Author's Note: Well, I honestly don't have much to say, I'm really sorry this took so long. God, it's almost been a year, hasn't it? Well here is the next chapter, I will promise that the wait for the next chapter will not be as long as the previous one. I know it's been a bloody long time so I would recommend going back and reading the first chapter for a bit of a mental refresher. Enjoy!

The Avengers are legends, honest to God legends and ready for anything; rough, tough, save the world kinda people. But the fact that the teenager they'd all been living with for the past four years was the newly famed vigilante known as spider-man, who had been spending his nights flying around New York City seemed to stun them all in a way some secret HYDRA plot would never be able to.

With a surge of adrenaline, Peter pushed himself off the couch, forgetting about his injuries, and took a few steps back. He put his hands forward in a pleading gesture, "Okay, okay I know how this looks. And it's really no-"

"Not what, Peter!" Tony yelled, cutting off his son. "Because it looks like you're Spider-man to me. And I'm pretty fucking sure that's what is it. I don't want to hear any excuses; I don't even know why you would do something like this. Why you would put yourself in danger..."

Tony's voice trailed off, frustration and worry constricting his through. Damn, he was angry, yes, but underneath the anger Tony was hurt. It was one thing that his son was running around the city fighting crime – and in spandex too, honestly – but the fact that he didn't tell Tony was what hurt the most.

Because Tony could have helped, could have given his son advice, armour, whatever he needed. Because Tony was a goddamn genius and if he couldn't help his own son then nobody could. But with that thought came the reminder. The reminder. The one that only came up during the darkest of times, and put it's icy fingers on Tony's shoulder as it whispered cruelly into his ear. But he's not really your son.

That couldn't have been the reason though, Tony wasn't trying to take over the role of Peter's father, because God knows he didn't have a very good model to go off of, but he thought he was doing a good job of being there for his... son. Not that Peter ever knew his real father; he had died when he was only seven years old. That was when his Aunt and Uncle had taken him in, before being killed in a car crash two weeks before Peter's thirteenth birthday.

His biological father had worked with Tony, ages ago. And though he didn't know the kid, and hadn't talked to his father since he got involved in all that Oscorp business, he still took in the kid. Because he knew what it was like to be that age, and to be completely alone. And if he prevented the creation of another drunk with bitter feelings against father figures then, well, then Tony did his job.

The only solace he found was that his dumbstruck look was echoed on the faces of his fellow Avengers. And yeah, maybe that made his a bit of an ass, but if he didn't get to find out Peter's "special secret" then no one did. Tony's feelings were starting to come together; the anger and hurt coming together like hot and cold winds clashing to form a tornado when-

"With great power comes great responsibility."

Peter's voice was less than a whisper, but it rang out like a gunshot in the stunned silence that had regained control after Tony's outburst. At the confused looks from everyone Peter continued, his voice shaking.

"I found my father's briefcase, with all his work. And some other things he wrote." He took a deep breath in preparation to continue when his body jerked forward, and with a low moan he braced himself on the edge of the leather couch. His fingers dug into the armrest, turning his knuckles white and dangerously stretching the material.

"Shit. Pete." Tony lunged forward only to be cut off by Bruce. He gripped the boy by the elbows and eased him back into a sitting position onto the couch. A twittering sound turned the heads of everyone in the room; a small bot appeared, a tray of medical equipment spread across the tray it was carrying. Bruce looked over at Tony with confusion, before going to survey the equipment.

"What? JARVIS assesses the situation, and you all get hurt so I was playing around with some ideas for an emergency. Though she's not very fast or anything, and we'd be in the infirmary if it was anything serious I just- whatever." Tony looked uncomfortable, his eyes darting between the seated teenager and Bruce, who was once again crouched before him.

Peter's eyes were closed in pain, and he was hunched over but he started to mumble another explanation when Bruce shushed him gently.

"Hey, we can all talk about it later okay?" He sent a pointed look in Tony's direction at that "Lets just fix this for now, yeah?"

Peter looked up for a second before hunching over again and nodding his head once.

Bruce helped him out of his hoodie, and found the zipper at the back of Peter's suit before easing it off of his shoulders and letting it sit around his waist. What was revealed was a large mirage of bruising, along his back, bracing his wrists, even encircling his neck.

Bruce felt along his chest, shined a light into

Bruce pushed a cloth against Peter's temple, over a large gash that was still slowly tricking blood down the side of his face. He winced, pulling away slightly when Bruce took his hand and held it to the warm cloth. "Hold this here for me, okay?" Bruce told Peter, shining a light into his eyes. "Looks like you've got some major head trauma, can you think of when you hit your head?"

"Uhm I- I got, hit by a taser. Or something by the police and kind of fell, off a building." His eyes started to close when Bruce snapped his fingers in front of his face, voice urgent. "Peter. Peter! Don't close your eyes yet, I still don't know how bad you're hurt."

Steve sat down on the couch next to his son, a strong arm reaching around the teen's shoulders, careful of the bruising across his back. A wave of fatigue overwhelmed Peter, and he dropped his head onto his father's shoulder, tucking it under the man's chin, and tried holding back the urge to cry.

Bruce's voice had settled down when he spoke again. "Okay, you're okay, some nasty bruised ribs, a minor concussion, but amazingly nothing broken. You got anything else I need to look at?"

Peter froze for a moment, stiffening in his father's arms. Not wanting to incur the wrath of smothering telling his parents about the gunshot wound would incur he hesitated before the throbbing in his leg urged him to get it over with.

"Uh, m' leg."

Peter's consciousness wavered, Bruce used a knife to cut away the webbing that had formed a makeshift bandage and swore softly.

"He got hit. Steve, pick him up and bring him to the infirmary, I'll need to stitch this up."

Peter felt his father's arm slide under his legs, then his voice breathed into his ear; "This might hurt." Steve whispered apologetically. The teenager turned his head towards his father's voice.

"Wha-" Peter's question was off by a moan when Steve stood up, jostling Peter's leg so that the pain that had begun to fade as he drifted to sleep was suddenly clawing back up his leg with renewed force.

Ringing filled his ears and sparks danced across his vision and the last thing he felt was a firm cushion against his back before he gave himself over to the darkness.