Early the next morning, Stark drove a flashy sports car to drop Peter Parker off at the clinic. From downstairs, they could see Schiller sitting by the second-floor window, writing something. But they could guess what he was writing—nothing more than papers or case records packed with psychiatric terminology.
Peter looked terrible when he got out of the car. With his arms crossed, he glared indignantly at Stark as he stepped out and said, "You drove a sports car worth tens of millions of dollars through the streets of New York with me in it, and you didn't even put the roof up. Tomorrow morning's tabloid headline is going to be unbearable!"
"I never put the roof up. You know that." Stark shrugged carelessly, put on his sunglasses, tossed a piece of gum into his mouth, and said, "Relax. I got word yesterday. Their focus lately has been on whether Captain America and I have been 'doing more than one another.' You're not their target for the moment."
"Doing... what?" Peter did not understand at all. Frowning, he followed Stark into the clinic while Stark said without looking back, "What you two did the night you celebrated Gwen's birthday."
Peter froze, his mouth falling dramatically open. For a moment, he did not know whether he should be more shocked that Stark knew what he and Gwen had done, or that the tabloids dared to write about what Stark and Captain America had done.
Schiller opened the clinic door. Peter saw Captain America pulling on a sweater. With the sweater over his eyes and unable to find the opening for his head, he looked rather ridiculous. Peter tossed his bag onto the nearby sofa, sniffed, and asked, "Doctor, is there breakfast? I want scrambled eggs."
"Make them yourself." Schiller went back