Peter sat on the side of a curb, sandwiched between Ned and MJ, and waiting for an ambulance to arrive. The gash in his forehead was probably the most boring injury he'd ever received. It stung, sure, but Spider-Man dealt with more exciting injuries, with more blood and with better stories behind them. Listening to all his classmates, save Ned and MJ, recount their versions of what happened when their school bus went off the road, Peter could tell they thought this was a good story.

He sighed and kicked at some lose gravel on the road. It'd been a better story if the bus had actually reached its destination. Peter had been looking forward to visiting the planetarium. He wanted to see the stars up close, and maybe one day, go to space.

Peter, Ned, and MJ turned their heads at the same time. Flash stood, in the middle of a group of chaperones and teachers, whining about his arm, whining like Draco Malfoy pretending to be attacked by Buckbeck.

"God, someone shut him up," muttered MJ. She fiddled in the pocket of her hoodie and pulled out her headphones.

"Holy shit!" cried one of Peter's classmates. He pointed to the sky. "Is that Iron Man?"

Peter's head snapped up. It was, of course, Iron Man descending from the sky. He didn't know exactly how Mr. Stark heard about the bus accident, but he wasn't entirely surprised, either. Mortified, he buried his head into his hands, forgetting about the gash and getting blood all over his sleeves.

"Dude," whispered Ned, with a nudge.

"I know," said Peter. "Hide me?"

"From Iron Man? No way."

MJ put her headphones back in her pocket. "Things just got interesting."

Interesting for everyone else, maybe, an extra something special to add to their stories of being on a school bus accident.

Iron Man landed in front of a row of now speechless crowd of displaced high schoolers, opened his faceplate and stared at Peter. He stared right bac, and then, with a sense of dread, pushed himself up off the ground and marched over to where Mr. Stark stood.

The mother-henning began as soon as Peter was within arm's reach. Both Mr. Stark's hands covered both Peter's ears as he angled his head in a good position to take a better look at the gash across it. Peter shifted his feet in place, all too aware that the rest of his classmates were watching with rapt attention.

"Mr. Stark," said Peter, through gritted teeth. "It's just a cut. Please. Stop. Every is staring."

He took his hands away from his ears, but repositioned one on his shoulder, as if he thought Peter were going to make a run for it.

"You have window glass in your forehead," said Mr. Stark, as if that were proof he wasn't overreacting. Then he said, louder, to the teachers and chaperones. "He has glass in his forehead. I'm gonna have to take him with him."

"Mr. Stark you can't take him… unless you're on, the, uh, emergency contact list."

Peter's teachers voice crashed and burned under Mr. Stark's glare. He felt sorry for him. He knew the feeling.

"I'm sure we can make an exception, though, under these very special circumstances."

"Mr. Stark," Peter whispered. "This is so not cool."

"You know what would also be not cool? You bleeding out on the pavement," he told him, and Peter rolled his eyes. "I know how you feel about flying, so I told Happy to meet us here with the car."

At least there was that. At least his classmates wouldn't see him getting carried away like a child.

Happy arrived with the car ten minutes later, and as they were getting into it, one of the chaperones got their attention and stopped them.

"Maybe you should take this boy, too," he said, and pointed to Flash. "He may have a broken arm."

"Oh, no. He'll be fine," said Mr. Stark. "The ambulance will be here in five."

With that, Mr. Stark put a head on Peter's head and guided him into the car, as if he were incapable of climbing in without bumping his head. Peter looked back and watched his classmates fade from view through the tinted windows. He could admit, only privately, that he was happy to be away from the crash, from boredom, and from Flash's attention seeking whining.

Peter sat up on a bed in one of the compound's many medical rooms, waiting and kicking his legs as a doctor picked shards of glass out of his forehead with tweezers. Mr. Stark had shrunk back, opting to stay in the corner of the room, and hadn't said anything for several minutes. Peter didn't know it that was a good sign, or a bad one.

The doctor picked out the last glass shard, applied a white bandage to Peter's forehead, said a few words to Mr. Stark, who only nodded in response, and left the room. The silence was more awkward once they were alone.

"Uh," said Mr. Stark. "Listen kid, I may have overreacted. I'm sorry if I embarrassed you in front of your friends."

"Only two of those kids are actually my friends," Peter informed him. He didn't know what else to say. He didn't like Mr. Stark apologizing, didn't like making him feel like he made a mistake when most of the time Peter felt lucky he was involved in his life.

Mr. Stark ignored this and went on. "I spent years thinking my mom died in a car crash. I know it was more than that now, but I heard about the bus and knew you were on it, and I guess I just sort of… lost it. The panic of losing someone, it never really goes away."

Peter understood that. He and Mr. Stark had a lot in common, and one of those things were ghosts.

"I'm okay," said Peter. "My heart is beating, and that was, like, the least embarrassing thing."

Mr. Stark looked at him like he didn't believe him. He stood up from the chair and clasped him on the shoulder. He brushed off the conversation as if it had never happened and directed him out of the medical room and into the hallway.

"Happy will take you home," said Mr. Stark. He checked his watch. "Jesus, I'm late for my flight."

Peter stopped walking. Something cold settled in the pit of his stomach.

"What? What's wrong? Are you feeling light-headed? I knew I should've had the doctor double check everything – "

"-My parents died in a plane crash," said Peter.

The anxiety swirled out of nowhere, or maybe, everywhere, like it'd always been there waiting and hiding until it was okay to come out. He latched on to Mr. Stark, hugged him and felt everything close it all at once. The loss of his parents in the sky, the loss of his uncle on the ground.

Mr. Stark stood still and hugged him back. It lasted for several minutes, and when he did try to step away, to break out of the hug, Peter couldn't let go. His powers wouldn't allow it.

He was stuck, and he was about to mutter a string of apologizes, when Mr. Stark quieted him by running a hand through his hair.

"Do you want me to stay?"

"Yes," said Peter, quiet, then ashamed. "I'm sorry."

Mr. Stark was able to break free that time, the stickiness gone, and he covered both Peter's ears with his hands again. He pressed a kiss on the top of his head, right above where the bandage sat on his forehead.

"Don't be. You're gold, Pete," said Mr. Stark. "Do you think I like going to these Stark Industries meetings? Now I've got an excuse that makes me look like a good guy."

"You are a good guy," said Peter.

He thought he saw Mr. Stark's eyes get a little misty, but they brushed past that the same way they breezed past the subject of both pairs of dead parents. They would acknowledge it in their own way, later that night, by looking up at the stars through SI telescopes. Probably better than planetarium, anyway.