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Simmer

"Tell me again, what Dr. Strange told you?"

"Pete…"

"About the Infinity Stones?"

"We've been over this."

"Please?"

Maybe it was the whininess in Peter's voice that made Mr. Stark cave, or perhaps he had finally accepted after ten minutes of relentless needling that Peter wasn't going to let this go. A pencil was balanced between Peter's fingers and his thumb was striking the eraser nub repeatedly against his open chemistry notebook. He could see it grating on Mr. Stark's nerves, but he couldn't make his hand stop. On top of that, Dum-E was making weep-woo noises as he made a solid effort to sweep up some scrap metal in to a neat pile in the corner. With a sigh, Mr. Stark finally set down his soldering iron and watched the last wisps of smoke rise up from the circuit board he'd been working on and dissipate into the air.

"I should've shown you my memory in BARF back when we were still at the compound," he grumbled, drawing his thumb and forefinger inward over his closed eyelids and pinching the bridge of his nose between them briefly. He let go and opened his eyes again. The look he shot Peter from across the lab table was decidedly tired, and Peter felt the smallest twinge of guilt worm it's way into his stubborn persistence. "Strange made a sparkly portal thing and took me and Bruce back to the… what'd he call it? Sanctum? Yeah, a sanctum."

A shiver wracked Peter's body, making his startled hand drop his pencil. It rolled off the table and clacked to the floor, but he barely noticed. A swift warmth had passed over him in a wave of tingles, and the sensation reminded him of tissue paper lightly grazing over his skin. It tickled and made his arm hair raise, but not in the usual way like when his spidey-sense was screaming at him 'danger!'. As suddenly as it came, it went, leaving Peter perched tensely on his tall lab stool, head swiveling around to find the source. Mr. Stark's brow pinched as he took in Peter's confusion.

"You good?"

There was probably a breeze in here. Yeah, that was it. There were no windows, but the lab was well ventilated, and the AC must've turned on. And Peter… must've had a weird reaction and imagined that the cool air currents were warm.

"Mhmm." Peter mumbled. Smiling uneasily, he forced himself to sit still and ignore the eerie prickling of his skin. He couldn't hear any fans whirling. "So, then what happened?"

The question made Mr. Stark's concern fall away, and a worn-down sort of annoyance took its place. He set his elbows on top of the table and leaned on them, leaving his work forgotten next to him.

"You mean after Strange strongly suggested that I accompany him back to Hogwarts?"

A sharp barb hastily flew to Peter's tongue, and with great restraint he swallowed the urge to ask sarcastically, what else they had been talking about. That wasn't like him, and yet… as of late it was becoming harder and harder to suppress sullen, snarky remarks like that. Shame scrabbled at his rising irritation, as it often did these days. As always, they wrestled one another with no clear winner, leaving Peter to wallow in the godawful mixture of the two. He dropped his troubled gaze to his notes on Hess's law and instead he muttered:"Yeah."

"I already told you," Mr. Stark's voice was muffled and Peter didn't need to look up to know that he was rubbing his hand over his goatee. "His assistant, Wong, gave us the Cliffs Notes on the Infinity Stones."

Peter's head snapped up, and the accompanying accusatory glint in his eyes made his whole demeanor turn stormy.

"Dr. Strange had an assistant? You never mentioned that before!"

His raised voice took Mr. Stark aback, and admittedly, it had startled Peter too. He hadn't given his voice permission to shout, but it did all the same. Mr. Stark's hand dropped from his face, landing with a thud on the table as his wide eyes became increasingly unsettled.

"What does it matter if he had a sidekick?"

"It does matter," Peter insisted as he fought to keep his tone level. Already, he could feel anxiety seizing his insides, because if Mr. Stark had forgotten a detail like that what else had he omitted? What else did he deem unimportant which could be crucial?

"Alright, alright, so now you know. Mr. Mistoffelees had a hype man." Mr. Stark's made a quelling gesture with his hand, and that combined with his placating tone made resentment burn like glowing embers deep in Peter's chest. "At first, I figured that his job was mostly putting bunnies into hats, but it turns out that Wong was really quick on his feet. He's real handy in a fight."

"What'd he say then?"

Mr. Stark didn't sigh, but his overall bearing deflated as his attempt at humor was deflected.

"He said that during the big bang, the infinity stones were created and scattered across the universe. There's six of 'em: Power, mind, space, time, reality, and soul."

The same story with slightly different wording every time. There was nothing more said this time either. No clue revealed itself, no detail stood out as significant in Peter's overactive mind… and what was worse was that he didn't even know what he was searching for.

"That's it?" he asked. As he spoke, he realized that he could feel his teeth. They didn't ache, but the pressure in his clenched jaw had made them noticeable. "That's all he said?"

"Yep." Mr. Stark's eyes remained serious even as his shoulders shrugged innocently. "Like I said; Cliffs Notes."

"There's gotta be something else," Peter muttered to no one in particular. His eyes unfocused, and everything in his sight became blurry as his thoughts retreated within himself.

"Peter."

The authority ringing in Mr. Stark's voice as well as the urgent sound of fingers snapping brought him back to himself. When his sight cleared again, Mr. Stark's perturbed expression was the first thing that he became aware of. The stinging guilt in his stomach was the second.

"Are we really starting this again?" he asked without any trace of his usual quick sarcastic wit. There was a gentleness in his firm voice, but Peter could still hear the silent, exhausted plea underneath it all begging him to let it go. It would be easier and perhaps kinder to do that, but all Peter could see was the challenge taunting him. It incited his heart rate to pick up, and a subtle heat flushed the back of his neck. "You already know that there's nothing more anyone can do. Why are you doing this?"

It was quiet as Peter and Mr. Stark stared at each other, save for the sound of Dum-E's sweeping and the occasional 'weep-woo'. Peter had many answers, but none that wouldn't be hurtful to hear. Hurting Mr. Stark was the last thing that he wanted to do, and so he remained silent.

He wanted May back, and putting aside that he was the only one to still have hope of that possibility, he knew that expressing that wish would mean rejecting the life that Mr. Stark had provided him. Because what he really wanted was Queens. His apartment. His friends. May. But to have that again would mean undoing the foundation of something new, and though Peter hesitated to admit it, something he desperately wanted. He lamented, for a moment, how loyalty to one of his families could not be maintained without harming the other. Closely following that thought, he wondered when exactly he had come to think of the Starks as his family.

The sound of soft footsteps padding across the floor reached Peter's ears before they met Mr. Stark's and he was the first to break his focus away from the heavy tension. Ms. Potts enter the lab. Stopping in the doorway and leaning her shoulder against the frame, her eyes darted between himself and Mr. Stark.

"Dinner's ready upstairs."

Mr. Stark stood, but Peter didn't move. He looked back down to Hess's law, written in his messy handwriting, and felt acutely the two pairs of eyes on him.

"M'not hungry," he mumbled. "But thanks anyways."

No one said anything for a long moment, and Peter kept his head down. He didn't want to offend either of them, but with his stomach twisting in knots, he honestly didn't think he could eat even if he wanted to.

Plus, the thought of sitting through yet another uncomfortably tense dinner made him cringe. Solitude really was the most appealing option.

Ms. Potts slipper clad feet were the first to turn and leave, and a second later he heard Mr. Stark turn off the soldering iron. He remembered his very first trip to Mr. Stark's lab, and his lips pressed into a hard line to hide his smile.

'First rule of my lab, Spiderling: Safety first. Second rule: Do as I say, not as I do.'

On the whole, Peter had thought that Mr. Stark's safety precautions had greatly improved in the two years that they'd known each other. He didn't think he'd seen an iron or welding torch burning unattended since they'd moved in here.

The doors slid shut behind Mr. Stark, and Peter exhaled a breath that he'd been subconsciously holding. He propped his elbows on the table, and dropped his forehead into his palms. His fingers curled into his hair and the slight ache from the strain on his hair follicles was oddly grounding. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. In and hold for four, out for seven. It was the only useful piece of advice that the school counselor, Mr. Jenkins, had given him in all of their forced time together after Ben died.

In.

'Don't be mad.' … two… three… four.

Out.

'You got a home and people.' …three… four… five… six… seven.

In.

'You have a family.' … two… three… four.

Out.

'But I want my old one too.'

His exhale hitched and the count got screwed up and before Peter knew it, he was blowing out a string of painful hiccups and gasps. After a few seconds of spluttering, he regained his breath and felt his heart racing harder than it had been before. He pulled his hands from his hair and slammed them down in frustration flat on the table. His glare met the empty space ahead of him.

Why the hell did he think that would work? Deep breathing helped with anxiety. Mr. Jenkins had said so. But this wasn't that. He was just… mad. It ate at him from the inside and what made it even worse was knowing that there wasn't even a direction that he could throw it in. He was just mad at everything and at the same time no one specifically.

Peter remembered the first time someone had called him 'happy-go-lucky'. He had been young, so he didn't think it meant much back then. Most little kids are happy, and Peter was just one of them. But he got older and more people had commented on his cheerful nature, and so he had to believe that there was some truth to that claim, even if he hadn't always been able to feel it colouring his life.

He felt it now in its absence.

To see such an integral feature of his character disappear was unsettling in a way that Peter couldn't describe. He was mad now, all the time. He thought that he'd spent more time being angry in these past few weeks than he had collectively in all of his other years of living, and the longevity of it scared him. Maybe there was no shirking it. Maybe he would always be at least a little mad, and maybe… this was just life now.

Peter blinked hard a few times, dispelling the mistiness there before it had a chance to fully form. At the far end of the lab sat the unfinished structure of Morgan's crib. At Mr. Stark's insistence, he had helped to weld the pieces together because 'this is a two-man job, Pete. Get your head out of that text book, we both know you're gonna ace the exam'. At this point, it was only bare bones. Eventually, when Mr. Stark finished with the circuitry that would program it, the sensors in it would measure body temperature, heart rate, breathing, and a whole slew of other safety measures.

But machines could only go so far. Babies, as Peter had learned in his research, could sense more than what most people cared to recognize. How many months would Morgan live without sensing Peter's bad temper? Peter tried to keep it all neatly square away out of sight, but he knew that Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts caught glimpses of it from time to time (and those times were becoming more frequent as the days pressed on). Still, he was sure that they didn't know how deep his anger ran nor how it was consuming most of his waking hours. He never wanted Morgan to have to see him like that either. He deserved to be born into a family that was safe and happy, and Peter knew that he could only contribute to the former.

That wasn't enough.

The doors slide open again, startling Peter from his thoughts. Mr. Stark strode in holding a plate of dinner in one hand, cutlery in the other, and a bottle of water tucked under one arm. He walked with swift, purposeful steps as he came up to the lab table that they'd both been sitting at. He set everything down next to Peter's notebook and regarded him with a stern look.

"Don't starve yourself because you're mad at me."

That stung, and Peter dipped his head down. But he also knew that he deserved it.

"I'm not mad at you," he said truthfully, but even then, he could hear an unnecessary touch of steel in his voice.

"Could've fooled me."

He clapped Peter firmly on the shoulder and squeezed before letting go.

'Weep?'

Peter lip twitched upward as he glanced over at Dum-E. With a broom still clutched in his three-prong claw-hand and a clumsy pile of scraps surrounding his wheels, he seemed to be waiting with baited breath for his own reassurance.

"I'm not mad at you either, Dum-E."

'Weep!'

Peter laughed despite his darkened mood, and Mr. Stark let out his own surprised sounding laugh.

"When was the last time something wasn't Dum-E's fault?" Peter asked rhetorically, knowing that the answer was probably 'never'. "Poor guy's starved for praise."

"I called him a good boy once when he actually did something useful," Mr. Stark shrugged and the severity in his face softened. "But I'm pretty sure that was just a fluke. As you can see, the compliment went to his head and he's a total slacker now. Look at him."

Dum-E, in his excitement and confusion, started sweeping the broom outward instead of inward towards the pile and a couple of nuts and bolts scattered across the floor, rolling with little clinks in different directions. The robot made a dejected 'woo' and bowed his head like a pouting toddler. The broom clattered to the floor out of his slack claw and Mr. Stark sighed.

"C'mon, seriously?" He muttered and rubbed a tired hand over his face. "Don't just sit there feeling sorry for yourself. Up and at 'em, Dum-E."

The robot perked up at the encouragement and, with its claw opening and closing in grabby motions, it wheeled itself in the direction of one of the bolts. A smile played at the corner of Peter's mouth and Mr. Stark, seemingly satisfied with his work, gave his shoulder one last parting squeeze.

"It's a big day tomorrow. Eat up," he said and turned to leave. Peter watched him go. The door slid shut and his knee, as if waiting for its cue, started bouncing.

The entrance exam was tomorrow. He'd have to be at Midtown bright and early. Normally, exams stressed him out, no matter how well prepared he was. The night before would always be spent with very little sleep as he anxiously stared at the metal rungs that crossed the underside of the top bunk bed. But for this, Peter could not measure up one ounce of nerves.

His knee bounced from energy, not anxiety, and with no one around to watch him he picked up his fork and plate and got to his feet. He paced while eating in hopes that movement would satiate his growing irritation. His ears grew overly attuned to the room and every little sound grated on him.

His fork clacked and scraped on ceramic.

Dum-E weeped and wooed.

Broom bristles brushed against the floor with hair raising intensity.

One of Dum-E's wheels snagged on a piece of metal, and the screeching sound it made evoked sudden irrepressible rage. His steps staggered at the sound and his plate fell from his jarred hands. He could've caught it but he didn't. Instead he watched with immense satisfaction as it fell the short distance and met a sudden stop. The ground shattered it like a tiny explosion into a hundred pieces. Splatters of food and shards of ceramic made a tight circumference of mess, and something about seeing such controlled destruction made dread bleed into Peter's anger.

It was an accident, he reasoned unconvincingly to himself as he turned to fetch Dum-E's broom. There were other brooms, but he wanted that one specifically to end the robot's annoying task. He cleaned up his mess, all the while trying to convince himself that he hadn't broken the plate on purpose. That wasn't him. He wasn't a 'get mad and break things' kind of a guy. He just wasn't.

'But maybe you are now,' his traitorous brain hissed to him and Peter's throat tightened as he tipped the dust pan into the garbage. He took a deep breath, returned the broom to its corner, and turned to take in the lab.

What to do? He couldn't go upstairs. Not yet anyway. Not when he was still so… this. The worry he'd cause wasn't worth his impatience, so he'd distract himself until he was more like his old self. More classic, cheery Peter. Less angry Peter.

Bizarrely, He thought of MJ's doodle in his notebook - the one that sat securely in his book shelf upstairs - of Hulk-Peter smashing and flinging Flash across a New York City backdrop. He laughed and the heavy knot in his chest started to ease. But then he wondered if she had spotted something in him. Something unknown to him, but perceptible to others, just as his 'happy-go-lucky-ness' had been. Just as she had seen an obvious truth with Mr. Harrington, maybe she had seen something ugly in Peter. The thought sobered him as he wandered back to the lab table.

His notes lay open, but Peter knew them by heart and that was not at all helpful in the aim of distraction. His eyes flittered to a tablet that was discarded by Mr. Stark on another table. He probably won't mind, Peter thought, and in any case he was desperate. There wasn't a password to protect it, which eased some of Peter's guilt, but then he saw the collection of medical studies and academic articles that were left open and his heart dropped.

The first one; Reducing the Probability of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS).

His stomach bottomed out and his eyes snapped up to take in the unfinished crib. Returning back to the screen, they skimmed over:

… usually occurs in infants less than a year old. Most frequently, cases of SIDS occur within the age range of two to four months… body unable to detect low oxygen or when a buildup of carbon dioxide occurs within the blood… Unable to ascertain a definitive cause but parents may take preventative measures to minimize the chances of infantile death…

And his eyes snapped back up, because he was going to be sick if he kept reading. His hands tossed the tablet back on the table as if it had burned him and he took a step back.

He had to get out of here. Away from his worries and away from Mr. Stark's fear, which had now become Peter's as well. So much of life was uncontrollable. The realization kept coming back to him, and each time it rattled him to his core.

He needed control again.

He needed to do something that mattered.

He needed to do something good.

He needed Spider-Man… but he was upstairs.

A frown marred Peter's face as he considered his options. Really, there were only two; stay at home or go out, and he already knew that the first was intolerable. The anxiety would kill him if he stayed, and if he went upstairs, he already knew that Mr. Stark or Ms. Potts would insist on him staying inside.

Spider-Man was just a disguise anyway. Peter didn't need him in order to protect people. He had created him in the first place in order to maintain his normal life and to protect the people that he loved.

But he was standing in a multi-million dollar lab. Holograms projected dull blue light here and there and Iron Man suits sat in full display inside of glass cases. This wasn't temporary either. This was his life now, and the futility of safe-guarding something that could be snatched in an instant, with or without his protection, was dizzying.

Snapping spare web shooters on to his wrists, he yanked a spare hoodie off of the coat rack near the door. The sun was setting and soon the darkness of night would give him cover. He pulled the hood up and decided that it would do.

A tingling thrill shot through him as he took the elevator down to the lobby. He could be discovered or he could not, and the funny thing was he didn't really care either way.

For a couple hours, Peter paced the streets of the Upper East Side. The late evening sun beat down on him, making him swelter under his hoodie. Though he was extremely over-heated, he kept his hood up, his face shadowed, and his eyes focused as he scouted out any wrong-doing in the making.

The sun set at 8:30, and like clockwork the city's criminals came alive.

It wasn't a blatantly obvious shift, but after nearly three years of Spider-Man patrolling Peter had long since developed an eye for seeing thinly veiled crimes. There was a difference between someone coincidentally walking in the same direction as someone else and someone who was stalking an unsuspecting victim. It was all in their gait. New Yorkers were perpetually hurried and their fast and determined steps accentuate that. But the subtle stride of predators evoked a carefully hidden intensity that gave them away.

There was a woman strolling down the sidewalk. Her face was buried in her phone and the glow of it completely captivated her attention. Trailing ten feet behind her, a man was following while trying to appear like he wasn't.

The woman looked up briefly to get her bearings, and noting the apartment building next to her, turned inside of its underground parking garage. Peter hastened to catch up to the pair as the man followed. Peter entered the garage a few seconds later, and the dim orange lighting lent everything in it an eerie shadow. Two pairs of footsteps echoed ahead. One pair of clacking heels echoed much louder than the soft soled sneakers. The clacking heels faltered and then started to clack faster, and Peter knew that the woman had become aware of her stalker.

The second pair of footsteps started walking faster too, and then so did Peter's. He rounded the last corner. Amid the rows of parked cars, the woman ran as fast as her tall heels would let her. Taking long running strides, Peter easily caught up to the stalker. He didn't give him time to notice him as his hand wrapped tightly around the back of his neck. His grip held firmly enough that the man couldn't twist his head around to see behind him.

"What…?" he squeaked with the desperation of a trapped mouse. Peter had no sympathy for him.

The woman turned around at the sound. Her purse bounced against her hip and one of her fists had her keys laced through her knuckles. Her wide eyes took in the struggling man and then drifted over his shoulder to met Peter's gaze. Raw panic radiated from her, and Peter knew that fear had paralyzed her to the spot. He jerked his head in the direction of the door leading into the building and he hoped that she had the key card to get inside.

"Get outta here! Run!"

His voice echoed on the concrete walls, and the sound seemed to have snapped her out of her panic. She turned in the direction of the door and sprinted towards it. She fumbled her keys and dropped them, but she moved with purpose like this was her home. Peter breathe a relieved sigh. He figured that a security guard would show up in a minute or two. He had to be quick.

"Let go of me!" The man screamed as Peter slammed his front against a wall. Careful to keep out of his line of sight, he webbed him to the wall with his head turned and pasted to the concrete in the opposite direction of where Peter would be leaving.

"You shouldn't stalk women," Peter advised, unable to part from a criminal without adding his sarcastic two-cents. "Someone might get the wrong idea about you."

His phone vibrated in the pocket of his hoodie (he had learned his lesson from the time Ned had nearly gotten him killed at an arms deal. When out patrolling: always set to vibrate or silent). He didn't need to look at the call display. These days, there was only one person who called him.

"Gotta go," he added cheekily and bolted down the aisle of the parking garage. He didn't answer the call until he was outside and strolling casually down the street.

"Hey, Mr. Stark."

"Where are you?"

Instantly, Peter bristled at the hard edge in his voice. His shoulders tensed as he came to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Ummm…" he glanced up at the street signs in the intersection ahead of him, "West 96th and Broadway."

"Okay," Mr. Stark drawled. "Lemme just go ahead and ask the real question here: Why are you at West 96th and Broadway?"

Peter frowned at his demanding tone and irritation spike through him with startling force.

"Just 'cause," he mumbled, tight lipped. The only reason to lie was to save himself the headache of explaining why he was patrolling out of his suit, and that was more than enough reason for him. Still, it was strange that Mr. Stark was acting as if he hadn't been aware that Peter had been gone for hours. His frown deepened as a thought crossed his mind. "Didn't patchwork FRIDAY tell you that I left?"

All was silent on Mr. Stark's end, except for his aggravated breathing, but it was answer enough for Peter. There were no patchwork FRIDAYs installed on the lab's doors because they weren't really meant to be a security system. Their sole purpose was to keep tabs on Peter. Although he had always been aware that was a large part of their purpose, to realize that that was their only job left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Look, just get home, kid. It's late."

"You've never cared before if I went out late!" Peter snapped and felt the ear pressed against his phone grow hot.

"Yeah, because I don't wanna be one of those parents who puts a leash on their kid!" Mr. Stark snapped back. Peter's grip on his phone tightened and it took all of his effort to not crush it. Mr. Stark hadn't spoken to him like that in a while. He'd nearly forgotten how infuriating it was to be belittled. He heard Mr. Stark exhale a long, measured breath before continuing in a controlled voice: "This is different. You got an exam tomorrow and you need sleep, so get home now."

"Fine," he spat and then hung up. A second passed as he stood stock-still, rooted to the pavement. His breath came out short and shallow. Heat pumped through his veins with every steady beat of his heart. His indignation swallowed him up and for several long moments, he couldn't think of anything at all.

The cool night air lent some clarity, and after a few moments of deeply breathing it in, his head cleared and the gravity of the situation struck him with sickening force. His reflection stared at him in the dark screen of his phone, and he realized what he'd just done.

He became cold all at once. The air turned his sweaty skin clammy and Peter's stomach dropped.

'What's wrong with me?', he wondered miserably, not for the first time and surely not the last. Despite the many reoccurrences of the thought, the fear that accompanied it was always fresh, because he was changing and he had no control over it. He wasn't a break things kind of guy, just as he wasn't a hang up on his… one of the most important people in his life kind of guy. He was happy-go-lucky Peter. He went out of his way daily to save people from harm. With creeping dread, it occurred to him that it shouldn't take daily affirmations to reinforce in him something that was supposed to come naturally.

Someone bumped in to his back. Their grouching grumbles to 'get outta the way, damn kid' was enough to jar him from his train of thought. Time to face the music, he thought dismally. A shiver went up his spine and he buried his hands into his pockets. He felt the weight of his web shooters rested heavily on his wrists. They would get him home faster, from this distance, five minutes tops. He reminded himself that the longer he waited, the worse it would be when he finally showed up. Walking would take around half an hour.

But he wasn't brave. So he turned on his heel and walked.

He moved numbly through the streets that he now knew by heart. His head, as if weighted, bowed low as he got close to his apartment building.

In the elevator, the one whose private use was for the penthouse tenants, Peter had the foresight to slip the web shooters off his wrists. He hid them in his pockets and pulled the hood back from his head as the elevator doors opened into the hallway outside the penthouse's front door. With it came the muffled sound of Mr. Stark's distant voice.

"… taking so long? What if he ran away?"

"He's not going to run away over this," Ms. Potts replied with an air of tired repetition. Peter flinched and pressed his back against the hallway wall.

"You don't know that. You didn't hear him on the phone, Pep. He sounded…" he trailed off and sighed sadly. Peter imagined that he was probably running his hand over his face. "I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten so pissy with him. That was wrong of me, huh? Like, I'm the adult here, I'm not supposed to get mad at stupid stunts like that. Yeah, I think that might've been my bad."

Peter's head lowered again. He chewed his lip while his eyes picked out imagined shapes and patterns in the beige carpet.

"Maybe," Ms. Potts agreed frankly. "I don't think you're wrong to be angry. He was very rude to you. But I also don't think Peter's wrong to be annoyed either. What we need is better communication between the three of us to establish consistent rules and boundaries-."

"Ugh. Spare me, Pep. I'll break out in hives."

Peter clenched his eyes shut for a moment, as though he were trying to hide from his rising guilt. Inside he could hear the underlying faint voice of a news anchor on the tv.

"As you can see behind me, Tom, the boats are returning now, down the Ikamva River from the Warrior Falls."

"All I'm saying is if you're going to run a loose ship, don't be surprised when things like this happen."

Summoning his courage, Peter strode the last couple of steps to the front door. His hand gripped the doorknob, crossing the heat and motion sensor barrier. Peter knew that FRIDAY had alerted them of his presence as they both became unnaturally quiet while he turned the doorknob.

He timidly stepped inside, but didn't see them right away. When he turned to the living room, Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts' equally concerned eyes were staring at him over the back of the couch. Behind them, the tv displayed the news anchor, a woman dressed up in glossy professional clothing that seemed out of place for the jungle landscape and riverbank that she stood on.

"Hi, Peter," Ms. Potts said, bring his attention back to them.

"Hey," Peter mumbled awkwardly and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. For a moment, no one said anything, save for the news anchor.

"Each boat, as we know, carries representatives and tributes from each one of the Wakandan Tribes, barring of course the Golden tribe, as its sole member, the Former Queen Mother, has reportedly elected to not attend the coronation ceremony-"

Peter couldn't help himself. The news anchor stole his attention. His eyes flitted back to the tv, taking in the headline at the bottom of the screen:

'End of a Dynasty: King M'Baku Succeeds the Wakandan Throne'

"Kid?"

Peter tore his gaze from the tv and back to Mr. Stark, who seemed to be growing increasingly annoyed… probably because Peter was dawdling.

"Right. Bed. I'm going, I'm going," he muttered and turned to leave.

"-wonder what this change of power might mean for Wakanda's future. Never before has a monarch sat on the throne who wasn't a member of the Royal Family and a direct descendant of the original Black Panther. The Jabari Tribe's past exclusion from all forms of Wakandan politics, including the Royal Council, has undoubtedly exacerbated tensions between-"

"No, wait, kid." Mr. Stark muted the tv and Peter stopped in his tracks. He turned back to his guardians and was met twice over with impatient looks of varying intensity. "We need to talk about-"

"Rules, boundaries, and hives," Peter interrupted and Mr. Stark's brows raised a fraction. He didn't think he could stand to hear the speech all over again. "I know, I heard."

Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts shared a brief stunned look that Peter was deeply familiar with. He'd seen it on May and Ned's faces as well whenever they were reminded of just how good his senses were now. Mr. Stark shook off his surprise quicker than Ms. Potts.

"Okay, I'll cut to the chase then." Mr. Stark leaned his forearm casually against the back of the couch and rubbed his free hand over his eyes. "I'm tired of getting notifications at the crack of dawn that you're just getting back in. I was thinking that a midnight curfew would be pretty lenient." A beat of silence drew out, and Peter realized when they both stared at him with matching expectant looks, that he was waiting for an answer. A smattering of flustered nerves hit him when Mr. Stark prompted: "What do you think? Does that work?"

"Yeah," he said and was dismayed to hear his voice crack in the middle. He grimaced, Mr. Stark smirked, and Ms. Potts, with a roll of her eyes, lightly swatted Mr. Stark's arm. It was strange how something so small could lighten the mood so thoroughly, but it did and with it, Peter found it easier to add: "Sorry for, y'know, being kind of a dick."

An unimpressed look settled over Mr. Stark's face, and Peter's heart rate ticked up.

"There's no 'kind of' about it, kid. You were being a dick." Peter's mouth pressed into a hard line, and Mr. Stark's stern air suddenly gave way to his usual light and joking nature. "But it's okay. My tolerance of dick-ish behavior from first time offenders is pretty high. Plus, I've said and done way worse things in my… less than considerate days. Isn't that right Pep?"

The incredulous look that Ms. Potts shot him seemed to question his overall competence as a person. 'Why are you bringing that up now?', it said, and it was almost enough to make Peter laugh, but not quite. He found his attention straying again, back to the image of the anchor standing on the riverbank that lead to Wakandan sacred land…

… And from a great distance, the memory of MJ's words reverberated in his ears.

"Now that we're all on the same page, just try to be a bit more mindful of our time your responsibilities. That's all we're asking." Ms. Potts wrapped it all up neatly, she was good at that, and Peter nodded numbly in response.

"Can I go to bed now?" he asked weakly, suddenly feeling the entirety of the day on his shoulders. Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts both frowned in that concerned parental way that Peter had seen too many times on too many different faces. Without waiting for their permission, he left.

"Baby steps," he heard Ms. Potts murmur to Mr. Stark. "We'll get there."

Mr. Stark unmuted the tv as Peter closed his bedroom door. He didn't even bother to turn on the lights as he toed off his shoes and shed his hoodie. Feeling his way to bed, he collapsed into it and rolled over on to his side. He stared off into the empty space and slowly, his eyes became used to the darkness. Silhouettes of his furniture emerged like silent companions and Peter's mind hurtled back in time.

In the summer of 2016, Wakanda had opened up to the world.

In September of 2017, Midtown had added a new course to the electives list: Wakandan history.

As predicted, everyone had been all over that, and the class was filled with insane speed. When MJ had sauntered into Chemistry class, looking thoroughly pleased with herself, Peter knew it could only mean one thing.

'You got in? Nice!'

'Yeah, I might've suggested to principal Morita that seats should be prioritized for students of African descent.'

'Is the black half of your family Wakandan?'

'No, they're Nigerian, but that's not the point. This is one of those times when I feel no guilt whatsoever for dusting off the race card and hitting up the administration with a bingo.'

'The race card?'

'To be used sparingly, otherwise it loses its power.'

'I'm more interested in the technological side of Wakanda's information reserve, but send me copies of your course readings, would you? Any history book that includes genetically enhanced panther people has gotta be a real page turner.'

'Sure thing, Loser. Did you know that Wakanda's the only African nation except for Liberia to never be colonized? This class gonna be interesting AF.'

Of course, Peter hadn't really been all that interested in history, but for the sake of having things in common with MJ he did the extra readings. During their coffee… meetings (dates? His memory remained hopeful and possibly delusional), Peter had watched transfixed as MJ's eyes would light up. She was the only person that he'd known to get so excited about current events and social justice causes… and he had been completely endeared by her.

She would've been blown away by what was happening now. A shift in monarchy, and by the Jabari tribe no less. She wouldn't have been able to shut up about it. And Peter would've sat and watched and let her talk and he would've enjoyed every moment in her company…

This was so unfair.

Peter punched his pillow angrily, trying to plump it into a more comfortable shape. It was no use. He tossed and turned as frustration welled up and heated his insides.

Everyone was moving on, even Wakanda. The nation had always seemed so strong and untouchable. A technological paradise wrapped up in impenetrable vibranium. But even they were cutting their losses.

Replacement permeated every corner of the world. There was no escaping it. No one seemed to even be trying anymore.

Finally, Peter pulled his pillow out from under his head. He placed it over his face. Curling his fingers around the top edge and holding it down with his forearms, he felt the fluffy texture fill the crevices and grooves of his face. He wanted to scream but he didn't. That would surely get Mr. Stark's attention. Instead he threw the pillow across his room and resigned himself to another sleepless night.

Fun Fact: according to google translate Ikamva is 'destiny' in Xhosa. Any native speakers of the language, please don't come for me if that's wrong.