Chapter Text
“I refuse to have Stark breaking down my door to find you bleeding out on my sofa, Peter.”
Peter grimaced, managing a weak smile. “Oh, he doesn’t know I’m here. Ned took out the tracker and I stopped FRIDAY from snitching, so...” He shrugged, trying to downplay the gravity of the situation.
MJ wanted to throttle him.
“I just want you to know that I appreciate the risk you’re taking,” he continued obliviously, while she tried to steady her hands as she began sewing him up.
It looked like a small stab wound (god, Peter was such a bad influence on her. Why was she saying that it was just small? It was a stab wound-), and it was bleeding sluggishly. But MJ would fix it - or at least, she’d try.
He winced as the needle pierced his skin, but she tried to block the noise out. “You better, Parker.”
“I am. I’m eternally grateful,” Peter said, his voice tinged with that annoying earnestness that made MJ’s irritation flare. “And I pinky swear not to die in your living room, because I know your parents probably won’t be chill with that.”
She tried not to think about all the cleaning up she’d have to do after this.
“You’re so thoughtful,” she sniped, jabbing him a little harder than what was probably necessary with the needle. “You’re so damn lucky my dad’s working late tonight. So that’s not gonna be an issue, though.”
“Well, I’m glad at least one of us is confident,” Peter hissed through clenched teeth, his face contorted in pain.
She tried to ignore the sound of the pained wince, but it was hard to. Instead, she clenched her jaw and bit at the inside of her lip. Count to ten. Take a breath. Try not to strangle this stupid idiot, despite the fact that he absolutely deserves it.
“Oh, no, not me,” she said slowly as she reached over for an alcohol wipe to clear away some of the dried blood. “I’ve already identified a couple of spots to dump your body if this goes south.”
“I’ve always enjoyed Central Park,” Peter mused with a wry grin, trying to distract himself from the searing pain.
“Bit of a hike if I have to wheel your body down there. But,” she hummed thoughtfully, “It does have nice access to the lake.”
Peter just let out a strained laugh as she continued. Jesus, this asshole owed her so much for putting up with this shit. MJ wasn’t a vigilante; while she respected - admired, even, although she’d die before she let Peter hear that come from her - she wasn’t used to the cost that came with it.
She wasn’t a nurse, either, and fuck if it didn’t show right now. Although Peter was probably more cockroach than Spider, so she was sure he’d be fine.
“Almost done,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. Her hands were steady - or, stead ier, now, that the initial tremor was gone. She finished the last stitch and tied it off with a firm knot, sitting back to admire her work. “There. That should hold.”
Peter exhaled slowly, relief washing over him. “Thanks, MJ. Really.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said, though the tension in her… everything eased a bit. She sat back, rolling her shoulders, tense from leaning over at such an awkward angle. She hoped it wouldn’t be too sore tomorrow, but at least she wouldn’t have to go to the gym with a stab wound.
Peter would, though. He was just built differently.
“Just... try not to get stabbed next time, okay?”
“I’ll do my best,” Peter promised, giving her a tired smile. He gingerly touched the newly sewn wound, wincing slightly. He stood, tentatively stretching and twisting as he turned as if to test the pain. He grimaced but gave a grin. “Good to go! Don’t worry, MJ. Thanks again!”
He slowly pulled open the window to her room, gave her a two-fingered salute, and then promptly fell out of the window.
MJ pressed her hands to her face with a slow, deep inhale. Count to five, then back down. When she reopened her eyes, the sight of half-used medical supplies and bloody gloves met her.
If midterms didn’t kill her, the stress of just being in Peter’s general vicinity sure would.
—
By the time Peter slunk home a little after two in the morning, he knew he was in trouble.
He pulled his window open, fingers wedging where he left it slightly ajar before crawling back inside. Peter dropped down, feet padding against the carpet as he dropped down onto his bed with a wince that he stifled into a sigh.
Fuck, he was exhausted.
He took a breath, tentatively tracing a finger over his - newly bandaged - side. It still ached; a dull, throbbing that felt a little like an echo of a phantom pain from another lifetime ago. Subconsciously, his hand dips a little lower to trace the twisting scar that trailed from his ribcage to just above his hip. Painless, and long healed. But still there.
At least his healing factor had kicked back up now that his metabolism was finally being fed to reasonable contentment. Before he could sink too deep into his thoughts, however, there was a sharp knock on the door that had Peter shooting up.
He let out a strangled yelp, head snapping towards the doorway before tumbling out of his bed with a thunk . How had he not heard the footprints? Jesus, he must’ve been more tired from patrol than he thought.
“Peter?” Tony’s voice came from behind the door - muffled and light, but Peter could hear tension in it regardless. “You alright?”
“Yeah!” Peter called back, hoping Mr. Stark didn’t hear that he was as strangled as he sounded. “Just, um, gimme a sec!”
He reached up behind him, grappling half-heartedly to grope at a clean T-shirt to toss over his head. As he stumbled over to the doorway, he snagged a pair of sweatpants and yanked them up over his hips to somewhat cover the suit. It wasn’t great, but it’d have to do.
Peter reached for the doorknob, cracking it open a sliver. “Um, can I help you?”
“Yeah,” Tony said flatly. “Where were you?”
“Oh,” Peter bit his lip, momentarily floundering as the pause stretched out. “I, um, I had a nightmare…? I was - down on Bucky’s floor. But I’m back, now, and I was sleeping, actually.”
That was believable. That wasn’t even out of the norm, either; Mr. Stark knew that he still had nightmares, despite the fact that it was as humiliating as it was. And if he didn’t sneak up to the man’s lab, he was probably on Bucky’s floor watching dumb movies from the early two thousands in an effort to ‘catch up.’
“Nice try, punk,” came a voice, low and gravelly and incredibly pissed off. “You wanna try again?”
Oh. Shit.
Mr. Stark pushed the door open, and Peter took a step back reflexively. The low light from the hallway spilled into his room, and the towering silhouette standing in his doorway still made him feel a little uneasy.
But then Bucky’s metal arm pushed into his field of view, and he focussed on the familiar glint of the grey material.
“So,” Mr. Stark began again, waiting until Peter’s eyes came up to meet his before continuing, “Where were you, Peter?”
He gave a careless shrug, gaze flicking back down to the carpet. “Out.”
“Out?” Bucky repeated, lips downturned. Peter tried a little desperately not to shrink under the man’s gaze. Bucky wasn’t intimidating, usually; it was hard to see the guy as intimidating after the first few weeks of living in the same building as him and all the little quirks that had come along with that.
“Yeah,” he nodded again, desperately wishing to get this over with. “Out.”
“Peter, I know we haven’t really set a hard curfew or anything, but this is ridiculous.” Tony’s brows drew together, and he stared down at Peter in a way that kind of made him want to step out of the man’s line of sight. It had nothing against Steve’s ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed,’ but it felt like a pretty strong second. “You can’t be crawling back to the tower at nearly two-thirty on a Tuesday. You have school tomorrow!” Tony paused then, looking a little like he’d just lost ten years off his life. “I can’t believe you just made me say that.”
“Fine!” Peter snipped, “But it’ll be fine! That’s still like, five hours of sleep. Which I would be getting if I wasn’t getting told off right now like a four-year-old!”
“I wouldn't have to lecture a four-year-old about curfews!”
Ugh. He was so tired. Peter just wanted to sleep at this point. He could feel the headache coming on, and he still hadn’t finished that stupid essay that was due tomorrow and this week was going to suck. But as much as he’d like it to already be over, that didn’t change the fact that he was being scolded in his doorway like a toddler.
“Oh my god,” Peter muttered, tiredly rubbing a hand against his cheek. “I’m getting fucking tag-teamed by a super soldier and Tony Stark. What the hell is my life.”
“Shut up,” Bucky squinted at him in the dark, eyes flitting over his form briefly like he was watching him for something. “You hurt?”
Usually, the thought of someone being really, sincerely worried about him would be a little heartwarming. It came with a healthy dosage of guilt, too; but mostly just stirring something warm in his chest. Now, it was just a little annoying - he wasn’t a fan of being ambushed the second he’d gotten home. (He ignored the part of his chest that warmed at the thought of them caring enough to check up on him.)
“I-”
“No, I don’t want to hear it, of course he is,” Tony cut him off. “FRI?”
The men standing across from him fell silent as they waited for the AI to respond. Peter huffed, head angling upward while he silently stewed about the stupidity of it all. He was fine. He was being responsible. He even went to MJ for help instead of reaching across the aisle and stapling his side shut from the robbery gone wrong at a local corner store.
“Peter seemed to have sustained a minor stab wound, but it has been sterilized and bandaged. No further action is needed, boss.”
Peter let out a relieved sigh, sinking a little more of his weight against the door. He wasn’t really worried, to be honest; it was only a small stab wound that had (thankfully) missed everything vital and was only an inch or two deep. But MJ had done a pretty good job cleaning it up and stitching it shut, so he knew it was probably fine.
“Told you,” Peter grouched, turning to walk further back into his room. “Anything else I can help you with, or can I actually sleep now?”
“Watch the attitude,” Tony shot back, and he caught Bucky's snort before he pushed the door shut with a gentle click. He waited to listen for the sound of their retreating footsteps before flopping into bed tiredly - spider-suit still sticking to his skin uncomfortably - only to hear Mr. Stark’s muffled, “Jesus Christ, I sound like my father.”
—
“I think I liked it more when you were still too scared to let us know about Spider-Man,” MJ said, face in her hands. They were crowded around the lunch table, and Peter raised an eyebrow. She glared flatly at him. “I didn’t have to worry about you breaking into my room, bleeding out of… everywhere.”
He winced.
Ned, on the other hand, just nodded sagely. “Yeah, I get that. The hero worship dies real quick once you have to learn how to do stitches at three in the morning.”
“Dude,” Peter hissed, “it was one time. Let it go, already. "
Ned just sniffed as he moved to unwrap his sandwich. “That’s not the thank you that you know I deserve.”
“That’s because I’ve already thanked you, like, fifty times already.”
“But why can’t you just go to Mr. Stark, though? I’m sure he has his own medical setup or something considering the Avengers live there too, now.”
“The Medbay, yeah,” Peter nodded, before shrinking a little in place. “And… I could, I guess, but I don’t want to bother him that late - or, early, I guess - in the morning.” He huffed, “And technically he’s given me an eleven o’clock curfew. Which I don’t always follow. So if I start knocking on his door at two in the morning he’s gonna be a little mad I’m not listening to him.”
Mr. Stark had been taking the whole ‘Responsible Adoptive Parental Role’ (Peter refused to call him his dad or anything like that because it felt weird, still) really seriously. He’d locked down on the curfews, and he freaked out more than Bucky did when he’d wound up injured. Peter wanted to say that was just so if his caseworker stopped by to check on him he wouldn’t be covered in bruises and bandages - but another part of him figured it was the residual guilt from the last year or so.
“Go to Bucky, then,” MJ shrugged.
Peter scoffed. “Have you ever been given the ‘not mad, just disappointed talk’ by someone who’s been friends with Steve Rogers for over a hundred years?” Ned winced, and Peter narrowed his eyes at him. “Yeah. It sucks. You’d cry, and you know it - but him and Tony Stark? Dude, the first time that happened I almost did. It was horrible.”
“Well how about you just don’t break curfew, then?” MJ snarked like that was the obvious answer.
Peter frowned, looking up at her for a moment before as he mulled the idea over in his head. He wanted to say that it was just the residual urge to go where he wanted when he wanted from his time living alone. The thought of his previous fosters setting curfews and deadlines made him queasy, and he didn’t want Mr. Stark and his previous… ‘carers’ anywhere near each other - even if it was just a loose connection in his head.
Sam would probably say he should talk to Mr. Stark about this. Peter did very much not want to talk to Mr. Stark about this, so he’d continue to keep his mouth very firmly shut.
“I thought you were all about rules being made to be broken?” he asked instead, pivoting the focus back to MJ.
“Not when breaking that rule gets you stabbed and grounded.”
Peter opened his mouth to argue, but Ned butt in, “And giving me a literal heart attack, dude! The last time you did that, I honestly thought I was dying. Seriously, dude, you’ve taken at least ten years off my life.”
He felt a little bad - because it wasn't really fair to them; they didn't need to be learning the above basics (or rather, a horrifying crash course in first aid) at an ungodly hour on a school night.
“Sorry,” Peter winced. “I won't do that again.”
“Nuh uh, not what I meant,” MJ corrected with an exasperated tone, “I don't mean that I'd rather have you bleed out in an alleyway because you're too stubborn to ask for help. I mean you'd be better off getting help from, you know, a trained professional?”
“Oh,” Peter breathed. “Right.”
“Yeah, oh, dumbass. but if you're too proud to visit the Medbay, by all means. My window is always open.”
Peter looked down, shuffling his feet awkwardly underneath the table. He knew they were right, but the idea of burdening others always felt like too much.
“I swear to god, Peter,” Ned groaned, “you're the only one who'd literally rather die than ask for help sometimes. You're smart, but you're an idiot, you know that?”
MJ’s head shot up, gaze fixating on Peter for a moment, “speaking of idiots,” she started.
“Okay, ouch-”
“Why aren’t you freaking out about the field trip more?” Ned blurted, gaze flicking between the two of them. He was missing something. He was clearly missing something. “I thought you’d be freaking out over that.”
Peter… hadn’t been paying attention much, to be honest. He’d been barely conscious for science: awake but not quite functioning, yet, after the night before. He was so focused on making it back to the tower and not missing a swing and plummeting a hundred or so feet that he was exhausted by the time he’d crawled into bed.
But despite the fact that (after courtesy of a lecture from Bucky and Mr. Stark) Peter had managed to get changed and crawl into his bed more exhausted than he had ever been in recent memory - he still hadn’t been able to fall asleep. He figured it was probably his spidey sense ( his Peter Tingle, he mused in a voice that sounded suspiciously like May’s. There was a pang of painful fondness, but he buried it quickly) keeping him awake to make sure he didn’t die in his sleep or something despite the (albeit amateur) medical treatment he’d received.
The tower was safe, he knew that now, but it was like his body was still running on an echo of the last year or so. And as annoying as that was, all it did was make it hard to sleep sometimes. Moreso when he was injured, which tended to be a double-whammy.
“The… field trip?” Oh shit. He mustn’t have been paying attention at all.
“The field trip,” MJ repeated, looking more and more unimpressed with each passing second. Ned looked like he was ready to burst. “To Stark Industries.”
Peter paused. Blinked. Took a moment to think about every choice in his life and how it had led up to this moment.
“To…” Peter swallowed, “To the Tower? Where… uh, where I live?”
“Where you live!” Ned hissed excitedly, “dude, this is going to be awesome! I would literally kill to get a look inside the actual labs in that place. Do you think we’ll get to see Mr. Stark’s personal lab? What’s it like?”
He put his head in his hands and gave a low, pained moan. God, this was going to be terrible. MJ laughed like it was funny, and Peter had a fleeting feeling that she’d pull out her sketchbook if he wasn’t careful. Ned looked like he was trying to be supportive, but was too excited to commiserate with Peter.
There was a scoff from a table or so other, and when Peter looked up he wanted to just close his eyes.
Flash was sitting a ways away, gaze firmly planted on him. “What, scared we’re gonna find out about that fake internship, Penis?”
As silly as it was, Peter didn’t actually have the official “intern” badge. Or pass, or card or whatever it was. Mr. Stark had been pretty understanding of Peter’s heavy-set paranoia that came with moving to the tower: so since he’d lived there he’d only ever come in through the window or the back entrance that FRIDAY controlled save he accidentally got recognized. Or, worse: the actual employees realized that he very much didn’t work there. He didn’t even think he was registered as an intern anymore, either; although he’d been listed officially while they’d been trying to get the adoption process, he figured it was probably just a temporary thing.
Despite the fact that it was probably temporary, that hadn’t stopped Mr. Stark from registering him as an intern with the school for extra credit. And despite the strict student-school privacy codes they had set in place, it didn’t stop the office ladies from gossiping with the teachers. Who were then overheard by the students. Who told everyone.
“Yeah, Flash,” Peter said exhaustedly. “You’re right. I did all this to trick you specifically. Because I really, desperately care what you think.” Flash’s scowl deepened. “I crave your approval, really.”
“Fuck you,” the boy spit back with a snarl, gaze flickering over to MJ for a moment before his expression faltered and he muttered something under his breath. School had seemed to be going well, for the most part. It (read: Flash) wasn’t quite as bad as before he’d left - probably thanks to MJ’s general aura of… scary-ness.
But Peter had the horrible creeping feeling that this field trip would change that.
—
“What are you doing?”
Peter let out an undignified yelp as the container of food was sent tumbling out of his hands, barely catching it in time. Spinning on his heels, he stood there, wide-eyed and caught off guard.
“Ms. Romanoff,” he squeaked, barely making out her still, silent form at the counter. “What are you, um, what are you doing?”
“Call me Nat,” Peter could barely see her face, the light from the open fridge bathing one side of the kitchen in a soft blue glow. Her lip quirked, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “And I asked you first.”
“I’m, um,” he paused, gaze flicking back to the half-emptied fridge, two of the shelves in the sink, the wet washcloth in his hand. “Cleaning?”
It wasn't a bad habit to develop, of all things. He could be doing drugs or something. Mr. Stark did have that really fancy expensive alcohol cabinet - although he doubted that it would work on him and his advanced metabolism. (And it was probably locked. And he’d get murdered for even trying to break into it.) The only thing that had worked was when he’d been smacked over the head with that brick of weird spliced cocaine. Ugh, he shivered. That was horrible.
But anyway.
Cleaning was relatively calming; it was repetitive and gave him something to focus on, too. And FRIDAY had promised she wouldn't snitch as long as his heart rate wasn't in worrying territory.
He had a sneaking suspicion that that dumb protocol was set up for Tony, anyway; it seemed like something Pepper would do. It was too… responsible for Mr. Stark to create himself. (He was also silently thankful that FRIDAY would give him an exception every now and then. Maybe it was because she'd realized forcing him to seek out another person on bad nights seemed to do more harm than good.)
As the silence stretched out when he failed to elaborate, Natasha merely hummed, her elbows leaning against the countertop with her chin propped against her fists.
“Why are you awake?” Peter asked after a few beats of silence stretched out between them.
“Why are you awake?” she asked, eyes boring into his. “Don’t you have school tomorrow?” Peter’s face flushed a little, glad it was swallowed up by the darkness. But , he thought a little miserably, Natasha probably just knew somehow. He felt exposed in a way - like he’d been caught doing something wrong rather than standing here in the dark with a wet rag over the sink.
“Yeah,” he shrugged, trying to play it off casually. “I just… can’t sleep. Is… is that why you’re awake, too?”
Natasha didn’t answer immediately; she just angled her neck a little in the darkness of the room. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft splashing of the soapy water in the sink as Peter continued to scrub the shelves.
“Yeah,” Natasha responded after a while, her voice quiet but still the loudest thing in the kitchen. “I can’t sleep, either.”
Peter glanced up at her, surprised by the admission. He paused for a moment, soapy water splashing up against his wrists before relaxing and continuing to scrub at a stubborn stain.
“Must be the cold,” Peter joked, and when Natasha didn’t respond he continued, “You know, because spiders and the cold…?” It was a bad joke; it didn't even entirely make sense, either - the cold usually made him slow and sluggish; but there were also times when the cold was just uncomfortable enough to keep him awake.
But instead of pointing any of that out or laughing at him, though, Natasha just let out a small but genuine-sounding laugh, and Peter beamed.
—
Before everything had happened with Peter, Tony had a pretty regular check-in schedule with his other problem child. (Harley would probably say he was actually the problem, since Tony had been the one to break into his garage. Tony would probably tell him to shut up in response.)
But after everything with the Accords - and everything after Peter, too, he’d skipped their last scheduled meet-up. It was a nice chance to get the kid out of the heartland and into the city every now and then; and he knew the kid was itching to get a look at his new suits, too. There was a muffled stab of guilt when he realized that it wasn’t the first time he’d left Harley hanging, and he had half a mind to reach for his phone just to check up on the kid, but before his fingertips grazed the phone came a female voice.
“Boss, it appears Peter has been injured,” FRIDAY called down, and that sentence had him jerking back and spinning on his heels straight towards the elevator.
“Status?” He barked, and there was a pause. His heart was in his throat. It felt like he couldn’t breathe.
God, was the kid out on patrol doing stupid, horrible, reckless things again? He had half a mind to take his suit - or at least re-enact the Baby Monitor program that he knew that the kid had somehow disengaged. He was mostly annoyed, but that came with a sort of begrudging pride as well.
“Not major,” she clarified after a moment, and it felt like he could inhale again. “He kicked a wall, and there’s a possible fracture to his toe.”
Jesus Christ, this kid was going to make him go grey.
“Maybe you should lead with that, FRI.”
“Apologies, boss.”
She didn’t sound apologetic in the slightest.
“What happened?” The kid was usually pretty good with stuff like that - he certainly wasn’t clumsy. A part of that probably came from his inherent… stickiness that saved him from dropping stuff whenever he wasn’t paying attention. Tony knew it had saved him in the lab more than he’d like to admit. While Peter wasn’t exactly graceful in his movements, it was hard to imagine the kid kicking a wall so hard he might have fractured his toe.
“He tripped on his school bag and tried to catch himself.” She sounded almost amused, and Tony felt his exasperation double. At who, he wasn’t sure. Whatever. At least the kid was fine. Or, probably. Mostly unbroken was what he was aiming for.
He’d have to double-check that the kid was alright. And maybe nag the kid to pick his stuff up off the floor.
Ugh. Harley would have to wait.