Chapter Text
The normally vibrant laboratory hums quietly, a singular figure hunched over a small robotic mechanism, his tongue peeking through his lips with concentration. With a gentle click, the automatic lights in the laboratory flicker on, and Peter blinks in surprise.
“Posture, Mr Parker.” The familiar amused drawl of Tony Stark startles him, and he whirls around to see his mentor leaning against the doorframe, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. His vest is undone and his tie loosened – a clear sign that he’s finished work for the day. “You don’t want to be my age and staring at the sidewalk all day because you can’t sit properly.”
Peter gasps as he squints at the clock on the wall, having completely lost track of the time. “Damn it,” he mumbles, throwing a blanket over his project to protect it from dust.
“Late for dinner?”
“Not yet,” Peter replies, “but I will be in…” He grimaces as he glances back at the clock. “…seventeen minutes.”
Tony pulls a face. “Doesn’t pay to have that lovely aunt of yours mad at you.”
“Mr Stark, you’re engaged,” Peter says with a disapproving look, but he knows he’s joking. “I’m screwed if the trains are late, though.”
“Look, if you’re angling for a ride, Happy can take you,” Tony says, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like he’s overworked. Or I could, even.”
“It’s fine,” Peter insists. “I like taking the train. Besides,” he goes on, hesitating only for a moment, “it always feels weird when Happy drives down my street in that fancy car.”
“Well, if it bothers you that much, I’m sure I can borrow an – I don’t know, what’s a cheap car? A Honda civic or something? – from one of the staff.”
“Thank you, Mr Stark,” Peter says, unable to suppress a laugh, “but I’m good.”
“Okay, squirt,” Tony says, raising his hands in surrender. “See you next week.”
Peter steps out onto the street, the colossal Tower casting a shadow over several blocks as the sun sinks over Newark. He winces at the wall of sound that greets him – vehicle engines and horns; street vendors shouting about their wares, sirens in the near distance – there’s a good reason he generally limits his patrols to Queens, and doesn’t often venture into Manhattan. With his overly-stimulated senses, it often feels like he’s living inside a bass drum.
He weaves among the waves of commuters, few of whom pay him much attention: a major advantage of being relatively small and slight. As he approaches the subway station, though, he can’t help noticing that the sirens are getting louder, and his heart sinks.
Sure enough, all the stone staircases into the subway have been taped off, with NYPD cars and vans stationed at every corner of the intersection. The noise is horrific: on top of everything else, angry commuters are shouting at the police officers, who are calling over megaphones, and blasting their sirens intermittently, in an attempt to drown out and disperse the gathered crowds.
Peter’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he jumps an inch into the air. He pulls it out to see a text from Tony: still don’t want a ride?
He turns around to see a sleek black car – smart enough to be Tony’s, but discreet enough that no one else seems to have noticed the eccentric tycoon waving at Peter from the driver’s window. Tony grins as Peter climbs into the passenger seat, waving away his sheepish words of thanks and focusing instead on navigating through the incessant onslaught of cars.
Astonishingly, the police wave him through, and Peter slides down in his seat, hoping not to be spotted by anyone he knows. If someone like Flash Thompson were to find out that Tony Stark bypassed a police barricade to drive him home, he would never hear the end of it.
“So, what’s on your mind?” Tony asks as they pull onto the Queensboro Bridge.
“Hm?” Peter says, barely listening.
“You’ve been quiet today,” he replies. “Something wrong?”
“It’s nothing,” Peter says, trying to sound casual. The silence that follows suggests that Tony knows he’s not being truthful, and he sighs. “It’s just that Ned started going out with Betty Brant, and now all he does is…” He pauses, trying to find a suitably scathing turn of phrase. “…wax lyrical about the ‘great mystery’ that is love.”
“Okay,” Tony says, clearly processing this, “so I suppose the obvious question is, are you annoyed, or do you envy him?”
“I don’t envy him,” Peter shoots back, a little too quickly, and Tony emits a low chuckle. “Okay,” he admits. “Maybe a little. I mean, come on! You saw how my last date went, right?”
Now it’s Tony’s turn to grimace – discovering that his date’s father was an illegal weapons dealer who tried to kill him several times has clearly shot his confidence a little. “Maybe the problem is that your social circle is quite small,” he suggests. “Maybe try branching out.”
“How do you mean?”
“I’m going to sound really old here,” Tony continues with a smile, “but everyone your age assumes that you have to date someone you already know.”
“Okay,” Peter says slowly, “so what’s your suggestion? Like, Tinder or something?”
“Kid, you’re fifteen.”
“Right, stupid idea.”
“How about this: find a notebook, or journal, or something, and write in it, and leave it somewhere for someone to find. Obviously don’t put any personal information or anything in it,” he says hastily before Peter can interrupt, “just write what it’s for, and where to leave it with a reply. Be creative.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Peter says flatly. “Where would I leave it? In a trash can on 39th?”
“That’s up to you. And you’re right, nothing may come of it, but what’s the harm in trying?”
“What’s the harm?” he repeats in disbelief. “Mr Stark, I could get catfished or something!”
“Which is why it’s actually safer than online dating,” Tony points out. “There’s no paper trail. If you feel unsafe at any point, you can just stop. This person knows nothing about you, or where to find you. They can’t hack you, or find your IP address, or anything.”
“I’ll think about it,” Peter says finally, and Tony nods. “Where did you even get the idea?”
“One of Pepper’s magazines,” Tony says, and Peter raises an eyebrow. “It was in the bathroom, and I got bored! I – ”
“Gross,” Peter mutters. “TMI much?”
“Anyway, kid,” Tony interrupts, clearly keen to move the conversation back into safer territory, “you’re Spider-Man. If anyone gives you any bother over this, you can take care of yourself.” He pulls up to the curb outside Peter’s building and reaches into the backseat for his briefcase. “Pretty sure…” he mutters, rummaging around inside, then his eyes light up in triumph. “Here you go,” he says, pulling out a notebook. “Consider this a start-up loan. You can repay me by letting me make a speech at your wedding.”
Peter rolls his eyes but takes the notebook. It’s a good one, too: a proper Moleskine, with thick-leaf pages bound in wine-red faux leather. “Thanks, Mr Stark. For this, and the ride.”
“No problem, Pete. Say hi to your aunt for me,” Tony calls as Peter shuts the car door. Peter lifts a hand in farewell, before stowing the notebook in his backpack and heading inside.
He twists his key in the lock, aware that he’s later than he should be. As he kicks off his sneakers, Aunt May’s head appears at the kitchen door, and offers him a relieved smile. “You know I get worried when you’re late. Where have you been?”
“Sorry, Aunt May,” he says, tossing his backpack onto his bed and joining her in the kitchen. “I was at the Tower, and I lost track of time.” She hums and arches an eyebrow, ruffling his hair to signal forgiveness. He laughs and pushes her off, then slumps down at the table, where she’s just set down a plate of spaghetti and Costco meatballs.
“So, how did everything go today?” she asks, twirling spaghetti around her fork.
He shrugs. “Ned and Betty being gross again.”
“That’s the highlight of your day?” she says, amused.
“Oh no, very much the low point,” he counters. “I’m just setting the bar low, so everything else sounds good.” She laughs, and he feels a little more normal. “No, it was alright. I got a ninety-two in my chemistry quiz.”
“What happened the other eight percent?” she asks sternly, and he stares blankly at her in disbelief, until she grins, and says, “You know I’m kidding, right? That’s fantastic!”
“It’s fine,” he says modestly. “I think I could have done better, though. I mixed up propene and butene, and I forgot the pH level of ammonium, which I shouldn’t have.”
“For God’s sake, Peter, it’s still an excellent grade,” she chuckles, shaking her head. “What about at the Tower, how did you get on?”
“Pretty good.” He perks up a little; even a few months on, he forgets occasionally that he can now actually talk to her about what he does there. “I’ve been designing a new kind of web trap that latches onto a heat source.”
“Is that safe?”
“Mm, should be.” He pauses to spear a meatball, and chews it as he talks. “It’ll be useful if I know where a bad guy is, but can’t get a clear shot.” She smiles fondly at him, and he knows it’s because he just said bad guy, as if he’s eight years old and playing with his Iron Man action figure again. But what else is he supposed to say?
Honestly, he’s just glad he doesn’t have to sneak around her anymore. Although she insists that he be home by twelve-thirty at the absolute latest (one-thirty if he doesn’t have school the next day), he feels a lot better about going out on patrol now that Aunt May knows he’s doing it. He always used to live in fear of crawling back through his bedroom window to find her waiting for him, having found him out. Which eventually, of course, was exactly what happened.
It’s got him in trouble a few times, though: on one occasion during Christmas vacation, he arrived back nearly an hour past his curfew, because he’d been helping the fire department evacuate a burning building. He tried to explain this to her, but she wasn’t having it, and grounded him for a week. He was furious at her, and she at him, they stubbornly endured nearly five days of icy silence before they finally talked it out.
This evening, however, Peter can tell things are fine between them, despite his slight tardiness, so resolves to head out a bit later. For the moment, though, he decides to throw caution to the wind and try writing something in the red notebook.
He curls up on his bed, and digs the Moleskine out of his bag. He turns it over in his hands and flicks through the pages, coarse and cream with the faintest lines running across each sheet. He reaches absently to his desk, feeling around for the fountain pen that Uncle Ben always used to write his letters. He doesn’t use it often, but this notebook demands something a bit special than the ballpoints he normally uses.
Opening the notebook to its first page, Peter taps the pen against his cheek, trying to think of how to start. After all, whoever finds this, he doesn’t want to scare them off immediately. Yes, writing a whole paragraph on the first page would be a little much for someone finding this. He has to ease them in gently.
Hello, he writes, if you’re reading this, congratulations! Then, in smaller letters, he adds, You’ve passed the first challenge. If you’re interested, there are a few more on the following pages.
The biggest problem he has to overcome is where to leave the Moleskine once he’s finished writing it – after all, its location may well play a part in what he asks the finder to do next. He smiles as an idea occurs to him, and he pulls out his cell phone. He selects FaceTime and taps MJ’s name.
She offers him a single, upwards nod as the call connects (which from her, is basically the equivalent of a forceful hug). “What’s up, nerd?”
“I need a favour.”
“For the last time, Parker, I’m not doing your pre-calc homework.”
“That’s not it,” he says, moving the phone further from his face so he can flip her off. “You still work at the Grand Central Library?”
“Yeah,” she replies, squinting curiously at him. “Why?”
“I’ll tell you,” he says sternly, “as long as you promise not to laugh.”
“Promise,” she says, holding up two fingers.
Peter takes a deep breath and starts explaining the ridiculous plan. “…so basically, is it okay if I say to give the notebook to you if they find it?”
She considers this. “I didn’t laugh,” she says slowly. “I didn’t, however, agree to withhold criticism. That is, therefore, the most stupid idea I’ve ever heard.”
“Thank you for that,” he says, more politely than he wants to be, as she’s sort of the hinge upon which this plan rests. “Will you do it, though?”
“Eh, sure,” she shrugs. “It might make the job more entertaining.”
“You’re the best,” he says, and she shrugs, clearly indicating that she knows this.
“What d’you get on the chem quiz?” she asks before he can disconnect the call, and he curses himself for not hanging up faster.
“Ninety-two,” he says, and she smirks.
“Ninety-four.” She throws up a peace sign and hangs up. He curses under his breath and tosses his phone to the end of his bed, so as not to be distracted any further, then unscrews the lid of the pen again and turns to the second page.
It’s worth saying at this point that in order to keep reading you must fulfil the following criteria:
- you must be single
- you must want a relationship
- you must be around 15 years of age (i.e. plus or minus 1 year)
- you must be interested in guys (your own gender doesn’t matter to me!)
If you do not meet all four of these criteria, please read no further, and kindly replace this notebook where you found it. You have value and are appreciated, but this book is not for you. If, however, all of those statements are true, please feel free to turn to the next page.
Peter scans this and nods approvingly. Clear and direct, but not cold and unfeeling. Perfect. He turns the page and continues.
If you have made it this far, then it means you want a relationship, correct? That being the case, I’d like to get an idea of what you’re like as a person. I’m informed you can discover a lot about a person by the books they read; very conveniently, you happen to be standing in a library. I need you to choose three books – two fairly specific, one less so.
Peter has to bite back a smirk as he writes the next few lines.
This endeavour, shall we call it, will require no small amount of nerve on both our parts. I need to be sure that you’re a brave person, or this won’t work out, I’m afraid. To this end, I challenge you to go to the adult literature section, and pick out the dirtiest book you can find. I leave the choice to you.
Second, I need to know that I can trust you. I thought it prudent not to include many personal details in this notebook, but all the same, I would still prefer to rest assured that I will not be ridiculed because of anything written in here. Pick out a book that lets me know that I can have absolute confidence in you.
Finally, pick any book from any section that you feels best represents you and your life. This one’s entirely up to you, so choose wisely!
When you have all three books, go to a desk and ask for MJ. She will give you your next instructions. Good luck!
As he carefully dots the final exclamation point, Peter exhales deeply, suddenly nervous. He has two more pages he needs to write, but there’s no time now. It’s already nearly 8pm, and he’s not even in his suit yet.
He shoves the notebook into a drawer in his desk and starts unbuttoning his shirt, nudging open his wardrobe with one foot, where his suit is hanging on a peg on the door. His undershirt, jeans and socks come off, and Peter spares just a moment to examine his reflection in the mirror before tugging the suit on, jumping up to allow himself to pull it up his legs. He slips his arms in and pulls the mask over his head, blowing a stray curl off his forehead. I really must get a haircut, he muses as he shoves the window up.
“Bye, May!” he yells, his voice only slightly muffled by the mask.
“Shut the window after you, it’s cold!” she calls from the living room.
This done, Peter leaps off the fire escape and releases a long web-line from the dispenser on his right wrist. It latches to a nearby building, breaking his fall; he swings upwards in a graceful arc, rolling lazily in mid-air before tumbling downwards again. He lets out an involuntary whoop of joy: it might have been more than a year since he became Spider-Man, but somehow this feeling of soaring through the cold January air – the freedom of tumbling towards the ground with the confidence of being able to swing up again whenever he likes – it never goes away, or gets old. He loves this.
He never likes to patrol too close to home in case he blows his cover, so once he’s a few blocks away, Peter settles down on a rooftop, sheltering from the icy wind behind some large ventilation tubes. “Okay, Karen,” he murmurs, “let’s see what the scanner has to say.”
“On it, Peter,” says the cool female voice in his mask’s earpiece. “Tapping into the police scanner now.” He listens intently for a few minutes, hearing nothing that might require his assistance, but frowns when he hears raised voices nearby.
“Karen, switch it off for a minute, please.” Immediately the scanner volume is muted, and Peter homes in on the voices, leaping across to the next building for closer examination.
“Just get out of here, will you?” It’s a man’s voice, with a hint of AAVE to it. He hears jeering laughter, and finally spots the scene: there is indeed an older man there, whom Peter has seen sleeping rough in the past. With him is a group of five youths – three boys and two girls in their early twenties, by the look of things – who are emptying his satchel into the street.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Peter breathes, and drops down onto the sidewalk, landing catfooted in the alley behind them.
“What are you going to do, ------?” spits one of the young men, and Peter winces at the word he uses. Without warning, he shoots a long web-line into his back and yanks him backwards, causing the offending young man to stumble backwards, and fall onto the asphalt.
“You know,” Peter says conversationally, examining the tips of his fingers, “you can tell a lot about a person by the contents of their bag.”
“It’s Spider-Man!” one of the girls hisses.
“But maybe that isn’t what you had in mind,” Peter continues, his mask’s eye-lenses narrowing angrily. The group make a run for it, and Peter makes sure to tread heavily on the fingers of the one on the ground as he goes after them. “Web-bomb,” he says quietly to Karen, who dutifully activates the high-impact gadget. He shoots two, to be on the safe side, and they latch onto the hoods of the two wearing jackets. One more press to the web-shooter detonates them, wrapping each pair tightly in the sticky webs and throwing them to the ground.
Peter’s heightened senses almost sting him in their urgency, and he steps neatly to one side. The thug he knocked over has got to his feet, and just thrust a knife into the exact area where Peter’s shoulder-blade would have been. Peter’s knee collides painfully with his attacker’s abdomen, winding him, giving Peter time to smack the knife out of his hand. He kicks it away from them, hard, and sends it skidding across the sidewalk and down a storm drain.
Having disposed of the weapon, Peter knocks the young man’s legs out from under him and webs him firmly to the sidewalk. “Karen, call the police,” he says shortly. “Inform them of an armed mugging and attempted racially-motivated assault.” He glances around the scene once more, then stoops down to help the homeless man gather his things, some of which have rolled into the road. “Are you alright, sir?” he asks, handing them back.
“Fine,” the man says, throwing the youths a dirty look. “Thank you, Spider-Man.”
“I’d advise you not to hang around,” Peter says gently. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you the police may not take your side.”
He lets out a hollow laugh. “You can say that again.”
“If you need a place to sleep tonight, there’s a F.E.A.S.T. centre a few blocks away,” Peter suggests. “Just turn right at the end of the road and follow the river until you see it. You’d be welcome there.”
The old man nods in acknowledgement. “Appreciate it.” He takes the last of his things from Peter and shuffles off in the direction Peter pointed him.
Peter watches him go, then turns to the man who had the knife with severe disdain. A lot of people who commit crime are desperate, and in such situations he tries to avoid calling the police. He’s aware that the police cause more problems than they solve, so instead, he generally just stops their crime, throws some light-hearted humour their way, and attempts to offer the perpetrators alternative solutions.
Now, though, he looks down at his captive with revolted fury. “You disgust me,” he says coldly. “You attack a homeless man for no reason at all, and as if that wasn’t enough, your language is despicable.”
“Fuck you,” the man snarls, and Peter promptly shoots a web at his mouth, essentially gagging him.
“You see that?” Peter says, pointing above them, his voice still hard and unfeeling, sparing no witty remarks for such a low-life. “That security camera records the entire street to protect the store, and I just sent the entire tape to the police. With any luck you’ll spend at least a few years in prison. Don’t expect a visit from me.” He hears approaching sirens, and the street starts to flicker with red and blue lights. He takes a running leap into the air and disappears onto a nearby rooftop watching with grim satisfaction as the hooligans are bundled into police cars and driven away.
Despite having planned to finish off writing in the Moleskine when he returned home, by the time gets home a few hours later, Peter’s cold, damp and utterly exhausted. He’ll have time tomorrow, after all – he can write on the train, and give it to MJ when he gets to school, so she can deposit it somewhere in the library.
He’d love a shower, but he doesn’t want to risk waking May, who has to wake up for work well before he does. Instead, he activates the suit’s heater to warm up and dry off. Feeling considerably more comfortable and a good deal more sleepy, he peels off his suit and crawls into bed in his underwear. Within minutes, the silence of his bedroom is punctuated by soft snores, all thoughts of the notebook completely forgotten.