Tony Stark saves the world. He dies minutes later. Peter comes back from the battle to a world that’s changed three times over: first with the Snap and his death, the next with the Reverse Snap that ends the Blip, and one more change, courtesy of an accidental thought during the Reverse Snap: the unification of two separate universes into one. This last results in a physically larger planet, and several new cities, fully formed and inhabited, popping into existence around the world. Gotham City. Metropolis, Keystone City. A few others.
Peter takes this news the only way he can: he accepts it and moves on. Too much has happened to do otherwise. The other Avengers can handle it. He just wants to go home and find May.
So he does.
The realities of this new world find him later when he and May scramble to find a new apartment and try to pay rapidly climbing rent prices anyway they can. It becomes clear early on that May can’t do it on her own. Peter finds a job at The Daily Bugle; newspapers have hit an odd sort of renaissance in the wake of the Blip and the Bugle pays their freelancers pretty well, all things being equal. May doesn’t approve, but she doesn’t forbid it either. His checks have covered half of the grocery bills more than once, and neither of them are brave enough or desperate enough to intrude on Pepper Potts’ mourning to ask for help.
Peter is still reeling from the war against Thanos, but he keeps pushing forward.
* * *
“Dammit,” Jameson says, his voice booming from his office. This is his quiet voice. Instead of knocking down walls, it merely carries across the building. “Perry White sent me an invitation to some damn conference in Metropolis.”
“You could always turn it down,” Robbie Robertson offers. He’s half paying attention to Jameson; a skill he’s perfected over the years.
“And let him show up with his star reporters and put me to shame? Like hell!” And now Jameson’s hit his Outside Voice. “I can’t let that Elvis loving weirdo show me up. I’m going to Metropolis! I could use a week outside of New York, and I want to talk to Perry about the menace that floats around his city!”
This last is said triumphantly, as if Jameson is leading a charge into glorious battle. The bullpen outside his office almost relaxes. A whole week without Jameson physically inside the building is the closest thing to heaven a few of them will experience. Eddie Brock almost looks like he’s going to cry from relief. A few people actually hug.
“Of course, I’ll need to bring an assistant,” Jameson muses aloud.
The area around Jameson’s office is suddenly devoid of people. They couldn’t have moved faster if the building was on fire. Every sane individual within thirty feet of the man’s office suddenly has very pressing business on the other side of the building. Jameson stands up from his desk and stomps towards the doorway, peering out into the bullpen with a thoughtful expression. Everyone avoids his eyes.
The elevator lets out a pleasant ding and Peter Parker strolls through it, camera hanging around his neck, a manilla folder in one hand, the other brushing rain out of his hair. His clothes aren’t suitable for the rainy weather outside, and he shivers, looking around the office. He freezes, frowns, and looks around the office suspiciously, as if some unseen sense has warned him of a nearby predator.
“Parker!” The teen startles, practically jumping a foot up into the air at the sound of Jameson’s voice. “Just the man I wanted to see. You’re on a school break, right?”
“Yeah, as of last Friday,” Peter says, straightening up. “Did you have an assignment for me?”
Jameson grins. “I do. Pack your bags, you just earned yourself a trip to Metropolis.”
“Uh---” Peter says, eyes widening.
“I need an assistant for a conference there,” Jameson continues, bulldozing right over Peter’s protests. “Nothing too difficult if you don’t mind working hard. A gopher, more or less.”
“I’m not really qualified--” Peter begins, holding his hands up and slowly backing away.
“I’ll pay you a thousand dollars.”
Peter pauses for a moment, frowns, and then squints at Jameson. “Let me call my aunt first.”
Jameson grins. “I’ll buy the tickets this afternoon.”
* * *
Peter packs his bags after a late, last minute patrol. After a brief debate with himself, he packs his web shooters and his old Stark suit. He'd be hard pressed to explain the Iron Spider to airport security, but the older suit can be passed off as cosplay equipment. He’s not sure why he's packing it; Metropolis is the safest city in the world, after all. Old habits, maybe.
Jameson insists on a red eye flight. He buys himself a first class ticket and a coach ticket for Peter.
Peter doesn’t mind flying coach. Usually. He does mind it this time however. A man to his left is snoring loud enough to make Peter’s ears ring, the woman to his right has a baby in her lap screaming at top volume, possibly sending commands and signals to the other three babies and toddlers in coach seating, trying to compete and see who can scream the longest. By the time the plane lands, Peter has a raging headache, a sudden envy of heavy sleepers, and a deep regret for ever agreeing to be Jameson’s assistant. That regret is solidified when he finds Jameson at the baggage claim, bright eyed and refreshed.
One thousand dollars, he thinks. I can survive this for one thousand dollars.
He needs that money. Tony had set up a college fund for him, but it was tied to Stark Industries. And Stark Industries died after the Blip that brought everyone back. Pepper, Morgan, and Happy are set, but the account meant for Peter was wiped out or not renewed or--something. He doesn’t entirely know. He’s never been brave enough to ask. Post-Blip rents are out of control, and a thousand could at least buy them a month if May’s job doesn’t hold out. It might even pay for that trip to Europe Mr. Harrington emailed everyone about.
“Ah, there you are, Parker,” Jameson says. “You look like hell. Didn’t you sleep?”
“No,” Peter says.
“Lesson number one, Parker: always sleep on planes! It makes your life much easier, trust me,” Jameson says. He nods to the baggage claim. “There’s my bags. Grab ‘em for me while I get the car.”
Peter stares at him, then sighs and goes to grab the bags. Jameson walks over to the car rental kiosks, chatting amiably with the clerk behind the podium. Peter can hear him clear across the terminal, even without his enhanced hearing. He grabs his luggage (tattered backpack and battered suitcase) and then picks up Jameson’s (one overstuffed bag with wheels) before heading for the door.
By the time he gets there, Jameson is holding the keys to a sleek black car fit for a C-suite executive. He grins when Peter gets close.
“Last one on the lot, got it for a song. That’s another trick. Get yourself a good assistant and pay them well, Parker, and they’ll never steer you wrong. Make a note of that,” Jameson says, pushing open the door and striding through it.
Peter, who cannot possibly imagine a life where he’s able to hire anyone, let alone an assistant, merely sighs and follows his boss into the parking lot. It’s three in the morning, and the sky shows the dim blue of a false down near the horizon that disappears when Peter looks at the city. The wind is cold and clear and doesn’t smell of dust or desperation the way it does in New York.
“Hurry up, Parker! We’ve got an early check in at the hotel!” Jameson barks from the window of the car.
Peter puts the luggage away and hops into the passenger seat, putting on his seatbelt.
“You like jazz?” Jameson asks.
“Uh---”
“Good, glad to hear it,” Jameson answers, turning on the car and adjusting the radio. He drives out of the airport parking lot and heads towards the freeway leading into Metropolis.
Peter rolls his eyes, but settles into his seat and stares out of the window. It’s a forty minute drive into the city, filled with jazz music, Jameson muttering curses at other drivers, and the strange new car smell from the rental.
He leans back and tries to enjoy the ride, occasionally scanning the skies for a hint of Metropolis’ personal hero. Merely out of professional curiosity more than any urge to meet him. The Avengers and the Justice League keep a wide berth from one another; the Avengers are scattered and traumatized from the war, the Justice League is standoffish and wary of the Avengers after their universes were forcibly joined together.
Peter’s had enough of meeting other heroes, personally. He’s already decided to stay close to the ground from now on. Fighting aliens alongside the heroes he grew up admiring has lost its luster entirely.
Still, it’s kinda neat that Superman can fly like Captain Marvel. He watches the landscape pass by and idly wonders if they’ve met each other yet, and how the meeting went.
* * *
They make it into the city just as the sun begins to rise. Metropolis is a scene right out of a pre-Blip movie. People here don't have the haggard looks and too quick eyes of Blip Survivors or the vague sense of confusion and panic that haunts the ones who returned. People in Metropolis are just people, and it’s refreshing to see that. They grab newspapers from magazine stands, coffee from cafes, chat amicably with one another at bus stops, and otherwise just fill the city with the pleasant bustle of civilization.
Metropolis is also one of the few cities on the planet devoid of graffiti, statues, and murals honoring Tony’s sacrifice. Peter finds a strange comfort in that; he's proud of Tony, and knows that he did what needed to be done, but it’s hard to grieve when every building, billboard, and video in the world is dedicated to his memory. There are no Stark Industries buildings and no billboards, and no gifts set out in front of them. Not that there’s really a Stark Industries anymore. The company limped through the Blip, providing clean energy, communications satellites, and medical technology in a time where all three were sorely lacking. It didn’t turn a profit in the five years after the Snap, and after Tony’s death, Pepper sold off the company. The press had a field day over that.
He doesn't blame Pepper for selling off Stark Industries and living in secret with Morgan. It's the only way either of them will know peace in the wake of Tony’s death. She emails sometimes, but they’re few and far between. Peter wonders if she doesn't hold some resentment for him. Happy and Rhodey let slip that Tony said bringing Peter back is one reason why he started researching time travel. Not the whole reason, probably not even the main reason, but one large enough to drive him back to his lab five years after he tried to move on with his life.
Peter hates thinking that he's the reason Morgan grows up without a father and Pepper lives without a husband. So he keeps his emails cheery and polite, and keeps his distance. He's done enough damage to the Stark family.
"Here we are," Jameson says, breaking through Peter’s wandering thoughts. He’s pulled the car in front of an expensive looking hotel. A well dressed valet watches them from behind a podium near the polished wood double doors. "Best place in the city. Come on, let's check in. We've got enough time for a few hours of shut eye before the conference starts. Grab the bags.”
Peter gets out of the car and grabs the bags. Fortunately, a bellhop is quick to take them off of him when he walks into the front lobby.
Jameson hands him a keycard. “I’ve got a suite on the top floor. Yours is around the corner, near the stairs. Go get some rest, you’ve got a long day tomorrow.”
Peter, exhausted, simply takes the keycard and shuffles off for his room. He deeply regrets going on one last patrol through Queens before packing and heading out for the airport. His back and shoulders throb and ache in time with his heartbeat, and the headache from the flight into Metropolis is lingering behind his eyes.
All hotels have the same, strange sense of unreality to them. Even the fancy ones hosting professional conferences. Peter walks past his room twice before finding it. He closes the door, locks it, and flops across the bed, barely staying awake long enough to send May and Ned a quick "I made it to the hotel" text before falling asleep in his clothes.
Four hours later, the front desk gives him a wake up call. Peter drags himself out of bed and into the tiny bathroom.
Time to earn his pay.
* * *
“What am I going to be doing here anyway?” Peter asks, desperately trying to tame a rogue curl sticking up at an odd angle from his head. It doesn’t work. If anything, it sticks out further. He gives up. He’s dressed up from his usual hoodie and jeans: black slacks, black shoes, and red button down shirt May had said suited him.
“What I tell you to,” Jameson says, adjusting his tie. “Mostly you’ll be getting me drinks while I schmooze with the newcomers to the industry.”
So, following Jameson around and occasionally getting yelled at. Great.
Jameson claps his back, heading towards the door. “Think of it as a learning opportunity, Parker. One day, you might be going to these things yourself, you know.”
“I doubt that,” Peter mutters. He’s not sure what he’s going to do with his life, but he’s positive it won’t involve the Daily Bugle.
Jameson doesn’t hear, of course. He’s too busy calling out into the room, his voice booming. “Perry White! Come here, you old son of a bitch!”
Peter closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and follows Jameson into the conference room. One thousand dollars. Okay.
A man of Jameson's age wearing a sharp suit, with a cigar sticking out of his breast pocket, looks up from his conversation at Jameson’s voice. He grins when he sees Jameson and waves him over.
"Jonah! I didn't think you'd make it," Perry says amiably, reaching out to take Jameson’s hand firmly. Perry White is taller than Jameson by an inch and carries himself with the easy confidence of an ambitious man that’s accomplished all that he’s set out to do in life. His hair is silver and clean cut, and his voice is tinged with just a hint of a southern accent Peter can’t quite place. "Good to see you."
"You too,” Jameson says, shaking his hand with a good humor that Peter’s rarely seen from the man. It’s a little creepy, honestly. “Thanks for the invitation. The kid and I barely made it here in time.”
“Oh?” Perry asks. He looks at Peter and his eyes sharpen with curiosity. “Who’s this?”
“Hm? Oh,” Jameson looks over his shoulder at Peter, who gives him a bland smile. “Right. Perry, meet my assistant, Peter Parker. Parker, meet Perry White, the world’s best investigative journalist, once upon a time. At least, before our planets smashed into each other.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Perry says with a friendly grin, he shakes Peter’s hand. There’s a frankness to it that Peter doesn’t expect from a journalist, former or not. In his experience, they tend more towards shrewd looks and sideways smiles.
Of course, he really only knows the type of journalists that J. Jonah Jameson hires.
“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” Peter says politely.
“You too, Peter,” Perry says. He nods to the woman he was speaking with moments before Jonah announced himself to the room at large. “Jonah, Peter, this is Lois Lane, the best investigative journalist I’ve ever had the luck to meet.”
Lois Lane is a thin woman standing an inch shorter than Peter, with long black hair and sharp blue eyes. Everything about her screams supreme confidence; this is a woman who knows who and what she is and where she’s going. Peter kind of envies that.
“I’ve read your work,” Jameson says. “You’re damn good at what you do. I don’t say that lightly. Parker can attest to that.”
“Boy, can I,” Peter mutters. Perry catches it and hides a smirk. Jonah quirks a brow at him and Peter schools his face into a neutral expression.
Whoops.
“I’ve read your latest article, in fact,” Jameson continues, shooting Peter a look before turning back to face Lois. “I liked it. Good, solid work.”
Lois smiles at Jameson, taking his offered hand. “I’m sensing a ‘but’ there.”
“You’re not wrong,” Jameson says. “You’re awfully soft on this Superman fellow.”
Peter winces. Metropolis is new to the world (well, this world, at least), but all of the new cities have one thing in common: Most of them rise to the defense of ‘their’ heroes at a moment’s notice. Even Gotham won’t tolerate too many comments about Batman. To be fair, Gotham in general doesn’t seem to tolerate much of anything.
That protective instinct is strongest in Metropolis, Superman’s home city. Jameson is tap dancing across landmines right now. Which shouldn’t be too surprising. The only hero he likes is Steve Rogers.
Lois’s smile turns wry and sharp. “Superman is the best of the best. He’s earned that praise.”
“He’s a flying mega nuke,” Jameson counters. “Power corrupts. One day, that’s going to bite you people in the ass. Just you wait.”
“Is that why you spend so much time slandering Spider-Man?” Lois asks.
“That menace needs to know he’s being watched. I’m only giving voice to the people of New York City,” Jameson says, heat filling his voice. “One day--one day--he’s going to slip up and I’ll be there to show who he is to the world. The only good hero is Captain America. And he’s missing.”
“Superman is our Captain America,” Lois says simply.
Jameson scoffs. The debate sets off after that.
Maybe this won't be so bad.
* * *
It actually isn't all that bad.
It’s boring as hell, but it isn’t actually bad. Peter fetches drinks and snacks for Jameson and Perry, ducking around mildly drunk journalists easily. By the time the conference officially ends, Peter is ready to crawl the walls from boredom, secret identity be damned. Eventually, the other journalists wander off or leave and Jameson has finished rubbing elbows with people whose names and faces Peter can’t be bothered to remember.
He waves Peter over and strolls over to the elevators. “Right. You’re off the clock, Parker. Get some rest. We’re heading into the Daily Planet tomorrow.”
“We are?” Peter asks.
“Perry wants to give us a tour. Plus, Perry and I can’t exactly smoke our cigars here,” Jameson says, stabbing the elevator call button. “I’ve already spoken with everyone I want to at this place.
Which means Peter’s going to be playing gopher inside a stuffy office full of cigar smoke tomorrow. Great.
“Mr. Jameson, how are you two even friends? Usually when you meet other people in our industry, you call them--” He pauses. “Well. You call them things I’d never repeat in front of my aunt.”
“Simple, Parker. He’s a self made man,” Jameson says. The elevator doors open and he steps inside, Peter following a step behind. “Perry White worked himself to the bone to get where he is now and he’s earned every bit of it. More than that, he earned it honestly and used his talents to expose criminal rackets. He’s not from our Earth, but that doesn’t mean anything anymore. We need more people like him.”
“Oh,” Peter says thoughtfully. This is the nicest Jameson’s been...ever. It’s weird. “Huh.”
Jameson hits the button for his floor, checking his watch briefly before pulling out his wallet and taking out a few twenty dollar bills. He hands them to Peter. “I have a date tonight. Go get some food or catch a movie."
"Mr. Jameson, aren’t you married?" Peter asks, taking the offered cash. There are a lot of people Peter would feel weird taking money from. Jameson isn’t among them.
"Not anymore! She came back from the Blip, took one look at me and divorced me. Threatened to run me over with her car if I didn’t sign the papers. Smart woman. Love her to death." He pauses, smiling fondly. "I think I can win her back. What do you think, Parker?"
Peter, caught up in the not entirely unpleasant image of someone mowing Jameson over with a car, says, "I think I'd give her space, sir."
"Probably smart,” Jameson remarks thoughtfully. The elevator lets out a pleasant little ding as it reaches Jameson’s floor. He steps through the doors and turns to face Peter. “Well! I have a date with a French news editor in thirty minutes, and you have a date with whatever the hell teenage boys get up to when set loose in a new city. Go on, shoo. Don't call me. Stay out of trouble."
The elevator doors close. Peter considers the money in his hand and pockets it, pulling out his phone to look up the nearest pizza place.
The nearest one is only twenty minutes away. It’s dark outside, but Metropolis is the safest city in the world. He’ll be out and back in no time.
* * *
He really should have seen this coming.
“I’m serious, asshole!” the mugger spits, aiming the pistol at Peter’s chest. “I’ll f*ckin’ waste you! Gimme your phone and cash!”
Peter is standing in the dark parking lot of We Knead Pizza, holding two boxes of pizza (one for dinner, and another for breakfast), isolated from view of the street and any possible passers by. A masked man wearing loose fitting clothes has a gun aimed directly at his chest. Peter mentally curses himself; he stands out in this neighborhood. He’s wearing the same clothes he wore at the conference and it isn’t a look shared by the blue collar and working class people that live in this neighborhood.
This spot is such a great set up for a mugging that he’s surprised he never noticed. He usually clocks to these sorts of places while on patrol and keeps an eye on them. But Metropolis isn’t New York, and Peter hasn’t exactly been acting as Spider-Man very often these days.
Unfortunately, that means his web shooters are safely tucked away in his luggage at the hotel. Which complicates matters at the moment.
“Are you f*cking deaf?” the guy hisses. “Money. Phone. Wallet. Now.”
“Hang on, I’m thinking,” Peter says. The mugger looks absolutely insulted.
“Thinking? There’s no thinking! Gimme your sh*t or I waste you!” the guy snarls, staring at Peter as if he’s lost his mind.
Dammit. He’s going to have to lose the pizzas. He can’t run. He can’t swing away (not exactly an option in his civilian clothes anyway). He’s definitely not giving up his phone or his wallet. So he’ll have to fight. And that means frisbeeing the pizzas into this guy’s face and disarming him. Easy enough to do, but like.
He really wants this pizza.
“That’s it, I’ll just take your sh*t off your corpse--”
There’s a sudden whoosh of wind, and a red wall appears in front of Peter just as the mugger pulls the trigger. The sound of the gun firing is muffled, but Peter can clearly hear the mugger mutter ‘oh goddammit’ right before the bullet falls onto the asphalt with a little plink noise.
The wall--or cape, actually, now that Peter’s brain is catching up with reality--sways as a very tall, very broad, black haired man strides forward and snatches the gun out of the mugger’s hand. He crushes it in one large hand, the metal crumpling like paper between his fingers before being tossed aside.
“Hi, Simon,” Superman says, his tone even and devoid of anger. Somehow, it makes him even more threatening. “I see you’re back to your old habits again.”
“Aw, come on,” Simon mutters. “I didn’t even try to rob anyone important! Just some rich prick from New York.”
“Dude,” Peter says. “I’m a freelance photographer for a newspaper. This suit was literally a gift from someone else.”
A pause follows that and then Simon lets out a frustrated sigh. “I should’ve f*ckin’ guessed. You were way too attached to those f*cking pizzas.”
“Hey. This is dinner and breakfast.”
Superman turns to look at Peter. It’s hard to focus on his face, but Peter sees a man who could almost match Steve Rogers for looks alone. The eyes are more or less the same; there’s less regret and sadness in Superman’s eyes than there ever was in Steve Rogers’, but the clarity and confidence are the same.
“Uh. Hi,” Peter says, fighting back the urge to fidget.
“Hello. Are you hurt?” Superman asks.
“No, I’m fine,” Peter says. “Thanks for the save.”
Superman smiles, and it lights his face up like the sun. Peter can understand why everyone in Metropolis is head over heels for the guy. He's just, well, friendly.
“Anytime," Superman says. "You should head back home. Do you need me to walk with you?”
“No, no. I got it. Thanks, again,” Peter says. “I would’ve hated to lose these pizzas.”
That gets a mildly concerned and confused look from Superman. Peter ignores it and heads back to the hotel, leaving the man to deal with the mugger. He waits until he’s in the hotel elevator to pull out his phone. He scrolls through it for a moment, and then makes a call.
“Ned, you wouldn’t believe what just happened to me,” Peter says.
* * *
Peter stays up late talking with Ned, demolishes both pizzas in the process (so much for saving one for breakfast), and forgets to set his alarm. He sleeps through both of his wake up calls and approximately twelve calls and six increasingly furious texts from Jameson before the door to his hotel room is subjected to three powerful knocks that rattle the door in its frame.
“Parker! You’re late!” Jameson bellows.
That snaps Peter awake. He stares at the hotel room, the empty pizza boxes, the clean clothes he set out the night before while speaking with Ned, the sunlight streaming through the venetian blinds. He frowns at them for a moment.
And then his door rattles again. “Parker!”
Peter winces and staggers out of bed, brushing his teeth, and snatching up his clean clothes and dressing as quickly as he can. He’s gotten good at this, so it only takes him ten seconds to pull on pants, shoes, and shirt. He’s still buttoning his shirt when he opens the door.
“Sorry, Mr. Jameson, I missed my alarm--”
“Just get downstairs. We’re already late,” Jameson growls, stalking down the hallway towards the elevator lobby.
Peter mentally curses and grabs the keycard for his hotel room, slamming the door shut behind himself. He walks briskly down the hallway, frantically running his fingers through his hair to tame the bedhead. It isn’t until he’s in the car with Jameson that he realizes he’s left his phone, wallet, and cash in the hotel room. He pats down his pockets and finds a single dollar bill. Great.
“Look sharp, Parker,” Jameson says, pulling out of the hotel parking lot and onto a street rapidly filling with morning traffic. Peter hasn’t seen traffic this thick since the day that donut shaped ship hovered above New York. “You’re going to be representing the Bugle here. Don’t f*ck it up.”
“You got it, Mr. Jameson,” Peter says. Damn, one dollar and no lunch. His enhanced metabolism is going to be an annoyance by lunch time.
“And be prepared to work,” Jameson adds. “I told Perry he could borrow you as a gopher for a little while.”
Great.
* * *
The Daily Planet is a lot like the Daily Bugle in every way that matters except one: Jameson can’t be heard bellowing across the building at whatever hapless journalist or photographer happening by his office. Other than that, it’s exactly the same. Peter and Jameson both enter their element the moment they pass the threshold, passing a tall man in an ill fitting brown suit on the way inside.
“They seem busy,” Peter notes, walking beside Jameson.
“Something’s happening in New Jersey,” Jameson says. “Robbie’s keeping tabs on it and sending me updates. A town’s gone missing."
"That sounds bad," Peter says. It almost sounds like Avengers business, actually, but he’s too far away to do any good. It’s not like he can fly.
"It sounds like headline news," Jameson growls. "Robbie’s emailing me updates as they come in. You can expect to write a few for me, too."
Great.
"At least it'll bump the Walker story off the headlines," Jameson muses, stepping into an elevator.
"Not a fan of the new Captain America, sir?" Peter asks. He definitely isn't. Seeing John Walker with that shield bothers Peter. It looked better in Sam Wilson’s hands, but he doesn’t blame Sam for setting it down.
"He wasn't chosen by Steve Rogers. Sam Wilson was," Jameson says after a moment, as if that answers it all.
Peter can’t really debate that, but he also knows Sam wouldn’t have given up the shield without a reason. Maybe to separate himself from Steve, to stand out as his own person. Given the constant "So, you’re the new Iron Man now?" questions Peter gets back in New York, he can’t blame Sam for it either. There’s nothing wrong with trying to escape the larger than life shadows and expectations people leave behind.
Is there?
"Maybe we don't need a Captain America anymore?" Peter muses, half to himself. “The Falcon is a hero, too. He doesn’t need to be Cap on top of that.”
Jameson gives him a withering glare and shakes his head, stepping off the elevator when it reaches the top floor. “We always need a Captain America, Parker.”
Peter, mildly amused and confused by Jameson’s seemingly arbitrary feelings towards the various Avengers, follows after him. The top floor of the Daily Planet is full of the same organized chaos as journalists move around one another, speaking on the phone, grabbing coffee, hammering away at an article on their laptop. Peter can hear a dozen conversations as they walk towards the office at the back of the room, past a massive flat screen TV cycling through news tickers,
“--the whole town. The FBI is there, but--”
“--Walker was sent to Europe, last seen near a refugee camp--”
“--some kind of energy spike in the sky above Metropolis--”
“Jonah, Peter! Glad you could both join the party. We’ve got a hell of a day ahead of us,” Perry White says, stepping out of his office. He has a cigar tucked behind one ear. “I’ve got a phone set up for you already, Jonah. I know you want to check in on your people.”
“Damn right I do,” Jonah says. “Parker, grab us some coffee and get one yourself. You’re going to earn your pay today.”
“Got it, coffee as black as your soul, coming right up,” Peter says, heading for the coffee machine.
Perry chokes back a laugh. Jameson glowers at Peter.
Worth it.
Peter grabs them coffee. He’s not a fan of it himself--especially not the near sludge like liquid favored by caffeine junkies like journalists--but he downs it regardless. It helps with the hunger and lingering sleepiness, and puts some pep to his step. He has a feeling he’ll need that today. He pours himself a cup, drinks it without tasting it, and does his best to not cringe at the smell. He cringes anyway.
“Sweeten it up next time, kid,” Lois Lane says, reaching past him to grab the pot. “Trust me, you don’t want to drink this stuff straight. Perry would drink engine oil if he could.”
“Ugh,” Peter replies.
“Parker!” a voice bellows from across the room.
Lois looks up from pouring herself a cup, blinking at Perry’s office door. Peter sighs, downs the rest of his coffee, and grabs Jonah and Perry’s coffee mugs.
“Well, duty calls,” he says, heading for the office.
* * *
The situation in New Jersey is deteriorating. A red hexagon has formed over a small town called Westview in New Jersey. Half of the nation's federal agencies show up and refuse to give any details. Jameson and Perry are both chomping at the bit to learn more. Peter doesn’t catch a break until lunch time, when he brings Jameson a fifth cup of coffee and his stomach growls. Loudly.
Perry looks up at the sound and speaks, cutting Jameson off before he can bark out another order. “Peter, you’ve been working like a dog ever since you got here. How ‘bout you take a load off? I’ve gotta borrow your boss for a bit and discuss a few things anyway.”
Jameson frowns. “Surely the boy can stay and--”
“This is sensitive stuff, Jonah,” Perry insists, shooting him a significant look. Jameson pauses, then shrugs, pulling out another cigar from his pocket. Perry turns to face Peter. “Sorry, Peter, you’ll have to come back later to chat with your boss. Grab some lunch or something.”
“I’ll call for you when I need you, Parker,” Jameson says.
“You have my phone number?” Peter asks, edging for the door.
“Hell no, but you’ll hear me when I call for you,” Jameson retorts. “Get out.”
He doesn’t need to tell Peter twice. Peter beats a hasty retreat from Perry White’s office and shuts the door behind himself. He pauses outside of it and lets out a relieved sigh, reaching up to rub his temples as he walks the edge of the bullpen room and into the hallway where the vending machines sit.
He’s unaware of the curious looks he gets from the Daily Planet’s reporters. Some brief, others lingering, all of them curious. A mild mannered man with dark glasses and an oversized suit watches him in particular.
* * *
The vending machine is ancient--there are honest to god cigarettes being sold in it--and most of the food inside looks like it expired years ago. Peter looks at the options dubiously and finally settles on Twinkies. Those things can survive a nuclear war and he’s hungry enough to not care about the taste. He fishes around in his pocket and finally pulls out a crumpled dollar bill, the only thing he has on him since he forgot his wallet this morning. He carefully inserts it into the machine.
It spits it back out.
Okay, fair enough. The bill is crumpled beyond reason. Of course a machine this old would take exception. Peter smooths out the dollar against the machine, then tries again. The machine rejects it again.
Peter briefly considers eating the dollar for sustenance. He instead repeats the process. The machine accepts it on the fifth try. He lets out a huff of relief and punches in the code for the Twinkies.
The machine whirs and clunks. The tiny screen above the number pad lets out a pleasant ding, the words “Thank you!” scrolling across in blocky green letters. His last dollar has just been eaten by an 80s era vending machine.
Peter stares at the machine for a long moment and then gently thumps his forehead against the glass and lets out a long, despairing sigh. His stomach growls at him painfully, the noise startlingly loud.
“I wouldn’t use that one,” a friendly voice says behind him. “It just eats money.”
Peter straightens up and turns to face the owner of the voice, suddenly embarrassed to be found like this by one of the Planet’s staff. Jameson does want to project a certain image here and, well, Peter would rather not hear about how poorly he’s doing that on the way back to the hotel tonight.
“Yeah, I noticed,” Peter says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just lost my last dollar to it.”
The owner of the voice turns out to be the tall man in the brown suit he saw in the lobby this morning. The man offers his hand, smiling at Peter. He’s huge; tall and broad shouldered, with thick glasses, and a haircut that could be charitably described as dorky. His clothes are a size too big and he slouches a little, as if trying to avoid notice. He kind of looks like a mess, really. But his smile is friendly and his blue eyes shine with warmth.
“Hiya,” he says, a flat Midwestern accent tinging his voice. “Welcome to the Daily Planet. I’m Clark Kent.”
“Peter Parker,” Peter says, suddenly aware of his own accent. He puts some effort into muting it as he returns Clark’s handshake. “Daily Bugle. Nice to meet you, Mr. Kent.”
Clark jerks a thumb over to the elevators. “I’m headed out for lunch. Wanna come with?”
“Ah, I’d like to, but--” Peter starts.
“My treat,” Clark says cheerfully. “It’s tradition for the staff to treat the new guy to lunch at the Planet, and I wouldn’t mind the company if you’re up for it.”
Peter tilts his head, then shrugs. “Okay.”
* * *
Clark Kent is an interesting guy. His movements are a touch too quick to be fully natural, as if he’s fighting back against his own natural speed. Peter has his suspicions, but they aren’t confirmed until his enhanced hearing picks up the sound of a gunshot three miles away. He’s used to hearing things like that, but Clark does something odd when it happens. He snaps his head in the direction of the gunshot and goes utterly still, losing his slouch and squinting into the distance, as if he’s able to see past the massive buildings somehow.
Peter’s hearing picks up something a few seconds after the shot: “Goddammit, rookie, how’d you manage to shoot your own goddamn foot gettin’ outta the patrol car?”
Clark relaxes and then resumes walking, falling back into his slouching shuffle as they close in on the sandwich shop: a little mom and pop place that reminds Peter of Delmar’s new place.
Peter’s suspicions are pretty much confirmed after that: Clark Kent is an enhanced individual, staying low and working at the Daily Planet. Since he’s a Metropolis citizen, he’s not technically subject to the revised Sokovia Accords, but--well. It’s probably a good idea for him to stay out of sight. Thaddeus Ross has only become more militant since returning from the Snap, and he regards the Justice League with extreme suspicion at best.
Clark notices Peter’s scrutiny and offers another of those easy smiles, shrugging at him as he holds the door open for Peter. “Thought I heard something.”
“Huh. I didn’t hear anything,” Peter says, eyes on the menu board behind the store owner. “What’s good here?”
“Anything and everything. Personally, I get the reuben whenever I’m here,” Clark says.
God, that sounds amazing right now. “I’ll take one of those, then.”
“Good taste,” Clark says. “Lenny, two reubens.”
“You got it, Mr. Kent,” the guy behind the counter replies, ringing up the order. The price is twice what Peter expects, and he cringes when he watches Clark hand over his card.
Clark catches it and laughs. “Don’t worry about it. It’s worth every penny.”
“If you say so,” Peter says. The guy just spent thirty bucks on sandwiches. How much is the Daily Planet paying him? And are they hiring?
The reason for the extravagant price becomes clear: the sandwiches are huge. When Lenny sets the food tray loaded with sandwiches, pop bottles, and bags of chips on the counter in front of Clark and Peter, he does it with a sigh of relief. Clark grabs the tray and lift it as if it weighs nothing and nods to a table in the far corner. They sit, grab their meals off the tray, and start to eat.
Peter does his best to not inhale his food. He's starving, sure, but that doesn’t mean he should be rude. Aunt May taught him better than that.
“You’re not from Metropolis, are you?” Peter asks.
“Nope,” Clark says. “I grew up in Kansas. Smallville.”
“Oh. I guess there was a lot of confusion when Smallville popped up in Kansas after the Reverse Snap,” Peter says.
“Not at all. Ma said they didn’t realize they were in a different universe until a week after it happened,” Clark muses. “Metropolis had a much more bombastic entrance.”
That was putting it lightly. A trucker hauling furniture to New York had caught it on his phone: a gleaming city with art deco style skyscrapers popping into existence. And a red and blue form flying above the city, looking around warily.
“What was it like?” Peter asks. “I mean, I know when the Reversal happened, something kind of went wrong. The Hulk wished for the wrong thing or something. No one’s told me the details yet.”
Actually, no one’s really talked to him at all since the final battle with Thanos. He didn’t get many looks at Tony’s funeral either. The Avengers separated and went off to their own lives, shattered, lost and shell shocked from Tony’s Snap and sacrifice. Sure, he has their numbers, and Happy’s been hanging around, but well. He’s Happy. He doesn’t know anything about the Avengers, either. More importantly, he doesn’t seem to want to know anything about the Avengers and their current movements; Happy’s world has shrunk since the final battle to Pepper, Morgan, May and Peter.
“Lois and I have been digging into this ourselves,” Clark says. “I asked a friend I know--his name’s John Constantine--and he had a few insights. The Hulk didn’t wish for the wrong thing exactly. It’s just that his wish had unintended consequences. He wished for two things: to bring everyone back from being Dusted and something else that brought the universes together. We think that second one was an accidental wish.”
Peter pauses, suddenly taken back to the battle’s aftermath. He remembers overhearing the Avengers speaking with one another while taking Tony’s body off of the battlefield. News of new cities appearing across the world out of nowhere had finally reached them.
He remembers Bruce Banner’s horrified voice above them all.
“Oh, god. I screwed it up. I asked the Stones to bring all of us together again, but I didn’t mean--I was thinking of Nat!”
“Huh,” Peter says to himself. He suddenly understands why Dr. Strange has been a lot more stressed than usual.
“Where were you when it happened?” Clark asks.
And Peter is there, on the battlefield, surrounded by the sounds of it, Cap giving out orders over the coms, the Outriders attacking Peter and trapping him, almost dragging him down into dozens of snarling mouths and fangs. He comes back to himself with a start.
“Ah...somewhere not good,” he says finally, avoiding Clark’s eyes. “I was Dusted and when I came back, it was just a big mess. Took me forever to find my Aunt.”
Clark’s gaze is sharper now, and Peter is suddenly positive that the easy going and mild mannered personality he shows the world is--well, not an act, per se, but inflated. As if he’s purposefully enhancing that side of himself as a mask against the world. Which makes sense. The guy is clearly enhanced, and he’s just been teleported into a completely different Earth.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Clark says gently, his tone sincere. “That must have been tough to come back from.”
“It wasn’t the worst part,” Peter says idly, half to himself. “The worst part is picking up all the pieces after, you know? Everything’s all messed up after the Battle.”
Clark frowns. “Battle?”
Right. Normal people like Peter Parker have nothing to do with that final battle with Thanos. Peter shrugs, shifting gears. “The return Snap. You know. You come back, find out five years have past, and suddenly there’s this big army upstate and this huge ship and...It was a rough day. For a lot of people, obviously.”
Clark tilts his head, considering Peter for a long moment. “It sounds like it was much rougher on you than me.”
“I wouldn’t say that. Finding out my world just combined into a completely different universe is a lot to take in,” Peter says, taking a bite of his sandwich. "I mean, for one, Geography suddenly became mandatory in school."
"That's somewhat true for everyone at the Planet," Clark says, grinning wryly. "Nobody knew about Wakanda, or the Sokovia Accords, or the Avengers. It was quite the wake up call when General Ross paid Superman a visit."
Peter sits up. "Ross came here?"
"He went to Gotham first, actually. I understand that Batman made him feel a bit unwelcome," Clark says, obviously fighting back a grin.
"God, I bet," Peter muses. "Batman's people come close to New York sometimes. The night bird guy actually went into the city."
"Nightwing," Clark corrects, his gaze sharpening again. "Did he?"
"Only once," Peter says, thinking back to the encounter. "He ran into Spider-Man after getting chased by a giant lizard guy."
Literally. Peter was taking a mid patrol nap on the roof near the edge of the city. Nightwing had been thrown up onto the roof and into Peter's web hammock, knocking Peter free of it while getting stuck himself. The two of them had jumped like startled cats when it happened, instantly alert and wary of the other. Peter had been groggy and confused, Nightwing had been...well. Stuck. Peter freed him after a moment’s confusion.
A massive lizard man clambered up onto the roof. Peter and Nightwing had teamed up to handle the problem, finished the job, and then considered one another for a long moment.
Nightwing had been the one to break the silence: "Is that your lizard bad guy or mine?"
And Peter had said: "Yours, I think. Mine usually wears a shirt."
“Cool, I’ve got this then. Thanks, Spidey!”
And then he had disappeared, lizard guy in tow, quick as the wind. Peter had been a little dumbfounded by that part. How quick and silent Nightwing was.
"You know, I remember hearing about that," Clark says. "Anyway, General Ross came by. He left after a little while. I know Superman’s been waiting to hear from the Avengers ever since."
"Has he? Why?"
Clark shrugs. "Seems like the neighborly thing to do. None of them have visited yet."
"Most of them are busy," Peter says. "I think it just hasn't occurred to them, with the war and everything. And the closest Avenger to Metropolis is Spider-Man but, well. He doesn't exactly leave the city, you know?"
Clark hums in agreement. "True. Maybe Superman should visit him instead."
“Maybe in a few months,” Peter says, shifting uneasily. “Things are tense in New York.”
Clark nods, checking his watch. “I should head back to the office. Let’s pack up your sandwich--”
Peter blinks, and instead, decides to just demolish his sandwich. He devours the rest of his sandwich, fights back a burp, and then sighs. Clark’s expression is equal parts admiration and mild disgust.
“Or you could just do that instead, I guess,” Clark says, amused. “Come on, let’s head back.”
Peter leans back in his chair and sighs contentedly, then stands up and grabs his trash. “Yeah, good idea. Thanks for the lunch, Mr. Kent.”
“Anytime, Peter,” Clark says cheerfully.
* * *
The Daily Planet is literally buzzing with activity when they get back. Peter can hear it from a block away; there’s a kind of tense murmuring and electric excitement that only seems to happen when something big has happened and has the whole attention of every journalist in a building. Clark hears it too; his steps become quicker, more purposeful, and the easy, contented grin that he usually wears disappears from his face. Lois Lane all but appears next to them when he and Clark enter the front lobby.
“Something big happened,” Lois says. “Perry has an assignment for you.”
“What’s going on?” Clark asks.
“That missing town in New Jersey is covered by some red force field. People can see it glowing against the sky from miles away. Batman’s gotten involved, too,” Lois says. There’s an odd weight to that last sentence.
Clark startles. “Batman?”
“He’s helping investigate it. Sources say he was told to buzz off by SWORD, but another source just told me they saw an FBI agent filling him in on what’s been going on. He walked into the forcefield and hasn't been seen since," Lois says, showing him her phone as the three of them cross the lobby and enter the elevator. "Perry knows Batman’s your specialty, so he’s planning on sending you to New Jersey.”
"Good thing I keep a spare set of clothes around," Clark says, taking her phone and adjusting his glasses. The movement seems to amuse Lois.
"Is it alien tech?" Peter asks. This is definitely Avengers business now.
"No, it’s an Avenger," Lois says. "Wanda Maximoff was last seen in that town, just before it fell off the face of the earth. The rumor is that her magic is behind the hexagon."
"Wanda?" Peter asks a little., snapping his head over to Lois. “Is she hurt?”
“No one knows,” Lois says, looking at Peter as if she’s just noticed him. She narrows her eyes. “You sound like you know her.”
“We’ve met before,” Peter says, half to himself, frowning. Damn! If he had his phone with him, he could at least text Sam or Dr. Strange. Sam would probably be his best bet. “Plus, she’s, you know, an Avenger. Everyone knows her.”
Lois quirks a brow, but ultimately drops the topic when the elevator stops at the top floor, the doors sliding open to a scene that looks like organized chaos. A wall of noise hits them the moment the doors open: phones ringing, keyboards clattering, shouts across the cubicle farms, slightly less loud conversations, all hit them at once. Peter can’t help but wince at the noise; the Bugle has never been this loud. Clark frowns at him.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, fine, don’t worry about it,” Peter says. How the hell can this guy handle this noise? Peter’s pretty good at tuning out noise--he lives in New York City, for god’s sake--but it takes effort to adapt to the chaos of the Daily Planet’s cubicle farm. Clark’s hearing is at least as good as Peter’s.
“Clark!” Perry White calls out over the din. “Just the man I wanted to see. Pack your bags, you’re headed to New Jersey--”
“Already packed, Perry. I’ll catch a flight tonight,” Clark says. Even when he speaks above the crowd, his voice keeps that same even, easy going cadence. It isn’t quite a drawl, though there’s a hint of it in his voice. “Let me finish up a few things and--”
“Holy sh*t, Captain America is gonna kill that guy!” a voice cries out.
All conversation pauses, and all attention is drawn to the massive flatscreen TV hanging from the far wall. Shaky cell phone camera footage fills the screen, presenting an image of John Walker, Captain America, standing above a beaten man weakly shielding his face and neck.
Not exactly a good look for the new Captain America.
"It wasn’t me--I didn't--" the man says, terrified.
Walker punches him with everything he has, throwing his whole body into a strike to the man’s temple. His eyes are wide and bloodshot and shining with a feverish frenzy that makes Peter’s skin crawl. He raises his shield--
And brings it down with a sickening crunch of bone. Blood splashes across the face of it.
"Cap, what the f*ck?" someone in the crowd says, sick and horrified.
Walker’s head snaps to the crowd. The person holding the cell phone staggers back, and the camera shudders from the sudden movement. If anything, Walker looks more furious than before.
“He had friends. Where are the rest of the Flag-Smashers?” Walker demands, stalking towards the crowd. “If you’re hiding them, then you’re just as guilty--”
“Dude, we’re a tourist group. We aren’t hiding anyone,” someone calls out.
“You don’t have jurisdiction here!” another yells.
“I have jurisdiction wherever I happen to be!” Walker roars, drawing his shield back for a throw.
Something moves in the doorway behind Walker. Sam Wilson staggers out of the building, limping heavily on one leg, his suit battered and scorched and ruined from combat. His wings are gone, torn off at the base. Peter can’t imagine how strong someone needs to be to manage that; those things were built to withstand the worst kind of combat.
Sam stops mid step when he sees the scene. His eyes jump quickly between Walker, the dead man on the fountain, and the crowd, and he draws himself up before breaking into a sprint. He tackles Walker from behind, taking him down to the ground. He shouts at the surrounding crowd, waving them back and away.
"Get the hell out of here! Run!" Sam yells.
Walker turns his fury on Sam, and Peter can tell right away that he doesn't stand a chance against Walker. His wings are broken, one eye is nearly swollen shut, and a cut across his forehead is bleeding freely down his face. And he isn’t enhanced; you can be the most skilled warrior on the planet, but if someone bigger and stronger than you pins you to the ground, you’re going to lose.
"I should have known you were in on it," Walker growls. He raises the bloodied shield above his body, winding up to drive it down onto Sam's skull.
There's a blur of movement, a deafening ringing clang as Walker's shield is knocked aside by another, and a startled, vicious curse from Walker as a woman in golden armor slams her shoulder into his sternum. He’s sent flying back off and away from Sam, landing in a heap on the road.
Wonder Woman straightens, facing to meet Walker, her shield raised against him. She spares a glance at Sam.
"Are you all right?" she asks.
Sam pushed himself back onto his feet. From the way he's moving--stiff and unsteady--Peter can tell he's on his last legs.
"I'm good," Sam pants. He takes a moment to take in the scene and lets out a slow breath. "Help me talk to him. No one else needs to die today. Okay?"
Wonder Woman nods, turning to face Walker. “Agreed. Put down that shield. You have no business carrying it.”
“You have no business here,” Walker roars at Wonder Woman.
“Walker, this isn’t a fight you’re going to win,” Sam says, holding his hands out. His tone is calm and easy. “Trust me, man.”
A face appears in front of the camera, followed by a metallic hand, blocking the view. Bucky Barnes’s voice cuts in.
“Are you people deaf? Get the hell out of here, go!”
The feed cuts out, the stream ending abruptly. The regular news ticker takes its place: All international and domestic flights cancelled; US Government prepares against retaliation from the Flag Smashers.
Silence fills the room. Peter’s stomach is doing slow rolls. First Wanda, now Cap’s shield is a murder weapon and Sam Wilson is beaten half to death on a livestream. What the hell is happening today?
“All right, people, get to work! And get ready for a late night,” Perry calls out, snapping the room out of their collective daze. “Lois, my office. Clark, see if you can work your story from here. If not, get ready for a road trip. And, uh, new guy---you, Peter.”
Peter blinks, coming out of his daze. “Uh, y-yeah?” He winces internally at how unsure and, well, childlike that sounds. He clears his throat and tries again. “What do you need?”
Perry gives him a sympathetic look. “Take five and get some water, son. Your boss is out of the building at the moment, but I’m sure he’ll find you when he needs you.”
That’s one way of putting it.
“You can help me with a few things in the meantime,” Clark says.
“Like cleaning up that disaster of a desk,” Lois says, walking past him. She reaches down and squeezes Clark’s hand as she moves, squeezing it gently before letting go and shooting him a look. It’s done so quickly and smoothly that Peter almost misses it.
“I know exactly where everything is, Lois,” Clark says, smiling at her brightly. His whole face transforms when he smiles, and Peter pauses for a moment. Clark notices and tilts his head questioningly when he notices Peter’s look. “What’s up?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you kinda look like Superman?” Peter asks.
Clark grins. “You know, I get that all the time. Come on, I could use some help planning a road trip. None of the highways in Metropolis connect to the highways leading to the rest of the country, after all.”
* * *
Peter dives into his work, such as it is. Clark’s desk really is a disaster area, but he’s able to find whatever he needs instantly. It’s uncanny. If he loses track of a pen or a notebook, he’ll pause, squint at the mess, and then pull out the missing item with no problem. It’s eerie. Maybe even enhanced behavior, but it’s subtle enough to be passed off as a quirk rather than a super power.
“How the hell are you able to do that?” Peter asks.
“Photographic memory,” Clark says, smiling.
“Huh. No wonder you don’t clean anything up,” Peter muses.
Clark shrugs, grinning ruefully, but starts to clean his desk a little. “I remember where everything but the maps are. See if you can help me find them?”
“Sure.”
They get to work, and it lasts well into the afternoon, tipping over into early evening. There are three roads that connect Metropolis to the rest of the nation, and all of them are small, out of the way roads not meant to handle the amount of traffic they see on a daily basis. Clark spends most of his time on the phone, arranging stays at a few motels. Lois returns from Perry’s office and starts work on her own story, prodding the Captain America case at her own desk across from Clark’s.
He’s so deep in his task that he doesn’t realize Jameson’s made a surprise return until his spider senses go off. He reaches out a hand and snaps his backpack out of the air before he realizes it’s been thrown at his face. He stares at it for a moment, and then looks up to find Jameson glowering at him.
“New assignment for you, Parker. Get me pictures of Superman,” he says. “Your camera’s in that bag, right?”
That catches Clark and Lois’s attention, both of them glancing up from their tasks. Peter blinks. “Uh, yeah, my camera’s here. You didn’t check?”
“I’m not going to invade the privacy of one of my employees,” Jameson says. “I’ve already gone through that lawsuit! Not eager to do that again!”
Well, that’s a relief. The backpack does have his camera equipment, yes, but it also has his web shooters and suit inside it, too. They’re hidden in a secret compartment he sewed into this backpack himself, but still. That was risky. Maybe he should just wear it under his clothes instead?
“Uh, right. Pictures of Superman,” Peter says, opening his bag and grabbing his camera case. Jameson is already walking away, heading towards the elevators. “Assuming I can find the guy.”
“You find Spider-Man all the time. Figure it out. You screw this up and you’re fired, Parker,” Jameson bellows across the Planet’s bullpen. “Remember that!”
Jameson storms into the elevator and jabs a finger at the buttons. He points that same finger at Peter warningly as the doors slide shut. Peter sighs, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He should never have agreed to be Jameson’s assistant. Sure, visiting Metropolis has been great, but--
“Wow, what a prick,” Lois says. Even Clark, whose expression is almost always caught somewhere between content and friendly smiles, seems annoyed. Lois turns to Peter and jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “Is he always like that, kid?”
“He’s usually worse,” Peter mutters. “Sorry, I’ll try to keep him from yelling like that.”
“How do you plan on doing that?” Clark asks.
“By standing closer so he doesn’t have to yell across the room,” Peter replies dryly.
“Why are you working for him anyway?” Lois asks, crossing her arms and watching him closely.
“My class has some big field trip to Europe planned. I need the cash for that. And to help my aunt with the rent. It’s a little crazy in New York right now,” Peter says. “Guess I’m off to get pictures of Superman.”
“By yourself?” Clark asks. “It’ll turn to night soon. And the streets have been rougher than usual, you don’t want to head out there alone.”
“This isn’t Gotham, Mr. Kent. I’ll be fine. I’m tougher than I look,” Peter says. “I’ve got this.”
He can’t be sure, but he’s pretty sure Clark and Lois share another one of those looks of theirs when he says that. It happens in an instant, and Peter barely catches it.
Okay, so he almost got shot the first night he spent in Metropolis but that was a fluke. And no one here knows about that, so whatever. Details. Plus, he has his web shooters and suit now. If push comes to shove, he’ll avoid the worst parts of Metropolis by swinging back to the hotel and crawling into his room. Easy. Peter grabs his backpack and slings it over one of his shoulders, walking towards the elevators.
“Superman spends most of his time in flight, you know,” Clark calls after him. “You’re not going to just find him walking the street!”
“That’s fine, I’m used to climbing rooftops!” Peter calls back. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Kent! Thanks for lunch!”
The doors shut before Clark can voice another protest, blocking the man’s increasingly concerned expression. Peter feels a little bad about that, but also a little amused.
Time to pay a visit to Superman.
* * *
Peter changes in the lobby bathroom at the Daily Planet, putting his work clothes on over his suit, leaving the boots and mask inside the backpack. He leaves the Daily Planet a few minutes later, and heads straight for the rooftops. Superman can’t be everywhere, so he probably won’t notice leaping across building rooftops. Peter heads away from the Planet and towards one of the tallest skyscrapers in the city: the Luthor building. He climbs it easily, sprinting up the side of the building from within the long shadows cast by the setting sun. No one gives him a second look.
He braces himself against the massive golden spire that tops the building (and seems to serve absolutely no purpose other than to be big and ostentatious), and settles in with his camera. Between his enhanced vision and the camera’s range, he should be able to catch a few decent pictures.
It doesn’t take long. Superman does spend most of his time up in the clouds. Peter catches sight of him easily and snaps a few pictures. The more gets, the less sure he is he’ll ever show them to Jameson, however. It’s one thing to let Jameson print whatever he feels like about Spider-Man. It’s a different ball game with Superman.
A gentle rush of wind is all that heralds Superman’s arrival. Peter looks up to find the man hovering in mid air in front of him, watching him with an expression that’s an equal mix of curiosity and concern.
“Hello again,” he says.
“Hi,” Peter replies. “Good to see you again.”
“Isn’t it a little dangerous up here?” Superman asks, tilting his head and quirking an eyebrow at Peter half hanging off of the spire with his camera.
“You should see the stunts I pull back home to get good shots. This is nothing,” Peter says, scrolling through his pictures. He perks up and holds the camera out to Superman. “Look.”
The picture is of Superman flying above Metropolis as the sun sets behind the skyscrapers of Metropolis’ downtown district. The sky is a gentle mix of pink, blue, and purple. Superman is dwarfed by the city, silhouetted by the clouds. The man looks at the picture and blinks, taking the camera.
“Not bad,” he says, smiling a little at the picture on the screen. He offers the camera back. “You’ve got talent.”
“Hey, thanks,” Peter says, grinning and plopping down on the roof ledge to cycle through a few others before sliding down the spire and dropping onto the roof. Superman twitches, clearly ready to grab and catch him in case he falls, following beside him. “I should be good at this by now. I’ve had practice snapping pictures of Spider-Man back home.”
“Oh?” Superman stands beside him.
“Yeah. It’s how I got a job at the Daily Bugle to begin with,” Peter says. “I knew the Bugle would pay for good shots of him and no one else has managed it.”
“You’re a little young for a full time job,” Superman remarks.
Peter shrugs. “Post-Blip economy. Rents are out of this world these days. I need the money to help with the rent. And I’m actually a freelancer. I take pictures, Mr. Jameson decides if he wants to buy them or not, and despite being a big blowhard, he usually buys one or two. Even if he doesn’t use them.”
“His paper isn’t really a big fan of people like me, I’ve noticed. I’ve read what they publish about Spider-Man. It’s more than negative. It’s mean-spirited,” Superman says. He tilts his head. “Are you going to sell that picture to him?”
“No,” Peter says. “He wants pictures of you, but I’m not going to sell any to him. I’ll just say you were too fast for my camera if he asks.”
“But you’ll sell pictures of Spider-Man to him.”
Peter shrugs again. “I know Spidey. He’s okay with it.”
Superman hums in thought, staring off for a moment, watching the sky above Metropolis. Peter fidgets with his camera and looks up at him.
"Hey, can I ask you a question?" he asks
"Of course. What is it?"
"You and Wonder Woman are friends, right? Have you heard from her today?" Peter asks.
"I have," Superman says.
"Does she know if the Falcon’s all right? The man she helped earlier today," Peter asks. "I haven't heard any updates and, well, we've lost enough Avengers."
Superman’s eyes soften. "I checked in with her earlier. She's with the Falcon and Winter Soldier. They arrested John Walker together." He pauses. "I understand the arrest occurred after he fell unconscious and that he’s currently in the hospital."
Peter can easily read between the lines there. He scoffs. "Good." He stops. "You didn't call John Captain America."
"No, I didn't. I never met your Captain, but I know about him, who he was, and his legacy. I know John Walker isn't worthy of that or the shield,” Superman says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Which is a bit refreshing; Peter’s had mixed feelings on Walker from the moment he hopped up to that podium with the shield.
“You would’ve liked him,” Peter says. “Most people did.”
"I think we would've gotten along," Superman says. "Wonder Woman in particular is a fan of his."
“Really?” Peter can all but see the tabloids now.
“They have a few things in common,” Superman says. “In fact--”
He stops suddenly, his eyes snapping back to the sky above Metropolis. The sky is half twilight and half fiery red now, with the sun lowering into the distant horizon. Peter frowns at him, and freezes. His danger sense--something he only half understands--is screaming at him right, kicking his fight or flight into high gear. Instead of doing either, he freezes.
A portal tears open the sky above Metropolis. A jagged hole rimmed in blood red energy, showing only an abyssal darkness inside. Things fly from it; massive creatures in golden armor with batlike wings, heads shaped like wolves, and clawed hands that grip sleek spears. They scream as they enter the sky above the city, diving towards the city below. There are dozens of them.
Peter starts to say something. He freezes again when strong hands grip him. One moment, he’s on top of the Luthor building, the next he’s being gently lowered to the ground.
“Get to safety,” Superman says. He launches himself into the air and towards the monsters.
Like hell, Peter thinks. He sprints for an alley instead, pulling open his button down shirt to reveal the suit beneath. It doesn’t take him any time at all to change. He stuffs his work clothes into the backpack and webs it to the far side of the building. The whole process takes him two minutes. By the third minute, he's swinging through Metropolis, flying past confused pedestrians and honking cars. By the fourth, he’s close to the Daily Planet, where most of the aliens are flying around.
Which is when the screaming starts.
* * *
He can do this. Yes, everything suddenly feels like it did when that weird donut ship hovered over New York. Yes, he’s going off to face what may be the start of an invasion essentially on his own, in his old suit, with no back up. Yes, he’s doing it when he still has nightmares about that ship, and Titan, and the final battle. Maybe his hands are shaking a little. It’s fine.
He can do this, because most of the people on the streets can’t.
One of the aliens drops from the sky above, swooping down with its spear aimed at a woman sprinting for the double doors of the Daily Planet. She won’t make it in time, he can see that clearly. He won’t either. He’s too far away.
But his webs will. He raises his left wrist mid swing and launches a glob of web fluid. It splats across the face of the alien and tangles up its wings, sending it veering off of its attack course. It lands in a furious heap on the sidewalk outside the building, writhing like a snake to bring its claws to bear on the webbing trapping it. Peter drops down on the ground beside the woman.
“Are you all right?” he asks, reaching out to steady her with a gentle hand when she whirls to face him. “It’s okay. It’s trapped.”
He recognizes her. Lois Lane stares at him, momentarily confused, before her eyes snap back to the alien.
“It’s getting loose!” she says, pointing.
Another surge of anxiety hits Peter, freezing him for a moment before he ducks a wild swing from the alien. This thing is almost as big as the Hulk and clearly has the strength to match. The panic surges, and he retaliates with a punch straight into the alien’s chest, and thickest part of its armor. The armor crumples like paper, something beneath the armor cracks (bones, Peter realizes, he knows that sound), and the alien is sent flying back across the Daily Planet’s parking lot. It lands on top of black car, crushing it beneath its weight and lies still. Peter webs it to the car and asphalt of the parking lot. It isn’t until he finishes that he recognizes the car.
It’s Jameson’s car. The rental.
Of all the cars to hit with a giant alien, he crushed Jameson’s. In a city Spider-Man shouldn’t even be in.
Goddammit, he’s going to hear about this for months.
“I didn’t know you were that strong,” Lois says softly behind him, half in wonder and half curious. “You’re almost as strong as Superman.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Peter says. He turns to her, and relaxes when he sees she isn’t hurt.
“Did he call for the Avengers?” Lois asks, catching her breath. She doesn’t sound hurt, just mildly panicked.
Peter shakes his head. “No, he didn’t. He’s busy fighting the rest of those things up. I figured he wouldn’t mind having a little help. Call it professional courtesy.”
Lois stares at him, hard. His accent came out a little heavier than usual when he spoke. “Yeah. I guess he could.” She gives him a calculating look. “Be safe, Queens.”
“Between me and Superman, this’ll be over by dinnertime,” Peter says, shooting out a web to launch himself back into the air. “Get to safety, we’ve got this.”
“I hope so,” Lois says quietly behind him.
Peter leaves the Daily Planet behind. He finds three other aliens on his way towards Superman. He ambushes one and traps it with a light pole, using momentum and his enhanced strength to bend the metal and wrap it around the alien. And then he webs it to the ground for good measure. The other two fall victim to that same trap before he reaches Superman.
Superman is literally covered in aliens. Six of them tearing, attacking, even biting him. They don’t seem to be doing much damage, but they are bogging down his movements, keeping him from protecting the city. Every time he punches one aside or kicks one off, another takes its place.
Well, Peter can help with that.
Peter fires both of his web shooters, throwing out thick lines of webbing between two skyscrapers. He swings back against both, stretching them to their utmost before slingshotting himself up into the sky towards the tangle of aliens attacking Superman. He drives a fist into the side of the head of one, grabs another, and kicks a third off of Superman on his way by, scattering all three.
“Tag, you’re it!” Peter calls out to the aliens, already shooting out a web to swing away from them.
They shriek in fury, turning from Superman in their rage and diving after Peter. Another wave of panic hits Peter, and he almost misfires his web, catching himself at the last second. All three of the aliens are right behind him, and he swings fast, drawing them away from the heart of the city. He sees people below look up and point or aim their phones at him as he swings past and wonders exactly what kind of fallout will come out of this; an Avenger showing up uninvited to a Justice League member’s home city and making a mess of it.
That moment of distraction costs him. One of the aliens swoops down on him from above and tackles him to the street below, landing on top of him with all the weight and speed of a train going full tilt. He crashes into the cement sidewalk near a busy street, cracking it from the force of the fall, and lands oddly on his hand. He feels something pop and a burning pain shoots up his arm.
“This isn’t really how you play tag,” Peter says to the snarling alien pinning him. He draws his legs back and drives his heels into its stomach, kicking it off of him.
The force of the kick sends it into the air.
And right into Superman’s fist. The alien crumples like a puppet with its strings cut, collapsing onto the cracked pavement beside Peter. Peter kicks it for good measure. And to be a little bit petty.
An odd silence follows the fight. The street is full of cars, and people are slowly starting to open their doors to look at heroes and the aliens. The crowd murmurs to themselves, and several already have their phones out to stream or take pictures of the scene. Jameson’s going to have his pick of images to use for his headlines for the next week.
“There were two more,” Peter says, looking up at Superman.
“I took care of them,” Superman says, walking over to Peter.
Superman squints at Peter for a moment, studying his mask carefully. Whatever he sees there startles him at first, but that quickly disappears, replaced by a warm, friendly smile and an offered hand, as if he’s greeting an old friend.
"Hi. I’m Superman,” he says.
"Spider-Man. Good to meet you,” Peter says, taking his hand and letting the man haul him up to his feet. His other hand is cradled close to his chest.
The alien nearest to them twitches, trying to push itself back up. Superman punches it. It falls still.
Peter stares at the--thing. The monster. It’s almost like an Outrider, but not. “What the hell is that thing?”
“Your world isn’t the only one to have its run-ins with alien invasions,” Superman says with a sigh. “This is a parademon. Are you hurt?”
Peter shakes his head, roughly shaking out his injured hand. The bones snap back into place, healing together. The sound of it is odd, and Superman’s frown grows deeper and a touch disturbed when he sees Peter’s hand heal back into its proper shape.
“Nothing that won’t heal," Peter says, massaging his newly healed hand. "Are we about to be invaded?”
“No,” Superman says firmly. “We aren’t. This is a scouting unit that got lost in space. A few more might be lingering around. You should warn the Avengers.”
“I’m kind of the low guy on the totem pole,” Peter says. “But I’ll send out a memo.”
“Good idea,” Superman says. He looks at Peter. “General Ross is probably on his way. If you’d like to stay, you’re welcome to, but...”
“Yeah, absolutely not,” Peter says. “You have fun with that. I webbed up a few more of these guys in the city. It should last for a couple of hours.”
“I’ll take care of it. Thank you, Spider-Man,” Superman says.
Peter, unsure of how to end the conversation, finger guns at Superman before launching himself back into the air with a web.
Not his smoothest exit, really.
* * *
The bank he webbed his clothes to is half collapsed. A car hit it during the battle, and the back wall is nothing more than a pile of bricks, shattered wood, and crumbling plaster. Peter digs through the mess, finds his backpack, and checks it over. His camera is safe (thank god), and his clothes are intact. He changes back into them, shoving the mask inside his backpack, zipping it closed, and shrugging it on.
A sudden gust of wind hits him, and he has the sense of something big passing by him. As if he’s just been passed by a truck. He looks around the alley and over the broken building, confused, but sees no one.
He stands there, confused, until the rubble near the edge of the alley shifts and he hears a muffled curse. Peter realizes someone is trapped there and sprints for it.
“Hang on! Don’t move! I’m right here,” he calls out. A hand is sticking out from beneath a loose pile of rocks and wood. Peter grips it lightly, more to reassure whoever’s trapped that help is here than anything else, and starts to dig at debris.
None of it is heavy, fortunately. He’s able to push it away with help from whoever’s trapped beneath it. He stops when he sees who exactly is trapped beneath the rubble.
“Mr. Kent?” Peter asks. “Are you hurt?”
“Just my pride. And my head, but that’s hard enough to take a few bricks,” Clark replies wryly. He lets Peter pull him up to his feet and sighs. His brown suit is a mess of dust, torn and ragged from where it was caught on the debris, and dirt is smeared across his cheeks, but he looks healthy enough. “Thanks, Peter. What happened?”
“Aliens,” Peter says. “Superman handled it. Come on, the Daily Planet is a couple of blocks away. Can you walk?”
“I can,” Clark says. “Lead the way.”
The city is buzzing with activity as they walk down the sidewalk towards the Daily Planet together. People calling friends or family, others talking about Superman and Spider-Man working together, still others griping about traffic. When they get close to the Daily Planet, they find half the building in the parking lot, taking pictures of the alien webbed to the car or talking to one another.
Lois and Jameson are standing away from the others, and Jameson’s voice can be heard from half a block away.
“What do you mean the kid left? Dammit, he wasn’t supposed to--”
"I'm right here, Mr. Jameson!" Peter calls out, holding his camera up and jogging towards the man. Mostly in an effort to save him from catching a fist from a very unamused looking Lois Lane. "You wouldn't believe the shots I got--"
"f*ck the shots!" Jameson explodes, turning to face him. "Are you hurt? Did you actually go out into that mess to get pictures?"
"Uh," Peter says, idly wondering if this is a trick question. "Yeah?"
"Goddammit, Parker, you’re a New Yorker! You should know what to do when aliens show up!" Jameson says. His tone is a bit shaky, and Peter realizes the man is coming down from a panic attack. "You should've been the first person sprinting for safety, not sticking back to get pictures and help some third page journalist! Do that again and I'll fire your ass so fast you won't know what hit you!"
"Whoa, Mr. Jameson, I'm okay! Honest!" Peter says, taken aback by Jameson’s concern. And very confused by it.
“He was helping me,” Clark says, cutting in before Jameson can explode again. “I took a pretty nasty hit on the head and got stuck under some debris. He dug me out.”
Well, that’s half true. Peter spent most of the fight helping Superman, actually, but Clark took a few bricks to the head. He wouldn’t know how long Peter spent digging him out of the rubble of the pizza shop, though.
Lois narrows her eyes at Clark for a moment, and something like realization flashes across her face. She looks at Peter, her expression turning from thoughtful to open and friendly. “You do know how to get into trouble, Smallville. Peter, thanks for helping my husband.”
“Sure,” Peter says, rubbing the back of his neck. “You always help during an alien invasion. It’s, like, a rule. You know?”
“A good rule to have,” Lois says, fighting back a smile.
Jameson grumbles. “Parker, we’re leaving for the hotel. Come on, I’ve got a cab coming for us. No more heroics, understand?”
“Yessir,” Peter says.
* * *
The drive back to the hotel is tense. Peter, hit with a post battle adrenaline crash, can only manage the barest interest in Jameson’s muttered grumbling about the alien getting webbed to his rental car. Night has fallen over the city, but you wouldn’t know it from the people outside; if anything, Metropolis is alive with light and sound as people celebrate surviving an alien attack.
“And just who do you think they’ll stick the bill to, Parker? That’s right! Me!” he seethes. “Bad enough he’s a menace in New York City. Now he’s spreading it to other cities!”
“Wouldn’t insurance cover it?” Peter asks.
Jameson scoffs, grumbling. “It’s the principle of the matter, dammit.”
“Right, of course,” Peter says.
Jameson rolls his eyes, but doesn’t press the point any further, mercifully dropping the topic. “I’m sending you home as soon as the flight restrictions lift. That’s supposed to happen sometime tomorrow afternoon. I’ll drive you to the airport after we finish with the Daily Planet.”
Peter looks at him. “What? Why?”
“It isn’t safe here, and you didn’t sign up to work in a goddamn warzone, that’s why,” Jameson retorts. “You’ll still get paid. I’m a man of my word.”
“Right,” Peter says.
The rest of the ride goes by in almost blissful silence. Peter hops out of the cab as soon as it stops, grabbing his backpack and heading inside. The hotel is just as loud as outside; the bar is full of people, and the lobby is busy. Peter winds around everyone, ducks into an elevator, and closes it before anyone else can step inside it.
By the time he reaches his room, he’s well and truly exhausted. He opens the door, closes it behind himself, and tosses his backpack onto the bed. He stops when he sees his phone resting on the nightstand and picks it up.
The battery is dead. He plugs it into its charger and turns it on, kicking off his shoes with a weary sigh.
His phone starts buzzing with messages and doesn't stop. He picks it up and watches as a series of text messages scroll down the screen.
From: Sam Wilson
You good? We saw the fight. Check in with the rest of us when you can.
From: May
You were gone for two whole days before slap fighting an alien on national TV. This might be a new record for you. Call me.
From: Ned
researching superman and found some theories. confirm or deny: is superman really steve rogers with dyed hair and a jetpack?
From: Rhodey
Way to upstage Sam’s time in the limelight, kid. Are you all right?
Peter considers answering them and ultimately decides against it. He shuffles off for the shower instead. He showers, changes into his pajamas, grabs his phone and taps out a quick ‘safe, love u’ to May before falling asleep.
* * *
Peter manages to wake up to his alarm the next day. It’s early enough that he has enough time to pack, dress for work, and demolish the breakfast buffet in the hotel before Jameson finds him. He and Jameson end up taking another cab to the Daily Planet. The ride there is less tense than the night before, but not by much. Jameson is positively lit up with fury over Spider-Man’s involvement with the alien attack yesterday. Fortunately that means his attention is, ironically enough, not focused on Peter.
When they reach the Daily Planet, Jameson hands him a plane ticket. “Don’t lose this. Spend the day helping Clark. He seems like he’s got worse luck than you. He could use an assistant.”
“You got it, Mr. Jameson,” Peter says, pocketing the plane ticket. That works for him just fine. He likes Clark.
“Good. I’m going to go call Robbie. If I need you, I’ll find you,” Jameson says, stalking off.
Peter hauls his bags into the Daily Planet and up to the top floor. The entire floor is busy; asking about Spider-Man, Superman, the Hex, Captain America, and everything in between. Peter walks over to Clark and Lois, setting his bags down. They both look up at him when he gets close.
“Hey, guys,” he says, with a little wave. “Jameson’s sending me home soon, but I’m here until this afternoon if you could use some help.”
“I could,” Clark says cheerfully. “Pull up a chair.”
Peter grins, and gets to work. The day flies by; he’s busy, but energized by the work rather than dragged down by it. It’s almost as if getting screamed at by some ancient businessman is detrimental to his productivity or something. Weird.
“Parker!” Jameson calls out later that afternoon, smothering other conversations in the room. “The cab’s here! Your flight leaves in an hour! Get to it!”
Peter sighs, standing up. “That’s my cue. Later, guys. It was nice meeting you.”
“Have fun on your trip, Peter,” Clark says, shaking his hand. “Do you know where in Europe you’ll be staying?”
“No, I don’t,” Peter admits. “Mr. Harrington hasn’t exactly told us yet.”
“If you happen to end up in London, you should look up a friend of mine while you’re there: Diana Prince,” Clark says, scribbling out a phone number and handing it to Peter. “She’d love to meet you. Tell her I said hi.”
Peter tilts his head, amused. “Sure thing, Mr. Kent.”
“Stay safe, Queens,” Lois calls out to him from her desk.
“I will,” he calls back.
It doesn't occur to him until he's on the plane that he likely revealed his identity during that simple exchange. He waits for the Daily Planet to blow his cover.
It never does. The next three stories from Lois Lane, all front page specials, focus on John Walker’s trial, then the Hex, and then other things. The only mention Spider-Man gets in the Daily Planet is an article on page three, by Clark Kent: Metropolis Welcomes New Hero: Avenger Swings In To Save The Day.
Peter pins that one to his wall.
* * *
A few weeks later, days before he leaves for Europe, Peter’s cell phone rings. It's late in the morning, just before noon on a Saturday.
"Hello?" Peter says, voice half muffled by his pillow. It comes out more like a very polite “Hmphrrr?”
"Good morning, is this Peter Parker?"
There’s an odd formality to the voice. Peter hasn’t gotten a formal phone call from anyone in years. Usually Ned starts talking the moment he hears the line click open and MJ starts most of her phone calls with variations on the word ‘yeah?’. Who the hell is calling--
sh*t. The college applications Aunt May had him fill out when he got back from Metropolis.
Peter sits up, and clears his throat, doing his best to dampen both his accent and the sleepiness from his voice. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, this is--um, what can I do for you?"
"I was going through some old accounts attached to Stark Industries and noticed your name connected to a few rather large projects. As the sole person in charge, in fact," the man says. "I had a few questions about that if you’re available to talk."
"Oh, uh. Yeah. I was a part of the internship program. Mr. Stark had me help him with a few of his projects.” Kinda. Sorta. They did figure out a few things for SI’s clean energy and medical technology departments, but it was mostly hero related things. Peter hasn’t thought about those days since-- Well, since he died and came back, actually.
“It shows your last paycheck was never deposited,” the man notes. “And another account. A trust, I think?”
“There was supposed to be a tuition assistance thing," Peter says, still half lost in his memories from before the Blip. "I know that's not a thing anymore and the research is probably gone. If you need me to sign an NDA or whatever, I can do that--"
"Let’s not get ahead of ourselves," the man says, gently cutting him off. "In fact, let's start over. My name is Bruce Wayne. I own what's left of Stark Industries. Would you be interested in meeting with me to discuss continuing your internship?"
Peter stares at his phone for a long moment. "Uh, sure. Yeah. I'm going on a school trip next week but--"
"Just give me a call when you get back," Bruce Wayne says. "Anytime."
"Uh, sure. As soon as I get back," Peter says. Who the hell is Bruce Wayne? He's heard him mentioned on the news, but only in passing.
"Excellent. I look forward to meeting you, Peter," Bruce says. "We'll talk soon."
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