“Sixteen,” Peter responded as if that extra year made everything better, as if that made him no longer a minor running around catching cars, bad guys and swinging precariously throughout the city. He rubbed his hand through his hair and looked around for his backpack. It was nondescript, just plain black because they were cheaper to get hold of and a lot sturdier. He needed cheap and sturdy: the number of times that his bag got stolen from an alleyway when he was out trying to do the right thing and help people was ridiculous.
He’d started webbing his bags to walls, but sometimes he was gone for more than two hours, so the webbing tended to dissolve and then his bag was free game again.
At least people thought he was a man, not a teenager. That was the positive that Peter was taking from this. And then the man - who introduced himself as Frank Castle - mentioned that he knew Mr Stark and Peter’s shoulders suddenly slumped in relief.
Okay, that meant that this guy was okay to talk to.
“I’m Peter,” he said, holding his hand out before changing his mind and retracting it before reaching out again. Don’t shake his hand too firmly he reminded himself, “Peter Parker. It’s nice to meet you.”
Now he was on a roll. “Mr Stark found me when he needed some help against Captain America because of the Accords, but now I’m not entirely sure that was the right thing to do because the Accords got Mr Stark arrested recently which means that they’re not as easy to use as he thought or, um, maybe they’re not as user-friendly as they were meant to be? But now I’m kind of an Avenger, but kind of not. But I will be once the Accords are all sorted out.”
He tilted his head. He knew the Avengers. He didn’t know Frank Castle. “Are you, um, how do you know Mr Stark?”