Spider-Son & Iron Dad two shots

Take Heart, Little One

a/n: double upload for twosday - this plot is the result of me binging clone wars again

"Fall back!" Tony yelled, his voice echoing through the comms and bouncing in Peter's head. "Kid, that means you, too."

"What?!" Peter bit back. He exhaled with frustration and leaped backwards to avoid a swipe from the mutate he was fighting. "No, I've got this handled!"

"Spider-Man, this mission is going beyond what we can safely take care of in a day," Steve warned. There's a rushing of wind and then the clang of metal. "Listen to Stark, fall back to the Quinjet. This is over until we have enough information to come up with a better approach."

"Seriously? No!" Peter groaned and tossed his head back. "I can do this. There aren't even that many of them!"

"They're calling backup," Natasha said pointedly. "I'm sure you've got this handled for now, but keep your head to the ground and make the right call, kid. Don't argue."

Peter rolled his eyes and then ducked back. He leaped up as the mutate lunged for his middle, then kicked the offender backwards into the concrete. Meanwhile, the crowd of goons gathered a little ways away in front of him all turned to run away.

"They're literally backing down!" Peter argued, throwing his hands out and gesturing to them, even though the team couldn't see him. "C'mon. Avengers are supposed to see this stuff through, right? It's fine, we've got this! Don't just give up."

"It isn't 'giving up'. An unintelligent fight isn't a win," Steve said, panting. There's a pained yelp on the other end, but it isn't from him. "Clint. Things are going downhill. You got the jet ready?"

Clint's voice crackled in response over the comms. "Ready whenever the team is, Cap."

"Laundry day," Tony said suddenly. "Underoos, where are you? I'm picking you up."

Okay. Sure. Peter was stubborn. He could admit that. It didn't seem right to just leave this battle. The mutates and mutants they were fighting, it was manageable! The Avengers are supposed to be this indestructible force; this suit of armor that protected the little people— Peter grew up believing in them, and now he was one of them. He couldn't just leave.

There was a very determined part of him that needed to prove himself. He was still a rookie to them, even Tony, and he knew it. (There was still a part of himself that thought the only reason he got the job in the first place was because Tony didn't think they'd make it off the ship. That moment wasn't in the distant past.)

Peter swallowed back the rush of frustration and let it fester in his chest as a bush of thorns. He answered Tony's questions through gritted teeth. "I'm about eight blocks from the Quinjet, next to Central Park. East side, Midtown."

"Be right there." Tony took a breath. "Everyone else can get to the Quinjet. I'm gonna stay behind and talk to the kid. Comms off."

Great. That bodes well for him. He'll get a nice lecture on how he can't follow orders and how it will get him killed, blah blah blah, and Peter will stand there and zone out as he imagined the last time that he tried to follow orders and he failed.

Maybe he screwed this one up, too. He wasn't strong enough to be apart of this team, and it showed with a mission closed up prematurely and a gang of dangerous superhuman criminals still roaming the streets, and—

"They're all gone," Peter said, looking out at the suddenly empty and deteriorated street. He huffed a breath. "Mr. Stark, I'm sorry. I'm just— I'm trying my best, I swear. I really thought I had this one."