Work Text:
Peter Parker has a problem.
Not the stupid pop quiz in Spanish class today that he’s sure he failed or the fact that he told Aunt May he’d remember her grocery list to pick up on the way home when he definitely should have written it down or at least made a note in his phone. Not the way MJ has started hanging out with him and Ned more often and he’s pretty sure that if she sits directly next to him one more time he’ll probably break out in some sort of nervous hives that will ensure she finds him disgusting for the rest of his life.
Not the fact that he’s low key a superhero. Not the fact that he physically heard his uncle’s heart stop beating because of his own shitty choices. Not the fact that he’s never told the one family member he has left either of these things.
No, it’s strangely worse— worse than all the grief, all the pressure, all the fear and responsibilities and failures stacking themselves on his shoulders at a speed that could rival a millennium falcon.
Because this problem isn’t exactly new and yet… it’s always existed.
Somewhere inside him, he’s always felt that something’s off about him.
Peter Parker is an imposter.
He’s happy, but he’s not. He’s grateful, but everything feels wrong.
He’s just some kid— a totally normal teenager just like anyone else at his school. He takes the subway and the owner of the sandwich shop by his house knows him by name. He wins science fairs and hates jello and avoids public speaking like the plague.
But in his dreams he rides in cars endlessly through warm nights peppered with stars and it’s someone else smashing his sandwiches as flat as possible and his science projects have nothing to do with an assignment and there’s a voice in his head saying pudding is obviously superior, Pete .
And when he’s forced in the spotlight, he still finds himself smiling and can’t seem to shut his mouth.
Peter Parker is a normal teenager with normal problems.
All except the one that makes him wonder who Peter Parker is in the first place.
It’s this strange obsession, his biggest secret, that leads him to saving up to order one of those at home DNA tests. It’s stupid, he knows, but at this point he’s desperate. He’s tried pointedly involving himself in hobbies and sports and interests that are totally foreign to him, restlessly seeking something that clicks and rights all of the wrongness deep in his bones.
Sports are a major fail and he’s sure there would be a soccer ball shaped imprint on his face for the rest of his life if it weren’t for his enhanced healing factor. Drawing is sort of fun, but he’s absolutely terrible at it and he can never ever let MJ find out he even tried. Photography isn’t so bad— it feels like collecting memories and sparks something in him, though that tends to leave him more frustrated than when he started.
He does take to cars pretty well, but that’s not exactly a surprise. He’s been tinkering with anything he can get his hands on for as long as he can remember. It’s like Lego’s, but better— real. However, getting his hands on a car is tricky work that leaves him more accustomed to scrounging up whatever pieces of engine he stumbles upon in the trash during slow patrol nights.
There’s something about the smell of engine grease that feels as close as he’s ever gotten to his real self, that deep self that’s buried beneath his constant worry that there’s something wrong with him.
Coney Island helps too, not that he finds himself there often. He only goes in the middle of the night, when it’s quiet and peaceful and there’s a light breeze that wraps itself around him as he watches the water bend and sway. Something about the waves.
But it’s been too long now. His fifteenth birthday is coming up and adulthood feels too close. The rest of his life is waiting for him and he doesn’t even know who to be to step into it.
So he sneaks a DNA test into his room on a Thursday, spits in a tube a gross amount of times, and hopes that maybe something about his heritage can help him.
Maybe this could give him more information about his parents than the same two sentences Aunt May and Uncle Ben have been repeating to him since he was six years old.
He drops it in a distant mailbox before heading out for patrol that night, leaving it behind with the last shred of hope he has that maybe it’s not his fault he’s like this. Maybe he’s not a bad person for hiding this from May, maybe he’s not making all this up, maybe he’s not broken.
The following Wednesday, the principal steps into his third period and moves to his teacher to whisper in the man’s ear with a level of urgency that catches the entire class’ attention.
A slip of paper instantly appears on his desk with the distraction.
Death Star tonight?
Peter glances over to Ned who’s wiggling his eyebrows with unflinching enthusiasm that makes him chuckle under his breath and move to respond.
Definitely. May’s got a night shift.
The moment the note leaves his fingertips, the principal clears his throat. Peter snaps his hand back to his lap, a surge of adrenaline racing through him at the potential of having been caught.
And, sure enough, Principal Morita is looking directly at him.
“Peter, if you’ll come with me.”
Well, shit.
He shares a quick glance with Ned who looks torn between burying his head in his hoodie like an actual turtle or bolting up to claim that he should be punished too. Peter shakes his head as subtly as possible and moves to stand.
“Bring your things,” Morita adds, his mouth a drawn, tight line.
The shock of getting in trouble in front of the whole physics class doubles, but he doesn’t let himself linger. He stuffs his notes in his bag and shrugs it over his shoulder to race the principal to the hall and get as far away from all the judging eyes at his back. His phone vibrates in his pocket and he knows Ned’s already texted him, which, come on , he just got pulled out of class for disrupting with just a note—
There are men in suits waiting in the hall.
There are men in suits waiting in the hall.
Oh. Oh.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck.
This is it.
All these months, all the careful hiding, all the secret keeping and sneaking around.
He should have known that his secret identity wouldn’t stay a secret for long in the face of the freaking government .
They know.
They have to know .
“Peter Parker?” the taller, blond man says before pulling out a leather pocketbook from his chest pocket. He flashes a badge. “I’m Agent Walters and this is Agent Woods. We’re from the FBI.”
Peter doesn’t say anything in return because what on earth is he supposed to say? Instead, he stands there, like an idiot, debating on forming some half-baked escape plan that leads to him on the run and living out of a dumpster. Or maybe he can hitchhike south and get into Mexico for hiding. They have beaches and the beach always sounds like a dream come true.
But there’s also the cartel.
But Spiderman would probably stay busy.
“We need you to come with us,” Agent Walters continues, while Peter fights a blush at just how far away his thoughts took him.
Principal Morita makes himself known beside Peter. “I’ll be with you.”
Peter looks between them, sweating enough that he’s starting to feel it at the center of his back. “Don’t I need a legal guardian present for police things?”
Agent Woods nods. “Normally, yes, but your situation is a little complicated. Your principal is going to come along for the time being.”
And that’s that.
Peter doesn’t dare speak another word, even as his anxiety spikes when they leave the school grounds and step into a sketchy black SUV he’s used to seeing on the occasional crime drama on tv.
They drive in silence and Principal Morita is visibly uncomfortable. A part of him wonders where May is and if she knows that he’s being taken in by the FBI without her. She’d definitely be pissed and want to be here, but Peter isn’t sure whether it would be better that way or not. She doesn’t know about Spiderman, and he’s committed to her never finding out. Ever.
He loves his Aunt May just like he loved his Uncle Ben.
But — there’s always been a distance between them that cycled with their suffocating him and their complete disinterest in him. It’s… weird. He loves them, he does. There’s just always a part of him that’s felt so separate from them. He assumes it’s because they’re not his parents and he’s not their kid. It’s fine. They’ve always been alright.
When they reach the crazy official skyscraper where the two agents definitely sort of surround him to usher him inside, he wonders if they actually think he might make a run for it. He doesn’t, of course. He’s not totally stupid.
Not always, at least.
They take him up an elevator and down a few pristine halls where they see three other—presumably—agents in suits that don’t acknowledge them in any way. Their destination is weirdly not an interrogation room, at least, not one Peter would have imagined.
It looks like a conference room.
There’s a long, sleek table with weirdly boujee office chairs, and two people waiting for them. One is another man in a suit, though this one is a charcoal gray and looks more professional than agent-like. The other is some sort of doctor, probably, because of the lab coat she’s wearing.
She smiles at Peter and stands, gesturing for him to take a seat next to her, far away from the gray suit guy who has a tablet out and open and it looks like he’s taking notes on something.
Peter does as he’s bid, reluctantly, what with his short supply of options.
The FBI agents that brought him as well as Principal Morita all find seats at the table as well, congregating around Peter and the doctor, leaving the other guy on his own.
“I’m going to ask you a few questions, Peter,” Agent Walters starts, his voice sounding practiced enough to show his comfort with the experience. “I’m sure you’ll have your own, especially as we progress, but please do your best to answer them honestly.”
Peter, feeling decidedly off guard, nods. His attention flickers to the doctor, wondering how she could look so nice when it’s totally possible that she’s going to be experimenting on him for his enhanced DNA.
Wait— fuck .
He’s such an idiot!
That stupid DNA test. He literally outed himself as Spiderman.
And now he’s about to be arrested or imprisoned or experimented on and it’s literally all his fault.
“What is your relationship to May Parker? Specifically?”
Peter blinks at Agent Walters. Once. Twice.
“What?”
He repeats the question, stated exactly how it was the first time.
“She’s, uh, my aunt. Her husband was my, uh-my dad’s brother.”
“You live with her?”
“Yes,” he answers automatically, checking the other faces around the room for any sign of what’s going on. “Is May in trouble?”
“How long have you lived with her?”
Peter pauses, letting a glare slip out at the agent’s attitude, but he answers anyway. “Since I was six. They were babysitting me while my parents went on a trip, but they died on the plane ride.”
“And what do you remember about Mary and Richard Parker?”
Nothing , he almost says. But he stops himself and they seem to take his momentary silence as a good cue to move on.
“What do you remember about your life before May and Ben Parker?”
Principal Morita tenses his jaw next to Peter, and he’s glad the man chose to leave a seat of space between them.
“I- Well, not… not much.” He doesn’t know what makes him continue, but he does. “Sometimes I think I dream about it.”
“What happens in these dreams?” Agent Walters asks, his expression as genuine as possibly imaginable and for a moment, Peter lets himself think that the man actually cares about a teenager’s dreams.
“I’m usually in the backseat of a car.”
“Are you frightened?”
“What? No,” Peter rambles out, running a shaking hand through his hair. “It’s… nice. It’s like a night drive or something. Sometimes I can hear the ocean.”
Agent Woods nods to himself, making brief eye contact with the man at the far corner of the table. “Any other dreams?”
Despite himself, Peter tells the truth, curious about the fact that they seem actually interested now. “Sometimes I’m playing with Lego’s, which, I mean, I do now, but these are like, the big ones, you know? Like the ones for little kids— babies . And sometimes I can almost hear someone calling me Pete and no one I know calls me Pete which is weird but kind of nice and—wait, why is this important? Why is the FBI asking me about May and my dreams?”
Agent Walters and Agent Woods share a look.
“This is Dr. Helen Cho,” Agent Woods says, gesturing to the nice doctor that Peter’s still suspicious of, even though it’s hard because she kind of looks super nice. “She’s going to take a sample of your DNA and based on the results we’ll either tell you everything or let you go.”
Peter pauses, then: “That-that doesn’t tell me anything .”
The agents are immovable.
But it does pretty much confirm that this is probably about the DNA test he took. So, biting the bullet, he finally nods.
Dr. Cho takes the sample with a large cotton swab attached to a little tube. She smiles at him softly when she’s done. “This is going to be quick, promise. I’m the best there is.”
Sure, he thinks, because he doesn’t particularly care how fast this takes. As long as it’s not like, days in this room or something, he’s sure he’ll be fine.
The agents leave him briefly, though the guy in the suit stays, which is annoying and weird, but he’s starting to think the man is a lawyer of some kind after catching sight of a briefcase on the floor. Mercifully, Principal Morita doesn’t try to comfort him or make any sort of conversation.
When Dr. Cho returns, she’s flanked by his two agents. Suit guy looks up at her and she nods, apparently sending the guy into action. He stands, dusting off his lapel, and rounds the table.
“Peter, my name is Paul Douglas. I’m an attorney and I’ll be representing you and supervising the rest of your time here,” he says with a very pointed look at Principal Morita.
The agents seem to confirm the statement, waving Morita out of the room with little regard for the man’s feelings, but, well, Peter likes his principal and all that, but this is a little weird for him to witness anymore.
Especially if his secret identity is about to be outed. He’d rather keep all spectators to a minimum.
Mr. Douglas takes Principal Morita’s seat, setting his tablet down on the table while the agents and Dr. Cho return to their original places.
Agent Woods starts them off, ending the growing, awkward silence.
“Peter, I want to ask you one more time, do you have any memories of Mary or Richard Parker?”
A part of him is still panicking over Spiderman, but a rebellious part of him is starting to consider this isn’t even about him. Is this all about something his parents did? Something May or Ben did?
“No,” he answers quietly, barely a breath. “I don’t remember them at all. Before May and Ben… I can remember a few little things. I had a little microscope I loved, I’m pretty sure. And I went to the beach a couple times— not like any around here. A real beach. Sandy and warm and all that. I- I just assumed my parents had taken me on vacations sometimes or something.”
Spilling all of this feels overwhelmingly stupid, not to mention embarrasing , but in a way— it’s nice. It’s nice to finally say all of these things out loud.
“I think I got hurt one time. I remember crying and running for… I remember sitting on the couch with this red blanket and watching movies afterwards. I- I don’t-”
He shakes his head. There’s not a whole lot that’s clear to him from back then, but every once in a while he has the faintest piece of a memory, mostly just feelings, but he’s never seen a face, never seen his parents in any of them.
It always made remembering them difficult. On the one hand, they were his parents, but on the other… he didn’t really know them.
He didn’t really lose them when they died, as shitty as that makes him, but he doesn’t really remember them in the first place. His grief had always come from this place of… losing something that he could have had, should have had, and would never get.
The agents let him trail off, let the silence settle a bit, before Agent Walters straightens in his seat and folds his hands atop the table.
“Are you familiar with Tony Stark?”
The full swell of emotion in Peter vanishes, leaving nothing but dumb shock in its wake because—
“What?” The agents don’t break character or whatever so Peter carefully answers. “Uh, yeah? Everyone knows Iron Man.”
Agent Walters nods.
“Are you aware he had a son who was kidnapped nearly ten years ago?”
“I- what?” It hardly feels like they’re speaking English anymore. The question rolls through Peter’s mind in a slow, formless drag. “It’s- I mean, I guess? Vaguely. It was, like, a true crime type thing when I was little but I- I never looked into it or anything.”
Why are his eyes suddenly prickling? Why is he starting to shake? It’s not even cold or anything in here. In fact, it’s a little warm. Maybe they could open a window or something or turn the AC down or maybe he should take his jacket off, but he’s finding it weirdly difficult to move— or breathe.
“You submitted DNA to an ancestry agency that flagged one of the many protocols in place by Tony Stark to find his son,” Agent Woods says, sounding suddenly far away. “We confirmed the results with Dr. Cho. You were kidnapped, Peter. Your name is Peter Stark. You’ve been missing for just under nine years.”
There’s a ringing in Peter’s ears. He’s sure that he’s about to cry, but the emotions brewing deep in his chest are so, so messy. He- This isn’t what he wanted. This isn’t what he was looking for when he decided to take a stupid DNA test to figure out a clue to where he came from.
Everything he knows is suddenly a lie. Who is May? Who was Ben? His parents weren’t even his parents— what did they do to him? How did they get him?
Did they even care?
And yet— there’s a part of him that smells gasoline, knowing full well that’s not possible where he is. There’s a part of him that can feel the sand in his toes and hear a rough voice whispering, Morning Pete .
“This is a lot to take in,” Agent Woods continues. “You’re doing great, Peter. If you have any questions, we’ll do our best to answer.”
Peter is distantly aware that he nods to the man as his brain readjusts itself.
“What- what happens now?” he whispers.
Agent Walters answers. “May Parker is currently in custody. The legal documentation she has to prove her guardianship over you has been confirmed as falsified. You’re temporarily a ward of the state until your father arrives.”
“Tony Stark?”
For the first time, it hits Peter that this isn’t just his previously unknown birth father, this is Tony Stark .
Iron Man.
“Yes.”
“And he’s… he’s coming?” For Peter? To get him?
He still wants him?
The barest smile pinches at the corners of Agent Woods’ lips. “We’ve had to hold him back, kid. He’s missed you.”
He tries to settle his thoughts—tries to think about what’s happening to May or whether he’ll go back to school anytime soon or maybe ever again or if Ned’s worried about him—but all that cycles through his mind is sitting on the couch in his memories with that red blanket watching… Cars . It was Cars. And- and he wasn’t alone.
He wasn’t alone.
There’s a knock on the door. Peter sees everyone look over in his peripherals, but he’s staring at the tabletop, hands uselessly fretting in his lap.
“ Pete .”
Something crumples in his chest.
He sounds the same— the same as his dreams.
Peter lifts his head and there, standing in the doorway, looking more disheveled than he’s ever looked on tv, is Tony Stark.
“Dad?” his voice cracks, a sob sticking in his throat as he clumsily, desperately pushes away from the table and to his feet.
Tony is already around the table, arms already reaching, a gasp leaving his mouth sounding a little too much like a cry.
And then there are arms firmly around him and he’s squeezing Tony Stark so tight that it must be uncomfortable with his enhanced strength, but— but this is real .
He’s real .
Peter was right. Something was wrong with him before. It wasn’t his fault and he wasn’t making things up. He wasn’t crazy or ungrateful or broken.
He just…
He just really missed his dad.