Author's Note: Hello! =D Thank you for taking a look at this story, hopefully you enjoy it! I absolutely adore father/son stories and the relationship between Tony and Peter is adorable.

Please offer any feedback you may have! =D

Sorry for any grammar/spelling errors!

Rated for: Minor violence, injuries, anxiety, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, bullying, panic attacks, paranoia on my part, and the fact that it's not based around humor. Language is all K. No slash, no smut, no non-con, no incest.

For your information, this cross-posted on Archive of Our Own under the pen name of "GalaxyThreads". :)

Just a personal note, if you could refrain from using cussing/strong language if you comment (no offense to how you speak! Promise! =) It just makes me uncomfortable) I would greatly appreciate that. ;)

Updated on: March 26, 2019

Chapter One:

He's not going to bat away her hand. No. He's not. He's fifteen, not five. It doesn't hurt that much.

Oh, man. No, it hurts that much.

Peter lets out a hiss of pain between his clenched jaw, trying desperately not to jerk backwards, then smack his aunt's hand away and burrow under blankets, refusing to come out into the light for several more days. His instincts are screaming at him to, and Peter's not to ardent on trying to do otherwise. Stop poking it.

Stop.

Stop touching.

Peter curls his hands into fists instead of smacking at her hand, digging his nails into his palms and nearly winces at the harsh pressure against his skin, despite the thick fabric of the Spider-Man suit offering a barrier. This is fine. He's fine. It's all normal. (It will be gone tomorrow). Peter presses his lips together tightly and flicks his gaze up towards the ceiling to distract himself.

Note to self: the next mugger who picks up a trash-can lid, take seriously.

Peter bites heavily at his inner cheek to withhold yet another groan that threatens to escape his lips. He's released out so many tonight he's starting to grate on his own nerves, but the pain really isn't something to be taken lightly; admittedly (though he wouldn't breathe a word of it to May), he's starting to see double in his right eye...and he still has that Spanish and math homework to complete. And...well crap. The assignments shouldn't be too hard so long as he can focus on anything beyond how badly his head and ribs hurt.

Which is much easier said than done.

To be frank, the bruised ribs are a lot more endurable than when he snapped his ankle a few weeks ago after being thrown through a second story building. It healed in a little less than five days, but he was hobbling around on one foot for a majority of them. It wasn't pleasant, mostly just painful. May hadn't been impressed, but she rarely is when he comes home looking like a piñata children have been having a go at for a while.

Ugh.

Piñata.

Spanish.

And, ergo, homework.

He should really start doing his homework before he leaves instead of around three AM, because no one does good work when they're half asleep, but it's the only time he has to do it. College is going to be a nightmare. Period. No backsies. You know, if he doesn't die trying to get there. Which, given his current record, is starting to become a real possibility.

Peter releases his right fist staring ahead at the bland, uninteresting wall, because he needs to focus on something else. His right eye's vision is slightly blurry and the skin probably resembles that of a child trying to paint a storm cloud: Black, blue, and purple all over. It's really not his fault, it's not like he asked for the lid to be thrown at his face, it just sort of happened.

Okay, so antagonizing the mugger probably hadn't helped the situation, but he just can't seem to shut up when he has the mask on. He just blabs and blabs and blabbers on about nothing. He's really not an idiot—he's just also very good at making quips that induce the urge in people to strangle him. Or rip out his tongue. On one memorable occasion, both.

Annnd, he forgot that Ned asked to bring him to bring his missed homework yesterday when he forgot after school. Ned has had one of the worst colds to date and has been very querulous about it. Ned rarely gets sick, and this happening has not been his favorite thing. Peter's been assigned with delivering him his homework and as a personal endeavor, notes from class. It's all he has time for, otherwise he would be visiting Ned and giving him sick soup and sick friendship games and probably a Star Wars binge. As it is, he's only been dropping off homework and it sort of slipped his mind to deliver it. Rats. It's the making of a long day and it's only three-forty-seven AM.

Pain sparks through his face suddenly, and Peter smacks the hand away subconsciously drawing his brain into the present with a high-pitched, fairly unmanly yelp of "ow!".

May bites her bottom lip from her position next to him, and he can see her trying to hold back an angry (but probably concerned) retort. "Peter," she sighs instead. When the first letter rolls off her tongue he can tell he's in trouble. How do adults manage to do that without fail? They can say names in such a way that conveys every drop of disappointed resentment in them. Urgh. He doesn't want to deal with this.

His head is a mess, he could've gotten ran over by a steamroller and the pain would have been equal. Everything hurts, but his ribs and head are a particular rouse of pain. They must be in a competition to see who can make him cry out first. Which is stupid. But nonetheless, so far his ribs are winning.

May raises her hand and gently grabs his chin, tilting his head back and forth as she stares at his face in concern. Through his partially blurry vision he can see her frown deepen. He thinks she's looking at his pupils for signs of a concussion, but he's not sure. Did he mention that his vision is blurry to her? Um...no. No he didn't. With the headache pulsing in his brain it's hard to really remember anything. Ooh, school is going to be fun.

Whoopee.

May rises to her feet without a word, moving towards the kitchen and Peter twists slightly to follow her with his sight from the couch. He wishes she would say something. Her silent disappointment is worse than her yelling at him. He can handle her yelling, this...this silence makes him sick. He knows he's in trouble. They agreed after May caught him in the suit two months ago that he needs to be back by midnight every night and he blew it tonight. Because for the previous eight months, he was freelance. He doesn't know how to wrap around a schedule.

And does it matter? He isn't going to sleep anyway. He'll just spend the whole night turned towards the door refusing to look at the ceiling because it will remind him of being crushed and how he had a moment to look up before there was nothing but choking blackness and panic and the realization that he was going to die and—

Physically? He healed in a week. Barely a few faint scars from the collapse.

The only proof that it happened.

He didn't tell anyone.

How could he?

May's barely tolerating this as it is, if she knew half of what he sustained before Homecoming...he's been a mess since the collapse. Spider-Man hasn't changed, the one constant in his life, but Peter...Peter's a wreck. He can't sleep, can't focus, and his grades have slipped.

May and he agreed that school came first, before Spider-Man.

At least B's.

Peter's managed to keep it in that range, but the C's he's achieved have not been impressive. He really should have read the book for English, but he didn't have time. Not between Spider-Man and everything else.

Ned's helped a lot, he hasn't treated Peter any differently beyond insisting that Peter include him on the slightly larger missions so he can be the "man in the chair". It drove him a little crazy at first, so used to being solo, but it doesn't bother him as much anymore. Between Karen and Ned, Peter has felt a little less alone during patrols. It's...nice.

May returns to the couch, ice pack in hand and sits beside him once more before handing the packet to him. Peter gives a small nod in thanks, trying to keep his swirling head from spinning to rapidly before he presses the cloth-covered ice against his face. Relief washes across the bruise immediately and Peter heaves out a relieved breath.

Now if he could only get his ribs to stop screaming at him, that would be great. In all honesty, he really should have listened to Karen's suggestion and let her guide him home after the mugger threw the lid at his face like some sort of murderous frisbee (it stung. He now has a great deal of sympathy for victims of Captain America), but he didn't listen. Because he's an idiot. And not only is he an idiot, he's a tired idiot, too; and one, judging by his aunt's expression, who is grounded for the next week or so.

He barely represses a groan.

And the day keeps getting better.

Peter digs his fingers into the ice. Maybe he can convince May they need to go to bed and they can have the conversation that Peter very much does not want to have tomorrow. Well, on a technical scale, later today. Probably not, but it's nice to daydream about.

His aunt slowly twists so she and Peter are looking eye-to-eye and he is suddenly aware how much he misses the depth both eyes offer him. Wandering around with only one eye must be awful, he wouldn't make a good pirate and—Peter.

Focus.

May's still not talking, she's mad. Or at least disappointed. Peter can almost feel both emotions waving off of her. His fault. He should have called. Instead, his aunt stayed up half the night waiting for him.

In his defense, his phone was dead, but in May's, Karen is just as capable of calling as his cell. He just...he didn't want her to demand he come home. Yesterday hadn't been an amazing day: He barely scraped a B on his science test, Ned was still sick, MJ was out of town on family business, and Flash was being a brat. More so than usual.

Is she going to start? He really just wants to go to bed and sleep for the next few years. But he needs to get his homework done and if he starts now he should be able to get about half an hour to forty minutes in of some nice REM's before he needs to leave for school. Not optimal, but it's better than last night.

"Peter," May finally begins drumming her fingers across the top of her knee, her brown hair framing her face tiredly. Peter shifts his gaze from the bookshelf with the small TV balanced on it to his aunt. She clasps her hands together, leans forward biting her lip slightly, and Peter studies her carefully.

He really hates making her worry, it's a gnawing guilt that doesn't dissipate no matter how many times he breaks her rules or forgets to call. Ever since Ben died, May's paid far more attention to him than she really did before—they were never strangers, but he was closer to his uncle when Ben was alive. Then Ben was dead, and he and May had to learn how to work with each other. It's like learning a foreign language and both of them are still rusty.

May was so fragile after Ben, and Peter hates adding to the pressure that she faces.

He wants to take care of her, and feels weirdly sick when he doesn't.

May finally looks back at him, "Peter, I know that the last couple months have been hard for you," she starts gently. Peter barely bites back a groan and instead flexes his toes, trying to ease the pain. Joy, a heart-to-heart. He really doesn't have time for this. He still has the homework and needs to text Ned an apology, then study for a history test he has on Friday. It's a little past the middle of quarter two, and all his teachers decided it would be a good idea to get a test in before winter break.

He doesn't want to talk feelings right now because he really doesn't have anything nice to say, and he's going to say something stupid. Peter lets out a long mental sigh. His aunt is still talking, but Peter's not trying super hard to understand what she's saying. Rude, but he can't focus. Pain keeps hindering it. Her voice is more like a motto tone in the background that he hears, but doesn't process.

What was the Spanish assignment anyway? Peter scrambles to put together what he last heard his teacher talking about. Something about colors...or a recipe. Wasn't it something with baking? He was supposed to make a recipe in Spanish. Yeah...okay, maybe. It sounds vaguely familiar.

"Peter?" May stops mid sentence and the sudden quiet grasps his attention. He looks up at her and hums in response. "You're not listening, are you?"

Peter winces.

No.

He's still not.

He mentally gives himself a kick and digs his fingers further into his palms. She's trying to look out for him, she wrapped the worst of his cuts and eye, stayed up till almost four for him, and he can't even give her the decency of listening to her? Rude, ungrateful, needy—

May gives a heavy sigh, "Listen, I know you want to continue with this...hero-thing, but you can't keep jumping curfew. It's not a suggestion, Peter, I need you to understand this. You were doing so well when we started, but the last few weeks…" she trails and shakes her head slightly, "I want to make sure you're okay, and you need the sleep. Midnight. That's what we agreed on. I'm not going to let you keep staying out all night anymore." She says firmly. Peter closes his eyes and tilts his head back in frustration.

He shouldn't be expecting anything different.

He shouldn't.

But he was hoping...

Maybe she would...

If he's not saving lives and stopping crime, he's up all night long with the sound of his own strangled gasps and screams for help echoing in his ears with the building creaking and groaning around him as the dust settles in the air. And if it's not the building, it's Vulture's claws sinking into his skin or being tossed from the Quinjet onto the burning beach below with the roar of the fire burning in his ears and—

If he's Spider-Man, he's doing something beyond being haunted by himself.

Mr. Stark was right, he wasn't ready for this. But he did it anyway. Got himself high up on Mr. Stark's list of respect, which he guesses he should be proud of, but he isn't. (How can he be!?). When Mr. Stark offered him a position on the Avengers all he could see was the flames licking against the beach and the crumbling pressure against his chest and the realization that if he did join, it would be that over and over again. He panicked and said no, his brain working into overdrive for an excuse that wouldn't offend Mr. Stark. What he said is true, he'd rather be a friendly neighborhood web-slinger than an Avenger. All the same though, Peter really isn't sure if he regrets his decision; somewhere, yes, but a large majority of him still screams no. (Ungrateful, stupid—)

"You're also grounded for a week." May's voice announces. He should probably feel indignant, but all he does feel is strangely numb. And maybe a little annoyed. He jumped the boat far too many times in the last two weeks to not be. Peter lifts his eye tiredly towards his aunt. She pushes her glasses up her nose. "Dishes, every day. You're also going to do any other chore I can think of."

Dishes?

He can handle dishes. And chores without a problem.

If she'd declared that he was going to sleep more, then he'd be concerned and frustrated. Oh, gosh, he's so tired, but he knows he won't sleep. Maybe he should just accept the fact that he's never going to be able to work and function like a normal human being anymore. Most of them sleep during the night without any problems. Nope, not him with his shaking hands and thumping heart and—

"'Kay." He mumbles halfheartedly in response. His voice doesn't sound angry, just...worn out. May rises to her feet and lets out a long suffering sigh that only a parent who's dealt with far to much of a trouble child's crap can give.

Peter curls in further into himself.

"Get some sleep, Peter." She commands tiredly before turning to leave, flicking off the main light to the living room.

Sleep? He won't sleep. At least now he has an actual excuse beyond his mind. His ribs hurt to much to lay down or really breathe with, and he just wants it to stop because it stings and the—Wait! He doesn't want May to leave yet. It's dark in here and he needs her voice to know that he's not alone in here—

Peter jerks his head up and stares at her back for a moment his tongue moving faster than his brain can process. "Aunt May!" He calls. She pauses and turns to look at him. His jaw hangs for a moment as he attempts to come up with something discernible. He swallows his stupid fear and corrects himself before the silence can drag more than normal. "Thank you."

May raises an eyebrow and studies him skeptically, "You know, when I ground you, you aren't supposed to be happy about it."

His jaw tenses.

He's not. In the slightest, in fact the whole "grounding" process makes him want to pound his head against the nearest wall in frustration, but he doesn't. He releases his tongue from its death hold and gives a slight shrug and his hand slams against his ribcage, hidden from her view, as a fiery sting ripples through his chest. His eye brims wet and he blinks back the pain. He should probably get someone else besides himself to look over it, but he's already given his aunt enough grief and he should just shut his whiny trap shut then deal with it on his own.

He heaves out a quiet, calming breath.

"Not about that." Peter finally says. May's features soften.

"You're welcome." She responds before walking out of the room, then down the hall disappearing from his sight. As soon as he hears her door close he lets out a long hiss of pain and wraps a hand around his ribcage. That is going to leave a mark. A big, purple and black one.

Rising to his feet unsteadily, Peter grips the armrest of the couch as the world spins on its own for a moment. Taking in a deep breath, he tosses the ice pack onto the table—to tired to put it away properly—and turns towards the hallway. Homework, then sleep. Two agendas. He can do that. Right. Okay.

Actually, Peter glances down at himself; alright, maybe changing into some clothes should be at the top of his priorities list. He resists the urge to moan by biting sharply on his teeth, then tumbles down the hall like he's never been attune to gravity in his life barely making it down the hall quietly.

He rams his toe against a border and hisses out a curse, resisting the urge to hobble and hop up and down in pain solely because his ribs scream no. Even after three months, the layout of the apartment is still unfamiliar to him. He and May moved some time after Germany incident because May couldn't afford to hold the rent for their previous abode down. The solution presented itself when May was talking to their neighbors (apologizing for the smoke alarm that went off in multiple apartments at some form of dinner she cooked) and realized that one of them is getting re-married. The neighbor and her husband-to-be wanted a larger space for the children coming from both families. They switched apartments so they could have the space and May could pay the bills.

It's been weeks, but Peter grew up in the other apartment. His feet are not used to the navigation of this one. Hence: his toe.

It's throbbing, but ignorable, so he stumbles towards his room, completing the trek down the hall with far more effort than it probably should have taken.

He rips open the door softly and shuts it behind him, leaning against the wood in his exhaustion. He wants to stay here. Would it be socially acceptable for him to fall asleep standing up like this? His ribs flare in discomfort and Peter resists the urge to backtalk them, biting at his tongue. It's three in the—Peter flicks his gaze up, it's four in the morning, no one wants to here his soliloquy.

Grumbling a few choice words under his breath towards the injury anyway, Peter elbows on the light before turning to his closet and grabbing the first pair of clothing that isn't obnoxiously colored that he sees. He's not going to sleep for very long anyway, so it won't hurt to get dressed right now.

Peter presses the spider against his chest and the Spider-Man suit releases, the slight pressure against his chest easing. He blows out a shallow breath then carefully climbs out of the material. He winces when his knee accidentally bumps his chest, but refuses to look at his ribcage. He doesn't want to know what the damage is. If he'd had both his eyes it wouldn't have happened. Unfortunately, the side of the building was a lot closer than he thought and his left side rammed against the hard corner. He'd barely managed to catch himself on the side before he went splat on the pavement below.

Peter changes his clothing slowly, but before he pulls his deep purple shirt over his head completely, he chances a glance towards his chest. He grimaces, chewing on his lower lip. The upper half of his left side is black and blue with strange yellow lightning-like fragments spreading across his stomach. The bruising is as ugly as it is hypnotizing and it takes some effort to look away. He'd heard the snap of the bones and he's really not...he knows that doctors can't do much for broken ribs beyond offer their condolences. He has his enhanced healing anyway. He'll be fine tomorrow. Probably.

Peter ignores the strange urge to poke the bruise then carefully pulls the shirt over the wound and tugs on a jacket in an attempt to keep warm. He sighs quietly and turns to his desk where the cursed homework is still awaiting. He presses a hand against his chest in a slight effort to support it, but his fingers cause firey pain to shoot across his body.

Peter hisses loudly and attempts to tug his hand away, but realizes that his fingers are stuck to the material. Peter attempts to shake it off, but his fingers are releasing. Stupid spider part of his—

Relax.

Breathe.

Peter exhales sharply and takes in several more deep breaths, withholding what winces he can as he slowly calms. A minute later, he pulls his hand away from the fabric of his shirt and moves to the desk, trying to blink back tears of frustration.

Without access to a kitchen, the Spanish assignment he can't complete right now. It's not really due until Friday, so he's not too worried. Math, however, he can complete. Then he should study for the history exam and he still needs to text Ned and apology. Letting out a long breath from his nose, Peter turns to pull his backpack onto the desk to find his homework.

After this is done, then he can sleep.

000o000

Peter awakens to his buzzing alarm, causing his spider sense to ring in his head like an open tab on the internet that's having trouble loading. Peter smacks the alarm his vision blurring and he sees double for a moment. His eye feels better today, but the headache is still present. He stares at the wall for a long second before blowing out a breath and wincing sharply when his ribs protest.

Ow.

Ow.

They do not feel better this morning. Worse. They feel worse. He rests a hand against them and hisses out a pained breath. His healing factor will kick in sometime, this pain wont be forever. He'll be fine tomorrow. Besides, school is just seven hours. Then he can come home and grab a few more winks before heading out for patrol. He inhales deeply, then exhales sharp and shallowly.

Alright. You can do this Pete, it's only a few hours of listening to adults drone about subjects they don't really care about.

Yep.

Not unappealing at all.

Peter forces himself to move forward, grabs his shoes, then stuff his finished homework into his backpack. It probably won't get above a C, but he'll be grateful if it's anything about a D. It's done and that's all that matters. Peter drags his feet from his room and saunters down the hall like a half-dead zombie. After a quick goodbye to his aunt, Peter leaves the apartment for school.

000o000

After barely making it to lunch, Peter is quietly enjoying trying to work up an appetite in the cafeteria when Flash slams the lunch tray onto the opposite of Peter at the table and takes a seat, smirking lightly. Peter looks up from the salad he's flicking across the plate with his fork and can't quite hide the scowl that slips over his features.

"Enjoying your morning, Parker?" Flash questions. The phrase is supposed to be polite, but the tone is sharp.

Peter tugs his sleeves edge over his palms, "Hi, Flash." He greets in turn, then corrects halfheartedly: "It's afternoon."

Flash sneers. "You fell asleep twice in chemistry," he points out, his voice a little to gleeful, "I thought you were confused."

Funny.

Flash takes a bite out of his apple, chewing loudly and Peter tightens his grip on the fork. Usually human noises like that don't bother him, but his spider-senses have been heightened to a painful level all day. Peter blows out a calming breath and stares at him for a moment, "Why are you here?"

Flash raises an eyebrow, "I'm enrolled in Midtown High."

"At the table," Peter corrects himself, biting at his tongue to keep his face from flushing (always saying such stupid things—), "only Ned and MJ sit here."

Flash gives a mirthful smirk, "Missing your nerd group?"

Yes.

Peter's fingers tighten sharply, "Don't let MJ hear you say that."

"Why?" Flash challenges, "I'm not afraid of her."

Peter stares at him for a second, flabbergasted. "You should be. She's the captain of decathlon, remember?"

Flash's expression narrows and he swallows noisily, "Yeah, Parker, I know. She's got a soft spot for ditchers."

Peter's jaw tightens for a second and he quietly wishes that MJ or Ned were here. The anxiety is swirling in his stomach, refusing to relent, and Peter isn't sure how to make it go away. So, instead, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, even if he has no idea why he said it: "She doesn't have a soft spot for anyone."

Flash's eyebrows lift and his mouth opens to respond, but he doesn't get a single syllable out. A girl scampers up beside them, her eyes streaming with a wet anxiety. "Flaaash!" She cries in a high-pitched wail, grabbing at his arm. It's one of the cheerleaders, Peter notes distantly. He's not sure how he knows that because it's winter and Midtown hasn't had a sports game in weeks. But nonetheless, the girl rattles Flash's arm desperately, "Have you seen this!?"

"What?" Flash questions, looking up at her. His expression has softened some of it's dislike.

"This!" The girl insists, flipping her phone at for him to stare at. The back is to Peter, so he can't see whatever it is the two are staring at, but it doesn't look like anything good. Flash's face drains of color and he flicks a quick glance up towards Peter, then the cheerleader.

"That has to be false."

"It's not!" The girl ululates.

"It has to be." Flash's voice is gaining desperation, "What are you on, Buzzfeed?"

The girl shoots him a sharp look, "No! It's all over social media and the news! You can find it anywhere! CBS, BBC, ABC, New York Times—"

"What's the problem?" Peter questions, curiosity at last gaining the better of him. The cheerleader looks up at him with wide blue eyes hidden behind her blonde bangs. Her stare holds frustration and she tilts her nose up in preeminent before she moves towards him and flips the screen of her glittery-covered phone and holds it steady for him to read. A big, black headline greets his eyes:

"World-Known Avenger Tony Stark Proven Terrorist".

What?

That's—

What!?

His stomach jolts, a cold feeling taking its place.

He looks up at the cheerleader he can't remember the name of for the life of him. "T-t-that can't be true." Peter stumbles out, "He...he wouldn't…"

Flash looks up at him, "Sure and you know this because you're all buddy-buddy with him, right?"

A flare of anger spikes through him, "Mr. Stark wouldn't commit treason—he's an Avenger!"

"So!?" The cheerleader cries, "That means nothing! You want proof? Here, watch this!" She flicks her screen up again and plays a news clipping, jumping to the portion that she wants. Flash shifts across the table to lean over Peter's shoulder and the sensation makes him uncomfortable, but he quickly forgets it when the woman begins to speak:

"...And multi-billionaire, Tony Stark, AKA Iron Man is missing in action after a skilled hacker, under the direction of General Thaddeus Ross, hacked into his personal files. He had recently declined an important change to the Accords, and per their instruction, General Ross was given permission to search Mr. Stark's private files to see what he was hiding. What they found was surprising, Mr. Stark has been shipping out weapons to well known terrorist groups all over the world for since he became Iron Man."

...What?

No.

He wouldn't.

He just—

That's not Tony.

There's just no way. Mr. Stark Stark is a good man, weird, snarky, and sarcastic, but not a man of treason. This isn't pragmatic. It's—

He and Peter have talked more since the Vulture incident and Peter can't think of him as evil. Mr. Stark's like his...it just doesn't make sense. He couldn't...he wouldn't…

...Right? How well does he even know Mr. Stark? He's only been on speaking terms with him for less than three months.

"In 2008, Mr. Stark went missing for three months; though few details had been given to the public, it seems the reason why was because the man had been working personally on a super weapon with a group known as the Ten Rings with enough power to take out a city. He was found in the desert, not far from a cave of slaughtered bodies. Proof of his desire for blood, officials report.

"When questioned about the decision to hack into the files, General Thaddeus Ross reports: "Captain America's disappearance has always been linked with Stark, the group may be fractured, but that doesn't stop them. The proposal Stark refused to sign was the agreement that the Avengers would search for the rest of the group and bring them to justice. Given this, I had my suspicions". If not for the general's insight, we would all be unaware of the danger lurking right in the middle of the city."

Peter's eyes are as wide as they can go and he can feel his breaths getting shorter.

No, no, no, no, no.

It has to be a lie. It has to be a lie. It has to be.

Please, please, please...

"...Though Mr. Stark mysteriously disappeared last night after the discovery, his wife, Virginia "Pepper" Stark has said that, "You're all either incredibly stupid or just blind. Tony wouldn't make any more weapons after what happened to him in 2008. I can personally confirm that he hasn't been anywhere near a terrorist group since his capture unless it was with the Avengers", but the information Ross has brought up disproves her words—strongly. Mr. Stark is a wanted man and the government is giving twenty-five thousand grand to anyone who can bring him in within the next seven days. Although General Ross has destroyed the Iron Man suits through careful planning and maneuvers, but the multi-billionaire could still be dangerous. Caution is strongly advised until the criminal can be located. Anyone with any information on the whereabouts of Mr. Stark has been requested to give it to General Ross through contact information located below. A man by the name of Harold Spencer lit his kitchen on fire today—"

The cheerleader pulls her hand back and Peter feels his breath hiss out in a sharp gasp. His hands are shaking and everything is suddenly too loud and bright. He wants to plug his ears and squeeze his eyes shut. This is all a bad dream, he's going to wake up soon because there is no way that Mr. Stark would…

Tony Stark is a wanted man...

Mr. Stark lied to the world.

...the government is giving twenty five thousand...

Mr. Stark lied to the Avengers.

...the billionaire could still be dangerous...

Mr. Stark lied to him.

...caution is strongly advised...

And Peter was stupid enough to believe it.