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The bell above the door jingled as it was pushed open. The restaurant inside was small—tables cluttered together, the walls damp and the air heavy—and empty, no customers so late into the night. Still, the newcomers crowded the front entrance.
The waiter before them stared, glasses slipping down his nose, before narrowing his eyes. “Get the heck out.”
“‘Heck,’” Clint said, eyeing Peter’s attire with raised brows. “Wow. And look at your little waiter get up! Isn’t he adorable?”
“The cutest,” Natasha agreed.
“Out,” Peter repeated, as he tried to bustle the gathered Avengers out the door with sweeping hand gestures. They were broader and taller than him—Natasha wearing slight heels, Tony wearing his discreet lifts—and refused to be budged.
Tony took off his reflective sunglasses, his smile like a shark’s. “You’re going to throw out paying customers? For shame, Parker.”
“Ms. Potts?” Peter tried weakly, turning to the only responsible person among the heroes.
“Sorry, Peter,” Pepper said, offering an apologetic smile. She was dressed in a pristine blazer and pencil skirt, her heels towering, a Stark Pad tucked under her arm. She stood out against the greying walls of the rundown restaurant.
“Please?” Peter asked, glancing backward at the kitchen. “My manager’s going to come back any moment and flip the heck out.”
“Adorable,” Clint repeated.
“Who says we’re here for you, you narcissist?” Tony said, and pointedly ignored the knowing looks everyone shot him. “Maybe we just want to eat here. Superheroes need food too, y’know. Don’t discriminate.”
Peter gave him a flat look. “This place is a dump, and you’re a billionaire, Tony.”
Tony snapped his finger, pointing at Peter. “See? Discrimination!”
“We’re here to help,” Pepper interrupted. “Honestly, Peter. Nothing funny.”
Peter’s eyes went a little wide, realisation a punch to the gut. “This is a flipping recruitment drive, isn’t it…?”
They smiled at him—Tony with a promising smirk, Pepper tight-lipped and apologetic for what was about to happen—but before they could answer, the door to the kitchen swung open, and Peter’s boss strode out.
“Parker,” his manager snapped, scrubbing a hand through his thinning hair. The man always became more irritated in the late hours of the night. “Don’t just fucking stand there looking pretty. If we ain’t got customers, take your pert ass outside and wash some fucking dishes—”
“Sorry, Mr. Hannigan,” Peter said dully. He was exhausted—this was his second shift of the day, the other at his first job—and powerless in this situation. He knew from experience he couldn’t reply to his boss without being threatened with unemployment.
Hannigan stopped mid-step, beady eyes blown wide. The very recognisable Avengers, crowded in the doorway of their empty, dirty restaurant, stared back at him. Steve’s jaw tightened, and Sam was frowning at Hannigan. Pepper had pulled out her Stark Pad, and was tapping at it, fingers flying, wearing an expression like cold steel.
Natasha grinned, her smile sharp, and waved at the manager. “Good evening.”
Hannigan made a strangled sound.
“Sorry, sir,” Peter said again. “They were just leaving—”
“Come now,” Steve said, stepping forward. Before, he’d stood at the back, and appeared as though he was only there to keep an eye on Tony’s scheming. Now, gaze fixed on Peter’s boss, Steve was stepping into a more active role. “There’s no need for that. We’d just like a good sit down meal.”
Hannigan seemed to shake himself, before positively beaming.
“Captain America, of course, anything for our city’s heroes,” he simpered. He motioned the Avengers toward the largest table in restaurant, bodily shoving Peter out of the way as he went. “I’m sorry about my waiter, he’s a little slow. Very incompetent.”
Peter stumbled back, blinking wide eyes. His manager was larger than him, portly with broad shoulders and wide hands. Peter often had to let the older man push him around, feigning a strength that matched his thin appearance. Sam shot him a sympathetic look.
The Avengers took their seats at the long table. Hannigan pulled Natasha’s seat out for her, and she managed a passable smile as she sat down.
Hannigan clapped his hands together, teeth bared in a smile, and continued, “It’s such a privilege to have superheroes in my restaurant. We’re all big fans, big fans—aren’t we, Parker?”
“Oh,” Peter said. Clint, perched in the closest seat, tipped his head back and smirked up at him. “Oh y-yeah. I’m a big fan of the Avengers. The biggest.”
Clint’s smirk grew wider. Peter fought to keep his features professional blank. The manager ignored Peter’s stumbled words, and rushed toward the kitchen to talk to the cook.
“Hand out menus,” Hannigan ordered, pointing a stubby, threatening finger at Peter, “and take their orders. Whatever they want, they can have, got it?”
“But—”
Hannigan stopped. He retraced his steps, until he was inches away from Peter’s tense form. “You screw this up, and you’re fucking fired, you hear me?” It was obvious Hannigan was trying to keep his voice down, but the people sat nearby were super-humans and spies and business-people trained to hear the whispered threats of those around them. It was obvious they heard Hannigan by the way their hands balled into taunt fists, lips dipping into frowns.
Peter exhaled roughly, and nodded. His cheeks were burning. “Yessir.”
“Good. I know you’re usually useless, but try for once not to be the colossal fuck-up that you are. Get this fucking right.”
With that, Hannigan disappeared into the kitchen. Peter was left in the middle of the restaurant in faded jeans and canvas shoes full of holes, a faded apron tied around his waist. His idols—and, Peter thought desperately, potential friends—sat behind him, staring at him. He felt cut open, exposed; the Avengers only ever saw Peter in his iconic suit. They never saw the small, real-life version of Peter Parker.
Peter took a deep, grounding breath. He swallowed down his humiliation—a very easy thing, for all the experience Peter had with it—and collected the stack of paper menus.
“Welcome to the Dine In,” Peter said. He focussed on handing out the menus and keeping his tone flat. His hands sometimes shook when he was anxious. He didn’t need that to happen now; he was humiliated enough as it was. “Tonight’s specials are a pork roast with potatoes, or a pasta—”
Clint snagged his sleeve as Peter began to draw back, stilling the younger man. “Peter,” Clint said.
Peter shook out of the archer’s grip, and stepped back, suddenly exhausted. “Why are you guys—” He cut himself off with a frustrated huff, scrubbing a hand through his messy hair. “Can you guys just—just please leave?”
No dice, apparently. Clint and Natasha didn’t so much as blink. Steve folded his arms, face disapproving, a pose often dug out when Steve was talking with especially frustrating reporters and members of the public. Sam was staring at the kitchen’s closed door with unrepentant disgust.
“What a complete—” Sam began. He made another gesture toward the kitchen, lip curled.
“Agreed,” Natasha said.
“Pepper,” is all Tony said, his eyes narrowed.
“Fired, arrested, or funds depleted?” Pepper asked, fingers flying over her Stark Pad. “I can have his possessions seized, as well. He seems to enjoy tax evasion—”
“What if I dropped him off a really, really tall building,” Sam said. “The corpse would be unrecognisable. Just a smear on the sidewalk.”
Steve made a soft, considering ‘hmm’ sound. At Sam’s words, Clint and Natasha turned to one another, twin smirks blooming.
“No,” Peter said. His voice was firmer than he felt.
Sam tried, “Okay, but what if it was a really, really, realllly tall building—”
“Very easy to make it look like a suicide,” Natasha added.
“If he lost his job and all of his funds,” Tony said, “he’d have a motive to jump, police won’t even look twice—”
“Oh, my GOD,” Peter said, throwing the remaining paper menus on the table. He frowned at the group. They didn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed. “You aren’t killing my boss. What the heck? You guys are role models! Your faces are on children’s toys, can you please stop discussing murder casually around the dinner table?”
Half of them opened their mouths to rebuke him, but Hannigan chose that moment to reappear from the kitchens, overly polite smile stretched across his face.
“How are my favourite customers, huh? Parker, you taken their orders yet?”
“Not yet, sir,” Peter said.
“Well, you folks are lucky, one of our specials tonight is mushroom pasta. You tell ‘em about the mushroom pasta?” As Hannigan spoke, he elbowed Peter in the side several times with especially sharp elbows. “Eh, Parker?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Well, our mushroom pasta’s the greatest,” Hannigan told the Avengers. Pepper had looked up from her Stark Pad, and was looking at him with a pinched expression, like he was the most annoying person she’d come across. It was a feeling Peter could relate to. “Ain’t it, Parker?”
Internally, Peter was screaming. Internally, his arms were flung wide open, his head tipped back, and he was shrieking up at ceiling.
Externally, Peter said, strained, “I love mushroom pasta.”
That made the Avengers wrestle down knowing grins, hiding laughter behind discreet coughs.
Post-battle meals had always been a sacred, bonding ritual for them. The dozen or so of them would ambush a poor restaurant and almost eat them out of business (while leaving an outrageously large tip), or—more commonly—limp back to the tower, raid the industrial fridge for left overs and the cupboards for bags of junk and ordering piles of take away (from multiple places), and stretch out around the living room, containers and plates and plastic cutlery spilt out around them, eating until their bellies bulged and their adrenaline highs crashed. Peter had spent many afternoons and nights and even mornings splayed out on the plush carpet of Avengers Tower, too full to move, dozing off to a low playing movie and the sounds of chatting superheroes.
It’s some of Peter’s fondest memories.
However, Peter was also a young superhero with an inhumanly fast metabolism and a demanding life style and not enough money. When he was around that much free food, he sometimes overacted. As in, ‘shovelling pizza slices heaped with fried rice and dripping mushroom pasta into his mouth’ overact.
That had made the Avengers laugh at the time. Now, they smirk a little, remembering how Peter had looked, sweaty hair mused, pasta sauce smeared along his bulging cheeks.
“Of course you do!” Hannigan laughed, one hand on his meaty belly. His other hands rested on the back of Tony’s chair, as the manager grinned at the billionaire in supposed solidarity, and said, “I reckon, why pay the help in cash when they’re just as happy with greasy left overs? It’s probably worth more than their paycheques, anyhow!”
Hannigan laughed once more, expecting Tony—a man firmly within the 1%—to laugh with him. Tony managed a forced kind of chuckle. At his side, Steve was cracking the edge of the table with his white knuckled grip.
“You folks enjoy the food,” Hannigan told them, cheeks flushed with mirth. He clapped Tony’s chair once for good measure, nudged Peter with clumsy strength, and retreated once more to the kitchen. “Ask Parker for anything you need! Ha, it’s the only thing he’s good for, anywho!”
In the ensuing silence, all eyes gravitated once more to Peter.
“Now can you all leave? Now that you’ve gotten your fill of humiliating me.”
“Peter,” Pepper said softly, “you don’t have to work here.”
“She’s right, your intelligence is off the charts,” Tony chimed in. Peter fidgeted under his steady gaze. This was a man who had chased down some of the brilliant young minds of his century and single-handedly won them into the arms of his company. “You should be going to a Ivory league college at the very least. And don’t try and tell me you can’t afford it—I’ve seen your grades. You could win a scholarship easily.”
Peter shook his head. “I don’t have the time,” he said, voice unenthusiastic and heavy with fatigue. This was a topic he’d discussed with himself before, mostly in the dark of the night, when the bruises from Spider-Man were fresh and his exhaustion was pressing and he had work in mere hours. When Peter felt like he was more tiredness than person.
It was Steve that leant forward. “You don’t need to spend so much time patrolling the city, Peter. We’re more than wiling to help set up some sort of roster so you don’t have to be out 24/7—”
“What?” Peter said. “Are you crazy? I’m not out 24/7. No one could be. I don’t have time because I work three jobs on top of looking after my Aunt and being Spider-Man.”
There was silence along the table. Tony’s eyebrows rose. “Why the hell would you—?”
“Because I’m not a billionaire, and I have my own rent and my Aunt’s mortgage and her medical bills. Suit repairs, web fluid, electricity, food—it all adds up, man.”
Peter straightened. The cuffs of his jeans ended above his ankles, and the hem of his over-the-thumb sleeves were fraying, but his stance was proud. He’d struggled, had to work himself into an exhausted state, to keep a roof above their heads. Sure, sometimes that meant working until he couldn’t see straight, or use his entire paycheque to pay bills and have to resort to living on buttered bread and too many glasses of water for the rest of the week…
But, Peter was proud of his hard work. He doesn’t need to be a member of an elite, globally renown group of superheroes to be proud of the life he’s built up for himself.
Tony opened his mouth to reply, but Natasha kicked him under the table. The billionaire yelped, shooting the woman a betrayed look, as Steve smoothly cut in, “We know, you do what you have to to survive. That’s admirable, Peter.”
Sam clapped Steve on the shoulder, smiling reassuringly at Peter. “Coming from the guy who lived in the Great Depression? That’s a huge compliment, man.”
“You don’t have to do all this,” Pepper said, gesturing at the grimy restaurant, the grease stained apron tied around Peter’s waist, the faded paper menus. “As an Avenger, you’d be able to spend your time doing something worthwhile.”
Steve nodded. “You can use your skills for good. You can do things you enjoy, and help people, and be paid for it.”
“We have health insurance, too,” Tony said. “And dental.”
Peter laughed, the sound quiet, a little raw. “I’ve never had dental before.”
A mischievous smile unfurled on Tony’s lips. “We could set your Aunt up somewhere nice, too,” Tony planned. “Better health services and security, ooh, you’d move into the tower, I could transform your rooms into—”
Tony was grinning, while the other Avengers looked weary. Pepper sighed, long suffering, recognising the Tony’s expression.
“You’re in for it now, Peter,” Pepper warned, talking over the top of Tony’s excited babbling. “He finally has someone new to shower in stupidly large gifts and make things for.”
Tony clapped his hands together. “I’m going to make an iron spider suit for you. Where’s my phone? JARVIS, I need you to—”
“Man, let the kid breathe,” Sam scolded. He shot Peter a sympathetic look. “When I first came to the tower, he tried to completely revamp my wings, my outfit, and build an entire different flight pad into my floor.”
“I maintain that you would’ve looked badass in red and white,” Tony said. “I would’ve added a white cowl to match your patriotic butt-buddy over there, and obligatory slits along the torso to show off your abs. The whole shebang.”
“Obligatory slits?” Sam choked. Steve looked vaguely interested, while Clint cackled and slapped a hand over his knee.
“So long as it isn’t me,” Natasha said with a shrug. Some weeks after the Battle of New York, a presumptuous SHIELD agent had attempted to take control of the Avenger’s outfits. He only got so far as presenting the impossibly low-cut, Wonder Woman-esque uniform to Natasha, before being fired. From there, it was Tony that quickly took control of manufacturing the Avengers’ suits (with a great deal of input from each individual, of course).
Tony huffed, put off. “Well, Thor refuses to show off his buff cleavage, and Steve won’t give up the prudish red, white and blue, and Arachnikid over there—” He gestured at Peter’s wide-eyed, frozen form. “—is like 12. Someone in the team has to be the sex symbol, Falcon, and frankly I think it’s selfish of you to deny the world your gleaming abs—”
The kitchen door burst open, and Hannigan bustled in, a jug of water and ice cubes held in meaty hands. “Who’s hungry, ay?” Hannigan asked, shoving the jug into Peter’s arms, water sloshing over the sides and onto Peter’s shoes. “We’ve got our best cook on tonight, don’t you worry, only the best for you heroes—”
Hannigan busied himself, fiddling with the half melted candles and salt and pepper shakers sat in the middle of the long table. His sweat was beading at his temples, but his too large smile remained as he straightened cutlery at the Avenger’s elbows. None of them paid the manager any attention.
“Parker, cups,” Hannigan snapped
Peter turned to fetch said cups, but Pepper leant forward, eyes serious. “Peter,” she said. “I’m sorry, but we need a definite answer.”
Peter shot a panicked look at his manager, who was furrowing his eyebrows, glancing from the famous CEO to his nervous waiter. “My identity—” Peter began.
“—is safe,” Tony cut in. “You don’t have to tell anyone if you don’t want to, and honestly? You’re probably better off with the Avengers and SHIELD there to squash/threaten anyone or anything who might tattle to the papers.”
“I—I’m not—” Peter placed the jug down on the table, and took several quick steps backward. He felt strange—Spider-Man and Peter Parker were never meant to intermix, two separate lives and personas, but Peter was beginning to realise that the lines had been blurring for a while now.
Peter had thought any offers of recruitment—namely, from SHIELD—would come under the guise of threats to reveal his identity. He felt giddy, dizzy with relief, knowing the offer was coming from the Avengers. From friends.
“What’s going on?” Hannigan demanded, squinting suspiciously. “Is my good-for-nothing waiter annoying you? Parker, I swear to god—”
Again, they ignored him. Sam looked to Peter, and said, “The tallest building. The biggest. I can lift Steve, it’d be no problem to fly him up there and then just accidentally drop—”
“No, Sam,” Peter said. He was smiling. His chest felt warm.
“Peter?” Pepper prompted.
“I—” Peter glanced around at the expectant faces. He swallowed, and looked at the floor, embarrassed, his smile shy. “I’d like that, actually.”
Tony fully stood up. Hannigan stumbled back several paces in surprise. “Is that a yes?” asked the billionaire.
Peter’s smile only grew. “It’s a yes.”
A roaring cheer erupted from the heroes, as they jumped up, swarming around him. Arms wrapped around him, hands reached over to ruffle his hair, legs banging into his as Peter was swallowed up by a nest of excited limbs.
“Guys, guys! Woah!” Peter stumbled under the Avengers’ combined happiness, but he was laughing with them, head tipping back to rest on Sam’s shoulder. “Hard to breathe under all this!”
“Welcome to the team, Peter,” Steve said. He was leaning against Sam, wearing his own smile.
“Finally,” Clint corrected, arm thrown over Peter’s shoulders. “Finally welcome to the team. Took you long enough to agree.”
“You only just offered!” Peter insisted.
“We’ve been silently offering for months.” Sam nudged his side playfully, shaking his head. “You just weren’t smart enough to realise we were trying to entice you over to our dark side.”
“The food!” Peter understood with a start. The congregated Avengers laughed at his wide-eyed surprise. Apparently, they’d had a game plan in play, a team effort to help Peter overcome his trust issues and step into their circle. “The—the movie nights, and the making me spider-shaped pancakes, and putting beanbags in the living room after I mentioned I loved them, and the—the crazy amount of food you pushed my way on movie nights—”
“You’re too skinny,” Sam told him seriously, nudging his ribs.
“Was all of you amping up your friendliness some evil scheme to bring me into your clutches?”
Natasha rested her chin on Clint’s shoulder, peering over at Peter with amused eyes. “No. It was us trying to show you what being an Avenger would feel like. What being one of us would feel like. None of that is going to stop just because you’re finally with us.”
“Especially the force feeding,” Sam said. “That’s never going to stop.”
“Are you kidding me?” Clint said. “That’ll increase, knowing Sam! He’s a big ol’ mother hen.”
“Hey! I am not!” Everyone shot him doubtful looks. Steve’s was the very picture of exasperated, having dealt so frequently with Sam’s almost aggressive, nurturing concern. “Okay, maybe sometimes…”
They were gathered around him in a loose circle, Peter cocooned in their shared laughter, their bodies pressed against his. He felt breathless under the combined celebratory high. He felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.
Power and subsequent responsibility was important, and would always be a vital part of Peter’s life, but he had reached a point where he was drowning under it. Life would always be a battle to swim upstream, Peter knew, but if there was a way to make it a little easier, let people into his life, let them carry him a little further, then it wasn’t a crime to let them.
A cry interrupted them; “Pursue legal action?! Excuse me? You can’t do that—!”
Peter came crashing down from his high. Right, his boss. He’d forgotten.
Tony and Pepper stood in front of the sweaty man, twin glares focussed on him.
“For professional misconduct, tax evasion, and the unlawful treatment of your waitstaff, I think I can,” Pepper said. Her eyes were like ice.
Peter wriggled out of the Avengers grip. Hannigan frowned when he saw him, gesturing at the two before him. “Parker, tell them I’m a good boss. Tell them how good I am!”
“Leave the kid alone,” Tony hissed. Peter hadn’t heard the billionaire sound that angry outside of stare-downs with super-villains.
“He’s a good boss,” Peter agreed. Tony’s mouth fell open, surprised, ready to rebuke the younger man, but Peter just shook his head. “Alright, no, he’s not a good boss, but c’mon, Tony. Let’s just—go. Celebrate me joining the Avengers.”
Peter was pulling Tony back toward the waiting team, when Hannigan snarled, “Joining the Avengers…! You’re one of those masked freaks, aren’t you, Parker? A masked—oh, my god, you’re Spider-Man! You’re—you’re that fucking spidery—”
Peter’s throat seized up, his breath suddenly leaving him in a panicked rush. He was left choked up, floundering for a response in the wake of his boss’ smug realisation.
“No, I—Mr. Hannigan—please don’t—”
“Nice fucking try, Parker, wait until I tell the Bugle—”
Pepper, her eyes like ice, straightened her cream blazer, and stomped on Hannigan’s foot with her heel.
Hannigan leapt back, howling. Pepper brushed her hair out of her face calmly, and told him, “Be glad I didn’t slap you.”
Tony leant against the lip of the long table, casually crossing his legs and surveying the reddening manager before him.
“If you want to keep your job, Mr. Hannigan,” Tony said easily, handing out threats like tips, “keep your mouth shut. If you want to ever be employed in this country again, you’ll pretend the Avengers never even stepped into this restaurant. If you don’t want all of your funds and possessions to be seized, you’ll forget you ever met a Peter Parker.”
“You—You can’t just—” Hannigan spluttered.
“You’ll find I can,” Tony said, “but I’m a fair man. Pepper.”
Pepper was already typing something into her Stark Pad. “How’s a quarter of a million, donated anonymously into his accounts?”
Hannigan eyes went wide. Tony met his gaze calmly, his eyes like steel. “Remember exactly what I just said.”
“Peter Parker?” Hannigan said quickly. “Who?”
Tony snorted; the greed of men had ceased to surprise him. “Good man.”
“I still think we should’ve gone with that tall building,” Sam said, ignoring Peter’s pointed frown.
“Come on then, daddy warbucks,” Steve said to Tony, nudging Peter toward the door. “We have to celebrate your adoption of this freckled orphan.”
“My freckles aren’t that noticeable,” Peter grumbled, at the same time Sam said, “Never call Tony ‘daddy’ in front of me again, Rogers.”
They filed out of the restaurant, bickering, Tony loudly planning a celebratory night on the town, the others ignoring the billionaire. Later that night, they would pile into the living room, forget about the movie halfway finished planning on the flatscreen. They would talk loudly over the soft sounds of We Got Annie, pizza crusts and cups littering the coffee table, Peter sat in the centre of the room, unable to contain his wide smile.
For now though, Peter simply untied his apron for the last time, throwing it over a chair, and announced, “Mr. Hannigan, I quit,” before following his newfound teammates out into the night.