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kitcat992 · 1 month ago

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Identity Within︱Moments That Matter: Chapter 12, Wedding Crashers

As Identity Within progresses, I'm finding that each chapter gets more dense and packed with fanficy goodness; and at this point there's not an single soul in the world who can tell me I need brevity in my writing — because for years this saga has played out in my head like movies without a screen to watch them on. And I refuse to shorten things now for the sake of brevity.

That said, with the wild ride that life is taking me on — and with my free time to write killing my speed for updates, I understand there can be a bit of a memory gap for the average reader who doesn't spend every waking moment of her day thinking about this fic like I do 😅

So I decided that as I go about writing, it'd be fun to refer back moments that matter in the next chapter to come.

This story finally has its foundation to stand on, and getting to develop all the plots that were planted as seeds many chapters ago brings me so much excitement. I wanted to share that excitement with you as I write the most recent chapter, "Wedding Crashers."

#Brevity is for the weak.

─────── Identity Theft︱Chapter 8: Afterparty ───────

Before Wanda could say anything, Tony’s voice cut through their conversation — everyone's conversations, all the way from the entrance of the lounge.

“Just got a phone call from the lovely folks over at SHIELD," he announced, his tone betraying the kindness of his words.

As if that weren't enough, Peter couldn't help but notice the grumpy look on his face. He immediately straightened himself on the sofa, his curiosity getting the better of him as the group huddled together across the lounge.

Peter didn't follow them, but he couldn't help listening from where he sat.

“Something tells me they weren’t just checking in," Rhodey mentioned, looking up from his laptop with a frown.

Tony sighed — it was one of the few sighs he gave that could be felt across the compound. If he hadn't caught everyone's attention before, he certainly did now.

"Reports came back on the Awesome Android," he started to say, gesturing his phone in the air before pocketing it away in his back pocket.

“Hey!” Peter never did know when to keep his mouth shut. “You used his name!"

Tony's eye-roll could be seen across the lounge.

"Yeah, kid, well — creature 151963-2861988.27 was a bit of a mouthful.”

“What’d they have to say?” Clint hit this cue stick on the pool table, the echo of balls knocking around overtaken by his voice.

The look Tony proceeded to give Peter was strong enough to burn through steal. His eyes said it all — 'go find something else to do, kid' and Peter didn't waste a minute before turning back to his phone — what he could, anyhow, given that Wanda was now holding it and scrolling through the playlist with a sense of giddiness not even he could match.

Tony purposefully waited until Peter wasn't paying attention before turning back to the group.

“Property of OsCorp," he said, his voice lower than before — but tense, all the same.

Clint's billiard balls rattled against one another as he hit his cue stick again, this time no words following the sound.

Rhodey immediately turned away from his laptop, lowering the screen a tad bit to get a better look at Tony.

“OsCorp?” he repeated, locking eyes dead set on Tony.

“They’re claiming it was an experiment of theirs gone haywire," Tony explained, working his jaw before continuing. "They accepted responsibility, promised to pay the fines — the whole nine yards."

“You buy that?" Bruce hesitatingly put his drink down on the kitchen counter, his brows knitting tightly in the middle. "That — that it was an experiment gone haywire?”

Tony's scoff was hard enough to cause an earthquake. Even Clint hesitated on the next hit of billiard balls, his cue stick pulled back but his arm holding in place as he waited for Tony's answer.

“With OsCorp?” Tony shook his head, firmly. “Hell no. I wouldn’t buy their shit even if it was manure.”

Vision — who had otherwise kept to himself without Wanda around — approached the kitchen with slow, steady steps.

“It is interesting,” he spoke up, his calm demeanor breaking through. The group turned to look at him — sans Clint, who smacked his pool stick with an accuracy that had all balls sliding into the corner pockets. “A creature who has the ability to absorb superhuman powers appears not long after your new device, The Chameleon helmet, has gone missing. Presumably at the hands of a man who could, possibly, teleport.”

When summarized like that, Tony had no choice but to consider the possibility.

A long, low whistle sounded from Sam.

“That’s a lot of coincidences to string together," he said, popping open the cap to a cold beer bottle and tossing the lid into the trash.

Natasha folded her arms across her chest as she stared at Vision, though she looked to be deep in thought more than anything else.

“You think OsCorp is at fault for stealing the helmet, Vis?” she finally asked, quietly — not the only one to ensure Peter didn't hear the conversation.

Vision simply shook his head.

“I do not think so." A long pause followed his next words. "I simply think it is odd. It does not…sit right with me.”

Tony watched from the corner of his eye as Peter sat up from the couch — he was about to say something about him trying to eavesdrop when he realized the kid was taking a phone call, pacing nervously as his hands waved about and he talked frantically to the person on the other line.

“Well, join the club there, buddy," Tony finally said, matching Natasha's own stance with his arms folding across his chest. He turned his head away, forcing his jaw to unclench so he could speak again. “Nothing OsCorp does sits right with me.”

─────── Identity Theft︱Chapter 16: Smoke and Mirrors ───────

Between the fog, dust, and dim lights, Tony almost didn’t notice the open door on his right. He had initially jogged past it, focused straight ahead on the nauseating stream of scarlet.

The faint shimmering glint that reflected in the corner of his eyes ultimately caught his attention. He back-tracked his steps, first looking inside the room before immediately walking to the source, his heavy boots echoing in the vacant space.

"What in the living hell..." his breath lodged in his throat. "Chitauri heads?"

Before Tony had even finished the thought, he was picking up one of the skulls. His eyes narrowed in confusion and disbelief.

It felt as heavy in his hands as it did the day in Brooklyn.

Turning it around, he noticed the dismembered alien head had large gaps on each side. Looking back down on the table he'd retrieved it from, he saw many mechanical wings scattered about.

“What the hell,” Tony cursed out loud, dropping the offensive thing back on the table. The heavy metal landed with a thud, a cloud of dust rising up to his face from the impact.

There were many of them, more than he wanted to count. Most were disassembled from how he originally saw them, the metal wings laying discarded and unused.

Which meant the ones they fought a few days ago…

‘Un-fucking-believeable...they were behind it all,' Tony realized. 'The lured us straight into their trap, and we fell right for it.’

Peter’s encounter in Times Square, the stolen chameleon helmet, the attack on the Brooklyn bridge with the reassembled Chitauri heads — that was them. All of it.

They had this plan in the works long before Spider-Man went into that warehouse.

That damn Russian had been scheming this for months, and what really had Tony’s blood boiling — Dmitri had been doing from inside his business, from inside Stark Industries and the Avengers compound.

Right under his nose.

For all he knew, that was how they got the alien tech. Assuming OsCorp hadn’t already been sitting on it. He could barely keep his hands from shaking, quivering, barely containing the mounting rage as he looked around for any more evidence. His helmet illuminated a large stack of documents, some having fallen on the floor, most cluttered about.

Tony reached for the top stack, straining to read the papers through the flickering lights.

OsCorp Industries: Subject AA 1963 Artificial Intelligence Conducted by: Dr. Julius REDACTED Archives: Subject AA1963 created under the supervision and expertise of Dr. Julius REDACTED. Objective: Create and obtain an artificial life-form. With the use of synthesis ape DNA and REDACTED molecules, SubjectAA1963 was incorporated into an almost indestructible body with a microcomputer and a solar-power source on date REDACTED. Further enhancements successful, SubjectAA1963 has shown to be able to absorb additional abilities such as musical traits and animalistic traits. SubjectAA1963 has been exposed to mutated abilities and mimicked the powers almost precisely. Will emit close-range gale-force wind blasts from its mouth. Portrays signs of superhuman strength and durability. Little to know comprehensions of human life. A collection of nerve ganglia has been installed underneath SubjectAA1963’s left underarm as a fail-safe, where weakness is indisputable in situations of unmanageable temperament.

If the document wasn’t enough proof for him, the pictures behind the pages did the trick. Tony pulled apart the paperclip that attached the numerous, glossy photos to the file folder.

He shook his head. While OsCorp had taken responsibility for Awesome Android’s attack on the Collar City Bridge, they never had the gumption to say he had been created here. In fact, they all but shrugged the incident away with a wad of cash to the city.

Looking through the rest of the project file, Tony determined they must have taken the creature with them when the government shut down the bunker's operations.

‘Which means OsCorp let the damn rock-monster loose, not Dmitri and Klum.’ Tony tossed the papers aside and hastily skimmed through the next stack with curiosity. ‘What kind of shady shit is Norman Osborn up to.’

Despite his hesitation, Tony flipped through each paper, skimming the crucial words to catch the gist of the reports. Things like clone technology stood out to him, the details horrifying in how they achieved their results.

However, weaponry like flying gliders that contained heat-seeking smart missiles, grenade’s under the code-name Pumpkin Bomb — they, unfortunately, didn’t catch his interest too much. Stark Industries had built their name off of much worse things.

Tony settled on the last bundle of reports.

OsCorp Industries: Adamantium Metal Chemical Element Genesis Conducted by: Dr. Myron MacClain, Metallurgist Materials Science and Engineering, Metallurgical Engineering The department of Materials Science and Engineering and Metallurgical Engineering of OsCorp Industries has been striving for roughly two and a half decades in creating a replica of Vibranium, a metal alloy found only in the North East Africa country Wakanda. Note: All Wakandian’s have been uncooperative in aiding with this research, both under the rule of King Azzuri and King T'Chaka. At the instruction of Norman Osborn, we are to move forward without seeking the approval of King T'Challa. Research first conducted in the attempts to recreate the vibration absorbing effect that Vibranium, further noted as Element Vb, had obtained. Lacking Element Vb to analysis, the genesis of Adamantium, further noted as Element Ad, was conducted without research correlation. Objective: Create a stable molecular structure that is virtually impossible to destroy. Original attempts used the components REDACTED, REDACTED, REDACTED, REDACTED, REDACTED, REDACTED. Final and successful components originate from the metal derived from meteor debris obtained during failed flight trip to Planet Zero. It is hypothesized that the cosmic rays the meteor debris had been exposed to created unbindable ions and metallic polymers. Scientist and provider of the debris Reed Richards has refused to contribute any further to the experiment. Successful completion of Adamantium, Element Ad: Research conducted on Test1838, ie: Final and successful test of Element Ad, proved to be prospering. In its solid form, Element Ad can be described as a dark, shiny gray like high-grade steel or titanium. It is almost impossible to destroy or fracture in this state, and when molded to a sharp edge, it can penetrate most lesser materials with minimal force. Against most objects and force, it has proven to be unbreakable. At current stage of testing, Element Ad has not been trialed against Element Vb. As such, it cannot be labeled as completely unbreakable. Hypothesis: Element Vb will still shatter the metal.

Tony didn’t like what he was seeing, unable to deny the bout of nerves that came fluttering up at the concept of a metal similar to Vibranium. He huffed, tossing the document aside for another one.

‘Adamantium...so, the word adamant. How original.’ There was no way OsCorp was creating a competitor to Vibranium and planning on using it for the good of mankind.

Pushing a couple of Chitauri heads aside, he obtained the last stack of files, brushing off the dust with his metal-gloved hand to better read the information.

OsCorp Industries: Experiment X Program Genetic Research Conducted by: Professor Andre Thorton. Assisting, Dr. Abraham Cornelius, Dr. Carol Hines, and Dr. Dale Rice. Subjects Participating: • Subject James Howlett. • Subject Victor Creed. • Subject Wade Wilson. • Subject Christoph Nord. Program under operation of Department K, location Ontario, Canada. Experiments conducted within REDACTED. Transfer of program to OsCorp Industries, Manhattan, NY : Denied. OsCorp Industries sought approval to assist in program with team of scientist onsite. Awaiting approval from Bio-med and Board of Directors. Archives Adamantium-skeletal bonding: Subject James Howlett, code name: Wolverine. Subject has shown signs of natural mutated physiology in regenerative abilities. Experiment in genetic enhancement of biological skeleton. Process of experiment involving liquidation of Adamantium metal and injection into bone marrow of subject. Methods used: REDACTED. Analysis: Adamantium metal has bonded to organic material. Result: Success. ATTN: Subject Wolverine MIA. Whereabouts: Unknown. Chemically created regenerative abilities: Subject Wade Wilson. Mercenary and assassin, naturally fast reflexes, no known natural mutated physiology. Subject victim to terminal cancer of unknown origin. Experiment in genetic enhancement of regenerative abilities. Objective: Allow neutrophil cells and leukocytes cells to rapidly heal and/or disregard cancerous cells in attempt to achieve longer lifespan. Methods used: REDACTED. Result: In Process. Adamantium-skeletal bonding: Subject Victor Creed, code name: Sabertooth. Subject has shown signs of natural mutated physiology in regenerative abilities, enhanced hearing and sight with primal instincts similar to wild animals. Physical attributes are beyond human levels. Experiment in genetic enhancement of biological skeleton. Process of experiment involving artificial improvements to subject’s physiology, liquidation of Adamantium metal and injection into bone marrow. Methods used: REDACTED. Analysis: Adamantium metal has bonded to organic material. Subject has shown increased strength and accelerated healing factor. Result: Success.

“What the fuck.”

Tony had seen enough. He dropped the documents like they'd caught on fire.

He knew for years now that OsCorp was into some shady shit, they had always been on his radar of competitors to keep an eye on. But this? Aggressive AI’s, generic Vibranium, inhumane experiments?

It was light years far beyond his expectation —that comprehension didn’t even exist.

If the building wasn’t making Tony's skin crawl before, it certainly was now. But he’d take the information and deal with it later.

Right now, he needed to get Peter, his team and himself the hell out of here. Before anything worse happened.

─────── Identity Theft︱Chapter 29: Breaking the Cycle of Shame ───────

“Hold up.” Tony stopped him, his hand outstretched before he could go any further. “You might want to look a little further in that box first.”

Bent over with the box between both hands, Peter craned his head up at Tony, his brows furrowed. Tony had gone back to staring at the stairway banister, the attempt at managing his discomfort more than obvious.

Slowly and cautiously, Peter sat up straight, letting the box rest against his thighs. The two lapsed into silence as he rummaged around the bundles of red and blue tissue paper, his fingers scraping the bottom of the cardboard. He froze when he finally gripped onto the additional item inside, carefully and slowly bringing it out to see.

It was a sleek, thin black watch — or at least, it looked that way. But there was no case to the band, no circular or even square window where a clock could be displayed and time could be shown.

Peter tilted his head to the side, turning the bracelet over in his hands. “What's this?”

Tony cleared his throat, sniffed his nose in a way that sounded painful, drummed his fingers against the armrest of the sofa — all the things he normally did when uncomfortable. He even went to push up the sunglasses he hadn’t been wearing, his hand smoothing back his hair to cover for the mistake.

“I was inspired by that little Starkbits illusion you had going on,” he eventually explained.

Peter frowned, glancing up at Tony before looking back down at the thin, metal bracelet. He vaguely recalled the memory, most of the details having come second-hand from sources like Mr. Stark and Bruce, the two sharing the story with a hearty chuckle.

Still, those had been high-tech casts for his broken wrists. Bone stabilizing devices, Tony had called them. What could this possibly be —?

“It’s a panic watch, directly connected to me,” Tony answered, as if reading his thoughts. He lifted his arm, showing off the same sleek, black bracelet strapped around his wrist. “So if anything happens to you — earth, wind, rain or shine, you can reach out to me.”

The information floored Peter, his throat tightening in a way that made it hard to speak.

“Wow, this is...I-I don’t know what to say...” his voice cracked, forcing him to swallow hard before looking up at Tony. “Why?”

“Why?” Tony echoed.

Peter quickly shook his head.

“Not that I’m not flattered! Or-or appreciative, ‘cause I am. Like, this is awesome, really. I’m just...confused,” his tone swirled in the same pattern that his head spun. “You can monitor the suit, right? Or is this about that nanite mist in the base? Would this even work with that nanite mist? Or is this —”

Tony held a hand in the air, desperate to stop the rapid-fire onslaught of words.

“I’m going to give this to you straight, Pete. No chaser. You good, you able to handle that?” Tony didn’t even let the kid respond before jumping right back in. “Good, that’s what I thought.”

With one fluid motion, he lifted his arm in the air again, his other hand tapping on his own wrist bracelet.

“This works both ways,” he diligently explained. “It’s not just about me keeping tabs on you — you hit a dead ringer, we got the suit for that. This is for non-Spider-Man business. If you’re in trouble, it reaches out to me. And if I’m in trouble, it’ll reach out to you. I want you to feel a part of the team, to feel safe. And I don’t mean that solely to the physical concern.”

The recognition seemed to hit Peter long before Tony had finished, his eyes clouding over in a way Tony could really only describe as shame. He almost wanted to hit the metaphorical back button, undo what he had said and go back to laughing at stupid bunny ear photos.

And yet Wilson, the naggy little shit he was, pestered relentlessness in his ear that this needed to be done, these things needed to be said.

Peter seemed to take it a like a champ, and exactly how Tony expected him to — by deflecting.

“Oh! That’s — I’m-I’m good, Mr. Stark,” he insisted, still twirling the bracelet in his hands. “I’m fine, really. Everyone’s been, ya know...checkin’ up on me. I’m fine, really.”

Tony nodded, firmly. He pretended not to notice the bob in Peter’s throat, or the way he fidgeted with the bracelet as he fidgeted with anything else he could get his hands on during times of high anxiety.

There was no point in calling him out on it right now — it was his birthday, or so they celebrated the day as such.

Wilson was right, the kid needed to go at this on his own pace. Tony searched Peter’s eyes, those wide, absurdly trusting eyes that stared back at him as if he could solve all the problems in the world.

“That’s okay, that’s great. If you’re fine today, that’s great. But on the days you’re not, I’m here to help. We all are.” Tony dipped his chin low, hand braced against Peter’s arm to gain his attention. “And I’m not the best listener, Peter. But I’m here. I understand.”

The words came out with more ease than Tony ever could have anticipated, much smoother than the numerous practice talks he had with FRIDAY in his lab. He distantly wondered if it was premature to declare how natural this felt for him now, this whole mentor nonsense he took on finally gaining the right trajectory it had needed.

For the sake of not jinxing things, Tony decided to push the thought away. He was just happy the bout of nerves he'd itially felt when beginning the conversation seemed to vanish, or at the very most transfer over to Peter.

The kid nodded with a sense of insecurity pouring through every fiber of his begin.

“Thanks. Really, thanks, that...it means a lot.” Peter’s mouth upturned slightly, his gaze fixed on Tony. “I just...I kinda just want things to go back to normal though. Ya know?”

Tony nodded, patting his arm before pulling away. “Well, that’s going to be kinda hard. What with your training and you staying here on the weekends —”

“Wait, what?” Peter nearly dropped the panic watch, fumbling to gather it back into his hands. “What – what are you talking about?”

“Training,” Tony repeated with a pop of his lips, leaning casually back onto the sofa. “We got to get you up to par with the others. Plus you’re pretty useful in the lab and mentoring you from upstate is just exhausting.”

Peter let out a nervous chuckle, waving him off. “Ah that’s – that’s okay Mr. Stark, you don’t need to do that.”

“I’m sorry, did you think this was up for negotiation?” Tony crossed his arms over his chest and his leg over his other knee. “‘Cause it’s not. You know why? It was all Aunt Hotties idea.”

Peter gaped. He had been home with May for weeks, they had talked about all sorts of things together – he couldn’t believe she hadn’t mentioned this of all things to him yet.

Of course, she was the better of the two of them at keeping secrets.

He rubbed at the nape of his neck, tucking that memory away in his ‘do not access embarrassing moments’ folder.

“I still don’t know if I’m...” his voice oscillated somewhere enthused and uncertain, muttered under his breath while he gnawed on his lip. “Ya know, ready. To be an Avenger.”

Tony patted the back of his hand playfully against his arm.

“Good thing you’re PRN, then. As needed, remember?” He fiddled with the functions to his own watch, scrolling through a couple holographic menus while he spoke. “Plus, you’ve got your quarters here. Can’t let that space go to waste.”

Before Peter could respond, the panic watch in his hands lit up, syncing simultaneously with Tony’s. Both devices chirped, beeped, and blinked a red light before dimming away with soft blue, eventually returning to their sleek black state altogether.

Peter grinned, eagerly strapping it around his own wrist. It fit perfectly, snug yet comfortable. He couldn’t help but think about how much Ned was going to flip when he saw this.

“Consider it partial custody, kid,” Tony said, hand clasping on his shoulder. “You’re ours now.”

Peter looked up at him, all smiles.

Tony smiled back, at least until his eyes focused away from Peter and to the doorway behind him. Despite his best efforts, the grin fell off his face when Rhodey came walking into the common room, dressed in his military blues with his cap tucked underneath his arm.

“Hey,” Tony said, never once looking away from the doorway, “you mind grabbing me a piece of cake before Hawkeye over there becomes an endangered species at the hands of diabetes?”

Peter nodded, still fascinated with his new wrist device to notice anything was amiss. He departed for the kitchen and Tony shot up from the sofa, quick to cross the path of the room where Rhodey stood.

“Looking handsome as ever, Honey Bear,” Tony complimented, motioning with a casual wave to the crisp, iron-pressed military blues Rhodey wore. His demeanor, however, grew serious. “What’d you find out?”

Rhodey loosened his black tie a smidgen, shaking his head. “C’mon, Tones. Not here, not in front of the kid.”

Still staring at Rhodey, Tony lifted his hand and snapped his fingers to the side, right as Wanda walked by. The girl was carrying a plate overloaded with food, surely for Peter.

“Wanda,” he turned to look at her, “do us a favor?”

His eyes did the talking for him. He looked from Wanda to the kitchen where Peter stood, busy talking with Vision.

She opened her mouth in protest, but got the hint rather quickly. Though less than pleased, she nodded and retreated towards the kitchen to keep Peter distracted.

Rhodey’s eye twitched in a way only Tony’s incessant annoyance could cause. “You have the patience of a toddler.”

“While I don’t disagree with you on that particular observation,” Natasha approached them, her expression solemn. “I have to admit I’m eager myself to hear what the bastards had to say.”

Rhodey and Tony looked to their left, Natasha taking long strides in her walk with the entire group hot on her tail, even Steve having rejoined. They converged together towards the room’s entrance in a clearly unconspicuous way.

Steve shot a look into the kitchen, eyebrows dipping in worry. Though Wanda seemed to be doing a decent job at distracting Peter, he knew the whole enhanced-hearing deal made it difficult for private conversations. Plus, even he could feel the strung-out, high electricity tension building between them all.

Peter was a smart kid, there was no keeping him in the dark for long.

“Guys, we should discuss this at a later time,” Steve pressed.

“You’re right,” Tony said, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re absolutely right, we should definitely discuss the nitty gritty details at a later time. But for now — and please pardon my impatience building on the anticipation of the United States Air Force weapons procurement liaison division filing a subpoena against OsCorp industries so that they could explain, on the record, how their increasingly dangerous experiments are justified under research standards — I’d like to hear what the court had to say.”

Rhodey bit back his response, all the eyes staring his way putting him at a brief loss. Even Bruce was seemingly curious for an answer.

Though he wanted to say something about Tony expending all the air that inflated his ego down to his lungs for such a ramble, Rhodey instead let out a long, drawn-out sigh.

“The case was thrown out. It’s in their favor.”

Tony physically balked, his body practically jolting forward. “What do you mean it’s in their favor?”

“That’s messed up,” Clint muttered.

Tony shook his head. “You’re telling me I get grade-a shit for building the Iron Man armor and yet these ass-wipes are free to create sentient beings like the damn rock android, no repercussions whatsoever? Not to mention SHIELD knew they were performing highly illegal experimentation’s like Klum’s teleportation abilities and the flying Chitauri heads. How —”

Rhodey held two hands in the air. “The judge declared that the indictment we sought out doesn’t have grounds for reason. OsCorp claims they’ve reconstructed their projects into a more educational stand-point.”

Bruce scoffed. “Gotta give them points for thinking on their feet,” he said, removing his glasses to clean the lenses with the bottom hem of his shirt.

“That’s horse shit,” Tony hissed. “You can’t just slap an ‘educational’ sticker on something and call it a day.”

Rhodey nodded. “I don’t disagree. But they have a valid point, we don’t have ground to stand on. Everything we have against them is mostly hearsay, those documents you found are word of mouth. No solid evidence.”

“Tony has a point,” Natasha chimed in, ignoring Tony’s exaggerated look of shock towards her agreement. “What about the rock android nearly destroying the Collar City Bridge, or the reassembled Chitauri heads that blew a hole near Main Street Park? That should be enough cause for concern.”

Clint winced, half-shrugging. “Think about it, though. The most damage those freaky flying Chitauri heads managed to do was blow up St. Annes, which was already an abandoned building.”

“Yeah, thanks to us,” Sam reminded them, his tone indignant. “We contained that catastrophe before it blew up all of Brooklyn Heights.”

Bruce slid his glasses back onto his face. “And OsCorp proceeded to pay the damages and fines caused by Awesome Android. Not to mention, SHIELD still hasn’t come out and said one way or the other who stole and reassembled the Chitauri heads.”

“Rhodey and Bruce are right.” Steve sighed, his chin low to his chest. “According to Doctor Strange, Francis Klum was sent to another dimension. And we all know what happened to Dmitri. They’re getting away with this on the same grounds we got away with lying to SHIELD about the undersea bunker rescue mission. There’s no proof.”

Rhodey pessimistically nodded, no happier than the others at what he had to say. “Scientific research. That’s what they’re calling it. Nothing they’re doing right now can be deemed illegal.”

“But risky,” Peter spoke up.

Everyone turned to look at him, all seemingly at once.

Peter had stepped forward, Wanda not far behind. Her expression fell guilty, silently speaking an apology to Tony for not being able to hold him back.

Even if he wanted to, Tony didn’t have time to berate her. Steve was already crossing the path to the kitchen, failing stupendously at acting nonchalant.

“Hey, champ, why don’t you —”

“My class went on a field trip there. To OsCorp.” Peter came closer to the threshold, fingers fidgeting together. “They uh, they are actually...pretty educational. Showed us a whole bunch of stuff. Regenerative cloning of animal limbs, unlimited solar energy, bio-cable mechanisms…radioactive spiders.”

Tony shot his head over fast enough to give himself whiplash.

Steve froze in his steps, head cocking to the side at the realization. “That’s how you got your abilities.”

Peter nodded, the small movement timid and jerky. “One of them got loose. Bit me.”

Tony’s jaw clenched painfully tight, the words giving him pause.

“OsCorp gave you these powers?”

The unwelcome bitter edge that coated his question had Peter suddenly feeling uncomfortable. Even from the distance they stood, Tony’s barely contained anger emitted a heat only matched by his sharp glare.

Peter knew he wasn’t directly mad at him, yet he couldn’t help but feel guilty nonetheless.

“The spider they were experimenting on did, anyway,” he explained shyly, head down low. “It’s uh...it’s dead now.”

The conversation died out briefly, a blanket of tense silence piercing through the room.

─────── Identity Within︱Chapter 3: R.S.V.P ───────

“Oh my, my, yes, it’s been…it’s been quite the few months, for sure. A lot of preparation has gone into this, many things occurring behind the scenes — and now that OsCorp has reached the point of publicizing this announcement, well…I won’t lie, it’s a bit of a burden off the back.”

As Peter threw open the front door to the apartment, the first thing he heard was the distant voices coming from the living room television. It was at a volume that told him May wasn’t really paying attention, just using it for background noise. Yet it was loud enough that it reached over her struggle with pots and pans all the way inside the kitchen, and certainly quick to grab his attention.

Anything OsCorp related had a tendency to do that these days.

Peter hadn’t even crossed the threshold of the front door to living room when he looked over at the TV, frowning deeply.

“But of course, things are just beginning. We have a long future to look forward to, one that’ll far exceed my time on this earth.” The voice of the man sounded professional, each word said with a sharp precision and clarity to his statements. “It’s all about legacy, after all. And the Osborn dynasty has yet to untap their full potential in what lays ahead. I’m excited to be apart of these unfolding developments with them.”

Whatever channel was playing, Peter quickly deduced it was a news station. Something where someone was being interviewed — an old man, that much was obvious. He wore a business suit that Peter was sure cost five times May’s rent, and his grayish white hair matched perfectly with the deep wrinkles that dug harsh lines into his skin.

And yet, despite talking about OsCorp, the man was most definitely not Norman Osborn. Peter wasn’t sure he’d actually ever seen him before. Granted, he never paid much attention to these things until recently, but still.

He approached the back of the sofa, watching the TV and moving almost in a trance. So much so that he completely forgot his laundry detergent soaked socks were still gripped in his hand, and his bare feet still sticky with the residue they’d encountered.

“You sound quite optimistic about the longevity in OsCorp’s future, Mr. Symthe,” the interviewer said, his tone as serious and straitlaced as the much older man sitting across from him. “Does this mean you’re not worried about the dissolution of partnership with Bio-Labs? Their upstate, New York facility alone brought in OsCorp over thirty percent of their shares and profits last year.”

The man being interviewed gave a light chuckle — Spencer Symthe, Peter discovered, right as the lower third graphic appeared on the screen, displaying his name in whole.

It also gave him a title. Peter furrowed his brows as he quickly read it. Right next to his full name were the words, Co-chairman.

The man may have not been Norman, but there was no doubt that he was right up there in hierarchy.

“Last year is behind us, OsCorp looks only to the future,” Spencer simply answered, as smoothly as the words that came before him. “Bio-Labs served us well in the past, but OsCorp is moving forward with their endeavors in other ways. We have something quite exciting happening here very soon. I’m not at liberty to discuss the details just yet, but our separation with Bio-Labs has made way for something far better. Both for us and for mankind.”

The interviewer looked down at his lap and the sleek notepad in his hands. “Is it true OsCorp purchased that facility from Bio-Labs?” he read off his notes.

“We did, yes,” Spencer answered so quickly, the camera didn’t cut to him until mid-sentence. “We came to an agreement with Bio-Labs on a price, and OsCorp is hoping to utilize the facility for further expanding their research studies across the east coast.”

Peter suddenly looked left and right, and then down to the sofa — finding the TV remote stuck in-between the armrest of the cushions. Discarding his socks, he grabbed the remote and hit the first button his thumb could get a hold of. It displayed the title of the show over the screen — ‘Executive Insights with Mark Mitchell.’

“There’s been…quite the controversy regarding those research facilities, Mr. Symthe,” Mark Mitchell, Peter correctly assumed, went on to say. “I’m sure you’re more than aware of the legal trial that took place this afternoon — any comment?”

Slowly, Peter dropped the remote down onto the end table next to the couch. All the while, he never looked away from the TV.

“Ridiculous claims made by ridiculous people.” Spencer waved his hand right alongside his answer. “Despite his rank in the air force, I assure you that Colonel Rhodes has no interest in the safety of this country. He sides with his interest and his team alone — that is, the Avengers. The only people we seem to allow to live above the law.” For a man who had kept his tone even and unwavering, there was a slight hitch in words that heated them up, something Peter couldn’t ignore. He suddenly sounded frustrated, angry. To the point where a pause followed, and he noticeably cleared his throat. “These claims made by him and subsequently, the team he participates with, are as foolish as they are deranged.”

Mark simply nodded. “It’s been no secret that Stark Industries very own Tony Stark has been pushing this case, advocating for the entire revocation of OsCorp’s funding and participation with the Institutional Review Board. He states that compliance with regulatory requirements have been, in his words, the biggest disgrace to not only the field of science but to humanity as a whole.”

“And yet Judge Whittaker has made it very clear today that he disagrees with those claims,” Spencer answered the question that had yet to be asked. “Tony Stark’s efforts to shut down OsCorp have been nothing but a blip on our radar. The court system sided with us on that today, making it very clear that there’s no grounds to the absurd accusations put forth by rumors and heresay.”

Mark cocked his eyebrow high, and so did Peter. Both of them for different reasons. “Is that your way of saying OsCorp’s research studies haven ’t been neglecting proper codes and regulations, and remain to demonstrate due diligence in maintaining public safety standards for both their participate and employees? ”

“By all means, yes,” Spencer easily answered. So easily, Peter went to fold both arms over his chest, the look that pulled at his face causing lines he was far too young to be dealt with. “If all goes well, the former Bio-Labs facility will be up and running within a few months, once converted into one of OsCorp’s technological facilities. And it’ll foster not only the community and development of science careers, but also expand the boundaries of research to pave the way for a brighter tomorrow.”

─────── Identity Crisis︱Chapter 6: Devil in the Details ───────

Norman neatly stacked the documents aside. “You’ve been Harrison's friend for a while, Mr…?”

“Parker. Peter Parker, sir.” Peter set his hands low into his lap. “And...yeah, sort of. But not really. We —”

“Were you that disabled boy Harrison would bring to the house?” Norman never looked up from the papers as he spoke. “The one in the wheelchair who drooled a lot?”

Peter blinked, digesting the question.

“No sir, I’m...I’m pretty sure that was David Kemp,” he paused, fingers tight in their cupped hold. “I’m also pretty sure that kid is...dead now.”

Norman made a noncommittal sound, his one and only response to the short-lived conversation. His eyes never broke away from the surface of his desk, staring intently at stacks of papers while simultaneously sorting through others.

Peter briefly wondered – if he’d got up and left this very second, would the man even notice? Considering he had already tested his luck once already, he decided to stay seated.

As it was, he was really pushing his Parker luck today.

Restless and nervous, Peter began looking around the comfortably sized room, taking in details of things he hadn’t first observed. It was interesting how much less modern the office was designed. While all of OsCorp remained contemporary, Norman’s office was...well, not.

Peter wasn’t quite sure what to call it, what the word would be. ‘Old’ came to mind, though he supposed it could be called ‘traditional’ as well. There was a lot of wood — covering the walls, his desk, and bookcases. While every other room in OsCorp was bright, contemporary silver and sleek, Norman’s office was the opposite. It was full of deep, rich colored tones that were barely highlighted under the dim yellow lights, what in all terms should have created a cozy environment, elegant and relaxed.

Yet the heavy smell of cedarwood and leather had Peter on edge, tying knots tightly in his gut. There was also some cologne heavy in the air, one he’d never encountered before. It was strong, oily. A stuffy, musky aroma that coated his nostrils — too strong, bordering on overwhelming. Peter didn’t like it.

He also couldn’t help but notice that the walls were covered in diplomas, certificates; flaunting his PhD, his CEO credentials — everything formal, everything professional.

Not one family photo was in sight.

“You into journalism?”

Norman’s voice brought him back to the present moment. Peter snapped his head over, realizing that the man was talking to him. An uneven breath momentarily stole his response. He wasn’t too sure why — he wasn’t typically this awkward, this uncomfortable. But there was something odd about the way Norman would look at him. Straight in the eyes, unfaltering, unrelenting.

Peter didn’t like that, either.

When he didn’t answer right away, Norman nodded towards the camera hanging at his hip.

“Uh, not really, no,” Peter stammered out. “I...more like photography.”

Norman leaned back in his chair, the slightest creak resonating in the room. “I don’t often see children of your age casually carrying around the highest tech on the market for their...selfies. You must really have a passion, Mr. Parker.”

“I suppose,” he managed. “I’m, uh, I’m more into science, though. Chemistry and stuff.”

Norman hummed. “So you’re an intern here at OsCorp.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “No! No, I’m —”

“Stark caught you first.”

A humorless smile crept on his lips, the kind that showed no teeth, no genuine contentment. Peter’s eyebrows furrowed with confusion, and Norman nodded again, this time to the watch wrapped around Peter’s wrist.

“If you don’t want people to know, I would recommend not wearing his tech.”

Peter did a quick glance down, immediately going to stuff his hand inside his jean pockets.

“Right,” Peter muttered, cursing under his breath. For being so noticeable, the stupid nanotech felt like a second skin — one he kept forgetting he was even wearing. “I’m uh, I have an internship there. With Stark Industries.”

Norman titled his head to the side, indulging himself in interest.

“What is it that you do?”

Peter bit his bottom lip, suddenly wishing for the uncomfortable silence to return.

“I’m a, uh...I assist in their Science and Technology division,” he scrambled to think on top of his feet. “Mainly in, uhm...engineering and uh...chemistry.”

Peter held back his grin, proud of how quickly he had come up with that one. And hey, it wasn’t totally a lie. Using Mr. Stark’s labs for the tech in his suit was totally engineering, and he was constantly working new chemistry equations with reinventing the chemicals in his web-fluids.

But, still. He made a mental note to talk with Tony about doing something to make this internship look real. Especially now that Norman OsCorp of all people was calling him out on it. Hell, even a photo would do. Something.

“Well, that’s a shame,” Norman carried on, his hands folding methodically on the top of his desk. “A boy as smart as yourself could do some impressive work with us here at OsCorp. You should consider attending open house, see what we have to offer.”

“I have, sir.” The words were out of Peter’s mouth before he realized it. His eyes shot wide, his brain quickly working to backtrack. “Something similar, anyway. My class went on a field trip here a few years back.”

Norman perked up, his eyebrows dangerously close to disappearing into his hairline.

“Field trip, you say? We haven’t opened doors to one of those in quite some time now. The company stopped after an...unfortunate loss of research.” Norman cleared his throat, sitting up straighter in the high back, executive styled chair. “The public relations department decided it’d be best not to increase any likelihood of students getting hurt because of our inventions.”

The room fell so quiet that Peter was sure he could hear a pin drop, without his enhanced hearing. His spine stiffened, his face failing to conceal his rising panic.

“What-what research was lost?”

Norman’s eyes flittered up to his, a moment of deliberation etching across his features in the beat that followed. It seemed he was debating on whether or not he should provide an answer, if it was in his best interest to start such a discussion over what Peter knew had to be sensitive information.

With or without an explanation, Peter had the answer.

He knew it sat directly in his DNA.

“Our one and only success with genetic modification,” Norman finally explained. “All the testing was performed on one solitary spider.”

Peter didn’t break eye contact with him, not even as his foot taped incessantly on the floor — tap tap tap tap taptaptaptaptaptap growing more and more unremitting.

“Oh, uh, nothing...nothing like that happened on my field trip.” His throat spasmed, his nerves getting the best of him. “It was smooth sailing. Actually, it was kind of boring.” Peter realized a second too late what he had said. If it were possible, his eyes grew even wider. “Not-not that this place is boring! Not at all, no, it was just...that day was boring. I think. I was tired? It was a long day and you know, I actually wasn’t here for most of it, I got in trouble and had to stay on the bus and —”

“It’s just interesting to me,” Norman interrupted. His face was pinched in thought, clearly paying little to no attention to Peter’s rambling. “We lost that spider and...not even six months later there’s a new vigilante on the streets of New York. Calling himself...low and behold — Spider-Man.”

Suddenly, every hair on Peter’s body stood up straight, in a way he knew was most certainly not his spider-sense. They felt like knives across his skin, sharp-edged goosebumps that ran deep into his muscles.

“That’s a...big coincidence, sir.”

The way Norman smiled at him — all lip, no teeth — it had Peter’s breath quickening in his chest. He didn’t understand what it was; there was nothing inherently threatening about the man, perhaps a bit intimidating, even unnerving. But certainly nothing threatening.

Yet there was a sense of anxiety Peter couldn’t shake, a feeling of unease threading deep into his core.

“Coincidences mean you're on the right path. Simon Van Booy.” Norman leaned back in his chair, settling his folded hands across his stomach. “My wife’s favorite book, and the last she would read.”

Peter’s eyes fluttered to the floor, memories of his childhood suddenly slowing down his racing heartbeat and hasty breathing. He remembered Harry’s mom — didn’t know for long, barely ever saw her to begin with, but he definitely saw her more than he ever saw Norman.

Norman had always been like a ghost in Harry’s life. Mentioned, never seen.

Mrs. Osborn though — Peter remembered her as being a very nice woman, sweet as ever, genuinely kind. It was without any doubt where Harry got most his personality from. Uncle Ben had been the one to take him to the funeral; May having been tied up with something else. He remembered hugging Harry tighter than ever that day. They ended up seeing each other again a few more times, casually, never outside of school. It wasn’t long after Harry was transferred upstate, right at the start of high-school.

A few months after that and Ben had been shot.

Harry didn’t attend that funeral.

Their own tragedies seemed to pull them apart instead of bring them together. Peter wished it had been different.

“You much on history, Mr. Parker?”

The question caught him off guard. Peter looked up, swallowing hard.

“Uh, no, sir. I’m actually...struggling a bit in that area. But Harry’s —”

“Did you know that the first recorded mention of cancer came around 1600 B.C. Egypt? A lot of people don’t know that,” Norman mused aloud, his tone cool, contemplative. Whether or not Peter showed interests in his discourse mattered not. Norman continued on, “They think cancer came along with cigarettes and food preservatives. They think we brought cancer on ourselves as a plague...a plague of modern society. But it’s always been there...since man first figured out how to poke and prod itself — it’s always been there.”

Peter felt frozen in his seat, muscles all but paralyzed, as if he was worried any movement would disturb the sudden conversation that had uprooted from Norman.

He listened intently, expression fixated.

“Then you skip ahead to Greece and Rome,” Norman waved a hand about, “Sure, doctors, Hippocrates and Galen lifted their ideas of medicine from magic and superstitious nonsensical suppositions. But it was the Hippocrates who named it. They named it cancer; karkinoma in Greek because a tumor looked like a crab. Karkinoma.”

The words floated in the air like an afternoon lecture, practiced and perfected, studied to a tee.

“And slowly but surely we got a better understanding of human anatomy. Then better technology. Better microscopes...then comes better understanding of cell structure.” Norman's fingers played idly across the armrest of his chair as he explained, “Chemical carcinogens, diagnostic techniques, chemotherapy...and before we know it, oncology is a science. You like science, don’t you, Mr. Parker?”

Peter felt a chill work down his spine as he stared at the man, so casually going on about something that felt incredibly out of the blue. He frowned, his eyebrows tugging down.

“Yes, sir,” he managed, distantly but acutely wondering where exactly is this going?

Norman met his eyes for the first time since he began speaking.

“Our understanding and treatment of cancer has evolved greatly in the last few decades thanks to science, massively in the past era. But we’re still not there yet, are we?” He shook his head, answering his own question, “No, we’re not. And that’s where OsCorp comes in, where we try to bridge the gap between society’s apathy and failure to push onward to greater achievement.”

Norman adjusted himself stiffly in the chair, sitting up straight and leaning closer to the desk that separated him and Peter.

“I’m not sure what Stark Industries is doing these days, outside of designing the most outlandish, sensationalist costumes for their above-the-law vigilantes. But I can, and will, speak for myself and for this company.” Two fingers tapped firmly on the wooden desk. “We’re one step away from creating a cure for cancer, one for all of mankind to revel in.”

It took a moment of pause for Peter to register what Norman had said, for the words to truly sink in. When they did, his eyes widened, his jaw slowly un-working from the tense hold it had been locked in.

“Really?” Peter gaped. “A-a cure for can —”

“The theory isn’t a new one,” Norman went on to say. “The human body carries within itself the ability to create everything it needs to function. Everything it needs to fight off any disease, to starve off any cancer. You see, this treatment...it’s better, wiser. A genetic bodysuit that would temporarily take hold of a patients biology, find out what their body needs, and then find a natural solution. If a cancer has spread — a tumor — the suit would search the body for the right natural toxins, find solutions on the patients own body chemistry, and put them to work. No radiation, no poison, no destruction of your own immune system. This would find cancer, diagnose it, and kill it. The ultimate natural medical treatment.”

Norman’s timing was precise, as if he wanted just a mere split second to pass before speaking again, just enough time to let the awe and wonderment spread across Peter’s features.

“It’s a shame, though,” he leaned back in his chair, hands settling into his lap once more. “Many people will die before we can get it off the ground.”

Peter blinked, eyelashes fluttering as he failed to veneer his confusion. “Why?”

Something odd crossed along Norman’s face. Not quite hesitance, not quite distrust. Yet the difference wrought was noticeable, tangible.

For a brief second, Peter wondered if it could possibly be desperation.

It was gone before he could even question it.

“That spider we spoke of contained the genetic material needed to go any further. And unfortunately it, along with all its data, is lost to us.”

With a rushing gravity that didn’t exist, Peter felt his stomach drop five feet below where it was supposed to be. The feeling was so intense that breathing suddenly became a task he didn’t have the coordination for.

Especially not as Norman stood up from his chair, walking the distance between them to sit on the edge of his desk.

The smell of musky cologne became stronger, overpowering, coating his nostrils in the scent that shot his nerves. Norman sat directly across from him, looking down. And Peter gulped as he looked up, watching the man adjust the tie hanging around his neck. Two wrinkles on his white button-down, nothing more.

“With all that said, Mr. Parker, I must ask...” Norman stared sat him, unblinking, for a long time. “If that spider was lost on the day of your tour, would you have any clues as to...what may have transpired?”

It was a subconscious instinct to grab his hand, unintended, one that neither of them noticed until it was too late. Peter rubbed the skin near his wrist before promptly letting go.

“I’m sorry, sir. I was...” Peter timidly shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Norman arched one an eyebrow high on his forehead, the other staying low as he stared at Peter. Slowly but surely, he forced a tug at his lips, a weak endeavor at a grin.

“That’s quite alright. My bio-organic chemistry department is already working hard on replicating the genetic material,” Norman said in a carefully measured voice, his eyes looking beyond Peter, seemingly far off. “It’ll simply take...time.”

Peter swallowed again, his throat tight from the heavy aroma whiffing off Norman’s blazer jacket. He opened his mouth to speak before closing it immediately, unsure of what he would even say. Besides, what more was there to say? ‘Sorry for being the thing that put a stop to your cure for cancer. Try and keep your spiders in better cages next time.’

Suddenly full of guilt, or shame — or a combination of both — Peter looked away, unable to handle the expression on Norman’s face. He couldn’t lock down what it was; worry maybe, or something more akin to frustration. Whatever it was, it wore heavy on his face, etching deep into the tired lines around his eyes and lips.

Around the same time, Norman stood up straight, putting distance between himself and the desk, and subsequently Peter.

“On that note, please, think twice about where you’d like to spend your free time. OsCorp has a lot it could offer you, and even more the other way around.” He neared back around to his chair, gesturing his open palm out towards Peter. “Tony Stark, well...he’s a careerist, son. Everything he says and does is in a way to advance only himself. You’re getting paid, correct? Perhaps we could discuss wages to try and sway your opinion.”

“Uh, no, sir. I’m...” Peter shook his head with jerky movements, the bob in his throat working up a storm as he choked out, “I’m not getting paid at all. Just...happy for the experience.”

Half-way into sitting back down in his chair and Norman paused, his eyes latching onto Peter’s for a brief moment. An audible ‘hm’ bounced between them, gone once the creak of leather took its place.

“Well...regardless, the offer remains to stand.” Norman leaned back, hands folding neatly into his lap. “Know your worth, Mr. Parker.”

Peter wasn’t sure if he nodded. He wasn’t sure if he even managed something remotely close to a nod, the muscles in his neck stiff and hard, the tension in the room thicker than the awful smell of rich cologne and furnished wood. His focus remained taunt, noticing how something seemed to dripped in Norman’s tone — insidious, sticking to Peter like glue.

Five knocks was all it took to tear him away from that one thought.

“Dad?” A door slowly creaked open. “Cindy said that you called for me —”

Harry stood in the doorway, polite caution thrown out the window at the sight of Peter sitting across from his father. His eyebrows flew up, his eyes widening twice their size.

“Pete! Jeeze, there you are. Where the hell did you go? How’d you —” He quickly looked to Norman, his face all but paling at the realization of what he had walked in on. “How’d you end up in my father’s office?”

─────── Identity Theft︱Chapter 19: When the Bad Things Happen ───────

Sitting next to him, Natasha had locked her gaze on Bruce, never taking her eyes off him throughout the discussion. If she hadn’t been looking directly at him, she would have sworn that she heard the man talk.

‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ rang in her ears, words that he never actually spoke, a personality normally so predictable faded underneath the stress of the situation.

It disturbed her how quiet Bruce had been. It disturbed them all. He was usually one to pitch in with giddy enthusiasm about how this type of technology functioned, proceeding to bore the team with details that they never asked for and could never understand.

Instead, he sat quietly, chin in the palm of his hands and elbows on his knees.

Natasha’s brows pulled together, concerned. “Bruce?”

His head snapped up, as if he now suddenly remembered where he was. Bruce looked at her, the deep lines across his face echoing her exhaustion.

Almost immediately he bowed his head again, taking his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose tightly.

“I’m sorry, it’s just...” Bruce heavily sighed, “this is bad.”

Wanda leaned forward, wrapping the blanket tighter around herself. “How bad?”

“His blood is...well, it’s mutated,” Bruce said. “Beyond what’s compatible with any other cross-match. On the surface he still has a normal B positive blood type, but beneath that it...it’s more. The antigens and protein markers have been so abnormally altered by that spider bite that he’s...he’s essentially developed an ABO incompatibility.”

Sam was the first to catch on. “He can’t receive blood.”

Bruce nodded. Clint audibly cursed under his breath, and Rhodey scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief.

“It’s...incredibly unfortunate in the current situation, but yes. We had to stop transfusing the universal O negative to prevent a hemolytic reaction,” Bruce explained.

Natasha stayed neutral. “So what now?”

Steve sat up a little straighter. “Doesn’t he have accelerated healing?”

“Yes,” Helen simply answered. “And that healing factor has certainly kept him alive this long.”

“Where’s the but?” Clint asked, arms crossed and all but rolling his eyes.

Bruce didn’t seem to have the willpower to answer the question. The tension grew twice as thick between them, and Steve was silently appreciative when Helen finally took over.

“He can only regenerate so fast. With his injuries, with the hypovolemia...he spent days dehydrated, malnourished — his body needs twice as much intake as that of a normal individual, and consequently he loses it twice as fast,” she explained. “It’s not as if he’s been stripped of his healing factor. It’s that his body is simply too weak and injured to utilize it.”

Rhodey leaned into the side of the couch, his temple resting between two fingers that rubbed at his forehead. He appeared to be able to keep up with the medical details up until now. It was typically the case for him though, superpowers always had a tendency to complicate things.

“So what does all that mean?” he asked.

Bruce put his glasses back on. “Think of it like a muscle. It takes energy to use. The hematology department has a theory — one I’m inclined to agree with — Peter used a lot of strength in just trying to stay alive. It’s not a...pleasant thing to think about, but his body more than likely went into hypovolemic shock multiple times. A normal person loses a certain amount of blood, they go into shock and if not treated, their heart gives out. Peter's body lost a certain amount of blood, fell into shock and began to regenerate the blood that was lost, until it couldn’t anymore. And then the process repeated.”

His hands spun and twisted around each other, mimicking a moving wheel.

Natasha frowned. “Until now.”

Steve didn’t need to see Bruce nodding to know the answer. He felt the cushions of the sofa lighten as Natasha stood up, her only response being that she walked away from the group. By the time Steve looked up, she was standing across the room and over the stairway banister.

They all knew her well enough to leave her be.

“I would like to reiterate what I said before,” Helen cut in. “By all accounts, he should be dead. He’s hanging on by the skin of his teeth but...he’s hanging on.”

Steve really didn’t know what to say to that. Of course the kid was hanging on. He was a hell of a fighter, a soldier beyond what they could have ever expected.

He was also just a kid.

“We’re not soldiers,” Tony had once told him, the words resonating in his ears.

Steve was starting to agree with that sentiment.

─────── Identity Crisis︱Chapter 30: All In the Family ───────

“Even the whole time I was at Mr. Osborn’s place, something felt...off,” he said instead, turning his eyes down to the metal floor of the jet. His tennis shoes squeaked as he readjusted himself on the bench. “It was weird.”

“How so?”

The voice didn’t come from Tony.

Peter looked up, straightening his back the moment he saw Natasha walking towards them both. The rest of the conversations taking place in the jet must’ve not been interesting enough for her, because she approached the two quietly, her feet making no sounds as she stepped forward.

Peter was caught between being surprised that she was suddenly in his face, and learning how not to be surprised when she was suddenly in his face.

Spies. What a weird thing.

“I dunno,” he answered, honestly, sitting up until his back pressed against Tony’s arm. “It wasn't weird at first. At least not until Mr. Osborn came home.”

It was Tony’s turn to pull away from Peter, and he didn’t waste an ounce of strength doing it.

“You saw him?” Tony’s eyes were wide enough to replace the turbofan’s of the Quinjet. “Norman? You saw him — again?”

Peter made a very distinct sound that contained absolutely no words and all sass.

Tony threw him a look that said no words and was all exasperation.

“Well, yeah, Mr. Stark,” Peter started to say, that sass leaking right into his defense. “It was his place, why wouldn’t —”

Tony rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t mean I assumed you —”

“It was only for like, a minute. Two, maybe. Three! Tops!” Peter adjusted himself on the bench, turning to better face Tony. “I was about to leave — seriously, I left right after he came home. We said a few things —”

“What things?” Natasha’s words came with a few steps forward, hard pressed against the floor. Peter didn’t like how he could hear them this time around. “What things were said?”

Both set of eyes from both adults bored into him like a hot laser beam — it could’ve been Iron Man’s repulsors and Peter wouldn’t have questioned it. He almost shied away, because — ‘damn, third-degree much?’

As it was, Peter was too busy trying to remember the encounter for any tongue-in-cheek remark. It wasn’t his fault that the last few weeks — months — felt like years. Decades. Many, many eventful decades.

Through it all, talking to Harry’s dad felt like a blip on his radar.

“He wanted to...go eat steak,” Peter remembered, slowly. His forehead creased in the middle as he tried to recall the night. “He talked about our grades and — and studying. That’s it. We shook hands and I left.”

Natasha cocked her head to the side, her forehead equally as creased as Peter, yet obviously for a very different reason.

“But it felt strange?” she repeated, and slowly at that.

Peter nodded.

“Really strange,” he reaffirmed.

The sound from Tony’s throat was deep enough to catch both their attention. He ran his thumb across his chin, looking somewhere with no interest as his mind processed the information.

"Maybe the symbiote was having its effect on you by then,” Tony pondered. The expression that fell across his face seemed conflicted at his own speculation. “This would’ve been...almost six days since you snuck into that lab.”

Peter shook his head hard enough for his hair to fall into his eyes.

“Yeah, but I’m telling you Mr. Stark, I didn’t touch anything in that lab —”

Just like that, Peter shot his one arm out, sitting up so tall on the bench that his head could’ve hit the Quinjet’s roof.

“Oh, my god.”

“Oh my god what?” Tony watched, with high-arched eyebrows, as Peter immediately reached down for his backpack with haste. He was positive at this point his heart wouldn’t survive anymore shock. “Oh my god what?”

Peter didn’t answer him. Rather, he clutched his backpack against his chest, immediately emptying its contents as he flipped it around in all directions. Books fell to his feet and papers flew Natasha’s way as he frantically looked at it — examined it, running his fingers all across it.

“It’s gone,” he breathed out, his eyes growing wide with realization. “That means—”

"What, Parker?” Tony stressed, his hands hovering over the backpack as if he wanted to snatch it right out of Peter’s grasp. “That means what?”

Peter immediately shot his head over towards him.

"I didn’t get the symbiote from that lab,” he insisted, shaking his head the whole time. "I'm telling you, I didn't touch anything in that lab, nothing touched me."

Of everything he had said in the last few weeks, of all the lies stacked ontop of more lies and half truths and hidden secrets, Peter spoke with the most certainty he’d ever felt before.

Still, Tony furrowed his brow. “Then where else could you have gotten it from, Pete?”

The answer felt heavy leaving his mouth.

"Mr. Osborn.”

Natasha was immediately closer — practically hovering over Peter now, and Tony looked at him in a way that made Peter worried he might have a stroke.

Or two.

“I — I shook his hand. Right before I left.” Peter swallowed, hard, exchanging quick glances between both Natasha and Tony. “It felt...it felt wrong. It felt...it felt bad. And – and I went to the bathroom to fix my strap,” he lifted the broken strap for display. “And there was this grease or something right here, right on my backpack.”

The spot Peter pointed to was clean as a whistle. So the look of confusion from both adults was justified.

“It’s gone,” Peter repeated, clearly still trying to comprehend the revelation as much as the others. “It was the symbiote, the grease — it was the symbiote. It – it came from Mr. Osborn. And that night — that night in the workshop,” Peter immediately turned to Tony. “That wasn’t an anxiety attack, Mr. Stark. That was my spider-sense. That had to be the night the symbiote infected me!”

Peter looked at Tony and realized that stroke was right around the corner.

“Why would Norman have it?” Natasha quickly asked, though it sounded more like pondering than anything else.

Quiet footsteps came from nearby — silent type like hers, just enough force that the presence wanted to be known.

“He created it, right?” Bucky’s voice was hoarse at the edges, somewhat unsure in the center. Though he felt uncertain about joining the conversation, his mouth got the better of him. “Why wouldn’t he have it?”

Natasha craned her head around to look at him.

“But why would he have it?” she stressed, folding both arms tightly over her chest. “At his home?”

Bucky made a face, something between deep consideration and obliviousness. He stood next to Natasha, and though Tony was too occupied warding off a heart attack to do anything other than stare at Peter, Bucky ensured he rooted his feet on the opposite side of the man.

“Didn’t you say this guy does mad scientist experiments?” he asked, toneless, leaning firmly against the nearest wall. “Those type of men don’t typically make a lot of sense.”

Silence took the place of any answers.

Natasha turned to Tony, noting that his silence was far different than theirs.

“What is it, Tony?” she asked, slowly, with her head cocked to the side.

Tony blinked, craning his head up to look at her.

“You’re right,” he easily said.

Natasha quirked an eyebrow high. “Don’t hear that often.”

“Why would Norman have the symbiote on him?” Tony ignored her remark in favor of his own question. “This man built a bunker under the ocean in the Bermuda Triangle just to avoid anyone discovering his experiments. Now he’s taking his work home with him?”

Bucky made a face of apperception, looking somewhat taken aback along the way. Peter noted that all the adults had different expressions on their face — Natasha confused, and Tony...well, that would simply take too long to figure out.

“It doesn’t add up,” Tony concluded, too quietly for Peter’s liking.

From across the way, Bruce cleared his throat, his one finger gestured aimlessly ahead.

“If Oz is a...cure for cancer, or – or disease immunity, something that would help the sick...” he started to say, his finger wagging with his words as his footsteps led him forward. “And the symbiote was a way to protect cell destruction…and Norman’s behind all of that…”

Tony snapped his fingers.

Just once.

“He’s sick.” The two words were forceful enough to stop time. “Performing the test trials on himself. He didn’t bring his work home, the work tried to come home with him.”

Bruce’s scoff only got louder as he approached the group.

“No, that’s – that’s insanity,” Bruce insisted, a firm shake of his head rattling his voice. “Only a somebody truly desperate would test something on themse—oh.”

Tony’s face fell flat as he gestured his hand forward.

“Pot. Kettle.” His head tilted to the side. “Black.”

Bruce had the grace to look embarrassed.

“So the man might be dying,” Bucky interjected, a hard shrug shaking his shoulders. “Let him die.”

Natasha shook her head, a grim expression casting over her face. “Nature might not happen soon enough.”

Looking back down at his backpack, Peter settled his hand over the spot he knew was once stained. His fingers grazed the fabric as those around him exchanged fierce glances, the tension he didn’t want existing quickly finding its way inside.

Peter could’ve been miles away from that tension and he still would’ve felt it — would’ve felt his own tension, wrapping tight around his core.

That night in Tony’s lab — the panic attack he had in his bedroom. It was when he grabbed his backpack.

It was his spider-sense, it had to be.

“Venom was just one of the symbiote’s they bred,” Bruce’s quiet voice was dangerously loud breaking the silence. “With all we saw in those pictures Peter took...there’s no telling what the next trial will do. And if the symbiote is derived from Oz...I don’t wanna know what kind of monster the Oz Formula would breed.”

Peter looked up from his backpack, his head rocketing up like someone controlled his puppet strings. The fact that everyone looked as unsettled as he felt didn’t leave him feeling too optimistic about the situation.

He’d quickly learned that when they looked worried, shit had already hit the fans.

“But it can’t come to life without me, right?” Peter tried to find a silver lining. It was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. “It needs my DNA to even...you know...stick.”

Natasha quirked an eyebrow. “Was that a pun?”

“Parker’s right,” Tony said, almost automatically. His fingers had already begun tapping across his knee. “They’ll give up. Without the spider DNA, the symbiote’s won’t ever work. Norman won’t keep focusing on the Symbiote Project, not with knowing what it’ll take to get it started — and not having it.”

Tony absolutely, positively, without a certain of a doubt hated that ‘it’ was sitting right next to him.

From the way Peter had noticeably clenched up — it was impossible not to notice, they were pressed against one another — Tony figured the kid felt the same way.

“Then we’re in the clear,” Bucky unwittingly concluded, his one and only hand gesturing in a floppy manner towards Peter. “Punk hides under a mask. No one knows who he is.”

“He’s got a point.” Sam let himself approach the group, already standing halfway to the back of the jet and listening in on the conversation. It was only a few steps to get him to the others. “Norman’s got no idea who Pete is, outside of some...old friend of his kid, right? Just don’t make anymore trips to his house and it’s all said and done.”

The resolution seemed as clear and bright as the sun that swelled through the clouds outside the jet. A simple answer, an easy conclusion to a growing problem.

“Uh-oh,” Peter felt the words tumble right out of his mouth.

Sam immediately arched an eyebrow. “Uh-oh?”

Peter nodded, stiffly. “Uh-oh.”

Slowly, with the speed that even a turtle would’ve laughed at, Peter turned his head around to Tony. Their expressions were eerily similar now — not a single person failed to notice it.

“Mr. Stark…” Peter trailed off, drawing out the two words with a stress that lined each additional syllable.

Tony’s response was to shake his head — fervently.

“We don’t know for sure that he knows —” he tried to say.

Peter kept going right over him. “But you said —”

“I know what I said.”

“And if he does —”

“We don’t know that he does, kid —”

“But if he does —”

Tony grabbed Peter’s arm, holding it firmly.

“We protect you.”

Peter looked down at Tony’s grip, shocked at how white the mans knuckles were, his fingers pressing so hard into his bicep that an average person would be in pain. When he looked back up at Tony, the fierce determination in his grasp reflected back in his eyes.

“Osborn’s not coming near you, Peter,” Tony said — swore. His voice firm throughout. “Not so long as we’re around.”

─────── Identity Crisis︱Chapter 15: Slithered Here From Hell ───────

Norman met his gaze with a straight face, unamused and impassive.

“What do you want?”

Tony could have laughed; had honesty been something he intended to rely on, there still wouldn’t be enough time in his day to go down that road. Not even the riches in both their bank accounts could buy what he wanted, their pockets deep in stocks and market exchanges not nearing close enough to provide the peace of mind and security he desperately fought for.

Leaning back casually in the chair, Tony lifted both his hands in an open gesture, plastering a press-winning smile over his face.

“A lot of things,” he started. “World peace would be a great. End to all poverty. No kid hungry, no kid left behind, that sorta thing.” Tony’s face fell flat, the facade beginning to weaken at the fringes. “A tête-à-tête works, too. Heart-to-heart, one-on-one. You, me — none of those pesky lawyers we keep overpaying to do our dirty work. Just a good old conversation between like minded individual’s.”

Norman arched an eyebrow high into his hairline, his hardened gaze unwavering on the man sitting across from him.

The beat that followed felt toxic, inundated with palpable tension. If Tony didn’t know better, he’d say the air in the room had gone stale, stiff and thick from the negative energy stemming between them.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss ongoing lawsuits with you,” Norman finally responded, every bit as calm as Tony expected. “If that’s the only reason you came here, I hate to disappoint.”

“No lawsuits, last I checked,” Tony countered innocently. “No convictions that I’m even aware of. I mean, hell, you know how the Senate Armed Services Committee can be — always keeping themselves busy, soaking up those taxpayer dollars. They go after my Iron Man suits, they go after you with those experiments —”

“This isn’t about my experiments,” Norman cut in, professionally laced tone sharper than a knife. “It’s about your ridiculous claims, ones that you keep taking my company to court for. And you’ll have to pardon my forbearance when it comes to accusations that I can’t entertain. I have much more important things to do in my day than defend myself against such absurd allegations.”

Tony gave an exaggerated shrug. “Are they absurd, though? Can anything be considered absurd now that aliens have attacked New York and Gods have roamed the streets of New Mexico?”

Norman cocked his head to the side, failing to emulate the same grin that twitched at Tony’s mouth.

“Your case on OsCorp continues to be dismissed by the courts based on the grounds that you don’t have proof. It will never be upheld by a judge based solely on your conspiracy theories.” His words were seamless, practiced. Downright methodical. “Quite frankly, the longer you extend this feud, the sooner the public will begin to speculate that OsCorp is a threat to Stark Industries. Is that really a look you want for your company?”

“I have proof,” Tony forced through his teeth. The sting that he’d been keeping at bay started to burn in his chest, germinating with each passing second. “I just can’t use it.”

“Then that isn’t proof,” Norman rebutted, managing to pull of the most contrite look Tony had possibly ever seen. It didn’t look well on him, stretching the crows-feet over his eyes and adding years to his face. “It’s heresay.”

Tony shouldn’t have been surprised by his blatant denial. In a way, he wasn’t. But it didn’t stop his jaw from tightening, or his hand from clenching tightly into a fist.

Despite everything, Tony hadn’t been prepared for just how difficult it’d be to bench the searing hate that congealed in his veins. How challenging it was to sit quietly, play dumb despite all he knew. All he experienced first-hand.

“You know,” he cleared his throat, feigning casual conversation. “There’s a lot about the inner workings of my career you could never familiarize yourself with. SHIELD, the company I'm contracted out to work for —”

“Work for?” Norman tsked, reclining against his plush chair and staring over the expanse of the mahogany desk at Tony. “Is that what you call your vigilantism?”

Tony chose to ignore that statement.

“They have strict security clearance,” he continued on as if uninterrupted. “Information I know doesn’t get shared with the public, not unless I want to wake up in bed with a horses head next to my pillow. Doesn’t mean I don’t know things. Who they’ve gone after, who they’ve shut down in the past…”

As Norman reclined back, Tony leaned forward, his elbows pressing firmly on his knees.

“What sort of...surreptitious buildings floated in the pacific ocean…”

An uninvited friction washed across the room, belligerent in spite of the silence that fell between the two.

Tony savored the whisper of surprise that crossed over Norman’s face. It was almost nonexistent — a twitch of his cheekbones, a look in his eyes — blink and it was gone.

But Tony saw it.

He relished in it.

“Six months ago one of your experiments got loose and nearly destroyed the Collar City Bridge,” Tony reminded him. He mimicked Norman’s position, leaning back in his chair, flexing and then folding his hands into his lap. “You paid the city hush money to pretend it never happened. I know it did. I was there, I cleaned up your mess. And I know you’ve been doing worse than that rock android.”

As much as it pained him to admit, Tony and Norman had one thing in common — they were born in the corporate world, taught how to bullshit the same day they were taught how to walk.

So it was no surprise to see Norman appear indifferent, turning a blind eye as if he knew nothing more.

“How so?” he casually asked, reaching for his glass of whiskey.

A mirthless laugh almost broke free of Tony’s throat, managing instead to stay tightly restricted between two pursed lips — clamped shut with brewing anger. He watched wordlessly as Norman took a sip of the amber drink, his eyes never leaving Tony’s, not even as the glass returned to the surface of his desk.

Tony popped his lips, the sound echoing throughout the office. “No one finds it coincidental that a teleporting magician appeared in the same week?”

Norman smirked. Just a little. Just enough.

“And gone the next,” he regarded Tony evenly. “There were no ties with that incident and OsCorp.”

It was the tone of deceptive innocence that got to Tony, so immaculately perfected that it could fool anyone’s ears — surely pass any lie detector, win over any judge. Tony imagined that had it not been for the hell they’d been through earlier in the year, Norman’s act of virtue might have even instilled some doubt in his accusations.

But there weren’t accusations to have. Not anymore. They knew the truth — Tony knew the truth. The truth was nightmares that woke him up at three a.m. Panic attacks he could barely stave off at the smell of salt water and ocean life. The endless reminders of sleepless nights in his compound’s medical bay, praying relentlessly to a God he didn’t believe in at the bedside of a kid too young to experience the trauma he’d been put through.

He didn’t need to hear the truth directly from the fool’s mouth to feel vindicated.

He just needed to buy the time until they had their proof.

“Hm. So you claim,” Tony said, his voice still calm, still leveled. They could both play the game of bullshitting some professional nonsense. “Just as you claimed that your numerous east-coast research facilities were all up to code and legally abiding. Yet the case of one Max Dillon, circa 2008, might see things differently.”

Norman hadn’t looked away from Tony, not even as his fingers began to dance across the plush leather armrest of his chair.

Tony stared right back into his eyes, refusing to be intimidated.

“Remember him?” Tony flippantly waved a hand, dismissing a response. “Of course you don't. He was just another college student, Montclair State University, too desperate for a couple bucks to know what participating in your underpaid studies would do to him.”

Tony leaned in, just an inch, the soft tapping of Norman’s fingers audible in the quiet space between them.

“Amazing how an incident that put a nineteen-year-old boy into a coma brought on by high-voltage electrical shock could just be...tossed out of court like some suburban soccer mom suing their neighbor for leaving Christmas decorations up past New Years.” Tony's voice grew harder, his need to remain reserved slipping between the cracks where his emotion began to surface. “But you claimed — sorry, let me rephrase that — you ‘claimed’ that your study participants were subjected to the highest level of care and consideration in your faculties. Just as you claim now that you’ve had nothing to do with the Collar City Bridge incident. Or the magician in Times Square. Or the revived, modified Chitarui remains that attacked Brooklyn.”

Tony said nothing for a moment; he wasn’t sure if it was to add suspense to his lingering words, or to control the growing pit that started to claw its way into his throat. He could feel his lip twitch, the memories all too vivid, too personal. Close enough to his chest that he was sure each hammering beat of his heart kept them alive and present in his mind.

Norman stared at him, face so expressionless it was as if he knew nothing of the pain he’d cause Tony.

Or worse, simply didn’t care.

“Among other events I can’t list, of course,” Tony finally added, managing a nonchalant shrug that took more effort than it appeared. “But like I said...security clearance. Not sure if I’d be able to get horses blood out of Egyptian Cotton bedsheets. And I would rather not have to try.”

The false image of calm and collected pervading every fiber of Norman’s persona hadn’t taken a hit. His fingers finally stopped moving across the armrest, his hands settling on the smooth surface of his desk not far from where the mountain glass sat, condensation still leaking onto the wood below it.

“And it would be ill-advised to discuss anything further without a lawyer present,” Norman pressed. “That is, so long as you continue to throw subpoenas on my desk every other week.”

A full blown grin pulled tightly at Tony’s cheeks, the phony act coming back just as quickly as it left.

“Hey, it’d stop if I got my answers.”

The laugh that came from Norman was downright unsettling, surprising at the very least. Tony arched an eyebrow high, watching with disturbed interest as Norman picked up the glass from his desk and shook his head, little laughs rattling his chest.

Tony narrowed his eyes, noticing how his muscles tensed at every low chuckle that escaped Norman’s mouth. He’d heard a lot of sinister sounds in his life. Somehow, this one felt the worse.

Norman took a sip of scotch, and for a moment, neither of them said anything.

“You know who does have a tie to those incidents you speak of, Stark?” He returned his gaze to Tony, openly gesturing the glass in his direction. “Queens local Spider-Man.”

Norman eyed Tony intently. There was no missing the glint in his eye, not even in the dim lighting of the darkened office.

“He was there for them all,” Norman spoke casually, as if their conversation hadn’t took a coarse, abrupt turn. Like they were still throwing banter back and forth on political arguments and legal proceeding disagreements, like the mention of the red and blue clad vigilante was nothing more than an insouciant comment in an otherwise petty discussion.

Tony fought to appear as if that was the case, forcing himself to hide any shred of emotion that would say otherwise.

“I’m not here to discuss Avengers business with you,” Tony curtly said, his pulse quickly beginning to thump erratically under his skin.

Norman arched a brow. “I wasn’t aware that Spider-Man was an Avenger now.”

Just like that, a burning feeling settled deep in Tony’s chest — a sharp needle that dug deep into his core. It wasn’t until the sensation became overpowering that he realized he’d stopped breathing all together, his test of patience pushed to the absolute limits.

He flexed his hands, his mouth setting in grim line.

“He’s not.”

Norman moved to raise both his eyebrows, and the glass of whiskey to the tips of his lips.

“But I do see Iron Man with him...often.” A sip. A swallow. Norman swirled the liquid in the glass, watching it swish around the edges. “An enigma, if I do say so myself.”

Tony should have expected such a low blow. The public wasn’t oblivious to the connection he had with Spider-Man, after all. Not since spring, not since the rock-android incident on the Collar City Bridge. In that moment, he had unintentionally outed Spider-Man as an ally of his, more than an acquaintance — the frequent visits Iron Man made to Queens were too coincidental to brush aside. Tony knew that. He wasn’t naive, he knew full well how the media ate up his superhero business like there was no tomorrow.

But still. To bring him up now, to drag Spider-Man into their conversation unwarranted, with no cause, no reason —

The implications were clear as day.

Tony’s eyes hardened. The rest of him managed to look flawlessly oblivious.

“What can I say?” He spread his arms out wide, slapping on a smile that went ear-to-ear. “Hard to turn down a friendly face who just wants to help his neighborhood.”

Norman leaned back in his chair, hand still holding his glass, resting it somewhere beneath his chest where the dark emerald tie laid against the harsh contrast of his white button down.

“Neighborhoods have always been beneath you, Stark,” he said, searching Tony’s eyes for something that neither of them could distinguish. “What changed?”

Tony was sure the words were meant as a challenge. A goading, leading question designed to trick him — trip him up, admit something that would only serve Norman’s interest and no one else’s.

“I started giving a damn,” Tony ground the words from his lips. “You should try doing the same.”

If Norman was disappointed by the answer, he surely didn’t let it show. Head dipped low, chin on his chest, he again swirled the liquid in the mountain glass. Only the thin slivers of sunlight peeking through the heavy drawn curtains gave way to the expression on his face, and Tony had to squint to notice if there had even been a change that took place.

He remained impassive, imperturbable through it all.

“You’ve always relied on contingencies in your business. A destined trait from someone who took over a corporation at such a young age, I suppose,” Norman went on to say, infuriatingly stoic. “But chance won’t help you with whatever you’re trying to put OsCorp through. Whatever information you think you have in that intellect of yours...it won’t do you any good at the end of the day. You’ve become nothing more than the boy who cried wolf, the thorn in the side of our judicial system, wasting time of those who could be serving our public better.”

Leaning forward, Norman set the glass back on the desk, far off to the corner where he couldn’t easily grab ahold of it again. Tony’s eyes briefly glanced in the direction; the amber liquid was all but gone, a mere trace of residue left in the bottom.

“So, I ask again…” Norman furrowed his brows, hesitating before reclining back in the chair. “Why are you here?”

Tony raised his eyes to meet Norman’s burrowing stare, a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth.

“For the kids,” he boasted simply. “Who are we without them, am I right?”

Norman huffed a slight, dry chuckle, giving the smallest nods along the way.

“Ah, yes, the OsCorp Internship Program,” he preened, a crease between his eyes telling Tony he hadn’t fully fallen for the set-up. Still, he continued on. “You know, my son Harrison is second lead to running that program.”

Tony adjusted himself in his seat, hoping the movement hid the eye-roll he was unable to stop himself from giving.

“I’m sure you’re very proud,” he acknowledged flatly.

Norman nodded, eyes settling, skin pulling tight in a few places.

“I recently became acquainted with an old friend of his,” he began to say, the pause that followed heavier than the stare he proceeded to give. “I think you know him — Peter Parker?”

The sound of the name assaulted Tony like a thousand pounds of shrapnel blasting through his chest cavity, hitting him harder than a bomb blowing through the fragile windows of an undersea bunker. He could feel the blood rush out from his face, his skin growing cold, his heart losing rhythm.

It was too much not to let Norman on, to not shoot glaring daggers his way — let him know that even speaking that name was a cardinal sin that could never be forgiven.

If his facade faltered in the second that passed, it wasn’t for lack of trying.

“The name is familiar, yes.” Tony's jaw tightened threateningly, a sound akin to a growl nearly escaping his throat.

Norman’s lips twisted into a small smile. Tony fought the urge to punch it right off his face.

“Very intelligent young man. Guided by the right hands, he could do wonders. Take this company right underneath me some day, assuming my son doesn’t do it first.” Norman’s tone was enough to have Tony grinding his teeth — lighthearted, interested, fascinated. Thrilled. He looked at Tony, really looked at him, hiding nothing beneath his features. “I tried getting him enrolled in the OsCorp Internship, but he unfortunately declined.”

“Sorry to break your heart,” Tony’s voice dipped dangerously low, raw and strained despite his best efforts. “He’s already in one.”

Tony made a face, something he was sure looked less impressionable than what he wanted. It was hard to stay neutral in the conversation. Less than six hours ago he discovered Peter’s impromptu, unapproved trip to OsCorp had resulted in something happening that could very well be poisoning him — or worse.

Now, in the same day, he managed to find out that Norman himself had made contact with the kid.

His kid.

Who, when all this was said and done with, would be getting a long lecture about hiding things from others. Like having a powwow with the man responsible for nearly killing them both, on multiple occasions.

Tony’s eyes briefly flitted away, a curse sitting on the tip of his tongue. He should’ve done more when he got that alert of Peter’s location in OsCorp. He knew then that trouble was afoot — he should’ve listened to his instincts.

“Mhm-hm.” Norman’s hum cut through the stifling silence. “I’m aware of his extra curricular activities. I looked into it — the Stark Internship.” He raised a single eyebrow. “Doesn’t exist.”

The words rang through the office like reverberating steel; harsh, frigid, striking a cord where it wasn’t wanted.

Things that had previously not added up in his calculations were suddenly growing crystal clear to Tony. Shinier than the near-empty glass of alcohol that sat discarded across from him.

“But other people…”

Peter hadn’t meant the Thompson kid at school.

He didn’t want that proof for himself.

Tony felt a sinking pit grow deep in his gut. Realization combined with hopeless understanding tore into his skin like a ravenous, feral beast, and his spine stiffened; a steel knife cutting straight into his windpipe.

Whatever Peter was keeping from him, whatever he was keeping secret — it was beyond them all at this point.

Tony could only hope that there wasn’t more he was hiding.

Norman fiddled with the cuffs to his white button down, pushing them up his forearms. “Now, I don’t take Mr. Parker for a liar, seems like an honest young boy, has the straps on his boots up well. But you, on the other hand —”

“It exists,” Tony bit back vehemently, the words coming without his bidding.

Norman leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk between them, moving himself as close into Tony’s space as he possibly could.

“Then the question remains to be…” His head cocked to the side, and his eyes narrowed sharply. “In what capacity?”

Tony met his eyes head-on, not by choice, rather by sheer force of will. He refused to look away, refused to plant any validation to the implication laid out in front of him.

Yet it was blunt. Unequivocal, unmistakable.

Suddenly, Tony felt like he was drowning — caught under water, trapped in a wave he couldn’t escape. His ears rushed and popped, his head screamed under the tightening pressure. It was hard to even breathe, a simple inhale catching in his chest and staying there.

Right where Norman sat, leaning over his desk, the first expression he’d seen on the man all afternoon finally catching the little bit of sunlight creeping in through the curtains.

He was smug.

And Tony had a gut-wrenching feeling on why.

─────── Identity Within︱Chapter 5: Something Borrowed ───────

Norman reached forward, grabbing the nearest item in the large, contaminated pile.

A photo frame laid amongst the mess; covered in white, tacky fluid. Norman grabbed the smallest part of its upper hand corner, barely free of any white goop. With his finger and thumb, he tugged it away from the wreckage.

It drew along a sinuous string of fluid, like bubble gum freshly plucked from a child’s mouth — stretching onward, resistant and unending. Norman couldn’t help but eye it, curiously — the unhinged pit in his stomach too deep to give it his fascination, but the oddity of it all still captivating his attention.

He almost didn’t notice the picture sitting behind the glass; so engrossed staring at the intricate, silky cobwebs pulled from the splatter across the floor. To the point where the image sealed away was the last thing he found focus on; the faces confined inside the frame catching his attention, forever frozen in time.

Behind the thick layers of white, two men posed side-by-side. Norman squinted his eyes and then returned them to size, struggling to make out the details beneath the mess. The white covered nearly all of the glass, but the threads of gummy fiber thinned out with detailed latticework making each strand unique and nearly translucent.

Instinctively, he went to brush the tacky fluid away, stopping short of his fingers grazing the substance.

It was there he could see the picture wasn’t of two men — no, Norman studied the image more intently.

It was a man, and a young boy.

A teenager.

They were familiar, both of them. Both holding a framed document no different than Norman held the framed photo. Both faces etched deep into the tapestry of Norman’s memory.

Though partially obscured by the large splatter of white goop, the man in particular struck a chord of recognition. The trademark goatee, the impish twinkle in the eyes, even the assured tilt of his head —

Standing next to a neatly kept tuft of hair, wide innocent eyes, and a familiar, awkward smile of adolescence —

Norman’s eyes flittered left to right, back and forth, lingering only to pause on the center where he could scarcely make out the Stark Industries logo within the frame — free of any tacky fluid that would keep it indistinguishable.

h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅӺͫ̐ͥīꞥ̎ͤͩđ Īͪⱦͯ

ƒ̵̘̑ι̵̫͆χ̴̞̏ ̴͍̓ῖ̸̺т̷̲͂

Ħēɍē

He went to drop the framed photo back onto the floor — slowly at first, suddenly when the open envelope off to the side caught his gaze. Norman quickly reached for it, picking up the letter in one fell sweep.

The wax imprint that once sealed the parcel had since cracked and dried over, torn off at the top from when the letter was initially opened; but still fresh enough that even in the haze of his madness, he could tell it was fairly recent. The card inside was made of material far heavier than the other scattered papers that fell off the desk, holding a weight of significance that prompted him to pull it out from its resting place.

Norman paid it no care, even as the tacky substance covering the photo frame stuck to his fingers and caked into the callouses on his palms. It didn’t bother him — not as he struggled to get the card out from inside, and not as he struggled to read the contents with eyes dry as the desert and stinging with a prickly heat.

Those same eyes flickered to the framed photo beneath him, the hand holding the letter moving away just sightly so he could see the picture without any obscuration.

He looked back to the letter, all while spreading his fingers wide — creating a spiderweb between the spaces of all four of his fingers.

ӺīꞥđӺ̧̢̼͉͖̪̙̥̝͓͑͛̃̅ͫͮͫ̋́͘ͅī͈̻͔ͫͥ͆ꞥ͂͂̈̾̑̃̃̓̑̋̌đ̨͘͡

p̑̿̾ͯ̑̑ͬ̈ͤ͆̍͒ͭ̑̓u͍͚̤̖̓ͥ͆̉́n̷̨͞o̴̡ͧ̕ɟ̛̕͡ Ғ͕͕̟̈́ͮ͐θμπδ̆̾

Ħēɍē

H̰̞̗̄̔ͭίϻ͖͊̀ͅ

ƒ̵̘̑ι̵̫͆χ̴̞̏ ̴͍̓ῖ̸̺т̷̲͂

ꓕʜ͆ͅE ̻̮̯ͮͧ̎Ƚ̈́ͭɪ̈́ͫX͓̙̮ʰ̵̦̈́ᵉ̷̲̈'̷̦̔ˢ̴̯̊ ̴͖͛ᵗ̴̢͗ʰ̵̬̋ᵉ̴͇̚ ̸̭̅ᶠ̵̣͑ᶦ̸̓͜ˣ̸̥̐

ｔＨ𝐄 xᴉɟʰ̵̦̈́ᵉ̷̲̈'̷̦̔ˢ̴̯̊ ̴͖͛ᵗ̴̢͗ʰ̵̬̋ᵉ̴͇̚ ̸̭̅ᶠ̵̣͑ᶦ̸̓͜ˣ̸̥̐

T͕̘͐̆h̬̩̗̓ͪ͗e ͔͆Fix͕ʰ̵̦̈́ᵉ̷̲̈'̷̦̔ˢ̴̯̊ ̴͖͛ᵗ̴̢͗ʰ̵̬̋ᵉ̴͇̚ ̸̭̅ᶠ̵̣͑ᶦ̸̓͜ˣ̸̥̐

ʰᵉ'ˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠᶦˣ

xᴉɟ ǝɥʇ s'ǝɥ

нє'ϛ τнє ƒίx̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡ᵉ̴͇̚ ̸̭̅ᶠ̵̣͑ᶦ̸̓͜ˣ̸̥̐

For the first time in weeks, Norman felt a frigid chill — one that ran down the length of his spine, overtaking the scorching heat of an inescapable inferno. Coursing through his body and freezing him in a state of realization.

With that realization, he smiled.

And with a surge of energy that wasn’t his, he climbed off his knees and staggered out of the office. Discarding the letter in the pile left on the floor, with the card slipping out of the envelope for any onlookers to see.

Through the splatters of sticky silk, the printed text against the card caught the final highlight from the cracked door, only to fade away into darkness once that door closed shut.

𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓲𝓪𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝓲𝓷𝓿𝓲𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓮𝓭𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓸𝓯 𝓜𝓼. 𝓥𝓲𝓻𝓰𝓲𝓷𝓲𝓪 𝓟𝓸𝓽𝓽𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓜𝓻. 𝓐𝓷𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓷𝔂 𝓔. 𝓢𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓴.

#fanfiction #tony stark #peter parker #irondad #marvel #writing #fanfic #spiderson #mcu #spider-man #avengers fanfic #avengers found family #spider-man fanfic #iron man fanfic #norman osborn #oscorp #green goblin #mcu fanfic #if only I could've written my own comic book

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