Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was easy enough to see that I was a stupid motherfucker. No, really, just ask anyone. I was stupid, I was impulsive, hyperactive, crass, you name it. One of my teachers in the seventh grade even went as far as to call me the "devil's incarnate hooked up to an IV full of coffee." Someone, like you, might tell me not to listen to them, or that "sticks and stones may break your bones, but words may never hurt you." It's bullshit. I've broken bones before. A splintered femur is nowhere near as painful as watching a teary-eyed ex-friend recount the things they hate about you. But, I digress. If you wanted to hear some punk kid mope about their shit life for two hours straight, you'd watch a Lifetime movie. No, I know what you came here for; my life story, but with less of my own personal feelings, and more excruciatingly pretentious descriptions of what the sensation of almost dying feels like.

I have to break some truth to you, however. Even with me being the thing that I was, the near-death experiences (at least, the ones that weren't somehow self-induced) take a major backseat to the drone of day-to-day life. This isn't to mean I don't think about these moments almost all the time, but rather that I'm living a life. A life that includes sleeping, eating, household chores, stubbed toes, awkward doctor's visits, and those weird-tasting burps that contain the withered ghost of last night's dinner. The average human life is about 28,000 days long, and most of them are filled with that. But, as I said before, that isn't what you came here for.

Where do I start?

Maybe I start with the dream. You know those dreams that you get that are surprisingly surreal, beautiful, and subliminally strange? The ones that leave you with a sense of bewilderment, confusion, and a new layer of introspection? Yeah, I didn't ever get those. No, I had to get fucking omens. Why couldn't I have the normal onset of anxiety-induced "I-Arrived-To-School-In-My-Whitie-Tighties" dreams, like most kids? I guess I can't really have things that most other kids have.

My dreams almost always start with the same scene- I'm surrounded by carnage and destruction in a run-down city block. The area looks like it'd been recently nuked; there was more rubble than there was road. Large, twisted chunks of metal are quite literally floating through the air, seemingly pulled by what must be the world's strongest invisible fishing line, towards a caped figure. A beat-up girl in a brick red-jacket wove what looked like pure light of the same color through her fingers, with a desperate look on her face. She kept looking back at me. Innumerable people in uniforms were on the ground, either injured, or just dead in a sickening ring of red liquids and exposed bone marrows. A boy in a flashy blue-and-red spandex bodysuit (I'm not one to judge for this poor fashion choice, I've done way worse) is clutching my arm, a look of defeat and panic across his features. I could never make out his face clearly, but he always had brown eyes. Very big, very sad, very brown. He always said the same thing to me, every damn time.
"Run, Pietro."
And then I'd wake up.
I know that I don’t have to take that as a bad omen. I know that I don’t even have to take it as anything, really. I'd dismiss this as just some sort of lucid dream stuck on repeat if it weren't for this fact- The average human may live for 28,000 days, but a mutant is lucky if they live even half that many.

Chapter Text

You know your day’s off to a great start when you preface it by gasping for breath while caked in sweat. My mind took a little while to shape the blurry, jagged mess of colors splayed in front of me to the familiar, friendly glow of a couple neon signs I kept hung on my wall. My walls were plastered with posters and old Rolling Stone articles from the 1970’s. I even had a few drawings up there, created by your’s truly. There were heaps of clothes littering my floor, making it into a minefield of old band shirts and old hand-me-downs. It was a disaster, but it was comfortable. I was happy living in what my mother so often describes as a trash heap.

I glanced down at my clock- 6:27. I had about a half hour to get the hell out of my house before my mother woke up. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I try to run away from her, per se, it’s just that it’s easier for me to avoid her altogether. But, I don’t want to get into that right now. I just needed to get out of the house. The most common way I did that was going for a walk. Running was a bit… off-limits for me, at least in public. Reaching blinding speeds usually doesn’t get you caught or exposed to humans as a mutant, but on the occasion that I am caught? I just go straight to considering myself in a grave (which, I admit, doesn’t sound too bad to me, sometimes.). I quickly stuffed myself into my binder, slumped on an old shirt and some pants, and got myself out the door as I was still pulling my shoes onto my feet.

I took in a deep breath. As I exhaled, my breath escaped from me in a large, wispy puff and my nostrils burned like they were the barrel of a gun. It was definitely hard nipple season. That is to say, it’s cold outside. The sun was still working on pulling itself above the horizon and colored the cloudless sky in a beautiful gradient of deep pink and orange. It was mornings like this that made life seem just a little tiny bit closer to worth it. It was also mornings like this I was thankful for my longish hair (it at least covers my ears) and my favorite chrome-colored jacket, since it was near freezing out. It was to be expected of winter in New York. But, I loved mornings like these. I rather liked seeing the few sleepy-eyed students carry their steaming coffee as they sluggishly make their way down the sidewalks, I loved watching the morning fill with color, I loved watching musicians begin to line up on the streets, and I especially loved seeing the very top of the tallest buildings reflect the orange glow of the heavens surrounding them.

Okay, I got carried away there. But, when things like that were one of the last things you hang around for, you cherish them. A lot. But, I suppose by now you want me to get to the story. I was making my way down a sidewalk that was in dire need of some repainting as an old Pink Floyd song was blasting through my earbuds. I’ll probably give myself ear-cancer (does that exist?) with how loud I listen to music, but, it’s so well worth it. I looked up at what seemed to be just the right time- something, no, someone was plummeting. A few buildings ahead, I could clearly see a figure dropping to what seemed to be their doom. The building they seem to have fallen from wasn’t too tall, but it was tall enough. I knew my powers were usually off-limit at this time, but there was something I had to do. I couldn’t just stand there. And so, I kicked myself into high gear and the entire world around me froze.

You see, the way I run is weird. I end up going so fast that everything around me slows down, and I travel through at my own relative speed. 5 minutes to me would end up being maybe a few milliseconds to the rest of the world. Well, it depends on how fast I’m going. The higher of a mach I end up reaching, the more energy it uses up. And boy was I really pushing it right now. I kept my focus on my target- the person, who now didn’t look like they were plummeting so much as they were falling through a pool of a thick, viscous liquid. I reached my destination, and time snapped back into place. Boy, was that stupid of me. I was knocked right into by the falling person, and it kind of felt like a wall had hit me. A few popping sounds, some groans, and an eye opening later, I came face-to-face with who I’d saved.

The figure was entirely suited from head-to-toe. Well, head to neck. There was a mask flung to the ground next to this gaudy individual. This person seemed to be a very young man, maybe about my age. His skin was pale and bruised very slightly around the eye, like it had been healing. There was a mess of sweat-soaked brown hair atop his head. A semi-shiny fabric of red-and-blue clung to his skin with a ferocity that seemed almost painful. The insignia of a very, very edgy spider on his chest reflected the few beams of light in the alley. Spiderweb designs ran the length of the boy. And then, his eyes snapped open. Brown eyes. Very big, very brown, and… very scared. His irises traced the ground until he saw me, goggles on, hair an absolute mess, kneeling over him like an idiot. And the first thing out of his mouth was,

“Shit.”

Chapter Text

When your job description practically entails kicking criminals in the face and grabbing a loaf of bread for your aunt on the way home, there just isn’t much that can surprise you anymore. Or, so I thought. Something about these good ‘ol Parker genes makes me especially good at making a fool out of myself. What can I say? I’d done test runs on my own machines before, several times. But this one was by far the most risky- It was time to test out my new web-shooters. For those of you who don’t know, it’s a design I’d been working on for quite some time now. What do they do? Well, they’re supposed to launch a sticky and thin, but surprisingly strong rope (or webbing, hence “web-shooters”) at another surface, and let me use it as a grappling hook.

Of course, this was the first time I’d made some major tweaks to it. Usually, I run small tests on this sort of thing. Usually, I think things through before leading myself to the top of a building. Usually, I don’t just jump blindly and pray to whatever deity holds my fragile life in its hands that I won’t become a Brooklyn Street Pancake. ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’, I thought. My mind hadn’t finally come to its senses until I was on the roof of a moderately tall building. I took a few seconds to scan the horizon before hopefully not plummeting to my death (okay, maybe I wasn’t high enough to die, but definitely get some major injuries). It was a darned pretty morning- the sky was drenched in a magnificent orange-magenta-blue gradient, the few clouds in the sky holding onto as much color as they could. The city below me seemed so… asleep compared to it. Everything was blue, and while the roads were most definitely full, so many lights were off. Alright, Peter, enough procrastinating. I took a deep breath. It’s like jumping into a pool, right? A pool of… concrete. Okay, okay, no turning back. I sprung forward, and the ground beneath me was no more.

I outstretched my arm towards a windowsill on an adjacent building. Come on, work. The device on my wrist made several loud clicking noises. Loud, defeated clicks. Great. I closed my eyes and braced myself for the hard impact. Thanks, cruel Lord, for screwing my life up. The wind roared into my ears for a few seconds more, until I finally hit something… soft? Sort of. I hit whatever that thing was pretty hard and was much too panicked to even register the loud grunt it had made. Oh, Jesus, what if I flattened an animal? Oh, the fines, I’d get- Wait, my bones weren’t broken. It took me a while to realize that. My eyes snapped open, and I was face-to-face with… Someone? He seemed young enough to be in my grade, or maybe a grade above. I wasn’t sure- I was always really bad at judging age. The dude looked like he belonged in some sort of garage band- his mussed-up hair was around shoulder length, and was dyed a very obnoxiously bright shade of silver. His features were very… soft. His lips were- Oh no. My mask! I knew something looked off. Not only had I bombarded this dude with my falling body, but he’s now seen my face.

The only word I could get out, the only thing that came to mind, was a big, loud,
“Shit.”


******************

I just realized what the hell this could mean. I’d heard the reports of a superhuman vigilante on the news. Oh, my god. This kid that I just saved- He could be a mutant, like me. I tried to will myself to speak to the spandex-clad man, but no words came out. I guess being knocked into a person serves as an extremely poor conversation starter. He must’ve thought so, too, because he was beginning to get himself up. My heart thumped quickly. This was my only, and possibly last opportunity to find someone I relate to that might not hate me off the bat. Step one was to not make myself look like a complete tool.
“W-wait!” I called, somewhat involuntarily.
Step one failed.

The kid stopped and just looked at me like a deer in headlights in a way that was somewhat unrequited. It wasn’t like I was holding a gun up to him, or anything. A few seconds passed before I realized I still hadn’t said anything else. Shit! I wished it could just be as easy as asking, “Hey kid, I’m a mutant! I noticed your getup, are you one, too?”.
“Uh… Nice talk,” he stated, cutting into the silence. He flicked his wrist upwards towards the adjacent wall. Nothing happened. The hell was he doing? He got a whole new layer of panic on his face. He flicked it again. And Again. On that final try, a large mass of white… goop shot itself at the wall about six feet up, grabbing it with him. “Shi- Shoot! Crap!” he yelled, trying to wriggle out of it. Oh man, I was trying really hard not to laugh, now. I know, I know, I’m quite the asshole. But, the dude looked like he was glued to the wall with god damned silly string! A chuckle escaped my mouth, and I quickly put a hand over my mouth as he began to struggle more with the string-stuff.
“You, uh- Need help?” I inquired curiously.
“N-nope. I’m good-” He pried himself off of the wall, finally, and begun to skid down a bit until he touched the ground. The boy faced me like he might shake my hand, or say something. He drew in a breath,and..

He bolted. He fucking bolted. What the hell was that? It was like I was on autopilot now, because before I knew it (or rather, before he knew it), I was right in front of him. It wasn’t too much longer until I’d found myself under him, yet again- He slammed right into me. I don’t blame him, of course, he only had about half a second’s warning before I was ahead of him.
“Fuc- Fudge! Darn it. I- Watch where you’re…” he stopped himself before knitting his eyebrows together in confusion. “How… How did you do that?”
Well, this wasn’t the way I intended for him to know I was a mutant, but it was better than nothing. Before I could explain myself, he hoisted himself off of me, gingerly offering a hand to help me up. Once I was on my feet again, I drew in a breath. No backing down, Pietro. Time to form a coherent sentence.

“Well, uh- I mean- I run fast.”
Great job. 20 points for that fuck-up. I shook my head and attempted to speak again. “I mean, uh- Well, yeah. I run fast.” Luckily for me, that translated pretty well into ‘I’m a mutant!’, because his eyes filled with understanding. “I, uh- Sorry for chasing you down like that. I just… Y’know, was hopeful to see another mutant around here,” I added. He nodded in what seemed like understanding.
“I uh- Yeah. Look, I gotta go. I got, uh- Homework,” he sputtered out.
Homework? It’s, like, 6 AM. I was at least smart enough to know when I was being snubbed. I at least wanted to know his name.
“Wait- Wait. My name’s Pietro,” I said, holding my hand out for him to shake. He placed his hand in mine, awkwardly shaking it.
“I’m Peter. Nice you meet too.... I mean, nice meet- Shoot.”
He quickly tried to pull his hand away, but it ended up tugging mine with it. What the hell? It was like the guy was made of superglue! We both stared at our hands in surprise, and then looked directly at each other again. He tried to reel his arm back in once more, and it ended up pulling me even further forward into him, which caught me completely on surprise, because I began to topple backwards.

Peter had some pretty damned good reflexes, because his other arm grabbed me quickly, hoisting me back upwards. I was a bit speechless- it was something like out of a movie. I was staring right at him, and he was a few centimeters away, staring right back. Laughter bubbled up out of me. “You could at least buy me dinner first, you know,” I joked, hoping he has a sense of humor. Luckily for me, he did, because he smiled a little bit. I think this was the start of something pretty damn great.

Boy, was I stupid.

Chapter Text

I may not seem like it, but I’m clingy as all hell. There. I said it. I, Pietro Django Maximoff, am clingy. Which is why I don’t surround myself with, well, anyone. I know what you’re thinking- ‘That makes absolutely no sense whatsoever!’ And you’d be right. Why should I, someone who wants attention, isolate myself? Well, aside from it being a rather obscure self-punishment method, it’s also a defense mechanism. I don’t just get attached to people. I get bolted to them. I get bolted and welded and sewed and glued and whatever else can bind two things together. They rack my mind all day, and I get to constantly taunt myself with, “What did they do? Why did they do that? It’s because they hate me, right? How can I get their approval again?” That whole spiel just plays on repeat, over and over and over again until I get some sort of affirmation from the person in question. It’s hell. It makes me impulsive and destructive and it’ll keep getting worse until the person in question reassures me that I’m not a piece of garbage in their mind.

So, why did I just dole the inner workings of my brain out to you? Because it seems I caught the damned attachment bug again. Or, maybe, hopefully, it’s just some stupid crush, but I don’t know for sure. It’s hard to tell. And just who did this to me, this time? That kid. That fucking kid. Peter. It’s only been a few days since we crashed into each other, but by god was that racing in my head up and down and sideways.I actually felt disoriented by it. My own damned feelings were mooning me again! Way to watch a guy feel sorry for himself, right? But, maybe it was about time I went outside again. Listen to some music, feel the air, and not think about him. Easy peasy. Okay, maybe intermediate-peasy. Hard-peasy? Ew, that sounds like ‘hard peas’. Okay, I got off topic. Point is, as much as I wish I could just spray my thoughts with water and yell, “Bad! Bad brain!”, that’s just not the case. But, there isn’t much use in just laying under my sheets, as comfortable as they might feel to me.

I glanced over to the clock on my nightstand; since I was practically living in a basement, I had no windows. No windows means no concept of time in this room. Which, I actually liked. The red light burned a hot, blurry mess into my retinas until the number “8:15” came into focus. Shit was it 8 AM or PM? It didn’t matter, though. Either way, I was going for a walk. I peeled myself upwards and off of my bed, running my hand through my hair. Yeesh. It’s a fucking mess. Not that I was going to do anything about it, though. I twisted my torso a few times until my spine gave some very, very satisfying clicks. My hand reached down into the laundry pile, catching hold of my favorite jacket and tugging it out of the abyss of discarded clothing. The jacket’s silvery, reflective surface glinted in the minimal amount of light there was in my room. I slipped it on, and made my way out of the house to the front door.

I was punched in the face with a crisp, cold wind and a dark sky. So, it was 8 PM. Whatever. This was fine. I slipped in my earbuds, turned the volume up, and stepped onto the sidewalk. My consciousness ate at any perception of direction I had, and I was stuck in a daze for quite a damn while before I finally realized I was miles away from home, in what seemed like alley. The orange light from the street could barely wash into the crevice in which I walked. Graffiti littered the walls and the ground felt jagged and uneven through my shoes. It felt like I was on another planet, and reality was beginning to slide from me again- I was dizzy. I cursed myself for not eating earlier, because now I looked like a drunken fool and I felt like I was on an absolute high (at least, I think this is what that’d feel like?). My music began to sound more and more like a single tone, beating against my eardrums. It sounded like there was a violent ocean in my head, tossing me whichever way the waves crashed. Wait, no, that was my heart. Why was my heart pumping so hard? The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, but I wasn’t any more aware of reality than before. I whirled around, and all I could catch sight of was a tall, buff figure approaching me. They were yelling. Loudly. Angrily. I didn’t know what they were saying.

My heart went from slow, thundering thumps like an elephant’s steps to the elevated beating of a hummingbird’s wings. My feet carried me again, and I was just along for the ride. Time slowed for me even more than it already had. My vision was still fuzzy, and I could feel something tugging my entire backside down, or backwards, or wherever was the opposite of what I was facing. It didn’t even feel like I was touching the ground, but hell if I knew what I was doing. I was letting myself go on and on, until, I stopped. Everything snapped into focus. A high-pitched ring lingered in my ears for a second until it was replaced with roaring wind.The air felt thin, and all I could see where millions of dots of light below me. They looked like stars… My eyes began to finally obey me, and I could make out the shapes of everything now- Buildings. I was on top of a building, and a fucking tall one at that. The kind that make birds piss themselves because they’re so high. Higher than any stoner college kid could ever hope to be. I’d actually ran so damned fast, I escaped the bounds of gravity. Only problem is, something like this only works when you’re going up. Now I’d done it. I got myself stuck on top of a building.

God, sometimes I really hate New York.

Chapter Text

Do you ever have those thoughts that are just completely besides the point? Like, your brain seems to completely miss everything about the situation you’re in, and it decides to crank out some random thought that either leaves you ashamed, baffled, or inappropriately amused. This is a phenomenon that happens to me all too often. Example: I was twelve, and we were at my grandmother’s funeral (on my Mom’s side, of course. My Dad is a whole other friggin’ can of worms I don’t even want to touch). It was outdoors, and the sun was oh-so-ironically beating down onto our black clothes. Needless to say, it was like a goddamn sauna out there. A very depressing sauna. Most people were trying to calmly fan themselves off while attempting to retain the appropriately-somber mood. This seemed like the right thing to do, until my cousin a row ahead of me accidentally smacked the person next to her in the face. Some people turned their heads to look at the display, and some even quietly asked if they were okay. Me? I was laughing my prepubescent little ass off. And why, exactly, was I chortling like a Seinfeld-Brand-Canned-Laugh-Track™? Some blamed the heat. Some thought it was how I dealt with grief, and shook their heads sadly at me. But, in reality, the smack just reminded me of a good episode of Tom And Jerry.

So, what entirely baffling thought wormed its way into my mind as I stood hundreds of feet above the city? Those old, edgy 2003 music videos. You know the ones. Bring Me To Life, and all that. Naturally, this made me crack a grin and hold back a bit of laughter. I’m probably the only guy in all of New York that’s accidentally made his way onto a building just to smile about it. The smile was soon wiped off my face when I looked down below the edge of the roof. As established earlier, I was up pretty high with no way down. No fire escape, no giant magical day-saving bird, no buff men in capes to save me. This was, as the old folks would often say, quite the pickle. I wished I could’ve gone back into that survival mode that got me back up here in the first place. Of course, that was absolutely ridiculous of me to think. The day something goes right for me is the day pigs fly, or the day America gets its head out of its ass, or the day my mom finally decides to st- Okay, getting off topic. Again. Point is, I couldn’t get myself out of this one. Not on my own.

I’d begun to pace back and forth, my steps teetering and wobbling a bit from the sheer multitude of confusion that just hit me. I didn’t have time to sort anything out, and I honestly didn’t want to. I just wanted to get reunited with the sweet, sweet ground in a way that wouldn’t turn me into the city’s biggest hunk of roadkill. Again, off topic. I had to consider my options on how to get out of this. I had my phone with me. I could call my mother? No- I didn’t want to consider how much trouble I’d get in. I pulled out the hunk of plastic and glass in question and began to scroll through my contacts. I didn’t really have many; The list consisted of my Mom, Mel from the seventh grade, Mom’s Friend Norma, and a Starbucks barista I’d stuck a conversation up with because I liked her shirt. I could also always call the police, but my record with them wasn’t… the best. When I was around fourteen, I was stupid. Real stupid. I had fast feet and a heavy mind and nothing to do but swipe things from stores. I was taking things so often that my Mom was just about on a first name basis with the cop that often took me home holding the back of my shirt collar. I suppose calling my Mom would have to do, though. I know just what to say, even: “Heya, Ma, don’t freak out but I’m stuck on top of a big ass building God Knows Where and I think there’s a human wall of muscle out looking for me. Could you pick up some coffee on your way to get me? ‘Kay, thanks!”

I really didn’t want to call her, but what other options did I have? Find a high-power spotlight and shine the god damned Bat Signal into the clouds? I sighed, and positioned my thumb above my mom’s name in the contact book. I can do this. I hitched my breath, and… It died. The fucking phone died. I guess that’s what I get for playing music on this for probably at least three hours straight. Great. Just great. I’ll probably waste away up here, or something. Great! I wanted to die young anyways, right? Fucking hell. I felt a bubbling sensation in my chest, and the only way I could describe how my mind felt was Red. Red and hot and frustrated and oh-so-tired. My arm rose above my head, clutching the phone tightly. With a frustrated war-cry and the swift swinging of my arm, the trusty device was launched into the concrete at my feet. Bits of plastic and glass flew. But I didn’t care. I was stuck, anyways. What did it matter? I begun to panic. It was like being marooned, but maybe worse. At least pollution wouldn’t get to you if you washed up on a random shore. But me? I was in Smog Town, now. I sat down hard, bringing my knees up to my chest. My throat began to tighten.

If I wasn’t so busy feeling sorry for myself and fighting the tears bubbling out of my eyes, I would’ve heard the footsteps behind me. Instead, I wasn’t aware anyone else could possibly be there until I felt a hard tap on my shoulder and I jumped out of my skin (I even screamed a little). I whirled around to find probably the best fucking thing I’ve seen in days- a kid in a web-patterned spandex suit and mask. God, was he a sight for sore eyes. I almost wanted to hug the guy. Instead, I stayed with my ass planted on the ground and let more tears spill down my face while trying to make one coherent sentence. Luckily for me, he cut in before I could embarrass myself further.
“You, uh- Hi, again. This something you do often, or…?”
I thanked my lucky stars I was able squeeze out some real words next. I used my wobbly little voice to reply with,
“All the time.”

Peter took it as the joke it was, and offered his hand out to help me up once more. This was becoming some sort of freaky pattern for us.
“Sorry, you see, I- There was, like… Violence down there? Trail stopped up here, and uh- Yeah. Found you and all,” he rambled quickly.
I took his hand and hoisted myself up, and was thankfully able to pull my hand off of his this time. His gaze went down to the shattered mess of what was once a phone by my feet.
“Tough night…?”
“You don’t even know the half of it,” I shot back, regaining a bit more confidence in my tone. I bent down quickly and scooped up the remains of my beloved device. I was gonna have one hell of a time explaining this to my mom.
“Need a lift?” he asked, his hand offered out again, but in more of a, ‘come-with-me’ kind of gesture. I furrowed my eyebrows at him. Considering the first time I had meeting this kid was catching him from falling off of a building, I had every reason to be skeptic.
“Don’t- Don’t worry. I, err… I fixed these-” he held up his wrist and pointed to a small band that tightly clung to it, “Just. Just trust me, okay?” I suppose that was enough for me, because I nodded in agreement.

“Okay, okay, I got this,” he said, seemingly to himself. He turned towards the edge of the building and kneeled down. “Get on my back.”
“Dude, what?” I asked back. This was no time for piggyback rides.
“Like I said, trust me.” His tone seemed different. It was assuring. Commanding, even. I suppose if I was going to die, it would at least be one hell of an experience as opposed to rotting on top of a building like a cat that got itself stuck too far up a tree. So, I complied… Rather awkwardly. From behind him, I put my arms around his neck, and put my weight on him. Next came making my legs cling to him. He stood, and to my surprise, hoisted me up quite easily. Now, this kid was obviously no bodybuilder, but I knew I wasn’t THAT light. Must’ve been part of his mutation, maybe? I had no time to contemplate, because, he cut in with,
“So, uh- Keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.”
Before I could question his choice of words or even protest, he took a flying leap off of the building.

Chapter Text

Trouble seems to want to tag along with me wherever I go. I suppose I bring it on myself half of the time, what with the whole “swinging-through-the-city-kicking-baddies-in-the-face” shtick I’ve become so invested in. But, sometimes it just feels downright unfair. Don’t get me wrong, what goes around comes around and all that, and sometimes we all do things to deserve a little bit of misfortune. Yet, the world seems to think I’m the wad of gum stuck to the bottom of someone’s brand-new, highly expensive shoes. Maybe that’s part of why I started putting the mask on. Either I owe the world, or it owes me, but either way, I’m paying off some sort’a cosmic debt by doing all this. On the days that I feel the world owes me, I almost want to just point to my bright hero’s uniform and just wait for the thanks. Those days are far and few between; I’d honestly just rather everyone always see me as the bumbling, mousy-haired kid that keeps himself out of trouble and his nose in the books.

However, me being the age I am, everyone is always very quick to pin me as a delinquent or emotionally disturbed. Which, yeah, I suppose I was both of those things, in a way. I dumpster-dived. I kept to myself. I was sensitive, and nervous, and always tired. Which made most of my teachers very concerned the first day I came into class without my glasses, and they could finally see the bags under my eyes that had been growing there for a while. Of course, I couldn’t help that I can’t wear my glasses anymore. After that spider bite, everything I saw and took in got magnified by a lot. External magnification was no longer needed or wanted, and putting them on only resulted in massive headaches. Which is funny, because the headaches used to be just what wearing the glasses prevented. Now, today was one of those days that the teachers seemed chattier and touchier than usual. Must’ve been the day after a staff meeting.

I’d bumbled into first period considerably late (there was a robbery at a local convenience store that needed a Spidey-Savior just as I’d begun my walk to the bus), which caused the entire classroom to shift their attention to me when I walked through the door. All thirty-six eyeballs on me. My heart shifted into what I like to call Immediate Failure Mode, as when the teacher turned to look at me, my apology sounded more like, “A- I- Uh… You- Sorry- Late, and- There was…”
The class instructor, Mr. Alderman quickly replied with,
“No excuse needed, Parker. Just hand me your pass.”
Right. Pass. The pass that was in the hand that’s currently tightly gripping my books and my binder. Easy. There was no failure impending (that’s a lie, in case you can’t tell).
“Peter, you DID stop at the office to get a pass, right?” the balding man insisted. Oh, jeez. I’d been so busy worrying about handing him the pass that I had just been standing there. Without thinking, I stuck my arm out at him, the pass pinched between my fingers. THUD! THUD! THUD! Crap. My books had now made their home on the floor. I was shaking now; There were small giggles erupting from different parts of the class. Mr. Alderman eyed me up and down, snatching the pass from my fingers. He waved me off in the direction of my seat.
“Talk to me after class,” he added.

My heart sunk immediately down to my stomach- no, to my intestines. This was about the fifth or sixth tardy I had this year. Oh, God… After kneeling down and scooping my books back into my arms, I made my way back to my seat, which was right behind my long-time good friend, Gwen Stacy. She immediately turned her blonde head around to look at me when I sat down. “Wow, you look terrible this morning. What happened?” she prodded. Classic Gwen. She was caring, but had funny ways of showing it sometimes. The thing about her was, I’d known her for years. I trust her with mostly anything, and she even knew about my… abilities. We had some sort of fling over the summer, but it felt awkward. At the time, we were just two really inexperienced and over-emotional kids. Both of us were looking for support at the same time, but nothing really worked out. Luckily for the both of us, we were still thick as thieves. She was always eager to hear about my new adventures as the amazing Spider-Man. I was about to quietly recount the wild details of the morning, but Mr. Alderman was having none of it.

The class passed by quickly, which was probably due to the fact that I missed about half of it. Just as my foot reached the doorway, the teacher cleared his throat at me. Right. He wanted to see me. I trudged over to him in the classic Student Walk of Shame, my head downwards a little bit and ready to receive whatever detention he wanted to dish out on me.
“So, Peter, I’ve noticed lately that your attendance record hasn’t been up to par at all. This has been going on since 3rd quarter last year, and I recall you promising a lot of teachers you’d clean up your act,” he said somewhat sternly. My eyes seemed glued to the floor at this point as I began to utter out an apology.
“Peter…” he began again, in a tone of voice that was a complete contrast to the lecture I thought he was going to give me. I brought my head up, getting an eyeful of the crumbs that were still in his beard. That always managed to distract me, every time he talked… those crumbs were just… there. The thing about Mr. Alderwood was that he looked a lot more like a professional yoga enthusiast than a teacher. He always wore patterned cardigans to class and smelled like fragrant, flowery oils. He seemed like a pretty zen dude. But, his lectures were legendary. He was practically KNOWN for giving out detentions. So, the concerned look on his face shocked me to my core.

“Is there… anything going on that you might need to talk to someone about?” he inquired, his eyebrows knit into a pitying arch. Oh, of course there was something going on- I was only, you know, secretly a superhero, expected to defend everyone at a moment’s notice and constantly putting myself into danger while still being expected to study for finals week and pick up oranges from the store for my aunt. But, that was something I couldn’t just tell people, was it? I shook my head, and meekly managed to say, “No, sir. I’m fine.”
“Peter,” he began again, putting his hand on my shoulder. My discomfort level soared. “You’re a good kid. I’ve known you since your freshman year, and you’re about to graduate now. But, all these tardies, all this falling asleep during class, the failed quizzes… It’s a bit concerning. You used to be a model student.” Ouch. That felt like a total punch to the gut. I felt guilty; I knew my performance in school was suffering greatly due to my vigilante antics, but it wasn’t something I could just quit. I had to make do with what I could do, y’know? I was going to work out another meaningless apology, when my teacher quickly cut in with possibly the third or fourth worst thing I’ve heard in my entire life.
“I know, last year with the whole… Event that happened, it must’ve been hard to cope with everything. Death is never easy to understand. Last year, I let it slide, because you needed time to mourn. But, there’s no excuse now. You need to get help and move on…” he kept talking, but I honestly wasn’t even listening anymore. My heart felt like a sack of cement. Tears stung hard at my eyes, and I found my feet carrying me out of there before he could even finish.

If my teacher blaming my absences on me mourning my dead uncle was how my day was going to start, I sure wasn’t eager to find out what the rest of my day was going to be. Luckily for me, Mr. Alderman’s speech was the magnum-opus of terrible for my day. My terrible, crappy day. I had things spilled on me, papers shredded by erasing too hard, books left at home, and a rather painful run-in with a locker. Needless to say, when the final bell rang, I was more than eager to get out of there.
“Yo, Peter! Wait up!” an oh-so familiar voice called behind me. I slowed down my near-dash to a walk, looking behind me to see Gwen running up, her ponytail bobbing up and down wildly. “You didn’t get to tell me about this morning,” she said curiously.
“Oh, y’know. Robbery. Nothing big,” I replied a bit coldly. I enjoy talking to her, I really do, but today interaction was just something I couldn’t do. Not at all. My mind was all over the place, and any words I wanted to say just became sloppy alphabet soup in my mind. There were too many things to focus on at once. Gwen chuckled, cutting into the silence. “I swear, you are the only person I know who can say ‘Robbery’ and ‘Nothing big’ in the same sentence.” I gave her a little bit of a smile to acknowledge her enthusiasm, but there really wasn’t anything I could find to say, which only stressed me out more. I know she was trying to make me feel better. It made me feel bad that it wasn’t working.

The next thing she said was completely out of left field. “So, you ever run into that dude that caught you off that building again, or…?” It took me a second to figure out what she meant. She meant that kid I met. The silver-haired one. Pietro. I didn’t forget his name, or anything about him really. I remembered his gaze, his curiosity, his voice, his abilities… Everything. God, I wish my memory was as good for pop quizzes as it was for cute boys. I snapped myself out of my daze and shook my head at her. She took it upon herself to reply with, “Y’know, it’s a shame you didn’t get his number, or something… I would’ve so helped you get ready for that date.” She giggled, playfully elbowing my chest. I couldn’t help but laugh and erupt into laughter with her. “Hey! You think I’d really date every person that saves my life?” I shot back playfully.
“Well, you did try to date me, if I recall….” she added, mimicking a thoughtful expression. I shook my head, still smiling. “Yeah, and when did you save my life last, Gwendolyn Blaire?” I prodded quickly back. I always used her middle name when I was ready to win an argument.
“I’ve saved your ass from my dad at least, like, a hundred times. You almost blew your cover a LOT at my house, you know,” Gwen said. “... Don’t change the topic on me, though! You should try to keep an eye out for that guy sometime. It gets a liiiiittle old hearing the same story about him over and over, y’know.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” was all I could say back. Point one to Stacy.

That conversation was what played in my head as I swung through the city-illuminated blackness, that very same guy clinging on my back. It was the strangest thing, finding him when I did. He looked like some sort of kicked puppy, stuck on top of that roof, tears streaming furiously down his face. I almost wanted to hug the guy, if that wouldn’t make things so awkward. I could feel just how tense he was as I launched and grappled my way through New York, cars and pedestrians carrying on cluelessly and noisily below us. I could tell Pietro wasn’t used to the airway at all. I couldn’t blame him. My first few times taking to the skies scared the absolute crap out of me. Heck, I even cried the first time. I was pretty close to home when I realized- I shouldn’t be taking him to MY house! I didn’t even ask him where his home was; I just let my fried brain carry me where it knew it could get some repose from this awful day. I perched myself on the fire escape, letting him slide down my back onto it. Oh, boy, I could see he was shaking. No way would he want to climb back up onto me and go swinging back home tonight. Luckily for him, I took pity on people pretty often. I stuck my hand onto my bedroom window, sliding it upwards. “You can stay with me tonight. You, uh- You look pretty stressed. Probably good to get some rest,” I explained quickly.
“Whoa, you, uh- You sure?” he asked wobbily. I couldn’t help but notice there was a little bit of an excited spark in his eyes, however.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine. I can, uh- I can figure out how to explain it to my aunt. Just. Just get in before you get frostbite, or something.” The smile on his face after I said that was one I wouldn’t forget very soon. He must’ve really not wanted to go home… I was glad I could save him from whatever he was running away from.

That night, I remembered just why it is I put on the mask; To help make the world glimmer just a little bit more and stink a whole lot less.

Chapter Text

It’s so weird how people’s houses have their own unique smell. You never notice the smell on the person themselves until they leave clothes at your house, or you’re thrust into their home yourself. Then, you get a whopping smack in the nose with something you can’t help to describe as… Them? As I entered Peter’s room, I noticed the smell of his house was this weird combination of cheap-ass detergent and something mechanical I couldn’t quite name. It was so weird to think I was actually there, in his home, staying the night only the second time I met him. Way to go Pietro, am I right? Of course, I would’ve preferred this to happen when I didn’t look like a stepped-in pile of shit. But I guess that wasn’t so important now. I was midway through climbing in the window when I stopped to take my surroundings in.

The walls were this stale, beige color that reminded me of the battered shirt from Target my mom owned that’s seen ten straight years of wear. Of course, I couldn’t actually see that much of the walls; They were plastered in all sorts of geeky posters, blueprints, and filled-in notebook pages with the edges severely frayed. I took an extra moment to notice the Weezer CD-booklet tacked to the tiny bulletin board above his bed. Dismantled chunks of technology littered every visible shelf and surface in the room, including what seemed to be a fully-operational dinosaur of a computer whirring away loudly. No joke, that computer must’ve been a god-damned IBM PS/1. Where he even found one of those, let alone getting it to work, was beyond me. I admit, I’m a bit of a retro-technology enthusiast. Well, a retro-everything enthusiast. But that makes me sound like a hipster. I must’ve been dazed for quite some time, because even Peter forgot I was in the room, and was beginning the meticulous process of- Oh, God, he’s getting the suit off. He forgot I was here entirely.

My face soon became hotter and redder than Mount Vesuvius on Total Apocalypse Mode, and I instinctively tried to jolt away to avoid further embarrassment. What ensued next, of course, was more friggin’ embarrassment; I pushed myself further through the window and next thing I knew, my face met the rough, unforgiving carpet. Hard. I heard a yelp emit from Peter must’ve been. “Holy shhhi-smokes, are you okay?” he asked, keeping his voice somewhat low as he rushed over to me. I was definitely alright, but I was probably going to have the pattern of his carpet imprinted into my face for the next few minutes.
“Yeah, just peachy,” was my muffled and defeated reply. Well, wasn’t this just typical? I had the upper hand, only to surrender it minutes later to my hairbrained teenage hormone antics. Luckily for me, Peter must’ve found that charming and begun to laugh a little bit, which was pretty surprising considering I had the charm of a mashed avocado. Not that I was complaining.
“Well, uhhh, keep your voice down… Aunt’s asleep. Maybe keep your head down for a couple minutes, too. I’m, uh, still getting changed,” he rambled. Alright, alright, cool. Cute dude getting undressed literally feet in front of me, and all I was able to do was become best friends with the floor. Whatever.

I gave him a thumbs-up, which was loser-speak for, ‘Whatever floats your boat, my dude.’ The floorboards next to my face creaked, which means Peter must’ve gotten up. Now comes the wait. I noticed the carpet didn’t smell the greatest. I mean, it wasn’t bad, per se, but it definitely smelled like feet. Or maybe corn chips? Either way, I wasn’t eager to keep sniffing the floor the way some old rich white dude would sniff a glass of wine. I opted to breathe in through my mouth instead, aaand- Fuck. There was lint in my mouth. FLOOR LINT. In my MOUTH. The thing I EAT WITH. Grossgrossgrossgrossgross-
“Alright, coast’s clear,” Peter finally announced. I sat up in an embarrassingly small amount of time, my tongue stuck out to try to get that damned piece of lint off of my tongue. I heard him laugh again. “You, uh, good there, man?” he asked as I got up, slinking my tongue back into my mouth. “Oh, yeah, just, uh- Got a little too forward with your floor, there…I think your floor may be a Gemini. Guess that’s why things didn’t work out,” I joked, giving him a nervous grin.

There was a 50% chance the joke would make him laugh yet again, or, the joke would go over his head and he would probably make me leave and never speak to me again, which would mean disapproval. Disapproval means I’m a worthless human being with no purpose. Thankfully, the former was the reality. My grin got bigger, with just a bit of confidence mixed into it. That was short-lived, though, because a blanket of awkward silence settled in to smother us both. Peter finally piped in with, “Oh! Uhhh, you need anything to sleep in, or….? I doubt jeans are comfortable to sleep in.” Whoa whoa whoa. Whoa. He was offering to let me wear some of his clothes? Was this, like, a normal sleepover thing? I never really went to sleepovers growing up, since, according to Mom, taking your mutant kid to someone else’s house will ruin your social standing. Which essentially translates to the fact that my dear mother valued being in good terms with Linda-the-PTA-Board-Leader more than she valued giving me a social life. I had nothing else I could think of doing besides nodding, because that’s polite, right?

Peter leaned over towards his dresser, digging around for what seemed like a while. Too much of a while. I was just getting myself situated on the bed when he whirled around and tossed a clump of cloth at me- basketball shorts and an old t-shirt. “Oof. Are these clothes you’re handing me, or a means of assassination,” I prodded jokingly, taking it upon myself to examine the design on the t-shirt (which, by the way, was an old Dazzler album cover. Score!). A warm feeling began to bud in my chest. This boy had literally no reason to be so kind, and hospitable, but here he was, letting me into his home the second time we’ve even met. It made me wonder- Can people as good as him really exist? I wanted to trust him, and so far, things were pointing in his favor. I sure hoped it would stay that way.

Chapter Text

This might’ve been just about the quietest sleepover I’ve ever had. Alright, I didn’t really have too many actual sleepovers as a kid, though Gwen often stayed the night here. Did those really count as sleepovers, though? We mostly just pigged out on junk food, studied a bit, had some long conversation with Aunt May where she retells one of her many childhood stories, and that was that. She was like another part of the house sometimes, y’know? She could just walk in like it was her own home, walk her way to the fridge and take what she wanted, and we’d be fine with it. But, it took a long while for me to be remotely comfortable letting someone sleep over at my house. Maybe it was secondhand embarrassment- we weren’t exactly rich. We weren’t really even middle-class. No, we were broke most of the time. Large hand-me-down clothes and a diet that included at least 10 different ways to eat ramen were what stuck out most in my childhood. At least, when I was naive about it all. Then my aunt and uncle’s extra job hours stuck out to me, among how many times our power went out. The bi-weekly trips to the laundromat funded by the shrinking supply of coins we had stored in a jar started to mean something to me. It started to become a bit of a punch in the gut watching the kids around me have a safety net around their livelihoods. I must’ve been lower than them, and maybe they knew that too. That punch-in-the-gut feeling soon turned into shame, which I regret ever feeling about my family. But, no amount of regret would wipe away the fear I had of letting people into my house.

So, what in the seven hells led me to let this stranger into my house? Without my Aunt’s knowledge, as well. It was so unlike myself, it was almost a rush- to throw away some sort of inhibition I have about my life that isn’t tied to being the ‘Amazing Spider-Man’. This wasn’t the antics of a fearless vigilante in the night, this was the antics of Peter Parker letting someone into his home. Maybe it was a victory, or maybe I was just dang stupid. I’d go with the latter. After I’d given him some space to change into the clothes I handed him, we both decided to set up a bedding situation for him out of a comforter and an extra pillow on the floor next to my bed. It felt a bit wrong having the guest sleep on the floor, but he seemed somewhat insistent. I settled myself into a comfortable sitting position on my bed, legs criss-cross as I watched him get settled as well. His movements seemed slower than I would’ve thought of him, for someone with super-speed. But, those weren’t the slow movements of someone who took their time, they were the slow movements of someone who was emotionally broken. It wasn’t my place to pry about it, however concerned I might’ve been about it.
“I noticed the IBM you have over there,” he finally said, making me almost jump out of my skin. My gaze shifted to my good ol’ Dinosaur of a computer in the corner, still whirring away, and then back to him. “Yeah? I, uh, got it straight from the finest dumpster in town,” I joked, even though the statement was entirely true.

A small grin broke out on his face, and he replied with, “Hey, anything’s better than swiping a tape deck from a pawn shop. They’ve busted my ass for that before.” My eyebrows knit together. So, the kid’s a…. Thief? I found it almost hard to believe, but, then again, those powers of his would allow all sorts of easy crime. I shifted a bit uncomfortably, wondering if I just let a criminal into my home. He must’ve picked up on this, because he immediately added, “It was a stupid con. I was, what? Fourteen. Fourteen and damn stupid. I left a decent amount of money in the spot where the tape deck was… after I got busted. After that, I stuck to the shit stores are throwing out or don’t need anymore.” His expression soured a little bit, probably hoping I wasn’t going to judge him. I guess I could understand what he was doing to an extent. If I had speed powers like that, at that age I probably would have done some sort of Robin Hood act. Or gotten myself some new shoes- I always wore through the soles of my shoes so fast. Still do.
There wasn’t much more I could say on the subject without it becoming a judge on his character, so I said what I thought was a neutral, safe statement; “Tell me a bit about yourself.”
“What is there to say?” he challenged, shifting himself so his back was against the wall, “Fast kid with too much time on his hands. A bit of a huge fuckup with a good comedy routine. I think that all sums me up quite nicely.” I wasn’t sure if he was joking or testing me. I didn’t have the time to decide, really, because he then asked, “How about you, eh? I’m sure there’s more to you than being a superhero and secret dumpster diver.”
“I dunno, that’s really it, I guess. Well, I’m not as much of a dumpster diver as I am just a tech enthusiast with a really small budget. But, at least I find some really cool stuff out there,” I replied.
“And, from what I can see, you have good music taste. I think we’ll be getting along well,” Pietro grinned. That statement shot me like a four year old with an airsoft gun. I’d spoken maybe ten sentences to this guy total, and he already liked me. He already liked me! Maybe he was just desperate. Either way, I liked it. I wanted to make a home out of that feeling and live in it forever.

The conversation bore on through the next hour or two, filled with stupid jokes off the internet and rapid-fire discussions about our favorite video games. I learned that Pietro still liked cartoons, mainly one about this half-alien kid and his ancient warrior rock mothers. I didn’t really understand the concept of it, mostly because I noticed when he talked about something he liked, he talked fast. His hands would move around a lot as he gestated and emoted his way through his words. It all struck me as a bit unusual, but I soon just realized that was just a part of him. His breezy cool-kid facade melted into the ground to reveal this really excitable guy underneath. He rambled about anything and everything, motor mouthing his way through everything he loved. It was honestly really endearing, even if he was doing most of the talking. Don’t get me wrong, I talked as well. I talked about Aunt May, about the photography I did for the school paper, nostalgic songs and TV shows I remember coming home to in kindergarten (we both found we had a mutual love for Foster’s Home For Imaginary Friends), and my favorite ice-cream flavor. He learned my favorite color was blue and I learned that his favorite color was ‘holographic’. It was easy to get used to his loud laugh and his constant fidgeting with the tiny black ring hanging off of his left nostril. I learned that I liked his quirks.

I’d finally shut the lights off somewhere around two in the morning, and we both finally settled into our sleeping arrangements. But, even then, we still shared a couple stories- he told me all about this Scout Camp he went to as a kid, and this girl that raided his bags and made fun of the size of his underwear and other clothing items, and the sweet revenge he’d gotten on her by pretending she didn’t exist. I shared a few stories as well, like the time I tried baking for my family, and accidentally used TWO WHOLE TABLESPOONS of baking SODA instead of baking POWDER in rolls I wanted to make from scratch- those things were rocks. Rocks that would whiten your teeth nicely. Our voices had finally settled into silence, and I began to drift off to the whirring of my IBM computer. Unluckily, sleep was fleeting that night. I awoke after what I guessed was two hours, give or take, to see Pietro still awake, holding a book light he must’ve found somewhere in my room and what looked like a newspaper. The one I brought in yesterday and set on my desk. What in the name of Beelzebub was he doing? I’d voiced this by asking the same thing I thought. Sadly for me, it came out more as, “whaddayoudoimg……”
He managed to understand my pillow-muffled speak, because he promptly looked up and replied with, “Shit- Sorry, sorry. I, uh… I look at news articles. A lot. It’s a daily thing I do. I’d forgotten to yesterday, and it-”
“Why?” I interrupted, honestly too impatient to hear him ramble about this right now.
“I, uh- God, this is gonna sound stupid…”
“Try me.”
This got Pietro to shift a bit, letting out a sigh. “It’s just important to me. I scan through and see if I can find any articles about mutants. Whether it’s a mutant accused of a crime, or a mutant killed, I want to see what the public’s saying about us.”
“...Why?” I repeated. This prompted him to scoot over and turn around, so his back is against my bed, his newspaper within my range of sight. He flashed the light on the title page.
“The Avenger’s Newest Member, a Mutant?” I read aloud, still not really getting the point. I thought mutants were just supposed to be like everyone else. Sort of.
“Look at the text,” he explained, running his finger under certain strings of words, announcing them as he went. “ ‘Mysterious new member spotted,’ ‘Can she be trusted?’, ‘Strange powers’, ‘Beware,’... And then it goes on to question the Avengers’ ‘true intentions’. It’s bullshit. They didn’t give her a name, and even turned the snippet about how she saved a man’s life by lifting rubble off of him into an epithet about how her powers could’ve easily killed him. They’re talking about her like she’s on a wanted poster, not saving lives,” he iterated, his tone getting louder and more passionate.

I scrunched my eyebrows together in confusion, but slid down to sit next to him to take a closer look at the newspaper. I was honestly intrigued. My tired eyes scanned over the article:

The Avenger’s Newest Member, a Mutant?
A recent appearance from our favorite life-saving team of heroes seems to have a new addition to their team. As young as she may look, she hides a dangerous secret; mutant DnA. Here she is pictured wielding what can only be described as red light to smash attacking drones into each-other (see last week’s article on the Drone Attack in Jordan) with almost no physical effort. She seems to be efficiently skilled at this, for a new member. Perhaps because these powers could have easily been used on innocent people. Sure, here, she is saving lives, but only as instructed. What does this mean of the Avengers now- can she be trusted? Did they take her in to prevent any sort of future disaster her strange powers may cause, or will she prove to be a useful asset to the lives of citizens everywhere?

The rest of the article continued in that tone, and I honestly felt sorry for the girl. I wonder if she read this. I looked at Pietro in understanding, but doubt continued to tug at my mind.
“It’s one newspaper,” I challenged. “How much can it possibly do?”
“Get your phone out,” he promptly directed. “Look up news articles about the subject. Look at related ones.” I reached out to my nightstand, tugging my cell phone off of the charger and typing the words ‘new mutant avenger’ into the search box. Suddenly, as Pietro’s eyes were over my shoulder, I poured myself into the several articles about this one, sad girl. So many different authors expressed disdain and mistrust for this one, young person. Because, what, she was a mutant? From the few blurry pictures caught on-site, she didn’t seem to be any older than Pietro. She didn’t deserve this bad press. The rampant reading and clicking eventually led to an article detailing a press conference Tony Stark had, and what he was going to say on the subject. Hopefully he had something good to say- this man was essentially my hero. To my absolute horror, my mind had to digest the phrases, “he had ‘no comment’, on the name, age, or affiliation of the girl,” and, “ ‘All you need to know is she’s with us,’ Stark assured the audience, going on to a new topic.’ “ The whole situation was shady. Shady and stupid and misguided.

“See what I mean?” Pietro added, folding the newspaper up. “The world hates any mutant, it’s probably why those dudes chased me up the building you had to rescue my ass from.”
I can’t believe I didn’t see this before. Something finally clicked, something big. Something that has affected my livelihood since I became the Spider-Man in the first place.
“You know…” I began, “When I… When I first started doing this hero stuff, I received bad press. A lot of bad press. I mean, here I was, saving lives and stopping derailed trains, kicking murderers in the face, and people still talked about the ‘Spider-Man peril’. There were newspapers claiming the police should capture me, wanted posters getting plastered everywhere. I can’t believe- I didn’t think the Avengers themselves would endorse something like that. I- I wanted to be one of them, but they’re doing nothing to help that girl’s situation.” I drew in a sharp breath. There was an angry, hot pit glowing in my chest. I wanted to do something about this, and I wanted to do it soon. Pietro huffed out a sigh, putting his hands behind his head and stretching his legs out in front of him. “Life of a mutant, yeah? Fucking sucks. What we need is a revolution.”

Revolution. Yeah, a revolution. Attack this all right at the source…
“Pietro,” I stated, looking at him and watching his head pivot to look back at me. I was ready to say maybe the best, but stupidest thing I’ve said in my entire life:
“Let’s fix this. Let’s break into the Avengers’ Tower.”

Chapter Text

I'm sorry to say this, but I'm going to have to discontinue the story. A couple weeks back, the boyfriend that helped me make this AU in the first place dumped me. As much as I'd love to keep writing this, it's too painful. I can't even think about this story without thinking of him too. I am writing another story right now, about Gwen Stacy this time, so I'm sorry to abandon this work. It was fun while it lasted, but this just isn't healthy for me anymore.
I hope you'll understand.