AindyGhosh

Summary: Loki is cleaning his attic on Christmas Eve because that is a better alternative than going shopping with his oaf of a brother. Except he isn't ready to be confronted with long-buried feelings by a bunch of letters. Love letters.

Genius. Billionaire. Former Playboy. Philanthropist. None of those allowed any room for paranoia about the supernatural. As it was, Tony was an atheist. He didn’t believe in Gods, let alone in ghosts.

Except his new husband’s old palace was said to be haunted by a spirit wronged by one of their ancestors. Safe to say, Tony had laughed heartily when his new family had roped him into their little conspiracy clique.

Until sinister things began to happen around the palace, not the least of which was someone attempting to burn him alive.

Now a question of his survival, Tony has to dig deep into his husband’s familial past and unearth secrets that could very well bring his life to a screeching halt.

EXCERPT

“Where did you put your keys?” Sam asked.

I don't know where to even start with E4.

I love this coven.

This is the gayest show ever!

And THEY WERE ABOUT TO KISS!!!!!! Jdbdksnksnsksnzk-

Also, I kinda hope that Teen is Agatha's son because I love their blooming relationship. She was so scared when he was bleeding, and she sat there the whole time till he woke up. She's terrified of expressing her feelings but this episode, and also the previous one, goes to show just how kind and protective she can be.

When the soil twisted and Rio emerged, her face yet not visible, Agatha had her hands thrown out protectively in front of the coven.

I CAN NOT BELIEVE THAT END OF AGATHA ALL ALONG EPISODE 2!!!!!

WHAT. IN. THE. HELL.

“You don’t have a heart.” “Yes, I do. It’s black. And it beats for you.” ~ Agatha Harkness and Rio Vidal, Episode 1 of Agatha All Along

💜

Rio hated Agatha. Despised her. Few were as wretched as Agatha Harkness, the killer of witches.

The woman wouldn't hesitate for so much as a second to steal your power and leave you helpless and penniless on the side of a random street in a faraway village ruled by harsh anti-witch sentiments. Or rat you out to the so-called "authorities" to save her own hide. Or raid your home after a blissful night of lovemaking sex and flee with the grimoire that had taken you shy of a century and nearly your head to acquire.

The clicking of the door drew her attention and she gave the woman an instinctive once-over. Untamed—more than usual (“This is my witchy aesthetic! We have a reputation to maintain, you killjoy!”)—frizzy hair, undoubtedly a result of her nervous tic of tugging at her locks, a blue tartan shirt, that Agatha Harkness wouldn't be caught dead looking at let alone wearing, hanging off her shoulders, red spots marring her previously flawless pale skin, a testament to the neglect she'd been putting herself through ever since she became this mockery of a person she once was.

But it was her eyes that hammered the final nail in the coffin—weak, powerless, vulnerable, everything Agatha Harkness was decidedly not.

An irrational urge to dig up the Scarlet Witch's remains from under the ruins of Mount Wundagore, bring her back to life and give her a death as fucked as her spell threatened to overwhelm her.

"What are you doing here?"

Rio found herself wanting to smile at the scepticism lacing the woman's voice. Lost and adrift as she was, literally, being mistrustful of anybody who came knocking on her door was such a her thing to do. "Pizza?" She held up the rectangular box. "I figured if we are to solve the murder case, we better put in the hours, right?"

Agatha alternated her gaze between her and the pizza box for a minute that seemed to stretch on forever before beckoning her in with a defeated sigh. Rio's lips twitched at the familiarity of the gesture.

The house was nothing like she had envisioned for Agatha's residence to be and at the same time, she could see a part of the woman in every corner of the decoration. The purple pillows that contrasted the bright mustard walls and risked giving an eyesore to anybody not inured to Agatha's Agatha-ness; the conspicuous paintings that cost a hundred times more than they were worth, in her humble opinion; the multitude of spell books populating the wooden bookshelves; the mirrors placed around every other corner for Agatha to admire herself whenever she fancied.

Rio took a seat in a black-and-white wing chair. "Nice place you've got here."

"It probably needs a solid renovation, but it's home." It took every bit of Rio's self-control to not cringe. "Drink?"

"If you have a beer. Thanks."

"Have you ever met a cop with no beer in their fridge?"

"Good point." Rio conceded with a dip of her head. "By the way, did you know you have a fan club here?"

"A fan club?" Her bewildered face peeked over the refrigerator's open door frame. "What are you talking about?"

"Mm-hmm. Led by this girl called Beverly. Said she assisted you on a case."

"Oh, yeah!" Agatha shook her head with an abashed smile. "The, uh, Aaron Fueller case. She'd just joined. A near disaster, that one."

"Why?"

"She was a rookie, right? So, one day, I say to her, 'Has the suspect been seen in the last twenty-four hours?' And she says, 'Only on TikTok.' I ask her, "Well, did you learn anything?' You know what she replied?" Rio attempted to forge an intrigued expression to match the woman’s excitement, but it didn't seem like Agatha required an external stimulus to continue her story. Which was a good thing because Rio wasn't feeling all that generous to indulge this ridiculous behaviour. "She said, 'That I was totally using the wrong foundation brush.' Can you believe it?"

Rio responded with a polite chuckle before taking a swig from the bottle. She'd have preferred something much stronger than this for the conversation she had in mind, but she also needed to retain her composure for that exact reason.

The moment of levity subsided soon, as it was bound to, and Agatha shifted in her seat, visibly uncomfortable. Awkwardness. A long time ago, before Rio became closely acquainted with Agatha, she had imagined the woman as infallible. It hadn't taken her time to see through the unflappable facade, but irrespective of its falsity, its presence had once been irrefutable.

And now, Agatha Harkness' discomfort was laid bare for any amateur to notice.

Oh, how the mighty fall! Rio supposed, given their history, she should feel some amount of joy—vindication, even—but no introspection was necessary for her to realise the lack of any pleasure.

"I have a lead in the case," Agatha said after a minute.

That wasn't why she'd come over. "Go ahead."

Agatha scraped a thumb across her chin. Back and forth. Back and forth. "There was a car wreck about an hour before the time of death."

"Where?"

"Eastview."

Rio sucked her cheeks in. "Eastview?” Huh. “See, I thought you turned into a pumpkin that far afield."

"Hey, I travel! I'm worldly!" Indignation and defensiveness filled her tone.

"Where have you travelled?"

Agatha's mouth parted to reply. Rio knew better than to expect a proper response with a list of the places she'd visited in her lifetime—perhaps listing those she hadn't would be far less of a Herculean task—but the sheer child-like confusion that took her features captive was an unwelcome confirmation of her suspicions about the depth of the Scarlet Witch's spell.

Rio cleared her throat. "Okay, so what about the car wreck?"

Agatha, to her credit, grabbed the new thread of topic with both hands. "Bloodstain in the back seat."

"You think that's how they moved her?"

"Front two airbags deployed."

"Maybe two perps."

"Maybe."

Did it feel ludicrous discussing the "murder" of the woman responsible for Agatha's pitiful condition? Add some all-consuming fury to that, and the answer would be yes. Would that stop her from humouring Harkness and her apparent True Crime passion? "But you don't like it." Rio took another big gulp of the beer, the distant bitterness a mild tingle in the back of her throat.

"My gut tells me they're related, but I can't shake this feeling I'm seeing it wrong."

Rio leaned forward, pressing her elbows against her thighs. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you remember why you hate me?"

Agatha seemed to mull the question over in her head. Rio was content to allow her the time to do so, fairly certain about the answer she'd receive. And she was proven right when the woman mumbled a "No."

Had Rio belonged to the kind that believed in a higher power, she'd have assumed this to be a sign from her stars or the like, the Universe conspiring to bring the two of them together again. The stuff of the romance novels; sweet, tempting and absolute brain rot.

Rio chugged the rest of her beer and jumped to her feet, stunning Agatha into silence. She nudged the woman's sprawled-out leg to make space for herself and plopped down on the couch beside her. "Can I ask you another question?"

"I don't think you're going to stop regardless of what I say, so sure."

"Is this really how you see yourself?" she repeated her question from earlier at the 'precinct.'

"This is the second time you're asking that. What do you mean?"

"I mean"—she inched closer to the woman and brushed a gentle finger on her cheek—"don't you think something is missing? Something that you had but no longer do?"

Agatha bit down on her bottom lip and peered at her from under her eyelashes, her green gaze resembling a siren's. "I don't think this is appropriate."

Rio blinked. "What?"

"We should maintain a professional relationship." Agatha averted her gaze and muttered something along the lines of, "At least for the duration of the case."

Professional relation for the duration of the case—what? Rio looked down, only now noticing the lack of gap between them. Agatha Harkness—the real one—would have concluded it as another power play or intimidation tactic. It was almost refreshing to be taken at face value. Never one to play safe, she stroked the nape of her neck, allowing a smirk to twist her lips. "Do you want to, though? Be professional, that is, Agatha?"

"I—" The noise of objects clattering on the upper floor shattered the moment snapped Agatha out of her trance. "I'll go...check that out." She tossed her one last glance and scurried out of the room with an adorable frown corrugating her forehead.

💜

Rio grew aware of Agatha breaking free of her "Agnes" shell the exact second it happened—or rather, the exact second she announced it to the unsuspecting people of Westview by strutting around her lawn, harried and very, very naked. A piece of news like that tended to travel extra fast. Oh, how she wished she'd been present for the performance! For blackmail purposes, of course!

Fighting her, attempting to stab her—because let's face it, Agatha Harkness was hardly ever exposed when not combatting the Scarlet Witch's mind-fuckery—was just because she could. And maybe a teensy bit because of her vengeful part overpowering the more docile side of herself.

Agatha should thank her lucky stars that it was Rio who found her first and not any of her Salem coven's witches. They'd have ripped her apart, limb by limb, and danced on her grave. At least, this way, there would be a body to bury.

But she couldn't do it, and she knew that long before Agatha conjured that pouty, doe-eyed face to convince her against killing the woman.

"You don't want me like this." Wrong. "Me without power. This is undignified." She exhaled a nervous chuckle. "Admit it. You prefer me—"

"Horizontal?" Rio smirked. "In a grave?"

Agatha's jaw clicked. "Formidable."

Rio stared at the nick she'd caused between her collarbones, the blood trickling down the spot a stark contrast against her pale skin that was now brighter and healthier since the previous night. "You know I'm not the only person that wants you dead, right? Or wants to see you burn. Or hang or drown."

"Is there another option?"

"Oh, yes, plenty! Do you want me to list them—"

"No, thank you. I'm good." Agatha visibly swallowed. "Tell you what?" She approached with uncharacteristic slow steps. "Let me get my purple back and you'll be the first person to know, I promise."

Cute. Rio hummed. "Or I could sit back and watch while they tear you apart. Body part..."—she ran her dagger along the crook of her neck and south of her cleavage, relishing in the way her breathing picked up—"...by body part." She took Agatha's palm, injured from when she'd sliced herself on the wrong side of the dagger in a laughable effort to snatch it from her. "I am going to tell them your location, FYI. Expect them to be knocking on your door by sundown."

"Who's 'they?'"

Rio scanned Agatha, head to toe. A Boho-chic robe that did nothing to hide her erect nipples and bare feet that did wonders for Rio's imagination. She smiled. "The Salem Seven," she said and licked at the cut, the blood tasting a perpetually curious mix of metallic and sweet on her tongue. She caressed the woman's left cheek, her mild surprise at Agatha's eyes falling shut being replaced by the rush of warmth all but consuming her.

"Take care, Agatha," Rio whispered, and she had every bit of intention to walk away, but then the woman's piercing gaze dropped to her lips, and well, she had never been particularly strong against her intrusive thoughts.

Watched the two-episode-premiere yesterday and oh my God???? The chemistry between Kathryn Hahn's and Aubrey Plaza's characters is so explosive, it punches through the screen and reels you in. I kid you not, on Agatha and Rio's first meeting at the "precinct," I legit thought they were exes—I'm still holding out hope because "my heart beats for you."

A tight-lipped groan made it out of Peter when the black sack was harshly pulled off his head. He rapidly blinked to adjust to the abrupt absence of darkness. He was pretty sure a look in the mirror would reveal a scrunched-up nose and a grimace contorting his features.

As it was, though, he'd have to make do with his ample imagination. The large goon currently glaring at him did not seem all that inclined to allow him out of the chair, much less produce a mirror to correct his appearance. He could feel his hair sticking out in every direction.

Sadly, that little tidbit of situational awareness had escaped his fellow kidnappee.

"Who the hell are you and where have you brought us?" Flash demanded. "Do you know who my father is? Trust me, this is not the first time someone has kidnapped me and my father hates it when I'm not home for dinner! He's gonna make you regret putting your hands on me! You're gonna be out of a job before you can say sorry!"

Was he trying to scare a bunch of criminals with unemployment?

Goon-number-two — shorter than the first but still huge enough to keep up the intimidating factor, hirsute hands and a sculpted moustache curlier than MJ's hair — took a menacing step forward, his burly arms crossed across his chest. He didn't threaten, or otherwise speak, but it still shut Flash up.

Small mercies.

"Eugene Thompson, right?" A third man entered. Significantly shorter than the other two, with an overall harmless appearance except for the smirk playing at the corner of his nicotine-stained lips. It made Peter's skin crawl. "Son of Harrington Thompson and Rose Thompson. Both respected lawyers, and currently vacationing in a rural village on the outskirts of Darjeeling, India with limited, close to no, available network service." The man bent to the boy's eye level. "Did I miss anything, Flash?"

No answer.

The man knew, much as Peter did, what the silence meant.

Main Goon — because it was evident who was in charge here — petted Flash's hair like one would a stranger's puppy in the park before straightening up to his full height. "But don't worry," he said with the same nasty smirk twisting his near-blackened lips, "You are of no interest to me. Keep your head down, don't cause too much trouble, and you'll be home by the end of the day, yeah?"

He didn't wait for Flash's response and turned his gaze on Peter. It was green and cold. "Hello, there, Peter!" He grinned, resembling a shark baring its teeth at its prey far too much for his comfort. "It's lovely to finally meet you!"

"Who are you?" He slipped a sliver of nervousness into his voice, just the right amount for the man to rule him out as a potential danger.

"I'm glad you asked. My name is Daniel Brooke, and I'm going to be your host for the next few hours." The man spoke in a gentle tone as false as Mr. Leons' black wig.

(The man was a natural blonde and the black wig clashed with his light eyebrows almost as much as Mr. Stark and "Secretary Nudnik", Mr. Stark's latest nickname for Thunderbolt Ross, did.)

"What do you want with us?"

"Another good question. You must be very popular with your teachers," Brooke said (never mind that Flash had demanded those exact same answers a mere few moments ago). The praising inflection set his teeth on edge. "I know your secret, Peter. That's right," he cooed when momentary fear passed through his face — this time, very, very real — before he schooled his features back into neutrality. "Your school may be stupid, your friends can be naïve, but not me. You can't fool me."

Peter swallowed thickly. "I don't have any secrets."

The man laughed. It was a shrill noise, and it clawed at Peter's senses like rusted metal scraping against bone. "That was an admirable attempt, Peter, but I'm afraid it missed your intended mark by a mile." Brooke grabbed the arms of the chair he was tied to, and bent down until he was at his eye level, similar to what he had done with Flash but a little more aggressive. Up this close, Peter noticed the yellow spots on his crooked teeth and the stench of bear that overpowered his otherwise pleasant cinnamon and sandalwood scent. "Your internship with Stark Industries, I know about that."

It took Peter a moment to register Brooke's words, but when he did, a weight that he hadn't even been aware of lifted off his shoulders. He exhaled a breath, shaky not because of his present predicament but because of the uncomfortable lack of distance between them.

Looking at him now, everything that had added to the sinister impression Brooke was so obviously going for, only made him seem a run-of-the-mill part-time villain involving himself in situations that demanded someone of a higher pay grade.

"It's not exactly a secret." Peter couldn't help it here. He'd spent the last few minutes shit-scared imagining all the different ways these people could hurt him if they knew about Spiderman: they could go after May, his friends. Hell, Flash, too. The boy was literally there.

What did they even want from him if it wasn't revenge from Spiderman?

"Yes, but people don't believe you, do they? But I do. I know you're telling the truth."

"Okay?" Peter wouldn't lie, he was a tad creeped out. "Why did that make you want to kidnap us?"

"Flash is collateral. I don't need him. Like I said, he keeps quiet and does what we ask, and he'll be dropped off at his home unharmed." Flash appeared nearly insulted at being waved away dismissively. What was up with people? Everybody was crazy, he decided. "I only want you."

"Why?"

Brooke frowned. "What do you think?" He made a series of pointless vague gestures. "Money, of course. I want Stark Industries to pay the ransom."

"You want a ransom," Peter repeated if only to ensure that he hadn't, all of a sudden, become hard of hearing. Brooke nodded. Okay, then. "You want Stark Industries, the leading tech company in the United States, to pay ransom and for that, you kidnap a lowly intern?"

"You're not a random intern!" Brooke screamed. He looked more offended on Peter's behalf than Peter, himself, was. "You're Stark's personal intern! I know!"

Peter was, honestly, getting tired of Brooke insisting he knew things. News flash, he didn't.

He inhaled a deep breath through his nose, ignored the smell of stale beer and the nearest drainage system that left a bitter taste in his mouth (sometimes, super senses were a bitch severe inconvenience) and let it out equally as slowly. "Even then, Stark Industries has a no-negotiation policy for kidnappings." Mr. Stark had it documented after Afghanistan. It was a whole thing. Considering that he was the only person in SI prone to being kidnapped, nobody else had more than half a trembling tree branch to stand on.

"I'm sure Stark will make an exception for you, seeing as the two of you are so close."

He could feel Flash's eyes burning into the side of his skull. Well, it wasn't like he had ever hidden it. If anything, it was the boy's fault for not believing him in the first place. "I wouldn't be so certain."

Mr. Stark wouldn't make an exception for him, he'd simply track his shoes down — there was a tracker in it; he knew, Mr. Stark knew that he knew, both of them pretended the other didn't — and blast his kidnappers to another continent.

Peter didn't say this from experience. Believe it or not, this was the first time he had been taken hostage for any reason. But Spiderman had been injured in multiple fights, and Mr Stark's mood tended to take a nosedive whenever he received a scratch on his body, and stab wounds unleashed a whole different monster. Entirely dramatic reactions on Mr. Stark's part but the man never listened to him.

So yes, this was a novel adventure for him.

"We'll see. Peter. We'll see." Brooke patted him on his shoulder and promptly walked away, gesturing his minions to follow after him before swinging his hands in a fashion that reminded Peter of his school's band march.

Left. Right. Left. Right.

Peter sighed. As amusing as watching the men was now, he was only prolonging the inevitable. He turned his head to the right, and sure enough, Flash was already staring at him, eyes wide, lips parted, breathing short and fast, his forehead practically inked with a bunch of question marks.

But first things first. "Flash, you need to calm down." The last thing he needed was a fellow kidnappee on the verge of a meltdown.

"You were telling the truth about being Tony Stark's intern?"

Wasn't it wonderful how it took a short, half-balding man with a severe case of bad breath to say it once for Flash to believe while Peter, his classmate, had been saying it since the end of sophomore year?

"I can't believe this!" And he was off with his rambling.

It was just as well. Peter needed to think, and he couldn't do that while having an ill-timed rapid-fire round with his school bully.

Okay, what did Mr. Stark always say? Chalk out the facts, identify the problem and brainstorm a solution.

Alright. Facts.

They were on their post-decathlon (which they won, in case anyone was interested to know) field trip — this time to Coney Island — when the team had opted to ride the longest roller coaster in the amusement park. Peter had refused for...reasons. It wasn't that he was terrified of heights (please, he was Spiderman), he was merely wary about the safety aspect.

Regardless, Peter had expected to be alone for the duration of the ride. Mr. Harrington had offered but he could see his teacher was pumped about the Cyclone, which was the name of the death trap, by the way. He would never have pegged Roger Harrington as a roller coaster kind of guy but to each their own, he supposed. In the end, Flash had generously given up a seat on the ride to "keep Peter company". Mr Harrington hadn't needed to be told twice.

Was it irresponsible of him to leave two kids alone while going off on a ride? At the time, it hadn't seemed all that dangerous.

He'd been wrong. That was precisely when a sack had been put over their head. His Peter-tingle had tingled, of course — God, May was rubbing off on him — but there was nothing he could have done without arousing suspicion.

And that brought them to his current situation.

Spiderman, snatched in broad daylight by a couple of small-time villains. His secret identity was a boon in times such as these, though it was hella stressful to maintain it.

Step two, identify the problem: He'd been kidnapped, he had a civilian to protect, and they needed to escape. How would he do that in a way that wouldn't instantly tip Flash off to his secret identity? As it was, some days, he felt as if Flash was a Spiderman stalker with how fluent and knowledgeable he was in Spiderman's activities.

Step three: solution. He had no clue how to approach this.

"Is that a StarkWatch-438?"

The non-sequitur grabbed his attention before he could carefully evade it. "What?"

"Your wristwatch! Is it a 438? How do you even have it? It launched less than a week ago and has a two-month wait period!"

How the heck did Flash even see his watch? His hands were tied behind him. "Does it matter right now?"

"Yeah, you're right," the boy muttered. Huh. Peter was going to mark this day in his calendar. "Use it."

"What?"

"Use it!"

Peter stared at him. Flash stared back. After a minute or two, the other boy made a noise of realisation. "You don't know how to use it, do you?"

"To read a watch? Yes, Flash, I do know how to read a watch."

"Not how to read it, dummy!" Flash snapped, but his voice contained much less venom than usual. "The panic button. Press the panic button."

Ah! Right, the panic button. Peter cleared his throat, but any and every reply suffered a premature death on his tongue. What would he say, in any case? He was aware of the panic button. He'd inspired it after one too many instances of fainting in a dark alleyway due to untreated stab wounds.

But he wouldn't use it. He couldn't. It would be embarrassing to have Iron Man come to Spiderman's rescue, even if nobody knew about the Spiderman bit.

"The signal would go to May, Flash! How do you think my Aunt would help this situation?" There, that ought to be a good excuse.

"She could alert the police?"

"Mr. Harrington would've already done that, I'm sure. Look, I have this under control, okay?" Or he would as soon as he figured out a way to get rid of the ropes confining his hands and escape with Flash without resorting to his Spidey strength.

Unfortunately — or fortunately, as Flash would later argue — the decision was made for him in the form of a red-and-gold blur crashing through the glass panes of the semi-constructed building they had been kept hostage in.

Flash squeaked, and Iron Man's head cocked as if regarding a particularly interesting creature. No, he wasn't looking at Flash.

"Peter Parker." The mechanical voice of the suit typically rendered all voice modulation flat, but this time, the unimpressed note eluded its filtering. See, this was how one made themselves a domineering and fearsome figure. Not with crooked teeth and too wide a smirk.

"I was about to call you—"

"It has been two hours and you still haven't pressed the panic button on the watch that you are wearing."

He was so grounded.

He hoped to hell and back that Mr. Stark wasn't actually in the suit. He'd do anything, God, please, just not a lecture in front of Flash. He'd never let him live it down.

The suit — because he was going to assume, for his sanity, that this was the suit and Mr Stark was commandeering it from within his lab miles away for a quick Underoos rescue before he had to get back to some or the other meeting and wouldn't have the opportunity to chew him out with an audience in attendance — made to approach Peter when he shook his head and nodded towards Flash. "Help him first."

A sigh. FRIDAY was messing with him, wasn't she? Both father and daughter had an equally snarky sense of humour.

Flash's ropes were off within twenty seconds. Peter's in less than that. Was Mr Stark aware of Flash bullying him?

This was a disaster in the making, wasn't it?

It only escalated from there when Daniel Brooke and his two loyal henchmen burst into the room, Brooke emphasising his insanity with a crazed "Hah!"

"I knew it!" The man crowed. "I knew you wouldn't leave your precious intern alone! I'd thought you'd concede to the ransom demand but this is even better!"

Iron Man tilted his head to the side again. "Who are you?" And this time, his voice was very, very flat.

"Daniel Brooke. You took everything from me! Now, I'm gonna take everything from you!"

"Hey, man, this wasn't the deal!" Goon-number-one objected.

"Silence, you imbeciles!" Brooke hissed. "And did I give the guns to you for show? Point them at the two boys, fools!"

The men exchanged a silent look and crossed their arms in a creepy synchrony. "We want our money. We don't care about your revenge." Oh, would you look at that? Not so loyal as Peter had initially thought.

"Ugh! I have to do everything around here!" This was a comedy show. "Stark, you listen to me, you ruined my business—"

"I don't even know who you are!" Iron Man's protest was more of a tired whine. The only thing missing was him stomping his foot like a child who'd just been denied living on ice cream.

"I am Daniel Brooke. Weren't you listening?" No, he wasn't, Peter was nearly eighty-four per cent sure. Mr. Stark was great at tuning unnecessary chatter out. And to him, almost everything anyone said qualified to be unnecessary chatter. Unless it was about science. Then you'd have his full attention. For a few minutes, at least. He got easily bored. "I used to supply sandwiches to HYDRA—"

"To HYDRA," Iron Man deadpanned.

"Yes, and you destroyed the base, and I lost all my income. My wife left me."

"That might be the beer stench," Goon-number-one muttered under his breath.

Peter snorted.

He was ignored.

Brooke was still prattling on. Peter settled in for a lengthy villainous monologue when Iron Man's repulsors went up and blasted the man in the face.

He went down like the Chitauri after Mr. Stark had destroyed their motherboard.

Probably not his best analogy.

The two goons immediately put their hands up in surrender, horror painted across their faces.

Iron Man, in response, simply tucked Peter and Flash under either arm and lobbed himself in the air, away from the building and towards home.

🩷

They dropped Flash on the street in front of his home first.

It was Mr. Stark inside the suit.

He got an extremely lengthy lecture.

And he was grounded.

At least, he didn't have to control himself from hurling his guts up due to the fling-a-fling of the roller coaster. His Spiderman identity also managed to remain safe.

Another day, another identity save.

All in a good day's work.