Angel's Lair

Peter felt it again while eating lunch with Ned. They were discussing a new Lego set to complete over the weekend, with Ned mentioning pulling an all-nighter at his place to complete it in one sitting. Peter had been tuning out his “danger sense” after making eye contact with Flash across the lunchroom, but this new feeling overwhelmed the other. He had been in the middle of shoveling terrible cafeteria spaghetti into his mouth, and his plastic fork never made it to his lips.

Warmth spread across his chest, up into his shoulders and down past his ribs. He sat up, tried (and failed) not to look panicked as it made its way to the tips of his fingers. What panicked him more than the feeling itself was the fact that he didn’t feel panicked like the other sense made him. He was calm. He felt safe. Safe, in high school, of all things.

Flash staring daggers into the back of his head not withstanding.

Peter ignored Ned’s question of “Hey, what’s up?” to look over his shoulder and around the lunchroom. Aside from MJ making eye contact and flipping him the  bird, there was nothing that should have garnered his attention. Classmates and underclassmen carried their trays to their tables, or took them outside to sit in the sun, and the lunch ladies were busy cleaning off tables and taking away empty trays.

It was normal level of activity for a high school cafeteria. What was his body picking up on that he wasn’t?

“Hey, uh, Pete?” A rushed tapping on Peter’s worn plaid sleeve caught his attention from his classmates. Peter tore his eyes away from the busy room to his best friend, looking a little bug-eyed at something to Peter’s right. “Did you piss off our resident delinquent?”

“Did I what?” Peter asked. Ned grit his teeth and pointed a shaky finger over Peter’s other shoulder.

Peter wasn’t subtle in glancing, but he did feel his heart stutter when he locked eyes with the last person he wanted to be involved with: Tony Stark, local heir to a multi-billion dollar company, party junkie, and overall bane to the NYPD’s existence. The fact that his father hadn’t publicly disowned his own son was a testament to how dedicated his family was to their “legacy.”

And said heir to that legacy was giving Peter the most intense glare he had ever been subjected to. The boy was hunched over whatever concoction his family’s chef had whipped together for him, currently going untouched in favor of narrowing his eyes and burning a hole into the back of Peter’s head. Peter could hear the leather of Tony’s jacket creak from across the room when he lifted his hands from the table and folded them in front of his mouth.

Peter turned so violently back to Ned that he was sure that cracking sound he heard was his own neck.

“Great, now two people want me dead,” he groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve barely said ten words to the guy! The most interaction we’ve had was me asking him to borrow a pencil in shop because I left mine in my locker.”

“How many words did you use?”

Peter flicked what might have been a chunk of beef at his friend. “Not funny.”

—

Peter had to wait for May to fall asleep to go on patrol tonight. She had wanted to watch movies together, and Peter loved spending time with her, but his skin itched to get out and swing between buildings, catch a few purse-snatchers, and breathe. Their apartment in Queens was small and comfortable, but there were some days where he felt suffocated in his little bedroom. He needed space, to feel free.

And after tucking May into bed and making sure his own door was closed and the lights turned off, Peter was out and flying through the air, homemade suit and mask covering his features.

The webbing he made was a new formula, meant to be stronger and dissolve faster. He had gotten the rate down to less than fours hours now, which lowered the cops’ chance of using the leftover webs to track him down. They hadn’t gotten close yet, but there was no need to leave it to chance.

It was a slow night tonight. One mugger, and he had been so easy to web up into a wall that Peter wondered if it was his first time doing it. The old lady he saved had given him a cherry-flavored cough drop as a reward, and Peter sucked thoughtfully on it while swinging and landing on the top of an apartment complex.

A deep breath in brought with it the smell of roasting coffee beans from the coffee shop across the street. Peter didn’t drink the stuff, but the smell of it was divine. It was one of his favorite places to take a breather during his patrol.

Peter was halfway through his cough drop and still breathing in the scent of a freshly-made latte when he felt it again: that warmth in his chest, tingling out towards his fingertips. He started, up on his feet, mask hastily and clumsily pulled down and over his face.

He turned in time to see a figure climb up over the edge of the roof’s barrier, pause, and then jump down and land heavily on its feet. Peter’s fingers found the trigger to his webshooters. He was already calculating his potential escape as the figure stepped further into view, and he could make out more details.

It was male, if the skin-tight armor said anything about him. And “armor” was a proper term. It was thin and flexible, moving with each minute gesture of the figure’s body, but there was no mistaking that it was made of some type of metal. Deep crimson with gold inlays and plating on his sides and the inner plating of his arms and legs. His mask portrayed a scowling gold face amongst the crimson, but its eyes were bright blue slits.

His counterpart had money, if not the most insane technical skills Peter had ever seen. And he had to be the source of the feeling in Peter’s chest.

Peter wasn’t given an opportunity to speak. The figure stepped up so closely that he felt the compulsion to step back.

The mask glanced down, head cocked, and Peter felt very self-conscious. He crossed his arms across his chest, hands tucked securely in his armpits, and took two more steps back.

“Um, c-can I help you?” he asked. He did his best not to wince when his voice cracked and cleared his throat.

“You’re like me,” came the reply. The voice was unrecognizable behind a filter that gave it a metallic rasp. “I can feel it. I thought I was going crazy, but I’m not. I’m not crazy!”

“Yeah, sure.” Peter took another step. “Um, I’m gonna go.”

“Hold it, Parker!”

Fingers wrapped around his arm as he turned to move away, hand already outstretched to cast a web and pull himself off the room. Something else curled into his chest, fear, panic, making his heart race into his throat. Peter whipped around and tore his arm from the stranger’s grip. He nearly choked on the cough drop still lingering between his teeth and cheek.

How do you know who I am? He wanted to ask. He wanted to grab the figure and slam him against the nearest wall and demand answers from him. Peter had been so careful. How did someone already know?

“Oscorp, right?” the figure asked. He held his hands palm-out in front of Peter. Was he trying to reassure or calm Peter down? “The, the spiders. The little red spiders, right? You got bit, didn’t you?”

Peter’s mouth went dry. “How do you”—

“Me too!” The figure’s voice went high, and he patted the side of his neck. “It crawled into my jacket while I was visiting with my dad. Where did you get bit?”

Peter pointed weakly to the back of his left hand. The stranger immediately grabbed it, turning it over and finding the webshooters. He touched the trigger and jumped back when the webbing shot out and attached to his chest.

“Whoa! So that’s how you did it. I saw you swinging around, earlier. Wait, did you make this?”

“Who even are you?” Peter asked, stepping away again and disconnecting himself. “How do you know about the spiders at Oscorp?”

“Oh. Sorry, um, allow me to introduce myself. We’ve met before, though.”

The figure stepped back but remained in the light. He lifted his arm up and Peter was grateful his mask hid the way he gaped at the command board that projected from the bracer. The figure tapped at it, inputting a few commands for his suit. Peter swallowed the cough drop whole.