Chapter Text
It turns out that Mr. Stark is out of town. He’s out of the state, actually, out of the country. All the way on the opposite side of the world in Malaysia. Peter is told that the billionaire left late for some sort of convention after the seizure incident, and is leaving early because of the breathing incident.
He hates it. He’s become a definition of a burden to the man who’s given him everything. Peter knows that. He knows he doesn’t deserve to have people like Tony Stark or Aunt May in his life and that he’s ruining them right now by behaving the way he is. He needs to get better, and then he needs to grow up so that he can start taking care of himself.
He's already fifteen. That's old enough, in many cultures, to be considered an adult man. Many of his classmates already drive to their real jobs and pay for their own lunches with their own money. Peter is, to quote the cinematic masterpiece Monster House, practically a grown-up, although he sometimes doubts that May and Mr. Stark will ever see him as anything more than a child.
It’s difficult not to pout, but stewing in self-pity does absolutely nothing to improve the aggravation that Peter is currently experiencing. At least Dr. Banner seems to think he’s in the clear for now, and Peter is allowed to go through the compound as he chooses. In theory. In practice, Aunt May will probably never let him out of her sight again.
Peter has never actually been in his room at the Avengers compound before. He had known of its existence, but it had always been more fantastical to him. It was there, but not really. Like the view from the torch on the statue of liberty or a broadway show - it had been something Peter would have enjoyed seeing, and something that would have been technically accessible, but something he would probably have never gone and experienced.
His room is really, really cool. It’s larger than the apartment he shares with his aunt. It’s like he’s staying in some sort of five star hotel. There’s a bathroom complete with a full shower, a jacuzzi bath, twenty types of soap, and its own laundry shoot. There’s a walk-in closet already stocked with his size in jeans, shirts, expensive sneakers, and funny socks. An entire section has been devoted to a workshop.
That has to be Peter’s favorite part, like his own personal dreamland. It probably has better supplies than his school: lasers, blades, Stark tech that has so many settings Peter wouldn’t know what to do with them all.
The room opens into a large hallway, home to two of the Avengers. Peter thinks he sees glimpses of Vision, although he can’t say for sure.
In the common area, there’s a window overlooking a large empty hanger. Happy had mentioned something about Mr. Stark having the quinjet, and Peter is beyond excited to see the thing land. He hadn’t had a chance to see it in Germany, and the thought of seeing the massive airship in motion nearly sends a shiver down his spine.
When Peter turns back from the window, Black Widow is seated, feet up on one of the coffee tables, flipping through a magazine with a title in a language that Peter can’t even pretend to place. He has no idea when she got there. She hadn’t made a sound coming in, and even now with his enhanced hearing he can barely hear the pages rustle as she flips through them. She’s like a ghost, and part of Peter is afraid that if he looks away he’ll somehow forget she was ever there.
He doesn’t realize that he’s staring until Natasha Romanoff’s tongue darts out to lick her index finger and she turns the page, eyebrow raised as if in some sort of amusement. Her eyes continue to travel over the page, but Peter can tell that the gesture was meant for him. He clears his throat awkwardly.
“H-Hi…” He starts but he doesn’t know what to call her. Ms. Romanoff? Natasha? Black Widow?
“Mr. Parker,” She nods curtly, although she continues to read. Peter would question how she already knows his name, but he decides better of it. Something in her voice suggests that she knows everything. She is, after all, a world class spy. And an assassin. Peter makes a mental note to never get on her bad side. Not that he would have anyways, but reminders have never hurt before.
She must have finished her article, because Ms. Romanoff is on her feet not a moment before the doors open to Dr. Banner conversing with May. Peter’s aunt is smiling as she speaks animatedly towards the world-renowned scientist. They’re cheerful talk ends abruptly when Dr. Banner notices the woman who waits for him.
A silent affinity exists between the two heroes, and, although he was here before any of them, he suddenly feels like an intruder to some sort of reticent, confidential discussion. His room is just down the hall, and there is a very real, very strong impulse to retreat and hide in his brand new quarters as the silence stretches.
“How are you feeling, Peter?” Dr. Banner asks, the peculiar conversation with the assassin finished as though its awkward tension had not washed over the room just moments before.
“Alright,” Peter admits. Although he is sure the two heroes have already expressed a great deal between themselves, he can tell there is more that needs to be said in private. So, he keeps his answer brief, “More or less the same as I felt an hour ago.”
“Good,” Dr. Banner nods, although Peter can tell that he doesn’t have the man’s full attention, “Nat and I have to talk for a minute, we’ll just be in the other room if you need anything.”
The man sounds sincere, like he means what he says, but something in Ms. Romanoff’s steely blue eyes acts as a deterrent. They have something urgent to discuss, her gaze implies, Peter is not to interrupt unless it is absolutely necessary.
He’s alright with that, this entire illness has been a one -maybe two- time occurance, he’s sure. The entire asthma thing was probably nothing more than an aftershock of the seizure thing.
May’s eyes trail after the departing heroes, seemingly a little bit less confident. Her fingers tap against the back of the couch she’s leaning on. When the thud and click of a door closing reaches their side of the room, May’s frown turns to Peter.
“Who’s that woman you were talking to?” She demands more than she asks. It’s been a little while already, but May still acts suspicious towards anybody and everybody who might know about his double life as Spider-Man. Hell, when she found out that Ned was involved, she grilled and threatened him for hours, until the boy considered retiring from his Guy In The Chair duties altogether.
Peter smiles, fingers crossed that it’s at least somewhat assuring, “May, that’s Natasha Romanoff,” He says, only a little bit disappointed at the blank face meeting him, “You know, Black Widow?”
His grin grows at the silent ‘oh’ forming between May’s lips, but it falters as her brow furrows again, “Why is she blonde?”
“I don’t know, I think she just likes to change her hair sometimes,” Peter avoids mentioning her being one of the world’s top spies, even though he’s sure she already knows. Hearing itt would likely only make his aunt more anxious and, despite how well she hides it, Peter knows better than anyone that the woman needs no help in that department.
She nods, checking something on her phone as she goes to join him on one of the many couches.
“If nothing else,” She tells him, “I’m glad you have people like Dr. Banner taking care of you. It’s the least Stark can do after all of this.”
And, as much as Peter would like to defend his mentor against May’s constant criticism, he knows better than to get her started on the subject. Just like she knows better than to push it, to Peter’s appreciation. They’ve had ‘discussions’ on Tony Stark’s integrity and virtue before, always followed by a few hours of awkward or tense emotions.
If not for the brief moment of silence where both aunt and nephew attempt to think of a possible way to change the subject, Peter probably would not hear it. There’s a faint mechanical whir, like that of a miniscule motor. He turns and makes a mad dash towards the window, just in time to see a large metal vessel hovering in the sky.
It descends beautifully, smoothly. For a moment, Peter imagines riding in it. Like sailing through still water, or floating on Aladdin's magic carpet.
The rotors on the wings rotate angles as the airship comes down, stirring up the small amount of dust below. Peter is practically glued to the window until the Quinjet lands.
Mr. Stark is strolling through the door only a minute later. The wide grin he greets Peter with grows cautious upon seeing May. He approaches her with both palms faced outward in a cordial gesture, but May’s arms remain crossed, her face hard.
“Do you have any idea how long we’ve been waiting here?” She demands, stepping forward.
“Thirty hours less than you would have had I been anyone else,” He answers easily, sarcasm coloring his next words, “It takes more than a few minutes to fly from the complete opposite side of the world.”
May, as expected, responds with irritation. She reminds him that there is nothing to joke about in a less than friendly way. Mr. Stark’s smile becomes slightly more forced, and Peter prepares to interject.
At first, he thinks that the twitch in his fingers is simply nervous energy. After all, Peter is about to put himself between to irritated grown-ups. But then, he finds himself unable to relax the offending digits. A moment later, the spasm spreads to his hand and suddenly, his fist is clenching against his will.
Peter considers not saying anything. He feels a similar sensation in his calves whenever he patrols without stretching properly beforehand. When the pain turns sharp and races like hot blood through Peter’s forearm and bicep, he changes his mind.
“M-Mr. Stark? Aunt May?” Peter’s muscles have tightened so much that he can barely move his arm. His shoulder has begun twitching, and a brief flash of fear races through his chest as he wonders what would happen if this strange episode were to spread to his neck, or contract his heart.
Fortunately, there are two adults by his side within the instant, and Peter does not reject their help.
“Peter-”
“What’s wrong?”
“What’s going on?”
“Is it-”
“Why are you holding your arm like that?”
“Let me see.”
Mr. Stark takes his hand and tries to uncurl the shaking fingers with little success. Even with his enhanced strength, Peter’s attempts to move his arm result in little more than a twitch. It’s like he’s been encased in solid Vibranium, and no matter how much he exerts himself, he is unable to lift the weight.
Before long, Mr. Stark has given up on opening the rogue fist. He yells for Dr. Banner while Peter strains, and paints, and stares at the small rivulets of blood that manage to squeeze through the side of his fingers and drip to the ground. The muscles have actually begun to ball up under the skin, and Peter can do little but gape and wonder if it’s possible for them to burst out.
But then Dr. Banner is there, and he’s trying pressure points, and measuring heart rates and oxygen.
He says something, but Peter can barely hear. Although the spasm has not travelled any further than the shoulder, Peter can hardly feel anything other than the white-hot pain. His eyes are tearing up without his control, and his attempts to focus on anything outside of his body are only giving him a headache. His balance is failing, and knowing that trying to sit will likely only result in falling and injury, Peter allows himself to drop to his knees.
Within seconds, Dr. Banner is in front of him again with a handful of needles. He says something about “TPI,” and “Deactivating trigger points,” and then there are a series of pinpricks from his shoulder to his wrist.
After that, it takes only a minute for the pain to clear up. Peter is left on the ground, blinking the tears and blurriness out of his vision as his arm loosens and hangs limp at his side. There are small half-moon punctures where his fist had clenched, surprisingly deep for simple fingernail scratches.
By the time he looks up again, May is descending on him like she’d just watched him dying, which, Peter realizes, might have been what she thought was happening. He’s left to comfort her and insist that “Really, I’m fine Aunt May, it doesn’t even really hurt now.”
Her hand on the back of his head pushes him toward her chest and he settles into her warmth, actually quite content. The voices behind them ruin the illusion of peace before it’s even fully formed.
“Let’s get him prepped for a CT,” Dr. Banner suggests, “I think it’s in his brain.”