Aunt May and Mr. Stark had come to an understanding. Peter thought he'd be happy with this. Peter was wrong.

They were cordial, friendly, and both intent on ensuring that Peter made it to adulthood in relatively one piece. Cool, nothing wrong with that.

Except they acted more like a pair of amicable divorcees with joint custody, Peter awkwardly stuck in the middle. It wasn't like with other kids, not the ones Peter had seen at school who always complained about their parents fighting, arguing over who got Christmas this year and who had to pay for braces.

No, Aunt May pretty much had the final say in anything, or so Tony let her think. That didn't mean they didn't still argue about anything and everything, including curfews, dating, what was an adequate amount of vegetables, and Peter's favorite, colleges:

"MIT is world renowned."

"What's wrong with NYU?"

"I'll have Friday send you a list."

May said it wasn't arguing, it was more like a series of heartfelt discussions. He figured he'd cut them some slack around the time he saw Aunt May googling articles on co-parenting and Tony started making sure he had something green to eat at every shared meal.

It was fine. For the first time in a while he had more than one person who seemed to actually care about his well-being. So what if they occasionally didn't see eye to eye, he was actually starting to get used to it, slowly figuring out how to navigate between the two.

So of course, the one time they actually agreed on something…

"Can I ground him? Is that a thing? I think it should be a thing."

May let it be a thing.

Tony hung up the phone and stared at Peter, brows forming a very disapproving V above his narrowed eyes. "Just for the record, you aren't suicidal? That's not a thing with you, is it?"

"No," Peter assured him, tossing his mask onto the counter. "It wasn't my fau—"

"Nope," Tony interrupted, pointing at Peter with his phone, "We're not gonna finish that sentence."

Peter pressed his lips together and glared. "You're not being fair."

"I don't have to be," was Tony's reply. "I just have to make sure you don't die. What the hell were you thinking?"

"I thought I had it under control," Peter explained, his voice choosing that moment to crack because the universe was a sadistic dick.

Tony arched a brow. "And did you?"

Obviously not, Peter thought, but figured a resigned "No," was a better answer.

Tony seemed to agree because the angry lines on his forehead slowly disappeared as he nodded. Peter half expected more lecturing, more questions on why he thought he was bulletproof, on what he should do the next time he came across a horde of armed men. But nope.

Instead, Tony reached out and poked the emblem in the middle of Peter's chest. The suit immediately loosened and began to slide down his shoulders.

"You're taking the suit again?"

Tony had turned away, his arm stretched towards the duffle bag holding Peter's extra clothes. He froze at the question. He turned back to Peter, opened his mouth to speak but paused as though he were reconsidering. Peter held his breath, not saying a word as he stood there in his underwear, the suit pooled around his ankles.

"You can keep the suit," Tony decided, giving Peter a reason to breathe again, "BUT, you can't wear it," he continued. "Not without permission. You can keep it for emergencies only, and kid, I mean actual emergencies."

Peter nodded, afraid to open his mouth because he might say something to make the man change his mind. Tony tossed the phone onto the counter next to Peter's mask and sat down on the nearest stool. He leaned against the bar, one hand rising to scratch a thumbnail tiredly across his eyebrow.

Peter stepped out of the suit and carefully picked it up, holding it tightly in both hands. There was a part of him that was afraid that it'd still get taken away.

Tony propped his elbow on the counter and pointed at Peter. "No patrolling," he said, "No Spider-Manning…spidering? Your other half is taking a vacation. You're grounded. Literally. Two feet on the pavement at all times."

Peter swallowed and asked, "For how long?"

"Haven't decided yet," Tony answered, tone a little lighter than it was before. "We'll start at a month and go from there."

"A month?"

"A month," Tony confirmed, grabbing the bag and tossing it to Peter. "Now get dressed. Don't you have homework?"

Peter groaned.

For three weeks, Peter followed the rules. He was home at a reasonable time (May was pleased), he made it to every decathlon practice without fail (MJ seemed pleased, she didn't frown as much), and he only texted Happy twice asking if he thought Mr. Stark had changed his mind (Happy was not pleased).

All in all, Peter thought he was handling the whole super hero version of being grounded pretty well.

So by the time the third Friday rolled around, Peter was about ready to climb the walls. Literally. It was the weekend, the last weekend he'd have to spend following Mr. Stark's weird pseudo-parental version of a punishment and Peter planned to spend it in glorious teenage style.

With Ned, a PlayStation, and the new Star Wars BTL-A4 Y-Wing Starfighter Lego set (1,966 pieces).

Ned had gotten it for his birthday and after much pleading, May had relented, citing time served for good behavior deserved a reprieve from the mandatory part-time house arrest.

"Just Legos? No Spider-Man?"

"Maybe a little God of War, but yeah, no Spider-Man."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Peter Parker knew how to follow rules.

He just wasn't very good at it.

"So, I'm thinking if we don't sleep tonight we can probably knock out the frame of the ship," Ned said, slinging his backpack over his shoulder as they made their way to the bus stop. "My mom's got the night shift tonight so we don't have to worry about keeping her up."

"Awesome, that means we can camp out in the living room," Peter observed. The sky was grey and promised rain. It was the perfect weather for spending the weekend binging on food, games, and TV. People were moving at a fast pace, whether it was because they were afraid to be caught in the pending rain, excited to be free for the weekend, or just because they were New Yorkers who didn't know any better, Peter wasn't sure. Not that it mattered, he and Ned were moving right along with them, up until the moment Peter felt his skin begin to itch.

He slowed his pace, eyes narrowing as he took in his surroundings. The whole extra sense thing was still relatively new, and unlike the rest of his powers, he was still learning how this one worked. It didn't feel like it did when there was danger, it wasn't a warning. It was more like a…head's up? Like he was being watched and the spider inside wanted him to know.

"Peter?" Ned asked when Peter stopped walking and turned around. A few people cursed as they passed by, sneering at the boy who'd blocked their way, but Peter ignored them. He'd just spotted the plain black car parked between a minivan and oversized SUV. There wasn't really anything unusual about it, except the man leaning against the side, arms folded over his chest, baseball cap pulled down low was definitely not a soccer-mom waiting for her kid.

"Is that…?" Ned began only to trail off when the man waved.

"Steve Rogers," Peter confirmed, recognizing the beard and broad shoulders from the time Tony had introduced them months before. "Captain America."

Peter had no idea why he was here. He'd met the man exactly twice; once in Germany as Spider-Man, once at the tower as Peter Parker. And if Peter was being honest, he had been under the impression that the Captain hadn't been too fond of him, or with the idea of him. He'd been perfectly friendly, words a little stiff like he wasn't entirely certain he was welcome, but he wasn't dismissive or rude. There was just something in the way Rogers had looked at Tony when it was revealed that Peter was Spider-Man. Peter was fairly certain it was his age, but who knew?

Then there was the whole Siberia thing…Peter hadn't been too happy when he found out about that. No matter how much Peter tried, how much Tony and the others preached about it being time to move on, that the past was in the past—Peter could not help remembering the way Tony had been afterwards, the way Colonel Rhodes had been…

Yeah, it was safe to say Peter wasn't too fond of Steve Rogers either, or he didn't want to be, but—it was Captain America. Peter used to sleep in star spangled pajamas because of the man. He still had a copy of TIME magazine with the Captain on the cover buried somewhere on his desk, and somewhere in his closet was a collector's edition Captain America action figure. He'd lost the shield years ago, and the hand was a little melted from where he'd set it too close to the stove once, but it was still there, tucked away amongst the Iron Man mask and replica blaster gloves.

"The Cap fucked up, kid. But he wasn't alone. We all have some of the blame," Tony had said before introducing them. And if Mr. Stark, the one who'd actually been hurt could forgive the man, then so could Peter…right?

"Pete, good to see you again," greeted Rogers as Peter, followed by Ned, approached the car.

"Yeah, you too," Peter returned. He cast a glance around, nervously rubbing the back of his neck as he checked to see if anyone else had noticed that Captain Freaking America was standing outside Midtown Tech.

No one had.

Peter was about to ask what the Captain was doing there, but Ned kept poking Peter in the side, his eyes locked in a dazed sort of far off stare as he looked up at the man towering above them.

"Uh, this is my friend," Peter began, gesturing to Ned with his thumb. Much to his surprise (and to Ned's obvious eternal pleasure), Steve smiled and extended his hand.

"Ned, right?" he asked, catching Peter off guard. He'd talked about Ned before, he just didn't think the Captain had really been paying attention. Or cared.

Ned reached out and took Steve's hand.

"Pleased to meet you. Peter's mentioned you before," Steve continued with that famous smile, and Peter cautiously put a hand on Ned's back in case his friend's knees decided to give out.

There was a short one-two up down motion, normal with most standard handshakes, but when it came to the point where most people let go…Ned didn't.

Steve's smile sort of twisted to the side, his eyes going from friendly to amused as he gently tried to extract his hand without being rude. But Peter could see the white knuckled grip Ned had on the other man's hand, and judging by the dopey (completely embarrassing- come on, dude) expression Ned had on his face, his friend wasn't even aware of it.

With an apologetic smile, Peter reached up and carefully peeled Ned's fingers back, freeing Steve's hand as he said, "Yeah, he's pleased to meet you, too."

"Yeah," Ned agreed somewhat dreamily, although his 'yeah' sounded more like "yeahuhuhuh", Peter decided to cut him some slack. He's pretty sure he stuttered through his first meeting with Iron Man.

Steve met Peter's eyes, tilted his head towards Ned and quietly asked, "Is he okay?"

"What, Ned?" Peter looked at his friend. He was a little more out of it than his first encounter with Mr. Stark, but he had managed to give an actual verbal response which was a step up from Ned's first encounter with the Black Widow. "Yeah, he does that. So, um, what do, uh, what do you need, Cap? Steve…Sir?"

Now it was the Captain's turn to glance around nervously. He gave Ned a quick smile before grabbing Peter's shoulder and gesturing to the other side of the car. Peter looked at Ned, gave him a look that said "stay here" and allowed the Captain to guide him around the trunk of the car. It wasn't much in way of privacy, but between the sound of car horns, parents yelling, and the chatter of teens eagerly discussing the weekend, it was enough.

Ned didn't even pretend to look like he wasn't staring at them.

"I need your help," Steve began, and Peter's mind flashed back to nearly two years ago to Mr. Stark saying the exact same thing.

"With what?" Peter asked.

Steve gave another look around, scratched absently at his temple and said, "Long story short, someone took something that doesn't belong to them, and we need to get it back."

"Who? What did they steal?" Peter asked, trying to keep his voice as low as Captain America's.

"The what is some unfamiliar alien tech," Steve explained. "And the who…is someone who isn't qualified to handle it."

"And why do you need me? I mean, how am I supposed to help?"

Peter noticed the way the Captain looked a little uneasy, his eyes kept looking over his shoulder like he expected one of the mini-van yielding housewives to overhear.

"You'll be the one doing the actual retrieving," Steve explained uncomfortably, and Peter felt his eyes widen.

"Seriously?" he asked excitedly, earning a nod and a relieved smile. "Where is it? Is it far, because I'm pretty sure my Aunt isn't going to let me leave the country again, she's still not over the last time-"

"Relax, Peter," Steve said, and Peter felt his neck redden as his rambling was cut off. "It's in Manhattan. No passport required."

"And who's the bad guy?"

"Not really a bad guy," Steve explained, glancing at his watch. "More like an overeager politician who's in over his head."

Peter had a thousand more questions. Why were the Avengers dealing with this? If this politician really wasn't supposed to have this tech, why couldn't they just tell the officials at the D.O.D.C and have them handle it? Who else would be working on this? Were there more Avengers involved? Would SHIELD be there? What kind of tech was it? Did it have to do with Toomes and his men?

But when Steve gave his watch another glance, Peter got the impression that time was an issue and decided to ask the most pressing question first.

"Does Mr. Stark know about this?"

"It was his idea."

"And he's okay with me wearing the suit?"

"He…Nat was supposed to be with us on this, but she got…she's otherwise indisposed at the moment."

"So…" Peter had a sinking feeling in his stomach that drained away almost all excitement, "Mr. Stark has no idea you're asking me right now?"

"Not yet," Steve admitted, sounding like he didn't think it'd be a problem, "but we're on a time limit. Clint and Natasha are both out of range and you're the only one with the ability to get in and get out without drawing attention."

Peter ran his hand over his mouth, mind going a mile a minute. He wanted to go, but something kept niggling at his brain. At first he thought it might be the fact that Mr. Stark didn't know Peter was being asked to help on this mission, that his mentor would quickly put a stop to it if he knew, insisting Peter serve out the remaining sentence on his grounding. He thought maybe it might be his promise to Aunt May, that the weekend would only consist of Legos and junk food. But there was something else…

"Is this even legal?" he asked.

Steve actually winced as he admitted, "The legalities are a little…vague."

"Aren't you supposed to be Captain Morals?" Peter blurted out, giving a small wince of his own as soon as the question left his mouth. He was pretty sure Captain America wouldn't appreciate being judged by a sixteen-year-old kid.

Steve narrowed his eyes and asked, "Did Stark tell you to call me that?"

"What? No, I just, I just don't remember you being so…" Peter made an awkward gesture in the air that he hoped translated to something along the lines of inconsiderate of the rules.

Steve gave a heavy sigh and tiredly rubbed at his forehead. "Yeah, me either, kid. Just think of it as being for the greater good and worry about the rest later. So you gonna help us?"

Peter closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping as he felt a blush sweep up from his neck to his ears. "Yeah, I, uh…I can't."

"Why?" Peter didn't think he'd ever seen an adult look more confused.

"I'm grounded," he explained quietly, eyes focused on the ground because, seriously, was there anything more embarrassing than this.

"I'll explain everything to your aunt—"

"No, she didn't…she's not the one who grounded me," Peter explained, "Mr. Stark did."

The Captain stared at him, and to Peter's horror, his expression morphed from one of confusion to one of humor, the corners of his mouth threatening to rise into a full smile.

"Please do not laugh at me right now," Peter pleaded, his tone angrier than he intended.

"Sorry," Steve apologized, carefully schooling his features. He gave Peter a calculating stare and calmly asked, "Do you want me to call and ask permission?"

Peter pulled his phone out of his pocket, let his thumb slide over the cracked screen as he took a deep breath, weighing his options. "He said I couldn't put on the suit," Peter began, looking up to meet Steve's questioning gaze, "what if I didn't wear the suit? What if I did this as just, you know, Peter and not Spider-Man?"

"Weren't you just lecturing me on morals?" Steve asked with a tilt of his head. "I'm pretty sure that's a Stark influenced loophole you just found."

"Greater good, right?"

Steve smiled.

"Are you going with him?" Ned asked when Peter finally came back around, eyes glued to Captain America as he climbed into the driver's seat of the black car.

"Yeah," Peter said, hand flexing nervously around the strap of his backpack. "I mean…yeah."

Ned frowned. "Aren't you still grounded?"

"Technically, but…" Peter trailed off with a shrug. What was he supposed to say?

"No, I get it," Ned said, gesturing to the car's tinted windows. "That's Captain America. Pretty sure the First Amendment says you have to help him."

Peter gave a small snort of laughter and smiled. "Something like that, but hey, can you cover for me with May? If she calls, just say that I'm…"

"Doing the complete opposite of sneaking off with Captain America to do top secret Avengery stuff?" Ned finished.

"Yes," Peter cringed. "But maybe not word it like that?"

"I got you, dude. Just go, and take notes. I only put up with you so that I can live vicariously through your adventures."

Peter rolled his eyes as he opened the car door. "I love you too, Ned."

Sam Wilson wasn't happy, Peter could tell, and he was beginning to suspect that it was because of him, which really wasn't cool seeing as Peter literally just got there.

"Parker," Sam greeted, giving a polite nod before looking to Steve. "Strange seeing you here."

"Cap invited me," Peter explained, setting his backpack down at his feet. They were standing in a narrow alley between two buildings, a blue and rusted garbage bin strategically blocking the entrance from the early evening traffic.

"Nat was unavailable," Steve explained, arm elbow deep in a bag of his own. He pulled out a handful of small, clear earbuds. "And by the time Clint would have made it here, the device would already be on a plane halfway across the Atlantic."

"Then we should have scrapped this," Sam said, arms folded angrily across his chest, "gone with Plan B."

Steve dropped his bag and met Sam's hard glare with one of his own. "Peter is Plan B."

"I can do this," Peter insisted, eyes bouncing back and forth between the two men. He wasn't sure what was going on, what Sam's issue was with him helping. He'd been under the impression that the man liked him, or at least, tolerated him. Unless all of those snarky comments weren't really in jest…

Sam sighed and turned to face Peter. "No one's saying you can't, kid."

"Then what's the problem?"

Sam's nostrils flared as he glanced once to Steve before looking back to Peter. Eventually, the stiff ridge of his posture loosened as he gave up on whatever internal conflict he'd been having. "Nothing."

"Alright," Steve said, acting as though nothing had happened as he passed out the communication earbuds. "It's just as I explained in the car. You get the device, we'll make a distraction. Sam and I will be going in through the front door, so you'll technically be on your own, but you can run everything through us through comms, got it?"

Peter nodded, sticking the device in his ear as the Captain reached down to pull something else out of his bag.

"This is what you'll put it in," he said, handing Peter a small, padded pouch with a thin strap that made the whole thing look suspiciously like a purse. "Banner says it's probably not dangerous, but it's best to keep the device as well contained as possible."

"It's not gonna blow up or anything, right?" Peter asked, mind picturing a small purple glowy thing and a crumbling national monument.

"This isn't like the Chitauri power core," Sam assured him, smiling for the first time since Peter stepped in the alley. "You won't be bringing down this building."

"This should take twenty minutes, tops," Steve continued, tilting his head back to glance at the building behind him. "Climb up, grab the device, climb back down. They shouldn't even know you were there. Easy peasy."

"Easy peasy," Peter echoed, putting the pouch around his body like a messenger bag. "And it's in a case?"

"Last we saw it," Sam confirmed. "They're supposed to move it tonight, a chopper's scheduled to land in a few hours." He pulled his phone out of his pocket and squinted at the screen. "Security feed shows it was taken to Ketchner's office, and it doesn't show to have moved since. It's the end of the workday, so the building's mostly empty, but listen, if it gets hairy, get out of there, Parker," Sam added. "We'll get the device another way."

Peter half expected Steve to disagree, for him to insist that the device's recovery was the top priority. Instead, he gripped Peter's shoulder and in a tone worthy of his PSA videos said, "Sam's right. If it looks like there's trouble, retreat. There's no shame in that."

"Okay," Peter agreed, feeling suddenly very small as Captain America looked down at him with that trademark expression of sincerity.

"Do not engage with anyone. If you get spotted, turn around and run," Steve ordered, earning an approving nod from Sam. "If things go sour with us, do not compromise yourself. You get out and get back to the tower. We can handle ourselves."

"Okay," Peter repeated. He knew full well he was skating on the edge with this. One misstep and Mr. Stark and May would make sure he was grounded until graduation. He had no desire to upstage anyone, to prove he could take the bad guys on. Peter was fully planning on executing this mission with as little drama as possible. Besides, he'd taken on bad guys with advanced high-tech alien weaponry and won. How hard could a little breaking and entering be?

Fully psyched up, Peter reached for his bag and pulled out his web shooters, flexing his wrists to make sure they were secure. When he grabbed for the generic knitted black mask Steve had found in the trunk of his car, Sam frowned and asked, "Where's the suit?"

"I'm not wearing the suit," Peter informed him, hopping from one foot to the other as he removed his socks and shoes. "Loopholes."

"Long story," Steve said, waving off whatever question Sam had been about to ask. "He'll be fine."

Sam watched as Peter stuffed his shoes into his backpack and approached the building. "Can you climb this thing without the suit?"

"Yeah," Peter said, reaching out and testing the texture of the brick. "It'll actually, um, it'll actually be easier. I mean, Mr. Stark did great with the suit, but nothing beats nature, right?" he asked, looking over his shoulder with a smile.

Steve gave him another supportive smile and Peter turned around and began to climb, humidity from the pending rain mixing with the sweat from his fingers and toes making the bricks slick.

"Nature my ass," Sam said, and Peter imagined a smile on his face. "That ain't natural, Parker."

Within no time at all, Peter had climbed through a bathroom window and was currently pulling himself into the small vent on the ceiling.

"Okay, this is a tight fit," he muttered, easing the grate closed as quietly as he could.

"That's why the Cap picked you, short stack," Sam said, "We sure as hell couldn't fit in there."

"Focus," Steve ordered, stopping Peter from replying. It didn't stop his frown though. "We're going in. Remember, Pete. Get in, get out."

"And do not engage, got it." Slowly, he began to crawl through the air vent, peering through the gaps of the grates as he passed from one room to the next.

Twice he saw someone through the grates; men in sharp suits, the tell-tale bulge of a gun poking through their jackets. It made Peter feel breathless, antsy. He knew it was the adrenaline.

He pushed the mask up, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, enjoying the coolness of the air on his face. The vent was small and cramped, the fabric from the knitted mask cheap and thick, nowhere near the quality of his own mask. Every breath produced condensation that dampened the fabric, tickling his nose, and the close walls of the air vent had him feeling a bit claustrophobic, every movement had him touching the walls on all sides, reminding him of just how small of a space he was in.

"How you doing, Peter?" Sam asked, voice sounding surprisingly concerned. Peter took another deep breath, wiped the sweat from his face, and forced a smile.

"I'm good," he assured them, careful to keep his voice as low as possible. He closed his eyes, visualized the mental map Steve had laid out for him on the drive over, and continued on, counting the rooms he passed as he went.

"Be on guard," Steve cautioned.

When Peter finally looked down into the desired office, he smiled. For once, Parker luck seemed to be nowhere in sight. The office was dark, the door shut, and there on the crowded desk sat a large, black case.

"Found it," he said, smile growing.

Slowly, Peter opened the grate and jumped down, sweaty toes landing softly on the worn carpet. He tiptoed towards the door, leaned his ear against it and listened…when he couldn't hear anything he flipped the lock and made his way back to the case.

It wasn't as high tech as the case that once held his suit. If anything, it looked like a bullet proof briefcase, the kind you'd see in old mob movies that were always loaded with cash.

Peter flipped the locks open and lifted the lid. Inside was a small, round disc shaped object. It looked like an arc reactor, but bigger and…Peter picked it up and turned it over, watching as the light shifted inside, like a shadow moving. It almost seemed alive.

"Huh?" Peter muttered, turning the disc over once again before putting it gently in the padded pouch.

"Everything good, Pete?" Steve asked, his voice fractured and full of static.

"Yeah," Peter assured him, reaching up and wiggling the earbud to stop the tickle caused by the static. "I got it. I'm on my way out."

Peter closed the empty case, gave the room another quick look to ensure he wasn't leaving anything behind, and made his way back to the air vent. The words Easy Peasy kept running through his mind as he crawled back towards the bathroom. Easy Peasy, in and out, they'll never even know they were there.

Except nothing ever went the way Peter planned.

The static that had started tickling his ear in the office continued to grow, the tiny vibrations causing an irritatingly uncomfortable itch that seemed to radiate from his ear, traveling like a current until the little hairs on his arms stood on end.

Without warning, the static morphed, elongating from a series of pops and crackles to a high pitched shriek that sent a shock of pain straight to Peter's brain.

His muscles jerked on instinct, his whole body falling into the fetal position. He cried out as he dug in his ear, desperately pulling at the earbud. He let it fall, uncaring of where it went when his shaking fingers came away bloody.

All he could hear was a steady ringing, the pounding of his heart, and the muffled sound of heavy breaths hissing through his clenched teeth. The air vent was dark, the only light coming from the open grated covers and the rooms beyond, but Peter, with his enhanced senses, could still see the way his fingers left bloody smears as he fumbled to grab the small earbud.

He slowly raised it to his good ear, holding it a few inches away as he listened to the steady pop, ping, shriek. He put it in his pocket and took a deep breath. He was officially on his own. He had no way to communicate with Sam and Steve, no way to tell him what had happened, to let them know he was more or less alright and was on his way out.

Head still ringing, he resumed his army-crawl style slide through the vents, very much aware of the fact that he had just finished making some serious noise, meaning there was a very high possibility that someone had heard him.

He could see the end of the line, the last turn he'd have to make before reaching the bathroom with the cracked window. Eager to be done with it all and to be in fresh air again, Peter pushed himself up onto his hands and knees as much as the small space would allow and made to hurry.

This, however, proved to be a mistake. He'd barely moved a few inches when vertigo set in, the once clear vision of an elongated air shaft tilted on its side, taking Peter with it as the pain in his ear flared again.

Peter had vertigo once when he was younger when an ear infection had left him feeling like the room was spinning even while he was laying down. He thought that was what was happening again, but in the span of half a second, Peter went from feeling like he was falling, to actually falling, the grate to his left giving way as his elbows caved and his body crashed into aged metal.

Suit or not, Peter still had quick reflexes. He was halfway out the hole when instincts kicked in. One hand reached up, sticking to the ceiling, the other reaching towards the ground, web shooting out to catch the falling grate before it hit the floor with a loud and telling bang.

He hung there for a moment, breath heaving, head spinning as he dangled from the ceiling vent, his legs still tucked inside at an awkward angle.

"Holy shit," he muttered, laughing a little as he tried to calm his nerves.

Once he was sure his head no longer felt like it was about to fall off, he slowly began to reel in the fallen vent cover, moving slowly so that he didn't lose his balance.

None of that mattered, however, when the office door opened, letting in light from the hallway and a very surprised looking man in a suit.

Peter felt that electric itch again, his hair standing on end as the man mumbled a gruff "what the fuck" before reaching for his gun. Without thinking, Peter let himself drop, his legs falling from the vent shaft and finding their way to the ground. Normally, he'd have stuck the landing, but thanks to his still throbbing ear and its accompanied vertigo…

He considered it a win that he didn't land on his head.

And that he dodged the bullet that had just been fired.

Peter rolled onto his back, flung out both arms and fired his webs. The first gripped the gun, the second latched onto the man's face. Peter pulled. The gun fell to the ground with a muffled clatter, the man with a muffled curse, landing hard and heavy on Peter, his hands too busy grappling with the webbing taking up most of his face to bother trying to brace his fall.

"Oof," Peter groaned, the air completely knocked out of him by the oversized, fully-grown man. Before he could take in a breath, the man lifted his head, his one clear eye narrowed in anger as he raised his right arm only to bring it down with more force than necessary.

Peter screamed.

His arm felt like it was on fire. He turned his head, eyes widening as he stared at the small handle of a pocket knife buried in his shoulder.

"You're just a kid." It was a whisper, the tone full of shock, but Peter still heard it. A sense of cold dread swept through him as he realized his mask was still pushed up, his young, pale, and completely identifiable face exposed to the man before him.

Peter shot another web at the man, blocking the rest of his view before planting his bare feet on the man's chest and pushing with all his might.

The man went flying, landing hard on the other side of the room, the drywall cracking beneath his weight.

Peter staid long enough to see the man slump to the ground, head falling forward in unconsciousness before he was pushing himself up, bad arm held close to his side as he made his way out into the hall. He flexed his fingers, cringing at the numb, tingling sensation that trickled down his arm. There was no way he was climbing down, not with one arm.

The hall was thankfully empty, but Peter knew he wasn't alone. He'd seen at least two men earlier, and between his scream and the gun shot…

He had to get out of there.

Mindful of the knife sticking out of his shoulder, Peter all but ran down the hall. He could hear people yelling, angry orders being shouted, and footsteps pounding, but due to the ringing in his ears (made worse by the gun going off, thank you, Mr. Bad Guy), Peter couldn't tell how far away they were or where they were coming from.

Careful not to smear any blood on the handle, Peter pulled open the closest door and slipped inside. It was completely dark. He reached awkwardly for his phone in his back pocket and held it up, the light from the lock screen providing enough illumination that he could see he was in a rather large supply closet.

Thick wooden shelves lined two of the walls. Office supplies were neatly organized, each and every one in its place in a way that screamed compulsive disorder. The third wall held a row of metal filing cabinets, all about shoulder height, the drawers labeled with a series of alphanumeric codes.

There was a light switch, but Peter knew better than to turn it on, not when someone could walk by and see the light peeking out from beneath the door.

There wasn't a single window.

Peter leaned his good ear against the door. He couldn't hear anything. He sighed in relief, winced when his shoulder pulled at the knife, and promptly began to panic again.

He had no way of contacting Sam and Steve. He didn't have either of their numbers, the earbud was completely useless, and there wasn't a window he could use to escape. If they hadn't come running to the rescue the moment the comms went out, then they definitely had once the gun had gone off.

The only problem was this was a big building. A very big building, and unless Peter left the safety of his closet, they'd most likely never find him.

So much for easy peasy.

Peter pulled off his mask and let his forehead rest against the nearest filing cabinet. The cool metal felt good against his sweaty skin and gave him something else to focus on beside panic and pain.

"He's gonna kill me," Peter mumbled, thumb scrolling through his contact list. He tapped Tony's number and raised his phone to his good ear, only instead of the sound of ringing, Peter heard more static.

He frowned, pulled the phone away and looked at the screen. "What the hell?" The screen was distorted, the image warped, the colors wrong like the time he stuck a magnet to their old TV. As he lowered the phone, the distortion worsened.

Once it reached hip level, the screen began to blink. Peter felt his frown deepen. He took a steadying breath, "Do not panic, Peter," he whispered and set the phone on the filing cabinet so that he could feel in his pockets. Maybe there was something else he could use, maybe the earbud was working again, maybe-

The moment he set the phone on the cabinet, the screen righted itself, the colors faded back to their normal hue, and the contact photo of Iron Man returned to normal.

Confused, Peter grabbed the phone, but the second he brought it back down, the image began to morph again.

Peter blinked as a thought formed in his head. He brought the phone down to hip level, watching as the display on his screen continued to worsen, blinking out the second it touched the pouch.

The pouch with the weird glowing disc that looked alive.

Peter hurriedly pulled the strap over his head, careful not to knock the knife's handle. He sat the pouch on the cabinet and backed away as far as he could. Two steps were all it took for the phone to light back up. By the time he reached the opposite corner, the phone looked normal again.

He quickly hit the call button.

It rang four times before going to voicemail. Peter hung up and tried again. This time, Tony answered on the first ring, his tone stern but expectant.

"Please tell me you're calling to talk about Legos?"

Peter took a deep breath and said, "I want to start by saying this isn't entirely my fault, and remind you that you wanted me to call when I got in over my head."

"Where are you?"

Peter closed his eyes, wincing as he admitted, "On the eleventh floor of the Michelet building."

There was a single second of silence before Tony's angry voice asked, "Where's Rogers?"

"Downstairs, I think. I can't…my earbud went crazy, it was-"

"Listen to me, Peter," Tony ordered, voice slightly out of breath like he was moving fast, "Do they know you're there?"

Peter knew which 'they' he was talking about. "Yes."

"Are you hurt?"

He didn't look at the knife. "A little."

There was more silence followed by a confused, "You're not in your suit." Peter assumed Tony was looking for his vitals.

"You said not to wear it." Peter didn't know silence could sound so angry.

"I'm on my way, can you get to the roof?"

"I think so."

"Go."

Before the call ended, Peter could hear the distinct sound of Tony's suit taking flight.

He was about to grab the pouch and sneak out before he remembered the earbud in his pocket. With an accusing look at the pouch, he pulled the earpiece out of his pocket and slowly raised it to his ear. There was slight static, but nothing painful.

Hesitantly, he placed it in his ear. Immediately, he could hear the sound of heavy breathing. "Hello?"

"Holy shit, kid, what the hell happened?" hissed Sam at the same time Steve worriedly asked, "Are you okay?"

"The disc messes with the signal," Peter explained, his brain going on overdrive, "Mr. Stark's on his way."

"You called Tony?" Steve asked.

Peter nodded, forgetting that Steve couldn't see him. "He told me to get to the roof."

"Can you?"

"Yeah."

"Then go," Steve ordered, sounding just as stern as Tony. "Don't worry about us, just get to the roof and wait for Tony."

Peter removed the earbud from his ear, grabbed the pouch, and did exactly as he was told.

He couldn't leave the floor, not without drawing attention. They had the stairs blocked and Peter might be new to the whole spy business but even he knew the elevators were a death trap.

Knife still sticking dramatically out of his shoulder, Peter did the only thing he could; he jumped out of a window.

Well, climbed out. Gently.

He couldn't move his left arm without feeling the nauseating grind of the blade against his collar bone, so with only one hand, Peter began to scale the side of the building, depending mostly on his webbing and feet to keep him from falling.

It was slow going. Peter had barely climbed twenty feet when he had to stop. His right arm was extended over his head, his left tucked to his side. He leaned forward, head resting on the brick wall as he tried to catch his breath, tried to stop the nausea from winning.

He looked up. He could see the edge of the roof. He just had another fifteen-twenty feet to go?

He shot another web, pulled tight and let his feet take another step up the wall.

Then the nausea won.

He leaned to the side, cough twice and vomited. His ears were still ringing, his shoulder throbbing, and for the second time that day, Peter felt like he was falling.

Only this time he wasn't.

He felt the strong metal wrap under his arms, beneath his knees before that familiar sense of free fall disappeared.

"Jesus Christ, kid." Tony's face was hidden behind the Iron Man mask, but Peter still gave him a lopsided grin as he clumsily wiped the left over vomit from his mouth.

"Can you wait to yell at me until we get the knife out?"

Tony waited until they were at the tower, faceplate lifting the moment they landed, before he began to yell.

"Bruce!?" he bellowed, storming through the tower, Peter still held awkwardly in his arms.

"I can walk," Peter pointed out.

Tony didn't even look at him. "Shut up."

"What the hell?" Bruce spluttered the moment Tony and Peter rounded the corner. "Is that a knife? I thought he was sidelined?"

"He was," Tony said, turning sideways to carry Peter through the door. "But he's an idiot."

"It wasn't—" Peter began, but Tony shook his head, his eyes sharp.

"Nope. You start talking, I start yelling, and I thought we agreed to wait until the knife was out."

He gently sat Peter on the exam table and backed away as the suit disengaged, revealing a worn pair of sweat pants and a grease stained shirt. "Other than the obvious, are there any other injuries?" Tony asked, grabbing a pair of scissors to begin cutting away Peter's shirt.

Peter reached for the pouch with the device and said, "The disc disrupts the signal—"

"Forget the disc," Tony said, cutting the pouch's strap, pulling it away and tossing it roughly onto the desk behind him with a loud thud. "Injuries, list them."

"My ear's messed up," Peter admitted.

"That it?"

"I think so."

Tony seemed…satisfied? Relieved? It was hard to tell because the anger didn't leave his face.

"I'm sorry," Peter whispered.

"I'm assuming since May hasn't called asking where you are that she's not expecting you home. Where does she think you are?" Tony asked, grabbing Peter's chin and turning it to the side so he could look at his bloody ear.

"I was supposed to spend the weekend at Ned's."

Tony turned his head back to face him. "While you were grounded?"

"Time served with good behavior," Peter explained. "Besides it was just Ned's. No Spider-Man."

Tony arched an eyebrow and gestured to the knife.

"I technically didn't break the rules," Peter pointed out.

"Is that so?" Tony moved to the side as Bruce began scanning Peter's shoulder.

"I didn't wear the suit."

"No, you did not."

"And it was an emergency."

"Not a real one."

"Cap asked."

"Oh, he's in trouble, too. Don't worry."

"What? Are you gonna ground him, too?" Peter asked.

"Something like that."

"I know you two have some cute daddy issues you're working through right now," Bruce interrupted, "but can we pause the teenage angst until we get the knife out?" He gave them each a pointed stare before turning back to the scans displayed on a large screen.

Half the screen displayed vitals; heart rate, temperature, blood pressure. The other half showed an x-rayed image of his shoulder. The knife looked to be about three inches long, give or take, and all things considered…

"It's not that bad," Peter observed.

"No?" Tony asked, tone mocking

"No," Peter insisted. "I've had worse."

Tony was unimpressed. "So if I reach up and wiggle it, it'll, what? Tickle?"

"Tony," Bruce cautioned.

Tony gave one more angry glance at Peter before turning his attention to Bruce. "What's the damage?"

Bruce looked at the scan. "You said he heals fast?"

"Yeah," Tony and Peter said together.

"Then he should be fine," Bruce said with a shrug. "Doesn't mean it won't hurt like a bitch."

Tony nodded and turned to walk away. "Dope him up if you can, stitch the wound while I decide whether or not I'm gonna call Aunt Hottie and get us both yelled at."

"Mr. Stark—"

"Nope," Tony raised his hand, his back still turned as he made his way out of the room. "Still not listening. I have someone else to yell at, you'll have to wait your turn."

Peter let his head fall back on the pillow, and clenched his jaw. "He won't even let me explain," he whined (yes, whined.)

Bruce sighed as he pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. "I'm staying out of it," he said, poking gently at the area around the knife.

It hurt.

A lot.

"Are you even a medical doctor?" Peter heard himself asking before he could think better of it. It was rude, or it sounded rude, anyway. And what was the saying about an angry Bruce?

Bruce, however, simply arched a brow and gestured to the empty doorway. "Do you want me to let Tony do it?"

Peter shook his head. "Not particularly."

"Alright then." Bruce stepped away and began to dig through the cabinets.

"I didn't mean that to be—"

"I know, kid. Relax," Bruce laughed, pulling out packages of sterile wrapped supplies. "I think there's enough for you to worry about without adding my feelings in the mix. Besides, I work with Tony. I've developed a thick skin."

As though speaking his name had summoned him, Tony's voice filtered through the door. Tony Stark had a way of speaking to let people know he was mad without outright yelling. It was sardonic, patronizing, and completely full of disappointment.

"What did I say?" Tony asked, and Peter forced himself into a sitting position so he could see who Tony was talking to.

Steve and Sam were standing in the hall. Sam had his arms crossed, his eyes looking worriedly towards Peter.

Steve had his hands on his hips, his face angry as he faced Tony. "Peter is perfectly capable—"

"What did I say, Rogers? Huh? The one thing I said?" Tony held up a finger for emphasis, his voice still patronizingly calm. "What about you, Sam? You were there. What did I say?"

"Tony, you're being—," Steve began, but Tony obviously didn't want to hear it because he cut Steve off.

"Sam?"

Sam broke his staring contest with Peter and faced Tony as he muttered, "Don't bring the kid into this." It was spoken quietly, and Peter almost missed it, spider senses or not.

"Exactly!" Tony exclaimed, voice finally rising. "The one thing I said. This doesn't concern him. It's not his mess to clean up."

"We didn't have a choice," Steve insisted.

"Not getting a sixteen-year old kid to do your dirty work is a choice!"

"This coming from you?"

"Stark, we were trying to stop another international incident."

"Yeah, well congratulations. You did it. Maria Hill will get the device, SHIELD's hands are still clean, and I've got a kid with a stab wound. Everybody's happy."

Before Steve or Sam could respond, Bruce was pushing Peter back onto the pillow. "Alright, Peter. Deep breaths," he ordered as he placed a plastic mask over his face. "This should knock you out."

Peter took a deep breath and said, "Oh, that won't work onnnn…"

Okay, so maybe it would.

Peter dreamt of spiders, of closed spaces and constricted lungs. He dreamt that he was swinging through the city, arms stretched taught, muscles aching at the strain before he ran out of web fluid mid-air, his stomach dropping as he plummeted to the ground.

He woke with a gasp. He was still lying in the med bay, the lights dimmed and the door closed. He wasn't wearing a shirt, but someone had thought to cover him with a blanket. Peter looked at his shoulder only to find a small bandage taped in place, the hint of a greenish fading bruise peeking out from beneath the gauze.

Tony was sitting beside him, feet propped on the bed as he played with a phone. Peter's phone.

"Do you know why I'm mad?" Tony asked, voice low and calm, not once looking up from the screen before him.

"Because I," Peter began only to cough when his dry throat protested. He swallowed a few times, licked his lips and tried again. "Because I went on a mission even though I was grounded."

"No, I'm annoyed at that," Tony said, shaking his head slowly, eyes still on the phone's screen. The bright light caused the shadows on his face to look darker, the lines deeper. "Annoyed, maybe a little irritated, but that's not why I'm mad. No. I'm mad because everyone I know seems to think that they know better than me, that my motives are selfish, my opinions inconsiderate. Sometimes they're right, I'll admit it. But not always."

"Mr. Stark—," Peter stopped talking when Tony finally looked up, his expression hard, eyes narrowed, jaw tense.

"I've made mistakes," Tony admitted. He kept his voice even, almost calm, and it made it hard for Peter to meet his eyes. He almost wished the man would just start yelling. "A lifetime of them, and whether they," -he made a gesture towards the closed door, seemingly indicating the people beyond— "believe it or not I'm trying to make up for them. And you…you're supposed to be different, kid. You're not supposed to be like us."

"What's wrong with being like you?" Peter asked.

Tony blinked and just stared at Peter for a few seconds. When he dropped his feet to the ground, Peter thought he was going to get up and leave, but Tony just leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he tiredly rubbed his forehead.

"You know, May once told me we didn't deserve you," he said after several long seconds.

May had said the same to Peter once, that Tony didn't know what he had, that the Avengers didn't deserve him. Peter didn't like it when she said things like that—it made him feel like someone might hear her, that they might misinterpret her words and he'd be in danger of being left behind. "What did you tell her?"

Tony looked up, met Peter's eyes and quietly said, "That I agreed."

Apparently, Peter's face must have done something weird, like show just how he felt about that statement, because Tony got up and sat on the bed, his hip bumping gently against Peter's leg as he leaned towards him.

"Alright, Peter, listen," Tony said, raising two fingers and pointing at his eyes, silently ordering Peter to look at him and to pay attention. "I can literally count the number of people that I truly care about on one hand, okay? I'm talking actually care about, like, true friends, would literally feel their absence kind of care, do you understand?"

Peter didn't trust his brain to speak, so he simply nodded.

"You're on that list, kid," Tony said. "So when I make these rules, when I set limits, it's not because I'm trying to be an asshole, I do it because I do not want you hurt. Got it."

"Yeah, I-I got it."

Tony leaned back, but he made sure to keep eye contact. "Good. Because that list seems to be getting smaller and smaller every year, and I'll be damned if the reason you fall off of it is because you're being a fucking idiot who goes and gets himself killed."

Tony must have reached his limit with the emotional stuff because, without giving Peter a chance to respond, he turned and stared at the wall, his shoulders drooping as he rubbed at his neck. He looked uncomfortable, probably because he'd just admitted to having feelings.

"How's the shoulder?" he asked.

"Sore," Peter admitted, cutting him some slack and allowing the subject to change. He flexed his fingers, relieved to feel that the numbness and tingling had disappeared. "What did Dr. Banner give me?"

"The same stuff we give Cap when he needs to be sedated." Tony looked down at the phone still in his hand, tapped it gently against his palm before letting it drop onto Peter's stomach. "So, I called Ned, by the way. Apparently his mom isn't home so if you're up to it, I can get Happy to drop you off. You know, if you're still committed to this little I-follow-the-rules charade you've got going on. "

"Seriously?" Peter had been afraid to ask what would happen next. He was honestly surprised that his Aunt hadn't already been called.

Tony gave what Peter interpreted as a small, self-deprecating smile (something that looked somewhat alien on Tony's face) and said, "Yeah, well, I just got through with one yelling match, not really feeling like getting into another. And I think we both know what would happen if I called May and said you'd been stabbed on what was supposed to be a SHIELD ran mission."

Peter knew exactly what would happen, and he very much wanted to avoid it. Tony's disappointment Peter was learning to deal with. It hurt, but it never lasted long. After the whole ferry incident, Tony had made sure to use Peter's "fuck-ups" (his words) as a learning experience. Peter was told what he did wrong, Peter was punished, everyone moved on.

May's disappointment lingered.

And where as Tony's was always laced with a bit of anger, May's disappointment always came with a look of fear, like she knew it wasn't just an error, a poorly made decision. She always looked like she knew he could have died. So, yeah, Peter was all for not cluing her in on his latest mishap. There was no reason to tell her about the man with the knife…

"The guy saw my face," Peter suddenly realized, and any relief he'd felt at hearing he didn't have to tell May completely disappeared.

"And then you gave him one hell of a concussion," Tony pointed out with a shrug. "And besides, it was just your face. So he knows you're a kid, this is a big city. Lots of kids here."

"You're not worried?"

"I'm always worried," Tony said, before jumping off the bed and giving Peter's leg a reassuring pat, "but no. You'll be fine. Friday canned anything their cameras might have picked up, Cap and Sam took care of the stragglers, and the rest, well, they can't really do anything about you taking the disc without admitting they took it first, so, all in all? I call it a win. Or a tie. Let's call it a tie, since you did, you know, get stabbed. PS, you can add another two weeks onto your grounding."

Tony had his hand on the doorknob, the door halfway open when he turned around and pointed a finger warningly at Peter. "Also, if you pull that loophole bullshit again, I'm burning the suit."

Peter thought it'd best not to remind him that he'd made it fireproof.

Peter made it back to Ned's apartment a full two hours before Ms. Leeds made it home from work. If she noticed how tired Peter looked or that the Lego set was still unopened, she didn't say anything. She simply wished the boys goodnight, reminded them not to make a mess, and then promptly disappeared into her bedroom.

They ended up sleeping until eleven the next day, rising in time to eat an early lunch and finally crack open the Lego set.

It was as they were sorting through the pieces that Peter's phone decided to chime, alerting him to a text message. "Dude, hand me that?" he asked, pointing to the charging phone resting next to Ned.

Peter had one hand held out waiting, the other still focused on sorting out the pieces of Legos before him. When too many seconds passed without a phone, Peter looked up to find Ned staring at it with a look of bewildered excitement.

"Ned?"

"Dude," Ned laughed, finally handing over the phone. "Is that really Captain America's phone number?"

"What?" Peter grabbed the phone and looked at the screen. He had a single text notification from Captain Asshole/flag emoji. "I didn't…" he said, trailing off as he clicked on the message. It was short, a simple "Sorry, Peter. I'll talk to Tony about the grounding thing."

Huh. He clicked on the name and grinned as he zoomed in on the contact photo. It was a picture of Steve Rogers' face photo shopped onto a bald eagle, a series of fireworks in the background exploding to spell out the word 'Murica.

"Captain Asshole?" Ned asked.

"Yeah, it's a long story," Peter said. At least now he knew what Tony was doing with his phone.