Chapter Text
There were always masters to go around. Force-Sensitives were rare and precious, or so younglings were told from the cradle. Not everyone could harness the Living Force. Every initiate was expected to be trained at some point, even if they had to take lessons from random members of the council until they were too old for anything more than a pat on the shoulder and a perfunctory, “Congratulations on your Knighting.”
Every initiate would succeed in finishing the path of their training, but to deny favoritism among the sought-after masters would be like proclaiming that Master Goose was nothing more than a sweet, fluffy tabby. (Which they did. Whenever the Elites weren’t listening in.) In fact, the initiates had their own system for cataloging the master they wanted. It was a hierarchy as old as the temple itself.
There were the Newly Knighted, hesitant and plastic-smiled, always second-guessing their own methods as they relived their faults through the eyes of a child. (Good for the babes, fresh out of their nursery classes, but bad rep for the older students.) The Seconds were less stilted, but with such Jedi there was always the padawan before — the one to live up to (or to try desperately not to emulate). Then there were the Experienced, tried and true, who watched and probed and shaped a padawan into a knight according to their given strengths. (Padawans with Experienced masters boasted significantly fewer squabbles and more one-on-one time — which actually equated to grueling lessons and bizarre meditation schemes, but the training always seemed to pay off.) The Elite were coveted: battle-hardened warriors who chose their padawans sparingly and were always sent on the most daring missions. Anyone chosen by an Elite would be guaranteed a knighting within the decade (provide they survived their first Sith encounter).
Then there was the A-Team. The ones who specialized in covert operations; who garnered whispers in the halls. Grey Jedi. Honorable Bandits. Shrewd knights shaded by the dark, one foot planted in the light. They were usually the ones nominated as “temporary instructors” until the initiate could be pawned off to a real Jedi. Maybe they didn’t have time for kids, or maybe the council wouldn’t let them take on padawans (rumor had it at least two were always dating on the sly; hardly an example for vulnerable minds). They had the most unorthodox methods, the most dangerous missions, and the most fun . Any initiate would give their right hand to call a member of the A-Team “master” for a single day.
But it didn’t matter whether a youngling was chosen by a newbie or a specialist. Sooner or later, every Force-Sensitive would be trained. There might be a probation period, or the transition from trainee to padawan when a temporary tutor finally passed their student on to a master, but gifts of the Force weren’t wasted.
Unless you were really that unlucky — and if the Parker luck was anything to go by, Peter was a failure from the start.
“Hey, Palamate!”
A shove to his spine and a gentle Force nudge sent him sprawling into one of the temple fountains, cold water swarming his throat as his datapad fizzed.
“Not cool, Flash,” Initiate Liz Toomes called as Peter tugged himself over the stone edge, shaking tadpoles out of his soggy robes. She sighed and picked up his datapad with two fingers, grimacing when the screen went grey and sparked out. “Right before supper — again?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” answered Initiate Thompson, his mouth turning down in mock sympathy. “Palamate means web-footed, you know. I thought he liked the water.”
“Yeah, thanks for the morning vocabulary expansion,” Peter snapped, snatching back his datapad and futilely rubbing the screen. “It wouldn’t kill you to find someone else to practice your vernacular on.”
“You would accuse me of being parabolic, Parasitaster,” Flash crooned. “All I wanted was to establish my parapsychological thesis of the unwanted padawan.”
It took Peter a few minutes to piece together the words (and safely extricate the goldfish from his boot). “Para...phsy... Wait, seriously? You’re basing your Intergalactic Relations thesis on mental —“
“Unexplained mental phenomena,” Flash deadpanned. “Like the inexplicable delusion that Parenticide Parker won’t turn to the dark side before knighthood. It’s a fascinating theory — you should try staying awake in class when I give my presentation tomorrow.”
“Flash, there’s no such thing as an unwanted padawan,” Liz interjected crossly, making an obvious attempt to divert the subject. “Every padawan will eventually have a master. No talent is wasted in the Force.”
“Yeah, I know — they had us memorize that in year one,” Flash said briskly. “I just think it’ll be rough if Parlous here breaks the system. You know, I just don’t want him to be hurt if he’s never....” Conspiratorially loud, he whispered, “ Chosen .”
“Stop it, Flash,” Liz groaned, rolling her eyes. “We’re all initiates. Sooner or later we’ll all face the trials and some of us will get lucky. Others will just have to wait a bit longer.”
“Yeah, like his parents did,” Flash said with a generous shrug. “You’re totally right. I’m sure the right master will pick him once he’s all grown-up and ready to pucker his lips at the nearest —“
Peter probably should have paid heed to the tingle at the back of his neck warning him that several knights were approaching. He should have told Flash to stick it and stalked off to change his soggy robes. No, he should have just walked away and let the masters handle it.
Somehow he wound up in a tangle of thrashing limbs and throbbing fists. Dimly he felt small hands tugging on his collar as Liz yelled, “Guys, stop it! They’re coming!”
Two sets of hands suddenly pried him and Flash apart. Sharp words and snarling voices were buffeted by waves in the Force that urged for calm as the knights dragged them to their feet. Across the room, Masters Tony Stark and Pepper Potts paused on their way to the council room, and Peter’s rants died in his throat as cool brown eyes surveyed the scene. What a sight: squabbling children, held back only by the knights wrestling them into a headlock; no better than a couple of dougs fighting over the winnings of a drag race. Ridiculous.
Peter ducked his head in shame, heat flooding his cheeks. What a way to stand out to the A-Team.
Little wonder he still didn’t have a master.
“I want one.”
“You know what I’m going to say, Tony.”
“The last one was... different. I don’t work well with tweenagers.”
“Oh, so that’s what they are now? Strange, I thought nineteen was nearly a knight.”
“Which is exactly why we didn’t get along. I should’ve started younger.”
“Tony, we’ve both agreed you’re not the best influence on children. Besides, we’re hardly a prestigious example.”
“Are you kidding? Those babies adore us. They have their own name for us. I mean, I thought the Elite were cool when I was a kid. We’re cooler than cool. We’re like — beyond Master Goose awesome.”
“Which is exactly why you’re not in charge of training the younglings anymore. Arrogance is —“
“Of the dark side, I know. Can we just take it in for once? Just take, like — 12% of the credit for being totally inspirational to the kiddos.”
“Hmm, tempting.”
“See, this is why you should be on the council. More brains, less fuss, more fun all around.”
“No, this is why you need to start brushing up on the code. You can’t train a padawan if you don’t remember what it means to be a Jedi.”
“So you’re saying I can have one after all.”
Sunset always burdened the council room with twisting shadows, and Master Fury moved amongst them like a deathstick dealer honing in on the riffraff of Courascant’s lower levels. “I trust there’s a logical explanation why two initiates would be caught squabbling like womp rats over a carcass in the Room of a Thousand Fountains."
The key words was probably “squabbling,” but Peter thought there was an uncanny emphasis on the notion that they’d been caught. Well, Fury did allegedly form the A-Team. They weren't exactly renowned for using conventional methods.
“I was just on my way to class,” Flash stammered. “Honest!”
“Did I inquire as to the original intention?” Master Fury stated. “Perhaps I wasn’t making myself clear. Why were you fighting on the temple grounds?”
Again the redirection; fixating on the disadvantage of location, not the misdemeanor itself. Why not scold them for disorderly behavior and be done with it? Was this a test?
“Fighting in the Fountain Room is counterproductive to the atmosphere, and it could endanger others,” Peter considered, thinking fast as he nudged a deflated tadpole behind his boot. “Younglings use that room to study stages of life. There could’ve been collateral damage.”
“What, so we should’ve pasted one another in the dueling court?” Flash scoffed. “Cause if that’s the case it could totally have waited until the trials.”
“If you think the purpose of the padawan trials is to bludgeon your opponent, perhaps so,” Master Fury said, casting Flash a disgruntled look. “A review of the Jedi Code would serve you well, Initiate Thompson. Report to Master Hill — tell her to put on Tracks 16a-104c. She’ll know what you mean.”
Flash gawked. “That... that many? But that’ll take hours! I have to present a thesis tomorrow.”
“Those who seek to abide by the code should understand what it entails,” Fury said. “I’m sure you can support your thesis better with a few limericks running through your head. If you like, she can put on the children’s version. I hear the tunes are catchy.”
“No, sir,” Flash pleaded, his eyes wide in despair. “That won’t be necessary.”
“16a through 104c,” Master Fury directed. “Consider yourself fortunate that you’re not presenting a new thesis — in front of the council.”
“What about Parker?” Flash said, casting Peter a sharp glance. “Shouldn’t we report in together?”
“I’m not finished with Initiate Parker yet,” Fury said. “Is there anything else you need to add — or should I have you report to the healing ward for a sudden lack of auditory perception?”
“No, Master Fury,” Flash said, bowing quickly. “I’ll be on my way.”
Master Fury snorted when the doors swished shut. “Kids these days.”
Crackling dark eyes riveted on Peter, who winced. “I don’t condone quarreling among the Jedi,” Master Fury warned him. “That being said, perhaps you can explain some of your reasoning behind this afternoon's exhibition. You seem to have it in your head that there are rules outside of the temple. A life beyond the code.”
“No, sir,” Peter said quietly. “The Jedi live by the code. We’re not... To act otherwise would be to embrace the dark side.” Or something like that. Was it wrong to fight for a good cause? Historically, Jedi were trained to battle against the Sith. Surely the lightsaber katas weren’t meant for elaborate baton dances.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a habitual fibber?” Fury wryly accused him. “Makes me think of some other unorthodox Jedi. They don’t fit in too well, either.”
“I let Flash goad me, I’ll... I’ll do better,” Peter insisted. “I won’t turn out like....”
“Like Knights Fitzpatrick and Parker,” Fury said solemnly.
Peter stared at his boots.
“There’s a lot about your origins that you don’t know,” Fury established. He rubbed his hands together, as though preparing to launch into a historical analogy, and then announced shortly, “Katas. Makashi Form. You can practice “finding calm” in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. A master will notify you when you’re finished.”
Grimacing, Peter nodded. That could mean drilling hours into the night. In wet robes. (It was still better than listening to recordings of the Jedi Code in song form.)
“Dismissed, Initiate Parker.”
Dismissed, put out, expelled from the premises. Was it true that initiates who didn’t “work out” were eventually removed from the temple?
There’s no such thing as an unwanted padawan, Peter told himself firmly. But there were knights who couldn’t help but dip into the dark.
He had to be better.
“Makashi. Nice.”
At least detention wasn’t lonely when there were insomniacs wandering around the temple. Peter nodded jerkily at Padawan Jones, sweaty hands readjusting around his lightsaber as he swung into the third cadence.
“I prefer Djem So,” Michelle said, her new padawan blade sparking in the dark like a swarm of green fireflies. “It’s funny to see people tripping over their own lightsabers.”
She fell into step with Peter, the complex duelist weave overshadowing his secondary form, and pulled a frown at his grim expression. “What, Parker luck got you down again? You know it’s okay to stick out sometimes. That’s what the A-Team is all about.”
“It’s not “Parker luck,” and I’m fine,” Peter insisted.
Michelle snorted. “Yeah, cause you love drilling late at night when you have to present a thesis in the morning. I’m starting to think you’re rooting for my job.”
“Not everyone can be habitual insomniacs,” Peter quipped.
“Nah, the rest are just worry-warts,” Michelle said. “I heard Flash got stuck listening to mantras again. What’d you guys do this time — set fire to the council room?”
“Fell into the guppy pool.”
“Barbaric. Gotta respect those baby frogs.” Michelle spiraled out of cadence, slotting her lightsaber under Peter’s and spinning it into her hand. “Wanna ditch the kidsie katas and duel for a bit?”
“I’m on detention,” Peter said, snatching back his training 'saber with a sigh.
“And that implies that you always follow the rules,” Michelle retorted. She fell into step beside him, parroting his form. It looked darn clumsy when she dipped her lightsaber like... oh. Gritting his teeth, Peter straightened his own stance, ignoring the padawan’s smirk.
“Hey, I heard Ned was pulled aside by Master Carter yesterday,” Michelle said. “Pretty soon we’ll all be boring padawans.”
“Ned got a master?” Peter burst out. The most important marker in his best friend's training, and he missed it!
“Yeah, right in the middle of supper, too.” Michelle snickered. “I thought he’d choke on a cracknel.”
Supper. Peter’s stomach growled in protest. He’d missed a meal again, thanks to Flash’s meddling. (No, thanks to his own impulsive temper. A Jedi didn’t shift blame on the mistakes of others. Funny how he didn’t remember that until his arms were shaking off with Form II.)
“You’re quiet tonight,” Michelle said soberly. “What, council gotcha down? It’s not your first detention.”
“Could be my last,” Peter said bitterly. “Master Fury mentioned my parents. I think... he could mean...”
“Right, ‘cause your parents hitching up before Knighthood automatically makes you a Sith baby,” Michelle drawled. “You know they discourage linking paternal influences to a padawan’s future. “A Jedi is not the sum components of the past” and all that jargon. That’s why Jedi aren’t supposed to mate.”
“Attachments are forbidden,” Peter quoted.
“Which is exactly why Knight Barton has a dozen kiddies running around Theed,” Michelle scoffed. “You know the rules don’t apply to the Grey Jedi. That’s why they never get padawans.” She tilted her head and appraised him thoughtfully. “Maybe you’re destined to be a Grey Jedi. It’s not such a bad job. Like, you actually get to kill people.”
“MJ!”
“What? Everybody knows they get the gritty assignments that no one else can handle without going dark. How else did they stop the Naboo invasion?”
“The Jedi stand for peace, not conflict,” Peter said, negating the troubling thought before it could settle in his head.
“Right. And Peter Parker doesn’t execute tadpoles in a fountain flounder.”
“Who’s killing baby frogs?”
Both younglings spiraled, eyes wide in startled fright as a Jedi detached from a far pillar; wraithlike, as though he was one with the shadows. “Master Stark!” they cried out.
“You know murder is on the no-go list,” Tony said, peering concernedly at the fountain to Peter’s right. “Also, I’m supposed to discourage violence, bullying and general peevish feelings. MJ, you’re not on detention. Shouldn’t you be passed out with a nighty-night light? Master Okoye runs a pretty harsh schedule.”
“Aw, no,” Michelle said, brushing off his dismissal with a cool shrug. “My master gets up early. I’m just warming up until she gets here.”
“You do realize normal children thrive on bedtime routines,” Tony pointed out. “Never mind. Parker, you’re with me. Post-detention lecture and all.”
“Is this the point where you tell him “do what I say not what I do?”’ Michelle snarked.
“You know what, that sass is not appreciated. I’m going to tell your master to give you ten detentions. In the mess hall. Scrubbing pots. Which is supposed to be super boring, so I hear — not that I’d know from personal experience, I was always a model student.” Spinning on his heel, Tony snapped his fingers impatiently. “Parker, we're blowing this joint. Put the glowstick away — incinerating guppies is officially on the not-okay list.”
Deactivating the training ‘saber, Peter set it back on the rack and then darted to catch up as Tony strode ahead.
“All right, I’ll give you the short run on the do’s and don’ts list. Don’t use death sticks, be nice to your fellow undergrads, don’t take figda sweets from creepy old ladies — you ever been off Courascant before? No? You’ll love it. Believe it or not, there’s this thing called grass on most other planets. It’s all green and prickly, and some people get hives from it but it’s worth it, trust me. FRIDAY, remind me to put meadow excursions on the bonding list. I’m sure Master Fury can spare us a few less tedious missions. In fact, there’s one city in the outer rim called Mos Espa — you’re too young for it, trust me — but the dancers are amazing, and the food is actually quite....”
“Master Stark,” Peter interrupted, huffing to keep up with the Jedi’s lengthy stride. “Master Stark, I don’t understand. I’m not supposed to go off-planet, not until I’m part of an official team —”
“Gotta have that braid, right,” Tony mused. “Well, we’ll take care of that. You’re okay with spontaneity, right? I’ve seen you practice... on one or two occasions. Maybe last year. Fury says you’re spunky, and marginally intelligent. Smart enough to pull your punches so you don’t pulverize someone’s head, at least. Say, how does it feel to be one-eighth Harch and never use your powers?”
“You were not supposed to know that,” Peter said, swallowing against the sudden dryness in throat. “In fact, I’d appreciate it if you’d un-know that.”
“What, that your mother was a quarter spider with four arms and a wicked personality?” Tony said. “So what can you do? Spin webs in the ceiling corners? Do you have insane flexibility?” He spun around to give Peter a sharp look-over. “You don’t require a steady diet of flies and mosquitoes, do you?”
“What? No!” Peter hissed. “Would you please keep it down? It’s bad enough without everyone knowing —“
“That your mother originated from Secundus Ando and she allegedly lured your father into an unholy wedlock before she ate him? Rumors, of course,” Tony said, whipping around to continue his brisk pace. “I worked with both your parents. Charming people, if a little odd. It’s a shame, really — you’re just like them.”
“I know,” Peter said, turning his head away before his eyes could glimmer too bright. “That’s what everyone says.”
Stopping abruptly, Tony turned around and looked down with an indiscernible expression. “Kid, you can either keep flinching every time they’re mentioned or you can take it as a compliment. Your parents were brave people. Never made it to knighthood, but they weren’t the first to skip the master’s initiation. If you ask me, all that padawan ceremonialism is a waste of emotional investment. People dying all over the galaxy and all they care about is whether or not there’s a bead on the silly braid.”
It wasn’t a wasted investment. It wasn’t . Being a padawan was everything — the initiates who made it to knighthood on the substitute system, they just weren’t good enough. Unwanted. Never bonded. Alone .
“Of course, if you want beads on your braid I won’t stop you,” Tony prattled on. “Useless pieces of jewelry if you ask me. Unless there’s an inbuilt tracker. FRIDAY, remind me to put a tracker in Peter’s braid.”
“Whatever you say, Boss,” chimed the hovercam droid at his shoulder.
“Wait!” Peter staggered, grasping at Tony’s sleeve, his brain screaming alternate messages of ‘It has to be! ’ and ‘You’re reading it wrong! ’ “My — my padawan braid?”
“Course, Spiderling — you don’t mind if I call you Spiderling, right? Deny it all you want, it’s in your DNA. We can make it a spider bead if you want — tracker included, of course. No ands, buts or arguments on this one. Kriff, I sound just like my dad.”
“Is this....” Please say yes, please let it be so. “Are you going to train me?”
“Well, the other knights will probably have a hand in it,” Tony amended. “I swear Nat is part Charon and Cap has to put everyone through the wringer before they’re part of the team. He’ll give you the long version of the “Don’t Do Drugs” lecture.”
“Oh,” Peter realized, stepping back. He cleared his throat, squashing down the disappointment. (Which shouldn’t be there because it was never meant to be.) “So it’s a group effort, then.” Special training with a handful of masters until he was considered old enough to last on his own.
“Well, if you want to call it that,” Tony agreed, continuing the walk. “Of course, team members can’t share bonds — we tried that already — and I’ll expect you to report to me if you have any questions. Unless it’s about questionable moral obligations; that’s what I programmed Jarvis for. He’ll be your Jedi compass. Nat will probably cover spideylympics, Buckaroo will work with you on close combat, Barton will let you vent any teenage angsty feelings as long as he takes out his hearing aides first — and don’t coddle Dum-E. That scrap of metal loves getting kicked around, trust me on that. He was programmed for battery. Don’t kick the droid, by the way — that’s Sithy behavior. Just do as I say, not as I do.”
“I understand,” Peter said quietly. It was always too much to hope for — the A-Team never took padawans, much less a freak of genetic happenstance. It would’ve been nice, though; to be chosen at the same time as Ned and MJ. To not be left behind.
“Hey, why the gloomy face?” Tony said, tapping him under the chin. “I’m not that bad of a prospect for a master, am I? So maybe I’m not as cool as Danvers or a rule-stickler like Coulson, but I thought that was your vibe.”
“What...?” Peter said feebly, not daring to think. To hope. To imagine a brilliant future.
“Rule-bending. Grey area. Trust in the Force, not the flow. Concentrate on the little things that matter most.” Tony’s mouth turned down in a cringe. “I guess the “failed padawan” rep already leaked out to the next generation. It’s cool, kid. I’d want a successful master myself, if I had another chance. I’m sure I could put in a good word for you if you’d rather train with someone like —“
“No, no wait,” Peter pleaded, grabbing his hand. “Are you... you’re offering to train me?” Just me and you, bonded, master and padawan, no substitutes, no transitions, no dropping out once there’s someone else to fill the spot.
“Just you and me,” Tony said. He grimaced and added, “Well, and the rest of the A-Team. We’re kind of a packaged deal. But if that’s too many trainers I can always —“
“No, it’s fine!” Peter gushed. “It’s fine. I want to — I’d be glad to — I’m honored — there’s nobody I’d rather —“
“Kay, we’re good then?” Tony said, clapping his shoulder and herding him along. “I’m going to take that nervous stammering as a sign of exhaustion and sleep deprivation, because you are seriously going to have to work on that before you meet the rest of the crew. Can’t have you fainting on your first mission.”
“Mission?” Peter parroted. “We have a mission already? Isn’t there supposed to be a training stage first? Doesn’t the council mandate when a new team is ready to leave the temple?”
“First rule of the A-Team, Spiderling,” Tony established, “There is only one council, and that consists of Jarvis, Rhodes, Wilson and Rogers. Sometimes Fury is allowed to give out orders. Otherwise, you take your questions and concerns to the people who give two kriffs about the galaxy. Those people who sit on cushy chairs all day while staring into the beyond? Not your friends. Until you’re a knight — then you can kiss up to them all you want. You want to be an A-Team padawan, you gotta learn to think outside the code. Think you can do that?”
Nodding jerkily as the glow inside threatened to burst out in a herald of nervous laughter, Peter answered, “Yes. Definitely, Master Stark. Absolutely. No problem. But what if the council does order us on a mission?”
“Leave that for the big kids to decide,” Tony said, awkwardly clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Until your greyscale senses are fine-tuned, just pay attention to your elders. Kriff, we gotta get you a lightsaber first don’t we? Think you can manage with a glowrod until we finish on Melida/Daan? It shouldn’t be too deadly — maybe a mild skirmish. You can use a blaster, right?”
“Uh... yes? I mean, we don't have training blasters, but you just point and shoot, right? Not that hard,” Peter said with a shaky grin.
Tony rolled his eyes. “They leave you kids babies forever, don’t they? Come on. I think FRIDAY has a few training programs she can run you through. How much sleep does a spider-baby need? We've got an early start in the morning. Hope you don’t mind skipping the braid until we get back from Ilum, by the way. Have you given any thought to your first lightsaber? I’ve got a dozen prototypes you can choose from.....”