Spiderman oneshots

52- Coincidence? I think not! (Part 3)

"Hey, hey! Ironman!"

Tony had seen a lot of Spider-Man costumes today, and quite frankly, they'd all been rather shit: obviously sewn together with scrap fabrics and seventh-grade reminders of bad style (e.g., bright blue leggings).

This one, however—it seemed like the real deal, almost. The lenses even moved with those same stilted shifts.

The cosplayer's attitude, though, was just as terribly annoying as all the other fans' had been. He suppressed a grin; he supposed that did fit with Spider-Man's true personality.

"No time, kiddie." He waved a dismissive hand. NYC Comic Con was something he'd been obliged to attend this year. Sign a few posters, smile for a few pictures, all that jazz. Pepper had insisted, something to do with a public scandal after he'd cussed out the Dutch prime minister. Really, he'd been hoping to offend the whole country while he'd been at it.

Damn that cursed dictionary and the word 'slagroom' for having intrigued him enough to delve into the language.

He'd have never imagined that that was what would have gotten him here, at dusty musty crusty Comic Con. Which was really just another word for 'mega nerdy stinky stalker hangout'.

He supposed that didn't roll off the tongue as nicely.

"I just wanted to say, your costume could use some work," the cosplayer continued, and Tony's pace came to a quick stop. He turned slowly, almost warily. He really hadn't come here to cause another scandal, he didn't want Pepper to have a heart attack, but come on. Was this brat really implying what Tony thought he was?

Having gotten his attention, the ripoff Spidey gestured at his face. "The beard is all patchy, could've colored that in a little better. Oh, and it's supposed to be a little wonky, trust me, I've seen it up close. Looks ridiculous, it does!" The kid had a weird habit of falling into a British accent every few words.

"Oh, and the suit? It's nice, really, but you should put something into the left pocket. Dude carries a little packet of peach rings with him everywhere he goes. Cute, innit?"

When Tony went to interrupt, a red gloved finger waved at his face condescendingly. "Ah, ah, ah. One more thing," he said, sounding greatly amused. "You should bend your knees a little. He's shorter than he looks on TV!"

When Tony's expression grew stormy, the kid backed off. "Ah, sorry. Figures you wanna keep that quiet, eh, Mr. Flea?"

Tony's brain short-circuited.

"Oh, you little shit—" he growled when he finally came back to his senses, but Spidey was already running off. Without thinking too much about it, he sprinted off after him, chasing the red-blue blur back into the crowds.

He pushed past all sorts of characters, only managing a barely-there apology when he knocked over a little Anakin Skywalker—probably for the best, he mused, grinning to himself briefly.

Just as he was catching up to Spider-Man—the real one, dammit—he rounded a corner only to be met with a sea of red heads.

Hundreds of Spider-Men turned their heads as he halted conspicuously at the threshold, white bug-eyes boring into him. God, that whole costume was rather creepy, now that he thought about it.

"Is that Tony Stark?"

This single comment caused a shit-storm to break out, shouts scattering over the room in an instant. Tony was certain it had been the real Spidey to break the silence.

"Ah, fuck," he muttered, sweeping the crowd one last time in an attempt to make out the real vigilante, but he was forced to run for his life too soon, desperate fans throwing themselves at him eagerly.