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English
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Part 1 of a chuisle mo chroí - the pulse of my heart
Collections:
Irondad Creators Awards 2021 - Nominations, Irondad Creators Awards 2021 - Runners-Up, Irondad Creators Awards 2022, Best, One word. Aweeee, Peter Parker’s Rare Bio Family Tree, Adopted/Homeless/Orphaned Peter Parker, BAMF Peter Parker, Peter Parker Identity Reveals, Everything so far, Lyndsey’s marvel faves, Thomas' Fics to reread when complete, Peter Parker Stories, You haven’t lived if you haven’t read this, My Entire History, Peter Parker's Alternate Living Arrangements
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Published:
2019-09-25
Completed:
2022-02-04
Words:
102,383
Chapters:
33/33
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1,012
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why can't the past just die

Summary:

Every Monday, Peter Parker calls his social worker and asks the same question.

"Did you find a foster home that is willing to take in six kids?"

After a year of receiving the same answer, Peter has resigned himself to a life of avoiding his strict foster father, looking out for his brothers, and counting down the days between visitation with his other brother and sisters, all while trying to navigate new powers he doesn't fully understand. Peter has almost given up hope of getting all his siblings under the same roof, until he spots an article on his Twitter feed: "STARKS LOOKING TO EXPAND THEIR FAMILY THROUGH FOSTER CARE."

Will a long-buried family secret and a sob story be enough to reunite the Parker siblings?

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes and other works inspired by this one.)

Chapter Text

“This is your second sandwich today, Parker,” Mr. Delmar says. 

Peter swallows the last bites of his turkey club sandwich. He showed up to work with a grumbling stomach and insatiable appetite. Delmar usually lets him make a couple sandwiches without charge, saying that he is a “growing chico.”  Peter knows it probably has to do with the bags under his eyes and his whipcord-thin frame.  

Peter’s face reddens. “Sorry, sir,” he says. “I-I overslept this morning and didn’t really have time to eat.” The lie rolls off his tongue easily. Too easily. 

Delmar reaches to the counter and hands him another turkey club. “Don’t apologize, Parker. I want you to eat a third one. You’re too skinny.” 

“I’m not skinny,” Peter argues, even as he takes the third sandwich.  

“You’re emaciated,” Beto, Delmar’s son, corrects. “Ain’t healthy, ese.”  

I’m growing too fast. My body can’t keep up,” Peter says. He looks at Mr. Delmar. “Thanks, señor.”  

Eat it later, you lazy bum. You’ve got work to do.” Delmar points to the sink full of dirty dishes. Peter rolls up his sleeves and attacks the mountain of dishes with vigor. He sneaks bites of his sandwich when Delmar isn’t looking.  

“This is what happens when I’m off for a day,” he mutters, loud enough for Delmar and his son to hear. 

“Why do the dishes when we have you around?” Beto said airily. He is wiping down the counter. 

They fall into a comfortable silence after that. It is around two o’ clock in the afternoon. The lunch rush just ended, and they can breathe for a few hours until the dinner rush. Even so, the sandwich shop still has a trickle of customers come in between the busy times. And there are always dishes to wash, counters to scrub, and floors to sweep. Delmar likes to say that the floor is clean enough to eat off.  

Peter is finishing the last of the dishes when he hears the door open. With his back to the register, he doesn’t take any note of the customer. Until that customer says, “One Reuben with extra sauerkraut, please. Toast the bread a little extra, too.” 

Peter would recognize that voice anywhere. He’s heard it on the news, in person once before. He whips around, eyes wide as saucers. 

Tony Stark stands at the counter of a dingy sandwich shop in the bad part of Queens, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Even with red-tinged sunglasses on, Peter would recognize the iconic facial hair anywhere. He seems amused by Beto’s dazed reaction. The poor kid can hardly the numbers into the register. 

Delmar whacks his dazed son lightly on the shoulder. “Muévanse, mijo ,” he snaps before going to make Stark’s order. 

Peter just stares as Tony Stark pays for his meal. He uses a debit card, one of those nice metal ones that rich people always carry. Stark moves over to the pick-up counter, shifting side to side. Peter stares some more. He really should stop, it’s getting creepy. 

“You want an autograph, kid?” Stark says.  

Peter thinks Stark is talking to Beto at first, until he realizes that Iron Man is staring at him.  

“No sir,” Peter says, growing as red as a beet. He turns back to his dirty dishes, feeling mortified. God, that was probably so rude. He’s about to apologize to Iron Man, but Delmar speaks first. 

“The kid’s a big fan of yours. Bit of a science whiz himself.” Delmar turns to Peter. “How long was that report of yours on the arc reactor? Thirty pages?” 

“Thirty-five, señor,” Peter says, turning to face his boss and his idol. His face is redder than the surface of Mars now. 

Stark looks slightly interested. Maybe. Peter isn’t good at reading people. “What was it on?” 

“My AP Chem teacher wanted us to find theoretical applications for technology that already existed. I argued that smaller versions of the arc reactor could be used to power a variety of household items, which would help us become less dependent on fossil fuels. It took a lot of explaining, so that’s why the report was so long,” Peter says in a rush. 

“You’re interested in clean energy?” Stark says. 

Peter shrugs. “I’m just interested in science,” he says. He doesn’t want to admit that he chose the arc reactor because he has a slight obsession with Tony Stark. 

“More like obsessed. Every shirt the little nerd owns has a science pun on it,” Beto scoffs.  

“You must be very proud of your son,” Stark says to Delmar. 

“He’s not my son. Just works for me.” Delmar ruffles Peter’s hair, and he tries not to flinch away from the touch. “We are fond of the little chico, though.” 

“You called me a lazy bum twenty minutes ago,” Peter mutters. 

“Because you are. Get back to work.” Delmar cuffs Peter on the ear playfully and hands Stark the finished sandwich. “Here you are, Señor   Stark.”  

“Thank you.” Instead of leaving, Stark goes to sit at one of the tables in the corner. He pulls out a StarkPad and begins to write on it with a stylus. Peter watches out of the corner of his eye, absolutely enchanted. Stark seems to be sketching some sort of design. Maybe a modification for the Iron Man suit?  

Delmar catches him staring and orders his young employee to peel potatoes in the back. “Quit making a fool of yourself, Parker,” he tells him in Spanish. Peter can here the affection in his voice, though.  

Stark stays until five. Peter gets off work at five. Stark leaves at the same time Peter is heading for the door. The billionaire even holds the door for Peter.  

“Thanks,” Peter says. Before the billionaire melts away into the streets of New York City, he blurts, “Did you ever know a Mary Fitzpatrick?” 

“No,” Stark says, confused. He waits for Peter to explain. 

“My mom was a SHIELD agent,” Peter finally says. “Said she saw you when she was stationed on the Helecarrier. I was just wondering.” 

“She still with SHIELD?” 

“No. She died in 2009.” 

“Was she killed when Loki escaped?” Stark’s voice is soft. Almost gentle. 

“Few months after. Car crash.” Peter’s voice doesn’t waver. He’s practiced. For the first few years, he couldn’t even mention his mom without crying. 

“I’m sorry to hear that, and I’m sorry I don’t remember her. Take care of yourself, kid,” Stark says. 

“You too, Mr. Stark.” With that, Peter turns away from his idol and heads home. 


 

When Peter opens the front door, he hears yelling. He wants to leave, but he forces himself to go to the kitchen and see what the yelling is about. 

“Do you think I really want to go to your fucking school to meet with your English teacher? Get your grades up! I work fifty hours a week, I don’t have time to just piss away like you do--” 

He finds his foster father, Quentin, screaming at Will. Peter’s twin is hunched in a chair at the kitchen table while Quentin looms over him. His blue eyes lock with Peter’s hazel ones. Even though they look similar, they are fraternal twins. All Peter can see is his mother staring back at him for a moment.   

Quentin looks to see what Will is staring at. “You got off work, Peter?” 

“Yeah. My shift ended at five today,” Peter says. 

Quentin turns to Will. “Why can’t you be more like your brother? Perfect grades at a STEM school, holds down a job. You can barely make it in a shitty New York public school,” he says scathingly. “You don’t even try.” 

“Lay off him,” Peter growls, taking a step towards Quentin. 

“You stay out of this, Peter. He needs someone to get on him. He’s been coddled his entire life--” 

“I hardly call being orphaned at age eight coddling,” Peter spits. 

“I won’t tiptoe around it. You two need to stop playing the victim and get your shit together,” Quentin says. 

Will lurches to his feet, reaching for his cane that is propped against the wall. “I’m going to study for math,” he says. 

“Did I say this conversation was over?” Quentin says. 

Any fire in Will’s eyes disappears. “No sir.”  

“No media or socializing with friends until you have at least B’s in all your classes. Your brothers are smart, there’s no reason you can’t get good grades too,” Quentin says.  

Will nods. He just takes it.  

“I’m doing this because I know you can do better, Will. Not because I hate you. Remember that, okay?” 

“Okay.” Will doesn’t even look at Quentin as he moves past him. He goes up the stairs and Peter hears a door slam shut. He hears Will let out a harsh sob and a shuddering breath. Good God. He wants to run upstairs and hug his brother, but Peter knows it will only upset his twin more.

Quentin turns to Peter. “I’m the parent here, Peter, not you. I know you had to fend for yourselves, but now there’s an adult in the equation. Stay out of it.” 

“You were screaming at him,” Peter says. 

“Nothing else that I’ve done has gotten through to him. He was asking for it.” 

You’re the one who asked for it, Pete. Peter shivers at the memory. “He was failing all his classes at the beginning of freshman year. He’s doing a lot better now.” 

“Peter, he’s got D’s in two of his classes. That’s unacceptable. He’s a bright kid.” 

“Will doesn’t react well to pressure--” 

“Just because your previous guardians allowed you to do whatever the hell you wanted before doesn’t mean you can just do that now. You need boundaries, structure, discipline. That’s why the state placed you three in my care.” 

“I wasn’t allowed to do whatever the hell I wanted,” Peter says. “Jesus God, Quentin, you know that.” 

“No sleepover at Ned’s this weekend. You are only allowed to have your phone when you leave the house for the next week,” Quentin says with a sudden viciousness that makes Peter flinch.  

“What?” Peter sputters, outraged. Normally he wouldn’t dare kick up such a fuss, but he’s exhausted from work and pissed at Quentin for being such a dick to Will. 

“Do you want it to be two weeks?”  

Peter digs his phone out of his pocket and sets it on the table.  

“That’s much better.” 

Condescending ass, Peter thinks. He brushes past Quentin and goes upstairs. 

“Start dinner at six,” Quentin calls after him. 

Peter doesn’t bother replying. 


 “What a dick!” Peter says as soon as he walks into the room he shares with Will. His twin is sitting on the bottom bunk, reading Eragon for the billionth time. His cane is in the corner of the small bedroom, shoved out of his sightline. Peter ignores his brother's reddened eyes.

“I am a dumbass,” Will says. 

“No, you’re not,” Peter says. “Jesus, Will, why even say that?” 

Will glares at him. “I remember Dad screaming at me for bad grades in kindergarten. I’ve always been kind of stupid.” 

“Grades don’t really mean anything, anyway.” 

Peter's words sooth his twin. Will's shoulders relax a bit, and some of the bitterness leaves his eyes. “I’m going to trade school or community college. I don’t need a 4.0. My grades have improved a lot, you know. I have two A’s, two B’s, and two D’s. And they’re getting better,” Will says. “I’m trying, Pete, I really am.” 

“I know you are,” Peter assures his brother. 

“How was work?” As usual, Will’s favorite thing is to change the subject. 

Peter’s earlier excitement returns. “You’ll never guess who I saw at work.” 

“Peter, there’s a bunch of famous people that live in New York,” Will whines. 

“The most famous of them all.” 

Will narrows his eyes. “Are you joshing me?” 

Peter waggles his eyebrows. 

“You didn’t see Tony Stark! You didn’t!” 

With a triumphant grin, Peter bobs his head. 

“Tell me everything.” 

Peter tells Will every excruciating detail. Will makes him repeat it, and then repeat it again. 

“But he didn’t remember Mom?” Will’s smile falters at that detail. 

“She was a data analyst, Will. She probably never worked with any of the Avengers directly, even when she was on the Helecarrier.” 

“You think she would’ve said something to him. About, well, you know.” 

“Granddad would’ve killed her.”  

“This isn’t just about Granddad anymore.” 

“What’s the point? Mom’s dead, Granddad’s dead. He won’t care about us. If he wasn’t famous, I wouldn’t care that much about him either.” 

“Jesus, Peter, I know you don’t mean that.” Will’s right, but Peter won’t give him the satisfaction of admitting it. Still, his twin persists. “He looks like Mom.” 

“So?” 

“Doesn’t that mean something to you? Dad always said that family is the most important thing.” 

Personally, Peter thought that his family has let him down more than anyone else ever has. He remembers years of angry hands, sharp words, and broken promises. 

Full of anger and bitterness, Peter spits out, “No, Will, it doesn’t mean shit to me.”