Chapter Text
“There is a lengthy legal precedent, your Honor, going back to 1789 whereby a defendant can claim self-defence against an agent of the government if that act is deemed a defence against tyranny, a defence of liberty.”
Peter isn’t too concerned about his current situation. He’s done this song and dance a thousand times before; a few fancy words and phrases and he’s usually good to go. Most of these guys have no idea what they’re doing. Yeah, sure, they may act all tough with their suits and binders and money but in reality, they know shit all. He’ll be out of here scot-free. Easy win. He continues.
“Your Honour, Henry Ward Beecher, in his Proverbs From Plymouth Pulpit back in 1887 said, and I quote, ‘Every American citizen-”
“1887?” The prosecutor crudely intersects. Peter turns to him.
"Excuse me." He starts, defending himself as the man's still ranting.
“This is the 20th Century, your Honour! What’s 1887 got to do with-”
“Excuse me!”
“He’s trying to make a mockery of this courtroom!”
Peter bristles.
“I am afforded the right to speak in my own defence, sir. By the constitution of the United States, this is the same document that guarantees-”
“Don’t tell me about the constitution of the United States-”
“Now, ‘Liberty,’ in case you've forgotten, is ‘the soul's right to breathe, and when it cannot take a long breath, laws are girded too tight! Without liberty, man is a syncope."
“Man is a what? ”
This fucking guy. Peter turns back to the Honour, ignoring the loud-mouth dumb mother-
“Ibid, your Honour.” He settles on.
The judge takes a long sigh. He takes off his glasses and rubs his forehead, then puts them back on.
“Son, my turn.”
He looks down at Peter.
“I’ve been sitting here for 10 minutes now listening to your barely coherent ramblings. It’s clear to all of us that you’ve read a few books on human rights. But frankly, I don’t see how any of that holds any realm in the matter of your charges.”
He makes a gesture and then turns to the prosecutor.
“Mr. Simmons,” He addresses, “Officer McNeely, who issued the complaint, isn't in my courtroom. Why is that?”
Peter closes his eyes. Fuck.
The prosecutor sits up straighter, triumphant, like he has a stick up his ass.
“He's in the hospital with a broken knee, your Honor.” Peter tries to hide his flinch.
“But I have plenty of depositions from the other officers. They can all make in-person statements too, if needed.”
The Judge nods, and Peter feels a surge of anger. He pushes down the crushing guilt.
“And I’m looking over this rapt sheet of yours, boy, and I simply can’t believe it. June, '16, assault , Sept. '16, assault... Grand theft auto, February '17. Where, apparently, you defended yourself and had the case thrown out by citing "free property rights of horse and carriage" from 1798.”
Okay, to be fair that last one was strictly because of Spider-man duties and was one of the best arguments he’s ever made, so can it really count? Besides, he only borrowed the car. Crashing it is just semantics.
“March ‘17, drug possession. May ‘17, impersonating a police officer. Maiming, theft, resisting. All over-turned.”
Peter’s starting to get a real bad feeling in his gut. But, surely, he can still spin this. Like the judge said, they were all overturned. All he has to do is-
The judge closes his case folder and pulls out a different, much older one. One Peter is intimately familiar with. One he knows is about to turn this fight into a terrifyingly easy losing battle and makes him want to cuss out everyone here. It’s his CPS folder.
The judge adjusts his glasses.
“You’ve been kicked out of 3 Foster homes in the past year for various reasons including ‘sneaking out, running away, poor behaviour’ and 1 for assault against a highly-regarded guardian. Your file is littered with reports of your tendency to leave unannounced and come home sporting bruises, cuts, burns.”
He coughs from the back of his throat.
“On top of that, your school attendance is abysmal. You don’t hand in assessments, you barely show up for tests. You’re passing, yes, but only just. ”
The Judge finally takes his eyes away from that god-forbidden file and stares down at him over his glasses. Directly into his eyes.
“You're in my courtroom now and I am aware of your priors.” He pauses.
“I'm also aware that you became an orphan at a very young age. Your Uncle died rather recently, and your Aunt even more so. You've been through several foster homes. The state removed you from three because of serious physical abuse. That’s an awful lot of trauma.”
Peter looks down, wills himself away.
“Another Judge might care. But you hit a cop, you’re going in.” He closes the file. “Motion to dismiss denied. $50,000 bail.” He slams the gavel.
“Thank you.” Peter says because he is anything if not polite. (If not spiteful.)
The few people in the courtroom get up and filter out. Peter is dragged up by his parole officer. No one bats an eye at the rough handling.
“Word of advice, kid. At your next trial, speak English.”
Yep, losing battle. Story of his life.
—
Peter feels the metal cuffs dig uncomfortably into his skin. He tries to rattle them around to gain a better position but to no avail. It’s tempting to just break them and deal with the consequences, but he knows that would jeopardize his secret identity. Better to not have officers questioning why a teenager is stronger than pure metal.
He thinks fondly of the cigarettes in his pocket and preemptively mourns their loss. They’ll be taken in the strip search before he even enters Juvie. A shame, really. Maybe if he dislocates his thumb he could sneak a quick smoke in before-
His thoughts are interrupted by the door swinging open. The person who enters is not, in fact, who Peter was expecting because instead of his parole officer, or maybe even Sherman, it’s on Thor’s name Tony fucking Stark. Peter has to take a moment to blink and make sure he’s not hallucinating or tweaking right now because standing in front of him is the one, the only, Tony Stark. He almost wants to laugh.
Of course. He thinks. Of course now, when he’s literally been sentenced to jail, Tony decides to show up. Of course fucking now.
He is maybe about to laugh or cry when Tony crosses his arms and stares at him behind pitch-black sunglasses as the door slams shut, leaving them completely alone. He’s probably waiting for an excuse, or an apology, even, but Peter isn’t going to give one to him. No, Peter’s not going to say shit all.
“So what, I left you alone for like, 3 seconds, and you go and become like a full-on teenage delinquent?”
Oh, he can go suck a dick. Peter just leans back in his seat, honestly still astonished this is happening. First he gets sentenced to Juvie, and now this? Parker luck, man. Parker luck.
Tony raises an eyebrow.
“Well? I’m waiting, kid.”
Peter doesn’t answer. He barely even looks at him. He’s almost screaming at him to leave. Tony twitches.
“Fine, if that’s how we’re going to do it.”
He pulls out the chair across from Peter and sits down, leaning against the table.
“Assault. Against a police officer, Peter. That’s no easy fine.”
Peter tugs at his restraints.
“You really did a number on him, too. And that list of yours?” Tony shakes his head. “You are so lucky, kid, that you have friends in high places.”
Peter almost raises his eyebrow. What does that mean? Tony stares at him through those arrogant black sunglasses and Peter resists the urge to squirm under his vision. He taps the table.
“I paid off your bail. The judge has agreed to release you.”
Peter perks up. Wait, really?
Tony leans forward onto the table again.
“But it comes with conditions.”
Peter feels like he shot himself in the foot.
“One,” Tony holds up a finger. “You’re being released under my supervision. You’re required to meet with me no less than three times a week. The judge only said two, but I figured three was necessary.”
Peter grits his teeth.
“We can do it at my lab. You’ll run coffee, or water, or something. I’ll be making reports on your progress.”
He holds up another finger.
“And two, no more skipping school. Or getting into fights, for that matter. Or doing drugs. You’re going straight clean. No funny business. But I feel like that’s all relatively obvious.”
Peter literally rolls his eyes. Yeah, no shit. That’s what they say every time. “Do more school work”, “Don’t do drugs”, it’s been on repeat for years. He’s not going to start listening now.
“Oh, and one more thing. This one’s my personal addition.” Tony tilts his head down so Peter can finally see his eyes. It makes him angrier, somehow. Staring into those eyes he looked to only about a year earlier. When everything was different. When Peter was different. That Peter’s dead.
His next words are enunciated so clear that even without Peter’s enhanced hearing abilities, he’d never be able to mistake them. It’s said with such conviction, such declaration.
“No more Spider-man.”
—
Tony must have absolutely lost his marbles. Lost his mind. He’s clinically insane. Because there’s no way in hell, Peter is giving up Spider-man. There’s just no way. He’d rather eat his own hair. He’d rather die.
“That’s really funny, Tony.” Nobody’s laughing. “No, I’m good.” He shakes his head.
“That’s not happening.”
“Yeah, kid. It is.”
Peter looks at Tony deliriously. Tony just matches him head on.
“No.” He reiterates. “ Get lost.”
Finally, Tony responds to his indignation and leans back, looking at Peter incredulously.
“Are you serious, kid? Because from where I’m sitting, this is your only option.” He gestures.
“It’s either this or jail . And I’m not sure what detention centers you’re familiar with, but most of them don’t let prisoners out for ‘ crime-fighting extracurriculars’, anyway. You’re not being Spider-man either way.”
Peter would still prefer jail. He stares at Tony, unrelenting.
“Fuck. Off.”
Tony is actually taken-aback. He looks shocked at the turn of events, but quickly snaps his jaw shut. He stares Peter down. After a moment of silence, he speaks up again.
“Sorry. I made this sound like a choice.” He tugs at his suit and readjusts his sunglasses. He goes to get up from the table.
“You're being released under my supervision. Happy will come pick you up from school on Monday, and we’ll meet three times a week. You’ll be there.”
He gets up, then without so much as glancing at Peter, strides over to the door and opens it, leaving. Peter sits alone with his hands cuffed staring after him, mouth half open.
What the fuck just happened?
—
Peter leaves the precinct with only the clothes on his back. He hid his phone before in preparation, and they managed to snag the cigs off of him on his way out. Not like they cause any harm to him, considering his enhancements would heal his lungs before any permanent damage was done, but obviously the officers don’t know that. It’s annoying nonetheless. They were hesitant to let him leave without a guardian showing up, but after 7 missed calls and Peter hounding them, they relented. Could have something to do with the possibility of ‘Tony Stark’s wrath, but whatever. What works, works. Either way he’s glad to be out.
Only problem is it’s nearing 11pm, and Peter is on the complete opposite side of town. He knows a few alleys around here that he could sleep in, but he’s so not up for a night on the streets. But that means a 2-hour walk and a 40-minute subway ride. He closes his eyes, breathes out a sigh, and resigns himself to his fate. To Sherman’s house it is.
—
Entering through the side window that’s only patched up by a few pieces of timber, Peter gracefully stumbles into the house. It’s now 2:30am and Peter pauses, straining his ears to listen for Sherman. Sure enough, his obnoxious snores fill the silence, with the TV playing idly in the background. Peter lets out a sigh of relief. Less hesitant, he stalks through the house and past the lounge room. His nose wrinkles at the stench that wafts over the room, and he notices all the empty beer cans and plates of left-over food littered around. This man might be nearing ancient, but he still knows how to have a good time. Speaking of which, Peter’s eyes trail over to the needle lying idly on the coffee bench. He stares at it.
Heroin. Sherman’s favourite vice. Peter had tried it, once, when he first moved into this house.
When he thought Sherman was just as bad as the others. He wishes he could say the release was worth it. That the high made him want to stay up and never come down. That it was enough to drown out all his thoughts and then some. But he can’t. Because despite the full dosage, his first time trying, it barely affected him. Ever since the bite, drugs go through him like candy. It doesn’t matter how much he takes, what it is. It doesn’t work. He probably can’t overdose if he tried. (He ignores the part of him that reminds him he already has.)
He wonders, not for the first time, if maybe none of this would be that awful if he was normal. If he could get a little high and forget. Or if he could just make it through the day, without something going wrong. But then he remembers that Spider-man is needed, and Spider-man saves lives. Guilt gnaws at his gut for even thinking of such thought processes. Obviously, Spider-Man is worth it. He’ll always be worth it.
‘With great power comes great responsibility, Peter’
Peter turns away from the needle. Tunes out Sherman’s snores. He’s going to try to get some rest, but knows he’ll just inevitably end up staring at the ceiling. His gut twists at the reminder he can’t go out on patrol to distract himself. Tony’s conditions…he’ll have to deal with those later. Much later. He doesn’t know what he’ll do, but that’s future Peter’s issue. Right now, he just wants to try to forget.
Key word; try.
—
Come Monday afternoon, sure enough, a fancy-ass car is parked out front of Peter’s crusty public school. If Peter wasn’t a target before, he sure as hell was now.
Rather than acknowledging said car, Peter willfully walks straight past it. The anger that’s been building over the weekend comes to the surface and he can’t even bring himself to consider going in the car. He’ll just go to jail. Fuck Tony Stark’s conditions.
Unfortunately for him, Happy spots him instantly and honks the horn, waving out the window. Peter ignores him. He hears the engine start-up, and the car starts following close behind him. Peter starts walking faster.
Almost beginning to jog, the car rolls up next to him and Happy shouts at him from the inside.
“Peter! Oi, Peter!”
Peter does start running. But Happy slams the brakes, and honks the horn so loud everyone in a 2-meter diameter stops and turns to look at them. Peter stops and throws his head back, groaning. This cannot be happening.
“Peter, get in this car right now.”
Counting to 5 then breathing out, Peter turns around and stomps over to the car, aggressively pulling the door open and slumping into the seat. Happy looks over his shoulder at him.
“Geez, kid. So much for the friendly hello.”
Peter just glares at him. Happy makes a disgruntled sound then shakes his head, turning back to the front. After it’s made clear Peter’s not going to be talking, he puts up the divider. Peter wonders why it was even down in the first place.
---
When he enters the lobby of ‘Stark Towers ’ he feels overwhelming dread, but it’s mixed with the left-behind astonishment from when he was younger. He almost gapes at the sheer size, the structure, the heroes it’s held. The science it’s procured. It feels inspiring, almost fills him with a sense of wonderment and hope. But then he remembers why he’s here. And suddenly it feels less amazing and more like a prison. He lets that hope drizzle out of him.
The elevator chimes and opens to reveal Tony Stark in a sweaty, oil-ridden outfit. It’s a far cry from the expensive suit he was wearing the last time they talked. He beckons Peter over and Peter, unwittingly, obliges.
He opts to stand as far away from Tony as possible. Tony doesn’t mention it.
“So this is how things are going to go, kid. Happy’s going to pick you up every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. If those days don’t work for you, we can figure something else out. I’ll be down here at 4 o’clock sharp to take you up the elevator. Only people with express permission can access the elevators, so you’ll need an escort every time. I’m not quite up to giving you your own permission yet.”
Peter scoffs.
“It’ll most likely always be me picking you up. You’ll stay until 6pm, when Happy will drive you home.”
Peter guesses he’s expected to respond, but he’s too busy staring a hole into the elevator walls. Tony continues.
“Now, rules for my lab. Don’t touch anything important. Don’t mess anything up. Don't do anything I would do, and definitely don’t do anything I wouldn’t. There’s a little grey area in there, and that’s where you operate.”
He rolls his eyes.
“And uh…practice safety and whatnot. Listen to instructions. Yeah. That should be everything.”
Just as he finishes up, the elevator dings open, showcasing Tony Stark's lab. Peter’s not excited to see it. Not even a little.
Tony strides in. He gestures out with his hands then stops in the middle of the room.
“Welcome to my humble abode.” He puts his hands behind his back and looks at Peter expectantly.
Peter stalls in the elevator. He doesn’t know why, but it suddenly feels hard to leave. He’s considering just standing there and never going out, but the pause is starting to linger and become awkward so he grits his teeth and walks out.
It’s just Tony’s lab. It’s nothing. You’ve faced villains, Peter. This is literally nothing.
He enters the lab and scans the surroundings. One entire wall is windows, spanning out towards the horizon. There are tables littered with gadgets and gizmos and tools, half-finished projects and oil spills and machinery. He stares at it all. It’s amazing.
Casually chucking his backpack onto the floor, he walks over with newfound confidence and starts picking up random pieces of equipment. Tony watches him the whole time.
He picks up things, twirls them around then puts them back down until he comes across a weird clunk of metal. He brings it closer and scrutinizes it. He immediately recognises it.
“You made this?”
He questions, not looking away from the object.
“Yeah.” Tony huffs. “It’s a plasma filter. I haven’t finished it yet.”
Peter raises an eyebrow, looking at it one more time before carelessly throwing it back onto the bench.
“It’s shit.”
He walks away.
“Titanium will never work for that.”
Tony scoffs and rolls his eyes.
“Oh, sure.”
Peter keeps walking until he eventually stops at the Iron Man suit collection. He stares up at the giant case. It’s still as awe-inspiring here as it was the first time he saw one in person. You can tell the piece of machinery is powerful just by looking at it. Tony walks up behind him. The inspiration is gone.
Peter scoffs.
“These colours are atrocious. Really, what were you thinking? Did you try to rip off a Hot-Rod car?”
Tony huffs in a way that shows he’s clearly a little more pissed off by that comment than he’d like to be.
“Yeah, yeah, alright. Enough with the scrutinizing. Get over here. You’re sorting nuts and bolts today.”
“Oh, goody.”
—
The rest of the session goes rather unremarkably. Peter sits at his station and places different types of nuts and bolts in their own containers (Although, sometimes he does nothing and just stares at the wall). He’s starting to get migraines from the music Tony is playing at a considerably loud volume, even without his enhancements, and the bright artificial light of the Lab isn’t helping either. Everything’s dialed up to 11 and he feels vaguely on the verge of throwing up. He keeps looking at the time, counting the seconds down until 6 o’clock.
After what feels like a century, the time is finally up. Relief fills Peter as he stops pretending to sort and gets up, grabbing his backpack. He looks over to Tony expectantly. However, he’s still entirely enthralled by whatever he’s been doing on his computer this whole time. After a few more moments, Peter realizes he might have to dig up some courage and interrupt him.
Fucking fantastic.
Before Peter can decide if he’ll actually speak up, the music abruptly stops and a…voice speaks from the ceiling.
“Sir, it’s time for Peter Parker’s departure. His mandatory time for today is up.”
Stark startles and whips around to Peter, like he’s completely forgotten he was there. Peter grips at his bag strap.
“Ah! Right- right. Peter.” He goes back to his computer. “You can head down now. Good work today. Happy will be there waiting.” He dismisses Peter without even looking.
Peter pretends he doesn’t feel the sting.
Different day, different month, same shit.
—
Happy refuses to drop him off a street away from Sherman’s house, despite Peter’s pleas. He says “Tony told me to follow his direct orders, that’s what I’m going to do.” Peter calls him a narc.
Hopping out of the car as quickly as possible, Peter goes to the door and after enough force, budges the rickety thing open, closing it behind him without looking back to see if Happy was still watching him or not. He pauses once he’s entered, listening for any signs of life. After a moment of quiet, he hears slight breathing of one old man and the TV playing. He exhales.
Peter tries to sneak past Sherman seated on the couch as best he can, but doesn’t succeed. Sherman’s eyes lock on him in a moment's notice.
“Boy.”
He drawls, unceremoniously. Peter stops and looks over at him.
“...Yes, sir?”
Sherman takes a long, withering breath in. Peter is surprised he can still even breathe at this age. He chokes on the air and coughs and splutters. Ok, maybe ‘breathe’ was an overstatement.
“Pass me that beer, will you?”
Peter takes a glance at the half-full beer cans littering the space and takes a guess, grabbing the one he thinks Sherman wants. He guesses correctly and Sherman takes an appreciative sip. After he’s done, he turns back to the TV but hasn’t disregarded Peter yet.
“Tomorrow, make yourself scarce.”
Peter doesn’t react, knowing the undertone statement being said. ‘Don’t come home at all.’ “Yes, sir.”
Sherman waves him off, and with the permission, Peter heads straight for his room. He grabs a few muesli bars on his way, knowing he won’t want to come back out to fix himself dinner later. He should probably eat more, but this will suffice.
Despite its flaws, Sherman’s house is a welcome respite from all the other homes he’s been in. There’s always a supply of food stocked in the kitchen, even if it is just muesli bars, beans and noodles. He doesn’t have a curfew, and usually, if he doesn’t bother Sherman, Sherman doesn’t bother him. Frankly, Sherman doesn’t give a fuck what Peter does. As long as he’s not here when he doesn’t want him, they’re good. And that works perfectly fine for Peter.
Should Sherman have even been certified as a Foster Parent? Definitely not. Between his old age and his crippling Heroin addiction, he’s pretty much as unfit of a guardian you can get. But somehow he was accepted, and Petere’s not complaining. It makes Spider-manning and basic teenage rebellion so much easier. He’s pretty sure this is his last chance in the foster system, anyway, so it’s not like he has many choices left. What works, works.
He just has to make it until he’s 18.
Easy, right?