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Once Peter managed to get past the idea that every Avenger held an indiscriminate hatred for him based solely on his existence, things were – easier.
Not easy, but easier. Better. He smiled a little more, laughed on occasion, breathed with a little less struggle.
And he learned.
Peter learned that Vision could cook.
It seemed unfair that some human beings, who not only had the ability to but had to eat, couldn’t cook to save their lives (May came to mind, with no shortage of guilt and longing at the thought of her) while an AI bot, created in a lab and lacking the joy of taste buds, could create angel-choir-worthy dishes.
Peter took one bite of the cherry cheesecake delicately plated in front of him, and his eyes rolled back. “Oh my God.”
Tony swatted lightly at the back of his head as he passed by on the way to his own seat. “Keep it PG, kid. There’s a child present. Namely, yourself.”
Feeling the slightest heat of embarrassment creeping up his neck, Peter sat up straight and shot him a sheepish grin.
“Vision,” he said quietly, conspiratorially, even though every other Avenger in the dining area could hear him loud and clear. “I’m gonna need this recipe.”
“Why?” Vision tilted his mechanical head. “I can recreate the dish any time you’d like.”
“Any time?”
“I don’t require sleep to function, so–“
“Don’t tell him that!” Tony jumped in quickly, as Peter’s jaw practically hit the floor. “He’ll be bouncing off the walls of my lab all night! I go down there to get away from you people!”
"Hey!" Peter turned a wide-eyed pout on him. "You hide in your lab to get away from me?"
“Especially to get away from you.”
“I’m wounded, Mister Stark. Really. Truly and deeply–“
“Shut up and eat your cheesecake.”
If Peter was up until three in the morning, full of boundless energy and endless questions about the workings of the universe itself, Vision certainly knew nothing of it.
Peter learned that Natasha could sing.
“You’re alright, PJs,” Mister Stark said. “Just a touch of the flu. Everything’s fine.”
Peter groaned. The sounds of the world came to him as if he was submerged beneath water, all blurred and not quite right. A firm hand – smaller than Tony’s and, arguably, stronger – gripped his arm when he tried to sit up.
“Lay down, Peter.” A female voice, unmistakably Nat’s. “You’re sick. We called Bruce. He’s not in the Tower, but he should be here soon.”
Peter complied – mostly because he couldn’t find the strength to do much else. “Don’t feel good. I’m tired.”
“Then sleep,” Tony said, sounding exhausted and worried. “God knows you need the rest. Your enhanced healing can’t take care of this if you don’t give it the chance.”
“Can’t sleep,” Peter murmured, slitting his eyes open to the sight of his dimly lit suite. Natasha stood by his bed, calm and steady as ever and still holding onto his arm, while Tony paced anxiously nearby. “Been trying.”
Natasha looked at Tony. “Leave.”
Tony paused in his pacing and looked back at her, incredulous. “Excuse–“
“You heard me.”
Peter glanced between them. He trusted Natasha, really, he did – but he would be lying if he said this didn’t make him slightly nervous. “Uh…maybe he could, like, not?”
“Give me five minutes,” Natasha said, still looking away from Peter. “I’ll get him to sleep.”
“By what, Vulcan pinching him? How about no?”
“Tony. Trust me.”
Mister Stark eyed her warily, then turned to Peter. “If she tries any freaky voodoo shit on you, call me back in. Okay?”
“Okay,” Peter whispered, fidgeting beneath the covers, and Natasha rolled her eyes.
Slowly, hesitantly, Tony left.
And Nat began to sing.
Judging by the litany of words he couldn’t understand, Peter assumed it was something in Russian. It was entirely unexpected, but the sound was so soothing that exhaustion won out over shock.
She sang, soft and quiet, fingers running through his hair. The shift in demeanor from you’re about to find out that looks truly can kill to maternal extraordinaire was beyond jarring.
It was the most at peace he’d felt in months.
“Oh.” His eyelids fluttered, and the sight of her fluttered with them. “That’s…’s nice…”
Her hand paused on the back of his head, thumb rubbing his temple.
“Sleep, malen’ki pauk.”
How could he not?
Peter learned that Clint was a dad.
He, like Thor, didn’t live permanently in the Tower. He dropped by for missions, meetings, and sometimes – like this week – just to stop in and say hello. Peter hadn’t seen him at all since the Battle That Shall Not Be Named, but if Clint was surprised to see a strange eighteen year old walking around Avengers Tower, he said nothing of it. He had a sneaking suspicion Tony had informed him of Peter’s presence and identity beforehand.
Clint, lounging on the couch, smiled faintly at his phone.
And, well. Mister Stark wasn’t always calling him Nosy Nelly for nothing. Discreetly, he peeked over the man’s shoulder to see an image of three smiling children seated on the steps of a farmhouse porch.
At least, he thought he was being discreet.
“You could just ask, you know,” Clint said without looking up.
Peter stuttered. “I – I’m sorry, I wasn’t–“
But Clint wasn’t upset in the slightest. He tossed a smile across the couch at him. “Those are my kids. Lila, Cooper, and Nate. Nate’s the little one.”
“They look…nice,” Peter said awkwardly, still embarrassed at having been caught snooping.
Clint snorted.
“Yeah, when they want to be. You ever seen two pre-teens go into bloody battle over half a slice of bacon? Because I’ve seen two pre-teens go into bloody battle over half a slice of fucking bacon. Absolute animals.”
Peter said, “I was, uh, an only child. So I don’t – don’t think I’ve ever…battled for bacon.”
That wasn’t quite the truth. He’d fought over food before. But foster siblings were worlds away from biological siblings, and Peter had a feeling Clint’s children actually had enough food to go around.
“You should meet them sometime,” Clint said easily, like he was offering him a spare pen. “I think they’d like you.”
Peter smiled. “I think I’d like them, too.”
This time, as he scrolled through pictures on the Facebook feed of one Laura Barton, he turned the phone so Peter could see them, too.
Peter learned that Steve and Bucky were –
“Oh – sorry, I’m sorry–“
Steve, who’d had his arms wrapped around Bucky from behind, trailing kisses down the side of his face, looked up. Bucky raised a single brow.
“Why are you sorry?” Steve said with the faint beginnings of a smile. “You live here, too.”
As far as walking in on people went, Peter supposed it could have been worse. There was nothing overtly inappropriate about their display of affection. As far as romance went, the scene was, in fact, quite tame.
But still. He felt all too much like an intruder. Though innocent, the moment looked intimate in a deeper, more emotional way, like it was something not meant for him.
“I just–“ Peter blushed furiously. “I didn’t mean to intrude. Sorry. I’ll go.”
“No, hey,” Steve said. “Stay, son. Come to think of it, I don’t think you two have formally met. Bucky, this is Peter – Spider-Man. Peter, this is Bucky.”
Bucky pulled out of Steve’s grasp and stared at Peter, showing no emotion other than one faint twitch of his nose.
Peter gulped. “Hey, Mister Winter, uh, Mister Soldier, sir.”
“Call me Bucky,” he replied, stoic, and for a moment Peter wasn’t so certain they would get along.
And then he glanced down at the man’s hand, at the glint of silver peeking out from beneath his sleeve.
“Whoa! You have a metal arm?! That is awesome, dude!"
As it turned out, they got along just fine.
Peter learned that Rhodey and Tony’s friendship way outdated the Avengers.
He stared at Rhodey with an open mouth. “You’ve known Mister Stark since college?”
Rhodey chuckled at him. “Why so surprised?”
“I don’t know,” Peter said with a shrug. “It’s just weird to imagine him being my age. He’s so…”
“Old? I’m telling him you said that.”
“Please don’t.”
Rhodey mimed zipping his lips. Then, he looked over his shoulders as if ensuring the coast was clear, and leaned in close. “You want to hear about the time he went to class hungover and threw up all over the professor’s shoes?”
Peter, too, leaned in, eyes wide. “He’ll kill us.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Duh.”
Peter learned that Tony had panic attacks.
It was his bad timing – or maybe, in hindsight, his good timing – that unearthed this discovery. He’d thought of a new addition for the much cooler (much safer, in Tony’s words) Spider-Man suit they were crafting together, and bounded happily into the room, none the wiser.
He hadn’t meant to walk in on Tony, invincible genius and iron hero, hyperventilating on the floor of his lab, a hand clutched to his chest.
“Mister Stark?” Peter’s heart leapt into his throat. He dropped to his knees on the floor beside Tony, whose squeezed-shut eyes shot open at the sound of his voice. Peter grasped his shoulder. “Oh my God. Are you okay? Is it the Arc Reactor? Should I get Bruce?”
Tony shook his head, jerky and uncoordinated.
“Just – panic. Panic attack. I’m fine.” It sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than Peter. “I’m fine. Go.”
Peter, stubborn as ever, settled criss-cross on the dirty lab floor. “No.”
“Kid.”
“I want to help. What can I do?”
A look of pained indecision crossed Tony’s face, and Peter gulped, his jaw clenched tight. After a moment of silence, Tony laid a hand over Peter’s where it rested on his shoulder.
“Talk,” he said through a gasping breath.
“About what?”
“Anything.”
So Peter did. He launched into childhood memories – the happiest ones he could muster. The time Ben had cheated on his diet and excitedly purchased a double-scoop cookie dough ice cream cone, only to have a bird poop on it seconds later (I’ll take that as a sign, he’d said with a sad sigh while his wife and nephew laughed at his misfortune). The time May burned the Thanksgiving turkey and they’d had to go to Denny’s instead, which was Peter’s favorite Thanksgiving dinner to date. His eighth birthday, for which they’d taken him to a Stark Expo, and how he’d looked up to Iron Man ever since.
Eventually, Tony’s breathing evened out. His hand still shook where it held tight to Peter’s.
“Are you okay?” Peter asked. “What else do you need me to do?”
But it was too late for such a question. Tony had come back to himself, and with his regained self-awareness, the walls came back up. He staggered to his feet and forced a grim smile.
“Nothing,” he said. “You did good, kid. I’m fine. Thanks. Did you need something?”
Peter rose, too, but hesitated, rocking on his heels. “Mister Stark…”
“I’m fine, PJs. That just – happens, sometimes. What did you need?”
Though still uncertain, Peter told him about his idea for tazer webs, which Tony promptly vetoed. But as they fell easily into a round of banter, Tony’s hands stopped shaking, and the forced calm on his face gradually became true calm.
Peter realized as they went back and forth, tossing out ideas, ribbing each other for the stupid ones, that this, too – the normalcy, the simple presence – was helpful.
Peter learned that Sam hated chocolate.
He turned to Steve, eyes alight with fire, bag of M&Ms still held out in Sam’s general direction. “How can you put up with this? This is so un-American.”
The Avengers, all sprawled out across the darkened common room for an impromptu movie night, made various noises of agreement.
Sam threw his hands in the air. “I can’t please you people!”
“I understand not liking Peeps,” Peter said. “Even a dislike of Twizzlers is plausible. But hating chocolate? Not valid. Pure blasphemy. I’m ashamed to be your couch-buddy. In fact, I think I’d rather sit on the floor.”
Sam turned to Tony with wide, incredulous eyes. “Stark, would you come and get your child?”
Tony shrugged and tossed a piece of popcorn into his mouth.
“He’s got a point.”
Peter learned that Bruce rarely, if ever, retained memories of his time as the Hulk.
“So you just like, wake up pantless, and…” Peter made a vague gesture toward Bruce’s head. “Don’t remember why?”
Bruce smiled slightly. “When you put it like that, it sounds weird.”
“It is weird.”
“I know why. I’m used to…waking up pantsless. I just don’t always remember how, or when, or a whole lot of what happened when the Big Guy was in charge.”
From then on, Peter made a point of finding every bubblegum-pop party song that mentioned waking up pantsless and confused, and texting Bruce the links.
Bruce responded three days into the bombardment: for the love of god i am begging you please stop.
Peter texted back: lol no. [Attached link: Katy Perry – “Last Friday Night”]
Peter learned that he reminded Wanda of her late brother.
“His name was Pietro.” She smiled, bittersweet and wistful. “You’re a lot like him.”
“I’m sorry.” Peter swallowed hard. He had the sudden urge to repent for every little mannerism, every word, every smile that might have reopened the wound of her grief. “I’m so sorry.”
She shook her head. “You’ve no need to be sorry. It’s not your fault.”
“If you, like, don’t want to hang out with me anymore, I totally understand–“
Wanda placed a soft hand over his. “Peter, really. It’s alright. The memories are good ones; I like it. I don’t want to forget him. You help me remember.”
Peter thought of the way Tony had gently nudged him, that night in the common room weeks before, into sharing his positive memories of his parents, of Ben and May. He remembered how much it had helped. How much lighter he’d felt afterwards.
Maybe he could lift a weight from somebody’s shoulders, too.
“Do you want to tell me about him?”
Wanda’s eyes lit up.
“I would love to.”
Peter learned that Thor’s magic hammer was impossible to lift.
Supposedly impossible to lift.
“What?” Peter demanded, eyes darting around the dead-silent room to every Avenger, frozen in place with their jaws dropped. He swung the hammer casually into the air. “Why are you all staring at me?”
Thor broke the silence with a booming laugh. He clapped Peter hard enough on the back that he fought to keep his balance.
“Congratulations, Starkson! You are worthy to bear the Mjolnir!”
“The Meja-what?”
“You must take it out into battle to celebrate this extraordinary occasion!”
That unfroze Tony. He stood and approached, shaking his head vigorously, looking like he might be in danger of passing out. “Uh, no. No, no, no, nuh-uh. He’s not taking your weird magic hammer anywhere. That’s a big no-no. Not happening.”
Sulking, Thor took the Maja-thingamabob back and returned to his seat, grumbling foreign words beneath his breath that sounded mildly insulting.
Still, the Avengers stared…and stared…and stared.
Peter looked at Tony in utter confusion. “What just happened?”
Tony, though still shocked, looked faintly pleased. A small smile curled at the corners of his mouth.
“You’re worthy,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.
Peter heaved a sigh. “This place is so weird.”
The Avengers learned that Peter did not exactly conform to the laws of gravity.
“Peter Parker! You get down from there right now!”
Peter, sitting upside down on the ceiling with his knees drawn to his chest, pulled his hood up over his head and continued to sulk.
Tony sighed and rubbed calloused fingers against his temples.
“A Spider-Kid,” he said to himself, “who can sit on ceilings. I don’t get paid enough for this shit. And I’m a fucking billionaire.”
Ever the helpful one, Bucky stood from his spot on the couch, went to the hall closet, and returned with the broom. Tony watched, slightly concerned but more intrigued, as Bucky prodded Peter’s hooded head with it.
Steve sat in place and watched casually, taking slow sips from his coffee, like this was a normal Tuesday morning activity.
“Get down,” Bucky said in monotone.
Peter flipped his middle finger in their general direction. Bucky’s left eye twitched.
“Peter,” Nat said, sticking her head around the corner and fixing him with the type of terrifyingly serene look only she could pull off. “Get. Down.”
Peter did.