Pressing Questions Enable Unreserved Answers

The Asking And The Telling

NEW 2020 EDIT: THIS IS NOT STARKER.

The thing is, Peter absolutely loathes sitting on the sidelines.

He's Spider-Man, the hero of Queens and son of Tony Stark—freaking Iron Man. When he's his alter-ego, he's not a lowdown 15 year old with anxiety and a face like a cartoon deer, a person that he himself would probably cringe away from and laugh at in the halls if the rolls with anyone were reversed.

Oh, who was he kidding, he is too nice for that, too sympathetic.

Weak.

But when Peter is Spider-Man, he is no longer himself.

Now, however, here he is, propped up on the couch, his leg in a gigantic red cast and a patchwork of bruises creating blue and purple dots along his arms. Huffing out a harsh sigh, the teen tilts his head back, the blood twisting toward his brain in a hot rush.

"Can't I at least go outside?" He asks, his voice a whine even to his own ears.

Happy, emerging from the kitchen carrying a bag of chips and a soda under one arm, stops in the doorway. His scowl is an upside-down smile, crooked and forcing his dark eyes to narrow down at his nephew.

"Nope." Is all the man says, popping open the drink as he comes around the couch, Peter having to crane his neck to watch.

Sitting up more against the cushion, the spiderling tries to keep from pouting, crossing his arms over his chest. His cast knocks against the coffee table, rattling the chocolate milk stained glass sitting on top and causing Happy to snap his arm forward to catch it.

"Watch it, kid—"

But Peter cuts him off, turning his head to stare out the window, the afternoon sun bouncing off the tall buildings outside. "It's just so boring and my leg doesn't even hurt anymore."

Happy leans back further against the couch, the leather squeaking. "Now we both know you're lying, Pete. Don't forget that I'm in charge of you while Tony is away."

Holding back a flinch at the mention of his father, the teen weakly pulls at a faded patch of string on his jacket, feeling Happy's softening eyes on him.

"He's gonna be okay, Peter. He's been on plenty of missions before and always comes back."

Glancing quickly at his Godfather, the boy feels his cheeks flame when his eyes meet Happy's, the Driver's dark with sympathy. Shrugging, Peter reaches down, tugging his blanket back over his legs.

"I know," The boy sighs, clenching his fists in his lap, wrapping his fingers around the fabric and squeezing. "But I'm not there—I'm not there to make sure his is really okay because I made a stupid mistake and got caught in a robbery that I couldn't handle and—"

Jumping suddenly at the unexpected weight of his Uncle's hand on his shoulder, the teen snaps his eyes up, watching with a slightly blurry gaze as the man settles down beside him.

"Slow down, kid, don't wanna bust a lung." Holding up a finger, Happy jostles Peter's arm with his other hand, forcing the boy to look up at him again when his eyes slip back to the carpet below. "First of all, what happened to you last week was not your fault. No one blames you and we are all just happy you're okay."

Peter swallows against the sudden lump that clogs his airway, listening as Happy clears his throat before continuing.

"And secondly, I think your Dad is safer with you here at the compound." Pushing his nephew down when the boy attempts to sit up, the man lets out a sigh. "Let me explain before you start jabbering. What I mean is that while you are here, Tony can focus on watching out for himself without having to worry about you."