"Wait—you got your learner's permit? Does this mean we can finally take my dad's car to the beach?"
At a quiet café off Midtown's shopping strip, Gwen stirred her coffee with slow precision. Across from her, Peter sighed.
"My uncle doesn't have time. Doctors found a shadow on his lungs. Turned out to be mild inflammation—nothing serious. But, you know… he used to smoke."
"Of course. Everyone back then did. My dad, too. Mom would yell at him every time his coat reeked of cigarettes."
"I've got the permit," Peter said, shrugging. "But without a licensed adult, I can't drive alone. I've never even touched a steering wheel."
"To be honest, I barely know how to start the car. The test was just written. As for driving?" He shook his head. "No idea. I don't even ride in cars much, let alone drive one."
The Parkers owned one vehicle: Uncle Ben's old pickup. For Peter, getting to Stark Industries meant swinging through Manhattan on webs.
Kids his age usually start with a learner's permit—just a written exam. But to drive solo? You needed a road test.
Peter hadn't practiced once. Genius or not, you couldn't hallucinate skill.
Gwen heard the disappointment. She switched gears.
"I heard Stark gave you a big internship stipend. Even wants you full-time later?"
"Yeah. I told Aunt May and Uncle Ben they don't need to pay for college. But the moment they saw tuition bills from top schools, they froze. Now they're saving every dollar—just in case something goes wrong."
"I get it," Gwen said softly. "My parents worry too much sometimes. But if real disasters hit… You'll realize they weren't being paranoid."
Her kindness always made Peter feel slightly unworthy.
"If your uncle can't teach you," she asked, "does he have any friends who could?"
Peter paused. Then:
"You know… I might have a few options."
—
The next afternoon, Peter stood in Schiller's clinic.
"…So that's the situation. Gotta practice before I can pass the road test."
Schiller blinked. Seemed simple enough. With Peter's brain, one afternoon behind the wheel should do it.
"No problem," he said. "I'll drive first. You watch. Then you take over. By evening, you'll be fine."
Minutes later, Schiller sat in the driver's seat, flipping through a tiny booklet while adjusting the wheel.
"Let's see… merging lanes…" He squinted. "Ah, here! Wait—what kind of rule is this? That makes zero sense."
In the passenger seat, Pikachu and Peter exchanged a look of pure dread.
"I bet he never read the New York Driver's Manual," Pikachu muttered.
"He passed a test without reading it?"
"Was there ever any doubt?" Peter whispered.
"So how'd he even get licensed?"
Peter stared straight ahead.
"As long as I don't think about it… I can manifest that I'm safe here."
Five minutes later, Peter and Schiller stood beside the dented truck, shivering in the winter wind.
Schiller held his phone to his ear.
"Yes, insurance? I've sent the location… No, not serious. Just a side scrape…"
He covered the receiver and shouted at the white Audi owner:
"Shut up! This is your fault! Did you even read the manual? I had the right of way!"
—
Twenty minutes later, a red supercar screeched to a stop.
Stark leaned out, sunglasses on, smirking.
"Hop in, kid! Your Uncle Tony's taking you on a real tour of the coastline!"
He glanced at Schiller, still yelling into the phone.
"You should've come to me first. Look at him—when was the last time he broke sixty? I bet he's never seen triple digits."
Peter hesitated. Then, hugging Pikachu, climbed in.
Moments later, Pikachu clamped both paws over his ears, screaming into the wind:
"WHY IS HE DRIVING WITH THE TOP DOWN?!?!?"
"HOW SHOULD I KNOW?!?!?!" Peter screamed back.
"This is called!!! FAST AND FURIOUS!!!" Stark roared. "FEEL THE WIND!!!"
Three minutes later, the car pulled over.
Stark fumbled through the glovebox, pulling out a crumpled booklet.
"Damn it… How do you close the roof manually? Jarvis, I don't need help! This is educational! There's gotta be a button…"
—
Another twenty minutes later, Steve arrived in a plain black Cadillac.
Peter stepped out—hair flattened by wind, face numb.
Pikachu yanked at his matted fur.
"I shouldn't have trusted your 'joyride' lie. I'm a mouse. I don't need a license. Why am I even here?"
Peter exhaled. "Don't worry. Cap's reliable. He won't be like them."
At first, it seemed true.
Steve started the car smoothly. No booklets. No panic. Hands at ten and two. Peter relaxed.
Then Steve floored it.
Speed climbed. Corners taken at full throttle. Tires screamed on every drift.
Peter slammed into the door. Again. And again.
Pikachu bounced between the seats like a pinball.
When they hit a speed bump, Steve didn't slow down.
The front wheels lifted off the ground.
Peter shot upward—cracked his skull on the ceiling—slammed back down.
"AHHH! MY BACK!!!"
Pikachu stuck to the windshield like a furry Post-it note.
Steve grinned.
"Suspension's better now. In the war, rough roads left me bruised for days. Compared to tank traps and barricades? Speed bumps are nothing."
—
Twenty minutes later, Coulson pulled up in a S.H.I.E.L.D. sedan.
Steve folded his arms. "I take it back. This car's junk. How'd it stall?"
"Captain," Coulson said calmly, "you can't drive without a license. And speeding on the FDR? Illegal."
"What do you mean, no license? Of course I have one!"
"Pre-1940 documents aren't valid."
Steve narrowed his eyes. "Fine. But I wasn't speeding."
"Pre-1940 traffic laws aren't valid either."
Pikachu lay limp in Peter's arms.
"You really know how to pick friends…"
Peter groaned. "I thought—just once—someone would be reliable."
"That's just what you thought."
Coulson turned. "Wait—you're trying to get licensed? Why didn't you call us? S.H.I.E.L.D. can bypass the DMV. We issue our own credentials. Full authority."
Peter looked at him.
"If you'd said that yesterday, I'd have begged you for a license on the spot."
"But after today?" He took a breath. "Lesson learned. I'll study the manual. Memorize the car guide. Renew every year. No shortcuts."
Coulson studied him. Then nodded.
"Not many young people with that kind of integrity. Most would've taken the easy way."
Peter slumped, exhausted.
"Or maybe… I'm just too good at making friends."