Archive of Our Own

The sun is shining, the last bell of the day inching closer before a long weekend, and Mr. Harrington has been practically vibrating about some “quick but exciting” meeting for the Academic Decathlon team after school. Flash and his friends have spent the entire day speculating like it’s a sport.

Current list of possibilities:

• Lifetime TV special on elite academic decathlon teams.
  
  
• Some kind of official recognition for Nationals.
  
  
• Flash getting his rightful starting spot back. (Goodbye, Peter.)
  
  

Realistically? It’s probably not any of those. Except maybe the last one. And even that feels like a stretch. Harrington had quite literally sought Parker out to ask him to join the decathlon team. Even if he hadn’t, he doubted the man would make a spectacle of dethroning his favorite student. 

He’s not the only teacher who loves Peter. They all do. 

Even Mrs. Williams — the new physics teacher who replaced Mr. Harden after some disgruntled parent finally got him booted — walked in on day one already halfway impressed with Peter Parker. It’s exhausting. Peter breathes and a teacher somewhere writes him a recommendation letter.

Which is wild, because half the time Peter doesn’t even seem present. He’s always staring at something that isn’t there, whispering with Ned in the back of class about that imaginary Stark Industries internship. Flash has heard the whispers. “Lab access.” “Prototypes.” “Mr. Stark said—” Please.

And yet, Peter rarely gets in trouble.

Flash and Jason whisper once and it’s detention.

Peter misses days at a time and no one blinks.

Flash misses a week because his parents are tearing each other apart and suddenly there’s a letter home about academic probation. Peter literally vanishes at Nationals and comes back like nothing happened. No probation. No consequences. Just another story everyone somehow believes.

That’s the part that gets under Flash’s skin. Not the nerd stuff. Not even the test scores.

It’s the immunity.

Peter’s one saving grace — or Flash’s depending on how you look at it — is that Peter has zero social capital. No followers. No presence. No cool factor. The whole “Peter knows Spider-Man” thing could’ve ruined everything if Flash hadn’t shut it down at Liz’s party. Because if that had turned out to be real? If Peter Parker had social status on top of grades?

Unacceptable.

So when Peter and Ned pivoted to the “Stark Industries internship” narrative, Flash shut that down too. Efficiently. He even emailed Stark Industries’ hiring department to confirm they didn’t take high school interns. Not because he cared that much. Just because facts matter.

And maybe — on the off chance they did — initiative like that would’ve looked good.

The automated response came back the next morning: minimum college enrollment required.

Case closed.

The final bell rings and the twelve of them crowd into Harrington’s classroom. Nine competitors. Three alternates. Flash included in the latter. It still stung that he lost his competing slot the day Harrington asked Peter to join the team. Because, of course Peter took everything.

Harrington walks in grinning, arms full of thick packets. Flash clocks the stack immediately. Everyone does. Obviously it’s the reason for the meeting.

Although, one glance at Peter, and he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Alright, so,” Harrington says, perching on his desk, “as some of you may know, I was at the National Science Teachers Association Conference in D.C. a few weeks ago.”

Flash absolutely did not know that. Which tracks. Teacher out equals substitute and movies. No one asks follow-up questions.

“While I was there,” Harrington continues, visibly trying not to explode with excitement, “I had the pleasure of being introduced to Tony Stark. He heard about our D.C. field trip and how… eventful it was. One thing led to another and — voila!”

He flips the stack around.

Stark Industries logo. Centered. Clean. Official. Below it: Privacy and Safety Waiver Agreement.

“We’re going to Stark Industries?!” Betty gasps, blue eyes practically sparkling.

The room erupts. Everyone except MJ and Peter. MJ looks bored, as usual. Possibly malfunctioning. Flash is still convinced she runs on batteries. Peter looks like he wishes the world would swallow him up whole right now.

Flash almost smiles. Yeah. That internship lie is about to implode in 4K resolution.

“You’ll need a parent or guardian to review this with you,” Harrington says, handing out the packets. “Highlighted areas need signatures. If they’re not turned in by Monday, you don’t go on Friday.”

Flash takes the packet, the Stark logo bold across the top. Next Friday they are actually going to Stark Industries. 

He doesn’t look at Peter. He doesn’t need to. He can already picture it — Peter Parker standing in the lobby of the most famous tech building in the world, finally forced to admit he made it all up. And Flash, front row, watching.

It isn’t until they’re all outside of the school that Flash finally approaches Peter and his loser friends.

“Penis! Wait up!” Flash calls after them.

Jason, Brad, and Gianna laugh immediately at the name, and a smug smile pulls at his mouth. He likes that he can still do that — say one word and get a reaction. It’s simple. It’s reliable. It reminds him that he still controls something.

Peter sighs before he even turns around. He already looks exhausted. “What do you want, Flash?”

“Just thought I’d ask how you think this is going to affect your ‘internship’?” Flash says, making exaggerated air quotes around the word.

MJ glares at him.

Flash almost shrinks under it but stops himself before it can happen. There’s something about the way she looks at people — he swears her eyes are going to light up red and prove his long-standing theory that she’s some kind of fucking cyborg.

Ned, the biggest loser of them all, does what he always does (Flash’s favorite part) and makes it worse.

“Just you wait! You’re gonna be the one eating your words on Friday!”

“Yeah right,” Brad scoffs.

“Just like the whole Spider-Man thing at Liz’s party, right?” Flash raises an eyebrow at Peter. His version of checkmate.

Peter doesn’t rise to it. Doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t stutter. That almost makes it worse.

“Flash, he really does know Spider-Man! You’re just jealous cause you don’t,” Ned retorts.

“No, I'm not. I don’t give a shit about Penis,” Flash snaps.

“Kinda seems like you do,” MJ adds in.

The heat under Flash’s skin goes nuclear.

He can’t hit a girl. He knows that. And even if he could, he’s still not entirely convinced he wouldn’t break his hand on the robotic metal plating. The idea of hitting Ned doesn’t give him the same sort of satisfaction. Plus, this all goes back to what it always does — Peter. 

He glares at Peter. “Control your friends, Penis. I mean it,” Flash growls, swatting the packet out of Peter’s hands.

The papers slide across the concrete and land directly in a shallow puddle pooled in one of the school’s uneven steps. Completely accidental. A happy accident. 

Brad kicks them deeper into the water for good measure, soaking the Stark logo into a gray blur.

“Good luck getting that in to Harrington now,” Flash shrugs. “Guess you’ll just have to miss out on this one. But it’s okay, you have your Stark Industries Internship, right?”

Peter doesn’t scramble for them. That’s what Flash expects — panic. Desperation. That frantic little energy Peter gets when he’s flustered or Flash has taken it maybe a little too far.

Instead, Peter just looks at him. Annoyance clear as day. Not embarrassed in the slightest. 

“You’re an idiot, Flash.”

Flash’s whole body spikes up several notches. His fist curls beside him and he feels the anger he’s not very good at controlling, losing shape. “What did you just call me—”

“Peter, come on! We’re on a timeline. Let’s go!”

The voice comes from a black town car parked at the curb, window cracked just enough to carry. It’s an adult voice. Firm. Used to being listened to. Flash uncurls his fists automatically.

Peter doesn’t argue. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t even look surprised that someone’s waiting for him. He just leaves.

Flash motions for his friends to follow him toward the student parking lot, laughing it off because that’s what he’s supposed to do. But the whole walk, he can’t stop thinking about the person in the car. About the way Peter didn’t bend down to save the papers. About how he didn’t look worried at all.

-

Flash and his friends make a beeline for the back of the bus, claiming the prime seats like it’s territory that needs defending. The aisle is narrow, backpacks knocking into seats and shoulders as they shove their way through, but they make it.

It doesn’t really matter though. Peter and his friends don’t even come close to the back. They stop within the first few rows behind Mr. Harrington, like obedient little golden children.

Flash rolls his eyes. Of course. Up there Peter can whisper whatever pathetic game plan he’s cooked up to keep his fake Stark internship alive without anyone overhearing. Fine. Let him strategize. It won’t change the fact that Flash is going to expose him.

The bus ride isn’t long. Thirty minutes, give or take. Flash tells himself he’ll use the time to review for next week’s physics test — Mrs. Wright has been ruthless lately — but Brad and Jason start making spitballs and it’s more entertaining to join in.

They lob them over the seats in messy arcs, aiming for the backs of Peter and Ned’s heads. Either they don’t notice, or they’re pretending not to. Little white dots collect in their hair, sticking there like proof of something.

The back of the bus dissolves into quiet fits of laughter until Stark Industries is close enough to see out of the windows. 

When he looks back at Peter, the once white polka-dotted littered heads are clean. Whatever. It would’ve somehow turned into Flash’s fault anyway. Peter Parker could probably get spit on by a bird and Flash would end up in trouble for it.

He looks out the window instead. Stark Industries is even closer now.

It rises up in front of them all glass and steel and impossible shine, catching the sunlight like it was built to be admired. Flash forgets about Peter completely.

Mr. Harrington counts them off as they get off the bus and leads them inside to meet the head of security. 

Harold “Happy” Hogan.

Flash has never met him in person, but he’s seen him — grainy paparazzi shots, background clips in viral Tony Stark videos, the occasional deep dive he’s done at two in the morning when he falls into hero spirals. Spider-Man might be his favorite, but Iron Man — Tony Stark — that’s the blueprint.

His mom hired an Iron Man impersonator for three birthdays in a row. His room is covered in Stark posters. And he would absolutely never admit this out loud, but his favorite pajama set is a Spider-Man one he bought from the juniors rack at Walmart.

Inside, it’s impossible not to stare. The ceilings stretch so high it almost feels fake. Clean lines. Glass everywhere. Metal that doesn’t look like it collects fingerprints like the mini fridge in his room does. It even smells expensive. Flash tries to keep his face neutral and cool, but everyone else is too busy gawking to notice if he isn’t.

Happy Hogan stands front and center with two other staff members.

“Midtown?” he asks.

His voice is familiar. Flash can’t quite figure out if it’s familiar because he’s seen him in the background of a couple of clips or if he’s heard it somewhere else. 

“Wow, you guys are quiet,” Happy observes, scanning them. 

The team laughs nervously and the corners of Happy’s mouth twitch like he’s amused by something. Flash’s brain fills in the rest automatically — maybe he saw Flash’s Instagram. He has fourteen thousand followers which isn’t nothing. Maybe the guy thinks he’s funny.

“That makes this easy,” Happy continues. “Ground rules.”

He lifts a white access card on a red lanyard.

“These are your passes for the day. They’re linked to your tour guides. If you don’t have them on you, ATLAS and FRIDAY will lock down whatever section you’re in and you’ll be stuck there until security retrieves you. As tempting as that may sound, you’ll be in direct violation of the agreements you signed. You’ll be removed from the tour and asked to wait on your bus in the garage.”

Jason’s hand shoots up in the middle of his spiel.

Happy looks mildly irritated. “Yes?”

Peter smiles and shakes his head just out of the corner of Flash’s vision.  Flash waits for Happy to snap at him, or glare, or something — but it never comes. 

“Who's ATLAS and FRIDAY?”

“I was getting to that next, kid. Hold your questions until I finish,” Happy says, then glances briefly in Peter’s direction and shakes his head.

So. Questions get you irritation with the man. Laughing doesn’t. Interesting.

“ATLAS and FRIDAY are the AIs that run the building. ATLAS handles Stark Industries floors and staff operations. FRIDAY oversees the tower as a whole. You’ll likely hear ATLAS interacting with employees. FRIDAY only interacts with a handful of people. It’s unlikely you’ll hear her… though—” his gaze drifts briefly in their direction again, “—you might.”

Was the look purposeful? Accidental? Was it aimed at him or at Peter? The questions continue to pile in the back of his mind. 

“Next. Once you pass security, your phones will not be able to open any recording apps. No audio. No video. Nothing you learn today leaves this building. Violate that, and again, you violate your signed agreements. The Stark legal team is not a group you want to mess with.”

Flash scoffs quietly. He doesn’t plan on breaking any rules. But Stark Legal has clearly never met his father.

Happy’s head turns sharply toward him. Just enough. Flash shrinks back a fraction before he can stop himself. So Peter can laugh and it’s fine. Flash reacts and suddenly he’s on the receiving end of a glare?

Figures.

Maybe it’s that weird, pity aura Peter gives off. The messy hair, the obviously thrifted and hammydown clothes. Adults tend to eat that up. They see potential. They see an underdog. 

When they look at Flash they see a wealthy cool kid who has it all together. Didn’t they know he lost his parents too? Just… in a different way.

“Lastly, this is a place of work,” Happy continues. “Which means two things. One — childish behavior is not tolerated. No bullying. No roughhousing. No running around. Two — adults are working here. Do not approach anyone unless they speak to you first.”

Flash figures this goes without saying, but some people here (cough couch Peter) do need to remember field trips aren’t grounds for goofing off. Perhaps it was even said because Peter’s little rumor had made it to the tower and it was a subtle warning to him. 

“If that’s all the questions, here are your tour guides,” Happy says, cutting off his train of thought. He notices the way Happy suddenly looks far more energized about handing them off.

The two interns step forward. They look nice. Polished. Stark polished. One carries a box of badges, the other a sleek StarkPad.

“Hi, Midtown. I’m Tyra, one of the newest PR interns—”

“—and I’m Wyatt, communications,” the guy beside her adds.

Tyra glances down at her tablet. “We’ll call out the names based on the security waivers you turned in. Your badge is temporarily coded to you. After that, we’ll move to security and begin the tour. Any questions?”

“Do we get to keep the badges?” Brad asks immediately.

Wyatt laughs. “Nope. But you’ll get Stark swag that’s way cooler than a guest badge.”

That earns a couple excited murmurs.

Tyra starts reading. “Betty Brant… Brad Davis… Roger Harrington… Jason Ionello… Michelle Jones… Ned Leeds… Gianna Martello… Isabella Reed… Flash Thompson…”

Flash steps forward, grabs his badge, clips it on. Clean. Official. He looks good in it. He wishes he could get a picture in it, but he was listening during the rules. He remembered the rules he’d agreed to when signing the waiver. 

She keeps going until she stops. Peter is the only one left without a badge.

Flash bites down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing outright. He doesn’t understand how Peter was even allowed to show up without turning in his NDA. Mr. Harrington usually triple checks everything — which can be increasingly annoying when Flash makes a couple of minor mistakes on his assignments.

“Peter doesn’t have a badge,” Flash says, able to stop himself from laughing but not drawing attention to it. He points directly at him. “Does that mean he has to wait on the bus?”

Peter’s cheeks turn red immediately. There it is. The embarrassment. The crack.

Flash feels something warm and smug settle in his chest. He wasn’t expecting Peter’s lie to unravel this quickly, but he’s not complaining.

Tyra frowns at her screen. “Oh. Um — hold on. Let me check with security. Mr. Harrington?”

Mr. Harrington walks over without even looking upset. He squeezes Peter’s shoulder and gives him this reassuring smile like everything’s fine.

Surely this won’t fly at the security desk. They step aside to speak with the guard. The entire group watches. Flash folds his arms, eyes locked in. 

Peter doesn’t look panicked. He looks embarrassed from the attention — sure — but not worried. Not like someone whose entire fake internship is about to explode.

Tyra gestures toward Peter while Mr. Harrington explains something with animated hands. The guard glances at his monitor and his eyes widen as he motions to something on the screen. 

Flash leans forward slightly, as if he could see anything from all across the lobby. 

And then they walk back over and Flash can just barely make out the guard saying, “You’re all clear, kid. Don’t worry about it.”

What?

Flash feels the protest rise immediately. It’s already on his tongue — how? Why? That’s not how this works — when Mr. Harrington turns toward him and gives a subtle shake of his head.

A warning.

Leave it alone.

Flash’s jaw tightens. Of fucking course.

Peter screws something up and somehow it still works out for him. Not only does he avoid consequences, he gets some sort of special clearance for it. And once again, Flash is the one who looks like the problem for pointing it out.

He presses his lips together and forces himself quiet, but the confusion churns under his ribs.

What the hell did that guard see on his screen? 

“Alright, let’s head through security and get this show on the road,” Wyatt says, taking over and leading them toward what looks a little like TSA.

“All guests go through this scanner as an extra safety precaution,” Tyra explains. “Employees usually head to the right — their badges trigger the built-in sensor. Think concert security or TSA… just a little more high-tech.”

Wyatt goes first. Green light. Clear. Simple and straight forward. 

All that stands between Flash and officially being inside Stark Industries is a handful of classmates.

One by one they pass through. Green. Green. Green.

Peter is next. Flash can’t help it — he hopes it flashes red. Just… something. Something that proves he’s not untouchable.

Peter steps through.

Green. 

And then a woman’s voice fills the space. “Welcome back, Peter! Would you like me to—”

“That’s alright, FRIDAY! Thank you,” Peter cuts in quickly.

Silence.

Flash feels like the floor just tilted.

What the hell?

Hadn’t Hogan said FRIDAY only talks to select people?

He scans the room. Everyone is staring at Peter now — wide-eyed, confused, curious. Flash hates that feeling. The shift. The way attention moves.

It’s his turn.

He steps through.

Nothing but green and silence.

No greeting. No voice. No acknowledgment. Just a generic clearance beep. The excitement he’d felt seconds ago collapses inward. Whatever this is — whatever Peter just triggered — it was a one off. Another version of the way the world just seems to bend to Peter’s luck all the time. 

“Well now you’ve officially met FRIDAY!” Wyatt says brightly, clearly missing the undercurrent entirely.

Flash barely hears him. Why did the AI recognize him like that? Was it because of whatever happened at the desk earlier? Some weird clearance override?

Or —

Has he been here before?

The thought lands heavy and uncomfortable in his gut. Luckily they’re moving on. New floor. New distraction.

“Our first stop is communications — our home,” Wyatt says as they file into a glass elevator.

“This department covers marketing, sales, and PR,” Tyra adds. “We could go into the sub-branches, but we’d probably bore you.”

Flash pretends to laugh along.

There are no visible floor numbers. No dinging indicators. The elevator is silent and smooth and vaguely intimidating. He positions himself directly in front of Peter so he doesn’t have to see his face.

They step out into a wide, open space with circular tables arranged across the floor. Each one has materials set neatly in the center.

A woman in a tailored suit enters, badge clipped sharply at her waist.

Valeria Ramirez. Director of Marketing.

“Good morning, Midtown! I’ve heard lovely things about you,” she smiles.

He can’t help but wonder how she even knew anything about them? Did she look them up? Maybe she’d seen his account. Fourteen thousand followers isn’t nothing after all. Maybe she’d scrolled. Maybe she’d—

“I’m Valeria Ramirez, Director of Marketing here at Stark Industries. Today, you’re going to be guinea pigs for a new initiative.” She gestures and a blue-tinted holographic screen blooms into existence beside her.

The entire room gasps. All except Peter.

“We’re launching a once a month trade class for high schoolers next quarter,” Valeria continues. “Each department will host a six-hour Saturday session where you’ll work alongside Stark interns to learn what we actually do.”

A chance to come back.

A chance to work here.

Something warm and electric blooms in Flash’s chest at the thought. If he impressed them — really impressed them — this could be the start of something real. Early access. Early exposure. A résumé before college. 

“Today,” Valeria continues, “you’ll be creating a miniature pitch for whichever Stark product is assigned to your table. Which means — yes — this is a group project.”

Groans ripple through the room.

“Here at Stark Industries, we value teamwork and the innovation that comes from collaboration.”

Flash glances at his table. Jason. Brad. Gianna. They work well together. They know how to present. They know how to sell. It’ll be a cakewalk. 

Across the room, Peter is with his little group of losers too. Along with the final four of the decathlon team seated at the table between them. The competitive hum under Flash’s skin sharpens. This isn’t Midtown. This isn’t a classroom where teachers look at Peter like he hung the moon. This is Stark Industries. Flash refuses to be second here, too.

Except that it’s hard to focus when Flash notices the head of marketing make a direct path toward Peter’s table.

He tells himself not to stare. That it doesn’t matter. That she’s probably just making rounds. But she doesn’t stop anywhere else. She leans slightly toward Peter as if they’re in the middle of a private conversation, her posture relaxed in a way that feels too familiar. Peter isn’t even doing much for the project — Ned’s the one gesturing at the hologram, Betty is holding the prototype, and MJ’s typing notes into the StarkPad — and yet Ms. Ramirez’s full attention stays on Peter.

It’s been seven minutes.

Seven.

Flash feels something start to itch beneath his skin. He raises his hand.

“Yes?” she calls across the room, finally noticing him.

“I was just wondering if we were all going to get help too?” he asks, careful. Measured. Not the way he’d say it at Midtown, because he can’t sound jealous. He isn’t jealous. He just wants equal opportunity which is what Stark Industries is all about. 

She blinks, looking genuinely confused. “Oh! I wasn’t—” She clears her throat, glancing briefly at Peter. “Peter and I aren’t talking about the project, Mr.—”

“Thompson,” Flash supplies.

His last name lands heavier than he intends. She nods absently with a friendly smile and turns back to Peter before he can decide whether to correct her and say she can call him Flash. That would’ve been confident. That’s what his dad always says — control the narrative before it controls you.

No one seems to notice the brief, dismissive interaction, but he feels smaller anyway. He forces himself to look away, jaw tightening as he redirects his focus to his own table. Maybe she’s related to Peter. Or maybe she knows his aunt. That would explain it. It would explain the first name basis. The ease of getting through security and FRIDAY knowing him. It would explain why Peter doesn’t look nervous being here at all.

That’s the only explanation Flash allows himself.

By the end of their allotted time, their final pitch ends up fine. Not bad, not groundbreaking. It doesn’t draw any extra attention from Ms. Ramirez or the interns floating around the room, and it definitely doesn’t spark any kind of “wow” reaction. It doesn’t seem to matter that Flash laughs at the exact right moments. Or that he sounds just like his dad does on the sand when he’s making their case. But when they wrap up, it’s clear they didn’t inspire any ideas.

At the very least, none of the other groups did either. Peter barely participated in his groups anyway. That little bit of information makes Flash feel a little better. No one did any better than him, and Peter looks like a lazy student riding the high of whatever nepotism the director of marketing gets him. 

“Alright team! Let’s head to the next section!” Tyra claps twice, her enthusiasm somehow immune to the competitive tension simmering between tables.

“The archives!” Wyatt announces like he’s just unveiled Disneyland. 

Tyra quickly adds context when they all stare excited but blankly. “It’s basically our version of a museum that pays homage to all things SI — they’ve also added a small section about the Avengers!”

That’s all Flash needs to hear.

Avengers.

He doesn’t care what the archives technically are. They could be walking into a room full of framed tax returns and old press releases and he’d still be locked in. Everyone knows the rogue Avengers were pardoned. If any of them are back in the building today, this might be his chance. Maybe he’ll meet Captain America. Maybe Black Widow. Maybe even—

“Alright, you have about forty minutes to explore. Unless an exhibit specifies, please don’t touch anyth—”

“So this is Midtown Tech?”

Hawkeye leans casually against the display case beside him Black Widow stands slightly forward, gaze sharp and assessing everyone in the room.

No one moves. No one breathes.

“Dude,” Ned mutters to Peter, “Hawkeye knows our school?”

The tour guides look just as stunned. Wyatt nearly drops his tablet. “Oh—um! What a privilege! We barely see Avengers around the tower.”

“How do you guys know Midtown?” Flash blurts before he can stop himself.

Natasha’s eyes land on him immediately. “Stark mentioned a tour group.”

Stark mentioned them? Flash feels his spine straighten instinctively. Of course Tony Stark would know who was coming. He probably looks into every group. Probably does background checks. Maybe he’s seen Flash’s Instagram. Maybe—

“Do you have time for questions?” Betty asks eagerly, already half-reaching for her notebook.

Flash rolls his eyes without thinking.

Now? She wants to conduct a press conference?

“Why’d you roll your eyes at her?” Natasha asks smoothly.

It isn’t accusatory. It’s calm and curious, which is somehow worse.

Every single head turns toward him. Flash feels heat crawl up his neck.

“I— uh—” His mouth moves before his brain catches up. The words don’t come. He suddenly understands why criminals fold under interrogation.

“We don’t actually have time for questions,” Clint says lightly. “We just wanted to bug Stark’s ki—”

Natasha elbows him hard.

Flash doesn’t catch the rest. He’s too busy trying to recover from being publicly called out by an Avenger.

“Nice to meet you all,” Clint says instead, recovering from the elbow to the gut. 

The two begin to move through the group and toward the elevators, and for one hopeful second Flash thinks the worst of that interaction is over. At the very least, he could say two Avengers acknowledged him. 

Unfortunately, it’s not. When Clint passes Peter, he claps him on the shoulder with a grin. “You guys enjoy your field trip!” 

Natasha doesn’t high five Peter, but she does stop and smile at him before pushing Peter out of the room. Flash feels something in his chest twist. All the satisfaction of having at least made some kind of impression disappears instantly. Because once again, the attention was all on Peter.

Everyone looks at Peter with wide eyes, like he’s the chosen one or something. It makes Flash’s blood boil in a way that feels disproportionate even to him. 

It was just a high five. A passing interaction. Heroes do that kind of thing for kids all the time. It didn’t mean anything. And yet the way everyone is staring at Parker, like something just clicked into place about him, makes it feel like it did.

“Peter!!!! You just got noticed by the Avengers!!! That’s so cool!!” Isabella marvels, practically vibrating. And before Flash can even see it coming, the group collapses inward around Parker, questions firing from every direction. 

Did you know them? Have you met them before? What did they say? 

Flash pushes through to the front, shoulder first, because he hates the feeling of being edged out of something — especially something happening because of Peter.

“Do you know them through Spider-Man?” Gianna asks tentatively.

Peter blushes, which is already suspicious, and opens his mouth like he’s about to say something but Flash beats him to it.

“Gia, we all know Penis lied about the Spider-Man thing… the Avengers probably just felt his shitty poor orphan energy and wanted to cheer him up,” Flash snaps, and even as the words leave his mouth he knows they’re harsher than necessary. Gianna falters, her eyes flicking between them, and Flash can tell she’s torn — not convinced, not fully on his side either.

“I mean c’mon guys, we all know there’s no way the Avengers know—”

“Eugene, that’s enough.”

Mr. Harrington’s voice cuts through the exhibit hall sharper than it ever has before. “We’re here to tour Stark Industries. Mr. Hogan was clear about the rules. Unless you’re trying to be kicked off the trip, I suggest you leave Peter alone.”

Flash freezes for half a second. Harrington has reprimanded him before. He’s rolled his eyes at him, sighed at him, even assigned him detention. But he has never sounded angry like that. Never sounded protective. And it stings in a way Flash wasn’t prepared for.

So what gives? 

Is it because this is Stark Industries and he doesn’t want to look bad in front of them? Because he scored the invite and doesn’t want to be embarrassed if Flash steps out of line? Even though, once again, this whole thing is all Peter’s fault?

Flash exhales sharply through his nose. Peter doesn’t even look smug. He just looks embarrassed, eyes down, like he’d rather melt into the polished floor than have everyone staring at him. Which only pisses Flash off more, because he just got acknowledged by the Avengers and somehow he’s acting like that’s inconvenient. 

What was wrong with him?

Flash stalks off, his friends quick behind him as they deliberately veer in the opposite direction of Peter and his little entourage. He needs distance. He needs something solid again. It isn’t until they’re far enough away from the tour guides and Mr. Harrington that someone finally says something.

“Do you ever think that maybe Peter’s been telling the truth?” Gianna asks carefully. She doesn’t look at him when she says it, instead focusing on the glass case in front of them — the Spider-Man display with different suit iterations and archived headlines. 

The fact that she won’t look at him almost irritates him more than the question itself. Because yes. The thought has crossed his mind. Since security. Since FRIDAY said “Welcome back, Peter.” Since Ms. Ramirez used his first name. Since Avengers didn’t hesitate to acknowledge him.

But if it’s true, then Peter Parker isn’t just some awkward kid who gets lucky sometimes. He’s actually cool. Actually connected. And that would mean Flash is losing to him in another arena of life, and he just can’t take that.

“No. I don’t think that, Gianna. Because this is Penis Parker we’re talking about,” he says, rolling his eyes hard enough to sell it. “The Avengers don’t know him and he doesn’t have an internship here. That was a fluke. He’s just a lucky person who happened to be the one they passed on their way out.”

Even to his own ears the protest sounds thinner than he’d like, but nothing about the interaction technically proves anything. They didn’t say his name. They didn’t actually stop to talk. It could have been a hero PR moment. That’s all.

“I think Flash is right,” Jason chimes in, and Flash feels a small wave of relief at the backup. “I mean if it were Flash, or any of us, who had all that, we’d know. Why would Peter not brag about it all the time?”

Exactly.

If Flash were an intern here, if he knew Spider-Man, if he had literal Avengers acknowledging him in public, the entire school would know before lunch. Do you know how much social capital that would bring? The followers. The reputation. The power shift. Why would Peter choose to stay a loser when he could flip the hierarchy overnight?

It doesn’t make sense.

Gianna shrugs eventually, clearly not convinced but not pushing either, and gestures to the display case. “Did you guys know Spider-Man is supposedly afraid of spiders?”

“No way,” Brad says immediately, eager for the topic change.

Flash lets out a huff, shooting Jason an appreciative smile for having his back, and moves closer to the exhibit. He reads every plaque for distraction — mission facts, suit upgrades, quotes about responsibility and sacrifice. It grounds him again, gives him something factual to latch onto instead of the uneasy feeling building in his chest.

The forty-five minutes of exploring goes by relatively quickly after that. There are no more Avengers sightings and Peter and his friends make a point of being anywhere Flash isn’t. Mr. Harrington sends him a couple warning looks across the floor, but he doesn’t push it further.

Whatever, at least lunch is next.

-

As expected, the dining hall is ginormous and over the top. Just like everything else has been. It reminds Flash of going to the fancy mall upstate with his mom when she’d wanted a “girls’ weekend” but still dragged him along — marble floors, glass railings, everything polished within an inch of its life. Except this is better.

“Hey, is that Delmar’s?” Brad asks, pointing at one of the hanging signs.

Everyone at school knows Delmar’s. It’s the sandwich spot. The bodega. The place you go after practice or when your mom forgets to grocery shop. 

And after rebuilding? After the whole Spider-Man saving the owner thing? It basically became sacred ground. There’s a ripple through the group when they register it, and within seconds most of Midtown is funneling into the Delmar’s line like instinct.

Of course, Peter and Ned end up right in front of Flash.

He bites his tongue so hard it almost hurts. He doesn’t want to get kicked off the trip. Not when they’re this deep into the building and haven’t seen the labs yet. Mr. Harrington’s favoritism has been off the charts today, so Flash forces himself to just stand there and watch instead of comment.

“Hey Pete!” the guy behind the counter says easily. “Is this your class?”

Peter nods with a sheepish little smile while the man starts assembling his sandwich without asking what he wants.

Flash’s brain scrambles for an explanation. Had he missed Peter ordering? Maybe. He hasn’t been paying attention to every little thing Parker does. And luckily no one else seems to have clocked the greeting or they’d be spiraling again about how Peter’s telling the truth. Clearly he just knows the guy from the regular Delmar’s in Queens. Everyone knows Peter lives right around the corner from it. He probably goes there all the time and it would make total sense if they rotated employees between the locations. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

Flash twirls his lunch voucher between his fingers, pretending not to stare. He’s so busy tracking Peter’s interaction that he doesn’t notice another employee trying to get his attention until the guy taps the counter sharply.

“Kid, you gonna order or not? You’re holding up the line.”

Heat rushes to Flash’s face instantly. Great. He’s pissed off another adult. And once again, it’s all Peter’s fault. 

He orders quickly, hands over his voucher, trying to salvage some dignity. His eyes catch the stack of used vouchers stabbed onto the metal spike near the register. Each one has a name written across it. The top one says Ned.

Which doesn’t make sense.

Peter was in front of him.

Did they forget his? Did it fall? Did he pay himself? That seems unlikely. Everyone knows Peter’s broke. The more plausible answer, the one Flash refuses to let settle fully, is that he didn’t need his voucher at all.

Lunch passes without any more incidents. Flash and his friends claim a table far away from Peter’s. Mr. Harrington sits with Peter’s group, of course, while Wyatt and Tyra slide in with Flash’s table.

“So do you guys hire high schoolers?” Flash asks.

Wyatt and Tyra exchange a look before shaking their heads. “Not that we’re aware of,” Wyatt says. “The high school program we talked about today in marketing is our first real program with your age group. Plus this field trip.”

Flash leans back in his chair and shoots his friends a look that very clearly says told you so.

They look reassured hearing it from actual interns. Real employees. Not speculation. Not Peter’s weird little whispers. And for the first time since security, the tightness in Flash’s chest loosens just a little.

Peter doesn’t work here. Peter doesn’t belong here. They practically just confirmed it.

“Alright, guys,” Tyra says as they funnel back into the elevator, lunch behind them. “For the last part of the day, we’re heading up to the R&D labs. You’ll get to create a simple system with the help of the engineers and take it home with you.”

The elevator breaks into whoops and chatter immediately. Even Flash can’t stop the surge of excitement that shoots through him. This is it. This is the part that matters. Building something here — actually touching the process — that’s what counts.

Mr. Stark will definitely pop by for this. And really, his opinion is the only one that matters.

The elevator ride is noticeably longer than the one to marketing. Flash tries to calculate the floor count in his head but loses track once the doors finally slide open. Beyond the opaque glass panels ahead, he can practically feel innovation humming in the air. This is the heart of it. This is where the real work happens.

“Couple of rules before we go in,” Wyatt says, tone shifting into something more serious. “Follow all directions in the lab. Don’t touch anything you haven’t been given permission to. No roughhousing. There are dangerous materials in here.”

Flash straightens. He’s going to take this seriously. Peter will not ruin this for him. They all nod, murmuring agreement, and then the doors slide open.

Flash almost forgets how to breathe.

It’s beautiful. There’s no other word for it. Sleek lab tables arranged in precise rows, materials laid out at each station. Screens suspended from the ceiling. Glass-walled rooms lining the perimeter where other projects lay quietly behind closed doors. Six engineers stand at the front waiting for them to file in.

Flash doesn’t hesitate. He moves straight for a seat closest to the front, passing Peter who deliberately chooses one in the back.

Fine. Let him hide.

Flash sits tall, palms flat on the table, eyes locked forward. He is going to be noticed this time.

They’re barely settled into their chairs when there’s a sharp little gasp from the front of the room where the engineers are standing. Four of them — all clustered together — stare right past Flash with wide eyes, like they’ve just seen something unbelievable.

For half a second, his brain does the math in his favor. Do they recognize him from Instagram? He does have fourteen thousand followers. That’s not nothing.

He lifts his hand in a subtle wave — casual, cool — at the exact same time one of them squeals.

“Peter! This is your school?” The girl’s name tag reads Amelia — Intern.

Flash’s hand drops like it’s been burned.

“What’re you doing all the way in the back, kid?” Maurice — another intern — calls out.

“What’re you doing sitting down at all?” Sherri adds, squinting at Peter.

“Hey, guys?” Peter says, and Flash twists in his seat just enough to see him. Peter has the nerve to look embarrassed.

“You guys actually know Peter?” Gianna asks from beside Flash. 

Flash’s head whips around so fast it almost hurts. This is the moment. This is where they laugh it off. This is where they clarify he came once on a tour or something.

“Well yeah?” Sherri says easily. “He helps us out in the intern lab sometimes.”

Sometimes?

Brad raises his hand, still asking without being called on. “What do you mean by sometimes?”

God, everyone needs to stop talking. Flash can feel the heat crawling up his neck. Even sitting front and center, he might as well not exist. He actually wishes not to at this moment in time. 

“Well, usually the boss doesn’t like sharing him, so it’s only when he’s in important meetings or when we beg,” Amelia explains.

The boss?

There’s a collective silence from the Midtown group — quiet and recalculating. Flash feels everything he swore he knew crumbling before his very eyes.

“The boss as in…?” someone finally ventures.

“Tony Stark,” Sherri says, brows furrowed like she’s confused they’re confused. “Peter’s his personal intern?”

You could hear a pin drop in the room. It's so startingly quiet. 

“Wait! Peter, you weren’t lying?” Jason finally blurts, twisting in his seat to stare.

Gianna turns slowly toward Flash. “I told you.”

“You all thought Peter was lying?”

This time the voice doesn’t belong to an intern. The man standing slightly apart from them, arms folded, name tag reading Lincoln Chen — Head of Research & Development, is looking at the group — at Flash specifically — like they’ve just confessed to something deeply stupid.

Flash swallows. His mouth feels dry. He hopes his face isn’t as red as it feels.

“It’s okay, guys. Really,” Peter says quickly, stepping in. “It is sort of unbelievable when you think about it.”

Of course he would defend them. Perfect fucking Peter Parker.

“I don’t know about you guys,” Maurice shrugs, loud enough to be heard and soft enough to be disappointed, “but when my peers tell me something, my first thought isn’t that they’re lying.”

“Now that it’s cleared up — let’s get this project started,” Lincoln says smoothly, clearing his throat once he’s clearly deciding they’ve embarrassed themselves enough.

Flash exhales, grateful for the shift — even if it still feels like he’s bleeding out at his table. Maybe he can still salvage some of this. He can still impress them. 

And then Lincoln looks past him. “Peter, no need to sit back there. Why don’t you come up here with us? No need to waste materials. You’re way past this.”

Flash’s fingers curl against the table. He could actually scream. Peter joins the interns at the front of the room, awkward but welcomed by them. Proof that Peter Parker hadn’t been lying. Which means he probably wasn’t lying about Spider-Man either. Which means every time Flash shut him down — every time he laughed, every time he made sure everyone else laughed — he was wrong. And now everyone knows it.

He can feel it already, the shift in gravity. Peter’s not the weird kid with stories anymore. He’s the genius intern. The Avenger-adjacent prodigy. The chosen one.

And Flash?

Flash is the asshole who couldn’t handle it.

He tries his best to focus on Sherri at the front of the room, on the way she demonstrates the wiring step slowly and clearly before setting them loose to attempt it themselves. But it’s hard. Hard in a way that feels physical. His vision keeps drifting, his mind slipping down into that familiar pit that has Peter Parker’s name carved into the walls.

He doesn’t even know why he’s this fucking angry about it.

Maybe because it means — once again — Peter has one-upped him. Just like in class when Flash gets the wrong answer and Peter just has to raise his hand and get it right. Just like when Harrington bumped him to alternate because “we could really use Peter’s strengths on the team.” Just like when he was going to ask Liz Allan to Homecoming and somehow she decided to go with Peter instead — and Peter left her hanging anyway. Just like when Ned Leeds used to be his best friend in elementary school until Peter moved into the neighborhood and suddenly Flash wasn’t invited over anymore.

It’s always Peter. Always quietly better. Always accidentally winning.

Snap.

The piece in his hands cracks clean in two. The sound is sharp enough that a few heads turn.

“Hey, Pete, think you can go help your friend?” Lincoln calls over his shoulder, already aware that every other intern is occupied.

Friend.

Peter hesitates — just for a second — like he’d rather volunteer for anything else. But Lincoln has already turned away, and that means Peter’s coming whether Flash wants him to or not.

Each step Peter takes toward him feels like another thread pulling tight inside his chest.

“Hey, so, um—” Peter starts, awkward as ever.

“Don’t. I’ve got it,” Flash cuts in, not looking at him. The warning is clear: leave.

He’s trying to salvage this. Trying to do well. Trying to at least walk out of here with something that doesn’t feel like humiliation. He just wants to finish the project and go home — and Flash rarely wants to go home to an empty house, so that says something.

“But Flash, you’re gonna—”

“I said leave me alone,” he snaps, louder this time. A couple of their teammates glance over, but thankfully none of the adults seem to notice.

“But the way you’re holding that, it’s gonna slip. You’ve gotta cha—”

The metal shifts.

The pieces slide.

The glass component shoots sideways.

It slices across Peter’s forearm before Flash can even register what’s happening.

There’s a sharp intake of breath — Peter’s — and then blood.

Real crimson blood.

Something inside Flash detonates. “I told you to fucking leave me alone, Penis!” he explodes, words coming faster than thought. “If you had just listened, this wouldn’t have happened. God, you are just—” He can feel the room turning toward him. 

“You’re fucking insufferable,” he spits, spiraling now, because if he stops talking he’ll have to look at the blood and know it’s on his hands. “It’s like you’re hellbent on ruining my life! Can’t you just fucking disappear?”

“Eugene Thompson, that is enough!”

Mr. Harrington’s voice slices through the haze.

Flash blinks. The anger fog thins just enough for reality to bleed back in.

Peter is standing there, pale, glancing down at his arm that is soaked red. Flash thinks he must’ve nicked a vein. 

“I— I didn’t…” Flash stammers, panic rushing in to replace the anger. “I wasn’t trying to— it wasn’t my fau—”

“Does someone want to tell me why FRIDAY just informed me that my child is bleeding?”

The voice is smooth. Controlled.

Terrifying.

Tony Stark strides into the lab. His tone is almost casual — almost — but one look at his face and even Flash can tell he is furious. Tony’s gaze locks onto Peter’s arm and the control fractures.

“I’m sorry,” he says sharply, scanning the room. “No one in this room is answering fast enough for my liking. My kid is dripping blood onto the lab floor and, as I recall, he’s here on a school field trip not to play operation.”

His kid.

Flash flinches when Tony’s eyes land on him. “I— it— uh— I wasn’t trying to hurt him, sir— Iron Man— Stark, sir—” The words tangle in his throat, humiliation and fear choking them out.

“Boss,” FRIDAY’s voice cuts in overhead, calm and precise. “I have pulled up a playback of the last seven minutes for you to review, along with several clips my systems flagged throughout the day from Mr. Thompson’s behavior.”

At the same moment, Pepper Potts steps into the lab.

“Peter— oh my goodness. Honey, what— Tony, what happened?” She’s already cupping Peter’s face, scanning him like she’s cataloguing damage.

It clicks, slow and sickening. Tony called him his child. His kid. Pepper looks at him like —

Like he belongs to them.

“We were just about to find out,” Tony says coldly. “FRIDAY, roll the clips.”

Flash’s stomach drops straight through the floor.

FRIDAY pulls up the footage on a holoscreen projected directly over the lab table Flash is sitting at. The image hovers there, sharp and blue and undeniable. He would’ve been in awe of the technology — the way it responds instantly, the way the audio is perfectly clear — if he didn’t already know exactly what was about to play.

The first clip is the accident.

Peter approaching. Flash telling him to go away. Flash snapping. The glass slipping. The blood. So much of it. 

Watching himself from the outside is worse than living it. He looks unhinged. Loud. Small. The anger on his face doesn’t look justified — it just looks ugly. He can’t even tell what he’s feeling as it plays back in front of everyone: embarrassment, rage, panic, the sick awareness of being judged.

And then the video doesn’t stop.

It keeps going.

Clips from earlier in the day. Him calling Peter “Penis” in the lobby. In the archives. In the lab. Him rolling his eyes. Shoving. Snide comments muttered under his breath. Every moment stitched together into a neat little narrative that paints him in the worst light possible. In that moment, he knows. 

They won’t get it. They’ll never get it.

All they’ll see is him being a dick to Peter. They won’t see Peter getting picked first. Chosen. Smiled at. Praised. Replacing him on the team. Taking his friends. He takes everything.

“I also contacted KAREN’s systems,” FRIDAY continues calmly overhead, “and she compiled a list of over sixty moments from the last six months in which Eugene Thompson has bullied Peter. Thirty-nine of those incidents were in front of their peers. Twenty-one were one-on-one. Ten involved physical violence.”

The room goes very still.

“I’m sorry…” Tony blinks, not sorry at all, just processing. “… in how many of those has Peter been violent first?”

“Zero, sir.”

“Any violence at all? Even self-defense?”

“Zero results.”

Pepper’s voice is next. Soft. Controlled. She’s dabbing antiseptic someone must’ve handed her on Peter’s arm, but there’s something simmering underneath it. “Peter… you’ve been being bullied?”

“It’s no big deal. Really. I can take it,” Peter says quietly.

Flash wants to scream. Of course he says that. Of course he plays it humble. Of course he makes himself look strong and forgiving and mature. He always does. He never fights back. He just absorbs it — and somehow that makes Flash look worse.

“You don’t just take bullying, kiddo,” Tony says, and his voice is steel wrapped in warmth.

Flash feels it in his gut. His dad has never spoken to him like that. Wouldn’t. If Flash called home right now and said he’d been humiliated in front of Tony Stark, his father would ask what he did wrong.

The words slip before he can stop them. “Oh, give me a break, Pe—”

“You. Zip it!” Tony snaps, the warmth gone. “I don’t want to hear another word out of your mouth. Actually? I don’t even want to see you in my tower anymore.”

“Mr. Stark!” Peter protests immediately.

“No, Peter. Tony is right,” Pepper says firmly, her attention shifting to Flash. “This is not behavior we tolerate at Stark Industries. And this is exactly why. Your behavior has led to someone getting hurt on our premises.”

“FRIDAY, call Happy Hogan. Tell him we need an escort to take a student down to wait on their bus. And notify medbay we’ll be bringing Peter up shortly.”

“Mr. Stark, please,” Flash forces out, throat tight. “It was an accident.”

“Oh, I know it was,” Tony replies evenly. “We all just watched the footage of you being too proud to accept help from someone better than you out of nothing but jealousy. You’re being removed because of the vile names you’ve repeatedly called Peter in this building, the lies you’ve spread to try to knock him down, and because quite frankly, you did it to my kid. You should be thanking your lucky stars I’m not calling legal.”

“My dad’s a lawyer. You can’t—”

“Can and will. Don’t test me, kid.”

“My dad will sue you into oblivion.” He hears how hollow it sounds even as he says it. His dad wouldn’t even pick up on the first ring.

Finally, Mr. Harrington steps forward. “Okay, maybe that’s enough—”

Pepper turns on him, “If I were you, I would stop while you’re ahead. Your job is to protect your students. You and your colleagues have failed to protect Peter.”

“Well, Mrs. Potts— ma’am,” Harrington stammers, “I wasn’t aware it was this bad—”

“This bad?” Tony echoes, brows lifting. “Rhodey and Booker told me what you said at the conference. That sometimes other students give Peter a hard time. So, if you were aware, why didn’t you report it?”

Harrington freezes. “I— he always shrugged it off.”

“He’s a child,” Pepper says sharply.

“Hey — what is going on?” Happy’s voice cuts in as he steps off the elevator.

“Field trip’s over, Happy,” Tony says flatly. “Take them downstairs.”

Just like that the whole group is dismissed.

Tony turns back to Peter. “You’re coming with me to medbay.” Then to Harrington, “He’s excused for the day. I’m listed as an approved guardian. I’ll call Morita this afternoon.”

Chairs scrape back. The lab fills with movement.

Flash doesn’t look at anyone as he stands, but he can feel it — the stares. The judgment. The distance widening between him and everyone else. He follows the group toward the elevator like he’s being marched out and to his death sentence. The doors take a moment before closing, just long enough for him to see it.

Tony’s hand running through Peter’s hair. Pepper rubbing his shoulder. Peter leaning into them like it’s instinct. Like it’s safe.

Not pity.

Not charity.

Family.

The doors slide shut.

For the first time — not defensively, not angrily, not with someone else to blame — Flash wonders if maybe this wasn’t Peter’s fault at all.

Maybe it was his.