Chapter Text
There was trouble in the city. What else was new?
The Avengers were having a laid-back Sunday night in when the alert came through. The sudden shift from an impromptu Who Can Shove the Most Pizza Into Their Mouth at Once Without Gagging contest to a suit-up situation was somewhat disorienting, to say the least. There was even some mild grumbling about work-life balance and an only-half-joking proposal that they could test the theory that if they didn’t keep saving New York, some vigilante B-Team would emerge from the ether and become a convenient backup for times like these.
But in the end, of course, that was never an option.
During the somewhat testy scramble for battle attire and accoutrements, Tony’s iron-clad hand caught Peter by the elbow and tugged him to the side. “You’re sitting this one out, bud,” he said.
“What? Why?” Peter just barely managed to keep the whine from coloring his tone. (That never worked in his favor, he’d found.) “What’d I do this time?”
Tony looked surprised. “Nothing—that I know of.” An appraising eyebrow raised. “Have you done something?”
“No! So why are you benching me?”
“It’s not a punishment, kiddo. You’ve been patrolling late nights all week and you have a Spanish test tomorrow. I want you to stay here, study, get to bed at a decent hour for a change. We’ll be back before you know it.”
“Mr. Stark. It’s not like I’m gonna be able to concentrate while you guys are out there fighting without me! If it’s going to be such a quick fix, then what’s the—”
“Ah-ah. Sin argumentos. Quédate aquí y estudia, niño araña.”
“HUH?”
“Exactly.” Tony had the audacity to boop Peter’s nose with the tip of an iron finger. “Hit the books.”
To his credit, Peter waited until the team had cleared out before giving in to his urge to pout. And while he did almost immediately proceed to clean up the dinner mess they’d left in the kitchen, he did it with much stomping of feet while bitterly muttering things like “Don’t expect me to clean up after you, either. Just because you save the world a few times doesn’t give you the right to be such a bunch of slobs.” And while he carefully wrapped up the leftovers and stashed them in the fridge, he couldn’t resist a single act of petty protest—finishing off the remaining three of Tony’s favorite slices, even though he wasn’t hungry.
Vindication.
Taking down a high-rise-size sentient slime monster wasn’t on the Avengers’ Sunday night bingo card, but here they were. It was while they were regrouping and debating post-victory shawarma that Tony realized he didn’t have any missed calls or texts from Peter. Usually when the kid was forced to keep out of the action, he spent the entire battle spamming them all for details and updates, offering unsolicited advice or theories, begging to be called in from the bench. For a while it got so bad that Cap forbade Peter to use any means whatsoever to contact any Avenger whosoever during battle outside of legitimate, provable emergencies until they got in touch with him to provide the all-clear. (Tony objected to leaving the kid in the dark like that; he knew he would be beside himself if the shoe were on the other foot, so he argued Peter’s case for him and won a grudging victory.)
Now, after checking with the others and confirming that no one had received any word from their youngest member, Tony was edging grudgingly toward concern. He stepped outside the restaurant to make his call, not wanting to deal with the “papa bear” taunts from the group that always came his way whenever he forgot to school the parental instincts the boy brought out in him.
The call went straight to voicemail. Tony rolled his eyes. Patience was not his greatest virtue.
“Hey, kid. We’re done here, everyone’s safe. Heading your way in ten. Call me back.”
For good measure, Tony followed the message up with a text along the same lines.
He gave it five minutes before calling again. Voicemail.
“Hi there! Guess who? Yep, it’s your favorite Avenger, he who holds the key to your quality of life in the palm of his hand and doesn’t love being sent to voicemail. Think about it.”
Three minutes.
“You know better than to screen my calls, Spider-Boy. If I don’t hear from you in the next two minutes we’re going to have a problem.”
Two minutes.
“Peter. Call me.”
It might have been different if Peter didn’t have a very long history of doing exactly what he was expressly forbidden to do.
And of being where he wasn’t supposed to be.
And of giving Tony at least ten new gray hairs a week, sometimes more if he was feeling extra daring. Let it never be said that being a guardian-mentor-father-figure to an enhanced teenage vigilante was anything but a shortcut to the grave.
As it were, Tony had only to scroll through the news alerts he had set up on his phone long before he even knew Peter Parker—alerts for “Spider-Man” in all its punctuational variations—to shoot straight from mildly annoyed at being brushed off by his kid to PLOTTING ALL THE WAYS HE WAS GOING TO MAKE SAID KID SUFFER.
Because it was there in black and white—or red and blue, rather—woven into trending social media posts and peppering the comments sections of breaking news stories about the so-recent-the-paint-wasn’t-even-dry Avengers victory. Spider-Man sightings. Just moments ago, reported in the vicinity of Situation Slime.
“Damn that kid!” Tony shouted aloud, before activating his suit and blasting into the night sky.
“FRIDAY, where’s Peter?” he demanded the moment he set foot in the building.
“Peter is currently asleep in his bed, sir,” the AI said.
Tony’s eyes narrowed. Surely, SURELY the brat wouldn’t have dared to mess with the code again … right? The last come-to-Jesus they’d had over Peter messing with Tony’s protocols had been loud, emotionally exhausting, and tearful, and Tony was all but positive that he’d gotten his message across.
“Right. And just how long has he been asleep?” Tony demanded.
“Peter went to bed at nine-thirty-seven and has been asleep since ten-seventeen, sir.”
Tony was already en route to Peter’s bedroom. He flung open the door when he arrived, expecting to see signs of a mad dash just missed, a kid faking slumber with a pile of blankets thrown hastily over his Spider-Man suit to hide the evidence of his crime. He flipped the light switch and flooded the room with harsh brightness.
…and saw Peter. Wearing actual pajamas. Passed out on top of the covers, arms and legs sprawling every which way, face pressed into the pillow and forcing soft snores that sounded, well, pretty damn legit.
Tony came up short, staring at the boy. Peter stirred and slowly came around, squinting against the light and rubbing his eyes with his fists in a way that Tony would have found annoyingly adorable if he weren’t still in the midst of a crisis of cognitive dissonance.
“M’sser Stark?” Peter managed, voice gravelly and tone confused. “Whass happening?”
“Listen up, kid. I’m going to ask you this one time, and God help us both if you lie to me.”
That brought some alertness to those sleepy eyes, and Peter seemed to be taking a rather panicky mental stock of what he might have done to get himself in trouble this time.
“I won’t! What? I won’t!”
Tony’s voice could have cut through steel. “What did you do tonight?”
There was a long few beats of silence as Peter processed the question. “Um, I. Well. I cleaned the kitchen. You guys left a big mess. I watched TV. Texted Ned some. I swear I was gonna study for Spanish but I guess I kinda fell asleep before I could get very far.”
Tony fixed him with a look. “Is that all.”
“Yes sir!”
“Okay smart guy. Then how do you explain all the Spider-Man sightings in the city tonight?”
Silence. “Huh? I mean, that’s impossible. I was here all night, promise. Ask FRIDAY.”
“Peter was here all night, Boss,” the AI supplied helpfully.
Tony glared toward the ceiling. “Well that might bring me some measure of relief, FRI, except that you have been known to succumb to actual sweet-talking from this boy and I’m still trying to figure out how that’s even possible.” He turned his sharp gaze back to the kid in question, who was sitting up, still squinting against the light, his curls in utter disarray and his brows knit in confusion.
“I got the alerts, Peter. Spider-Man sightings all over the damn place.”
“It wasn’t me!” Peter’s voice cracked in indignation.
“There are photos. You can’t argue with photographic evidence.”
“I can if the photos say I was out Spider-Manning tonight!”
Tony scoffed. “So you want me to believe there’s some other shrimpy vigilante in red spandex swinging into the heart of danger on the very night I confine you to quarters? Sorry, Pete, certified genius here and you’re going to have to do better than that.”
Peter groaned, flopping back on his pillow with his hands over his eyes. “I don’t know what you want me to say!”
“Oh, I don’t know, how about you try the truth for a change?”
“Goddammit! I’m telling you the truth!”
“Watch your mouth!”
“Then stop accusing me of lying!”
“Then stop lying!”
“Boss, if I may…”
Tony and Peter both ceased their verbal fire, breathing heavily and waiting for FRIDAY to (make her point? Seriously, what even WAS this AI Tony had created?) continue.
“According to multiple local news outlets, police have apprehended a red-and-blue-clad Spider-Man impersonator who was arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct in the aftermath of tonight’s Avengers battle. Would you like me to play the footage?”
Silence met the request, which FRIDAY seemed to take as a yes. Local news clips appeared before them, two police officers handcuffing a man wearing a skintight red and blue suit—dollar store black goggles strapped across his eyes and a crude drawing of a spider scrawled across his chest in what appeared to be Sharpie. Belligerent shouts of protest could be heard behind the news anchor who seemed mildly embarrassed as she closed out her broadcast: “…It is now believed that this man you see behind me was responsible for tonight’s mistaken eyewitness and social media reports of Spider-Man on the scene of a chaotic and, well, gooey—but fortunately casualty-free battle, as the Avengers once more took down a potentially catastrophic threat. And while it now seems that the real Spider-Man was not among our assembly of heroes tonight, we can take comfort in knowing that this version of him—whether copycat, cosplayer, or simply intoxicated uberfan, won’t be swinging around for a while.”
In the background, one of the officers successfully unmasked the deep-discount Spidey, revealing … well, someone who was decidedly NOT Peter Parker.
Click. The hologram shut off and a silence that felt weirdly smug descended over the room. Tony pinched the bridge of his nose while Peter stared at him.
“Um, Mr. Stark.”
“What, Peter?”
“That guy was like fifty-eight.”
“I know, Peter.”
…“He had a beer gut.”
“I saw that, Peter.”
“He drew that spider on his—”
“Clearly.”
A beat, a smirk that could almost be heard. “Did you really think that suit was one of yours?”
“Zip it, kid.”
Peter knew better than to continue to poke the bear anymore tonight—but he would be surprised if he didn’t get a pancake-shaped apology at breakfast in the morning. For now, he schooled his features so his mentor wouldn’t see the smile that was tugging at both corners of his mouth as the still-scowling man leaned over and landed a none-too-gentle kiss in Peter's mass of sleep-ruffled curls.
“Good night, Mr. Stark,” he said.
“Buenas noches, travieso.”
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