The Amazing Spider-Man and The Avengers do not belong to me and are being used here without permission but for no profit. This fic is rated NC-17 for graphic sex and violence, pairing Bruce/Peter (age gap).

Peter misses his chance at saving the world alongside the Avengers, but he's not out. When he scales Stark Tower hoping to meet Tony (and possibly secure a seat on the team) he instead meets Bruce, who has taken up a temporary residence while he continues his Hulk research. The two bond over science-y things, but between Bruce's dry spell, Peter's teen hormones, and the secret identities they're still coming to grips with themselves, it doesn't take long for things to get complicated.

We Might Be Radioactive

Chapter 1

The end of the world came during third period.

Peter ran to the windows with the rest of his classmates, watching in slack-jawed shock as a hole opened in the sky and dozens of crazed UFOs came pouring down. Explosions echoed like thunder in the distance, and soon everyone had their phones out, streaming the news and texting their friends and dissolving into chaos. When their teacher turned on the television at the front of the room Peter abandoned the windows and hopped two rows of desks to get closer. He turned up the volume and tasted his heart in his throat as he watched the impossible images playing out before his eyes.

"Peter." Gwen clung to his elbow. "Don't."

Peter gulped. Sweat collected on his forehead as he thought of the suit stuffed in his locker. "I have to," he said. "Who else will?"

"That's not just one lizard out there," Gwen insisted. She clutched his arm. "Please. Don't."

"I'm sorry." He eased her hand off. "Just stick with the class, and try to get everyone to the basement, if you can. It might be safer there." When she reached for him again, he backed out of range. "I'm sorry, Gwen," he said, and then he bolted out.

Peter changed in the bathroom and rushed across the city as fast as he could. By the time he reached central Manhattan where the worst of the fighting was happening, the streets were overrun with reptilian beasts and screaming machinery. He narrowly dodged a pair of speeding crafts and landed on the roof of an apartment building, only to be chased off again by a barrage of laser fire. "This is insane," he complained as he swung through a narrow alley. When the shots followed, he glanced back and cursed as one of the alien ships swerved after him. It was gaining. Peter latched his web onto a building to his left and tensed against the pull of gravity as he swung out of the way.

It didn't stop his pursuer for long enough. Peter didn't even have enough time for a quip before the alien invader was bearing down on him, close enough that he could see the creature's gaping mouth and spit-slick teeth. So he did the only thing he could think to do-he shot both web shooters behind him, catching the front of the craft. Just as they collided he vaulted over the top, his weight and momentum lifting the nose of the craft enough that it veered out of control. Peter severed the webs and retreated to a flag pole to watch the ship crash into a billboard.

"Hell yeah!" Peter cheered as the wreckage dropped to the street below. "Uh, actually, I hope there was no one below that. But that's one down." He turned back toward the portal. "Three thousand to go..."

Peter moved down a few more blocks and was still trying to think of some kind of plan that might end with him in one piece when a bolt of lightning struck the billboard behind him. He whirled, but could only make out a blur of red and silver streaking overhead. At first he thought it was Iron Man, but then he heard a pulse of thrusters from further down the street, and spotted red and gold flashing in the other direction. Something green and much larger was smashing its way across the front of a building opposite him. Peter's heart pounded as he slid up to the edge of the building and adjusted his mask so he was sure to get a good view of what the hell was going on.

Manhattan was a warzone. The aliens were everywhere, but among them six figures fought to contain and neutralize the threat of their advanced weapons. Peter recognized the flash of Tony Stark's Iron Man armor, and he would never forget the green beast that had rampaged through Harlem while he and his aunt and uncle watched news coverage through the night. The rest he had never seen before, but he couldn't help a pang of awe as he watched a man and woman hold the invasion on the streets with little more than their bare fists, and a sharpshooter picked off the ships from the rooftops, and another struck them with lighting while flying overhead. It was surreal and brilliant, and Peter stood, eager to join them in fighting for the city, just as he had only weeks before.

The billboard behind him creaked, but Peter didn't realize that it was falling until its shadow fell over him, and he turned just in time for a shower of metal to knock him to the ground, unconscious.

"It's not fair," said Peter. "I was there, just like everyone else. How is it that they get all the press? I mean, sure, invaders from Mars is bigger news than one mutant lizard, but still. No one was this excited about me. My suit is red and blue, too. Right?"

Peter turned to the pigeons that were pecking about on the roof ledge next to him. "Are pigeons colorblind?" he asked of them. "Can you see this stitch-work? I didn't learn this in home ec, you know." He shooed them away out of spite.

A week had passed since the dramatic battle that ravaged New York, and the pieces were still being pasted back together. For days Peter had spent his nights in Manhattan, tying up looters and spying on the reconstruction efforts, just in case they needed help with heavy lifting, or saving a street of civilians from falling debris or equipment. Sometimes, he daydreamed that a crew would spot him and ask him to come down, hey, buddy, give us a hand with this. That would be the day.

Peter abandoned his pigeon roost and headed further downtown. He had left Manhattan in favor of Brooklyn for the night, which hadn't received as much attention thanks to the greater need across the river. It was dark, overcast, making it easy for him to remain out of sight as he picked a new vantage overlooking a string of small stores. They'd been hit hard in the aftermath, and on a dark night he never went home empty-handed. He wasn't on watch more than ten minutes when he spotted a pair of men in black masks ducking into the alley alongside a small electronics shop.

"Maybe I should tell them there's nothing left worth stealing," Peter said to himself. He checked his wrist shooters to make sure they had plenty of webbing left and then followed them down.

One of the men was trying to force a lock on the side door when Peter landed on the lid of a dumpster opposite them. They jumped at the clatter. "Come on, fellas," he said. "This is a time for all us New Yorkers to-"

The taller of the two men whipped around, a gun in his hand, and didn't waste time in firing. Even with his superior reflexes Peter barely avoided getting shot in the chest. "Okay," he grumbled as he leapt from the dumpster to the fire escape. "That's how we're going to play it."

The man kept firing. Peter stayed on defense, leaping and tumbling out of range while he waited for an opening, but the gun had an awful lot of bullets. When he finally heard the click of an empty magazine he whipped around and shot a ball of webbing that stuck the gunman's hands together. Before he could do more, however, the second man leveled his weapon and opened fire in his friend's place. More annoyed than worried, Peter managed to get off another shot before he was forced again to evade.

The web caught him full in the face, and in a panic he began to fire wildly, his shots ricocheting off the dumpster and cracking brick. "Hey!" Peter shouted, retreating further up into the alley to stay out of the way of his blind firing. "You're going to hit your friend that way-"

Something spiraled down the alley and struck the would-be-thief in the back of the head, dropping him like a stone. A third player darted through the shadows and took out the accomplice with one punch. Peter pressed himself to the wall above, watching and waiting, but it was too dark to make out any detail on the man that had provided the very efficient assist.

"Is someone else back here?" the stranger called into the dark. "Are you all right?"

Peter checked to make sure he had more than one avenue of escape. "Are you a cop?"

"No. Not exactly."

The stranger started dragging the thieves together, and after another moment of weighing his options, Peter lassoed the edge of the roof and then lowered himself to the alley floor. He stayed on his tether, though, just in case.

"That was an impressive kill steal you just pulled on me," Peter said, upside down, as he surveyed the unconscious outcomes.

"What? They're not dead."

The stranger turned to face him and stopped. Peter couldn't help but be taken aback himself. His "rescuer" was tall and broad-shouldered with a square jaw that could break bricks. The blonde hair and old school leather jacket didn't hurt, either. "I mean, thanks for the help," Peter said. "You saved me the trouble of finishing them off myself."

The stranger cocked his head to the side. "And who are you supposed to be?"

"What, you don't know?" Peter heaved a sigh. "This is what happens when guys in capes steal your press. I'm Spider-Man. You know, vigilante wild man? The scourge of Queens?" When the stranger continued to stare at him in confusion, he rolled his eyes-and his head, just to get the gesture across. "I've been on the news for weeks."

The man shrugged. "I haven't really been in town until recently." He went back to the thieves, clearing the webbing away from the one's face enough that he would have no trouble breathing. "But you shouldn't be out like this at night. The streets are still pretty rough."

Peter let go of his tether and hopped to the ground. "Do you not understand the concept of a vigilante? I'm fighting crime, here. These guys were about to-"

"Get someone shot? That's what it looked like."

"Because I stopped them from robbing the place," said Peter. "Who are you anyway? Maybe you shouldn't be out on these dangerous streets."

"Steve Rogers," the man introduced himself. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. "I heard the gunshots."

"And you were wandering around alone at night because...?"

Steve paused in his dialing. His lips curled in a smirk that was almost sheepish. "I had my eye out for looters," he admitted.

"Aha! Got a bite from the vigilante bug, did you? That's what I like to see."

"It's called being a good Samaritan," said Steve. He punched in three numbers and hit send. "Citizen's arrest. They still do that, right?"

"Oh yeah. I do it all the time, actually." Peter paused. "Wait, are you calling the cops?"

"Of course." Steve brought the phone to his ear. "This is Captain Steve Rogers," he said, and he sure sounded like military. "I could use a patrol car to pick up a couple of crooks."

As Steve related the address, Peter hopped back onto the dumpster. He was still curious about his unexpected ally, but not curious enough to risk a run in with the police. "Uh, I guess that's my cue," he said. "But it was nice thrashing some scum with you, man. Let's do it again sometime."

"Hey, wait." Steve turned back. "I want to know who you are."

"I already told you." Peter shrugged. "I'm Spider-Man." He leapt onto the web thread he had left earlier and climbed to the roof. It was late enough that he felt okay about heading straight home. His mind was buzzing and the first thing he did after slipping back into his room, before even de-suiting, was put "Captain Steve Rogers" into Google.

The first result had him gaping. "Holy shit," he hissed, clicking through pictures and articles and blog speculation and cell phone videos. "Holy shit."

Peter went back to Brooklyn the very next night, and it didn't take long to find Steve Rogers again. He would have liked to say he used his skills of deduction and tracking to uncover Captain America's secret lair, but as it turned out, Steve was waiting for him in the parking lot opposite the alley they'd met in. It was awfully open and well lit, but there were buildings nearby that Peter could latch onto and escape with if he needed to. With a deep breath he dropped behind a parked van and crept closer.

Steve was leaning against the side of a handsomely refurbished vintage motorcycle. His attention was on his phone, but he perked up once Peter was in range, detecting him far earlier than most normal people. He smirked into the darkness. "I thought you might come back."

Peter hopped onto the roof of a Chevy next to him. "Yeah, I thought you might think that," he replied. "And I hate to disappoint a national hero, so here I am."

Steve's smile was downright bashful. For a grown man, he was pretty darn adorable. "So, you looked me up."

"Yeah." Now that he had the chance to see Steve in better lighting, it seemed so obvious. "All-American" screamed from his every pore, from the way he parted his hair to the way he kept his hands in his jacket pockets after tucking his phone away. He looked the part of every high school jock Peter had ever known, but he didn't carry it like those assholes did. If Peter had to pick one word to describe him, it might have been...swell. He seemed like a swell guy. And how often did you get to say that?

"You have an impressive résumé," said Peter. "You can finish off my punks for me any day."

"Yours isn't so bad, either. Stark says you saved the city from a nasty lizard problem not long ago."

Peter's heart gave an uncharacteristic flutter. "Stark? Mr. Tony Stark?" When Steve nodded, he was grateful that his mask was able to hide him openly gaping. "You talked to Tony Stark about me?"

"Well, sure." Steve shrugged. "He said he was sorry to have missed the show. That was some good work." He grew a bit more serious. "But I also heard you beat up a group of cops along the way."

"Sort of." He had the feeling that Steve wouldn't necessarily offer him sympathy if he admitted they had tasered and shot at him first-his leg still throbbed on him some days. He also wasn't sure how much about Captain Stacey had made it into the report, and dwelling on it put stones in his stomach. He let the guilt and worry slough off. "It's part of the job description, unfortunately, when you're a masked hero working the streets."

Steve frowned, and Peter thought it might have been his unfortunate phrasing, but then he said, "Why do you do it?"

The words stopped Peter in his tracks all over again. He thought of the dozens of small time crooks he had nabbed, and of pulling a small boy out of a falling van. He thought of flying through the city each swing at a time, free and powerful and weightless. He even thought of Gwen's mischievous little smile. But it was remembering the tense dinner at the Stacey home that brought him back to street level. He remembered Dr. Connor's pained face, and more than anything, his uncle's blood against his hands. He remembered the stones in his gut.

"I..." Peter swallowed hard and stared straight back at Steve, hoping to convey his sincerity even with the mask in the way. "I just want to help people."

Steve watched him for a long, silent moment. He was impossible to read. "So why don't you just become a cop?" he suggested at last.

Peter scoffed, but when he realized that Steve was still serious, he had to pause and give it more thought. "Well because...of course cops help people, too, but come on," he said awkwardly. He plucked at the front of his costume. "You know they wouldn't let me keep looking this good."

Steve's lip quirked. "The local police uniform isn't that bad, either," he said.

"Yeah, but..." Peter did his best not to squirm. "No offense to the police, but they just can't do everything I can. Case in point: our friend Mr. Lizard. And look-I can do this."

Peter pressed both hands to the hood of the car and swung his body upright in a handstand. That part was easy. He transitioned carefully from both hands, to fingertips, to only his thumbs and pinkies and waited for the applause.

Steve pressed his boot against the front of the truck's bumper and, when Peter didn't protest, he shoved, giving the vehicle a hefty shake. Peter wobbled but didn't fall, and Steve whistled. "That's pretty good," he said. He sounded like he was just playing now. "But I'm not sure I see how that helps you stop crime."

Peter rolled his eyes and thumped onto his butt, his legs dangling off the front of the truck. "Crime stopping is all about dexterity," he said knowingly. Seeing that Steve still wasn't moved, he offered up his wrists. "Okay, how about this." He engaged both triggers, and a pair of web shoots caught the streetlight overhead. Peter leaped into the air and jerked on the strands, sailing easily over Steve's head and onto the post. Steve craned his neck to watch. "Not bad, huh?" Peter called down. "I invented these myself. Stronger than steel and, obviously, more flexible. I can lift cars with just one strand."

"Invented them?" Steve waved him back down. "Let me see."

Peter hopped onto the seat of the motorcycle and tugged the sleeve of his costume down just enough to show Steve the mechanism. "Yeah, that's all me," he bragged. "Goes with the motif, you know? Spider, web. It's a thing with me."

"I noticed." Steve took Peter's wrist to get a better look. His fingers were warm and huge, and the press of his callouses against the bare inside of Peter's arm gave him unexpected goose bumps. Peter had the feeling Steve could snap his arm in two with barely a thought, super-human strength be damned.

"That's not bad," said Steve. "But you should show this to Stark. He'd probably have a better appreciation for it than me."

Peter tried not to beam all the way through his suit. "Really? You think I should show Mr. Stark?"

"Yeah-science is his thing, after all."

His hand shot out, aiming for Peter's mask, but reflexes were a Godsend. Peter dodged easily out of the way and leapt back to the light post. "Wow," he called down. "That was pretty tricky for a good Samaritan."

Steve laughed. "Do you blame me?" He pushed away from the bike so he could turn and face Peter properly. "Come on down, son. I won't try it again."

"I am so too old to be your son," Peter retorted.

Steve sighed, but after a moment of weighing his options-maybe contemplating how little effort it would take for him to uproot a parking lot light post-he shook his head. "You just be careful," he said. "I appreciate the sentiment behind what you're doing, but you can't do anyone any good if you get yourself hurt or worse. And there are legal options for helping people."

Peter shrugged. "Sorry, Cap, but like I said, I'm just not police material."

"There are options other than that, too," Steve said with a secretive little grin. He climbed onto the motorcycle and started it up. It wasn't until he was pulling out of his space that Peter realized what he might have meant, and he started.

"Hey-wait!" Peter leapt back onto the Chevy and winced when he dinged the hood. "Are you talking about your friends? Your hero friends?" When Steve started to drive away Peter gave chase down the line of cars. "You want me to join up? Because I really was there, you know, I just-"

"It's not up to me," Steve called back. "Just give it some thought, all right?"

"Yeah, but-" Peter started to follow him out of the lot, but stopped when he realized it still wasn't that late out-there were cars on the street, and a few people wandering the sidewalks. One or two even noticed him and began to whisper and point. "Aww, crap," he grunted, and as Steve took off down the street, he retreated to the rooftops. Following Steve home was definitely an option, but for once it seemed oddly...disrespectful. He crossed his arms over his chest as he perched on the roof ledge, trying to decide if he'd know what to say given the chance anyway.

"If it's not up to him, who is it up to?" he wondered aloud, and his gaze drifted toward the river. "Who's in charge of the superhero team?" His heart gave a thump and he steeled his resolve as he set out toward Manhattan.

Stark Tower at eleven o'clock at night just might have been the most peaceful place in New York City, and it suited Bruce just fine. During the day he kept to the small collection of private rooms Tony had graciously lent him on the upper floors-for his brief and temporary stay in the city-but after hours, Bruce had free rein over the top development levels. The tower afforded him every piece of equipment and every terabyte of computing power he could have ever asked for, and he even found himself humming a cheerful tune as he scooted from station to station in his office chair. With the lights down low and a handful of easy pet projects in the first stages of conception, Bruce was able to pretend that he was back in his private military lab, or even further back, as a student in Navapo.

It was an easy way to live, waking up in a king-sized bed, being treated to whatever food he liked whenever he liked, working in private on whatever he felt mattered at the moment. Tony was an incomparable benefactor, and Bruce sometimes went for hours at a time forgetting what an imposition his presence must have been, how many people in the world were making do on a fraction of what he was being afforded. When he remembered, he reminded himself that it was only temporary. He had no intention of staying on with Stark Industries in the long term. He would use Tony's resources to advance his research as far as he could, and then he would move on. It was the only sensible course.

Even so, when JARVIS reminded him that his blood sample analysis had been completed, he saved the results without looking and turned to something else. He was just contemplating how he might be able to help Tony improve the efficiency of his arc energy transfer methods when something smacked into the seventy-ninth floor window.

Bruce jumped, but he had long since learned how to soften his own reactions to unexpected stimuli, even when several hundred feet above street level. He pushed off the desk, his office chair hissing quietly across the tile as he slid toward the line of windows. It was a dark night, with only a few buildings nearby with windows high enough to offer spots of light. When Bruce was close enough, he was startled to see what looked like a pair of legs in red and blue leggings climbing up the side of the building.

"JARVIS," Bruce said into the air as he pressed himself up to the glass. "Can you identify what's climbing around on the outside of the building?"

"My apologies, Dr. Banner," JARVIS answered from the nearest speaker. "Currently my external defenses are limited to the penthouse floors."

"Well it looks like that's where it's headed. Whatever it is." Bruce's heart beat a little faster as he headed for the elevator. "Let me know if you can get a visual, please."

"Of course, Dr. Banner."

Bruce hopped into the elevator and had to input an extra security code to be taken to the penthouse. He was just clearing floor eighty-six when JARVIS took over the display screen in the elevator panel. "Sir, I have a visual of the intruder."

Security camera footage filled the screen, showing a strange, slender man in a tight suit pulling himself up onto the helipad. When JARVIS zoomed in, Bruce was able to make out the two tones of the stranger's jumpsuit and his wide, black eyes. "Is that...?" he mumbled.

"It appears to be the masked criminal referred to in the media as the 'Spider-Man," JARVIS supplied. "Mr. Stark had me add him to my active databases just eight hours ago."

"Spider-Man," Bruce repeated curiously. "I think he did mention something about that..."

"Shall I contact building security, sir?"

Bruce considered as he watched Spider-Man creep up to the balcony's glass doors and peer inside. It looked like he was knocking. "The news was calling him a vigilante, not a burglar," he mused aloud. "Don't worry about security just yet, JARVIS. I'll see what he wants."

"Very well, sir."

The elevator stopped at the penthouse, and Bruce stepped out. He wasn't sure what he really intended to do. He should have known better than to confront strange men in colorful pajamas when Stark Tower itself was still undergoing heavy construction. He could even feel a familiar heat prickling beneath the hairs along his arms and back, but he was confident he could handle himself. Where that confidence was coming from, he was less certain of.

Spider-Man was still creeping along the glass doors when Bruce entered, and he flinched back when the lights flicked on in and outside the main room. He certainly didn't look as if he were trying to break in, so Bruce took only a deep breath as preparation as he moved to the door. "JARVIS," he called again, as a precaution. "Please just keep an eye on me, all right? Tony taught you how to look for trouble, didn't he?"

"Mr. Stark has empowered me with a vast number of trouble-identifying subprograms, Dr. Banner," JARVIS replied. Never before had science achieved such artificial sarcasm. "I will stand by to alert security, should it be deemed necessary."

"Thank you, JARVIS," Bruce said, and then he keyed in the code for the balcony door.

The glass swung open, and Spider-Man shuffled far out of the way as Bruce joined him outside. He was a bit more impressive in person than Bruce had imagined from the bare details in the papers and blogs: tall and lean, clearly well defined in musculature, effortlessly balanced. The suit, questionable in color choice as it may have been, seemed to fit to his body like a second skin. Like an exoskeleton, Bruce reminded himself with a faint smirk. He closed the door behind him. "It's a little late for house calls, isn't it?" he said.

"Yeah. Um, sorry about that." Spider-Man straightened up; at his full height he had a few inches on Bruce, though he was no match in weight despite even Bruce's small stature. Only slight shifts of the suit around his head and neck indicated that he was looking Bruce up and down. "You don't look like security, though."

"Well. You know what they say about books and their covers," Bruce said pleasantly. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Actually..." Spider-Man pushed up on his toes in an attempt to see around him. "I was hoping to meet Tony Stark. He's not in bed already, is he? Doesn't seem like him."

Bruce frowned thoughtfully-he didn't dare disclose too much of Tony's personal life. "He's not in."

"Damn." Spider-Man scuffed his foot against the balcony floor and glanced over his shoulder. "Guess I'll try again tomorrow."

Not a burglar, then. Bruce considered him a moment longer, and when it looked like the stranger was about to leave, he halted him. "Wait. What do you want with Mr. Stark?"

Spider-Man turned and dropped into a crouch in one smooth motion that was actually pretty impressive to watch. "Are you really security?"

"Oh, no. I'd be the worst security there is." Bruce rocked back on his heels as he considered many variations of the truth. "I'm just one of his friends he lets play with this toys."

"You're a Stark scientist?"

Bruce wondered if it really counted if you lied to a wanted criminal. "Yes." He gestured to the room behind him. "I did just come out of the penthouse, no?"

"In that case..." Spider-Man straightened up and moved closer. "I wanted to show him this," he said, tugging down his right sleeve.

Bruce plucked his glasses out of his shirtfront pocket and slipped them on. "I made it myself," Spider-Man went on as Bruce looked it over. "Captain America said maybe Mr. Stark would be interested."

Bruce brushed his fingers carefully over the mechanism. He could tell immediately that it was custom made, and roughly so, but not without a degree of finesse. "Ah," he said. "So you met Steve after all."

Spider-Man flinched. "'Steve?' So, you've met him, too? I thought-hey, careful, or you'll-"

A few flicks of Bruce's fingernails and the device dropped off Spider-Man's wrist and into his hand. He held it up to the balcony lights for a better look. "You really made this yourself?" he asked, turning it over.

"Well, yeah. Just be careful you don't-" When Bruce ejected the cartridge into his hand, Spider-Man relaxed. "Okay, clearly you know what you're doing."

"It's good work," said Bruce, thumbing the cartridge. He gave it an experimental sniff and then popped it back into place. "Lightweight, durable." He turned the nozzle away and tried to engage the trigger, but nothing happened.

"It takes a good thirty pounds of pressure to trigger it," said Spider-Man. "Don't want it going off accidentally." He pressed the trigger, and a strand of thick, white webbing shot out of the end and smacked into the balcony door.

"I'm detecting a perimeter disturbance," said JARVIS from an intercom next to the door.

"It's okay, JARVIS," said Bruce. "It's just me." He ran his fingertips over the web, feeling the sticky cling that was already rapidly drying. He gave it a twang, and the reverberation that ran up his arm felt familiar. "What's the tensile strength?" he asked.

"One hundred twenty pounds per square millimeter," Spider-Man replied, sounding very pleased with himself. "With the elasticity of nylon. Biodegradable, too. It completely breaks down within an hour."

Bruce wrapped the strand around his wrist. "Reaction to oxygen in the air?"

"Carbon dioxide, actually."

"Interesting." He tugged the strand tight, and the feeling of it cinching against his skin put a strange, familiar pressure in his stomach. "Now I remember. I've come across this before."

Spider-Man straightened up. "How?"

Bruce's eyes narrowed. He wasn't about to tell anyone that General Ross had attempted to catch him with a net of Oscorp spun spider web a few years ago. "This is Oscorp technology," he said. "They use it for heavy lifting, but it's not particularly popular. Too much give for most applications." He slipped his arm out of it and gave his fingers a shake. The reminder was eerie. "You didn't steal it, did you?"

"Of course not," Spider-Man said quickly, offended. "Mail order." He paused. "Paid for in cash-untraceable."

Bruce smiled. "I'm not interested in turning you in, I promise." He handed the device back, and when Spider-Man accepted, he couldn't help but take notice of the intricate make of his costume. "You made the uniform yourself, too?" he asked.

"Huh? Oh, yeah." He offered up his arm for Bruce to inspect. "It's not exactly Captain America caliber, but it's surprisingly efficient."

Bruce traced the seam that ran down Spider-Man's arm, from the reinforced gloves to the curve of his shoulder. "Olympic grade spandex," Spider-Man explained as Bruce moved around behind him. He tried to crane his head to watch. "The webbing is woven rubber, like they use in heavy work gloves. Could stand to be a bit more tear resistant, I'll admit."

"You have to give up durability for flexibility whenever it comes to protective gear," Bruce mused. He pressed his palm flat to Spider-Man's back and drew it from one shoulder to the other, feeling out the little ridges. It was a remarkable piece of work for an amateur, and the lovingly detailed spider decal on the back made him smile.

Muscles tightened subtly beneath his fingers-the man inside the suit was toned, that was for certain, though on the skinny side. Bruce was suddenly very curious about the kind of person it took to hand-make his own persona and thrash common criminals in back alleys. They couldn't all be Tony Stark underneath, could they? He followed the curve of Spider-Man's spine.

Spider-Man cleared his throat. "Am I going to need a parental consent form for this?"

Bruce chuckled and moved around in front of him again. "Sorry. Your work is very impressive. You're really not backed by anyone? Private security firm, U.S. Army?"

"Just me and my big sexy brain," Spider-Man replied, and then paused, as if embarrassed. "I mean, yeah. So, what do you think? Am I Stark material?"

"I'm worried he'll like you so much, he'll want to dissect you," said Bruce honestly.

"That sounds, uh...awesome." He scratched the back of his head. "Then maybe I'll drop by tomorrow, if he's in."

"You could try the front door next time," Bruce suggested. "Without the costume."

He laughed, short and sarcastic. "Yeah, no thanks. I'm still kind of wanted around here. But it was nice to meet you, Mr...?"

Bruce hesitated. "Doctor," he corrected. "But you can just call me Bruce." He offered his hand.

"Nice to meet you, Bruce," said Spider-Man, shaking it. "Maybe I'll see you around."

He turned, and with only a few steps he was at the edge of the balcony and then throwing himself off of it. Bruce's heart leapt and he hurried to the ledge, just in time to see Spider-Man lasso the next building over and swing away. He shook his head. "Who the hell is this guy?" he said to himself as he headed back to the door.

The webbing was still stuck to the door. Bruce fingered the strand, and when he breathed on it he smiled as the fibers shriveled. "Carbon dioxide," he muttered as he pried the webbing off the door and took it inside with him. "Interesting..."