The penthouse of Avengers Tower hummed with a specific kind of energy, the kind that only follows near-catastrophe. Earlier, the speeches had been somber, laced with relief and the quiet gravity of a victory hard-won. But now, as the night deepened and more guests arrived, the tension was dissolving like sugar in water, replaced by a thrumming, joyous chaos. Crystal flutes clinked, laughter echoed off the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the bass from Tony's ridiculously expensive sound system vibrated through the polished floor.
Peter Parker, nursing a band-aid on his cheek and a network of aches under his borrowed suit jacket, felt distinctly out of place. He was trying to master the art of looking casual while leaning against a wall, a plate of untouched mini-quiches in his hand.
The elevator chimed, slicing through the din. The gleaming doors slid open, and a wave of chill air washed into the room. Out stepped Bobby Drake, aka Iceman, a vision of audacious casualness in a crisp shirt, slacks, and a pair of dark sunglasses he absolutely did not need indoors. In his hands, he held two large trays of cocktail glasses, each one a perfect, self-contained vessel of shimmering, frozen margarita. A fine dusting of frost clung to his fingertips.
"Did someone say afterparty?" Iceman boomed, a grin splitting his face. "Because I brought the ice!"
A collective, multi-generational groan rippled through the veteran heroes scattered around the room. Clint Barton, leaning near the bar, actually buried his face in his hands.
Trailing him was Greer Nelson, Tigra, her feline grace a stark contrast to Bobby's frat-boy entrance. Her striped tail, a living extension of her mood, twitched with profound irritation as she pointed a clawed finger at a small, glistening puddle forming on the pristine floor. "One day, Bobby," she scolded, her voice a low purr of exasperation, "your jokes are gonna make someone freeze your tongue to a flagpole. And I will volunteer to find the flagpole."
Bobby just winked, sliding one of the trays onto the bar. "Lighten up, G. It's a party."
The elevator chimed again. Before the doors were fully open, a silver-and-blue blur shot into the room, sending a gust of wind that ruffled napkins and sent a few strands of Natasha Romanoff's hair flying. A miniature hot dog vanished from Tony's plate. A single olive was plucked from Steve Rogers's martini glass. Tony Stark, holding a state-of-the-art holographic tumbler displaying stock market data, yelped as it flickered and shattered into a cascade of harmless blue pixels. The blur resolved itself into Pietro Maximoff, Quicksilver, a triumphant smirk on his face and a smear of frosting on his cheek.
Tony pointed an accusatory finger. "Pietro, I swear if you touch that cake again—"
"Too late," Pietro clipped, his Russian accent sharpening the words. He patted his stomach. "Was good. Very… sugary."
The final arrival was less of an entrance and more of a presence materializing. The elevator doors opened to reveal a young woman standing just inside, almost hesitant to step out. Shadow wore dark jeans and a black hoodie, the hood pulled up despite the warmth of the party, casting her face in soft darkness. The vibrant party lights caught faintly on the dark, inky streaks in her hair and the simple chain necklace at her throat. She surveyed the chaotic scene with an impassive expression, her gaze eventually finding Peter's. She gave him a small, almost imperceptible wave before melting into the periphery, finding a quiet corner near a window that overlooked the sprawling, glittering expanse of New York City.
Peter waved back, a little too enthusiastically, and immediately felt his cheeks flush. He was sixteen, nursing cracked ribs from a fight with Taskmaster, and standing in a room with gods, super-soldiers, and mutants who treated world-ending threats like a minor inconvenience. He had never felt more like a kid at the grown-ups' table.
Unfortunately, the grown-ups had noticed him.
"Sixteen and already breaking mercenaries in half? Slow down, you're making the rest of us look bad." Pietro appeared beside him, so suddenly Peter flinched, nearly dropping his quiche. The speedster's eyes twinkled with mischief. "At your age, I was mostly just stealing bread. You are overachiever."
Before Peter could formulate a reply that wasn't just a nervous squeak, Bobby Drake clapped a cold hand on his shoulder, ruffling his hair with the other. "Don't worry, kid, you'll hit your growth spurt eventually. For now, you're… fun-sized."
"Assuming you survive high school first," Tigra added, sauntering past with a smirk. "I hear it's more brutal than the Savage Land."
Peter felt a tidal wave of awkwardness wash over him. The situation reached its mortifying apex when Tony, trying to show off a new holographic interface, accidentally authorized JARVIS to sync with public records.
A shimmering blue screen materialized in the air next to Peter. It was his Midtown High report card.
A beat of silence, and then a snort from Clint.
"Physics: A+," Tony read aloud, a grin spreading across his face. "Nice, kid. Very impressive. English: B. Not bad, not bad. Detention:… six?"
The room erupted in laughter.
"Those were field trips!" Peter protested, his voice cracking. "Unscheduled, off-campus field trips!" The excuse was so flimsy it was transparent, and he knew it. Mortification was a powerful motivator. Muttering an excuse about needing some air, he slipped away from the circle of laughing legends and pushed open the glass door to the balcony.
The cool night air was a welcome shock. He walked to the railing, the noise of the party instantly muffled, replaced by the distant symphony of the city—the hum of traffic, the wail of a far-off siren. He wasn't alone.
Leaning against the railing, bathed in the soft glow of the tower's exterior lights, was Shadow. Her hoodie was still up, and she was staring down at the river of headlights flowing along the streets below.
"Hey," Peter said softly, not wanting to startle her.
She turned her head slightly. "Hey."
An awkward silence settled between them, thick but not uncomfortable. Peter gripped the cool metal of the railing, wincing as a sharp pain flared in his ribs.
"You, uh… not a big party person?" he asked.
A small, wry smile touched her lips, though it was mostly hidden in the shadow of her hood. "I don't really do crowds. Or… people." She shrugged. "Natasha said there'd be free cake and quiet corners. She was right about both."
Peter let out a short laugh, which turned into a pained hiss. "You and me both. On the quiet corners part, I mean. The cake was good, though. What was left of it."
"Heard what you did to Taskmaster," she said, her voice low and even. It wasn't a congratulation, just a statement of fact. "Most would've killed him."
The praise, subtle as it was, landed with more weight than any of the loud jokes inside. He looked down at his bandaged knuckles. "I almost did," he admitted, the words barely a whisper. The memory was still raw—the rage, the feeling of his own strength threatening to spiral out of his control.
"But you didn't," she said simply. "That's what matters."
For the first time all night, Peter felt the knot in his chest loosen. He felt seen, not as a punchline or a prodigy, but as someone who was trying, and failing, and trying again. He opened his mouth to thank her, but the moment was shattered.
WHUMP.
The balcony doors burst open with explosive force. Pietro Maximoff streaked past them, clutching an entire crystal punch bowl filled with a sloshing, fruity red liquid. He was cackling. Hot on his heels were Tigra, in a low, predatory crouch, and Iceman, who was sliding into the balcony on a self-made ramp of ice.
"It is tactical nutrient delivery!" Pietro yelled over his shoulder.
"It's fruit warfare and you know it, you silver-haired menace!" Tigra roared back.
The scene inside devolved into utter pandemonium. Iceman, using the punch as his ammo source, began flicking his wrists, shooting frozen strawberries and pineapple chunks like icy ammunition. One ricocheted off Captain America's shield with a sharp tink. Tigra, giving up on chasing Pietro, leaped onto a velvet sofa, vaulted over a coffee table, and tackled Iceman in a flurry of stripes and surprised yelps. Pietro, meanwhile, zipped circles around them both, providing a running commentary like a hyperactive sportscaster.
"And the wildcat makes her move! A stunning takedown! But Drake is fighting back with a barrage of frozen citrus! Oh, the humanity!"
From the center of the room, Tony's voice rose in a desperate plea. "MY THREE-HUNDRED-THOUSAND-DOLLAR RUG! NOT THE RUG!" His cry was punctuated by a series of loud POPS as a set of confetti cannons, likely triggered by Pietro's slipstream, exploded prematurely, showering the brawling heroes in glittering paper.
Shadow watched the chaos unfold, a long-suffering sigh escaping her lips. She muttered, just loud enough for Peter to hear, "And people say I'm the weird one."
A real, genuine grin spread across Peter's face, pain in his ribs be damned. He looked at the scene—at the master archer laughing heartily as a frozen raspberry bounced off his forehead, at the world's greatest spy deftly dodging a flying ice cube, at the billionaire genius bemoaning his interior decorating. He looked at the quiet girl beside him, a flicker of amusement in her shadowed eyes.
"Welcome to the Avengers," he said.
Eventually, the chaos subsided, mostly thanks to Bruce Banner's calming presence and the promise of more cake. He insisted on a group photo to commemorate the "successful team-building exercise."
They all crowded together, a ridiculous, vibrant mess of heroes. As Bruce counted down and the flash went off, a perfect moment of pandemonium was immortalized.
Pietro was captured mid-bite, a stolen slice of cake halfway to his mouth. Iceman's eyes were crossed, a piece of confetti stuck to his nose. Tigra's tail had swung up at the last second, completely photobombing Tony's face. And Shadow, her hood still up, had the faintest hint of a smile gracing her lips.
In the middle of it all was Peter. His own smile, though small, was real. It reached his eyes, and for the first time since the fight, it was completely, utterly unburdened. He was sore, he was exhausted, and his report card was now public knowledge among Earth's Mightiest Heroes. But as he stood there, surrounded by the beautiful, frustrating, chaotic noise of it all, a single thought crystallized in his mind.
Maybe I don't have to carry everything alone anymore.
He looked at the laughing, bickering, incredible people around him.
Maybe… this is what family looks like.