GREAT POWER

« charlie rowe, 23, he/him, comics (616) and films » ∙∙ loading case file for peter benjamin parker. known aliases, if any: spider-man. current location: new york, new york.  current occupation: grad student. he has been known to be brilliant and reckless, so proceed with caution. their current alliance: unaffiliated. (claire, 24, gmt, she/her)

♕ — The day had barely even started and Gwen could already feel a headache forming. As she waited for the elevator to arrive– classical hold music played through her airpods, she had been on hold for the last thirty minutes– she stepped out of the sneakers that she had worn travel quickly through the subway. From her bag, she retrieved the heels that better went with her work outfit and stepped into them when a voice finally appeared on the line. She pulled out the planner that she always carried with her flipping it open and let out a tired sigh. “No, I’m afraid to inform you that Mr. Stark will not be able to attend that event. That’s what I told your associate before I was placed on hold… please don’t— mother f–” The elevator dinged, the doors opened, and all she wanted to do was fling her phone against the wall that had suddenly appeared before her. . She wanted to work with a brilliant mind like Tony Stark- to learn- not deal with imbeciles who thought she was going to change her mind because they tested her patience.

♕ — Doing her best to compose herself, she simply hung up the phone and decided that she would try again later. She had other tasks to get done. She was about to step into the lift when her gaze finally met a familiar one and her heart stopped. And then all at once, it began to hammer in her chest. She had to be hallucinating. The third cup of coffee that her mother warned her not to drink that morning was catching up with her. “Is this some cruel joke,” she asked unable to stop her harsh tone. It couldn’t possibly be Peter. No, this was her guilt catching up with her. There was no way he was standing in front of her with that same bewildered expression that she had known so well.

&

He was nineteen. He had friends--plural--for the first time in his life. He had classes, the Bugle, Spider-Man. He was balancing three lives, and it was impossible, it should have been impossible, it should have killed him, but through it all, he had her. The pretty girl he met on the first day of college, the smartest person in their department, so far out of his league they weren’t even playing the same game, who had, despite every reason he’d given her to do the opposite, taken a chance on him. Held him steady. Given him a reason to cling onto Peter Parker when he had Spider-Man.

He was nineteen. The air was thick with early summer and hope. He was hopelessly in love with a girl named Gwen Stacy.

Tony looked over at his son and snorted as he tried to talk his way out of it. “They assume you’re dead if you down show up? Damn. I would have been screwed.” He walked across the lab to get a part that he’d been looking for. “But nah. More than that. I want the entire Daily Bugle. All or nothing.” Tony was about to comment on the coming after the rich remark, but instead, he took that opportunity to look up just in time to see Peter catch the wrench he’d been fiddling with, causing whatever he’d been about to say to die on his lips. Tony tilted his head and just looked at him for a moment. “Pete,” he raised a brow. “You good over there?” Tony gave him an amused look, not thinking too much into it. Peter’s reflexes had always seemed fairly impressive, especially in the last few years. Tony picked up up the tool he’d been looking for and laughed. “Wait. Simulated organic adhesives? What the hell does that even mean?” He sat on the stool across from Peter and picked up the gauntlet. “I’m intrigued, though. Even though my mind immediately went to like….synthetic tree sap or something.” He glanced up at Peter and smirked, “I’m kidding. Mostly. And watch where you’re jabbing that wrench, Parker,” he teased, looking down at the guy in question. “Eh. Yeah. I can’t figure out why it malfunctioned on a mission last week.” Tony handed one of the tools he’d finished with off to one of his bots. “Well.  No. It actually caused half of the suit to malfunction, but whatever. Might have to pick your brain on it later,” he commented, smirking, though he wasn’t looking at Peter anymore. “You know, if you can take a break from your super strength super glue.”

&

“And don’t answer emails. Or phone calls. But, in my defense, I couldn’t find my laptop charger, and my phone--” Got a bath in the East River when I was having it out with a human-shaped sandstorm “Uh, was out of commission.” It would have been so easy to ask Tony for newer stuff, nicer stuff, stuff not held together with scotch tape and sheer force of will. A new laptop and a new phone were nothing to Tony and dear to Peter, but they were his. He could deal with his problems himself, and the old bag of rice trick had come through for him again. As had his superhuman reflexes, apparently. He set the wrench on the table beside him and said, “Hm? Oh, yeah. All good, man. Lucky catch.”

For the first time in months, he had a free hour--maybe even two. No lab work, no discussion sections, no man in an animal-themed costume he had to chase through Times Square. He could have taken a nap (he could have really used a nap) or he could have called Aunt May (he really needed to call Aunt May) or he could have done his laundry (he really needed to do his laundry) but, of course, he’d left his backpack in Tony’s lab last time he’d been in, and this was probably the only chance Peter would have until April to retrieve it.

He could, at least, call May on the way (Peter Parker, professional multitasker!): Yes I’m feeding myself, yes that includes vegetables, yes school is going fine, no that’s not how PhDs work, no I’m not seeing anyone right now, yes I would tell you if there was someone, yes I’m still coming over for Shabbat. The Tower knew him by face and let him in without a face, which was both incredible and terrifying--Peter chose to ignore the way it tried to call him Mr. Stark, no matter how many times he’d asked to reprogram it--and he stayed on the phone as he breezed in, answering the same barrage of questions he answered every week.

And then the elevator doors slid open, and--no. No way. No fucking way. It must have been a trick of the light, but he blinked, and she was still there. Still solid. “May,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I have to call you back.”

status: open location: bar in chinatown

Glass beer bottles clinked together as the bartender on duty began to wipe down the countertops with a damp cloth. He uttered something about closing soon but John couldn’t hear him, too busy nursing the same glass of whiskey for the last half hour. He knew if he had any more to drink that evening he’d find himself in the ER with alcohol poisoning. Which, in retrospect, didn’t sound like a terrible place to be. Not after he was thrown out of the bar by a significantly larger man, who didn’t seem as keen as John to engage in amicable conversation. He’d settled onto the curb outside, his clothes tousled as he reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette. “Enjoy the show?” John asked before taking a long drag, blowing out the smoke slowly as he looked up at the bystander. “Don’t tell me you’re looking to bum a cigarette. Afraid it’s my last one. I suppose we could share if you’d like, granted you have something to offer in return.”

&

He didn’t often patrol through here--Daredevil had made it clear enough that there were some boundaries and Chinatown’s covered, thanks, Spidey--but a mugger had led to a car chase had led to a few bike thefts had led, well. Here. An alright night, all things considered, he thought. His muscles ached, his costume stuck to his neck and sides with more sweat and street grime than blood, for once. It was getting closer to morning than dark, which meant fewer hours spent tossing and turning and feigning sleep--and fewer hours of rest for when he dragged himself into the lab in the morning to at least one concerned stare from Connors. At least he didn’t have to TA a section--wait. Fuck. No, he definitely was supposed to be helping the freshmen with O-Chem in, rough guess, about six hours. Nice work, Parker. 

“You tried faking your death,” he repeated, momentarily stopping what he was working on to look over at his son. He snorted at Peter’s comment. “Pete, if all I’m getting is a full-page obituary in the Times, I haven’t been doing my job well enough.” Tony gave him an amused look before turning back to the Iron Man gauntlet he’d been fussing with all day. “It’s nothing too bad. Just a few charity galas I could literally just send a donation to instead of actually showing up. For some reason, they shoved them all in the week after Christmas and contrary to popular belief, I actually do have a social meter that runs out. But what’s that proposal for?” Tony looked up at him. “Unless it’s top secret and I’m not supposed to know.”

&

“I mean, it was more of a forget to show up to supervisions enough times that they just kinda assume you’re dead thing, so. Maybe not on purpose. But the point stands!” He drummed a hand against the workbench, picking up a wrench and reflexively twirling them between his fingers. “Oh, of course, you’re right. My bad. You deserve at least The Daily Bugle. Above the fold. Maybe even front page--not to brag, but I know a guy. Of you could just, I don’t know, put on your big boy pants and cash in on the philanthropy thing? When they come for the rich, they might even eat you last.” 

“Hypothetical question,” Tony began before the other person could even speak. “How effective do we think faking my death so I can get out of every social engagement I have until February would be?”

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