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“Are you sure about this, kid?” Fury asks, taking in the sight of Peter scratching behind the ears of a blissful-looking kitten that Fury knows is actually frightening carnivorous alien monster. (A frightening carnivorous alien monster that Fury would take a bullet for, but still.) “Chewie can be a handful.”
Chewie purrs. Peter looks up from petting him, smiles, and says, “I’ll be fine, Mr. Fury. Uh, Fury. I think he likes me.”
Fury believes that. He doesn’t know if it’s possible to meet Peter and not like him. Fury has tried.
Fury wouldn’t normally need a pet-sitter, but Chewie ate some bad seafood from the refrigerator yesterday and threw up all over the carpet, so he’s worried that the flerken may be getting sick.
(Notice the six words separating “worried” from “sick”. Fury is not worried sick. That’s ridiculous.)
Anyway, circumstances had created a need for a pet-sitter—ideally someone with too much free time on their hands, not enough sense to stay away from a frightening carnivorous alien monster, and the strength to fight said monster off if necessary. Fury had known immediately who to call. (And it wasn’t the Ghostbusters.)
“Hey, is that Dog Cops?” Peter asks, looking over Fury’s shoulder at the TV barely visible from the doorway. “Woah. It is. I didn’t know you were a member of the puparazzi.”
Fury shrugs. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he says, in a dry way that he hopes comes across as mysterious. Then he adds, “And I’m not part of...whatever that is.”
“The puparazzi,” Peter says. “You can’t tell me you haven’t heard of it; everyone uses it to talk about Dog Cops fans. Y’know, because we’re like paparazzi for the pup—”
“I understand where the word comes from,” Fury interrupts.
He extricates himself from the conversation soon after that, because there is only so much Peter Parker that Fury can endure before he goes to scope out a potential Hydra cell. If Fury lingers too long, he may find himself fighting the urge to—he blanches internally at the idea of it— banter.
So, Peter catsits Fury’s flerken while he’s gone on a mission, and that’s why Peter is there when Fury stumbles home at the end of the night in dire need of medical attention.
“Let me help you,” Peter insists.
That’s how the arrangement begins.
“What are you wearing?” Fury asks, before the first time they go out. He’s looking at Peter the same way that he would look at an exhibit at the zoo—straight-faced but with a hint of fascination.
Peter glances down at himself. He can’t spot anything wrong. “This is my stake-out outfit,” he says. Then he pauses for a second. “Stake-outfit? No, nevermind, that doesn’t work. That makes it sound like I’m wearing a steak costume.”
Fury frowns. “Parker. You’re wearing all black, and there’s a ski mask hanging out of the pocket of your jeans. We’re standing in broad daylight. Don’t you think that looks suspicious?”
“Well, when you put it that way—”
Fury sighs. “Go change.”
Peter heads back upstairs while Fury’s car idles on the street next to Peter’s apartment.
Before they go inside the warehouse that the Hydra cell has commandeered, Fury briefs the kid on the details of the situation for what feels like the hundredth time and stresses, for what feels like the thousandth, that Peter is under no circumstances to deviate from the plan.
Peter mock-salutes. “Aye, aye, captain.”
When Fury glares at him, Peter says, “I know that’s not your rank, but ‘aye, aye, colonel’ doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
“I will turn this car around—” Fury threatens.
Peter sits up straighter. “No! Sorry. I’ll be serious.”
They get inside according to the plan. They hack into the Hydra base’s computer network according to the plan. They get knocked down and tied up by some Hydra operatives returning early from their break—which, to put it lightly, is not according to the plan.
Fury scowls at the blood-speckled cement underneath the chair he’s tied to. He should have known better than to bring Peter into this. He knows the kid’s Spider-Man, but Fury’s the adult. He’s responsible for Peter’s well being. If this goes wrong….
One of the henchmen steps up in front of them. “Fury,” he says, smirking. “Can’t say we were expecting you.”
Fury leans back, trying to project more nonchalance than he feels. “The feeling’s mutual.”
Then the henchman leers at Peter and asks, “Who’s the kid?”
“None of your damn business,” Fury snaps. His wrists rub against the rope binding them, but he’s too furious to notice the sting.
Peter just grins and says, “I’m Peter. You should remember my name, because you’re going to need it when you tell your therapist about the teenager who kicked your ass.”
The henchman laughs. But not for long, because Peter—who somehow freed his hands from the rope—does a front flip and—faster than Fury can track—manages to knock the henchman out cold in a move reminiscent of the Black Widow, who Fury suspects the kid learned the move from.
When that’s done, Peter faces the shocked group of Hydra operatives and asks, “Who’s next?”
“Alright,” Fury says into the silence of the warehouse. Unconscious bodies lie supine around them. “Maybe it is a good idea to keep you around.”
Peter beams. He holds out a closed fist. “Partners?”
Fury eyes the fist dubiously, but then—because it won’t be the least dignified thing he’s done today, and the kid deserves a reward after everything—he bumps his fist against Peter’s. There’s a reluctant smile pulling at the corner of Fury’s mouth when he says, “Partners.”
Later, in the car:
“I can’t wait to tell Natasha about this; she’s going to be so proud.”
“Mhmm.”
“So, now that we’re partners, can I call you Nick?”
“What happened to Mr. Fury? And no. Absolutely not. It’s just Fury.”
“But—”
“Really? Is this really what we’re arguing about?”
“Names are important—”
Fury’s getting too old for this business, but Peter is far too young for it. Maybe by teaming up together they balance out into something that works.