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2021-03-26
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2021-04-04
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All good things come in threes

Summary:

“I know all about your secret identity.”
A beat of silence. “Um,” Peter said, bunching his sweater in his hands. “Which… which one?”
--
Peter has three secret identities: Spider-Man, the superhero who swings around the city to save people. Parker Benjamin, who gives Tony Stark unsolicited advice on his research. And NightMonkey, the Instagrammer who keeps uploading increasingly popular but embarrassing drawings of Iron Man.
And he can juggle them all just fine, thankyouverymuch.

Chapter 1

Notes:

check out the fancomic here!

Chapter Text

Part I: NightMonkey

 

The top three best moments of Peter life were, in no particular order: his first camping trip with May and Ben; his first time kissing MJ, during a detention; and the first time Clint Barton reposted the drawing he uploaded on Instagram.

The last two happened on the same day. In fact, Peter received the notification while he was still gazing sappily into MJ’s eyes, his lips tingling. She was staring back at him with an expression akin to amusement. “You still with us?”

“Your lips are really soft,” Peter said, before instantly flushing with embarrassment. “I mean… Yeah, that was cool.”

“… the most important meal of the day,” Captain America’s PSA prattled on in the background. Coach Wilson was sleeping in his chair.

Peter glanced down at his phone to see who had rudely interrupted his unexpected detention-make-out-session with MJ by messaging him. “Oh my god,” he breathed, gripping the phone tighter. “Oh God – Ned says Hawkeye just reposted my drawing on Instagram!”

MJ was not that easily impressed. “Probably someone pretending to be Hawkeye.”

“Um, no,” Peter said, already scrolling through the app. “The profile name is ReallyRealHawkeye.”

“Right. Because that sounds legit.”

“MJ, I’ve been following these people online for years. YEARS. I know which profiles are real! And he… oh shit, he reposted that drawing? That one was kinda mean, though.”

“Oh, the one with Iron Man ironing his clothes?” MJ immediately guessed.

Peter gave a nod. He and MJ had bonded over their mutual interest in ridiculing people through drawings. While MJ favored a more artsy style, making black and white portraits of people in crisis, Peter’s preferred way of expressing himself – and pissing people off – was by making colorful, four panel comic strips. Over the last few months, the Avengers had become his favorite victims. He uploaded his drawings on Instagram under his username ‘NightMonkey’, and some of them had gotten a pretty good response.

He remembered the way he had cackled evilly while drawing this particular one: Iron Man ironing in his Iron Man suit – but without the helmet – when his phone rings and, in a temporary lapse of judgement, Tony Stark lifts the iron to his ear instead of his phone. The results are self-explanatory.

“If Hawkeye reposted my drawing, do you think Tony Stark will see it?” he wondered out loud. “Do you think he’ll be offended?”

I’m offended. Thirty seconds ago we were making out,” MJ pointed out. “Just mentioning it. Since you seem to have forgotten already. This is not how I imagined our first kiss.”

“Sorry,” Peter said, hastily shoving his phone away. Because, yeah, kissing MJ really should take precedence over anything short of apocalyptic events. “So you… you’ve been imagining this moment, then?”

MJ looked a little caught out. She didn’t like to be accused of having any emotions, let alone the particularly sentimental ones.

“So are we…” Peter licked his dry lips. “Um – are we, like, boyfriend girlfriend now?”

“Yes,” MJ said, “as long as it’s clear that I won’t make fun of you any less. And that I don’t need you carrying stuff around for me like I’m some incapable damsel. And no kissing in public; we’re not a roadshow.”

“Would you maybe like to write up a contract?”

“Don’t push your luck, because I just might,” she warned. “And I will make sure to get custody of Ned if we break up.”

Peter leaned his head down on the desk, without breaking eye contact with her. “Could I get him on weekends and every other Christmas?”

She gave him a benevolent smile and reached out to push a strand of his hair out of his eyes. “I like that you’re not weirded out when I make strange, awkward jokes,” she confessed, which was probably as close to an ‘I have a massive crush on you’ as you could get from MJ. Peter grinned.

“Let’s get out of here,” MJ said.

Peter blinked. He had gotten a detention for being late for two days in a row – something May already wouldn’t be thrilled about. “You should be preparing my eulogy if you let me skip detention, because my aunt will actually kill me.”

“Hm,” she said. “How about I go and get us both some milkshakes. I’ll be back by the time your prison sentence is up, and we can go to the park or something.”

“What if Wilson wakes up? Won’t you get into trouble?”

“I don’t actually have detention,” she revealed. “I just came to see you in crisis.”

Of freaking course. “Okay then,” he said with a soft smile. “See you later.”

He waited for MJ to leave, then grabbed his phone to scour the internet for gossip about Tony Stark.

If Hawkeye liked comics that made Stark look like an idiot, then Peter would certainly oblige.

-

The NightMonkey might have a bit of a mean streak, but Peter Parker always made a point of being kind.

The café where he worked every Saturday had many regular customers, and Peter knew them all by name. Including the homeless people who came by from time to time because they knew Peter would serve them free coffee and sometimes throw in a donut.

Peter always made sure to have a little chat with them, treat them as a human beings instead of giving them a wide berth like most people tended to do.

Don, the owner, definitely wouldn’t be thrilled to learn that Peter was giving away food on a regular basis. But hey, he always hid away in the back, letting Peter do all the work and only occasionally coming out to point out everything Peter was doing wrong. He paid only half the minimum wage and he always, always made Peter work late because the sonnuvabitch knew how much Peter needed this job to support May.

So yeah, Peter was giving away donuts and even throwing in some extra chocolate sauce whenever he felt like it. Sue him.

Today’s homeless guy was one Peter hadn’t seen before. But that wasn’t unusual. Sometimes people had heard through the grapevine that they could come here for free coffee. And sometimes they just wandered in by chance, hoping to be able to get a little warm inside before getting chased out again. This one looked like he fell into the latter category: he didn’t seem to expect to be offered anything. He just sat in a corner booth, his back towards Peter, hunched over, trying valiantly to look invisible. He had a large coat, the hood pulled forward as far as possible, and stained jeans.

Peter poured a cup of coffee and eyed the selection of donuts for a while. This man definitely looked like a banana-cinnamon sort of guy.

When he approached the man, he thought he actually heard something akin to a low growl in the back of the guy’s throat. He was probably expecting to get thrown out into the cold.

Poor dude.

“Would you like some coffee?” Peter asked lightly as he set the tray down. “And a donut? It’s on the house.”

It stayed quiet for a moment. “You’re giving me a donut,” the man then repeated, a little hoarsely. “Why?”

It wasn’t unusual for homeless people to be suspicious when Peter gave them free food. “There’s no strings attached,” he gently explained. “You just look like you had a rough day. And it’s pretty cold out. Don’t worry, you can stay as long as you want. But if the owner comes in and just sees you sitting here, he’ll chase you out. So best pretend that you paid for this, okay?”

“Do you… Do you think I’m homeless?” The man asked, a strange edge to his voice, and Peter suddenly felt his stomach drop. Oh damn, did he just insult some random New Yorker, in full possession of a roof over his head? He didn’t usually make that mistake. With his luck, the guy was probably someone important like a state judge, or a politician, or…

The man sat up straighter, letting his hood fall back and tugging his scarf down and oh God. Peter absolutely froze, wishing a hole would open up in the middle of the café and swallow him whole.

“I didn’t think I looked that horrible,” Tony Stark said. “I mean, granted, I got my workshop-jeans on, but I’m wearing my expensive shoes for chrissake.”

“Oh god,” Peter managed. “Oh my god, Sir, I’m so sorry. I’m so… Gah, I’m an idiot. And you… You have very nice shoes, of course you do, very nice. I just don’t know anything about fashion I’m… I’m an idiot, oh my God-“

“All right,” Mr. Stark cut in. “As entertaining as it is so watch you unravel, allow me to put you out of your misery. Not offended, here. In fact, I’m guilty of prejudice, too. When you came up, I figured you were some fanboy angling for an autograph. Instead, you were feeding the homeless.” He grinned as he plucked up the donut with two fingers. “You don’t need to feel bad for being kind. And I did in fact have a rough day.”

“Sir, if I’d known it was you I probably would have angled for an autograph,” Peter said earnestly. “Well, maybe I wouldn’t, because I don’t want to bother the customers, but I'd definitely quietly hope that you would spit into a napkin and leave it behind so I would get to keep it.”

“That’s disturbing,” Mr. Stark said. But he was still smiling, so Peter figured it was okay.

“So did you want to order something then, sir?”

“No, this looks perfect, actually,” the man replied, waving his hand at the cup of coffee. “And don’t worry. I’ll pay for it.” He pulled his hood back up to hide his face.

Peter nodded and retreated back to the counter where a lady was waiting to order, resisting the urge to bow a few more times in Tony Stark’s direction as he went.

Holy shit, the Tony Stark was casually eating a donut in his café. Peter would totally use it as the topic of his next cartoon-drawing, except that went against his principles not to aggravate the costumers. Tony Stark was… well… he was Tony Stark. But in here, he was just another customer and it was Peter’s job to make sure he had a positive experience.

That was what he loved about working in this café. He enjoyed taking care of people.

A sweaty, bald man clutching a large camera stepped into the café and immediately shuffled up to the counter. “Haven’t seen Tony Stark running past here by any chance, have you?” he asked, half-jokingly.

“Oh – yeah I did,” Peter said as he gathered three teacups together on a tray. “Went that way.” He pointed randomly.

The photographer swore under his breath and ran back out the door so fast he almost bum-rushed two elderly ladies who were about to enter.

“Oh my,” one of them said, stumbling, and Peter quickly left his tray behind to rush to her aid. “Hello Mrs. Albasiny, Mrs. Zellerbach,” he greeted, extending an arm. “Let me give you a hand. Booth by the window for you ladies?” He glanced towards the empty booth next to Mr. Stark. The man probably wouldn’t mind two adorable old ladies at the next table.

Mrs. Albasiny clutched his arm like it was her lifeline. “The world moves faster every day,” she complained. “They ought to put handrails all over the place. I’d walk from my apartment to this café without ever having to let go.”

“Well, the doctor did say you shouldn’t go out without your walking stick, Edna,” Mrs. Zellerbach chided.

“That doctor told me five years ago that I had four months to live. I don’t trust a single word that comes out of his mouth. I wouldn’t trust him to locate his own asshole, let alone mine!”

“We’re all so happy that you’re still with us,” Peter said, his voice only slightly teasing, as he delivered the ladies to their booth and helped Mrs. Albasiny sit down.

“You’re such a sweet darling boy, Peter,” she said, reaching up to pinch his cheek.

Peter didn’t usually mind when she did that, but right now he could feel Tony Stark’s eyes burning into his back. “Thank you Mrs. Albasiny,” he said meekly. “A chai tea and a cappuccino, as usual?”

The ladies also ordered a piece of cheesecake to share between the two of them, and Peter once again hastily retreated to the counter.

He was about to step into the back to grab some clean napkins when he bumped into Don, who poked his head through the doorway. The man threw a disinterested glance around his café, before that glance finally settled on Peter. “I’m going home,” Don informed him. “Make sure you turn off all the lights when you leave, because you missed the one by the backdoor last week.”

Peter bit the inside of his cheek for a moment. “Yes, sir,” he then said. It was over an hour before closing time, but Don had taken up the habit of leaving earlier and earlier each week, leaving Peter in charge. Part of Peter knew that that shit really wasn’t acceptable. Another part of him, though, was happy to have the café to himself for a few hours. It was not as if Don did any work when he was here, anyways.

Time ticked by. Costumers entered, customers left. Tony Stark remained unmoving, quietly sitting in the corner booth, making little drawings on the napkins. When Peter approached him to ask if he needed anything else he just shook his head.

Mrs. Albasiny and Mrs. Zellerbach were the last customers to leave, with lots of pinching of cheeks and clucking of tongues.

Peter let the door fall shut behind them and turned the sign to ‘closed’. He saw how Mr. Stark half-turned in the booth, looking his way but not asking anything. He still looked haggard.

“You don’t have to go yet,” Peter offered. “I’ve put up the ‘closed’ sign, but still have to clean the whole place, so you can stay until I have to leave.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Stark said. “I’m just waiting for someone to pick me up. He won’t be long, but it would be helpful if I can wait inside.”

Peter just nodded and set to work. He finished the paperwork and moved the food into the fridge, and then began mopping the floors. When he had worked his way over to where Mr. Stark was still sitting, the man spoke up again. “Are you-…? You can’t be the only one working here.”

Peter shrugged in a way that he hoped looked nonchalant. “The owner left early.”

“Huh,” said Mr. Stark.

Peter leaned down to check whether any assholes had stuck gum underneath the tables. When he found none, he rightened himself and glanced back at Mr. Stark who was still following all his movements with a detached expression, as if Peter was a mildly interesting television show. “My decathlon team is visiting your expo in Manhattan next week,” Peter offered.

“What day?”

“Um – Wednesday.”

Mr. Stark nodded. “I might be there.”

“That would be cool,” Peter earnestly said. He picked up the bucket and carried it to the back where he emptied it into the sink. He loaded the dishwasher. When he stepped back into the café, it was suddenly strangely deserted. Tony Stark had left. Through the windows, Peter just saw the tail lights of a car.

He moved to the corner booth to clean it and gathered some of the napkins, glancing down at Tony Stark’s abstract drawings. Huh, the man was certainly no slouch as an artist. Who’d have thought Tony Stark had a secret talent like this?

He found a short message written on one of the napkins.

Thanks for the kindness, Peter. Sorry, I didn’t spit in it. But maybe an autograph will do? It was signed Tony Stark, and folded into it was a crisp fifty dollar bill.

Peter actually felt tears burn behind his eyes. Jeez, he was about to start bawling in the middle of a café, as if he were Halle Berry winning her Oscar. He wasn’t sure if it was for the money, which more than doubled his salary for the day, or for the personal message. Probably both, he decided, before carefully tucking everything away into an inner pocket.

Only when he came home that evening did he see the news from earlier that day: Tony Stark had been followed around the city by a stampede of paparazzi photographers. He had driven his car into a lamppost in his attempts to get away from them, before ditching the car, taking off running, and disappearing down an alleyway. That’s how he must have ended up hiding away at the café.

Poor guy.

Peter should definitely make a comic strip about it.

                                                                      

Part II: Parker Benjamin

 

“I made pasta Arrabiata; it’s in the fridge.”

May nodded gratefully, disappearing for a moment into the bedroom before reemerging with a clean t-shirt on. She made a beeline for the fridge and took out the bowl Peter had left for her there. She grabbed a fork a started poking at the food, shuffling closer to Peter and glancing at all the papers he had laid out on the coffee table in front of him. “Still doing homework?”

“No – and did you know we have a microwave?”

“I’ve recently discovered that I like my pasta cold.” She moved around the table to sit sideways on the couch, glancing down at his notes. “What are you doing, then?”

“Tony Stark is researching solar distillation and he just published a new design of a solar still on his website, that has a flat plate collector and uses thermosyphon mode which gives a ten percent higher yield. But I figured, if you can somehow harness the heat loss and use it for further distillation, the overall efficiency is even higher!”

“I have concussed patients who talk less gibberish than you,” May said, before forking a large bite of pasta into her mouth.

“Gibberish, hah! I’m just trying to figure out the calculations so I can send them to him. Do you think he’ll read them? And Spider-Man stopped a mugging last night. Oh, and NightMonkey gained so many followers since that one comic went viral, it’s insane.”

“Um-hm,” said May. “And what about Peter Parker; did he brush his teeth and finish his homework?”

“May!”

Her gaze turned stern. “Answer me.”

“I did. I even finished the book report that’s not even due for another week.”

She smiled now, reached out and squeezed his arm. “Oh, well done, honey. I’m proud.”

“Really. That gets a compliment?”

She shrugged and turned her full attention to her food. People who accused Peter of eating too much had never seen May fork down a meal after a double shift at the hospital. She probably didn’t even like her pasta cold; just wanted to get it all in her mouth as quickly as possible.

“Any weird injuries today?” Peter asked once she had finished and set the bowl down with a sigh.

“Had a little boy who stuck a bean up his nose, weeks ago,” she said. “And the thing had started sprouting in there. Nice and moist, of course. He needed surgery to have it removed.”

Peter shuddered. “Oh god. Remember when I pushed a piece of clay up my nose? I couldn’t get it out and panicked. But uncle Ben just made me blow my nose and it came right out. I was glad then that I told him, even though he mercilessly made fun of me for about three months.”

“Yes, well, twelve is far too old to still be getting things stuck up your nose,” May pointed out.

“I’m a scientific soul, May. I needed measurement-based testing and practical experiments.”

“Uh-hm. And the hypothesis you were researching when you pushed that clay up your nose was…?”

“I’m not sure anymore, but there is something interesting about beans being able to sprout inside a human’s nose, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t know, Doogie Howser,” May said. “Why don’t you discuss it with your pen-pal Tony Stark?”

Peter pushed his face into a pillow to muffle his dramatic, high-pitched scream. May chuckled and Peter felt her fingers poking the side of his leg. “Peter, I’m teasing. I just think it’s funny how much your life revolves around Iron Man.”

Peter lifted his head and clenched the pillow to his chest. “It does not,” he sputtered. “It’s not my fault that the guy keeps turning up everywhere. If anything, his life revolves around me. And these are all just entirely coincidental interactions and definitely not something that could end up getting me arrested by SHIELD for being a creepy stalker.”

May inhaled sharply through her nose, clearly trying to hold back laughter. “I’m sure Tony Stark will be nothing but delighted to discover that the same kid who mistook him for a homeless guy last weekend, has now taken an interest in his research.”

Well, that was the thing.

Peter had sort of decided he would not be emailing Tony Stark under his own name. He hadn’t planned being secretive, but now that he had met Tony Stark in real life, it seemed weird to use his real name. He didn’t want Mr. Stark to actually think that Peter was some creepy stalker. He had settled on the pseudonym ‘Parker Benjamin’, and had already made a separate email account to match it. Now he just needed to remember to check it regularly for a response.

Or maybe he was crazy to think that he might get a response.

-

Parker Benjamin might be a genius, but Peter Parker could be embarrassingly dumb.

He’d been confronted with his own stupidity plenty of times, already. Having MJ as his girlfriend didn’t help there, because she was more than glad to point out when he was being a blathering idiot.

“No, Peter,” she would say. “People don’t swallow spiders in their sleep. That’s an urban myth. Stop panicking. And don’t put duct tape on your mouth at night, you blathering idiot.”

Peter trusted her, but he still tried to breathe through his nose every night when he went to sleep.

But all that was nothing compared to his most impressively embarrassing moment, which occurred during his visit to the Stark Expo, with his whole decathlon team there to see it.

He had overslept and skipped breakfast – even though he knew how much that tended to throw his whole body out of whack – to be at school in time. And then Ned had convinced him to sit in the far back of the bus, where every bump felt like getting launched by a catapult, and fed him an endless supply of marshmallows. Peter had initially readily accepted them, glad to have something to fill up his empty stomach. But about halfway through the drive, he had felt those same marshmallows try to crawl back up his throat at every sharp turn the bus driver made; like they had united forces and formed one giant marshmallow and wanted to break out from whichever entrance they found first. 

And now he was walking around the expo with nausea rolling heavily in his gut. The tour guide was enthusiastic and everything on display was equally amazing, but Peter barely registered what he was seeing – too focused on breathing calmly and steadily to keep from throwing up.

They were moving from the ‘green energy market’ to the building where the keynote speech would be held, and Peter officially wanted to give up. He was glancing around for a toilet he could escape to and spend the rest of the day, when he almost bumped into Ned, only now noticing that everyone else was standing stock-still and a tense hush had descended over their group.

“Enjoying the tour?” a voice spoke up; one that Peter recognized immediately .

He turned, blinking through a haze of please don’t throw up and could barely make out Tony Stark standing only a few feet away from him. He wasn’t addressing Peter specifically, though, his gaze encompassing the whole team, a benevolent smile on his face.

He clearly didn’t even remember Peter. But that was okay. Peter wouldn’t have wanted to draw attention to himself when he was already so busy valiantly fighting down a wave of nausea.

The two security guards who were flanking Mr. Stark paused, hesitating, and exchanged a glance that clearly said ‘Is Stark actually going to bother with this group of smelly teenagers?’

“This is the decathlon team from Midtown Tech, Mr. Stark,” the tour guide said brightly. “We were just on our way to your speech. Well. So are you, clearly.”

Ned’s hand shot into the air so fast he almost knocked Mr. Harrington’s glasses off. Mr. Stark’s gaze drifted in his direction. “We have a Q&A after the speech, kid. But I like the enthusiasm. What’s so important?”

“Mr. Stark,” Ned said, a little breathless. “Did you see that comic from NightMonkey that went viral?”

Tony Stark’s left eye twitched.

“…where you accidentally burn your own ear off?” Ned continued, either not realizing or not caring that Peter was purposefully stepping all over his toes to stop him talking.

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Mr. Stark said smoothly. “And for the record – I don’t iron my own clothes. Some of us have better things to do.” He turned away from Ned to another kid who had raised her hand.

“Dude, he totally saw your comic!” Ned breathed at Peter.

Stepping on toes was too subtle, apparently. Peter opted for a swift kick at Ned’s ankle. Anything to keep the other boy from outing him as NightMonkey right in front of Tony Stark when he already felt ready to faint.

“Ouch - Why are you kicking me so much?” Ned whispered. “Do you want another marshmallow?”

Peter whirled away from him and promptly threw up... all over Tony Stark’s shoes.

Groans and exclamations of disgust filled the air as Peter stumbled back, horrified, his vertigo hitting him only harder. He could feel he was only minutes away from throwing up again and needed to get out of here fast.

He could feel arms catching him – whether it was Ned or Mr. Harrison he didn’t even know – and quickly leading him away from the group.

The restroom was probably only a minute away, but it felt like the damn thing was somewhere on top of mount Everest. They finally reached the blessed relief of a cold, marble toilet bowl and Peter threw up again, recoiling at the disgusting sight of half-digested marshmallows floating around in the toilet bowl. This second round did instantly make him feel better, though. He breathed out in relief as he felt his heartbeat return to a more normal rhythm. He took off his backpack and kicked it away, then reached out and flushed the toilet, wiping some sweat of his brow. “Oh god,” he said miserably, pinching his eyes shut. “Oh god, I threw up on Tony Stark’s shoes.”

A chuckle sounded, from somewhere to his left.

Peter didn’t see the humor in the situation. “His shoes probably cost a thousand bucks each. A thousand for the right and a thousand for the left. And I’ll have to pay for new ones and I can’t pay for new ones and he’ll make me clean the whole Avengers tower with a toothbrush until I’ve paid off my debt.”

“Yeah, he’s an asshole like that,” the voice said. It was a voice Peter recognized, and horror instantly washed over him like a freaking tsunami.

He whipped his head around – his vertigo did not respond kindly to that – and saw his worst suspicions confirmed when he laid eyes on the Tony Stark himself, casually leaning against the wall, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair. He wasn’t wearing his shoes anymore.

“Ummmmm…” Peter said as his brain short-circuited.

“Remember me?” the Tony Stark asked.

“Re-… Re…”

“You brought me a donut last week.”

Peter blinked up at him, arms and legs still clenched around the cold toilet bowl, koala-style. “You remember me?

“I remember everyone who brings me food. It’s practically imprinting. You’re my momma bird now.”

“Gross,” Peter said, grasping for some toilet paper to wipe his mouth. “Um – my puke, I meant. Not your analogy. Sir – your shoes…”

“I know,” Mr. Stark lamented, wiggling his eyebrows. “Your cleaning duties start tomorrow. Bring a toothbrush.”

Peter would have laughed if there wasn’t a part of him still afraid that Mr. Stark was being dead serious.

“So, you’re Midtown Tech, huh?” Mr. Stark said. “A school for smart beans. Are you a smart bean?”

“I’m…”

“What’s two times a thousand bucks?”

“Uh,” Peter mumbled, still torn on whether Mr. Stark was teasing or simply tightening the noose. “It’s… I mean… It’s… two. Thousand. Two thousand, sir.”

“That was some real quick math, squirt. I can see why you’re in a STEM school.”

Peter was pretty sure he could have fried an omelet on his face right about now. Mr. Stark just chuckled, standing and moving past Peter to the sink. Peter slowly turned and leaned his back against the wall, so he could keep Mr. Stark in his field of vision.

He now realized that they weren’t in a public bathroom; at least, it was way too shiny and quiet to be a public bathroom. Had he just thrown up in Mr. Stark’s fancy, private facilities?

Mr. Stark started rummaging through a cabinet. “And how much do you figure I should pay you by the hour, to clean my tower with a toothbrush?”

Peter swallowed. “Sir, I…”

The sound of the tap running, and a moment later Mr. Stark extended a plastic cup to him. Peter took it, taking a sip of the water to rinse his mouth, spitting it into the toilet bowl.

“Much as I’d like to continue my little experiment of seeing how red your face can get, I suppose I should cut you some slack, since you are sick and since I, contrary to popular belief, do have a heart. So…,” Mr. Stark crouched down in front of him, both his knees popping, “don’t worry about the shoes, squirt. I have around two hundred other pairs. They have their own room. It’s bigger than Captain America’s bedroom. My point is; forget it ever happened. Which won’t be easy because, knowing teenagers, your classmates will lord this over you forever.”

Peter just stared up at him, eyes wide, both hands clenched around the plastic cup.

Venga,” Mr. Stark said. “Stop looking so scared.”

“Are you really serious?” Peter whispered.

“Am I serious about not making you into my toothbrush-wielding slave? Yeah, I think I am.”

“No but I mean,” Peter paused for a minute to take another sip of water, “you could still sue me or something.”

There was a knock on the door and one of the security guards poked his head in. “Mr. Stark,” he said in a deep voice. “Miss Potts reminds you that the key note speech was due to start five minutes ago.”

“That gives me roughly another twenty minutes to be fashionable late,” Mr. Stark stated, his eyes still steady on Peter’s face. “I’m guessing we should be calling a parent right about now?”

“Sir, you don’t have to-.. You must be very busy.”

“Peter,” the man said, his voice now flat. “Stop worrying. I have nowhere to be.”

Peter snapped his mouth shut, blinking fast because holy shit, Tony Stark remembered his name. “This is... insane.”

“I don’t think it is,” Mr. Stark said. “You were kinder to me last week than most people I’ve met in my life, and you didn’t even know who I was. This? This is… nothing.” He took out his phone. “Why don’t you tell me who I can call to pick you up?”

“May,” Peter murmured. He took another sip of water, then closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep, steadying breath. The nausea had subsided and he didn’t think he would throw up again. The vertigo was still unpleasant, though.

It wasn’t until he opened his eyes again and saw Mr. Stark patiently looking back at him that he realized a first name wouldn’t exactly be enough information for this man, even if it was Tony Stark. “Uh,” he said - and God, could he stop blushing already? “Her number is in my phone – let me…” He planted one hand against the cold, clammy tiles to give himself some leverage. But before he could push himself up, Mr. Stark had already reached for his crumpled backpack and pulled it closer.

“In the front pocket,” Peter quickly squeaked, because oh boy, if Mr. Stark opened his backpack and spotted the Spider-Man suit crammed in there; or the NightMonkey sketches; or his own research on solar distillation with Peter’s notes in the margin…

Yeah, he’d be busted. Three times over.

But Mr. Stark just opened the front pocket, fishing out Peter’s bruised and battered phone. “This piece of crap is yours?”

“It’s seen better days,” Peter agreed. “I should probably, uh-“ he reached out a hand to help Mr. Stark unlock the phone, but before he could even finish his sentence, Mr. Stark had done something complicated, aiming his own phone at Peter’s screen, and there were little bleeps and whooshing noises and then Mr. Stark just started merrily tapping through Peter’s phone, as if this was something he did on a regular basis.

“Did you just hack my phone?” Somehow that was equal parts offensive and awesome.

“H I J K L, May. May… Parker? That your mom?”

“Aunt.”

Mr. Stark merely nodded as he tapped the screen again.

Peter shifted his position a little. “I really like your work, sir. I read all your papers on-“ he faltered, suddenly worried that he might give something away if he’d start talking about solar-distillation right now. “On, umm…”

Mr. Stark chuckled as he lifted the phone to his ear. “Don’t worry, squirt. You don’t have to pretend to be familiar with my research. - - Yes, hello? Is this May Parker speaking? I have something here that belongs to you. Brown hair, comically large eyes, nerdy t-shirt … Sounds about right … Yes, he’s fine, just threw up all over the Stark expo, but otherwise peachy, any chance you can- … Uhuh … That’s the place.”

Peter took another deep breath, leaning his head back against the tiles and trying not to feel guilty about making May leave work.

“She’s on her way,” Mr. Stark said, hanging up. “While we wait, why don’t you go ahead and ask the famous Tony Stark something you’ve always wanted to know?”

Peter grasped for a question that had nothing to do with solar-distillation but came up with nothing. “What’s your favorite color?” was all that came out in the end.

Mr. Stark laughed again, slapping his knee. “Can’t believe you’re going to a STEM-school.”

 

Part III: Spider-Man

 

It was a particularly nice afternoon in Queens, with the sun shining and the birds tweeting and the whole shebang. It had been raining all morning, so Peter was feeling rather content as he could now relax on his favorite rooftop: right on top of the hospital where his aunt worked. The temptation to take off his mask and let the sun hit his face was hard to resist. But he knew better than to make a rookie mistake like that.

“Enjoying the view?”

Peter jumped a little and turned around. It wasn’t often that Iron Man managed to sneak up on him with that big, loud, ugly suit of his. Peter must have been really lost in thought.

“I was actually,” he said, glancing back at the large mural painting looming over them. The colorful artwork was another reason why he loved sitting on this particular rooftop. It was an abstract group portrait, and if Peter cocked his head and squinted, he could see his uncle Ben in one of the figures, smiling down at him.

Mr. Stark glanced up at the mural painting, too. “Meh. Average at best.”

Peter bristled. No one was allowed to call anything that reminded him of his uncle ‘average’. “You’re out of your mind, Stark.”

“I can probably bribe the artist to paint your bedroom walls, if you want.”

Was that another way for Tony Stark to try to get his address, his identity? “Good luck. I googled the artist once,” Peter said, “but nothing came up.”

The painting must have been commissioned by someone. And it was signed with the name Nescio in the lower right corner, but Peter had never been able to find a full name. He had never been able to send the artist an email, thanking him for making Queens a little brighter.

“You like art, then?”

“Uhm,” Peter said, an image of his latest NightMonkey comic flashing through his head. Abort. Abort. He jumped to his feet. “Never mind. Change of topic. So what brings you to my neck of the woods?”

“Waiting for my future murder victim. If our intel is correct, a woman we’ve been looking for for a looong time is about to walk into that building right there.”

Peter squinted at the building across the street, then looked back at Mr. Stark. “Fraser & co? Don’t they just own parking lots?”

“Yup, but the company has been used as a cover to launder millions of dollars.”

Behind him, Peter spotted the roof door swing open and out stepped Captain America and Black Widow, both looking grim and completely ready to kick some butts. “Hey websy,” Romanoff said, lifting her chin a little in greeting.

Peter wanted to squawk in indignation at the uncool nickname, but really, how could he be mad about it when it was Black Widow saying it?

Iron Man took a step back so they all ended up standing in a neat semi-circle. “I thought you were going to bring the quinjet?"

“I did,” Romanoff said in her smooth voice. “I just parked it out of sight. Or did you want me to fly overhead with a large big banner saying ‘the Avengers are here’?”

“Nah, although I wouldn’t say no to you flying out of here later with a big banner saying ‘the Avengers were here’. In fact-”

“You guys need any help?” Peter interrupted. In his experience, a back-and-forth between Tony Stark and Natasha Romanoff could go on for a while.

Iron Man turned to him. “I wouldn’t ask that of you. But I’m aware you’ll probably to do it anyway.”

“Hey, at least I’m not so clumsy that people make embarrassing comics about me on Instagram.”

Natasha snorted.

“Those comics are wildly inaccurate,” Mr. Stark said with a huff, “because I don’t do my own ironing. And I am not clumsy, I am graceful as a sugar plum fairy.”

“You’re getting too old for this,” Peter told him with a lazy smile.

The face plate abruptly lifted and Tony Stark laid his piercing gaze on Peter. “Excuse me? Say that again?”

“Don’t say that again,” Natasha advised him.

“Do any of you remember why we are here today?” Rogers asked.

“Apologies, boss,” Mr. Stark said in light tones. “Please, impart your wisdom on us.”

“Let me start with a friendly reminder. We’re about to go up against a woman who has great accuracy with firearms and is part robot.”

Peter felt his curiosity spike. “Woah, part robot, really?”

“You can fanboy over her after we’ve caught her,” Mr. Stark tells him.

“What’s your plan of action, then? Have you tried taking her out with a localized electromagnetic pulse?”

Mr. Stark shuffled his feet, which looked a little ridiculous in that large suit. “We’ve attempted that. It resulted mostly in embarrassment. She has a covering of conductive material surrounding her chest that blocks electromagnetic fields. So the only thing that actually stopped working when we fired off the EMP, was my own suit.”

Peter fought back a snort. Oh, he should definitely make a comic strip about that.

“Which means that today, we’re just going for a good old-fashioned punch-up,” Steve Rogers said in light tones as he readjusted his shield. “There’s three of us this time, so we should be able to get this wrapped up without embarrassing ourselves too much.”

“Four of us.” Peter corrected.

Steve Rogers gave him a nod, clearly just to be polite. “Right. I appreciate the offer. Why don’t you… why don’t you stay up here and be our eyes and ears? That’s a very important job.” He looked to Natasha for support.

“Very important,” she echoed.

Right. Far be it from Peter to act like a whiny teenager in front of Captain America. If he wanted to be included, he needed to show that he was responsible and could follow orders. So he just nodded.

Only after the three Avengers had taken their leave – Tony Stark flying to the roof of the Fraser & Co company and Romanoff and Rogers taking the stairs down to the street – did Peter realize that they hadn’t even left him with a comm.

Now that was just damn disrespectful.

He sat down on the edge of the roof again with a sigh of resignation, and glanced up at the mural painting by Nescio. Uncle Ben looked down at him with a benevolent smile. “Glad you’re feeling cheerful, Ben,” Peter muttered. “’Be our eyes and ears’, they said. ‘It’s an important job’, they said. What do they expect me to do if I actually see something dangerous? Send smoke signals?”

Uncle Ben just smiled, like he always used to do when Peter was complaining. And even though it was actually just an abstract wall painting, Peter somehow still felt chastised.

He waited; his legs dangling over the side of the building, and he could tell that the Robot-lady was around when he saw Iron Man suddenly jumping to attention, stepping up to the edge of the roof.

Peter scanned the street, not immediately spotting their enemy until a tall figure in a long, grey raincoat caught his eye. The face was covered by the hood as she – it? – hurried down the street with long strides, a suitcase in hand.

She came to a full stop when she came face to face with Natasha, who appeared out of the Fraser & co’s front doors and blocked her entrance. In the same moment, the Iron-Man suit fired up and Tony Stark hovered to a position right above her.

Noticing him, she shrieked: the sound a strange mixture of a human cry and a fire alarm going off. She threw off her large raincoat, and wow-ee: Metal plates covered the right side of her face and her shoulder, a machinal eye moved independently from her natural one. Her right arm was more exposed; through the gaps in the metal, Peter could see red and blue wiring running down towards her hand.

In one motion, she slammed her suitcase down against the ground and opened it, exposing what looked like a strange sort of machine that Peter would really like to take home and poke with a screwdriver. Robot-lady smashed her hand down on a button, then took off running.

For a split second, it seemed like nothing happened at all.

Then, the street lights and all the neon signs hanging over nearby shops turned off as one, like candles blown out on a birthday cake.

And above Peter, in mid-air, the Iron Man suit suddenly didn’t hover any more, but dropped out of the sky, tumbling towards the tarmac at alarming speed.

Peter jumped forward, shooting his web. It caught the Iron Man suit on the leg, which meant that Tony was left dangling upside down, about thirty feet about the ground. But hey – he was still alive. Peter gently lowered the suit to the street where it remained, unmoving, flat on its back. Not even one tiny blinking light. She had fired off an EMP, Peter suddenly realized. Of course. Apparently, Robot-lady had learned from her last encounter with the Avengers. The Avengers had tried to throw her a grenade, and now she had taken the pin out and thrown it right back. Peter almost admired her.

Too bad she was totally evil.

Romanoff and Rogers were in pursuit, but they were hundreds of feet behind her and she was fast; shoving pedestrians out of her way and jumping across garbage cans with terrifying ease. It looked like Peter was going to have to solve this. As usual, he might add. Tony Stark was probably trapped like a sardine in a can right now, but he could wait.

Peter turned and swung. He saw Robot-lady turning a corner in the distance, and he launched himself up to the roof, crossing it diagonally before diving back down towards the street, swinging from lamppost to lamppost. He was already ahead of Rogers now, and Romanoff had completely dropped out of sight with her poor normal human legs.

The Robot-lady tore down the street like an out of control steamroller. She kicked a poor tree, that had apparently offended her, so hard that it snapped in half. Pedestrians gasped and ducked out of the way.

Peter had almost caught up with her. He gazed ahead, mentally mapping out Robot-lady’s route and his heart skipped an excited beat when he spotted a canopy above the entrance of a store, in the perfect position. It was dipping in the middle, where a large puddle of water had gathered. And if Robot-lady kept running in a straight line, Peter could treat her to a lovely mid-day shower, free of charge. Robots didn’t generally do well with water, did they?

He whooped as he swung up again, factoring in Robot-lady’s speed and falling perfectly in line with her movements. And just as she disappeared under the canopy, Peter slid across the top of it, his free arm outstretched, bringing the water sloshing to the edge.

The water didn’t hit her perfectly; it mostly hit her on the back of the head and shoulders, not against the arm where machinery seemed most exposed.

She still let out an unearthly shriek, furiously shaking her head back and forth, sending droplets flying. Something sizzled. A red spark. She stumbled forward a few more paces, suddenly looking like a baby-deer taking its first steps. But even as she went down, Peter saw her crane her neck upwards and aim the gun straight at him.

There was a BANG, ominously reverberating against the buildings, and in the same moment Peter felt his right shoulder explode with pain.

Not this again.

Quickly shooting a web with his good arm, he lowered himself down to the street, gritting his teeth against the blinding pain. He glanced back to see Steve Rogers jump on top of the woman, practically spreadeagled. All pedestrians had their attention fully focused on the floundering mass of limbs on the pavement.

Peter quickly ducked behind a large, triangular stone pillar that decorated the façade of a fancy apartment block. Out of sight - - hopefully out of mind.

Every single breath sent a jab of pain shooting through his chest and down his right arm. Yeah, he’d taken a proper hit. He knew from long experience how to deal with gunshot wounds like this. He tried to keep his breathing as superficial as possible as he reached his left arm around and felt for an exit wound. Turned out he wasn’t flexible enough to reach all the way behind his shoulder, and even trying to stretch that far hurt like a mother trucker.

So he slid down to the ground, leaned back against the wall for a bit and gloomily picked at the bullet-sized hole in the front of his red-and-blue hoodie. Another suit down the drain. Or maybe he could fix it with a little patchwork.

Who had ever expected that being a superhero would involve so much sewing?

He was surprised to hear the whirring of repulsors. Apparently, the Iron Man suit had already recovered from the cyber-meltdown. Too bad, because Peter was in no mood for a patented Stark-lecture. The ground shook as Iron Man landed ungracefully on the pavement. Mr. Stark was always overly protective of him when they fought together. Iron Man, mother hen.

The Iron Man suit moved closer. The face plate lifted, revealing Tony Stark’s tight face, eyes trained on Peter’s shoulder. “Does it hurt?”

“No, it tickles,” Peter snapped. “Did I… Did I — take her down?”

“Steve are we clear?” Mr. Stark asked and, after listening for the answer, continued: “All right. I’m with Spidey. Nat, keep the Quinjet ready, we may need to get him back to home rank.”

“Nnnnope,” Peter said, still focusing on keeping his breathing as shallow as possible. They were gonna have to do a lot worse to him than a simple bullet hole before Peter would consent to be taken to the Avengers’ headquarters.

Mr. Stark stepped out of his suit and knelt beside him. “You have a gunshot wound, Underoos.”

“Yeah, thanks for — pointing out — the obvious.” Peter grunted, slowly releasing another breath. He wasn’t going to puke all over Mr. Stark’s shoes again, he just wasn’t. They were nice shoes, too. Bright red with flashy laces.

Mr. Stark looked annoyed. “Well, apparently you’re one of those people who needs the obvious pointed out to them.”

“Just tell… just tell me — if there’s an exit wound. As long as — the bullet — is not in there… I’ll heal.”

Tony Stark muttered something under his breath that definitely contained several colorful swear words and scooted closer, tugging a little at Peter’s collar.

Don’t take off my mask,” Peter pleaded.

Mr. Stark didn’t respond. He just carefully peeled the red-and-blue fabric away from Peter’s shoulder, one strong arm firmly around Peter waist to keep him steady, as he leaned over to glance down Peter’s back. “Exit wound,” he confirmed, and Peter exhaled in relief.

Mr. Stark carefully readjusted his suit and set him back against the wall. Peter only winced slightly when his injured back hit the bricks. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

“Call me Tony, kid. We’re there.”

“Thanks, Tony. Um, that will be all. You can be on your way now.”

“If you think I’m going to leave you here, you must be concussed on top of everything else.”

Peter shrugged dismissively with his one good shoulder. “Stay as long — as you want. But as soon as — I can stand without throwing up, I’m leaving ... My aunt is a nurse ... She can fix me up when I get home ... If I’m not — fully healed by then.” He heaved in a slightly deeper breath. It was getting easier already; the sharp jabs of pain turning into the tingling, burning sensation that always accompanied his healing factor.

“Your aunt knows about this, then?”

“Uhuh. Helped me dig the bullet out this one time when I didn’t have an exit wound.”

“You are one tough motherfucker,” Tony said.

Language, young man!” Peter scolded.

Tony snorted.

Peter laid his head back against the wall. “Thanks,” he murmured. “For not, uh… That is… I figured you’d use this as an excuse to take a peek under the mask.”

“Hey, it’s in my own best interest to keep your identity a secret, Underoos,” Tony said. “Judging by your size and voice you’re – rough estimate – twelve years old. You’re a kid playing an adult game, and I don’t need that on my conscience. But as long as you keep the mask on, I can pretend that I don’t know how young you are.”

“Excuse me very much, I’m fifteen.”

“You’re not making the compelling case you think you are. Let me take you home, at least.”

Peter lifted his head again to study Tony through his goggles. “You know that’s not gonna happen, right?”

“You can’t expect me to—“

“Listen, Tony, I don’t have a death wish, okay? So if I thought the situation was bad, I’d ask for help. But I’ve been through this particular mill a hundred times already. I know what I’m doing.” Peter sat up straighter and, when he wasn’t overcome with a wave of nausea, carefully pushed himself to his feet.

Tony stood up too, still frowning deeply. But all Peter did was give him a little wave and say “tell Captain ‘you’re welcome’ for me, and maybe to actually work with me next time, and I’ll see ya when I see ya,” before shuffling around him and into the sunlight.

And Iron Man probably thought Peter didn’t notice him following; didn’t feel Tony Stark’s eyes on him from somewhere overhead as he walked home. As soon as he could, Peter ducked into an alleyway and managed to escape him.

-

Spider-Man might be a ‘tough motherfucker’, but Peter Parker sometimes needed help.

For instance, when he was handing another steaming cup of coffee to Jennie, a shy but sweet homeless lady with a troubled past who came to the café almost every Saturday, and suddenly Don popped up next to the table, distrust and suspicion written all over his face.

“Are you happy with your order, ma’am?” he asked, his voice laced with a false sincerity, eyes trained on Jennie like a shark who had smelled blood in the water.

Jennie stared up at him like a dear caught in headlights, nodding quickly in spite of her clear panic, and there was a small chance that Peter was definitely about to get fired.

“And will you be paying in cash or by credit card, ma’am?” Don asked, going in for the kill.

Jennie threw Peter a helpless glance, then ducked her head, almost disappearing inside the giant scarf. Peter held his breath, clenching his tray tight, grasping for some kind of excuse.

“Well?” Don demanded.

“Excuse me,” a voice said.

Tony Stark really had a knack of turning up at the worst moments. Peter turned, wondering if this situation was about to get better or much, much worse. Tony was standing behind them in a nice looking suit. He was wearing those same bright red shoes. His eyes drifted from Don’s set jaw, to Jennie, to Peter’s nervous face. He didn’t say anything else, yet.

Don did a double take, then blinked. “Hey, aren’t you—“

Tony finally spoke, as if he had waited for Don to start just so he could interrupt him. “I certainly hope you are not accosting my business partner, hm?”

Don floundered for a moment. “Business partner?”

“Yes,” Tony said. ”This is Mrs. Flanigan, head of NYU Tandon school of engineering. Problem?”

Don glanced at Jennie’s oversized coat and dirty nails. Jennie puffed out her chest a little, holding his gaze this time. “No problem,” Don said in his most oily voice. “I’m honored to receive you in my establishment, Iron Man.”

“Yes, well, you have excellent staff,” Tony said, with a single pat on Peter’s shoulder. “Hey, kid.”

“Hello T-… Mr. Stark,” Peter said, catching himself just in time. Tony had only allowed Spider-Man to get to a first-name basis, after all. “I like your shoes.”

“Of course you do. They’re the height of fashion,” Tony said with a grin. “They’re so cool, you could store tubs of ice cream in them.”

Don glanced between Tony and Peter for a moment, lips pursed in aversion. Anyone who talked to Peter like a normal human being, would clearly never be a friend of Don. But the man apparently had enough braincells left to not challenge Tony Stark directly. So instead, he just dumped a few more insults on Peter. “I didn’t hire you to stand around. Maybe actually get your lazy ass to work for a change; you have a line of customers at the counter.” He turned his back on them.

“Yes, sir,” Peter mumbled, deciding not to point out that the line was there because Don had felt the need to check up on him in the first place.

Tony gave him an incredulous look, and as soon as Don was out of earshot, he mimicked: “Yes, sir. Why the hell are you letting that guy walk all over you?”

Peter released a breath, so long that it felt as though he had been holding it through the whole conversation. “Thank you, Mr. Stark,” he said, fully aware that Tony just saved his job.

“Welcome, squirt,” the man said, turning to Jennie with a slight bow as he gestured at the chair. “May I?”

She blinked, then shrugged her consent.

Tony sat down at the table with her, languidly leaning back and grinning up at Peter. “Why don’t you get me and my business partner some donuts?” he took off his sunglasses and pointed them at Jennie. “You like banana and cinnamon, Mrs. Flanigan?”

She narrowed her eyes, gauging his expression for a moment. “Chocolate raspberry,” she then said.

Tony nodded. “Excellent choice.”

Peter returned to the counter, head still reeling. Tony had saved his ass for now, but Peter knew this wasn’t the end of it. Maybe Don had seen Jennie at the café before and had been suspicious of her already. Either way, Peter really needed to be more careful with the free coffee, because Don would probably be watching him for a while.

He took a few more orders, then paused for a moment behind the counter to massage his shoulder. His muscles always did feel a bit sore the day after he’d gotten shot or stabbed. He had made it back home just fine last night. His wound had already closed nicely by then, so May couldn’t fuss over him like she always wanted to. Instead, she had clucked her tongue a bit when she saw his bloodied and shot apart hoodie and set about washing out the worst stains with hot water and soap. Peter had told her to forget it, that he was going to throw it out and make himself a new one, but May had insisted that it needed to be cleaned first to avoid questions from the neighbors (“Didn’t we watch 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith' together? Don’t you know any one of our neighbors could be a secret spy?”).

He made Tony a cup of coffee and then brought the odd couple their donuts. Tony appeared to have no problem keeping up a conversation with a homeless woman; their current topic of conversation was business relations, and Jennie apparently had plenty of advice.

“It’s all about image,” Tony was saying. “I just need to get those people to like me, somehow.”

“You can steal their stuff and then pretend you found them under a garbage can,” Jennie said.

A wicked light entered Tony’s eyes. “Interesting.”

Peter didn’t want to know what schemes they were hatching, but there was something heartwarming about the simple fact that Tony Stark had actually sat down with Jennie – and he didn’t even look at her all superior and condescending. Peter already knew that there was something resembling a kind person beneath all those carefully constructed layers of cynicism and snark, but it was always pleasant to see a reminder.

He set the donuts down, before clenching the tray against his chest. “You should probably not come by during the day for a few weeks,” he told Jennie, forcing down that little bubble of guilt. “Lay low for a little while. But you can drop by around closing time, because Don has usually long left by then, and I always close up by myself.”

“You need to quit this job,” Tony said with a frown as he reached for his donut. “That asshole is abusive.”

“What?” Peter squeaked. “No sir, he doesn’t… he never…”

“Not like that. Verbally abusive, not to mention exploitative. How old are you, thirteen? Are you even allowed to work this many hours? Working overtime while he just goes home?”

“Excuse me very much, I’m fifteen.”

Tony gave a dramatic sigh, waving his donut around. “God, if I had a penny for every time I heard some kid say that as if it would actually make a damn difference… well, I’d have two pennies. Quit you job, squirt!”

“Thanks for you insight, Mr. Stark, but some of us aren’t billionaires who can spend their days snorting caviar and bathing in champagne.”

“Sounds like someone has been reading my diary,” Tony said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Peter just frowned at him. He didn’t want to be snarky at Tony, but the man’s ‘nothing matters’-attitude annoyed him. “I need this job, it’s my safety net.”

“I’ll give you a job,” Tony offered. “The tower has a restaurant where you can work. Several, in fact. I’ll double whatever that asshole pays you, and you won’t have to do unpaid overtime. Mi casa es su safety net.”

Peter breathed out, now feeling guilty about snapping. Tony’s frame of reference might be a little detached from reality, with his mindboggling state of wealth and fame, but he was always kind to Peter and he had just saved him from Don’s wrath. “Thank you sir, but I don’t want to quit,” he explained. “I really like this job. I mean – not the owner, or the hours, or the pay. But I like the customers. They know me, they come here to talk to me, to get free coffee when they need it.” He threw a quick glance at Jennie. “I don’t want to ditch them.”

“Excuse me,” a breathy voice interrupted them. A young man had appeared next to the booth; early twenties, wobbling nervously on his feet. “Sir, I’m such a big fan. Can I… Can we get a selfie?”

Tony’s mouth snapped shut. He threw Peter a calculating look that seemed to imply that Peter had not heard the last of his ‘quit your job’-rant, but then turned his attention to the young man. “Big fan, huh? What’s my favorite color?”

The man blinked. “Your…”

“Just making sure you’re not one of those fake fans who only started liking me after I saved the planet from aliens.”

“It’s, uh… red and gold?” The man ventured.

“Lucky guess,” Tony said. “Get in here.”

With a undignified squeal, the man got his selfie before bouncing off, back to his own table. A few other customers had turned their heads, too, comprehension dawning in their eyes as they took a good look at Mr. Stark.

“I’d better leave,” Tony murmured, taking out his wallet and pushing some money into Peter’s hand without even looking how much it was. “That’s to cover everything. Keep the change.” He rose from his chair and bowed at Jennie again. “Goodbye Mrs Flanigan, thank you for the interesting, fierce and – I think – productive debate on establishing long-term working relationships.” He left.

“Gosh,” Jennie said as she happily dunked a piece of donut into her coffee. “Can you believe Tony Stark thought I was the head of some university?”