s body to sit next to his unmoving form, directing his gaze up instead to grant Peter a little privacy, an opportunity to hide the pain he must suffer from his shattered bones. Clouds drift by above them, dimming the light of the stars, but every now and then a sliver of the moon peeks out, bathing the roof in soft, calm light and casting shadows around them.

“I had a daughter around their age. Hope’s what we called her. ‘cause she was the first mutant to be born after—well. Lotsa shit happened in my future.” Cable rubs a calloused palm over his face, scratching over the scruff covering his chin. “Would’ve killed every single fuckin’ person in the whole city to save her, had anyone snatched her off the street an’ sold her.”

Next to him, Peter shudders, taking a harsh breath, holding it.

He feels bad for him. No one should have to go through this, but the world sucks, and Peter—kind, happy, whole-heartedly loving Peter who cares about every damn human on the planet—would sooner or later have to learn that lesson. Better now, when he has friends to catch his fall, than later, when he was alone and might turn down a darker road.

“There was nothin’ you could’ve done for them. That hurts, I know. And it makes you so angry that you wanna tear a wide, gaping hole into every single one of those bastards who dared lay a hand on any of those innocent kids. Just to fill that hole it left in you, knowing that you couldn’t save those poor kids.” Cable finally turns back towards him where he lies on his back, rests his weight onto his metal arm so he can lean closer. “Can’t save everyone. People die, children suffer, even if you do whatever you can to save them. Because life is fucking unfair. But.” Nodding solemnly to himself, he shifts further, to carefully run a hand through Peter’s curls. They are soft, warm, slipping easily through his human fingers much like Hope’s did when he brushed her hair. “You give everything. Every day, no matter what. You’ve saved so many more. Half the bloody population of New York owes you their boring lives.”

Under his hand, Peter trembles, one second, then another, swallowing harshly around the lump in his throat, trying to force the memory of ash on his tongue and blood on his hands and the stench of charred flesh down until his chest feels like it might burst.

Instead, a sob breaks free, choked up, desperate. And, as if a dam has been torn down, another one follows, until tears stream down his face and he has to curl up around himself so he would not break apart.

A strong hand guides him up into a sitting position, uncoiling him to pull him tightly against the warm, steady presence that is Nathan Summers. The human hand returns to his hair, stroking soothingly while the mutant allows him to cry freely against his chest, not once attempting to shush him.

“Your hands weren’t made for killing people, kid. They’re meant for protecting them.”

Peter knows that there is no need to lie to Cable, ever again.

Chapter Text

It takes Peter a moment to spot Edward Brock sitting in the corner of the café the reporter agreed to meet him. The store is very much unlike the Starbucks he normally frequents; secluded, with small tables scattered along the wall and shop window, offering enough distance for privacy. The lamps spread a warm light over the cosy, red-cushioned armchairs set around the round tables, and the young woman at the counter who greets with a cheerful smile wears a cute bow in the café’s colours—maroon and toffee brown—around her neck. Not exactly knowing what is customary in an interview situation like this, Peter offers her a shrug and half-smile in return, motioning over to where Brock sits in explanation, before he steers over towards the table.

“Thank you so much for offering me this opportunity, Mr Brock.” The reporter has gotten up to shake hands with Peter, abandoning the laptop in front of him that he must have been working on earlier. His grip is surprisingly firm.

“Please, Mr Parker. Take a seat. I’ve taken the liberty to order a whole pot of coffee, I hope you don’t mind. Though, if you don’t run on caffeine, I’m afraid you might not be the right person for this job.” A mischievous smirk tugs on his full lips.

Peter masks his sinking hope with a nervous laugh, dropping his backpack next to the armchair before taking a seat across of him. The reporter mirrors him, pushing the laptop out of the way in order to place a small folder on the table. Flipping it open, he reveals the photos that Peter sent him along with his application.

“I must admit, I was a little uncertain at first—you’re awfully young, you know? Would be a bit odd to take a nineteen-year-old to crime scenes and abandoned warehouses and snooping around construction sites at night.” What a great way to start an interview, with reasons why Peter is not fit for the job. Brock continues, though, “Then I saw those photos, and damn, they’re amazing. You’ve got an eye for just the right details.”

Peter cannot help the blush that spreads over his cheeks at the praise. Though he sent out his favourite pictures, they feel awfully mundane to him, taken mostly in natural light and on the streets instead of inside the academy’s studio; pictures of crowds mingling on the streets, the dreamy smile of a girl playing the violin on the sidewalk, a priest stepping out onto the steps of his church to herd in the sheep of his parish.

He fiddles with the hem of his knitted blue sweater. Aunt May sent it for Christmas when he could not come home over the break, but her scent has long faded from the wool. Nevertheless, it gives him comfort when he is anxious.

The reporter musters him intently, so Peter forces him to hold his gaze, wanting to emanate confidence that he does not feel under the scrutinizing stare. After a moment, Brock seems to register his discomfort, because he turns back to the pictures in the folder. “I mean, they’re all great. Technically well-made, composition’s good, they catch the mood, yadda yadda. But,” there’s the dreaded but, the I’m sorry, Mr Parker, but this is not what I’m looking for. Instead, Brock pulls out one photo from the stack and pushes it towards him. A mob of red-faced, angry, yelling civilians holding signs and posters facing off a chain of people with linked arms, holding candles, standing their ground against the protesters. “This. Where was this taken?”

Relief floods Peter. He remembers that day clearly, remembers the tension in the air, the police barely holding back the angry crowd. Remembers how the chain of lights had merely stood there, but created a gravity that pulled all objects around them into an orbit.

“The anti-mutant rally in Washington, after that mutant kid had been shot by police officers. Mutants stood vigil for her while people protested against mutant rights and for legislating a mandatory mutant registry.” Talking about not only his work, but something that he truly cares for, loosens his tongue and eases the tension from his shoulders. “I went there with my friends. Initially we merely planned to join the group of people supporting the vigil, but I had the idea of documenting everything with my camera. That being an important historical moment, and—” He breaks off briefly, clears his throat. “In case anything happened. Anti-mutant violence.”

“And that,” the reporter gestures, open palms extended at him, “is why I’m seriously considering you to join the Eddie Brock Report. You must have guts to go in there and stand in the eye of the storm, figuratively speaking. Not to mention an interest for…justice.” His blue eyes observe him keenly. Briefly Peter wonders whether Edward Brock had gotten his hands on the reports from his highschool years, detailing several cases of destruction of property. Mostly racist, homophobic or anti-mutant propaganda posters that someone had put up all over the school grounds. By the time Brock moves back to his application, Peter’s palms are sweaty where they rest on his lap.

“Let’s move on to the most important question. Which hours are you free and how much sleep do you need?”

Had someone asked Peter two months ago whether he could imagine working with Eddie Brock, the great journalist who single-handedly uncovered the unethical experiments performed by the Life Foundation, he would have laughed.

Right now, the camera on his shoulder is trained on exactly that person. It is not the most expensive model, yet probably cost more than the whole personal photography equipment stored in his own dorm room, and it took him a while to get used to it. But Eddie cared more about his detail-orientation, the late nights of research he put in to support the journalist and his steady hand than about the hours it took him to explain the functionality of the film camera; and after all, Peter is a quick learner.

They stand in front of a fence topped with barb wire and covered in non-transparent foil to shield the area behind it from curious eyes, but they have both seen the wasteland beyond when they worked open a hole in the fence with wire cutters the night before. Mere weeks before, this had been part of one of the “green lungs” in San Francisco. Now only barren, cracked earth and patches of wilted grass remain.

“Despite opposing claims by InGen’s PR manager during the press conference on Tuesday, evidence points to their involvement in destroying the park grounds behind this fence by disposing chemicals into the park’s ecosystem. Problem is, the mayor refuses to investigate against InGen—likely because their CEO spent a large sum on the mayor’s campaign financing, as a private person, of course. As it is, there’s little hope to uncover whether the chemical spill was an accident or is part of a larger experiment. But, and that’s even more important—and concerning—we also won’t be informed about any potential health risks to local residents around the park.” Eddie looks straight into the camera, clasping his hands in front of him while Peter adjusts the frame, zooming in on his face. “I’m Eddie Brock and this is the Brock Report.”

Once they have dropped off the camera at Eddie’s apartment and loaded the material onto his secure server, they finish the day off at the affordable Chinese restaurant around the corner to stuff themselves with fried rice and spring rolls and discuss their next steps.

“I still think we should follow the corruption part of the story as well,” Peter points out halfway through his third plate. “Of course our first and foremost duty is to make sure there’s no health and safety risk to the citizens. But even assuming InGen goes down after this disaster—as long as we’ve got a mayor turning a blind eye to crooks who finance his re-election campaign, there’s absolutely no certainty that anything like this won’t happen again.”

Eddie pokes the dumpling on his plate with his chopsticks. They’re reasonably fresh, but not fresh enough for his appetite. Mentally, he sorts through the contacts and leads they have in this case. Nothing seems promising on the accord of convicting the mayor—or even anyone close to him—of corruption and possibly embezzlement of campaign funds. He voices his concerns while chewing unhappily on the dumpling. “Not much we can do on that route, pal. Maybe, if we find the right documents on InGen’s side of the story, we could follow the lead back to the mayor’s office.”

His eyes glint.

“How does a break-in at InGen sound to you, Pete?”

Technically, he already knows the answer, because in cases like these, it’s always the same.

“You bring the tools, I bring the compact camcorder and coffee.”

Chapter Text

@capforpresident [04/24/2018 11:35:28]: GUYS i think i saw cap at starbucks today?? like, just sipping on a latte???

@hottestavenger [04/24/2018 11:36:40]: @capforpresident r u sure?

@capforpresident [04/24/2018 11:39:12]: @hottestavenger YEAH TOTES!!! like he was wearing a basecap but it gotta be him

@capforpresident [04/24/2018 11:40:05]: @hottestavenger like no one else holds hands w/ bucky barnes in public pretending theyre regular blokes

@hottestavenger [04/24/2018 11:42:10]: @capforpresident HE WHAT

@stucky5ever [04/24/2018 11:43:01]: @capforpresident W H A T

@buckitty [04/24/2018 11:43:07]: @capforpresident FUCKIN KNEW IT HHHH

@OfficialAvengers✓ [04/24/2018 11:44:28]: Hi folks! We’d appreciate if you didn’t speculate or spread rumours about the relationship status of our team members. Thx!! Meanwhile, enjoy this photo of Captain Rogers’ workout routine this morning. /pp

Peter snickers under his breath as he attaches the photo featuring a mildly sweaty Steve benching his weights with Sam as the (kind of unnecessary, and it shows on his face—he’s more fixated on watching the flex of Cap’s biceps) spotter. Being part of the Avengers’ social media team truly has it perks; with the permission of using footage of FRIDAY’s cameras around the compound being the main one by far. Steve coincidentally ends up in the ‘dailyavengers’ hashtag a little more often than the rest of their teammates. Damn him for being so photogenic.

“They’re technically not wrong.”

The teen almost jumps out of his skin at the dry snort sounding right next to his right ear, a shadow looming over him.

“Jesus fu—”

A flick to his cheek, and he corrects himself rather hastily, “fudge, one day you’ll kill me with your sneaking around!”

Having successfully saved Peter from tainting his mouth with a curse—not that he minds, but Steve would be mildly disappointed, and no one wants to suffer that—Bucky rounds the couch, plopping down next to him when the kid scoots to make room for him. Watching the explosion of typed squeals following the picture should probably make him jealous or at least elicit a miffed reaction, but instead he plucks the phone from Peter’s hand to follow the thread with an amused expression.

“God, people really love Steve. Might be worth inventing time travel to show him this back before they beefed him up and see his face.” He flicks his gaze over to Peter who, having overcome his initial shock, now glowers at him. Adorable. “C’mon, you love him, too. Didn’t you have his poster on the wall when you were a kid?”

Peter gasps with indignation, heat rising to his cheeks, and starts a futile attempt of getting his phone back. Instead he ends up on the wrong end of Bucky’s metal prosthesis, kept at arm’s length and just barely out of reach. “Dude, I was eight! I should have never invited you over to Aunt May’s!”

Freeing himself from that grasp is theoretically possible, but only if he intends to actually fight the Winter Soldier. And, well, while he might get away with a small mock-fight and minor destruction of property (Mario Kart nights with the whole team ended worse), he would rather take a pass on the lecture by all-business Captain America. All-business Cap equalled no-fun Cap.

So instead, he submits to be manhandled into a half-serious headlock, securely tucked under the metal appendage, and merely cranes his head to keep his eyes on the screen, reading along with Bucky.

@capforpresident [04/24/2018 11:45:55]: @OfficialAvengers @suckingcapscapsicle LAURIE LAURIE LOOK AT THOSE MUSCLES I’M?????

@suckingcapscapsicle [04/24/2018 11:46:49]: @OfficialAvengers @capforpresident mmmmhhh god i’d totally lick the sweat off those pecs

By now, Peter can’t help the weirded-out squeak he makes, especially when the following tweets take a turn to the explicit.

“Do they even realise that we’re all actual human beings who can fucking read?! Or that they forgot to untag me?!”

He groans when Bucky releases him with a huff of air that, for his usual demeanour, basically comes down to the equivalent of a laugh. “Is Steve aware of what people write about him on Twitter?”

“He knows about the whole shipping thing—y’know,” he explains, catching Barnes’ inquiring lift of a brow, “the whole thing about the two of you being a couple? Even though there’s not much of an official statement. But apart from that?” Peter finally manages to retrieve his phone. Not by stealing, but because Bucky has apparently grown bored reading a few teenagers’ enamoured tweets. “He’s got not the foggiest idea of the thirst going around.”

“Maybe I should get an account of my own,” Bucky muses, producing his own phone from a pocket in his black cargo pants. “Wanna help me set up the profile, kiddo?”

@zimniysoldat [04/24/2018 14:29:56]: @capforpresident @suckingcapscapsicle @hottestavenger @stucky5ever @buckitty Sorry folks, this hunk’s mine. #couplesthatslaytogetherstaytogether #myboyfriendishotterthanyours #70yearsinthemaking #dailyavengers

OfficialAvengers✓ [04/24/2018 14:39:21]: @zimniysoldat JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES THIS IS TWITTER PLEASE KEEP IT RATED PG WE TALKED ABOUT THIS /pp

@OfficialAvengers✓ [04/24/2018 14:44:59]: @zimniysoldat Also please report back to the common room, I think Tony’s having an aneurism from laughing too hard and I have no idea what to do. Please advise. /pp

 @IAmIronMan✓ [04/24/2018 14:49:18]: @zimniysoldat Thank God we kept you round, Frosty. @OfficialAvengers I’m fine, please stop pinching my toe or you’re grounded for life.

@AmazingBirdGuy✓ [04/24/2018 14:51:02] @zimniysoldat Please tell me you’ll show this to Cap.

After drawing straws, Natascha ends up being the one who shows Steve the tweet (“607,556 likes, quite impressive, even for you”) over dinner later that day, with the other attending Avengers practically vibrating in their seats. For a moment, he stares at the tweet, and the attached image, as if dumbfounded. Then he lifts his gaze to look Bucky—fighting and losing against the smug grin stretching over his face—in the eye, his glare frosty enough to send shivers down Peter’s spine and inch away from his seat on the chair next to Bucky.

“If you have enough time to snap a photo while I’m snogging you, then you’re clearly not paying enough attention.” His chair scrapes over the floor as he gets up, abandoning the steak and salad on his plate. “Guess I ought to teach you better.”

The twitter of one @zimniysoldat✓ (now verified, and with a total of more than 250,000 new followers within a few hours, including twenty-four Hydra agents that would later find themselves trussed up in front of their respective closest police stations) remains suspiciously silent for the remainder of the night.

Chapter Text

Peter stared at the clock on the wall opposite of his register, just above the sliding doors to the store, for what must have been the sixth time within the last five minutes. Graveyard shifts had their advantages: leaving more hours during the day for him to study, finish coursework, or spend a much needed breather in the lab, and they were slow enough that he could idle around on his phone, spamming the WhatsApp group chat that consisted of him, Ned, and MJ, with the latest Captain America memes.

However, they also cut deeply into his nocturnal patrols through the urban canyons gaping between the skycrapers of New York City, to the point where Daredevil—Daredevil, who had chased his ass out of Hell’s Kitchen the very first time he had attempted to take down a car thief there—had begun complaining about picking up his slack.

And then there were the weirdos that creeped out at night.

Exhibit A had looked shifty enough to send his Spidey sense haywire, red-rimmed eyes darting left and right. It had been a little more difficult to make out the shape of the knife in the back pocket of his jeans when he had shuffled in, passing his register the wrong way. Lucky for Peter, the thirteen chocolate bars that he had placed on the belt a few minutes later must have had a placating effect: knife-man had left without any incident that might have involved a broken wrist and a knife embedded in a shelf.

Exhibit B, having left maybe twenty minutes prior, had reeked of liquor, strongly enough that Peter’s sensitive nose had started watering while he had dutifully rung up the huge bag of frozen fries the man had bought.

And now, Exhibit C.

Peter shrunk back slightly behind his register, because, well, it would provide only flimsy protection in case this weirdo decided that he wanted a piece of his ass. The man was not even that tall, beating Peter by maybe two or three inches, yet what he lacked in height he compensated with an excessive amount of muscles, fierce scars around one of his eyes and a glare that had him quivering in his sneakers.

He also had a metal arm.

Scary, metal-appendagey weirdo or not, this guy still was a paying customer, thus requiring to be treated as such.

Peter forced a cheerful smile to his lips as he acknowledged Exhibit C and his basket. It turned out a little wobbly instead, as if he might start crying.

“Hi, how are you? Did—did you find everything alright, sir?”

Mr Not-quite-Bucky-Barnes did not even spare him much of a glance in response, loading his purchases onto the belt with a grunt. Peter’s expression faltered. Among canned soup, protein powder—that this guy certainly did not need anymore—and a pack of razors stood a six-pack of beer.

“Umm—” Peter had to clear his throat, his voice suddenly taking a pitch that he had not hit ever since he had been fourteen. He tried again. “I’m, I’m sorry, sir, but it’s store policy that for any alcohol sales made by employees under 21 there must be a store manager present, and, and as you can see, I’m the only one in store right now, and I’m only 19—”

Metal arm guy fixed him with a glare so intense that Peter not only broke off his rambling, but also squeaked. For someone who swung around the city webbing up criminals at night, not exactly impressive. But then again, being sized up by a guy at least double his weight in muscles, with no mask and nothing but some flimsy wood and a layer of transparent plastic shielding him, rarely happened in his strict routine of college-work-patrol-sleep-repeat.

“’sthat mean you’re not gonna sell me this?” The metal thumb jabbed in the direction of the beer on the conveyor belt, but the man’s dark eyes remained fixed on Peter. Besides being sufficiently intimidating, the piercing gaze seemed to dissect him, decomposing him to the very level of his atoms.

It was unsettling.

Peter swallowed the lump in his throat. With the mask on, a quippy remark would have sat on the tip of his tongue, but without the mask—the suit, his webshooters—he felt vulnerable. Not much he could do when there were cameras pointed at the registers and the exit, recording his every move, unless he wanted to give his manager a reason to take a closer look at his resume.

He decided to play nice instead; be apologetic yet firm and pray that he would not have a close encounter with the guy’s metal fist anytime soon.

“I am very sorry, sir, but those are the rules. I’d love to help you, but I can’t. I can, however, ring the rest of your purchases up for you!”

With relief, Peter registered that while his hands trembled where he placed them on the money drawer, his voice had stopped squeaking and merely wavered a little. Never let a wild dog smell your fear.

He shrunk back nevertheless, scooting his stool back as far as he could, when metal arm guy leant over the register and into his personal space.

“What didya jus’ call me, squirt?”

What.

Peter tipped the stool until it rested on two of its four legs alone, balancing it carefully to gain a few more inches between himself and the man. His brain practically short-circuited as he attempted to filter through what he had said in order to find out what had caused this violend shift for the worse. Maybe it was his usual carelessness, or maybe because he was dangerously close to being smacked in the face by a man twice his weight and at least three times his senior; whatever the reason, he came up empty.

“Sir,” he managed to press out, breathlessly, “I’m—I’m certain I called you sir. I can, I’ll call you anything you want, instead, just—please, please let me do my job. Don’t get me fired, I need the money. I gotta. I got. An aunt. She’s, she works so much, I gotta give her something back.”

While the man had yet to show any inclination of moving back and out of Peter’s face, he at least had not broken his nose, either. Or his jaw. Or his eye socket.

Instead, he drew his brows together, fixing him with a thoughtful stare.

Before he could growl at him again, or execute any violence to threaten Peter’s wellbeing—and presentable face—Peter was saved by the bell.

Quite literally.

Unnoticed by either of them during their stare-off, weirdo Exhibit D had snuck through the door, only to fling himself unceremoniously onto metal arm guy’s back, wrapping a companionable—probably breathtaking—arm around his neck from behind.

Exhibit D was wearing a Christmas hat, complete with the white fur and a small golden bell that jingled merrily.

In April.

But then again, this totally made sense, because for once, Peter knew this weirdo.

“Wade.”

With Deadpool hanging off his back, possibly restricting his air flow, metal arm guy was forced to lean back and deal with a problem more annoying than some cashier refusing to sell him alcohol, giving Peter a chance to catch his own breath. Obviously, he was not the only one acquainted to the merc with a mouth, because after a firm—metal—elbow to the stomach, metal guy grunted out a downright vicious “Fuck off, Wilson”.

Instead of stepping back, Deadpool merely plastered himself against the man’s side. At least he stopped choking the life out of him, even though that might have kept him at bay for a little longer.

“Language, dearest Nathan. Minors are present,” Wilson chided him, adding a name to the wannabe Winter Soldier. For once, Peter let the comment slide, forgoing to remind him that A) he was old enough to vote and B) technically the only possible minor around, thus making it minor instead of minors, in favour of carefully setting the stool back on all of its legs. He even mustered the strength to grace Wade with a grateful, if a little pained, smile.

Deadpool took the second jab to his ribs in stride, smiling right back.

“I am so sorry for Nathan’s terrible manners, baby boy. It’s why we never let him leave the house without a responsible adult. And, well.” He leaned forward, close enough that he might have actually whispered into Peter’s ear. Instead, he chose to stage-whisper loudly enough that anyone within a twenty feet radius would have heard. “He’s from the future.”

Wade leant back just in time for his cheekbone to connect with Nathan’s fist, this time the skin-and-bones one. It still cracked audibly underneath the mask.

Two years ago, Peter would have recoiled in horror, but by now Deadpool’s rapid healing and dismissive attitude towards injuries of his own were nothing new to him. Instead he offered a barely sympathetic shrug, because, well. He did deserve that for turning his back on a volcano about to erupt.

With the danger of having his own face smashed in passed, Peter smiled apologetically up at Nathan, the nervous tremble of his fingers finally under control now that the man had a different outlet for his anger.

“Mr Nathan, whatever I have said to upset you, I want to apologise for it. Please let me ring up the other items, and as for the beer, there should be another grocery store down the street that is better staffed at this hour.”

Never quite averting his gaze or dropping his smile, Peter began blindly scanning the cans of soup.

The anger on metal arm guy’s face had by now shifted from furious to confused. Before he could get in another word, Deadpool piped up from where he hung off of his human arm.

“Awwww, he called you ‘Mr Nathan’. He used to call me ‘Mr Deadpool’ when we first met! Isn’t he adorable? C’mooon, Nate, you gotta tell him how adorable he is. Makes him blush up to the roots of his hair and probably even further! Hair’s just too dark to see it.”

He ignored the swatting at his masked face in favour of making further cooing noises as Peter, as if on cue, flushed a dark shade of pink in embarrassment. Fortuntely, Nathan decided not to indulge him, either.

“I’ll do no such thing, shithead.” He slapped a few crumbled bills in front of Peter before dislocating Wade from his arm so he could pick up his purchases, minus the sixpack of beer. “Keep the change. An’ don’t ever compare me to a wild dog again.”

He strode out of the store, purchases in his arms and an amiably chattering Deadpool by his side, leaving Peter staring dumbfoundedly staring at his back behind.

Chapter Text

Of course, the first person to stumble upon them just has to be Tony fucking Stark.

The noise that he makes—somewhere between an indignant squawk and an entirely manly shriek—has them jump away from each other like they burnt their fingers (and mouths), immediately shoving their hands into their jeans pockets like that would take back what Tony had to witness.

By evening, half the Avengers know that Wade and Peter—goody two-shoes Spider-Man and merc with a mouth Deadpool—are dating.

Or at least making out in the corner of the communal kitchen when they believe no one is watching.

The second person, because Peter Parker is possibly the luckiest person on the planet, is Steve Rogers.

They thought they were being sneaky enough about it, hiding in the training room that no one ever uses because the lights keep flickering on and off and a group of superhumans make for a surprisingly superstitious bunch. Unfortunately for them, this is also the reason why the closet with the punching bags, unlike the one in Steve’s regular training room, actually still holds a few extra bags.

Which he, of course, has to retrieve today.

While they are busy on the training mats.

Wade has his hands pinned above his head, matching the strong arch of his back to kiss him senseless when the door slams open, causing the light to flicker briefly, and Peter to bite down on his tongue. Painfully enough that Wade sits up with a curse, and then a squeak when his eyes are met with a frozen Captain America, standing in the doorway and staring at their half-undressed state.

Peter barely dares to turn his head, his face burning scarlet.

“Um, hi, Captain Rogers, sir…”

The following lecture on appropriate behaviour in relationships—making out in abandoned training rooms apparently did not count as appropriate—is only briefly interrupted by James Buchanan Barnes swaggering in, curious as to where Steve has wandered off to. Instead of being saved, however, the lecture takes a turn to a lenghthy discussion of “safe, sane and consensual” kudos to Bucky that only ends when Peter buries his face against Wade’s shoulder with an exasperated groan while the merc fails at keeping in his snickering at the mortified expression on Steve’s face.

“I just don’t understand what their problem is,” Peter groans from where he is floating in the pool outside of the building that houses the compound’s living quarters, clutching onto a bright red pool noodle. The glaring sun that brought them a record heatwave reflects off the water sloshing against the tiles set around the pool, forcing him to squint over to where Sam Wilson lounges on a deck chair with a book propped up on his chest.

“You’ll need to specify that a little, if you’re expecting an actual answer from me,” he comments after marking the page and closing the book. The pilot-style sunglasses have slipped down his nose a little. “Who’s ‘they’ and what have they done?”

The request for clarification elicits an annoyed huff from Peter, who drifts closer to splash water at Sam’s naked feet. “Don’t pretend that Cap didn’t tell you he walked in on me and Wade in training room B-9.”

Sam holds his hands up in defense. “Whatever happens in the self-help group, stays in the self-help group. Couldn’t tell you whatever he told me, even if I wanted to.”

“What kind of a self-help group is that, the ‘Ancient Avengers Against Indecent Behaviour’ group?” More water sprays Sam’s feet, who, less annoyed and rather glad about the cool-down, abandons book and chair in order to slip into the pool next to Peter. He laughs amicably, patting his shoulder.

“Remind me to never let you name anything ever, Peter.”

The sour look he receives in return sobers him up just a little.

“Look, just give Steve and Tony a little time, alright? They’re watched you for so many of your early steps on your way as an Avenger, I’m guessing it’s quite scary for them to realise that you’ve grown up so much.” He smirks a little. “They’re probably realising that if you’re all grown-up, that makes them really fricking old.”

Peter at least laughs at that, a shake of his shoulders and chest that causes the pool noodle under him to bob in the water.

“In the meantime, I’d suggest you find a place a little more secluded for you and Wade to have some privacy.”

While Wade’s flat back in New York City at first sounded like a great idea due to the distance to the compound and several security measures implemented by the merc on one of his more paranoid days, it proves to have the downside that Wade’s friend, Weasel, has a key to it.

Which he completely forgot about, until they’re on his couch with some silly cooking show in the background and he has his hand up Peter’s shirt and his lips sealed to his neck, and Weasel just casually strolls in.

To his credit, he barely even stops in his tracks at the sight in front of him, merely arches a brow and wanders over to the fridge of Wade’s small kitchenette to retrieve a jug of milk.

“Didn’t know you had it for brunette teens,” he comments, then, completely ignoring Peter’s yell (“I’m twenty-fuckin’-five, you fuckin’ weirdo”) and Wade’s open-mouthed stare, strolls back out and kicks the door shut.

“Babe,” Peter starts once he has regained his voice, fixing Wade with a deadly serious stare, “I’m beginning to think that one of us has done something horrible in their previous life.”

Chapter Text

Everyone had known for quite a few days that something was up with Peter. His usually huge appetite—rivalled only by that of Steve and Bucky, having to feed their supersoldier bodies an insane amount of calories per day—had waned to the point where he even refused morning pancakes.

Events like this called for a crisis meeting of the “Mental and Emotional Therapeutic Help” group (an alternative name Peter had come up with for the group that officially was the Movie and Entertainment Team Hiatus, and that was just as appropriate).

So, instead of gathering up for a Game of Thrones marathon, Sam, Clint, Natascha and Scott (who technically wasn’t even a part of METH, but decided to stop by after dropping his suit off at the lab for repairs and a check-up) discussed the matter of METH’s absent founding member, Peter B. Parker.

“Maybe he’s in love,” Scott suggested, picking at the bowl of nachos and salsa on his lap. “Unrequitedly in love. There was this beautiful girl in highschool, she was on the cheerleading team, and I remember exactly how I was when I crushed on her.”

“Desperate and invisible to her?” Natascha commented, then effortlessly caught the corn chip aimed at her face. She crunched on it without breaking eye contact with Scott, who sulked at her.

“Technically. I guess. But I had admirers, I swear!”

Hawkeye appeared hardly convinced, focussed on—unnecessarily, as he never took milk or sugar in it—stirring his cup of coffee. He set the spoon aside with a clink, taking a satisfying gulp of the scalding liquid before balancing the cup on the armrest of the couch he shared with Natascha.

“If the kid had a crush, half the tower would know by the end of the week,” he countered Scott’s suggestion. “Remember the last time that happened? Barnes had their name, home address, parents’ criminal records and distant relatives within less than an hour, before Peter even told him anything about them.” None of the others could argue against the famous thoroughness (borderline paranoia) of the former Hydra assassin. And once Bucky knew, Steve knew, as well; and from there the rumour would spread like wildfire.

“No unrequited crush, then,” Scott concluded, deflating in his seat.

“Has any of you actually thought about, you know, just asking Peter?”

All three of them stared at Sam like he had grown a second head (or actual wings), who lifted a brow in return. “Hey, don’t you look at me like that’s my task. I’ve been undercover in South Africa all week, no way to contact anyone from there.”

“Yeah, but you’re just so good at this grown-up talk thing, Sam!” Scott threw up his hands in exaggerated despair.

Natascha flicked a piece of popcorn at him in retaliation for the nacho earlier. “Don’t you have a daughter, Lang? Or do you only teach her how to break into buildings? I’m very proud of her burgling skills, by the way,” she added reassuringly as Scott gaped at her like she had just insulted his parenting. Which, technically, she had. Having sufficiently taunted Ant-Man, she shifted her focus on Clint sitting next to her. “Barton, what about your kids? What do you tell them when they’re acting shifty?”

The archer, quite conveniently, had taken his hearing aid out mere moments ago, and pretended that he all of a sudden was unable to read her lips. Natascha kicked him in the shin.

“Jesus, fine, I’ll go talk to him.”

Sam rubbed his face in exasperation. It wasn’t like he didn’t care about Peter, or that he didn’t like his job as a counsellor. But. Sometimes the rest of the team could pick up the emotional messes around them.

Peter wasn’t in his room, or the training room, or the gym, or even in the lab that he shared with Tony.

Eventually, with a little help by Clint (who had miraculously recovered the ability to read lips and Sam’s awkward signing), Sam spotted a small hammock spun from web fluid tucked in a corner on the roof, not far away from the hawk’s nest Barton had set up in a nearby. The web swung gently in the evening breeze, effectively hiding the slender body inside, if it wasn’t for the sneaker-clad leg dangling over the side.

Sam drew closer cautiously, remembering to keep his steps audible as not to spook the teenager. Despite obviously having heard him—what he could spot of the form resting in the web curled up further protectively—Peter did not acknowledge his presence in any other way.

“We missed you at the movie night,” he began gently, settling down on the roof two steps away from the hammock. “Anything you’d like to talk about?”

The next few minutes passed in silence, but Sam didn’t mind. He could wait.

Instead of a verbal response, one of Peter’s hands appeared over the side of the web, thrusting a faded, repeatedly folded photo in his general direction. Sam took it carefully.

“You’re aunt and uncle, right?” He smiled at the enthusiastic brown-haired child dangling off the arm of the man standing next to May Parker in the picture. Above him, Peter had fully retreated into his nest.

“In two days, Uncle Ben will have been dead for four years.”

Peter’s voice was muffled, likely by an arm flung over his face, like he always did whenever he attempted and failed to drone out the world around him. Sam studied the man’s faint smile, the easygoing expression of May, next to him. The carefree bundle of energy that Peter apparently was in his childhood—he still was, to an extent, but it was nowadays overshadowed by the weight of being Spider-Man on his shoulders and the trauma of dying and being brought back to life.

“I’m so sorry, Peter.” Sam stood up, stretching to hand back the photograph. Peter snatched it away from him before retreating back into the safety of his web.

“Him and Aunt May were my family, after my parents died. And then—then he died, too. And now I only have May left.” That she might die, too, one day, hung heavily in the air between them.

Settling back into his spot on the roof, Sam tucked his legs close to rest his hands on his knees. So many of the veterans that came to his group had lost comrades, friends, even family, to wars on foreign ground. But none of them were a teenager who had just gone through his voice break.

“He would be so proud of you.” He looked up at the hammock, watching as it shifted with Peter’s breaths. “We all are. You’re not alone, and you never will be, okay? We may not be related by blood, but we’re tied together by something equally strong. I know that us Avengers won’t ever be able to replace your uncle—and we shouldn’t try to—but, we’re still family. We’re here for you.”

The teen sniffled suspiciously in his web, but he dangled his leg back over the edge.

“Thanks, Sam.”

“You’re welcome, kid.”

Over the course of the next two weeks, METH took it upon themselves to recruit as many helping hands as they could without raising suspicion. Flight plans were changed, Thor announced a surprise visit with his fiancée Jane, Vision and Wanda returned from their retreat four days early, and even Bucky managed to be retrieved from a crappy safehouse after a botched mission to Bolivia thanks to special delivery of a private jet sponsored by Stark.

They even managed to sneak Peter’s best friends, Ned and MJ, onto the compound without him noticing.

Steve took the responsibility of keeping Peter busy and away from the preparations on the actual day as seriously as he did with everything, chasing him around the training room until both of them were out of breath and sweating profusely. Once they had changed out of their gear and taken a quick shower, he invited him to the communal area. Peter tried to wriggle his way out of it, claiming to have homework (he didn’t, Bucky had hacked into his school account) and a dinner with May planned (Tony had called ahead and explained why her nephew would have to stay the night). But even his soft, brown puppy eyes could not sway the Captain, who had enough experience with Barnes’ pout to build up a resistance. In the end, Peter had no other option than to follow him.

He stopped in his tracks when they walked in on the whole team milling about the communal area, sitting on the couches and chatting with each other. Not just the core members, but a lot of the part-time members as well (Tony kept as much distance as he could from where Deadpool stood, whispering and giggling conspirationally with Darcy Lewis, obviously planning something).

Ned and MJ spotted him first, abandoning their conversation with Bruce Banner to snatch Peter by the elbows so he could not bolt. Behind him, Steve excused himself.

“What. What’s going on. I. What? Why’s everyone here? Did I miss something?”

MJ snickered and elbowed him in the side, dragging him further into the room. Most other discussions had fallen silent as well, minus Thor, who was using hands and feet to explain something to Shuri who stood with a cocked eyebrow and unveiled amusement.

Sam stepped up towards the trio, catching everyone’s attention. “So, I’m guessing you do remember our talk on the roof a while back, right?” When Peter nodded dumbfoundly, he continued, “What you showed me gave me an idea. I told you, we’re all family—whether we want it or not. So I thought, why shouldn’t we take a proper family photo together?”

His gaze shifted to a point behind them, where Steve had popped up again, a camera and tripod in hand. “It will be a little crowded, why don’t we have FRIDAY help with the positioning? Any preferences, Peter?” The captain smiled and ruffled his hair, then discreetly mopped up one of the tears welling up in the teenager’s eyes.

They ended up squishing together to the point where Scott almost broke his nose on a conveniently placed metal arm for pressing in too intimately against Steve who had an arm around Bucky’s waist. Peter was jammed between an enthusiastically smiling Ned and Tony, who had his hand on his shoulder and pressed a sneaky kiss to the teen’s mop of curls just in time for the camera to go off.

When he returned home after school the next day, May helped her nephew put up the framed picture right next to the one of them with Ben.

Chapter Text

Whoever thought that taking Captain Steven Grant Rogers to the Smithsonian on a Saturday afternoon was a good idea, in Peter’s opinion, deserved to babysit the Hulk (in full-on green mode, not soft-spoken Bruce Banner) for a whole day.

Technically, it had been the other way around—Steve had suggested to take Peter, Michelle and Ned, while they were staying in Washington with the Academic Decathlon team for a friendly rematch with a local Highschool—but someone had given him the day off, so whoever it was, it obviously was their fault.

There was nothing to be done about it now.

They had, of course, ensured that Steve would go incognito, basecap and glasses and terrible plaid shirt and sweater included. Unfortunately, the disguise was as useless as it was hideous, which led to the three teenagers watching the story of James Buchanan Barnes for the umpteenth time while Steve was stuck in the middle of an excited group of tiny pre-school children and their (equally agitated) teachers, answering questions only a bright-eyed child that just met their idol sneaking around an exhibit about exactly the same idol might ask.

“We could sneak off and do something that’s actually fun without an old man babysitting us,” MJ suggested, about two-hundred percent less enthused by the presence of Captain America than the children assaulting him.

“Like what?” Ned had initially been excited to the point of an asthma attack by the prospect of visiting the exhibit with the man himself; but even he was growing restless next to the screen playing the same video on a loop for twenty minutes now.

“Dunno.” His friend squinted at her phone screen. “Joining a protest, defacing racist propaganda posters, destroying the patriarchy?”

“We can’t just leave him alone with this…nightmare,” Peter fretted, wringing his hands together. The noise, the crowd, all those different sensory impressions; with all of his senses dialled to eleven, he was overwhelmed enough that lying down on the floor seemed like an appealing idea. “Maybe we can kidnap him and go somewhere else? A secluded, uninhabited island, perhaps?”

Ned shot him a concerned look. The spiderling looked worryingly pale around the nose. He stepped closer, just in case, to maybe catch him if he chose to faint. Or at least to act as a helpful cushion. “You know the guy, is he really a softie, like they say in the video?” he enquired in an attempt to distract Peter, pointing to the screen that was currently flipping through old black-and-white photos of a brightly smiling James Barnes. He placed a grounding hand on his elbow, too, for good measure.

Peter shook his head briefly, forcing himself to focus on Ned instead of the children crowding in around Steve, who still stood like a bastion of calm among them, if a gradually despairing one. Every now and then, the Avenger shot them half apologetic, half exasperated looks.

“Yes—no. I mean. Kinda?” He moved closer to his friends, using them as a shield against the other visitors milling around (mostly staring at the actual Captain America instead of the pictures and plates). “He’s got a good heart, and—you should see him laugh, it’s rare that he does, but so sweet. And he gets this, this kind of teary-eyed look around Steve sometimes, and then he calls him a punk, and Steve calls him a jerk, and they just beam at each other.”

MJ snorted next to him, abandoning her dissection of the phone screen. “Sounds like a married couple to me,” she commented, but the twitch of her lips indicated that she could not exactly judge the soldier.

“Yeah, well, that’s what Mr Stark says, too,” Peter replied with a half-smile. “But then he has this really scary arm—he lets me clean it sometimes, though, which is pretty awesome—and he’s got this intense stare, the one where you think that you might drop dead any second? And during training, he’s just insane. I’ve never left a session with so many bruises.”

“Dude, you’ve cleaned the prosthesis of the frigging Winter Soldier and you didn’t send me any photos?!” Ned made a face as if Peter was personally responsible for all the evil in the world, as well as killing his Tamagotchi. The brunette teenager merely rolled his eyes at his friend’s antics.

“Ned, it was still attached to him. I can’t go around taking photos of him, that’s plain rude.”

“You’ve cleaned the prosthesis while it was still on him, how awesome is that!” The excited exclamation turned a few heads in their vicinity, but once the passing visitors realised that they were a few teenagers who were most certainly less interesting than Steve Rogers, they kept on ignoring them. Peter shushed him, nevertheless. “It was—it was, but also terrifying, because he’d stare at me the whole time!”

“Dude.”

Ned at least managed to lower his voice, pulling MJ closer by her elbow to whisper conspirationally. “You definitely should sneak a photo next time. Please. I’ll let you build my Lego Star Destroyer all on your own if you promise you’ll at least try.”

Technically, trying to sneak pictures of a brainwash-recovering ex-assassin was a bad idea with possibly unhealthy outcomes.

Peter, being Peter, nodded.

“Fine, I’ll try. But first we should go and rescue Cap. I’ll need him in case Bucky catches me snapping photos of his arm, or else I’m dead.”

With the help of Ned’s energetic voice, Michelle’s conveniently placed elbows and Peter using his crime fighting-honed ability of spotting gaps in people’s defences, they managed to squeeze through the crowd of excited people around Steve, who was visibly relieved by their immediate presence.

“It was a pleasure talking to you folks,” he announced with the too bright smile that he usually reserved for cameos at political or military events, “but my friend made me take out his kids today, so I better make sure they get their lunch, right? Because there is one thing that’s certain to give you an edge—a hot meal!”

He wrapped an arm around Ned’s shoulder—who looked like he might faint—the other around Michelle’s, who first wrinkled her nose, but accepted the embrace without protest nonetheless, and speed-walked them through the crowd towards the exit with Peter tagging behind.

They didn’t stop until they arrived safely outside on the front steps to the building, where Steve found a quiet corner in the shade and dropped onto a step.

“Good Lord,” he heaved, taking his cap off to wipe sweat off his forehead. “This was a terrible idea.”

Squinting up at them, he offered a real, lopsided smile. “You kids want some hot chocolate? I’m dying for one of those overly sugary lattes that Bucky drinks.”

“Only if you promise you won’t use your Captain America charm on the poor barista again.” Peter laughed, reaching out to grab his hand in order to help him back on his feet.

Cafés usually were the perfect location to share the unofficial, true stories about Captain America, anyway.

Chapter Text

Halfway through the triple-encrypted spreadsheet with July’s assignment transactions that Peter was double-checking for Sister Margaret’s, his mind and gaze began drifting. Even with all the windows in the spacious open-plan kitchen thrown wide open and him wearing no more than a pair of running shorts and a faded grey tee that he had snuck from his boyfriend, the hot, humid air stifled him. Concentrating on the numbers on his laptop were the last thing on his mind, no matter how long Weasel—bartender slash mercenary intermediary slash information broker—kept nagging him about finishing matching the numbers to active contracts.

Clattering and rustling from the bedroom caught his attention. Peter smiled faintly, turning from his laptop just in time to catch a glimpse of his boyfriend—dressed scantily like him—shuffling tiredly from the bedroom door towards the fridge.

“Mornin’, baby boy,” Wade yawned, fumbling with the fridge door until his tired mind caught up to instruct him on how to open it. He poured himself a glass of orange juice, then another for Peter, before he pattered barefoot over to where he was sat in a battered armchair in front of the no less wobbly coffee table.

There was no way in Hell Weasel could expect Peter to brood over fucking numbers when there was a gorgeous, well-built merc standing in front of him, offering a glass of juice. He gingerly set the laptop aside on the coffee table, but didn’t accept the glass just yet. Instead he leant back, leering openly at the treat in front of him.

Technically, he had known Wade for the better part of five years now—to be precise, he had met him not long after he had told his college counsellor that she could fuck herself and instead had picked up his nighttime activities full-time. Between smoothing sales figures and accounts for small-ish, semi-legal companies and the occasional hackjob—he was good at it, why not use his abilities to their full potential—he had at some point stumbled over Weasel’s business, and, consequently, the handsome Special Forces veteran who appeared to mostly hang out at his bar, but in reality, brought in almost a third of all merc contracts combined.

They had started flirting that very day, and officially dating five months after. And yet, despite moving in with Wade barely six weeks after their first date, Peter still sometimes had to stop and stare, and wonder how he deserved the 6’2’’ of pure lean muscle that now stood in front of him.

His gaze skimmed from the wrist of the hand offering him the glass—he should take it, maybe, but not right now—up Wade’s strong right arm, over his side and chest, littered with a cluster of fresh bruises, mapping the pattern of scars from a mission in Oklahoma gone south on his shoulder, then trailing his sharp jawline and soft lips to linger on those expressive hazel eyes of his.

They crinkled with mirth as Wade smirked, depositing both glasses on the wonky table, next to Peter’s half-closed laptop. He looked about two-hundred percent more awake when he bent down to cup Peter’s cheek in his calloused palm.

“Like what you see?”

With one arm around his waist, Peter guided the older man down to straddle his lap, carding the fingers of his other hand through his light brown, short-cropped hair. He received a pleased hum in return, the merc’s weight resting comfortably on his lap, even though both of their skin was damp with sweat and likely stuck together. A problem for a later time.

Peter took his time to answer, running both hands across Wade’s shoulder blades, feeling the small dips of his muscles and the rough texture of barely-healed cuts and scratches and the softer, more delicate quality of older, almost faded scars.

“Quite,” he finally replied, his palms skimming down Wade’s spine to rest low on his hips, the tips of his fingers toying with the waistband of his boxers. “Might enjoy it more if there was, y’know.” He smirked mischievously. “Less fabric in the way.”

Above him, Wade chuckled lowly in his throat, a sound that rumbled all the way down to his chest. “Baby boy, no matter how much I approve of your open admiration, it’s way too early for a lazy living room make-out session. Too hot, not to mention.”

Peter rolled his eyes, pointedly nodding towards the clock on the wall between the windows. “It’s almost 11:30, asshole. I’m up and working for more than five hours while you’ve been lazing around in bed.” To emphasize his mild—and purely fake—irritation, he withdrew his hands and placed them on the armrests instead, tapping mindlessly against the worn brown leather.

Wade practically whined.

“I was out working last night, too! There was this group of weapons dealers—”

“No.”

“—they were selling their goods in Hell’s Kitchen, you know how inconsequential Red is, I had to—”

“Nu-uh. Don’t you bring Daredevil in this, Wilson.”

“—I brought ice cream on the way back?”

No one, not even Peter, who had been putting up with Wade’s bullshit for years, could be mock-angry for long when there was ice cream. “The good caramel stuff with cashews?”

The merc, fidgeting to get the hands back on his hips without actively trying to pry them off the armrests, nodded dutifully. “’course, babe. I know your sweet tooth all too well.” He batted his lashes at him for good measure.

With a sigh and a tug of his lips, Peter gave in and slid his hands back up over Wade’s thighs, thumbs briefly brushing his hipbones before he locked them behind the small of his back, pulling him forward until he could press his lips against the sun-kissed skin of his chest. “You really do know how to placate me, Wade,” he murmured against his collar bone.

“Does that mean you’ll kiss my bruises from last night better now?” Wade asked in a hopeful tone, playing with the disarray of curls at the back of Peter’s head.

“Thought you weren’t in the mood for making out.”

A tug on his hair had Peter craning his head, squinting up at Wade, who returned his questioning gaze with a playful grin. “Maybe I’ve changed my mind. ‘cause you look like you need a distraction.” He nodded in the direction of the laptop. “Still the dull accounting stuff for Weasel?” Peter groaned with a roll of his eyes, which was enough of a confirmation for him. “How could I let my poor baby boy work on such a strenuous task while it’s hot enough that you could melt the One Ring in here?”

“Sufficient heat isn’t the reason why the ring melts in Mount Doom, stupid, it’s because it was forged there.”

Wade swooned and bent down to kiss Peter forcefully on the lips. “God, this is why I fucking love you so much, babe.”

Peter laughed against his mouth, wrapping an arm around him. “Random Lord of the Rings trivia?”

“That, yes,” the mercenary agreed, sliding off his lap without detaching the limb curled around his shoulders, in order to effortlessly pick his shorter, lanky boyfriend up and carry him over to the couch where he practically collapsed on top of him. Fuck, it was way too steaming hot for this. Not that heat ever stopped him from whatever the fuck he wanted to do.

“And maybe the fact that you make the number one pancakes in the world, baby boy.”

Peter half-groaned at the sudden weight pressing down on him and the TV remote digging into his lower back, wriggling to shove the annoying plastic device to the floor, but his grasp around Wade merely tightened. “You’re ridiculously easy, Wilson.”

“Not everyone shares your exquisite taste in men, Petey,” Wade replied light-heartedly, only the slightest bit out of breath. The heat, of course. He could bench that twink, if he wanted to. If the weather was a little more accomodating for physical activities. He shifted, slotting between the brunette’s thighs where he fit perfectly, like this was where he belonged.

It was, Wade decided, stopping to take in the sight of his dishevelled boyfriend. The mischievous sparkle of his eyes had deepened and a faint pink flush rested on his high cheekbones, one that an innocent bystander might have mistaken as a sign of the temperature, but the way Peter bit at his bottom lip betrayed a very different sort of heat. Wade pressed his thumb there, smoothing the indent of teeth in the full red lips. He did not linger for long, instead cupped both hands along Peter’s jaw, slowly dragging them down over his throat, briefly seeking out the flutter of pulse underneath his skin.

The steady, strong beat of his heart vibrated against his fingers, pace quickened even though Peter remained comfortably relaxed against the upholstery of their ugly green couch, legs splayed open with the sort of confidence that came with the knowledge of being in control of the situation, that Wade had come to love.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he blurted out, catching Peter off-guard, who stared up at him for a moment, then strained to push their lips together, only to be pushed back down and pressed into the cushion. “Easy there, babe, no tongue. Someone as beautiful as you doesn’t need my morning breath.”

It was Peter’s turn to whine in disappointment, a second arm joining the one around Wade’s shoulder in order to drag him down. That he was hitting the gym three times a week lately showed, Wade realised, but even with the strength added to Peter’s agility, he was still no match for a seasoned mercenary.

“I said, easy.”

He poured just the faintest hint of warning into his voice, a purr that he usually reserved for whenever a customer grew too bold with him. For a moment, it looked like Peter might try and argue with him. But then he relaxed, dropping his hands back on the couch to rest them next to his body.

“There we go. Just relax, baby boy; I’ll take care of you.”

“I bloody hate when you do that,” Peter grumbled, but the flush on his cheeks grew, and he did not attempt to pull Wade down again.

“You love it, really,” the merc crooned, sliding down the length of Peter’s body, peppering his still clothed chest and stomach with kisses; quick, random presses of his lips against the worn cotton. “You love it especially when I do it while pounding you into the mattress.”

As expected, he received an exasperated groan in return, but Peter knew better than to object. It was true, after all; and if he pretended otherwise, his partner might take that as an incentive to prove him wrong.

It was definitely too hot for that.

Satisfied with his lack of verbal objection, Wade tugged on the hem of his shirt, uncovering inch after inch of creamy, freckled skin. Peter arched his back, stretching to move things along and get the piece of clothing finally off, emerging with ruffled curls once they had gotten the shirt over his head and discarded it to the side.

“Beautiful,” Wade insisted yet again. This time, Peter took it with a lopsided smile, but remembered to stay down. “You’re one to say that, gorgeous,” he responded instead, flattening his palm over the expanse of Wade’s abdomen before he drifted lower, pressing against the bulge in his boxers. Above him, the merc rocked his hips slightly into the touch, mouth dropping open in a soundless sigh. After a moment, he gently took his hand, lacing their fingers together.

“Dunno what I did right to deserve you, baby boy, but whatever it is, I’m glad I did it.”

He guided their joint hands next to Peter’s head on the couch before grinding down against him, hissing faintly as their clothed erections pressed against each other. They groaned in unison.

“God, I wish it wasn’t fuckin’ ninety degrees.”

Peter nodded his agreement, tightening his grasp on Wade’s hand. His curls had begun clinging to his sweat-damp forehead, but he would be stupid to pass off this chance of late-morning love-making, now that the tired merc was in the mood.

“I can ride you,” he suggested, to which Wade’s eyes lit up. “You sure?” came the unnecessarily reinsuring inquiry, because a) obviously, Wade was not objecting, with the way he ground down harder against him, and b) if he already fucking offered to, then he certainly meant it.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Wade.” He rolled his eyes, pulling his hand away.

That earnt him a playful flick against his ear and an admonishing stare. “Such language, baby boy. Do you suck your boyfriend’s cock with that dirty mouth?”

“I would,” Peter mused, and this time when he sat up and pushed at Wade’s shoulders, the merc went willingly, helping him switch their positions so the younger man could settle himself on his lap, lazily bucking his hips to grind down against his cock, dragging soft fabric over sensitive skin. “But then again, all you wanted was for me to kiss you better. Can’t do that with a cock in my mouth, now can I?”

Wade rumbled his agreement while he settled against the armrest of the couch, his large hands grabbing onto Peter’s ass to drag him further down. The friction was good, it was delicious, and Peter went easily with him, submitting himself to the rhythm that he dictated, but it wasn’t quite enough. With an impatient growl, he slipped his fingers under the waistband of Peter’s boxers, stretching the fabric as he skimmed down and down, until he could press the pad of his index finger against the puckered rim of Peter’s entrance.

Above him, the brunette tipped his head back, moaning breathlessly as the digit slipped in dry. He clenched up instinctively.

“Wade—lube, for fuck’s sake—don’t be an ass, I don’t have super healing or whatever—”

It took a little absent-minded rummaging on Wade’s side before he found the small bottle under the couch cushion, all the while insistently sliding the one finger in and out of him, because Peter had yet to tell him to stop. The little, half-suppressed mewls he received in return told him that, cusses and all, the younger man didn’t exactly want him to.

He popped the cap open with his teeth, only then pulling his hand back to drizzle the oil onto his fingers, rubbing them together to warm it up to skin temperature, while Peter wriggled around on top of him to rid himself of his boxers.

His erection sprung free the very moment he pulled the fabric off, and he managed two hurried strokes before Wade grabbed at his ass again, smearing oil all over his pale skin.

“Greedy, aren’t you,” he purred, pulling his cheeks apart. Peter arched his back with a gasp when he forced not only one, but two oil-slick fingers in, picking up a steady rhythm again. “Good, ‘cause I’m impatient, too. Hard to hold back with such a beauty rutting against me.”

“Quit your sweet-talking, Wade Winston Wilson,” Peter huffed, shoulders shaking with a suppressed laugh. The merc was a confusing mix of crude humour, flippant comments and pure, unadultered sappiness even at the best of times. “Don’t remember paying you for your compliments.”

“Technically, you don’t pay me at all, baby boy,” Wade replied conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather over breakfast and he wasn’t currently scissoring and curling two fingers in his ass to loosen Peter enough, in order to replace his fingers with something bigger. For all his talk of being impatient, he now took all the time he pleased to make sure that his partner wouldn’t hurt.

Well, at least not more than they both mutually enjoyed.

“Fuck you, I give damn good head whenever you fucking ask me to. Maybe you should pay me.”

Wade smacked Peter’s ass lightly for the comment, then again, harder, just to watch the wicked grin bloom on the brunette’s face. The kid could be quite the handful sometimes. He added a third finger for good measure, and the grin on Peter’s face faltered, melted into an open-mouthed moan.

“Careful, sweetheart.” He pumped his fingers in, curled them, and found Peter’s prostate just in time as he purred, “don’t bite off more than you can chew.”

Peter bucked his hips against his hand, his hard cock leaking where it bobbed against his stomach. He would have ground down again, but Wade stilled his hips with one hand, scissoring his fingers while he watched the flush on Peter’s face bloom all the way down to his chest.

Beautiful.

This time he did not voice it.

Instead he withdrew his fingers, wiping them against his own boxers before he rummaged under the cushions again, fishing out a condom. He made short work of his own underwear, shoving it down just enough to free his own cock, tearing the wrapper and rolling the condom on while Peter balanced on his knees above him, rocking ever so faintly. His fingers twitched, like he wanted to relieve himself of some of the pressure, but he didn’t. Baby boy could be so stubborn sometimes.

Wade sought out his eyes, unmoving until the brunette held his gaze. “You good, babe?”

Instead of answering, Peter grasped onto his erection, positioning the head against his entrance with one hand while he steadied himself with the other against the merc’s chest.

That wouldn’t do. The older man grabbed onto his hips to hold him still, eyes never leaving his face.

“I asked you something, and I’m expecting a verbal reply.”

He watched Peter clench his jaw, straining against the grasp on his hips but not quite attempting to pry his hands off just yet. Wade knew this look—the look he always got whenever things weren’t going his way. When someone refused to do whatever he expected of them.

One time, when Peter had worn that look, the man had broken someone’s finger.

However, Wade was not as easily impressed as most others, who saw Peter’s pretty face and thought they could push him around, only to find out that even someone who worked the bar and contracts could have quite the bite.

“I’m waiting.”

He still held his breath, despite his calm outward demeanour and piercing stare, because this was the very moment in which things could eventually go sideways, and he would rather not deal with that right now.

In the end, after stubbornly biting the inside of his cheek for another few heartbeats, Peter was the one to give up first.

“I’m good. Just—just let me fucking ride you, for Christ’s sake.”

“Attaboy.” Wade petted his cheek, which he tolerated, though only because that meant he was free to move. With a small grunt and a guiding hand, Peter slid onto his cock, taking it inch after inch even when it burnt with how tight he still was, because there was never enough preparation with their combined impatience.

“Fuck.”

They both groaned at the same time, voices mingling. Wade trembled with the amount of self-control it took him to not just flip him over, heat be damned. Thankfully, Peter started moving without giving either of them a break, a tentative buck of his hip at first, before he picked up a comfortable, slow pace. His back arched beautifully as he immersed himself into the sensation of being filled repeatedly, the pace and angle and everything under his control, while Wade laid back and enjoyed the ride.

There had been partners who would let him have this, but none of them had ever made him feel so much at home.

“I love you, Wade Wilson.”

He stared down as the merc smiled up at him, cupping a hand to his cheek. “I know, baby boy.”

Chapter Text

“I’m really not sure why it’s not growing,” Peter hummed, squinting at the letters and numbers meticulously filling row after row of the notebook. “Light, humidity, amount of watering—everything looks fine.” He took another peek into the equally accurately labelled pots of humus on the small table in search of anything that looked like tiny green leaves.

“Maybe they need some fertiliser?” Scott suggested from his spot against the doorframe to his daugther’s room. Cassie, swivelling around on her chair next to Peter, rolled her eyes with mild exasperation.

“The plants won’t need any fertiliser until we’ve put them outside, daddy, Miss Hawthorne said so.”

Miss Hawthorne might well be wrong, but Scott didn’t have the heart to burst Cassie’s bubble. She adored her new biology teacher enough that it might break her heart if she found out that even the nice lady could make mistakes.

“It might be worth a try, though, to find out whether that’s the issue.”

Scott sent a prayer skywards. Thank God (or whoever) for Peter—who not only shared his opinion, but whom Cassie adored even more than Miss Hawthorne. “So, what kind of fertiliser would my two favourite scientists suggest?” He crossed the room to squat between them, joining their staring contest with the stubborn pots of tomato seeds. “You kids want to storm the garden centre?”

Peter ceased flipping through the notebook in order to grab his bag. After a few seconds of rummaging, he pulled out a tattered notebook of his own and a pencil, opening it to an empty page to start writing. “Actually,” he explained absently, jotting down chemical formulas and ratio calculations like regular people would write down their grocery shopping lists, “I’d really like to try out a fertiliser of my own? It’s a science experiment after all, so why not use it to test something new. If that’s okay with you, of course, Cassie—it’s your project,” he added, shooting her a quick look.

“Sure thing, let’s do that! I made some spare pots, anyway.” Scott’s daughter beamed at him like a miniature sun. Gosh, she was adorable. From the corner of his eyes he could see the very same dopey expression on Scott’s face that he was most likely wearing. They were both so helplessly in love with Cassie’s bubbly personality.

“Alright.” Peter restored the notebook into his backpack along with the pencil, scooting away from the desk. “I’ll see that I can persuade Fitz and Simmons to make some space for me at their lab tonight to work on the fertiliser so we can test it tommorrow. You have to promise to send me pictures daily, though!”

“I’ll make sure Cassie doesn’t forget,” Scott butted in, wrapping an arm around his daughter’s shoulder. The girl endured it, but only to lean over him to whisper conspiratorially into Peter’s ear. “It’ll be daddy who will forget about it. He forgets everything. No wonder Dr Pym took his suit away again—he even forgot about his regular check-up appointments!”

Scott pretended like he didn’t hear a word of it.

As promised, Peter stopped by the following afternoon to explain to Cassie how and in which intervals to use the liquid fertiliser he had put together the night before, and to remind her of a) sending him a photo of the progress each morning and evening and b) to ensure their pet ant, Antony, the Second of His Name, would not accidentally drink any of the chemical.

Cassie proudly sent him a photo of the miniscule sprouts peeking out from underneath the layer of soil the very evening after he had left, and some of the steadily growing stalks the next morning and night.

The late morning after that, while he was still rolling around in bed until Aunt May, who had worked the night shift, would come home with their usual Sunday breakfast croissants, his phone began buzzing insistently. Peter attempted to ignore it by burying his head underneath his pillow—if it was anything Tony Stark-related, Karen would let him know—until it stopped vibrating, but a few seconds later, it started again.

Uggghhhh.

The teen fumbled around until he found the annoying device, then frowned at the display helpfully informing him that Bug Bro was calling him.

“Scott, it’s way too early to exist, let alone be awake,” he complained groggily, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Yeah, well, it was too early for me to walk into Cassie’s room to find it transfomred into a jungle, as well,” came the half-irritated, half-amused response. “Good thing she fell asleep on the couch last night, otherwise she might have been smothered by tomato plant.”

Peter’s eyes widened, and he scrambled to one-handedly shimmy out of his pyjamas and into his clothes. “Are you—are you alright? Oh my God, I didn’t—I didn’t expect it to work this well, I am so sorry!” He shoved his feet into a pair of sneakers, grabbing the backpack from his chair with his free hand. “I’m on my way, I just gotta write Aunt May a quick note that I’m at your place—and I’ll call Simmons, she helped me with the fertiliser, she’ll know what to do!”

“Thanks, Peter.” A crash resounded from his side of the call, and Scott almost yelled with surprise. “Please hurry, okay? Those, uh, those vines have just broken through the door to Cassie’s room, and their eyeing Antony really hungrily…”

Peter scribbled a hasty note for his aunt and pinned it to the fridge before slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “I’m on my way!”

In the end, all four of them—Scott, Peter, and Cassie on the front line, with Simmons offering more of less helpful commentary via the speaker of Peter’s phone—spent the remaining Sunday hacking through monstrous tomato plants, then burnt every last bit of them in the backyard.

When Peter finally returned home, drenched in plant sap and with pieces of leaves stuck in his hair, he found Aunt May in the kitchen, preparing a tomato salad.

Never before had tomato salad tasted like victory.

Chapter Text

“Thanks again for letting me work here, Steve,” Peter repeated for the fifth time, accepting the steaming cup of coffee with a grateful nod. It was his third cup within the last hour. While that was a behaviour Steve was well-acquainted to with Bucky, the amount of caffeine this child could stomach (and, apparently, needed) was both astonishing and disturbing.

“Really, Peter, it’s alright,” he assured, returning to the kitchen counter to store the coffee maker away. “With people rushing in and out, I can guess just how impossible it is to get any work done at the compound.”

Peter nodded along, though his eyes were already trained on the assignment in front of him again. Choose a scientist that you admire. Write a twenty-page essay on their life and accomplishments. Include why you picked them and what impact they have on today’s society. He had already added a few notes, tried to reason with himself which scientist to pick, added a few to a list before crossing them out again.

Even before the spider bite and his subsequent mutation, it had been difficult at times to concentrate on a task at hand when there was too much noise around him. Nowadays, it was almost impossible.

The compound housed many labs and private study rooms, along with the Avengers’ common rooms, quarters and guest rooms, but there was a constant coming and going. Without the required clearance to lock himself into any of the labs, there was nothing he could do to avoid the bustle of agents, scientists and occasional Avenger passing by.

After two days and nights of getting little work done and even less sleep, he had finally given up and called Steve, pleading him to use his and Bucky’s flat to power through his assignment. And now he sat in their kitchen, taking notes and crossing them out on his scrap paper while Steve moved around the kitchen, clattering quietly with the dishes, and Bucky sang in the shower.

Yes, it wasn’t fully quiet, but the noises of two people domestically co-existing in the same space as him instead of rushing through was oddly relaxing.

“You’re having a hard time choosing whom to write about, huh?”

Peter almost jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t realised that Steve had stepped next to him, drying a plate in his hands while peering over his shoulder. A wobbly line ran halfway across the page from where he had just been writing. The blonde huffed an embarrassed laugh, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

He squinted at the names listed on top of the page, most of them already crossed out again. “Wow, I don’t even know half of these names.”

“You weren’t around for most of their career,” Peter pointed out, tapping his pen on one of the names. “Sau Lan Wu, for example. She’s done a lot of work on particle physics during the seventies and eighties, and even won the High Energy and Particle Physics Prize in 1995 along with her team. She’s done amazing stuff, even worked at CERN.”

Steve smiled fondly, squeezing Peter’s shoulder. He was probably growing too old—and, in his youth, had lacked the opportunity of receiving the profound education that the teenager enjoyed—to understand every detail of what Peter explained to him whenever he was working. But the excited spark in his eyes was worth the mild confusion and later having to ask Bucky (who, thanks to Hydra, possessed a vast knowledge of peculiar topics) for clarification.

“I’ve initially thought about writing the essay on Dr Banner,” Peter explained, indicating the name highlighted in yellow, “but somehow that feels weird. Norman Osborn also came to mind—his research on genetic programming is groundbreaking and I’m looking forward to its application in the medical field once the patent lawsuit is over—but I’d rather not write about the man who not only sold his soul to pharma companies, but also doesn’t adhere to basic lab safety rules, allowing a genetically modified spider to escape and bite a highschool student.”

Steve continued studying the list of names, his gaze drawn to one of them that Peter had not only highlighted, but also underlined, and added a few notes to.

“Hey, isn’t that—”

“—Doc Ock, yes. I know, maybe I shouldn’t write about a villain, but in the right hands, his science could prevent the impeding energy crisis and provide clean, affordable energy for both industrial and Third World countries!” Peter flushed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well, I’m not the one to judge you, Peter.” Steve patted his back a little awkwardly, shrugging to himself. “I married a Hydra assassin after all, so I shouldn’t be the first to cast a stone.”

He straightened up, stretching his stiff muscles before pattering over to store the plate in his hand in its respective cupboard. The rush of water and soft humming from the bathroom had stopped. Instead, the noises from the bedroom indicated that said assassin was getting ready for bed. Steve flicked a glance towards the student sitting at his kitchen table, bent low over his notes again. The kid looked tired, with dark bags under his eyes that rivalled Bucky’s, and from time to time he stopped with his pencil hovering over the paper, apparently forgetting what he was doing.

In short, the kid needed to sleep. Badly. Instead of giving in to that natural urge, he gulped down coffee like it was water. Steve sighed quietly, careful not to startle the teenager. He wasn’t his parent, so there was little he could do.

“I’ll head to bed now. There’s pillows and blankets on the couch, feel free to catch a few hours of sleep, okay?”

Peter hummed distractedly, which wasn’t a verbal response, but close enough. With another sigh, the captain made his way to the bedroom, keeping the door cracked open.

When Bucky got up to fetch a glass of water somewhere around four in the morning, the light in the kitchen was still on and visible from underneath the door, but no sound permeated through the painted wood. He opened the door without the faintest noise, with the natural ease of someone who had been shaped for stealth, to sneak inside. Paper was strewn across the kitchen table and stacked haphazardly on one of the chairs, and in the middle of it all sat Peter, his arm curled on the table with his head resting on top of it, sleeping soundly.

He didn’t wake when Bucky picked him up carefully, carrying him to the couch and tucking him in.

Chapter Text

Stopped two car thieves tonight and helped a really pretty young lady back to her apartment in Hell’s Kitchen so she wouldn’t get robbed! She gave me a slice of pecan cheese cake for it, so nice! Just gonna finish this, then I’m heading home. Love you! <3

With his mask rolled up to his nose and feet dangling over the edge of the roof, Peter managed to simultaneously balance his phone to type in the usual end-of-night message to his aunt, while spooning up pieces of cake with the plastic spoon (Nice Lady had no fork to give him, unfortunately) with the other hand. If he didn’t come across as a creepy super stalker, he’d drop by and ask her for the recipe or shop, and thank her again because while Spider-Man really didn’t require any payment for his good deeds, it was still pretty nice to receive free food.

When his phone chimed to announce May’s incoming reply, a fond smile bloomed on his face. Ben would be so proud of you, Peter. I certainly am. Be safe, and if you’re still hungry, there’s leftover meatloaf in the fridge.

It was such a relief to finally be able to share this with his aunt. She worried—of course she did—when he was out, but she also commended him for being there for the ordinary people of New York, while the Avengers were busy going after big fish. He hummed quietly as he plowed through the cake, phone haphazardly balanced on his lap.

When his spider sense shrieked at the back of his head, he just barely managed to shoot a web after his phone to catch it. The paper plate with what was left of the cake vanished in the darkness beneath him. He whirled around, ready to fight whoever snuck up on him—

Oh.

Oh, Jesus.

“You’re the—d—you’re Daredevil!” he spluttered, clutching more tightly onto the plate and his phone. That explained why he hadn’t heard him earlier, the spider sense not picking him up until he stood three steps away from him, only separated by a knee-high wall. That guy certainly was as good as the rumours he had heard.

The man tilted his horned head to the side, the red eyes of his mask eying him expressionless. “I am,” he said, finally. He didn’t come closer, merely stood there, watching. Assessing. “And you’re trespassing in my territory.”

Bucky—who, instead of joining the Avengers at the compound, had rented a small apartment in Hell’s Kitchen—had told Peter during one of their shared patrols to stay away from the district Daredevil frequented most. They must have had their own close encounters of this kind, because usually the ex-assassin trusted him to handle whatever the city threw at him.

“I didn’t mean to,” the teen promised, even though it must look rather like the opposite, with him chilling on a rooftop in the very territory he wasn’t meant to trespass, phone and a piece of cake in hand. “There was this young lady, she was on her way back from a date and a bit tipsy, so I helped her home. Just wanted to make sure she’s alright, really, I promise. I wouldn’t have come to Hell’s Kitchen for anything else, I usually stay in Queens, seriously, Mr Daredevil. I know this is your neighbourhood.”

What Peter could make out of Daredevil’s face in the dark, with the horned mask covering the upper half, still wore a scowl, the corners of his mouth turned down. “Did you even care to ask if she needed your help?”

Yeah, that guy was good. Had he been watching him already when he picked the lady up near the docks?

“She—she was a little confused at first, she told me she could take care of herself, but also—I think she was flattered? So she agreed. Of course I asked her, I don’t just pick up lone women on the streets like a pervert!”

The very idea that this was what Daredevil might think of friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man was appalling. Sure, the Daily Bugle didn’t paint him in the best of lights, but he was rather popular with social media!

Some of his indignation must have shown on what was visible of his face underneath the mask, and in his body language, because the devil finally cracked a faint smile. “I see. Just doing good in this world, hm?” Peter nodded fervently. “And now you’re doing what, exactly, on this roof?”

A flush rose to his face, and Peter hastily pulled his mask down to cover it up, slipping his phone into the small protective case attached to his lower back. “I, uh,” he stammered, stumbling over his words. Jesus, Spidey, you’re better than this. “It’s kind of—a thing?? A thing I do every night. I grab a bite to eat, and—uh, and sit on top of a roof, and watch the city. To make sure I didn’t miss anything in the vicinity. And—” He squirmed a little, crossing his arms in front of his shift as a makeshift shield, not that it helped. That guy was intense, with his hellish attire and the horns and those creepy eyes of his mask. “It’s—beautiful, up here. It’s quiet and calm and—after a patrol, after taking down criminals and being around people, around all those noises and smells and everything—I need it. Things can get a bit too much, sometimes.”

Daredevil remained silent for a moment, standing there, still—staring, but not quite, because Peter could sense that he wasn’t looking at him. His head was tilted just the slightest bit, as if the vigilante was listening for something. He barely dared to breathe, not wanting to disturb the man standing in front of him.

Finally, Daredevil huffed out a sigh, his tense posture relaxing. “I get what you mean, Spider-Man. The noise of the city—it softens the further up you climb, until it is little more than white noise in the background.” He stepped over the wall with an elegance that reminded Peter of a cat, his feet almost silent on the concrete beneath them, and gracefully sat down on the edge of the roof, back deliberately turned towards him. After a moment of confusion, he realised that he was meant to join him, and lowered himself to the ground next to Daredevil, dangling his feet off the roof.

They sat in comfortable silence, with Peter stealing a glance at the vigilante every once in a while, then returning to stare into the sea of lights swimming beneath them.

“All those people,” Daredevil said, finally. “All those people milling about in their daily lives, with their jobs and hobbies and ever running in pursuit of some goal, all the while striving to be happy, loved, safe. They rely on us.”

He tilted his head in Peter’s direction, but his gaze didn’t come to rest on him. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Spider-Man. You seem like a good kid, looking out for the people around you. I admire that—admire the strength and effort you put into it. When you do this for a couple of years—it will wear you out at some point.”

Peter wondered whether the devil might be at that point, but he remained silent, allowing him to speak.

“I hope that someone has your back, when that happens.”

And then, and this time, Daredevil fully turned towards him, “The woman you accompanied home tonight, she always had mine, but we’ve both lost our ways, somehow. It’s good to know that there are other people who will keep an eye on her, when I can’t.”

He leant closer, until Peter could see his mask reflecting in those emotionless crimson eyes, and his spider sense screamed at him to run as far as he could, to hide away and save himself; but he was glued on the spot, trembling.

“If you ever get her in trouble—endanger her, directly or indirectly, I don’t care—I will find you, and I will make you regret the day you were born. Are we clear?”

Peter squealed. “Yessir—crystal clear, sir, I promise.”

“Good.” Daredevil patted his shoulder before standing up, stretching his long, toned limbs. “If I ever see you around here again, I hope it’s to accompany her home, and not because you’re chasing some criminal on my turf. Remember your place in this city, Spider-Man.”

He vanished as silently as he had appeared, leaving Peter sitting on the ledge.