Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12187818.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Spider-Man_-_All_Media_Types, Spider-Man:_Homecoming_(2017), The_Avengers
      (Marvel_Movies), Iron_Man_(Movies), Marvel_Cinematic_Universe
  Relationship:
      Peter_Parker/Tony_Stark, Tony_Stark/Original_Male_Character(s)
  Character:
      Peter_Parker, Tony_Stark, James_Rhodes, Happy_Hogan, Original_Female
      Character(s), Original_Male_Character(s)
  Additional Tags:
      Slow_Burn, Seriously_this_is_the_slowest_burn, Age_Difference, Canon
      Typical_Violence, Canon_Compliant_(Mostly), Underage_-_Freeform, Underage
      Drinking, Mental_Health_Issues, Alcohol_Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst
      with_a_Happy_Ending, Anger_Management, age_gap, POV_Tony_Stark
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-09-25 Updated: 2017-12-13 Chapters: 13/? Words: 59919
****** Hunger of the Pine ******
by Chrominance
Summary
     Tony has been two different people over the course of his life.
     He doesn’t know if the self-centered ego-maniac he used to be is
     better or worse than the guilt-ridden compulsive wreck he is now.
     In the wake of Steve taking the Avengers, Pepper leaving him, and
     Rhodey giving him a berth, Tony finds himself spending too much time
     with his own thoughts. While he's struggling to figure himself out,
     he has to try to guide Peter Parker on the right path. Acting as a
     mentor to the fledgling Avenger becomes liberating, freeing.
     Until it isn't.
     Tony’s fucked up a lot of things in life, but this might just be the
     worst.
Notes
     This will be mostly canon compliant (at least until the end of
     Homecoming). I've aged Peter up a year, Pepper never came back and is
     doing her own thing, and I've increased the timeline for Homecoming a
     bit because breaking down the actual timeline in the film everything
     is supposed to happen in about a week and a half, but looking at a
     calendar it doesn't really make sense, so for my purposes we'll say
     it takes place over a course of about two and a bit weeks.
     This is unbeta'd.
***** Chapter 1 *****
 
     There’s a line.
     There’s always a line.  That line gets crossed.  It’s a threshold to push
through.  Apotheosis.
     Every story has a line.  Every life.  Every relationship.  Every
interaction.
     There is always a line.
     For Tony, that line is between his two selves: Pre-Guilt and Post-
Guilt.  But he's not sure exactly when one Tony became the other Tony.
     Ever since Steve left and took the broken remnants of the Avengers with
him, Tony’s had nothing but time to ruminate on it.  Every person who ever
steered him off his compulsive behavior is gone now.  Rhodey doesn’t even come
by as often anymore, and despite insistence otherwise, Tony’s sure it’s because
Rhodey still blames him for some of it.  As he should.  Tony knows his
obsessiveness—his selfishness—has hurt too many people.  In that, the guilt
persists, so Tony spends an inordinate time holed up in the workshop tinkering
with a new exoskeleton for Rhodey’s legs.  It keeps his mind occupied enough
and gives him reasons to call Rhodey over to the compound under the guise of
testing.
     Whenever Rhodey does manage to come by, in between consulting (he never
stops working) and extensive physiotherapy, it’s more than welcome relief.  For
once in his life, Tony sits back and lets someone else direct the
conversation.  He asks Rhodey questions about every trivial thing, hoping to
keep him talking.  And Rhodey humors him.  He knows Tony better than anyone,
knows when he needs to address certain behaviors head-on or let Tony work
through his own shit.  He tries to check in with phone calls at least once a
week and Tony is grateful for that, too.
     Tony spends a lot of time looking back at the past few months.  He’s
constantly reviewing all of his actions that lead to the Avengers breaking
up.  It’s still a raw open nerve.  The hurt of knowing Steve hid everything
from him is like the ache from a rotting tooth.  He’d so desperately thought
that what he’d had with Steve was a genuine friendship.  Tony knows he’s
insufferable to be around and that’s why he has so few genuine friends.  He’d
really thought that someone else had finally seen through his exterior and
cared about him.  But a friend who had cared would have told him.  That friend
would have told him that their best friend had murdered Tony’s parents.  Steve
knew exactly how hard Tony took their deaths, how much it still hurt him to
this day, and he said nothing.  It was lying by omission.  Tony hated liars.
     It felt even worse when he saw who Steve took with him.  In the end, it
ended up being everyone.  Despite how much he tried to protect Wanda—only a
kid—and how much he’d thought he could trust Romanoff, they all left.  Only
Vision remained, haunting the Avengers compound like the ghost of
Tony’s previous failures.  Every time Tony looked at him, all he could see was
the shards of Sokovia hurtling towards the earth. 
     After the first month, it ended up being enough to drive Tony crazy.  He
started to spend half his time back at the Avengers tower, taking up his
projects in the lab.  But even there the immense guilt was crushing.  All of
the memories of the happier days echoed in the empty rooms:  Sleepy mornings
around the kitchen island, eating breakfast in companionable, domestic silence
and  group movie nights arranged like puzzle pieces in the living
room.  Sometimes Tony found himself sitting silently in his usual spot on the
couch, some film or another playing on mute.  If anyone saw him now, they would
have forced him into therapy.  It was pathetic.  He felt like a mourning ex,
wallowing pitifully.
     Tony had tried to be good about drinking after the attack on New York
all those years ago.  Pepper had done her best to straighten out his self-
destructive behaviors.  Or, at least, the ones she could control in any
capacity.  And Tony had taken to it well.  He had still enjoyed a glass of wine
with dinner, or an ounce of scotch over business, but his days at the bottom of
the bottle were behind him.  And it was wonderful.  Steve had co-conspired with
Pepper to keep an eye on him whenever she couldn’t, and the pride on Steve’s
face whenever Tony had opted for a glass of sparkling water had made Tony feel
proud too.
     But the ache of loneliness had settled into his tissue, and now there was
no one around to quell it. Tony turned back to the bottle.  It started off
innocently enough at first. A bottle of beer while he tested something.  A
Manhattan while he poured over paperwork.  It was nothing to be alarmed
about.  Tony could have easily justified it as just a casual drink.  But the
reality was that the warmth of the liquor gave his feelings a blur and made him
feel lighter than he had in weeks.
 
 
     It’s a Thursday.  Tony’s in Manhattan and the crisp September air has
signaled a month and a half since Secretary Ross’ last phone call.  A month and
a half since he last heard of any of the former Avenger’s activities.  He’s
taking a break from tinkering on Rhodey’s exoskeleton to drink a coffee (with a
shot of whiskey in it) on the tower’s penthouse balcony.  In his other hand
he’s got a Stark pad and is sifting through the news and his messages.
     There’s a new video going viral on social media of Spider-Man doing some
intricate acrobatics to stop a five man heist on an armoured car.  It’s all
very impressive and turns comedic when Peter straight up drop-kicks one of the
baddies.  Tony lets out a laugh and watches the video in it’s entirety
twice more.  He hadn’t had much of a chance to appreciate just how much of an
athlete Peter is while they were in Berlin.  He’d had his hands full with Cap
and company and any extra attention had been strictly on making sure Peter
didn’t die.  He had a moral obligation to keep the kid safe.  But now, with all
the time in the world, ninety three stories in the cloud cover of Manhattan, he
can.  The kid is as flexible as an olympic gymnast, but despite his delicate
frame, there’s an immense power in his graceful movements.  The drop-kick makes
it evident.  The man on the receiving end is launched like a projectile into
the side of a parked car which actually crumples from the force of the
impact.  The man will obviously survive, but Tony figures he’s going to have a
nasty bruise.
     After the third play-through, Tony gives Happy a call.  He’s put Happy at
arms length under the guise of giving him more responsibilities.  It’s a shitty
move on Tony’s part, but the past month and a half has been difficult enough
without the possibility of disappointing someone else.  Happy’s happy enough to
hear from him, in his own way.  His own way meaning that Tony’s immediately on
the receiving end of every single thing Happy’s neurosis could possibly mull
over since they last spoke.  Tony does his best to follow along, assuaging the
panic when he can get a word in edgewise.  He doesn’t really pay attention
until Happy mentions Peter’s name. 
     Right, he thinks.  That’s why I was calling.
     “Tony, this babysitting gig you’ve got me on—all joking aside—I think I’m
gonna need a raise.  You know how many hours of voicemail this kid leaves a
week?  Let me tell you, Tony, it’s a lot.  It’s a lot to deal with, you know,
without everything else on my plate.  And the text messages?  Tony, I really
gotta wonder if this kid has any friends, or you know, like, hobbies?  Aren’t
kids nowadays supposed to be like, fidget spinning?  And smoking
pot?  Skateboarding like the little vagrants they are?  You know, when I was
his age, I was playing football, going to parties… normal high school
stuff.  But this kid is just texting me non stop.  Not to mention he quit band
and robotics lab this week and since then it’s gotten worse!   Now I really
can’t go half an hour without the texts… it’s really-“  Tony has to cut him
off.
     “Yeah, Happy, it’s OK.  I’ll adjust your pay. I really appreciate you
keeping an eye on the kid for me.  Look, I’m gonna link up correspondence with
his number so the texts and voicemails you receive get forwarded to me.  If
that’s alright with you?  Don’t worry too much about the kid.  Just make sure
he stays out of trouble.  I’ll take care of the rest.” He says.  He doesn’t
wait for Happy’s confirmation, already rooting remotely into Happy’s
phone.  His own phone chirps from his pocket to notify him that the sync is
successful.
     “Sure thing, boss. But hey, there was something els-“  Tony cuts him off
again before he can launch into a new tirade.
     “Happy, I trust you to figure it out.  I gotta go.”  And he hangs up.
     Tony drains the last few dregs of his coffee and heads inside.  He tosses
the stark pad and empty mug onto the bar counter and makes his way over to the
elevator.  He’s dawdled long enough.  As Tony wanders into the bowels of the
lab he feels distinctly like his flow from before has been interrupted.  He
might switch out onto a new project.
     Even though the lab has been fully reconstructed since everything went
down with Ultron, Tony still sees damage in his minds eye every time he walks
in.  It’s just another source of guilt for him.  He can see the shattered
orange remnants of J.A.R.V.I.S. floating above the central console as if they
were still there.  He can see the twisted metal and jagged glass strewn across
the floor.  But worse than anything else, he can see all the late nights spent
with Bruce, hovering over a new project.  Those were some of the happiest
memories Tony has.  Bruce was the perfect lab companion.  He was emotionally
intuitive, he knew exactly when to give Tony space, or when to speak, or what
to say.  He knew when to show up with a bag of chocolate-covered blueberries,
or conveniently leave a new scientific journal with an article that would get
Tony fired up.  Bruce was the lab Yang to Tony’s lab Yin.  He’s never had that
in his life, and he’s not sure if he ever will again.
     Tony’s feeling maudlin now.  It makes him want to throw something, but
instead he heads over to one of F.R.I.D.A.Y.s holo-projected terminals.
     “F.R.I.D.A.Y., pull up a new project file.  Under the suits directory,
Spider-Man directory, new directory for v02?"
     “Of course Mr. Stark, new sub-directory created under ROOT > INDP >
5_SUITS > 027_SPI > 027_v02.  Would you like to import Mr. Parker’s standard
template?"
     “Yes please, F.R.I.D.A.Y., that’s great.  Thank you.  Could you import the
v01 file in as a clone as well?”  Tony’s already spinning the wire-frame model
around with one hand and absently tapping the holo-keyboard with his
other.  F.R.I.D.A.Y. drops a clone of the first suit into the environment
beside the new template.
     Tony likes it, he's happy with the way the suit looks, but it’s
simple.  The design is pretty modest compared to Tony’s usual style.  But it’s
intentional, it’s a clear stepping-stone for what Peter’s going to head
towards.  The kid's going to end up an Avenger one day.  He's incredibly smart
and tenacious.  He has a moral compass even more righteous than Steve's.  He
knows that Peter is going to do some amazing things, but he’s not quite there
yet.  And besides, he needs time to enjoy just being a kid.
     God, he's just sixteen years old.  It’s evident enough by the few
interactions Tony’s had with him, awkward and stilted.  Tony isn’t used to
dealing with so much uninhibited youthful zeal.  He thinks back to his own
memories at Peter’s age, fast-tracked into his second year at
MIT.  He remembers all the drinking, partying, hooking up with college age
girls and spending every waking moment otherwise occupied in the labs and
workshops.  Tony never had his own real high-school experience.  He never had
the freedom to enjoy the awkwardness of those years, too busy powered by his
desire to prove his worth to his father.  He doesn't want that for Peter.  He
doesn't want him to spend all of his energy trying to prove himself.  The last
thing he could possibly want was for such a fundamentally good kid to turn out
jaded, guilt-ridden, egomaniacal and bitter like Tony.
     No, he thinks.  He’s going to be better.  In every way.
     Tony spends the next six hours bent over his holo-table.  The programming
and engineering for a suit was vastly different from working on Rhodey’s new
legs, and it tickles a part of his brain that he’s been ignoring for a
while.  It lets him throw himself entirely into the project, and for the first
time in forever, Tony truly lets himself forget his guilt.
 
 
 
     “Tony, I think it’s time to take a break now.  You’ll need to hydrate and
move your legs”  F.R.I.D.A.Y. chimes.  Tony checks his watch.  Four pm.  He
probably should have taken a break hours ago, but it was nice to enter into a
flow state and make some good headway on the blue-prints for the new
suit.  There's no real deadline for it, but it always feels good to get a
project done and be able to upgrade it as needed, rather than sitting on
it.  He smacks ctrl+s on his console keyboard and puts the terminal into sleep
mode.  It's time for a drink, and maybe some grub.  He drags a hand down his
face.  Since it's Thursday, he should probably head back to the Avengers
compound.  If there's one thing he wants to avoid, it's weekends in
Manhattan.  It’s busy and frustrating enough to move around the city core
without the influx of Bridge and Tunnel People that mass-migrate into the city
to party over the weekends.  But Tony is feeling lazy,  and the three hour trip
upstate doesn't seem particularly appealing.
     Moving the Avengers compound upstate had been an attempt to decentralize
the danger.  Nestled in the greenery near Whitney Point, the property is
skirted by enough empty land to keep most threats (hopefully) contained.  It’s
consciously close, too, to a military R&D compound in Binghamton which Tony
hopes is a nice enough middle finger to Secretary Ross.  And finally: the
proximity to the Finger Lakes, a choice Tony had consciously made in hopes of
whisking Pepper away on romantic weekends of wine tasting.  But that doesn’t
matter anymore.  She’s left and Tony hasn’t so much as stepped foot near
them.   The only evidence they even exist is the influx of ‘ITHACA IS GORGES’
bumper stickers he sees every time he’s stuck in traffic.
     His phone chimes as he heads upstairs.  Another slew of text messages from
Peter to Happy.  They’re disjointed, full of emojis.  Tony’s able to read them
in his head in the same excitable voice he remembers from his few interactions
with Peter.  Cute, he thinks as he exits out of the texting app and pockets his
phone.
     Tony wanders into the kitchen, pours himself a glass of water and checks
the freezer for the Grey Goose he normally keeps stashed there.  He chugs a
glass of water, and then two more of the vodka after it. Neat. He turns around
to lean himself against the counter, letting the empty space yawn back at him
like a cavernous mouth.
      Tony feels his chest tighten.  He knows that feeling all too well. It’s
the edges of a panic attack pulling at him.  The anxiety has been buzzing at
the back of his head every time he steps here.  But it’s boiling over now,
maybe between the poor sleep habits and drinking.  Either way there's not much
he can do to stave it off right now.  He grips the glass in his hand till his
knuckles are white, but it doesn’t budge beneath the pressure.
     Fuck this, he thinks.  He can't bear to look at this place right now.
     He throws his glass at the wall, watches as it satisfyingly shatters into
pieces and clinks onto the floor like wind chimes.  He pulls his phone out of
his pocket. His fingers scramble for the right contact info.
     “Sheila, hey, it’s Tony.” He says.  Sheila makes an affirmative noise, so
he continues:
     "Did we still have buyers interested in the Avengers Tower?  I think I’m
ready to sell.”
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
 
     Sheila has been a God-send for Tony.  She’s cool and methodical in ways
that contrast sharply with Pepper.  It works for him now.  He needs someone who
maintains their distance from him since he had with Pepper can’t ever happen
again.  Sheila doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t push him to open up emotionally.
 She doesn’t interfere with Tony’s coping mechanisms or insist he needs some
kind of help.  Not to mention she's not even half of Tony's age.  It’s the
perfect arrangement.  He knows virtually nothing about her, and she
intentionally ignores everything she knows about him unless it’s relevant.
     She's set up meetings for him over the next week with several potential
buyers, slotted into times that she knows won’t bother Tony.  It ends up being
a great excuse to stay in the city, as well, so Tony doesn’t have to make the
mission back upstate.
     Since the Tower won’t be his anymore, he’ll need to buy a unit in the city
so he’ll have a home base, rather than booking hotels frequently.  He spends
some time in the mornings looking at real estate listings that Sheila compiled
for him.  He’s specifically asked for something a little less ostentatious than
his usual, but still something that speaks to him.  He’s received no less than
50 listings in return, a third of which are too extravagant for what he’d
asked, a third too modest, and the remaining third perfect for him.  It keeps
him levelled while he looks through them.
      He’s half-way through the listings on Wednesday morning when Rhodey
calls.
     “Hey man, you down for lunch at Le Bernardin today? I got a call from Eric
asking where you’ve been.”  He starts.  Tony hums.    
     “Sure.  I’ve gotta go look at some properties after, though."
     “I didn’t know you were in the market.” Rhodey sounds confused.
     “Oh, right, well, surprise!”  Tony deadpans.  “I’m selling the tower."
     “You’re what!? Tony, what the hell?  Where is this coming from?”  Tony
cuts him off, before the phone call can get uncomfortable.
     “Let’s talk over lunch.”  He says.  There’s a finality to it that Rhodey
can’t argue with.  “See you in an hour?"
     “Yeah, sure thing, man. I’ll text Eric.”  With that, he hangs up.  Tony
should probably shower and put something decent on.  He knows he could roll
into the restaurant in his pajamas if he really wanted to, but he figures he
shouldn’t embarrass Rhodey more than he already does.  He tosses his Stark-pad
into his briefcase and pads down the hallway.
 
 
     Le Bernardin is, as usual, packed.  Tony used to show up when he felt like
it, much to the chagrin of the hostesses, and he recognizes one of them now.
 She looks at him with a sort of panic before Rhodey speaks.  Obviously there
aren’t any extra tables.
     “Table for two for James Rhodes.” He says.  Her panic dissipates.  “Eric
should have called ahead?"
     “Yes, yes of course!”  She says.  “Amelia here will take you to your
table."
     The other hostess is a pretty young thing.  Long eyelashes and a tiny
waist.  She makes, what Tony presumes, are supposed to be bedroom eyes at him
before she leads them through the restaurant, hips sashaying.  They move slowly
through the space, so Rhodey can keep up.  Thankfully, the newest iteration of
the exoskeleton Tony’s designed is fairly quiet, little more than a hum.
 Rhodey’s taken well to it, but they’re nowhere near perfect.  He wishes they’d
gotten a table closer to the entrance, worried that his friend feels the eyes
on them. 
     There’s already a bottle of '04 Dom Perignon rosé on ice waiting at the
table, and their server is over in seconds to crack it for them.  The hostesses
gaze lingers on Tony as she leaves but he promptly ignores it.  He has enough
on his plate without even entertaining a likely underage hostess.  He turns
back to the server, who’s standing over them now.
     “Mr. Stark, Colonel Rhodes, the usual?”  He asks as he pours them each a
glass.  The bubbling off-pink champagne fizzes just barely as he pours, a soft
crackling noise audible even over the bustle of the restaurant.
     “Sure,”  Tony says.  “But can we get two dozen oysters off board before
anything else?  And I’ll take a Negroni."
     The server nods and drops the champagne back into the bucket as he leaves.
 Tony turns to Rhodey who is giving him his signature ‘Time to talk. NOW’ look.
     “You’ve had a change of heart, then, I guess?”  He asks.  Tony knows
Rhodey thinks he’s acting rashly.  He’s not wrong.
     “New year, new Avengers, new me.”  He quips.  Rhodey isn’t amused.
     “Yeah, I’m sure.  What happened, Tony?”  Trust his best friend to see
through his bullshit.
     “Rhodey, honestly, it’s not even something I talk about with my
therapist."
     “You don’t even have a therapist."
     “Exactly my point."
     “Tony,”  He all but growls.  There’s an edge of exasperation in his voice.
 “I’ve let you go on for the last two months without saying much, because I
know you need time to process stuff-"
     The moment is blessedly interrupted.  The server drops a silver platter of
oysters in front of them.  He offers them a toothy grin, clasping both hands
behind his back.
      “We’ve got an assortment of Malpeques, Moon Shoals, Kumamotos and East
Beach Blondes today along with our house red wine vinaigrette and house hot
sauce.  Enjoy"
     Tony’s digging in before the servers even walked away, hoping that he can
delay the inevitable awkward conversation by occupying his mouth and hands.
 He’s knocking back oysters like he’s railing tequila shots at a frat party.
 Rhodey watches him with scrutiny for a moment before grabbing his own oyster.
 It’s almost creepy, the way he doesn’t take his eyes off Tony even as he tips
the oyster shell back.  Tony pretends not to notice him.  The server comes back
with Tony’s Negroni and Tony doesn’t even let him drop it on the table, just
grabbing it straight from his hand to take a sip.  He knows he’s being
embarrassing, but it’s the only way Tony knows to avoid an actual panic.
 Sensory overload.
     The oysters end way too soon, and the server comes to clear the table.  He
gently asks how they were and Rhodey responds with a dismissive ‘Great,
thanks.’, signalling they’d like to be left alone as much as possible.  Tony
takes another big gulp of his cocktail and washes it down with his champagne.
     “You are the shittiest person when it comes to avoiding things.” Rhodey
gripes. “You also look completely unhinged right now."
     “If anyone expects anything more of me right now then I don’t know what to
tell them.”  Tony responds.  He really doesn’t want to be doing this, so he's
absolutely going to exercise his right to act like a baby about it.  At least
doing this in public mitigates how extreme his responses can be.  To a degree.
     “That’s not the point, Tony.”  Rhodey says.  “You were really adamant
there about not selling Avengers Tower.  You’ve been sitting on that property
for years avoiding parting with it.  I want to know why exactly you’re deciding
to do it now and, more importantly,  if I need to be worried about you."
     Tony chews absently on the inside of his cheek as he swirls his rocks
glass.  He’s focused on the way the giant round ice cube and the single twist
of orange peel clatter around in the glass.  Rhodey deserves more than an
emotionally constipated wreck of a best friend and he wishes more than anything
he was better at talking about his feelings.  But the apple doesn’t fall to far
from the tree.  Another thing he can blame daddy for.  While Tony mentally
berates himself, Rhodey is quiet.  He knows when to push and when to back off.
 He can play Tony like a fiddle.
     The server comes by again with their first course, fluke for Tony and tuna
for Rhodey.  They’ve been here enough that their favourites are on file.  Tony
wonders if Eric is on site today.  He pushes the food around on his plate while
Rhodey eats.  There’s something simultaneously satisfying and horrible about
aimlessly destroying the deliberate plating.  Guilt, guilt, guilt. Tony thinks.
There was a time when I didn’t give a shit.
     “I think-“ Tony starts.  Rhodey pauses with his fork halfway up to his
mouth.  “I think selling the tower is going to make it so you don’t have to be
worried about me."
     “So I’m guessing you’re over the ‘denial and anger’ stage now and you’ve
moved onto ‘acceptance’?"
     “Yeah,” Tony says.  He takes the first bite of his fish.  Rhodey is
already done his.  “I think so."
     Rhodey lets Tony finish his plate in peace.  The server comes around to
clear again, feels the tension in the air, and doesn’t bother speaking.  He
swings by again a few moments later to top up their champagne again and reset
the cutlery before leaving.  Rhodey grabs his champagne glass and holds it up.
     “Well, cheers to that.”  He says.  “But you’d better be getting a three
bedroom for your new place.  I need a place to crash in the city, and I’m sick
of hotels."
     Tony laughs and lifts his glass to clink it against Rhodeys.  “I think I
can arrange that.  Might knock a few contenders off my list, though."
     “Well, show me what you’ve got."
     Tony is thankful for the four top they’re sitting at.  It’s tucked away in
one of the farther corners of the restaurant and gives him enough space to whip
out his Stark-pad and set it up without it taking up half the table space.  He
swipes through a few of the listings, and they banter lightly over the merits
of an Upper-East-Side unit over a Midtown one.  Their second course comes, and
they eat while they chatter.  It’s good, the least tense Tony’s felt in a
social situation in a while.   It feels a lot more like ‘before’.  He finds
himself busy just thinking about the simplicity of apartment hunting instead of
anything else.  After their third course comes and goes, and they’ve polished
off their champagne, Eric swings by.  He hovers by the table at first, hand
resting gently on the back of the empty chair to Tony’s left, but Rhodey
motions for him to sit down.  They catch up for a bit,  Eric talking about
taking some time off to explore northern Japan.  He orders them a bottle of
red, and some dessert, even though they don’t technically serve it at lunch.
 After it’s all said and done, he departs, shaking hands with them both and
threatening Tony (as much as can be threatening with such a thick French
accent) to come back sooner rather than later. 
     Tony waves the server over for the bill and leaves a fat 40% tip when he
sees how much of their consumption wasn’t even included in the bill.  He always
has to wonder why he gets so much free shit when he’s one of the people who can
most easily afford to pay for all of it.  At the thought, the image of Peter
coming home with a banged-up curbside dvd player in hand enters his mind.
 There are people out there dumpster-diving for their hobbies and he’s getting
four hundred dollar bottles of champagne for free.
     They both stand, and Tony, not quite ready for it to end, blurts out “Hey,
want to go look at some of these listings with me?”.
     Rhodey laughs, and gives an affirmative.  Tony calls Sheila outside
the restaurant and has her set up a few viewings.  She calls back when they’re
both in the Bugatti, forwards the listings with agents who got back to her and
they head out.
     It’s a long process, and they tap out after five showings (although Tony
ixnayed one about two seconds in when he realized they didn’t have an
elevator.)
      “Yeah, we’re a packaged deal, this isn’t gonna fly.”  He’d said, pointing
back at Rhodey.  The agent had looked at him with mild horror and Rhodey had
just let out a booming laugh.
 
 
     By the time Tony drops Rhodey off at his hotel and makes it back to the
tower, he’s honest-to-God tired.  He bypasses everything and throws himself on
his bed.  F.R.I.D.A.Y. chimes in above him, lets him know what pertinent
information he’s missed, that Happy stopped by earlier, the market movements of
Stark industries as well as his personal stock portfolio.  He listens quietly
and comfortably, laying on his belly with his arms up beneath a pillow.
     “Also eight text messages and one voicemail from Peter Parker forwarded
via Harold Hogan’s phone sync” She says.  Tony perks up.
     “Read me the texts and play the voicemail?”  He asks.
     “Text message one: eight fifteen am.  Hey Happy, dunno what the plan is
but, like usual, I’m off school at two forty five!  Let me know what’s up!"
     “Text message two:  twelve twenty seven am.  I mean, if there’s like a
mission, you know where to pick me up right?"
     “Text message three:  twelve twenty seven am. This is Peter.  Peter
Parker.  You know… in case you got a new phone or something."
     “Text message four:  twelve twenty eight am.  And, in case you don’t know
where… it’s Midtown Highschool, in Queens.  I know you’re really busy and have
a lot on your plate.  I bet Mr. Stark keeps you really busy."
     Tony laughs at this.  He probably only keeps Happy about 50% as busy as
Happy keeps himself.
     “Text message five: two thirty two pm.  I mean if the mission is later
too, we can always meet up somewhere esle."
     “Text message six: two thirty two pm.  **else."
     “Text message seven: two thirty two pm.  Sorry.  Autocorrect didn’t catch
that one."
     “Text message eight: three pm.  Guess there’s no mission tonight.  I’ll
just stick to the beat and give you a status report after I guess. Emoji:
BICEP"
     “Voicemail: eleven forty five pm.  Hey Happy.  Quiet night, guess there’s
not that much to report.  Stuck around the boroughs today.  Caught some petty
thieves though which was cool and got a lady her wallet back!  I left them
webbed up to a lamp post and one of the cops even flashed me a thumbs up!
 Usually they act pretty mad when they see me so that was a nice change.  I saw
a car that looked like yours, too.  I thought it might have been you but you
didn’t pick up when I called so I figured it wasn’t.  I think i’ve come up with
a good new formula for my web fluid so I’m gonna try it out tomorrow.  Wish me
luck.  And you know, if there’s another mission or the Avengers or, even just
Mr. Stark need my help, well, you know where to find me.”  Peter’s voice trails
off at the end.  It’s a little sad.  Tony feels bad for leading the kid on but
it’s best for him to focus on things that keep him safe.  He doesn’t need any
of this superhero nonsense yet.  If he stays local he’s less likely to get
hurt.  And Tony is less likely to get murdered by his aunt.  Less likely to
feel more guilt than he already does.
     “End of messages”  F.R.I.D.A.Y. says.  “Would you like to clear the
cache?"
     “No.”  Tony says.  “Play the voicemail again."
     So she does.  Three times more.  Tony falls asleep halfway between guilt
and pride, the voice of his protégé lulling him into unconsciousness.
Chapter End Notes
     From here on out I'll do my best to update weekly.
     I haven't written in a really long time so feedback is very much
     appreciated.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
     Fall settles into the city.  A few weeks of intermittent property shopping
and pouring over offers has kept Tony’s mind busy enough that he’s in a pretty
good head-space.  He finalizes a deal to sell the tower to Oscorp after several
meetings and a heated bidding war.  It’s out of character for Tony to just
give something to a direct competitor, but he’s tired and just wants the thing
out of his hands.  There’s a transfer of ownership date near the end of the
month and the finality of the decision feels like a weight off his shoulders.
 The penthouse has already been mostly packed, ready to spring the second he
manages to find a new spot.  He’s given Happy the responsibility for the rest
of the Tower.  It’s something that he’d responded to with eager enthusiasm that
lasted a whole thirty seconds (a new record?) before he’d launched into his
usual panic and rushed off to make a hundred phone-calls.
     He keeps getting updates of Peter’s exploits to his phone, and makes it
almost a ritual to listen to F.R.I.D.A.Y. play them for him before bed, or when
he’s working in the lab.  Somehow, despite seemingly screaming into the void,
Peter is never any less chipper.  He’s always optimistic and excited, and so,
so hopeful.  Part of him feels like maybe he should give Peter a call, but he
always talks himself out of it.  There’s nothing good that could come from it.
  Let the kid be, becomes a mantra for Tony.  Let him stay safe.
     It’s a balmy Monday morning.  Rhodey is away so Tony is left to go to some
more viewings alone.  Sheila tosses him a SoHo address when he gets into his
car.  Tony’s never really been one for low living, so he’s hesitant, but he’s
also curious because he knows Sheila knows his taste, so he drives further into
Manhattan.  The address takes him onto one of the cobblestone streets
characteristic of SoHo, and he stops in front of a seven story, bone white
building capped with a glass cube.  Tony loves big windows, enough that he
might forgive them only being eight stories up. 
     The agent is waiting outside the building.  She has a manila folder
clutched in her hands and looks like she’s already had some trouble navigating
the crooked streets in her ill-fitting Louboutins.  She perks up with a smile
when he offers her hand when Tony approaches.
     “Camilla” she says.  Her grip is firm.  Tony smiles back.
     “Tony,” he says.  “But you already know that from the appointment.”  She
laughs as she ushers him inside the huge doors and wastes no time launching
into her pitch.
     “A lot of the buildings in this neighborhood weren’t retrofitted with
elevators but the modern glass addition to the penthouse had a communal
elevator and a private one installed into this building when it came under new
ownership in 2008.” She says.  The entire entry-way has clearly undergone a
vast renovation, the vaulted ceilings a bright white and the floor a perfectly
reflective bleached marble.  Tony can see himself in it.  Swanky.
     They head through the lobby to the bronze-plated private elevator.  She
fills him in on some of the amenities of the neighborhood, boasting that this
particular street doesn’t have any late night bars or restaurants and thusly,
stays fairly quiet in the evenings.  When they load onto the elevator, there’s
a single unmarked panel to which she presses a FOB, and it whirs upwards. The
doors open to the pent, and Tony knows that this is the place.  The entire far
wall is floor to ceiling glass, and at eight stories it looks over most of the
buildings in the neighborhood. The floors are a burnt color of poured concrete,
and a beautiful fire pit plays centerpiece to a sunken living room.  The
kitchen takes up most of the right side of the space, seductive and
finished with dark concrete, reclaimed wood and copper adornments.  She takes
him through each of the three bedrooms, two upstairs and a third on the
original level below, which features enough space for Tony to even build in a
new, smaller lab.  There’s even an exclusive rooftop-access that leads him to a
low-slung outdoor living set built into the addition.
     They’re both standing outside, looking out over the rooftops.  It’s not
ninety three stories up, but Tony figures should really try living a little
more modestly.  This place will do. 
     “Yeah, I think this is the one.”  He says.  “I’ll go in a half mill over
asking.  How soon can this be ready for move in?"
     The agent nearly drops her manila folder.  She scrambles to make sure none
of the sheets fly out.
     “Oh!  Um!  I’d imagine rather promptly!  The owners moved to Dubai and the
current furniture is just staging, so I’d think once the offer is accepted it’d
be a day or two before it’s move in ready?"
     “Perfect.”  Tony says.  “Forward Sheila the paperwork.”  He passes her a
card.  “Call me directly with any updates."
     He doesn’t expect her to call.  Tony knows he’s intimidating.
     Back in the car, Tony calls Rhodey.  It takes five rings for him to pick
up.
     “Hey buddy!”  He sing-songs. “Guess wha-at!”
     Rhodey sounds busy when he replies.  “You find a place?"
     “Did I ever!” Tony says.
     “Did you end up going Upper East Side like I was telling you?"
     “No. I kind of went off board, actually."
     “Please tell me you didn’t get a place in Brooklyn, Tony.  Williamsburg is
out."
     “No, Rhodey.  SoHo, beautiful new space.  It’s two floors but two of the
bedrooms are upstairs so one of those will be defacto yours whenever you need
it.  I’ll keep my own bullshit on the lower floor. And, get this: private
elevator!"
     “SoHo?  That is pretty off board for you."
     “Yep.  New year, new Avengers, new me.”  He says.  “Anyway, you sound
busy, I’ll let you go."
     “Yeah, let’s connect later this week. Bye, Tony."
     He gets about two minutes of silence before the phone rings.  F.R.I.D.A.Y.
chirps in.
     “Sheila” she says. “Would you like to take it?"
     Tony sighs. “It’s probably important, sure."
     Sheila wastes no time with pleasantries.  It’s something Tony is pretty
thankful for.  She’s always able to cut to the chase of things and never sugar-
coats them.  It reminds him of Pepper in some ways, but Sheila is cut-throat in
ways Pepper never was.  So of course she launches straight into it.
     “Bad news, Tony.  You need to be on a plane to Mumbai Friday morning, the
Singh wedding is this weekend."
     “You’re right.” He bites down on his cheek.  "That is bad news, Sheila."
     “Yeah, well I told you about it three months ago and you told me to tell
you the week of, so here we are."
     “Remind me to punch three-months-ago Tony as hard in the face as I fucking
can."  Tony groans.  "Can’t I skip? Send them a really nice gift from me.  I
trust your taste."
     “Tony, normally, I’d say sure.”  She pauses.  Uh-oh.  Sheila never pauses.
 “But Anika Singh sits on the UN subcommittee that oversees The Accords now and
it would be in your best interest to attend her daughter’s wedding.  Especially
after what happened with her husband and, you know, S.H.I.E.L.D."
     Tony tilts his head back against his headrest.  He has no desire to go to
India right now, but he also needs to play as nice with the UN subcommittee as
possible.  He wants to re-open negotiations on the accords really, really,
badly.
     “Alright, set up my flight.  Might as well get this over with.  Did the
real estate agent forward you all the documents about the SoHo pent?"
     “Yep, all in, I’m on it right now.  Call if you need anything.”  She says,
and without anything else, hangs up. 
 
 
 
     The rest of the week is uneventful.  He gets a lot of stressed out phone
calls from Happy which he puts on speaker and hums along with while he works on
the version 2 suit.  He’s set up F.R.I.D.A.Y. to ping him any time a new
Spider-Man video goes viral, on Thursday evening, two of them ping.  The first
is a few days old, but only getting viral now.  The second is news coverage.
 He figures chronological order would make the most sense.
     “Play them for me, F.R.I.D.A.Y.  In order.”  He says.
     She pulls up a window in his work-space with the video.  There’s a hold up
at a restaurant, and Spider-Man doesn’t even show up until the two minute mark.
 It’s petty burglary at it’s best, but all three of the men have guns and there
are plenty of civilians out for dinner on a Thursday evening.  One of the
diners is under a table trying to tape the whole thing as stealthily
as possible.  At one point it looks as if one of the gunmen has noticed the
phone camera, and he raises his gun towards it and yells a “HEY!”, but before
he can get any further the gun is thrown out of his hands by a web.  The camera
spins around shakily to the front of the restaurant where Spider-Man is looking
almost too casual, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed.
     “You know,”  Peter says, statue-still.  “You’re supposed to leave your
server a tip, not take it."
     The second gun-man, the one not focused on emptying the till, moves to
shoot at Spider-Man, but Peter is too fast, he’s on the ceiling when the first
shot goes off into the glass door.  Another web dispatches the second gun, but
the first man is moving towards him with a knife.  From there, it’s not much
work for Peter.  He moves with all the elegance of a dancer, dodging away from
slashes and punches before delivering his own.  In the end, all three of them
are webbed to the counter, and Peter is asking for someone to call 9-1-1.  He’s
speaking with an affectation on his voice, trying to make it sound lower than
it really is.  Tony’s heard it enough to know when it’s fake.
     Then the second plays.  It’s a segment of the evening news that Tony
probably only missed by fifteen or so minutes.  There’s no actual footage of
the event, so Tony can only guess what happened, but there’s something
extremely fishy about it.  They talk about the destruction of a Queens bodega
from an ATM robbery.  An unflattering photo of Peter emerging from a Porta-
Potty flashes up on the screen and Tony flings himself over the console to hit
the screen-capture keys.  That photo is so going into his private stash.  Then
there’s on site footage of the bodega and the bank, both sliced clean through
with some kind of laser tech?  Tony’s not sure what it is, but it’s not the
usual work of petty thieves.  He flags the video and then has F.R.I.D.A.Y. pull
up the restaurant heist one again.
     He lets the video loop a few times as he gets back to work.  He’d put
some rigid carbon fiber components onto the suit to fortify it, but now Tony is
pulling them off the blueprint to scrap them.  There can’t be any stiffness on
the suit.  It won’t work with Peter’s fighting style, so he has to go back to
the drawing board.  He pulls up a list of his flexible armor textiles and
starts scrolling through them looking for what would be most appropriate.  He
ends up cloning the current suit and trying five different ones.  By the time
F.R.I.D.A.Y. alerts him to the days forwarded messages from Peter, his eyes are
bloodshot and he’s ready for bed.
     “Would you like me to play them Mr. Stark?"
     “Nah, F.R.I.D.A.Y., keep them saved on the database.”  He says.  He drags
himself up to his room, realizing he’s forgotten to pack.  His flight leaves at
five am tomorrow and he still has to swing by Sheila’s to drop off some of the
finalizing paperwork for the Tower sale.  He’d normally courier it but it’s
only a slight detour from the way to the airport and the papers are important
enough that he’d be more comfortable dropping them off himself.  Tony starts
tossing things haphazardly into his weekend suitcase.  He keeps it casual, and
tries to keep the weather in mind.  He’s about halfway done when he realizes he
doesn’t have anything to wear to what he presumes is going to be a traditional
Indian wedding. Tony’s about to dive on the bed for his phone to make a
panicked midnight phone call when F.R.I.D.A.Y. gently reminds him that there’s
a package for him on the coffee table in the living room that he forgot to open
and maybe he should check that before he freaks out.  So Tony does.  He wanders
into the living room and spots it, sitting there nondescriptly.
     He opens it, and inside is a cream white Kurta in his size.  The only
other thing is a small, square white card inside that says ‘Relax’ and some
sort of emoji that he doesn’t understand the meaning of.  Tony rolls his eyes
and takes the Kurta with him to pack. Millennials.
 
 
 
     Tony lands in Mumbai the next day after a really annoying flight.
 Normally he’d fly on his own plane, but it’s in for much-needed maintenance so
Tony has to fly charter.  They stop in Amsterdam to refuel and end up having to
wait on a backup pilot because one of them gets aggressive food poisoning.
 Even listening to Peter’s voicemail from last night doesn’t do anything to fix
his mood.  All in all, Tony’s pretty unhappy by the time he pulls up to his
hotel.  It’s eight am Saturday local time, so Tony only has a an hour to crash
before he has to attend the ceremony (which, thank god, includes a cocktail
reception).  He doesn’t even bother changing from his flight clothes, just sets
an alarm and crawls under the covers.
     The wedding is an early one, and despite Tony not really wanting to be
there, quite lovely.  After the ceremony he stealthily consumes several
cocktails in succession before making some rounds.  He spends some time with
Anika in particular, tries to keep it casual and light.  If she senses his
ulterior motives, she doesn’t say anything.  She thanks him for coming and for
his repeated condolences for her husband.
     Tony thinks he’s lingered long enough when his phone emits a klaxon howl.
 He pulls it out of a pocket in his top as quickly as possible, nearly dropping
the blaring thing, and turns the volume down to a whisper.  But then he panics,
 it’s the alarm for Peter’s vitals, his oxygen levels are low. In record time,
he’s on the phone, rattling off instructions to F.R.I.D.A.Y. and dispatching
his suit to Peter’s tracker location.  His hands are sweating enough that he
nearly drops his glass, so he sets it down on an empty table and waits.  It’s
only a matter of seconds before the suit scoops Peter out of the East River,
but to Tony it feels like hours.  The blaring vitals calm down, and the fear
Tony was feeling bleeds into anger.  What the hell Parker?!
     The suit drops Peter on a jungle gym on the shore, and Tony turns on a
video feed from his end.
     “Wanna tell me what the hell just happened there, Spider-Man?” He asks.
 He tries to keep his voice level, to keep from lashing out at Peter.  Tony
hasn’t felt this angry in a long time.  Enough so that he only half
pays attention to Peter’s rambling.  He catches the part with the alien
weapons, but he misses most of the details, too busy fuming.  Why is he so
angry?  Is it the guilt again?  He takes in a deep breath through his nose,
holds it for a few seconds, before exhaling.  Pepper taught him to breathe a
certain way when he got panic attacks, but it should work when he’s pissed off,
too.  Peter on his video feed is shaking, soaking wet in the crisp autumn air,
but he’s hardly paying attention to it.  Too busy talking and gesticulating
with his hands.
     “… and then he just, he just like swooped down!  Like a monster!  He
picked me up and, and he uh, like took me up like a thousand feet and then he
just dropped me!”  He barely pauses to take a breath. "How’d you find me, did
you put a tracker in my suit or something?”
     “Uh, I put everything in your suit.”  Tony pulls up the remote control
panel for Peter’s suit and presses a button.  "Including this heater.” 
     “Woah!”  The suit lets off a huff of steam, which Peter jumps at.  But he
relaxes when he feels the heat wash over him.  "Woooh, that’s better. Thanks!”
 He says, too cheerful, as if he hadn’t almost just died.  That pisses Tony off
all over again.
     “What were you thinking?”  Keep calm, he thinks.  Don’t yell.  But Peter
is indignant in the way that teenagers often are.
     “The guy with the wings is obviously the source of the weapons!  I gotta
take him down!”  He says this with a confidence and finality that makes it seem
like Peter is invincible.  He’s very much not.  Tony has to remind him of this.
 Firmly.
     “Take him down, now, huh?”  He snarks.  "Steady, Crocket, there are people
who handle this sort of thing.”
     Peter’s back straightens: “The Avengers?"
      Tony is waving his hand already.  This kid is way too naive.  “No, no,
no, this is a little below their pay grade.”  He starts, but Peter is already
cutting him off.
     “Anyway, Mr. Stark, you didn’t have to come all the way out here.  I-I had
that. I was, I was fine”  He’s trying to play it cool, his confidence suddenly
deflating. 
     “Oh, I’m not…”  Tony hits another button on his phone, the faceplate of
the suit pops open. “…here.  Thank god this place has Wi-Fi or you would be
toast right now.”  It’s a bold-faced lie.  After everything he’s been through,
Tony would never go anywhere without a sat phone.  But Peter doesn’t have to
know that.  Let him think the peril was imminent  A server comes by with
another cocktail which he takes handily.  He murmurs a thank you and turns back
to the call.
     “Look, forget the flying vulture guy please.”  And Tony thinks that’ll be
enough.
     Of course it’s not.  Peter is suddenly bristling, yelling a petulant
 “Why!?”.
     It’s like flicking a match in a room full of gas, Tony suddenly sees red.
 “Because I SAID SO!”  He yells, entirely too loud.  Several people turn to
look at him and the woman placing a flower garland over his neck startles.
 Guilt, guilt, guilt.
     “Sorry”  He says, bowing his head apologetically.  “I’m talking to a
teenager.”  She nods but Tony isn’t entirely sure she understood what he said.
 He’s had about enough of this wedding now, and calls for the valet to bring
his rental over.  He posts up next to a gate and takes a sip of his drink
before he continues.
     “Look, stay close to the ground.  Build up your game helping the little
people, like that lady that bought you the churro.”  He pauses.  Why do you
have to bring up the voicemails.  “Can’t you just be a friendly neighborhood
Spider-Man?”  he begs.
     Peter is still steadfast on the other side of the line.  Tony can see it
in the way his whole body pitches forward as he speaks, fists raised slightly.
     “But I’m ready for more than that now.”  He yells.  His eyes are so wide,
his hair is still dripping into his face.  He looks so young, so naive.  Not
even close.
     Tony wants this conversation to end, badly.  “No, you’re not”  he grinds
out.
     “That’s not what you thought when you wanted me to take on Captain
America!”  Tony has to put his glass down.  The valet is pulling up.  He tries
to end it as diplomatically as possible.
     “Trust me kid, if Cap wanted to lay you out, he would’ve.  Listen to me,
if you come across these weapons again call Happy.”  He says sternly, as he
gets into the car and starts the engine.  He just wants to go lie face down in
his hotel bed for the next twelve hours. The car revs as he drags his foot
gently across the pedal, a cue that the conversation is over.  Peter doesn’t
get the hint.
     “Are you driving?”  He asks incredulously.  Tony ignores him.
     “Look, you know, it’s never too early to start thinking about college.”
 He hits the gas.  “I've got some pull at MIT.”  And then he’s telling
F.R.I.D.A.Y. to “end call” and tearing down the road back to his hotel.
     The weekend has been an emotional trial and it’s not even Sunday yet.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Haha suckers, bet you thought I was gonna make you wait a week! As if
     i have the self control to sit on something that long!
     Also I really love that Crockett quip, because beyond the obvious
     it's totally also a weapons manufacturer joke referencing one of the
     smallest nuclear projectile devices ever. GG Homecoming writers.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Summary
     Thanks for all the super kind words so far. Ya'll are making my heart
     sing. Sorry this chapter is so short, shouldn't be as bad down the
     line :)
 
     On the flight back, Tony does something he’s never done before.
     He brings up the baby monitor protocol from Peter’s suit and pulls up the
video from the night before.  He doesn’t remember what time Peter’s emergency
even pinged at, so he scrubs the timeline for an approximation.  He thinks he’s
pulled it back too far, though, because Peter appears standing on the roof of a
very expensive looking ultra-modern mansion that has a high school house party
going on below him.
     There you go, Happy, he’s got time to be a teenager too. Tony thinks, he’s
about to scrub forward when there’s a distant booming sound and the view swings
wildly to the source of the sound.  The camera is a bit grainy in the low-
light, but there’s a glowing blue cloud billowing out in the distance and
Peter’s taking off in that direction.  Tony pulls the pin along the timeline
some more, his chin resting in his free hand.  When he gets to the deal he
watches everything through Peter’s eyes.  There’s a few seconds where Tony gets
to clearly see the weapons in action.  That’s definitely powered by Chitauri
and sub-Ultron salvage.  He tells Friday to flag any heists on alien salvage
caravans and keeps watching.
     He hears Peter’s voice, speaking to himself softly.  “Ohhh, this must be
where the ATM robbers got their stuff.”  More distantly, one of the sellers,
half inside of the back of his van:
     “We’ve got anti-grab climbers-“  Suddenly a piercing, tinny yodeling pours
into the speakers.  Tony turns down his volume down.  It must be Peter’s
cellphone.  The seller half in the van comes out, looks to his partner, then at
the buyer.
     “Okay, what the hell was that?”   The other, bigger sellers gun is in the
buyer’s face in a heartbeat.  “You set us up?”  He’s asking, advancing on him.
 The buyer sticks his hands up, presses his back against the van door.  Tony
watches through Peter’s eyes as he drops down to the floor without hesitation,
throws raising his arms as if signalling that he’s coming in peace.
     “Hey, come on!”  Peter’s saying, his voice raising an octave as he does
so.  “You need something to shoot at, shoot at me!”  He’s scared.  Nervous.
 His superhero bravado from the ATM robbery is gone.  Peter’s just a kid.  A
scared kid.  Don’t do that, you dumbass, Tony thinks.  The suit’s not
bulletproof. 
     There’s a moments pause.  The buyer’s eyes flick quickly, and gratefully,
towards Peter, just as the big guy turns to him with a casual “Aight!”.  Tony
watches, almost in slow motion, as the guns barrel tracks toward Peter.
 There’s a spike in his heart rate,  and in Tony’s own.  Peter deals with petty
thugs, not hardened, experienced criminals.  He’s out of his element here,  but
despite how scared he is, he’s steadfast.  Tony’s heart bleeds.  There is
a selflessness inside of Peter that is so much bigger than he is, that extends
far outside the boundaries of what could ever be expected of a normal teenager.
 Tony has never been a fraction as selfless in his comparably long life.  He
feels his chest tighten.
     Tony watches the rest of the events with rapt attention.  Peter manages to
web the big guys pistol before a shot can go off, then he’s running towards
them.  What Peter didn’t count on, however, was the arsenal of miscellaneous
alien weaponry in the back of the van—despite it having being discussed just
seconds earlier.  The bearded guy pulls some kind of charged fist out of the
van before sending Peter flying into a concrete column.  Peter groans from his
position face down on the ground, hears the sound of the van as it accelerates
away from them.  “What was that?” he quietly asks himself, echoing
Tony’s thoughts.  The footage blurs as Peter shakes his head.  Then he’s
webbing himself to the back of the van in an attempt to keep them from getting
away.  It’s hard to tell what goes on for most of the rest of the footage, and
Tony makes note to improve the camera quality in the next suit.  There’s
too much blur.  Peter goes smashing into something on the side of the road,
hard.  Tony thinks he hears the sound of bricks clattering.  Peter stumbles to
his feet and tries to web onto the van again, but the door comes flying off.
     “Great!’  He yells.  He throws his hands up in the air in exasperation.
 “Guess I’m taking a shortcut."
     Then Peter is off, like some kind of parkour stunt video.  He’s clearing a
six foot fence and sliding over the roof of a car with ease.  Tony has no idea
how he’s able to look so casual when he’s doubtlessly black and blue from the
numerous collisions he just experienced.  Tony needs to look into Peter’s
healing, see if it’s accelerated.  He’ll call Peter to the compound for a
physical once everything’s been moved in and set up.
    When Peter runs into a yard, a dog is runs up to him and Tony almost laughs
at he visibly hesitates.  His voice gets sickly sweet as he partially squats.
 Kid's a dog person.  “Hey! Hey buddy!”  Peter says, slinging a web to pick up
a ball on the lawn as the dog jumps up at him.  “Sorry, no time to play! Here,
go fetch!”  He tosses the ball and the dog bounds off after it.  Peter takes
the opportunity to web out of the yard and down the street.  His coordination
deteriorates as the video plays on.  The fatigue is clearly setting in and
Peter leaves a path of petty destruction as he cuts through several yards.
 He’s so close to catching up with the van now, moving across roof tops to
intercept its path.  Tony can hear his labored breathing, the quips he makes
despite the exhaustion.  He steps onto the edge of a roof.
      “Gotcha”  He pants.  “Right where I want you!”  He jumps, but before he
can land on the van there’s a metallic screeching sound.   Suddenly the ground
is peeling away from him at an alarming rate.  Peter screams as he dangles, the
view looking at the suburbs below him.  He turns his head up to where his leg
is caught in a vice grip and scrabbles at it helplessly.
     “What the hell!”  He yells.  The winged man snaps his head downwards, face
obscured by a mask but eyes glowing bright green.  The lighting is too dark to
see much else, and Tony also makes note to upgrade the camera’s night
vision capabilities.
     Peter’s panicking in earnest now.  The camera thrashes and he makes small,
choked off sounds.  He keeps trying to loosen his leg, and each time his vision
sweeps back over the ground he sucks down a deep breath.  He must be six, maybe
seven hundred feet in the air now, the city lights below him tiny pin points.
 At this altitude and speed, the suit automatically deploys a parachute and the
force of resistance is enough to pull Peter free from the bird man’s grip.
 Unfortunately it also sends him back down into the parachute, where he becomes
hopelessly tangled.  He can’t see anything, just the play of lights through
the translucence of the chute as he plummets towards the earth.  Peter is
making hysterical noises, not even formulating words.  They’re cut off gasps as
he struggles with the fabric.  There’s a jarring moment where everything is
black and the sound over the speakers blows out like a hurricane pressurizing,
ripping the windows off a building.  And then Peter is underwater, still
struggling.  The same scared noises coming out of his mouth, this time muted
and accompanied by a flurry of bubbles.  Tony shuts the laptop screen all too
violently.
     He cannot—will not—watch Peter almost drown.  He feels sick, puts a hand
over his mouth and leans over to look out the window.  After a few minutes,
when the churning in his stomach has settled, he gets up to pour himself a gin
and tonic.
     He spends the rest of the plane ride making some phone calls and pouring
over the accords.  An hour outside of New York Sheila calls him to tell him the
penthouse owners accepted the offer and Tony can move his stuff in three days.
 Rhodey’s hanging out in the back of the car that picks him up at the airport.
 Tony’s happy to see him.  They shoot the breeze the entire way upstate and
Tony forgets the feeling of bile rising in the back of his throat.  He forgets
the over-protectiveness that he’d felt watching Peter almost die.
     When they make it to the compound, he beelines straight for his room,
flops face down on his bed, and sleeps through the night.
 
 
 
     Tony wakes up in the morning feeling refreshed.  F.R.I.D.A.Y. greets him
by alerting him of the multiple missed phone calls and flagged heists he should
be going over.  He tells her to hold off on everything for a half hour while he
finds himself a coffee and wanders into his lab.  Rhodey’s already gone, out
for the week for a minor surgery and some military consultations, so Tony’s
basically got the compound to himself.  Especially now that Vision's giving
Tony plenty of space.
     Tony takes a seat at one of the lab terminals and puts his coffee on the
side. He logs in and lets the blue display pop up over the console.
     “F.R.I.D.A.Y. can you pull up a map of these heists for me?  And let’s
forward them to the FBI.”  He says.
     F.R.I.D.A.Y. populates the console with a map of the northern sea-board
and drops pins on all of the heist locations.  It seems they mostly stick to
New York and Jersey, but there’s been some movement in the DMV area, and up
towards Boston as well.  It looks like they’ve been operating for a long enough
time, too, almost eight years.  Tony’s kind of surprised that the FBI hasn’t
pushed harder on this.  You’d think a steady stream of illegally obtained alien
weaponry would be more of an issue. He throws the info into a tab that he pulls
to the side of the work-space and opens up Rhodey’s exoskeleton file.  Might as
well get some work done.
     At the end of the week, he gets a phone call from Happy telling him Peter
is going out of town.  “Some kind of spelling bee or nerd thing”  Happy tells
him.  “Should be fine.”.  Tony thanks him for the call and asks him how moving
the Penthouse went.  Big mistake.  In the time Happy takes to vent off all of
his frustrations, Tony manages to complete a new iteration of Rhodey’s
exoskeleton.  It means he’ll get to call Rhodey over for testing and tweaking
in the next few days.  Good.
 
 
 
     Sunday afternoon F.R.I.D.A.Y. pings him.  A new Spider-Man video is going
viral.
     God dammit, Peter, you’re supposed to be at an Academic Decathlon.
     Tony’s panic dissipates a bit when he watches it.   Peter’s just saving
his own Decathlon team from potentially crashing in an elevator.  It’s heroic
and heartwarming.  There are interviews with the students he saved afterwards
and their excitement is palpable. Tony resolves to call Peter.  He’s put enough
space between them that Peter deserves to know when he’s done good work.
 Saving an academic decathlon team from sure death in a freak accident is the
kind of safe, friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man task that Tony had hoped Peter
would stick to.  He’ll call when Peter is back in New York, let him think Tony
didn’t even see it.  The delay will make the praise even more sweet.
     That night he lays in bed and tries not to give into the temptation of
watching the baby monitor recording from the events at the Washington Monument.
 Instead he ends up watching a few different YouTube clips of it, some from the
ground and others from inside.  It feels less invasive that way.  But watching
more videos is unhelpful, especially late at night.  Tony ends up lying awake
in bed feeling anxious.  More guilt.  Peter should have been enjoying his
school trip to D.C.  Most normal kids just get to go on dates, do soft drugs,
and fumble around in hotel rooms on class trips.  Peter might not ever know
that, might miss it all.  Hell, if his metabolism is even half of Steve’s he
may not even ever get to experience being drunk.  Now that he has abilities, he
also has a sense of duty that will override every other want or desire he will
ever feel.  Tony thinks back to the first time they met, in Peter’s cramped
bedroom before Berlin.  ‘When you can do the things I can, and you don’t, and
then bad things happen, they happen because of you.” he remembers Peter saying.
His gaze was so soft and honest, it was the first time that Peter hadn’t been
putting on some sort of front.  Tony’s heart cramped when he heard it, and it
cramps again when he thinks of it now.  It sounds so much like something Steve
would say.  Peter is so good.  He feels a wave of protectiveness wash over him,
a burning heat that permeates every pore.  And beyond that, even, he misses his
friends.  Here, lying in bed at night, he feels a creeping sense of loneliness.
 It's a void he once filled with parties and models.  And then, somehow, he’d
found a family.  It was messy, and more than a little hodgepodge, but it had
been his.  But now that family is gone, by Tony’s own actions.  Now, that void
is back, and he has nothing to fill it with.
     When he finally falls asleep it’s fitful.  He has the dream again, the one
that Wanda put into his mind so long ago.  It comes to him intermittently.
 He’s made his peace with it by now, used to seeing the bodies of his friends
strewn across the debris like rag dolls.  The sight of Steve’s shield snapped
in two no longer jolts him awake.  Tonight is different.  In tonight’s
iteration of the dream, when Tony gets closer, he sees Peter in the wreckage.
 His mask is torn away, and parts of the suit hang off his lithe frame like
shredded paper.  Peter's body is broken in too many places, parts of him bent
at angles that are so unnatural it makes dream-Tony retch.  When he finally
kneels in front of him, Tony only gets a moment’s glance before he wakes from
sleep gasping.  But consciousness isn’t enough to erase the image of Peter’s
face from his mind.  It’s not enough to purge the sight of Peter’s brown doe-
eyes open and lifeless, staring off into a point over Tony’s shoulder that
doesn’t exist.  He spends an hour laying in bed, unmoving.  When he finally
rouses, it’s only because he’s so hot he might faint.  He goes to shower, and
passes the mirror image of himself, face sallow and hair sticking to his
forehead.  Pathetic.
     Once he’s showered, he puts all of his effort into finishing the v02 suit.
  He finds a compromise reinforced textile that he lines across the suit in
alternating gold and black.  It’s a little bit of the Iron Man flair Tony
thinks will make for a nice—gift—slash upgrade on the suit.  Once he finalizes
the digital design he sends the parts to the 3D-printer and his custom textile
loom.  It feels good to start on the physical part of the suit creation, as
he’s feeling burnt out from the time spent bent over the computer.  Tony works
on some of the internal circuitry he can control while the printer and loom are
spitting out the other components.  He figures if he IVs himself to a caffeine
source he can have the suit finished before the week is through.  Then he can
present it to Peter, for being so responsible and backing off of the bird man
when Tony asked. 
     And he does. In record time.  By Tuesday at 3am, the v02 suit is done.
 The Iron-Spider.  Tony doesn’t realize it, but in that time he doesn’t touch
alcohol once.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
     He gets barely one blessed day of feeling good about everything before
Peter goes and does something really fucking stupid.
 
 
 
     Tony’s in the back of a car on his way back to Manhattan.  It’s just past
noon on Thursday and he figures now is a good time to call Peter, he’s probably
on his lunch break.  So he does, pressing the speed dial number and holding the
phone in front of his face.  While it rings he wonders absently if Peter’s ever
gotten the pleasure of seeing Happy’s forehead on a face to face call.  He
wonders if it would frustrate Peter as much as it does him.  It rings almost
too many times before it patches him through.  Tony puts on a big, friendly
smile.  He’s excited to tell Peter about the FBI sting, and taking down the
weapons dealers all thanks to his hard work.  He’s even more excited to invite
him to the compound, have him try out the new suit.
     “Mister Parker, got a sec?”  He asks.
     “Uhhhh, uh…”  Peter sounds distracted.  There’s no video feed from his end
so Tony can’t actually see him.  “I’m actually at school?”  It comes out as
more of a question, but Tony elects to ignore it.
     “Nice work in D.C.”  Tony continues.
     “Oh, oh, okay”  Peter says awkwardly.
     “My dad never really gave me a lot of support and I’m just trying to, uh,
break the cycle of shame"
     “Uh, I'm kind of in the middle of something right now”  Peter replies in a
hushed tone.  What the hell?  Wasn’t Peter all about validation in Berlin?
 Tony pushes on anyway.
     “Don’t cut me off when Im complimenting you!” He says. frustrated.
 Though, it’s not enough to hem the excitement of breaking the news to Peter.
 "Anyway, great things are about to happen..."
     A low rumbling sound, not unlike a tuba or a fog-horn cuts him off.
     “What is that?” he asks.  Peter pauses awkwardly before replying.
     “Uh, I’m at band practice?”  But that’s not right, not from Tony’s memory.
     “That's odd... Happy told me you quit band six weeks ago? ”  Now something
is definitely up.  He’s about to press further when Peter interjects in a
slightly hysterical tone.
     “Uh I gotta go! UH... END CALL!”  He blurts out.
     “Hey!”  But the line dies before Tony can finish the thought.  Peter, what
the hell are you up to?
 
 
 
     Tony doesn’t have to wait very long to find out.  He’s in bumper-to-bumper
traffic on the Jersey Turnpike when F.R.I.D.A.Y. alerts him to a disturbance on
the Staten Island Ferry.  She links up to some amateur drone footage
that’s streaming online and Tony watches in abject horror as Peter—tethered to
the vulture guy’s feet—swings around like Peter Vidmar going for gold.  There’s
a brief second when it looks like Peter’s disarmed him, and Tony thinks he can
breathe easy, before it all goes to shit.  It’s hard to see from the footage,
but the weapon on the ship deck keeps firing and Peter’s attempt to stop it
makes everything entirely worse.  In a brilliant show of purple, pulsing light,
the whole boat is split clean in half as if with a freshly sharpened katana.
 Tony sees red.  He had one request.  He’d taken care of this already.
     He’s in a blind rage before he knows it, yelling at F.R.I.D.A.Y. to call
the suit and some thruster drones as he scrambles out of the car.  Tony stands
awkwardly on the shoulder, watching the footage on his phone as the suit flies
in from the compound.  Whoever is operating the drone that’s filming does a
good job of getting in tight.  It gives Tony a perfect view of Peter swinging
between the two halves of the boat.  But he’s too angry to appreciate how smart
of a move it is for Peter to target the structural columns of the boat to keep
it from splitting further.  It doesn’t matter how smart his actions are if
they’re preceded by a stupid one.  He cuts the feed when he hears the familiar
sound of thrusters and spreads his arms for the suit to engulf him. 
     In a matter of seconds he’s in the air, over the water, and has the ferry
in view.  It’s not a moment too soon.  Peter’s plan fails as he approaches, and
in a spectacularly stupid and selfless move, he tries to use his own body to
hold the boat together.  He’s strung up between the two halves of the ferry
like the crucified body of Christ, screaming with the exertion.  Peter may have
super strength, but it doesn’t grant him the ability to hold a three thousand
tonne hunk of metal together.
     Tony moves to the half of the boat closest to him, starts pushing it back
up towards its sister as he waits for the thruster drones to catch up.
 F.R.I.D.A.Y. tells him they’re thirty seconds out.  He looks through a window
of the ship to see Peter drop to the floor, confused as to how the ship is
moving back together.  Through his anger Tony still manages to find some snark.
     “Hi Spider-Man”  He seethes.  “Band practice, was it?”  Timing on Tony’s
side, the drones deploy just behind him, fixing onto the hull of the ship.  He
pushes a bit harder until the two sides are sealed and he’s free to weld the
seams together.  Peter swings wildly after him, scrambling to find something to
do to help.  Tony patently ignores him.  He cannot believe that he thought
Peter was ready.  There is no way Peter was ready.
     When he’s sealed the bottom of the ship, he flies out to see where he can
reinforce the top.  The ship mast has peeled like a banana, but it’s an easy
spot to reattach.  Peter’s started climbing it, too, following Tony’s
movements.  Tony swings some bolas toward him, making sure to come close to
hitting him but not quite.  He wants Peter to feel like—no —to know that he’s
gotten in the way.  He wants Peter to feel ashamed.
     “Hey, Mister Stark!”  Peter yells from where he’s pressed up against the
metal.  “Could I do anything?  What do you want me to do?"
     It pisses Tony off, how Peter isn’t apologizing, isn’t repenting for his
actions.  He transgressed, violently, against Tony.  He made a grave
miscalculation that could have killed every innocent person on that boat, and
even worse, could have killed himself.  Tony had handled this, had thought that
Peter trusted him to handle it, too.  And yet here Peter is, clearly operating
on his own frequency.  How could Tony have missed this?  This is the same
stubborn righteousness that Steve is known for.  How could he possibly think
about all the positive qualities they shared without thinking about the
negatives.  Tony had been so stupid to miss it. 
     “I think you’ve done enough.”  He grates out.  And then Tony is overcome
with an intense, burning need to be as far away from Peter as possible.  He
turns around and flies off, back towards Manhattan. The police and rescue crews
are finally responding as he leaves, sirens blaring as they approach the ferry
from all sides.  Tony has never felt anger like this in his life and it’s
threatening to consume him, he needs to calm down before confronting Peter.
 He’s too old for this to become a regular occurrence, he’ll be dead by sixty
from a heart attack if Peter keeps this up. 
     No.  He thinks as he drops himself on a nearby rooftop and pops the suit
open.   He can’t be allowed to keep this up.
     Tony walks over to the edge of the building and leans up against the
concrete barrier.  He’s looking out over the water where the smoke is billowing
lazily from the boat.  News helicopters are starting to float in as well, and
Tony grabs his phone out of his pocket to watch the footage.  He needs to see
where Peter ends up once he’s off the ferry.  It takes over an hour of Tony
doing breathing exercises in between nervous pacing, but he finally watches as
Peter latches onto one of the emergency response helicopters as it turns away
from the mess.  He hitches a ride and then swings himself off onto the
Governor’s Island vent building.  Tony waits a few beats to see if he moves,
but from his vantage point it looks like Peter’s just sitting there.  He
figure’s he’s calmed down enough, so he steps back into the suit. 
     Peter is sitting on the edge of the building with his feet kicking out
when Tony approaches.  He starts, but doesn’t turn around.  Peter knows he’s in
trouble but he’s waiting for Tony to make the first move.   He’s waiting
to gauge the reaction before he responds. 
     “Previously on Peter screws the Pooch: I told you stay away from this,”
 Peter hazards a glance back, but doesn’t move from his spot.  “And instead,
you hacked a multi-million dollar suit so you could sneak around my back doing
the one thing I told you not to do.”  Peter remains still, looking out over the
water. 
     “Is everyone okay?”  He asks after a beat.
     “No thanks to you."
     That gets a reaction.  Peter turns to throw a dirty look at Tony, his face
scrunched up like he’s smelling something terrible.
     “No thanks to me?”  He swings his legs around and drops onto the rooftop
catwalk.
     “Those weapons are out there and I tried to tell you about it but you
didn’t listen!”  He’s walking towards the suit, hands gesticulating wildly.
 "None of this would have happened if you had just listened to me!”  Peter’s
voice cracks as he gets closer.  His eyes are wild, eyebrows knitted upwards
somewhere between heartbreak and disappointment.  He pauses when he’s right in
front of the suit, and scoffs.
     “If you even cared you’d actually be here!"
     Tony has to hold in an incredulous laugh.  Instead he pops the suit open
and steps out, advancing on Peter who takes several steps back.  His face has
always been an open book and Tony finds the shock that flickers across it
extremely satisfying.  He keeps walking forward as he speaks.
     “I did listen kid.  Who do you think called the FBI, huh?”  Tony focuses
on keeping his tone harsh but level.  "You know that I was the only one who
believed in you?  Everyone else said I was crazy to recruit a fifteen year old
kid-“  Peter interrupts him.
     “Sixteen."
     “No.  This is where you zip it!  Alright?  The adult is talking.”  He
yells.  How is Peter not grasping the severity of the situation?  This isn’t
some minor mistake, some tiny little grievance Tony has.  What Peter did was a
massive miscalculation that could have ended with any assortment of fatalities.
 There’s tens of millions of dollars of damages, the weapons dealers escaped
again, and Tony is going to have spend God knows how long on the phone trying
to assure both the FBI and Secretary Ross that Spider-Man is under control and
this won’t happen in the future.  Tony stops walking, looks Peter in the eyes.
     “What if somebody had died tonight?  Different story right?  Cause thats
on you.”  He shakes his head.  "And if you died, I feel like that’s on me.
 I don’t need that on my conscience."
     There’s a charged moment where Tony’s eyes are boring into Peter’s.  The
words are sinking in,  and the gravity of the situation finally seems to be
getting through Peter’s thick skull.  No, Peter, you’re not invincible,  and
no, Peter, you don’t know what’s best.  You need to listen to me.  I’m not your
enemy, I’m trying to help you.  Peter’s eyes finally flick downward in
penitence.  Tony can see him trying to formulate an apology.
     “Yes sir, I-“  Peter starts.  Tony didn’t realize how badly he just wanted
Peter to acknowledge that he was wrong.  The ‘Yes sir’ satisfies something deep
inside him and his blinding anger snaps into something more controllable.  
     “Yes.”  He says.  Peter continues, eyes wide.
     “Im sorry”  He whispers  “I'm sorry..."
     “Sorry doesn’t cut it"
     “I understand.”  Peter looks down, then his eyes flick back up to meet
Tony’s and they’re wet, glittering in the light of the setting sun.
     "I just—I just wanted to be like you”  He says, and Tony has to look away
at this.  His heart clenches.  Tony feels like he’s failed Peter.  He swallows
deeply before his next words.
     “And I wanted you to be better."
     They look at each other again and there’s another charged moment.  Tony
doesn’t know what Peter’s thinking, standing in front of him, eyes brimming
with unshed tears.  He searches his gaze, unsure of what he’s looking for.
 When he doesn’t find it—whatever it was supposed to be—Tony makes a difficult
decision.  He sighs and looks back over the water.
     “Okay, this is not working out. I’m gonna need the suit back."
     “For how long?”  Peter cries.
     “For ever.”  Tony says.  It’s for the best.  “Yeah, yeah that’s—“  But
Peter is already talking over him, voice a desperate whine.  The tone does
something weird to Tony’s stomach.  He exhales through his nose.
     “No, no no!”  Peter is begging, the stutter coming out.  “Please!  Please!
 Please,  there’s—“  Tony ignores him, extending his hand.
     “Let’s have it.”  He says firmly.
     “You don’t understand!”  Peter pleads.  “This is all I have!  I’m
nothing without this suit."
     “If you’re nothing without this suit then you shouldn’t have it.  Okay?”
 Tony says.  “God, I sound like my dad."
     There’s an awkward moment where Peter’s face flushes a bright red over his
cheekbones.  He’s looking away from Tony, embarrassed.
     “I don’t have any other clothes.”  He whispers.
     “Okay, we’ll sort that out.”  Tony says.  “But I’m gonna need you to give
me the suit now and wait here.” 
     Peter looks back at him, blushing harder now.  The tips of his ears are
red and he’s pouting.  The unshed tears finally start slipping down his cheeks.
 It’s breaking Tony’s heart but he has to stay resolved on this.  Don’t back
down now, you’ve already failed him, you can’t let him put himself in danger
like this again.  It’s for his own good.
     Tony watches silently as Peter presses the emblem on his chest and the
suit loosens around his body.  He lets it slide down his shoulders for a moment
before he steps out of it gingerly.  Tony’s hand is still extended, waiting,
and Peter holds onto the suit in reverence for an extra few beats.  He pulls
his cellphone out of the covert pocket by the hip, and then finally
relinquishes it to Tony.  Their fingers brush for a moment and then Peter is
pulling his hand back and crossing his arms over his chest.  It’s cold, as
evenings in October tend to be, and so Peter is shivering where he stands in
only a pair of grey boxer-briefs.  The skin across his torso contracts and
goosebumps raise themselves over it like a wave.  Tony tracks the movement
across the expanse of his chest, eyes passing over where Peter’s dusky nipples
pebble at the cold.  He looks away sharply, as if only realizing now the state
of Peter’s undress.  Tony clears his throat.
     “You stay here, I’ll be back in five.”  He says.  He lays the Spider-Suit
over the railing as he steps back into his own suit.  He spares Peter one last
glance as the faceplate drops, and then he’s grabbing the Spider-Suit tightly
in his fist and flying back to the tip of Manhattan.  He’ll grab some tourist
junk for Peter to get home in and then he’s heading back to the compound
because Tony can’t stand to be in the city right now.
     He drops down across the street from Battery Park and pops the suit open.
 Tony walks into the first souvenir shop he sees, ignoring the tourists
starting to crowd around the suit with their cellphones.  He grabs a stupid T-
shirt he passes and then looks for a pair of pants that Peter can wear.
 There’s a rack of patterned pyjamas pants near the cash register and he moves
to pick whichever one is closest when he spots the Hello Kitty ones.  Tony had
felt a satisfaction low in his gut when Peter’s face had flushed
in embarrassment, and he wants to chase that feeling again.  Shame is the best
deterrent, the most memorable punishment.  He picks them up, and swipes a pair
of flip flops on his way to pay.
     Tony has to fight his way through a throng of people to get back into the
suit, and when they realize who’s pushing past them the cellphone cameras turn
to him.  He thrusts the plastic bag he’s holding into the hands of the person
nearest the suit as he steps in.  Once the suit shuts around him he grabs the
bag back from the star-struck woman.
     “Alright folks, party’s over”  He says.  “Stand back unless you wanna be
Ghost Rider for halloween.”  The crowd hesitates a moment before moving to give
Tony space, and then he’s blasting off back to Governor’s Island.
     Peter is squatting on the catwalk with his arms around his knees when Tony
throws the plastic bag down at him.  He looks up, shivering, and Tony can see
where his face is wet and his eyes red.  He’s been crying.  A part of Tony
feels terrible, guilty, but another part of Tony is overriding that guilt with
a supreme satisfaction that’s a little bit alarming.  He hovers above Peter and
watches silently as he takes the shirt out first and pulls it over his frame.
 It’s far too big, coming down to his mid thigh.  Something in Tony’s gut stirs
again.  It’s a feeling Tony doesn’t particularly feel like evaluating, so he
pushes it to the back of his mind.  Then Peter is pulling the pants out of the
bag.  He pauses as he realizes what they are, and then another flush paints
itself over his cheekbones.  Tony’s thankful for the faceplate, because he
wouldn’t be able to stop the smile that cuts across his face if he tried.
 Peter looks up at him, desperately, as if hoping that Tony’s got a second bag
and is about to yell 'just kidding!'.  But it’s not a prank and Tony doesn’t
move.
     “Tick, tock, Parker.”  He says, tapping his wrist.  “I’m not an uber.
 Believe it or not, I actually have things to do."
     Peter frowns and his eyes are watering again.  He maintains eye contact
with Tony as he pulls the pants on, face burning with shame, but expression
petulant and defiant.  Then he slips the flip flops on and puts his cellphone
and the plastic bag in his pants pocket.
     Now that he’s fully dressed, Tony grabs him around the waist.  Peter
clutches against the metal.  It’s likely uncomfortable for him but there’s no
way Peter is going to find his way off of the building, or even Governor’s
Island, without his suit right now.  So Tony sets him down back in Queens,
about an hour’s walk from his apartment block.  Since Peter has nothing but the
clothes on his back, he’ll have to hoof it in his embarrassing get up.  The
fact that Tony is so thoroughly enjoying Peter having to walk-of-shame back
home should be more concerning than it is in this moment.
     He doesn’t say anything to Peter as he leaves.  He doesn’t even let
himself look back down to where Peter stands on the quiet street, staring after
him as the distance between them grows.
     On his flight back to the compound, Tony doesn’t let himself feel
anything.
Chapter End Notes
     Let me tell you, I had to watch a cam rip a few weeks ago to write
     this and it was very painful. Watching the digital release feels so
     much better. I don't know why anyone would willingly subject
     themselves to a cam rip.
     Again thank you for all the wonderful words so far, it's making
     writing a lot easier of a process. Bless!
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
     Tony is in a daze when he gets back to the compound.  F.R.I.D.A.Y.
automatically begins to rattle off missed calls, messages and pertinent info,
but he curtly tells her to shut up before making his way to the bar.  He pulls
his decanted Ardbeg Corryvreckan off the shelf and pours himself two
fingers.  Tony had fully intended to drink it slowly, preferably while sitting
in front of his TV and catching the second half of the Knicks game, but the
second the peaty smell hits his nose he’s throwing the whole thing back.  He
pours himself another ounce and downs that, too.  Before he goes further, he
pulls an ice sphere out of the bar freezer, and then pours the scotch over
it.  The size of the ice will keep him from drinking it too quickly. 
     Tony watches about fifteen minutes of the Knicks getting absolutely
spanked before he finishes his drink.  By now the alcohol is settling into his
system, aided by an empty stomach.  He’d been calm and collected on his flight,
and as much as possible since then, but now the anger is starting to boil over
again.  With his inhibitions lowered, there’s nothing to stem the tide.
     He’s overwhelmed by the feeling that he should have said more.  Much more.
 His words on the rooftop don’t seem like they were enough.  Tony wants to hold
Peter by the fabric on his chest and scream.  He needs Peter to understand just
how much danger he’d been in; how he can’t scare Tony like that again; how he
needs to be safe.  For once in his God-damned life, Tony is trying to be the
responsible party.  
     It’s ironic, considering he can hardly take care of himself.
     Tony swats the glass off the table and lets it clatter to the floor.  It’s
satisfying, so he gets up and goes to where it lays on its side.  He pulls back
and gives it a forceful kick.  It hits the wall just under the TV and a chunk
of the glass caves in with the impact.  He wants to break more things.  He
wants to get this out of his system.
     He grabs a bottle of bourbon off the bar counter on his way to the lab and
takes a big swig from it.  Tony’s already drunk, so it doesn’t even burn on the
way down.  
     When he gets into the lab he’s indiscriminate with the carnage.  Anything
on a counter or surface gets thrown.  Tony’s always been destructive, though
not so much in anger.  It’s cathartic, though, getting to smash stuff, and he
thinks he understands The Other Guy just a little bit better. 
     He’s gone through half the lab when he spots the Iron Spider suit.  He
walks over to it with his chest puffed out and sizes it up.  He’s proud of his
work, but this suit is never going to get used.  Not anymore.  He strips it,
none too gently, from the form it’s on.  Then he flips the suit inside out
and starts tearing the lining out.  He’d spent days working on the circuitry
but now he pulls at it without regard.  Each fistful he rips from the inside of
the suit like the veins and tendons of a body being shredded.  Little sparks
fizzle and dance across the surface of the lab table as he makes quick work of
the wires.
     When he feels like he’s done enough, he starts on the embellishments on
the outside of the suit, trying to tear them off with his nails.  They’re
stubborn, and Tony’s fingers are bleeding before he gets very far.  He throws
the suit when they start to throb, and then falls to the floor with a choked
sob.  
     Tony’s struck with the realization that he’s not angry at Peter. Not
really. Tony is angry at himself. No matter how hard he tries, he fails
everyone. Peter was supposed to be different. Tony was supposed to keep him
safe, and he failed. He doesn’t let himself cry, doesn’t know that he even
could. He sits on the floor like that, head in his hands and hunched over, for
what must be hours.
 
 
     He doesn’t wake up till after noon the next day.  F.R.I.D.A.Y. tells him
he has thirty two missed calls and seven voicemails from Happy.  He has her
play the most recent one.
     “Hey boss.  I tried you a few times earlier but guess you’re out.  We’re
mostly packed up at the tower here, ready to leave tonight.  The plane should
be getting into the compound between eleven and midnight so it’s probably best
if you’re on site since some of the stuff needs to get moved into the bio-
metrics vaults.  Give me a call back when you get a chance.”  He says.  It’s
the most succinct Happy’s ever been.  Tony’s pounding head thanks him for it.
     “Hey F.R.I.D.A.Y. can you call Happy please.” He asks, face still smushed
into his pillow.
     “Of course”  She says.  “Dialing Harold Hogan."
     Happy picks up on the first ring.
     “Hey boss, get my messages?"
     “Yes.”  Tony says.  “But I only listened to the last one."
     Happy pauses for a second.
     “Ok, well, fair enough.  Will you be around tonight to help with the
move?"
     “Only if you courier me a Di Fara pizza before then, I think I’m dying."
     “I’ll get an intern on it.”  Happy says.  “Hey, forgot to tell you, kid’s
got his homecoming tonight, so he should be out of trouble.  No worries there,
at least for today.  We can just focus on the move."
     Tony makes an affirmative noise but doesn’t offer anything extra.  He
doesn’t bring up that he took the suit from Peter, and Peter will hopefully be
mulling over his bad behavior.  A nasty part of Tony hopes he doesn’t even
enjoy his homecoming.  The guilty part argues.  You were too hard on him,
Tony.  It says.  You shouldn’t have embarrassed him.  The nasty part supplies
him with the image of Peter, wearing only an oversized shirt, face flushed and
burning but eyes boring into Tony’s in defiance.
     Tony brings that train of thought to a screeching halt.
     “Did you get a chance to see the Penthouse now that everything’s been
moved in?”  Happy asks.
     “No.”  Tony says.  “I’ll check it out during the week when I’m back in the
city.  I’ve got some meetings in town anyway."
     “Call me on a day that works for you, so I can have the security company
come in to install the bio-metrics.  Anyway I’ll let you go, I have some things
to finish up”  Happy says awkwardly.  “I’ll call you when we’re en route."
     “Yup.”  Tony says.  Then, to F.R.I.D.A.Y. “End call."
     As he lies in bed, memories of last night suddenly come flooding
back.  His face flushes as he thinks about it, and even though no one was
around to witness it, Tony is suddenly embarrassed.
     “Hey F.R.I.D.A.Y. can you put in an order for everything I smashed in the
lab yesterday?  Also let’s erase that footage, you know, for posterity's
sake.”  He says, finally getting up.  “Oh!  And turn on the espresso machine so
the water can heat, I’m gonna need at least a quad."
 
 
 
     Tony goes back into the lab with his coffee and looks over the
carnage.  Half of it is an absolute disaster, there’s broken glass and metal
parts all over the place.  The other half is mostly fine and at least one of
the holo-tables is still functional.  He calls in some of the cleaning bots to
start on the floor mess and then does what he can on the work tables.
     When he gets to the remnants of the suit, splayed over the floor like the
chalk outline at a murder scene, he kneels.  So much work had gone into it and
he’d just completely gutted it.  At least half of the circuitry would have to
be redone and soldered if he wanted to fix it.  The external detailing held on
a bit better—which bodes well for the quality of the suit.  The fabric isn’t
ripped anywhere and the minimal damage is from components Tony had really torn
at.  He picks the suit up gently and places it on one of the cleared counters.
     He stays in the lab, cleaning, until F.R.I.D.A.Y. alerts him to a presence
at the door.
     When he gets back upstairs there’s a bespectacled, young intern standing
at the door clutching two pizza boxes emblazoned with the Di Fara logo on
them.  Tony’s mouth waters.  He grabs them from the kids hands and hands him a
hundred dollar bill from his back pocket.  The intern takes it reflexively and
stares at it for a few seconds, not really knowing what to do with it.
     “Hey kid, wanna stay for a slice?”  Tony asks.  He knows that it’s
entirely likely the Intern had to wait at least an hour to get the pizzas and
then had to sit in a car with them for another three to get up here.  Might as
well let the kid relax before he returns.
     “Oh!”  He starts.  “I really would, Mr. Stark, but Happy said I have to
get back there as quick as possible to help finish up with the move.  Pretty
much everyone is on lock down in the tower right now."
     Tony waves him off at this with his free hand.
     “Chillax there, Froggy.  Ignore the tyrant.  Come in, have some pizza, you
can take one of the choppers back instead of sitting on the Jersey Turnpike
during rush hour.  You’ll be back sooner that way."
     The intern still doesn’t move from where he’s standing.  He looks
petrified from behind his glasses.  Tony laughs.
     “Look, let’s just introduce ourselves properly.”  He sticks out his
hand.  “Anthony Edward Stark, but you can just call me Tony."
     The intern looks at the outstretched hand for a beat too long before he
shakes it.
     “Paul.”  He says.  “Paul Dolan."
     “There we go, not so bad, Paul.  Now come in.  There’s no way I’m gonna
eat two of these pies alone.  You ever had Di Fara?"
     “Ah,”  Paul says, stepping inside.  “I haven’t.  I don’t really have the
time to line up for it normally."
     “Well let’s enjoy the fruits of your labor.  This pizza is the stuff of
legends.”  Tony says.
     They sit around the kitchen island and Tony chats with him a bit.  Paul is
a robotics engineering student at Cornell, he interns for Stark Industries in
his free time.  Tony badgers him to show him some of his work while they eat
the pizza and ends up being quite impressed.  When they’re all done, Tony sends
him to the hangar and makes a phone call to the Cornell Registrar’s
office.  Might as well pay for the kid’s school.  He did bring Tony Di Fara,
after all.
 
 
 
    Tony spends the rest of the evening sitting in front of the
television.  The Nets are playing and he watches the game half-heartedly as he
chews on leftover pizza.  He’s flipped through various corners of the internet,
rearranged his bar six times, and has resorted to playing 2048 to pass the
time.  He’s about to lose his mind and go set up a roof-top driving range with
his box of dud proximity mines when Happy finally calls.  It’s eleven, on the
nose.  Happy sounds calm for the first time since Tony can remember.
     “Tower’s all packed and plane is on it’s way.  Should be there in the next
half hour."
     “Great work, Happy.”  Tony says.  And he means it.  Dumping the
responsibility for having the entire tower packed onto Happy’s lap wasn’t
entirely fair.  But Happy had shown that he was up to the task.  He’d had the
entire operation run like a well oiled machine.  
     “Really.  I’m impressed.”  He reiterates.  “What time are you going to be
here at?"
     Happy hums.  “Miss me already?  Should be there half an hour or so after
the plane lands.  I have to take care of some stuff and then I’ll take the
chopper back."
     “Awesome.”  Tony says.  “I don’t know that I can do this without you."
     Happy laughs on the other side of the line.
     “Well if you don’t want to wait too long, I’ve got to go.  I’ll see you
soon."
     Happy hangs up.
     Tony sets an alarm on his phone for forty minutes and lays down on the
couch for a quick cat nap. He figures he’s going to need any extra energy for
all the moving he’s about to do.
 
 
     He wakes up to AC/DC blaring through his tinny cellphone speakers.  He’s
not particularly inclined to get up quite yet but he figures they should have
landed by now and have started offloading the plane.  He turns off the alarm,
slips his shoes on and heads to exit the main building.
     Tony has the sudden feeling that something is off.  The compound is
deathly silent.  Even with any delays, the plane should have landed by
now.  The forty minute nap was supposed to make Tony the fashionably late
one.  He heads down to the helipad and waits for a few minutes, looking out
over the inky horizon for any moving lights.
     Your plane is using cloaking technology, stupid, you won’t see it till
it’s on your doorstep anyway. 
     He checks his phone but sees no missed calls.  Weird.  He thinks.  Happy
is a compulsive over-sharer.  Why hasn’t he called?
     The sinking feeling in his stomach deepens.  Radio silence right now can’t
mean anything good.  He tries Happy’s phone, it rings twice before it goes to
voicemail.  Screened.  In the twenty-five years Tony and Happy have been
friends, he has never had his call screened.
Something is definitely up.  Tony roots remotely into Happy’s phone, links up
the GPS.  The pin shows he’s rushing down Ocean Parkway in Brooklyn, which is
definitely not the direction he’s supposed to be going.  Tony’s running across
the lot back to the main building.  He calls for Vision as he steps inside, and
Tony jumps when he phases through the floor in front of him.  He’s never going
to get used to that.
     “Vis, I might be acting paranoid, but bear with me here—"
     “You’re concerned that the plane hasn’t arrived yet.” 
     “Yeah.  Can you stay topside and maybe keep track of it?  I’m gonna head
to the city to check something out."
     “Of course.  I’ll let you know if there ends up being no cause for
concern."
     Tony pats Vision awkwardly on the shoulder.  “Thanks."
     And then he’s out the door again, the suit closing in around him.  He asks
F.R.I.D.A.Y. to pull up the flight info, but the link’s been
disconnected.  I’ll manually trace the path.  He thinks.  Intercept it if
nothing’s gone wrong.
     Each mile he flies without seeing anything, Tony’s stomach drops.  Some
irrational part of him is fixating on the worst possible out-comes.  More than
that, it’s fixated on this nightmare scenario where every person he gives a
shit about was on that plane.  He knows, in his rational mind, that it’s
impossible.  The flight had been entirely unmanned.  Rhodey is across the
country.  Happy's supposed to be in a chopper. Pepper’s in Los
Angeles.  Peter's at his homecoming.  Or maybe grounded.  And it isn’t like
Steve and Wanda and Clint and Nat and Sam had found their way onto the
plane.  There’d been total radio silence for almost three months.  Hell, they
could have died long before now.  No one had even been on that plane. 
     The stress isn’t alleviated when Tony drops from the cloud cover over New
York City.  There’s been no sign of the plane, but over the inky blackness of
the Atlantic, highlighted by the strobing neon lights of Coney Island is a
plume of billowing smoke.  It’s almost dazzling, the backdrop of twenty foot
flames that lick across the entire beach.  Among the carnage is the husk of the
plane.  The fuselage is glittering brilliantly as the cloaking devices
fail.  It’d be grimly beautiful if the connotations weren’t so dire.
     Shit!  Tony’s hissing in his head.  Fuck, fuck, fuck!
     There is any number of incredibly valuable, dangerous and otherwise
irreplaceable cargo on that ship.  Literally hundreds of miniature arc
reactors, Steve’s new shield, Christ, The Hulk Buster!  Had someone robbed
it?  Had someone gotten their hands on something even worse and more dangerous
than the Chitauri weapons?  Why hadn’t Happy called?  This was big enough that
he should’ve called.
     Tony hangs back, far enough away that no one on the shore will see
him.  He tries Happy’s phone again.  As it rings he watches from above as the
lights of dozens of police cars and emergency response vehicles from all
corners of Brooklyn stream towards the fire.  On the fifth ring Happy picks
up.  He’s out of breath.
     “Uh, hey Boss.”  He says.  “I’ve got some—uh—some bad news."
     “Looks like more than bad news from where I’m standing.”  Tony says,
adjusting the zoom on his heads-up display.  He sees Happy twirl around.
     “Uh, and…where would that be?"
     “Happy, you’ve got about ten seconds to explain to me how we went from ‘Oh
yeah, Tony, everything’s fine, we’re en route! See you soon’ to ‘holy shit
Tony, there’s at least a billion dollars of wreckage and God knows how much
other monetarily-invaluable shit on fire on Brighton Beach’."
     For once, Happy is at a loss for words.  He balks for a moment before
responding.
     “Boss, honestly, I don’t even know everything yet.  I just—we just got
here like fifteen minutes ago.   All I know is I saw the plane go down from the
tower.   It looks like nothing was taken, and, well—“  Happy pauses, looks back
at a box where a barely-conscious looking man is slumped over.  “Spider-Man
kind of saved my ass on this one."
     God dammit.  Tony thinks.   Trust Peter to not let my admonishment stop
him.  Parker just saved everybody’s ass.
Feeling like he’s had enough surveying, Tony ends the call.  He drops down to
the beach where Happy is standing and jumps out of the suit.  It’s hot.  Really
hot.  The fire crews are working at putting out the blaze on the fuselage, but
Tony is more focused on taking inventory. He tugs at his collar to get some
air.
     “You said it looks like nothing’s been taken?”  He asks, turning to
Happy.  Happy just nods.
     “Yeah, it seems like this guy was acting alone.  At least, in terms of the
direct attack on the plane.”  He motions towards the slumped over man several
feet away.  There’s a little scrap of paper taped beside him, blowing in the
wind.  Tony walks over to him.  The man is middle aged—beat up—but big.
     So this is the Vulture-guy.  He thinks.  This is the guy who tried to kill
Peter.  The man lifts his head, gives a sleazy grin as he notices Tony
approaching.
     “What’s your name?”  Tony asks.  The man just spits at him.
     “You know, you could just tell me, or I can get the police to tell me once
they’ve processed you.”  Tony growls.  He’s not in the mood for games.
     “Toomes.”  The man grits out.  “Adrian Toomes."
     “Why do I recognize that name?” 
     “I was the salvage contractor you and the government pushed out after The
Incident."
     “Ah, that makes sense.”  Tony says.  “So this was personal."
     “Not really.”  Adrian says.  He’s not even looking at Tony.
     “What changed?"
     “You know,”   He struggles against his bonds for a moment, testing
them.  They don’t budge so he settles again.  “That Spider-kid has been a real
pain my ass the past few days."
     “I’m aware."
     “Yeah, he’s really fucked up a lot of my plans.  We were lookin’ to get
out of the business, really.  But he just had to keep interfering.  And when I
found out he was one of yours—"
     This gets Tony’s attention.
     “What do you mean ‘one of mine’?”  He asks, there’s an edge of caution in
his voice—like he doesn’t want to hear the answer.
     “Yeah that Parker kid is really bright.  Peter was it?  I can see why you
like him.  I mean, he’s gotta be pretty special to get an ‘internship’ with
you, huh?"
     Every muscle in Tony’s body grows tense, snaps into place.  He knows
Peter’s identity.  There’s no way Peter or May or any of his friends will ever
be safe after this.  How could this happen?  Tony’s spine is rigid at the
thought.  Toomes notices this, the corner of his mouth twitches upwards.
     “Yeah, wanna hear the fucking craziest part?  He was my daughters goddamn
Homecoming date.  Four inches shorter, scrawny looking little thing, he
is.  You know, when I opened that door and saw him, my first thought
was ‘really, Liz?’.  But look at me!  I underestimated the kid and now I’m
paying for it.  Smart move, Stark, getting some poor impressionable kid from
Queens to do your dirty work for y—“  But Tony’s had enough.  He can’t let this
arrogant asshole continue.  He can’t let him off with the knowledge of Spider-
Man’s actual identity.  Tony briefly thinks about what it would take to kill
the guy.  How many people he would have to pay off—get to turn a blind eye as
he flew off with Toomes in hand. 
     No, he thinks.  I’m not going to resort to murder.  Despite how much I
really, really want to.  Tony’s never killed anyone up close and
personal.  When he has had to kill people it’s only ever been out of
necessity.  He’s never looked someone in the eyes as the life left them.  It
should scare him, how much he’s enjoying the thought of that exact scenario
with Toomes.  He wants to make him bleed.  He wants Adrian to pay in blood for
the innocent life he almost took.
     Instead Tony kneels, brings his hand to Toomes’ neck and slams his head
back against the metal crate.  It lets out a hollow thud.
     “Listen up, Top Gun.”  Tony’s voice is dripping venom now.  The amount of
loathing he has for this man extends far beyond just having his stuff
taken.  “You’re gonna keep very quiet about Spider-Man’s identity.  In fact,
you don’t even know what it is.  He’s just Spider-Man to you."
     “Or what?”  Toomes asks, that shit eating grin not leaving his face.
     “Or not only will I ensure your time in prison will be absolute hell, but
I’ll do my best to make life very, very difficult for—what was your daughter’s
name?  Liz?  Yeah.  I’ll make sure Liz and your lovely wife have a very, very
tough time in your absence.  She’s going to be applying to colleges soon,
no?”  He squeezes Toomes’ throat a little tighter.  The grin finally drops off
the man’s face, his gaze hardening.
     “Do we have an understanding?”  Tony asks.  Toomes nods.
     “I’d like a verbal acknowledgement of our arrangement, please,
Adrian.”  Tony spits.  He loosens his grip slightly.  Toomes glares daggers at
him but chokes out a ‘yes’.
     At this, Tony finally lets go and stands.  He dusts off his knees
casually, sniffs and looks out over the wreckage.
     “Well then, Harvey Birdman, hope you’re better at law than you are at
stealing shit.”  He spares Adrian one last glance.  “I’ll have my attorneys
draft up an NDA for you to sign.  You know what they say—there’s no honor
among thieves.”
     Tony turns to leave.  He has F.R.I.D.A.Y. arrange a clean up crew, tells
Happy to get some rest, and hops back into the suit.  Tony decides to stay in
the SoHo pent tonight.  He hopes desperately that there are already sheets on
the bed.  Tony’s not feeling good about himself, has no desire to be awake to
ruminate on it.  He doesn’t want to think about the fact that he just had to
threaten the future of a minor to ensure that another minor could have one.  He
just wants to sleep.  With a final look over the beach, Tony ascends, turning
towards Manhattan.
    As he passes it, Tony thinks he sees someone sitting on top of the Cyclone,
but he’s too tired to investigate.  He waves it off as a play of light and a
little too much smoke inhalation.
Chapter End Notes
     Sorry for the wait, guys, had a crazy week. Hope overprotective-Tony
     makes up for it.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
     Moving Day turns into Moving Days.
     Tony’s figuratively chained to the compound.  With the salvage crews
having to sift through every square foot of sand on Brighton Beach—and only
after crime scene processing—there’s irregular shipments coming in every couple
of hours.  It’s an inconvenience but the precautions are necessary.  Tony would
rather be stuck waiting for trucks than dealing with some beach-going child
accidentally finding a miniature fission device. 
     Rhodey stops by on the second day to ‘help out’.  His brand of helping out
is little more than sitting on the couch with a cold beer and laughing at Tony
struggling to crowbar open boxes.  As much as Tony pretends to be put out by it
all, it makes the weekend a lot more fun.
On Monday, Rhodey has to leave again.  He and Happy have been back and forth
between the biometrics vaults all morning and at lunch time he gets a call from
Pepper.  He hasn’t heard from her in months for anything that isn’t strictly
business related.  Even then it’s usually through a proxy.  The call is enough
of a shock that he doesn’t even hesitate before picking up.
     “Tony!  Are you okay?  Is everything okay?”  She yells.  “Why didn’t you
call me?  Why am I only hearing about this now?"
     Ahhhh,  Tony thinks.  I’ve kind of missed this.
“Relax, Pep.  Really, we’re all good here.  Got all my limbs.  We’re just, you
know, down an eight hundred million dollar stealth plane and Happy’s
dignity.  And you can’t really put a price on that one."
     “Tony—“ Her voice sounds like a warning.
     “Honestly.  Everything is fine.  We didn’t lose anything we can’t replace
and everyone is safe."
     “God, Tony!  I swear, I leave you alone for a few months and everything up
there goes to shit!”  This pisses Tony off.
     “Yeah, well, I didn’t ask you to leave, did I?”  He knows his response
isn’t entirely fair, and he hears her exasperated sigh on the other end of the
line.
     “Yeah, Tony.  You did.”  She says.  "You asked me to leave when you
decided to keep wearing that suit."
     Tony bites the inside of his cheek.  Some interns are looking over at
him—obviously eavesdropping— and he shoots them a dirty look.  They startle and
immediately return to their duties.  He heads upstairs, steps out onto the
patio where he won’t be disturbed.
     “Look, Pepper, you know I tried.  I tried so hard.  But like it or not,
after Afghanistan, that suit is a part of me.  I can’t change that."
     “I suppose it is.”  She says.  She sounds resigned.  In his minds eye Tony
can picture the way her face creases.  He’s memorized every line over the
years.  Distance isn’t enough for him to forget.  “But I think you’d already
changed anyways."
     Tony sighs, leans against the railing and looks out over the
greenery.  The sun is high in the sky, beating down a seasonally high
warmth.  She’s not wrong.
     “I guess I did.  You know, Pepper, for the record, I’m sorry.  About
everything.  I’ll keep saying it if I have to."
     “I know you are, Tony.”  She says.  There’s an edge of pity in her
voice.  “But sometimes ‘sorry’ isn’t enough."
     The guilt in his gut coils, runs languidly up his spine to constrict his
throat.  It brings forth the image of Pepper in the back of a car, inches away
from being sliced in half over a blood feud.  Of her body strapped to a gurney,
full of needles and pulsing red light.  Of watching as her hand slipped from
his and she fell two hundred feet into a hellfire.  Tony has replayed Pepper
dying in thousands of ways in his dreams.  It’s always by his hand, indirectly,
but still his hand.
     “Anyway,”  She continues.  “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.  I’ve
got a meeting I have to get to.  Take care of yourself Tony.” 
     “Yeah, Pep.  You too.  Thanks for checking in."
     She hangs up.  Tony stands there with the phone pressed to his ear for a
moment longer.  He lets the dial tone hum, and then hits end call and turns
back inside.  He has a lot of work to do.
     Tony’s in a sour mood the rest of the day.  He doesn’t mean to snap at
anyone but he’s so far inside his head that any misstep ends up setting him
off.  By dinner time, everyone on the compound has taken to giving Tony a wide
berth.  He delegates Happy to run point and goes to bed.  He’ll deal with
everything else in the morning.
 
 
 
     By Tuesday evening, the salvage crew has finished up and everything’s been
successfully moved into the compound.  Moving the tower has been just over a
month of stress for Happy, and by extension, stress for Tony.  But it’s finally
over and done with.  To celebrate, they’re posted up on the living room couch
watching the Knicks play the Celtics.  It feels like it’s been ages since Tony
and Happy had the opportunity to just sit and enjoy a pizza and a beer.  Right
now, in this moment, there’s no threat of the world ending, there’s no
terrorists targeting them, there isn’t even some fleeting matter over the
horizon for them to worry about.
     It’s just two best friends, their rival teams, and a couple of cold ones.
     At half-time, Tony puts the MSG studio analysts on mute.  He turns to
Happy.  Tony’s feeling mischievous.
     “So, we should probably talk about—”  He starts.
     Happy’s gaze snaps to him.  The expression on his face is equal parts
apologetic and resigned.  He goes from the casual, laid-back bestie into
seasoned professional in a heartbeat.
     “Yeah, Boss, we probably should.  Let me start by taking
full responsibility for what happened—if there needs to be disciplinary action
or—“  Tony has to stop him.  He'd laugh, if it wasn’t making him feel shitty.
     “Happy, you can unclench.”  He says.  “That’s not what I meant.  I was
talking about the kid."
     “Shit, Tony!”  Happy says.  “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
     “Maybe.”  He lets a shit-eating grin spread onto his face.  “By the way,
totally off topic, but what’s your life insurance policy like?"
     “I don’t know, don’t you own the insurance company?”  Happy says.  He
takes a swig from his beer.  “What about the kid, though?"
     “Well, something I didn’t tell you the other day—“  Happy leans forward in
his seat.  Always curious.  “After the thing on the boat…"
     “Wait what thing on the boat?"
     “There was an incident on a boat."
     “Which boat—"
     “Look just watch the YouTube videos I don’t have time to explain.  Point
is: Peter fucked up really bad and I took the suit from him."
     “Oh—wait, you mean he stopped that Toomes guy in a onesie?"
     “That’s what you’re taking from this?"
     “Well, Tony, clearly I’m not following.  So, you know, you’ll have to be a
little more clear on what else I’m supposed to be getting from this.  You won’t
even tell me what happened."
     “Because the whole thing is on YouTube!"
     “You know I’m not good at the whole technology thing!"
     “Oh my God, Happy!  My point is that I was wrong and Peter was right.  And
you know I don’t like to admit when I’m wrong.  But I have to make it up to
him.  Because he seriously just saved us from a serious headache.  And I give
myself enough of those already."
     “I mean you could just call him to say you’re sorry?  He’d probably get so
excited to hear from you he'd pass out.  I bet he’ll write about it in his
diary.”  Happy snorts as if the image is amusing to him.  "That kid—Tony, he’s
a lot.  He’s a handful."
     “Cheers to that!”  Tony says, raising his beer bottle.  Happy taps it with
his own.  “Pretty sure that kid almost gave me a coronary a couple of times."
     “At least you didn’t have your phone blowing up all the time.  Jesus,
Tony, you gotta teach this kid about appropriate social etiquette."
     Tony is laughing again.  It’s probably true.  Peter is incredibly awkward,
in a way-too-keen sort of way.  It’s definitely a personality trait he’d
associate with an intellectually bright kid—a nerd—if you will.  Tony finds it
charming, quaint.  It isn’t something he sees a lot anymore.  He's spent most
of his adult life surrounded by ego-driven brown-nosers constantly trying to
forge legacies for themselves.  He misses spending time with true scientists,
the kind that are motivated by the purity of their curiosity.  It gives Tony
pause.
     “You know what, Happy?  You’re right.  Maybe I should."
     “Wait, really?  You’re taking something I said seriously?"
     “Yeah, yeah I think it might be time.  I know I said not before he’s
eighteen but maybe mentoring him now wouldn’t hurt."
     “If you think it’s a good idea, then I think it’s a good idea,
too.”  Happy says.  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned since you put me on
babysitting duty, it’s that Peter is a good kid."
     Tony takes a sip of his beer.  Looks back at the television thoughtfully.
     “Yeah, Hap.”  He murmurs.  “He is."
 
 
 
     When the game ends and Happy turns in for the night,  Tony heads into the
bowels of the lab with a Manhattan in hand.  The lab’s been fully restored
since he’d last spent any time in it.  If anything, it looks better than it did
before he’d trashed it.  All the new equipment had come in as well as
some extra ‘gifts’ he’d ordered for himself.  The one thing that hasn’t changed
is the bare counter with the Iron-Spider suit still laying limply on it.  Tony
goes over to it and starts to take stock of exactly what needs to be
fixed.  Retrospectively, he’s a little pissed off at himself for so thoroughly
damaging the suit.  Tony flips it inside out and drags it over to his
electrical set-up.  He spends the night reinstalling the circuitry, soldering
and patching code.  By the time he’s finished and heads back upstairs, the sun
has started to peek out over the horizon and is bathing the kitchen is a dusty
blue light.  Happy’s awake, sitting at the dining table drinking a coffee and
reading the news on his tablet.
     “Morning Happy.”  Tony says as he passes him on his way to the coffee
machine.
     “Morning boss.”  Happy responds.  He doesn’t look up from his tablet. 
     Tony stands by the espresso machine and grinds some fresh beans.  He packs
two portafilters and hooks them into the brew heads.    Despite how
ostentatious it is, he finds the morning ritual of pulling espressos
meditative.  Back when the Avengers were still together, it was only he and
Natasha who used the thing.  Everyone else stuck to the Keurig or brewing their
coffee.  Now that they’re gone, it’s the only machine that still gets used.  He
runs the first shot into a mug, then empties the portafilter as he runs the
second.  He repeats the process before rinsing both portafilters in the sink.
     He takes a seat at the table with his quad espresso, across from
Happy.  It's enough for Happy to put his tablet down and look up at Tony.
     “You haven’t slept yet, have you?”  He asks.  Tony smiles into his cup.
     “Nope.  Got big plans for today.  So that means, by extension, so do
you.”  Happy raises a single eyebrow at this.
     “And those plans would be?"
     “Weren’t you the one who gave me the idea?”  Tony says.  “I’m going to
call Sheila to set up a press conference, but you’re gonna need to get back
into the city and grab our new, shiny, tiny Avenger."
     “Well, no one ever said you didn’t move fast.”  Happy says.  “Any time in
particular?"
     “Let me sort things out with Sheila.  Pick him up around 3?  I don’t want
him missing school, or anything."
     “Alright.”  Happy says.  “Well then I’ll head into the city in an hour and
get some stuff done.  Want me to bring anything back?"
     “Nah.”  Tony says.  “I’m good."
     Happy turns back to his tablet and Tony drains his coffee.  He heads up to
the lodging floors and calls Shiela.
     “Tony.  Nice to see you haven’t forgotten about me.  What do you need?"
     “I’m gonna need you up at the compound today.  And I need you to set up a
presser.  We’re gonna have a new Avenger joining us."
     “Exciting.  Does this mean Spider-Man finally gets the carrot on the end
of the stick?  Or did you hit your head while you were moving and decide to
finally field a call from that Wade Wilson maniac?” 
     “I’d rather kiss Secretary Ross on the mouth.  With tongue.”  He
says.  Sheila makes a gagging sound on the line.   “I’m going to start
mentoring him, you know, keep him out of trouble.  Which means he’s gonna be on
base.  A mentee-Avenger, if you will.  But shhhhh, it’s a surprise, so let’s
keep this very low key.  Like, subterranean low key.  Don’t even hint what the
presser’s about."
     “Got it, Tony.  Also I rescheduled your meeting with Norman Osborn.”  Tony
mutters a ‘shit’ under his breath.  He’d totally forgotten in the
chaos.  “Yeah, what would you do without me?  Die.  Probably.  Let me know when
you’re back in the city and we’ll re-arrange something."
     “Thanks Sheila.  Get yourself a treat, on me.  You wanna take a chopper
in?"
     “You betcha.”  She says.  “I’ll call Lance now and we’ll head over as soon
as I’ve gotten a blow out.  Christ, it would have been nice to know like, at
least yesterday if I was going to be on TV today, Tony.  My nails are
atrocious."
     “Live fast, baby.”  
     “Yeah, die young, fucker."
     She hangs up as Tony rounds the corner to the empty room beside
Vision’s.  It’s bare, utilitarian.  There aren’t even sheets on the bed
yet.  Tony runs a hand down his face, he should probably put a few things in
here.  What would Peter need?  He sits on the edge of the bed and compiles a
mental list, a proper desk, ergonomic chair, a rolling under desk cabinet and
maybe a new computer?  Would he prefer a laptop or a desktop?  Both.  Tony
looks around the room once more and pinches the bridge of his nose.  Maybe he
should have given himself a few days to do this.  
     He drives down to Jersey to go to Ikea to buy some simple furniture and
then pays an exorbitant sum to get it delivered promptly to the compound.  Then
he heads into a computer store and picks out a high end gaming laptop and pre-
built desktop computer.  He doesn’t even flinch when the total exceeds six
thousand, just hands over his credit card and signs.  He’s about to leave the
store with the two giant boxes balanced precariously in his grip when he passes
a cellphone display.  Might as well upgrade Peter’s phone, too. 
     He gets back into the compound just before three, sets himself to building
the furniture in record time.  He even puts the new sheets on the bed—something
he hates doing.  Once everything’s been set up, Tony puts his hands on his hips
and surveys his work.  Sheila had texted him saying the presser was set for
seven thirty, so he has more than enough time to shower, change, and get some
food into him.  He hears a wolf-whistle from behind him.
     “Daddy’s pulled out all the stops!”  Sheila says, stepping into the room
and looking around.  “If this is his gift for Halloween, wonder how you’re
gonna top this at Christmas.” 
     “Please, never, ever, ever call me ‘daddy’ again.”  Tony grates.  Sheila
laughs in his face.
     “Trust me, it hurts me more than it hurts you.  Anyway, I picked out a
nice Sartorio suit and had it taken in this morning, and brought in that Zegna
custom you had waiting for you.  They’re both laid out on your bed."
     “Wow, Mugatu, is there anything you don’t do?  Wait.  Don’t answer that, I
distinctly remember trying to get you to bring me pizza once and I’m still
regretting it”  He waves her off.  “Don’t you have…. things to be doing?"
     “Yep.”  She says as she leaves.  She stops at the door and turns to
Tony.  He thinks he sees a pitying look cross her face for a millisecond before
the mask slips back, looking impassive as ever.  “Also, Pepper called.  She’s
flying in for the presser."
     This catches Tony off guard.  He doesn’t know the last time he was in the
same room as her.
     “Oh… okay”  Is all he offers.  Sheila shrugs and leaves, the sound of her
high heels clicking on the floor echoes behind her.  Tony stands rooted to the
spot for a few minutes.  He needs a shower.  But first, he needs a drink.
 
 
     At four, Tony gets a text message from Happy saying that they’re on the I-
80.  Tony’s anxiety goes into overdrive.  What if this was entirely
premature?  What if Peter hates the new suit?  No, there’s no way Peter’s going
to hate the new suit.  Everything’s going to be fine.  So long as Tony can
think about something—anything else for the next three and a half hours.
     He goes to the bar to fix himself a drink.  He lets his hands dance across
the various bottles that line the backbar, trying to decide what he’s going to
make.  His fingers stop around the neck of a half-finished bottle of Sazerac
whiskey, and he pulls it out along with a bottle of absinthe.  He lets himself
get lost in the task of making himself a cocktail.  Each step receives the
utmost precision, and it keeps his mind occupied while he does it. 
     Once he’s done, he wanders around the main floor of the compound.  The
press are segregated in the lobby, but there’s Stark Industries employees and
interns running back and forth in the halls.  He spots Paul among them, shoots
him a wave and gets a big smile in return.  The kid looks to his superior, who
rolls his eyes and motions for him to go.
     “Hey Mr. Stark!  I was hoping I’d bump into you.”  He says, stumbling over
his words.  “I thought about sending you an email but it just seemed so
impersonal… I just—I wanted to thank you—really—like, from the bottom of my
heart.  Thank you so much, Tony."
     “Hey, kid, honestly, it’s nothing.”  Tony says.  “Really, I did it for
selfish reasons.  Your work, besides the obvious, had some really great post-
apocalyptic applications."
     “Well, then,”  Paul says, taking a bow.  “My post-apocalypse services are
yours."
     Then he straightens up, shakes Tony’s hand, and is back into the
fray.  He’s barely lifted the glass to his mouth when he feels a hand close in
on his shoulder.
     “Charity work?”  It’s Pepper.  Tony turns around to face her, doesn’t lift
his sunglasses.  Old Tony.  Shields up.
     “Hey Pep, couldn’t have called first?"
     “I figured you had enough on your plate and I knew Sheila would tell
you.”  She says simply.  “So what’s this about a new Avenger?"
     Tony’s pettiness gets buried the second Peter is the subject of
conversation.  He feels like he’s showing off a new car.
     “Do you remember that new guy in Berlin?”
     “Not the really big one?"
     “No."
     “Then who?”  She looks genuinely puzzled so Tony brings up some footage on
his phone and shows her, points to Peter running around on the screen.
     “Oh, Red and Blue!"
     “Yeah, that’s Pe—Spider-Man.”  Tony says.  “Anyway he’s the one who kept
the plane from getting robbed.  We’ve been—in touch a bit."
     Pepper regards him for a moment, she looks like she’s trying to parse her
next question.      
     “Pardon my asking,”  She starts.  “But, I couldn’t help notice, he’s kind
of small.  How old is he, exactly?”  Tony hesitates.  He’s not sure if he wants
to tell Pepper the truth.  He knows her well enough to know what her reaction
is going to be.  Not that she won’t find out sooner or later.  She has access
to most of the Stark secure servers as well as the ghost drives.  Not to
mention Peter would at least need to be linked up to some of the biometric
security on the compound.  Might as well tear off the band-aid.  Truth it is.
       “He’s sixteen.”  He watches as Pepper’s eyes go wide as saucers.  It’d
be funny if it weren’t for what usually follows that expression.  Pepper hits
him on the chest.  Hard.
     “Tony!”  She yells—but quietly.  There’s enough people here that she’s
trying not to cause a scene.  “In what world is it ok to recruit—recruit
teenagers!  To fight aliens!"
     “Pep, honest, we were gonna wait till he’s eighteen—“  Tony winces at how
that sounds.  “But the past couple of weeks he really proved to me that he’s
ready for more.  And he’s gonna do it regardless of whether I give him the OK
or not.  At least here I can keep an eye on him, and teach him."
     “Tony, I don’t like this."
     “I know, I wouldn’t have liked it either a week ago.  But trust me on
this.  Hell, it was Happy’s idea."
     “What!"
     “Wait! No!”  He holds up his hands in surrender.  “Don’t quote me on
that!"
     Pepper pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs.  Tony let his gaze linger
while she’s not looking at him.  Her features have softened in the time that
they’ve been apart, but the worry lines in her forehead haven’t.  She’s
freckled more, too.  Maybe she’s finally taken that vacation Tony always harped
on her about.  Pepper looks back up at him.
     “Okay, well, let’s sit down and go over everything—from the start.  I told
Sheila I’d run point for the presser but I’m going in blind.”  Pepper
says.  “I’d like to think my protege could handle it but I don’t like that you
threw her to the sharks."
     “Fair enough.”  Tony says.  He puts a hand on the small of her back and
leads her deeper into the compound, away from the bustle.  They sit across from
each other in the living room and Tony cracks a bottle of chardonnay for the
two of them.  She pulls out a notebook and lets Tony go over everything.  It
takes them right until seven, and then Pepper is up on her feet draining the
last of her wine and excusing herself to go deal with the press.  Tony stays,
waiting for the car to arrive.  He pours the last of the chardonnay into his
own glass and just sits in silence, doing his best to think about nothing but
the taste of the wine as it hits his palette.  He’s doing his best to not
fixate on the fact that he’s about to go live in front of the world to
introduce Spider-Man as an Avenger.  He’s not fixating on the fact that Peter
likely doesn’t even know the purpose of his visit.  He’s not fixating on the
fact that he’s about to undertake a pretty big responsibility in mentoring a
new superhero.  He’s also not fixating on the fact that he’s going to have a
new roommate in the compound.
     Then he realizes he hasn’t even spoken with May.  He had been 100% ready
for the kid to just move into the compound and he hasn’t even spoken to the
kids legal guardian because that’s something you need to do since Peter is a
minor.
     Naturally this sends Tony into a panic.  There’s a sudden buzzing in the
back of his head like a swarm of bees in a jar that just got rattled.  He paces
for a few minutes before heading for the bar and pouring himself a glass of
neat whiskey.  He downs it all too quickly and panics all over again when he
realizes he can’t go talk to Peter smelling like a dive.  The kid looks up to
him, for Christ’s sake.  He runs to his bathroom and brushes his teeth for five
minutes and then gargles with mouthwash until his gums hurt.  His phone chimes
as he spits into the sink.
               Harold Hogan    
                    Hey boss, we’re just downstairs in the 
                    receiving room. 
               7:23pm
     Tony doesn’t respond.  He pockets the phone and wipes his mouth with a
hand towel.  He gives himself a final once-over in the mirror, fixing his hair
into place before he leaves.  Play it cool, Tony thinks.  Just pretend like May
has already said yes and we’ll figure out how to make that happen
afterward.  You’ve got this.  This isn’t Ultron, this isn’t your company
falling apart, you’re not in Afghanistan and the world’s not about to
end.  Play.  It.  Cool.
     Happy and Peter are standing in front of the window watching one of the
planes take off as Tony approaches them.  He hears Happy murmur something to
Peter which he takes as his opportunity to make his presence known.  He drops
his sunglasses down on his face and sticks his hands in his pockets.
     “Oh!  There they are!”  He says.  Both of them turn to look at him.  When
his gaze finally settles on Peter, the buzzing in the back of his head quiets
to a low hum.  It draws an honest smile from him.
     “How was the ride up?”  He asks.  Peter just blinks up at him
nervously.  Happy didn’t say anything to him on the drive, then.  He searches
Peter’s face.  Despite Tony not finding the silence awkward, apparently it goes
on for too long.
     “Good.”  Happy answers in Peter’s stead.
     “Give me a minute with the kid?”  Tony asks, finally breaking eye contact
with Peter and looking at Happy.  He gets an incredulous stare in return.
     “Seriously?”  Tony just smiles.  He knows that it’ll grate on Happy’s
nerves.  Happy, despite pretending not to be, is extremely nosy.  
     “Yeah.  I gotta talk to the kid.”  Happy’s eyes narrow at this.  He knows
exactly what game Tony is playing.
     “I’ll be close behind.”  He says.
     “How about a loose follow?”  Tony replies.  He pats Happy on the shoulder,
just to be a little more condescending.  “Boundaries are good."
     Then he goes over to where Peter is standing, still looking halfway
between confused and awestruck by the entire thing.  Tony forgets that they’ve
only ever been in each others company four times before now.  They’ve spoken
directly only slightly more than that.  It’s weird, looking at Peter now, that
Tony feels like he’s known him for longer, more intimately.  He should feel
guilty about how invasive that is, conceptually, but he can’t find it in
himself to care.  In this moment, Tony can consolidate the Peter that he sees
with the one he’s gotten to know through so many voicemails and text messages.
     He gives the boy a playful punch, can’t hide the excitement on his
face.  Tony has to bite his lip to keep from smiling too widely.  Peter still
looks no less confused, so Tony slides an arm around his shoulders.  He feels
the boy jump a little at the contact.  Peter’s back grows tense so Tony gives
him a reassuring squeeze.
     “I’m sorry I took your suit.”  He says.   At this Peter finally looks up
at him.  He seems surprised that Tony would even apologize.  “I mean, you had
it coming."
     Peter still doesn’t offer a response,  his eyes flicking every which
way.  It’s so different from the defiant boy that had gotten in his face back
on Governor’s Island.  In fact, every time Peter had been so fiery there had
been the suit as a proxy.  Tony’s struck with the sudden realization that he—as
a person—makes Peter nervous.
     “Actually, It turns out it was the perfect sort of tough-love moment that
you needed, right?”  He says jokingly, trying to lighten the mood.  He wants
Peter to relax.  They haven’t even gotten to the press conference yet and he’s
drawn tight like a bow string.  Tony turns back to him.  “To urge you on,
right?  Don’t you think?"
     “Mr. Stark”  Peter tries.  But Tony is intent on filling the space, he’s
overcome with the need to talk.  There’s no space for Peter to apologize.
 There’s no need for it.  Tony has to get his pitch out.  It’s an old nervous
habit of his.  Talk enough and you don’t have time to feel nervous at all.
     “Let’s just say it was” 
     “Mr. Stark—I really—"
     “You screwed the pooch.  Hard.  Big time.”  Tony says.  He leads Peter
toward the elevator.  He continues rambling on.   “But then you did the right
thing, took the dog to the free clinic, you raised the hybrid
puppies—“  Yikes.  “Alright, not my best analogy."
     He turns back to Peter, looking into his face.  He wants Peter to know
this, and he wants to be able to free himself from the guilt he’s been feeling
ever since he blew up after the Staten Island Ferry incident.
     “I was wrong about you.”  He says.  Peter’s face softens, and Tony feels
his shoulders relax beneath his hands.
     “I think with a little more mentoring, you’d be a real asset to the
team.”  Tony finishes.  He lets go of Peter, guides him to the other side as he
steps up into the elevator lobby.  Peter hangs back a step behind Tony, no
doubt digesting the information.
     “To—to—to the ‘team’?”  He stutters.  Tony should probably slow down, let
the kid process, but then again Tony was never good at slowing things down.  He
puts a hand back on Peter’s shoulder, points to the door.
     “Yeah,”  He says, patently ignoring the bewildered expression on Peter’s
face.  “Anyway there’s about fifty reporters behind that door.  Real ones.  Not
bloggers.”  He taps the Stark-watch on his wrist, the elevator opens to reveal
the Iron-Spider suit, fitted onto a 3D-Print of Peter’s wireframe.  Tony takes
a second to admire his work.  It looks even better outside of the harsh
lighting of the lab, stretched across an actual form and lit properly.  He
hopes Peter loves it.
     “When you’re ready,”  He says, taking a few steps towards it.  “Why don’t
you try that on, and I’ll introduce the world to the newest official member of
The Avengers: Spider-Man."
     He turns to gauge Peter’s expression.  There’s an absolutely dumbstruck
look on his face, as if Christmas had just come early and Tony had given him a
basket full of puppies.   Peter struggles to formulate a sentence.  What comes
out instead is something between words and a nervous laugh.  Peter looks at him
for a moment, his face open and thankful and excited.  It makes Tony feel like
he’s flying.  He pinches the skin of his wrist to keep himself grounded.
     “Yeah, give that a look.”  Tony says, to get the attention off of him.  He
shouldn’t be feeling this giddy, but he’ll make a hundred more suits for Peter
just to chase the feeling.
     Peter walks up to the display, stares for a few moments.  He reaches out
his hand to touch but then draws it back.  Tony’s already turning
away,  needing to fill the space with noise again.  There’s too much going on
in his head.
     “So after the press conference, Happy will show you to your room.  Your
new quarters.”  He plays stupid.  “Where is he?  He’s between who?  Beside
Vision?”  Happy laughs.  
     “Yeah Vision’s not big on doors."
     “It’s fun.”  Tony says.
     “Or walls."
     “You’ll fit right in."
     Peter doesn’t turn around at first.  He lingers in front of the Iron-
Spider suit, swaying a little on the balls of his feet.  Tony waits until he
turns around to face him.  His face looks resolute, just like it had weeks ago
when Peter had asserted he was going to take down the Vulture.  Peter spares
one last glance at the suit before meeting Tony’s gaze.
     “Thank you Mr. Stark.”  He says.  “But I’m—I’m good."
     Tony feels time come to a complete stop.  A sitcom record scratch plays in
his head.  
     “You’re good?”  He asks.  He doesn’t understand.  Is he
misunderstanding?  “Good?  How are you good?"
     “I mean—I mean I’d rather just stay on the ground for a little
while.  Friendly neighborhood Spider-man?”  He doesn’t take his eyes off
Tony's.  “Somebody’s gotta look out for the little guy, right?"
     It’s a cheap shot, using Tony’s own words against him.  There’s fifteen
different emotions swirling through Tony’s body at once and he’s struggling to
process them.  His ego is the first one to win.  He tears off his sunglasses.
     “You’re turning me down?”  He asks, incredulous.  Tony had been afraid
that the reason this wouldn’t work out would be due to May.  He didn’t count on
Peter telling him ‘no’.
     “You’d better think about this.  Look at that”  He says.  He turns
to point at the suit and Peter’s gaze follows.  “Look at me.”  Peter’s focus
snaps back.  Tony figures if he really puts the pressure on, Peter will
cave.  Wasn’t this all he’d wanted a few weeks ago?  To be an Avenger?  And
here Tony is, offering it to him.  On a silver platter.
     “Last chance.  Yes or no?”  The words are barely out of his mouth before
Peter responds.
     “No."
     In all honesty, it hurts.  Tony feels actual, tangible pain.  The
satisfaction, the warmth he’d felt at showing Peter the suit fizzles away into
something dark and angry.  He covers it up the best way he knows
how.  Impassive humor.
     “Okay. It’s—It’s kind of a Springsteen working-class hero vibe—that I
dig.”  He turns to Happy, still at a loss for words but pulling them out
regardless.  “Uh, Happy will take you home, yeah?"
     Happy steps up, his facial expression saying it all.  
     “Yeah,”  He points behind him, vaguely in the direction of the
driveway.  “Mind waiting in the car?  I need a minute."
     Peter turns back to Tony one last time, his face is soft and open.  
     “Thank you, Mr. Stark.”  He says.  Tony feels guilty for being upset about
this.  Peter looks so relieved.  It’s absolutely the better, more mature
choice—but Tony still feels wounded.  He can’t keep it entirely out of his
voice despite his best efforts.
     “Yes, Mr. Parker, very well.”  He sticks out his hand, and Peter shakes
it.  His grip is warm, firm but restrained.  Tony imagines how long it took for
Peter to adjust to his new strength, to learn not to push too hard lest he
break something.  Part of Tony wishes he’d break something now, at least
physical pain has a logic to it.   He looks back up into Peter’s eyes.
 They’re wide and bright.
     “See you around.”  Peter says.
     “OK.” 
     Tony looks back at the elevator where the suit is displayed.   He hears
Peter leave, make an excited clapping noise before he’s off through
the receiving room.  Tony can’t stand the sight of the suit so he slaps his
watch and lets the suit descend back to the lab level.  As the doors close he
hears Peter, calling to him from the receiving room.
     “This was a test, right?  There's nobody back there?”  Tony tries not to
visibly balk as he turns around.  Yes, there are a lot of people back
there.  Expecting something important.  Something important that is not
actually happening.  He keeps his face as reticent as possible.
     “Yes.”  Tony says, clasping his hands tightly behind his back.  “You
passed.”  He’s about to have an absolute SNAFU on his hands and he has to
figure it out fast.  Not only that but he has to let Peter think that there's
no actual press conference.  He doesn’t want to make the kid feel guilty for
saying no—for making the mature decision—even if it wounded Tony’s ego.  He
needs a minute to figure out his contingency plan and he can’t do that if Peter
is here.  Tony can’t think when Peter is here.  He waves him off.
     “Alright, skedaddle there, young buck!"
     “Thank you, Mr. Stark!  Thank you!”
     “Yeah, thank you!”  Tony responds, though part of him is still
not entirely sure what just happened.  He looks back at Happy who has a sort of
smug expression on his face.
     “Told you he’s a good kid."
     Tony nods in agreeance.  He watches as Peter rounds the corner and is out
the doors heading to the car with a small smile on his face.  Despite the part
of him that’s hurt at being told ‘no’, another part of Tony is proud.  Peter
had taken what Tony had said to heart.  Even though he’d been right in the end
and Tony had been wrong, Peter had still taken it as a learning experience.  It
makes Tony feel warm—accomplished?  He lets himself soak in the feeling until
the sound of reporters shakes him back into reality.  
     “Where’s the kid?”  Pepper says as she comes into the room.
     “He left.”  Happy says.  There’s an edge of amusement in his voice.  It’s
karmic payback for Tony sassing him earlier.
     “Everybody’s waiting!”  She cries.  Tony finally turns to look at her.
     “You know what?”  He says, keeping his voice as calm as possible.  If
Pepper is freaking out he needs to maintain his cool.  A situation where the
both of them are freaking out is like tossing thermite onto a fire.   “He made
a very mature choice.  It just surprised the heck out of us."
     “Did you guys screw this up?”  She says.  Her face is unamused but some of
the tension has left it.  He points at Happy.
     “He told the kid to go wait in the car?"
     “Are you kidding me?”  She says fixing her gaze on Happy, then back to
Tony.  “I have a room full of people in there waiting for some big
announcement.  What am I gonna tell them?"
     “Think of something… how about… “  She cuts him off before he can even
throw out a suggestion.
     “I think I can think of something.  Without your help.  You got me into
this mess.”  She’s already turned back to the door.  Tony moves to follow her.
     “Let me get the door for you?”  He says. 
     “I got it.”  She tells him, but he’s right on her tail and into the throng
of reporters.  Sheila is already off to the side behind the podium, and at
Pepper’s expression and Tony’s distinct lack of company, gives them a
questioning look.  Pepper goes up to her, hisses an update into her
ear.  Then she shoots Tony a smug grin and a thumbs up.  Tony makes a mental
note to make sure that Pepper and Sheila are never allowed in the same room
together again.  
     It’s already well past seven, the reporters are waiting.  Pepper starts to
move, but first she turns back to Tony.
     “You owe me, big time.”  She says.  And then she’s taking the podium and
addressing the crowd.  Tony lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and
thanks his lucky stars that Pepper was here to manage.  He doesn’t know how
good Sheila’s bull-shitting is just yet.
     Later that evening, the four of them are sitting around the dining room
table over their fifth bottle of wine.  Pepper and Happy have teamed up to
regale Sheila with some of the horror stories of Tony’s pre-Iron-Man
days.  He’s feeling good enough that it doesn’t even upset or embarrass
him.  He lets himself be the subject of mockery and enjoys every second of
laughter it pulls out of his friends.  The company he’s with seems to erase the
days stresses.  It’s soothing his bruised ego, quelling the flurry of emotions
he’d felt earlier.  It keeps his mind off of the image of Peter’s mouth forming
around the word ‘no’.
     After midnight, he asks Pepper if she wants to stay the night.  In a guest
room.  She kisses him on the cheek.
     “No, Tony.”  She says.  “Thank you.  I have some meetings tomorrow morning
so I should really be back in LA sometime tonight."
     “Of course.  Duty calls."
     She gives him a soft look, places her hand on his shoulder.
     “Despite it being a disaster, thank you for making today a nice
memory.”  She says.  “Our last one together wasn’t.”  He gives her a genuine
smile back.
     “Don’t be a stranger, Pep."
     “I won’t."
 
 
 
     Tony stands outside and watches as Pepper’s private jet grows smaller into
the distance.  As it fades into the night sky, he’s hit with the sudden,
crushing realization that an important chapter in his life has finally
closed.  It’s not book-marked, or dog-eared for later.  He won’t revisit it the
same way again.  That part of his life, and everything it meant to him, is
done.  It’s a closure Tony hadn’t realized was missing until he’d found it.
     As he turns to walk back into the compound, Tony lets himself be soothed
by the thought of—perhaps one day—a new chapter beginning. 
Chapter End Notes
     God everyone's been saying so many nice things and I love all of you
     <3333
     Thanks for all of your patience with the slower updates/slow ass
     progression...
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
     The next morning Tony puts the Iron-Spider suit into the biometrics vault.
It goes into a far corner. Tony spends a good half hour stacking boxes and
racks in front of it, obscuring it from view as much as possible. The suit will
sit there, maybe for two years till Peter turns eighteen and can officially
sign the accords to become an Avenger. Or perhaps it will never get worn, and
Tony will make a new suit down the line. Either way, he can’t bear to part with
it, but he can’t quite stand to look at it. He figures the vault is the best
home for it. Out of sight, out of mind.
     Tony goes back into Manhattan on the weekend, packs his car as full as he
can with extra lab equipment he’d ordered. On his final trip to the lab he
remembers Peter’s Spider-Suit—the v01—lying in a drawer after he’d confiscated
it. Tony takes it, too. Maybe that’s the best way to apologize.
 
 
 
     It’s eleven am. This is perhaps simultaneously the earliest and latest
hour that Tony has ever questioned his sanity.
     He’s driving into Queens with the v01 suit in a paper bag on his passenger
side seat. He’s wondering why the hell pre-coffee Tony thought it was better to
drive into the borough himself instead of sending it over with a courier. He
takes a long pull of his cashew-milk cappuccino hoping it will bring him
clarity.
     The only thing that’s clear so far is that he loathes city driving. It’s
slow, people are stupid, and if you’re not from a particular neighborhood
there’s always weird streets that break all the one-way rules that Manhattan
sticks to. By the time he’s turning onto Peter’s street—after his GPS gave him
a shitty, roundabout way insisting gridlock on Queens Boulevard—he’s ready to
throw his coffee at the next person to cut him off.
     He sits in the car for a few minutes, finishing his cappuccino and mulling
over whether he should still go up there or just turn around and courier it
after all. Normally, that's the way Tony does things. He isn’t really hands on
when it concerns anything other than lab work. One of the perks of being rich
is that you can pay someone else to do basically any task you don’t feel like
doing yourself. For Tony that’s almost everything. He has more important things
to apply his mind to.
     So why the hell did he just spend over an hour fighting New York City
traffic to drop off a damn suit?
     He crumples the now-empty coffee cup in his hand and squeezes it into the
cup holder. Somehow the task keeps him from answering that question. Part of
him is sure it’s because he doesn’t like uncertainty—that he wouldn’t be able
to answer the question anyway. Another part of him is scared that there is a
clear answer and he just doesn’t want to hear it. He pushes the cup down more,
so that the entire thing as compressed like a crude accordion. The sound of the
plastic lid snapping from the pressure makes enough racket to empty his brain.
Before he can dwell on it any longer, he grabs the paper bag off the seat and
exits the car.
     He stands outside of Peter’s front door for what seems like an eternity.
It’s a Sunday, so there’s a good chance that he could be home. But there’s also
the distinct chance that neither of them are home. Could they be at church? Is
Peter a God-fearing boy? Or had he lost that when the sky tore open and another
world spilled out of it, like so many others had. Tony tries to picture the
face Peter will make when he gets the suit back instead. It wakes him up.
     Tony brings his hand to the door, finally, and gives it three sharp
knocks. There’s a dull thud from inside and then May is pulling the door open.
It stops violently, though, the chain lock holding fast.
     “Shit! Hang on!” She yelps, slamming it in Tony’s face. He can hear the
metal of the chain lock sliding free and she opens the door again. She looks
shocked for a moment at seeing Tony, but the look quickly fades. She pushes her
glasses up her nose and puts her hands on her hips.
     “Mr. Stark, fancy seeing you here. I was under the impression you were no
longer working with Peter?"
     What did peter tell her about the internship? Tony thinks. Did he tell her
I gave him the boot? Did he tell her it was my fault? Am I the bad guy?The last
question gives Tony pause, because he can’t definitively say that he isn’t. He
feels his fist crumple the bag slightly. He avoids the question, not wanting
for Peter to get caught in a lie.
     “I was just in town and—“ Tony cranes his neck a little to get a better
view inside the apartment, hoping that Peter is around, or maybe just wakes up
late. May notices, not that Tony is trying hard to hide it.
     “Peter’s out right now,” She says. “You were just in town and…?” Tony’s
gaze snaps back to hers.
     “Where is he?” Tony starts. “—it doesn’t matter. Nevermind. Peter left
something. In the lab. I was just back in town and figured I should return it
to him.” He holds the bag up.
     May gives him a scrutinizing look for a moment. She might have been
threatening if she wasn’t five foot two and dressed like an extra from Dazed
and Confused. After a moment she steps to the side and Tony comes in.
     “Could I trouble you for a pen, or marker?” Tony asks.
     “Of course.” May says. She pads into another room down the hall and
returns with a sharpie. Tony tries to think of what to write while he uncaps
the pen. He could write something about how proud he is of Peter’s choice. He
could write something sarcastic, aloof, in his signature Tony Stark style. None
of it seems right. Tony decides on brevity. He settles for writing ‘This
belongs to you —TS’ in his clean, engineer’s script. He scribbles his personal
cell number on the inside lip of the bag, then folds it over.
     “Would I be able to put this in his room—“ Tony starts. He realizes it’s
invasive. “Or you could—you know, and I'll just—“ May seems to take pity on
him.
     “Sure. You know which door it is.” And then she’s disappearing back into
the kitchen.
     Tony walks down the short hall and pushes Peter’s door open gently, as if
Peter could be inside and he’s afraid to startle him. Inside is a sort of
organized chaos, but an unfamiliar one. Peter’s room has been totally redone,
new (second-hand) furniture, everything rearranged. Tony looks around for a
moment, but only a moment. Then he places the bag gingerly onto Peter’s bed and
leaves.
     On his way out he stops by the door and looks over the half-wall where May
is cutting something. The rhythmic rattling of the knife’s movement hitting the
cutting board, which in turn rocks where the wood has warped, sounds like the
seconds ticking on a clock. It’s a crude reminder of just how much time Tony
has dedicated to this task. This task that he could have easily designated to
literally anyone else. You’re losing your mind, Tony. He thinks. This has to be
your mid-life crisis. Your second one. Or third.
“Thank you, May.” He says. “I’ll be taking my leave now. Have a wonderful day."
     May looks up at him. The clattering sound stops for a moment. It feels
like time stops with it.
     “Of course, Mr. Stark.” She says. “Drive safe.” and then she’s turning
back to her dicing and Tony is turning out the door.
 
 
 
     Tony hates it when ‘friends’ of his stop through town and bully him into
meeting up. Tony is normally a master of excuses, but that comes from having
been the CEO of a multi-billion dollar corporation. Other CEOs are equally
qualified in the fine art of bullshitting. There’s rarely opportunity to weasel
out of it unless both parties are secretly hoping to cancel.
     It’s how Tony finds himself at Bohemian on his third whisky. Gan Hao-wei,
a friend from his party days, is sat across him half-way through a story about
some illegal back room gambling turned shoot-out in Macau. The truth is, Tony
couldn’t possibly care less. There was a time in his life where it was almost a
competition, these ridiculous tales amongst high ranking executives. When money
means nothing to you, priceless experiences become the only way to out-do each
other. Tony realizes that fighting aliens in a flying tin-man outfit alongside
other outlandishly qualified individuals has raised the bar to impossible
heights. He wonders if Gan Hao-wei knows this. He wonders if Gan Hao-wei has
ever knocked on deaths door. Wonders if he’s ever felt a quarter of the guilt
that Tony felt when he nearly destroyed the world trying to forge a legacy.
     The sound of ‘Black Dog' blaring over his phone speakers interrupts the
story. Tony looks at the screen and sees Peter’s name. If Gan Hao-wei is
affronted by the disruption, he doesn’t show it. Tony throws him an apologetic
look.
     “I have to take this,” He says. “I’ll be back.” Gan Hao-wei just waves him
off, already pulling his own phone out of his pocket.
“It’s fine. Business before pleasure."
     Tony nearly runs out of the restaurant. His pace turns a few heads but
he’s outside and into the alley quickly enough that he can pick up on the fifth
ring. He’s expecting an excited thank you from Peter, punctuated by his
trademark stuttering. What he gets instead is miles from that.
     “M-Mr. Stark?” Comes the frantic voice on the other side of the line. He
thinks he can hear a kettle going off in the background.
     “Speaking?"
     “H-h-ey, it’s—it’s Peter. Um, could you—could you talk to Aunt May? Sh-she
saw me wearing the Halloween costume you made me and sh-she doesn’t believe me.
But maybe she’ll listen to you.” The kettle goes off again, except this time
the kettle is forming words. Holy shit. Tony thinks. She saw him wearing the
suit. Peter, you had one job! Tony is suddenly exceptionally thankful that the
restaurant is situated in a hidden alleyway with little to no foot traffic.
     “Yeah, Peter, put her on.” He says.
     “Th-thanks Mr. Stark” Peter says. And then there’s some more muffled
arguing and May takes the phone. Tony has to hold it away from his ear to
mitigate the volume.
     “TONY STARK!” She screams. “How dare you have my sweet nephew doing—doing
superhero chores for you! He is sixteen years old! Do you have zero shame?
Could you not find someone that’s at least an adult?! I feel like I need to
call the police, this has to be illegal! This is some kind of—coercion!"
     “May—“ He tries. “May please, listen?”
     “Give me one good reason!"
     “Because the suit isn’t real, May. It looks real, but it isn’t. It’s a
fake. It’s a really, really good replica.” Tony’s tone is firm, and it seems to
be enough that May concedes. He puts on his best bullshitting hat.
     “Look, Peter mentioned—in passing once—that he really wanted to be Spider-
Man for Halloween. But you can’t really buy that off the rack. He’s too new.
Too…. local. He said the special order ones cost too much. So, you know, after
we got into our…” Tony pauses, trying to find a way to parse it. “disagreement,
I felt bad. But here’s the thing, I’m not the apology type. I don’t like it.
It’s like pulling teeth. I’d rather throw hard work and money at it. So that’s
what I did. I made Peter that costume with all the bells and whistles because I
suck at saying ’sorry’. We only ever work in the lab. And on, you know, safe
stuff. Kid friendly. Maybe a few shocks. Nothing he can’t handle. It might as
well be wood-shop."
     He hears May let out a resigned sigh. Tony feels his stomach churn at the
bold-faced lie. Peter has gotten into harms way on Tony’s watch far too many
times.
     “Look, if you want me to pick up the suit, I can. This wouldn’t be the
first time someone’s parents didn’t approve of my life choices.” He offers.
     “No, no. It’s alright.” She says. “It’s just—Peter and I lost his Uncle
Ben not even a year ago and it’s been really difficult for us both. I can’t
bear the thought of losing Peter, too. Maybe it’s made me a bit over
protective."
     Tony bites on the inside of his cheek. Peter had never mentioned his Uncle
Ben, let alone losing him so recently. Part of Tony’s heart bleeds, and the
other swells. Peter is so strong for everyone around him. He puts on a brave
face when he’s around others, pushes the hurt down. Tony wonders if Peter has
anyone to talk to. He makes note to let Peter know that he's is there for him,
any time, to talk and to listen. Beyond that, he’ll also ask if Peter would
like to see a therapist. That option is always on the table, too.
     “I’m so sorry to hear that, May. Peter never said anything—"
     “Yeah, my sweet boy does his best to stay strong. He’s a good kid."
     “I know. It’s why he has the internship. There’s no one else I’d rather
have in the lab with me.”
     May makes a confused ‘hmmm’ sound.
     “Has?"
     “Well, I may have—overreacted.” Tony says. “The internship is his if he’ll
still have it. And you—you know—sign off on it."
     “I mean, you’ll make sure he stays safe?” She says.
     “Of course, May. Scouts honor.” Lies, lies, lies.
     “Well, then it’s up to him. Let me put him back on the line.” Tony hears
more muffled talking and then Peter is back on the phone.
     “Uh, May says you have some important news for me?"
     “Yeah, the internship is yours, Peter, if you want it. For real this time.
Actual lab work.” Peter makes an adorable squeaking sound on the other side of
the line, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing.
     “Y-y-you! W-w-what! Seriously, Mr. Stark?! For real? I-I-I can—I can work
in your lab with you?” He hesitates. We’re both in the lie, now. “Again?"
     “Yep. I’d want to iron things out with May first, though. Mind putting her
back on? I love phone juggling."
     “Of-of course!” Peter says. Tony loves that Peter can never keep his
excitement out of his voice. “Thanks Mr. Stark, really, thank you so much!"
     “My pleasure, Mr. Parker.” Then May is back on the line.
     “May, I know that we haven’t been very transparent about the internship in
the past, so I’d like to rectify that. Is there a day for you to meet this
week? We can have a sit down and go over what the schedule would be like."
     They spend the next few minutes hashing out a time for May to come by the
penthouse and discuss the arrangement. Tony wants to show her the SoHo lab so
she can get a better idea of the compound’s lab and see where Peter will be
working. He wants to make sure she feels one hundred percent comfortable. When
they finally get off the phone it’s been about twenty minutes and Gan Hao-wei
is stepping out into the alley.
     “You know, it’s very rude to abandon your guest for so long.” He says. “I
got the bill, but we’re going to go to Soho house and you’re going to cover the
tab there. And I plan on getting very, very drunk tonight."
     Tony can’t say no. They get to Soho house before six o’clock, and at
first, Tony thinks it may be an early night. The problem is, he forgot how
crazy Gan Hao-wei is. Tony loses track of how many shots he’s done by nine
o'clock. They eat, and drink, and some of their mutual friends who are in New
York join in on the festivities. In the end, he and Gan Hao-wei close out the
bar.
     Tony is in the back of a cab heading home just after 4am. He’s completely
shit-faced and has his head pressed against the cool glass window in an effort
to ground himself. He pulls out his phone and types out a text, very slowly and
very methodically. Tony’s not sure why he feels compelled to say
something—anything—to Peter right now, but his impulse control is about as shot
as his liver.
               Me
                    Hey Peter. I can’t wait for you to come
                    see the lab. Looking forward to working
                    with you. In a sciencey capacity.
               4:18 am
     He hits send without thinking about it and then closes his eyes. He
doesn’t remember the rest of the ride, or even getting into bed. When Tony
wakes up his head is splitting. F.R.I.D.A.Y. tells him that he’s got a bunch of
text messages, but there’s only one he cares about. He picks his phone off his
bedside table and unlocks the screen, ignoring everything that isn’t word from
Peter.
               Peter Parker
                    Me too, Mr. Stark! If I knew when we
                    were starting I'd be crossing the days
                    off on my calendar. Thanks again for
                    dealing with May yesterday I know that
                    was probably really annoying and
                    you’re probably so busy but I really
                    appreciate it so much.
                    See you really soon!
                    - P
               7:02am
     Tony reads the text over a few times and smiles, then puts his face back
into the pillow and falls asleep.
 
 
 
     The week ends up being really busy and Tony is thankful he and May don’t
meet till Thursday afternoon. He bangs out a bunch of meetings with the city
and some potential sub-contractors. In between it all he manages to finish
setting up the penthouse lab. By the time May is buzzing up to the penthouse,
Tony is exhausted. He ushers her inside and offers her a seat around the fire
place which is burning lazily in the center of the living room.
     “Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Beer? Cocktail? Water? Kombucha?
Whatever you’d like. I’ll have you know, I’m a killer bartender. Learned
everything from the masters down in New Orleans. I even remember half of it."
     “Actually, I wouldn’t mind a beer? Something light?” She asks. Tony’s
already behind the bar.
     “Pilsner okay?” He asks.
     “Sure, thank you.” May says. Tony grabs two bottles from the fridge,
cracks them and joins May in the living room. She regards the label as Tony
passes it to her.
     “Brooklyn?” She asks. “I’ve never tried beer from Brooklyn.” She takes a
small sip.
     “Not bad.” May concedes. Tony takes a long pull himself and puts the
bottle on the table.
     “I try to stay local.” He says. “So, let’s talk details about this
internship. I know you’ve had some concerns?"
     “Yes, Mr. Stark—"
     “Tony, please."
     “Ok, well, Tony,” She starts. She picks nervously at the beer label. “I
know Peter’s grades started to slip a little bit this year. It’s very out of
character for him to not focus on his school work. There’s that, and he’s been
sneaking out a lot at night. It’s not normal, you know? I’m not comfortable
with it."
     “Fair enough.” Tony says. "I’m not comfortable with that either. I was
under the impression that Peter was disclosing where he was going.” Lies, lies,
lies.
     "Would it be better if I had a driver on days Peter wanted to come work
with me in the lab during the week? And I’m more than happy to keep on his ass
about his school work. As important as this internship will be for Peter’s
future, it might as well go in the garbage if his grades are crap."
     May nods along. He sees her back straighten a bit, as if Tony is talking
some sense. He realizes that May had come in here fully expecting an argument.
Tony hates to think that he comes of as unreasonable, but he can understand why
she’d think that. He hasn’t exactly handled Peter’s post-Berlin shenanigans in
the most thought-out way. Trying to stay hands-off after an event that big
might have missed the mark. Peter is only sixteen, he’s going to react to
things a little differently than an adult might.
     “So here is what I was thinking.” He says. “Peter comes up with me to the
compound on weekends. I’ll have him picked up after school and dropped off
Sunday evenings—in time for dinner? During the week he can come work in the
labs here whenever he feels like. Weekday lab work will be contingent on good
grades. If that GPA slips, we can cut back on the weekday sessions."
     May is nodding along, looking thoughtful but not angry. It’s encouraging
so Tony continues.
     "If it continues to slip further we'll suspend the weekend trips until he
brings it up. I’ll also set up a stipend for Peter in exchange for his work.
Part of that can go towards his ESA. Though I’m sure he’ll get a full ride with
how bright he is. I’d also like part of that stipend to go into your accounts,
since Peter is still only sixteen I’d be more comfortable with you managing the
bulk of money. Does that all sound fair?” Tony watches several expressions move
over May’s face. He knows what’s coming next.
     “This ‘stipend’ will be entirely reasonable, yes?” She asks. There’s a
layer of guilt woven into the words. Tony can’t say he knows what it’s like to
turn things down, because he’s always had things, but he’s seen the look enough
times. He knows how to identify people who are uncomfortable with just being
given money. He knows that she wants to argue it, put her foot down, but won’t
because she doesn’t want to come off as impolite. He knows that she’s
struggling to accept it, too, because just accepting money also feels impolite
to her. But Tony could throw half a million dollars at her and his stock
portfolio would make it back in a day if the market cooperates. Money is no
object to him. He wishes she’d understand that.
     “Yes, May, I’ll make sure it’s on the low side of industry standard. For
the type of work Peter is doing. Which is very specialized. So in that
context—yes it will be reasonable."
     May makes an uncomfortable face but just nods. She takes another sip of
her beer.
     “Will I be able to see any of what Peter is working on, or is it
confidential? I can’t say I understand everything he does, but I’d still like
to know."
     Tony jumps up at this.
     “May! Of course! I mean, there’ll be some stuff that’s uh, probably
sensitive, but anything we can show you I’m happy to share! Want to come see
the lab I have here? And then sometime after Peter starts we can have you up at
the compound on a Sunday. We’ll do the full tour. Maybe we can stop in wine
country for brunch. Upstate is our oyster. Come with me."
     He ushers May downstairs into the old part of the building where a
previous, massive living space has been completely co-opted by a lab.
Aesthetically, Tony loves it. It’s only about a fifth of the size of the lab on
the compound but the contrast between the historic SoHo interior space with all
of the high-tech, modern equipment is jarring and beautiful. It’s also a lot
brighter than the compound lab. The windows let a lot of natural light in, and
after the entire room had been gutted to install a radiation barrier, Tony had
it painted white to open the space up.
     He and May spend the next two hours talking about the equipment, what
kinds of things Peter will likely be working on and what things Tony plans to
teach him. If May doesn’t understand something, she’s not afraid to ask Tony to
explain it further. It’s something he recognizes in Peter, the veneer of
timidness that lives overtop of a drive and confidence. It makes Tony smile.
     By seven, they’re shaking hands on it and setting a start date. May thanks
him, tells him how much she looks forward to Peter working with him. He walks
her down to the street level and insists on sending her home in a car. She
argues half heartedly until the sleek black car has pulled up and Tony has the
door open. When Tony is back upstairs he pulls his phone out of his pocket.
               Me
                    I think I’ve got May in our corner.
                    We set the start date for the second
                    weekend of November so if you’ve got
                    any important plans I hope you’ll
                    cancel them. I know you have no
                    problem blowing me off.
               7:10 pm
     He’d kept the rest of his evening open so he could unwind, so Tony grabs
himself another beer and orders some takeout. He’s already posted up on the
couch watching the Rangers game when Peter responds.
               Peter Parker
                    I wouldn’t dream of it Mr. Stark!
               7:18 pm
               Peter Parker
                    I can finally put a date in my calendar though!
               7:18 pm
               Peter Parker
                    Do I need to buy or bring anything with me?
               7:18 pm
     Tony stops paying attention to the television. The sound of the goal horn
going off might as well be as loud as a feather hitting the floor. Tony types a
text out.
               Me
                    I have everything covered. Just bring
                    that brilliant brain of yours and whatever
                    you’ll need to last the weekend. There’s a
                    little surprise for you waiting at the
                    compound. Hope you’ll like it.
               7:19 pm
     Tony finds that he suddenly can’t wait to show Peter the labs. He can’t
wait to get some solid work done. He grabs his tablet off of the table and
starts making notes of what he wants to work on with Peter, and what things
he’d like to teach him. He makes a note to go over what gaps Peter has in his
knowledge so he can fill them. Suddenly the next two weeks seem like an
eternity. Tony knows he’s being dramatic but he can’t think of anything he’s
looking forward to more. It’ll be the most engaging lab time he’ll have spent
since Bruce disappeared two years ago.
     Then he’s fixated on the fact that Peter still hadn’t seen his new room at
the compound. Nor had he seen the new computers, the new cellphone that he’d be
getting. Tony feels giddy imagining Peter’s face when he realizes all of the
new tech he’ll get. He’s deep into his daydreams when his phone pings again.
               Peter Parker
                    Oh no! Now I really can’t wait. Why can’t we
                    start sooner?
               7:30 pm
               Peter Parker
                    I’m gonna go crazy! What’s the surprise!
               7:30 pm
     Tony can’t help the smile on his face. He feels stupid but at least he’s
alone in the apartment.
               Me
                    If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise now,
                    would it?
               7:31 pm
               Peter Parker
                    :( :( :(
               7:31 pm
               Me
                    Puppy dog eyes won’t work on me, Parker. You'll
                    have to wait. ;)
               7:31 pm
               Peter Parker
                    It was worth a shot! I have to do some
                    homework now so my phone’s going away
                    but I just want to say thank you again and
                    I really can’t wait!
               7:32 pm
     There’s nothing else for Tony to say, so he pockets his phone. It’s
surprise that there’s a tinge of disappointment at the conversation being cut
short but he doesn’t dwell on it Tony doesn’t spend a lot of time texting as it
is but there’s something about it that reminds him of his days on IRC channels
during the infancy of the internet. It fills him with a sort of nostalgia that
is hard to chase in his modern world of either cutting edge technology or
friends who are technologically challenged.
     He watches the rest of the game with his head in the clouds. Tony’s a
loyal New York sports fan, but he can’t seem to find it in him to care when his
team wins.
Chapter End Notes
     Sorry for the delay... the chapters started getting longer around the
     same time my life got busier. Yikes! But not as much Yikes! as Tony's
     about to deal with.
***** Chapter 9 *****
     “Tony, you should really consider a therapist for this."
     “You know I’d rather drag my balls through glass. I hate therapists."
     “You hate them. And yet, somehow, you definitely need one."
     “I’m fine. Honestly."
     “No you’re not. You just called me at four am, freaking out because you
actually have to follow through on this mentorship thing you decided you were
going to undertake. You are not fine, Tony. I mean, you’re never fine, but
you’re extra not fine now."
     “Sheila, you know, when I called, all I was really looking for was a ‘You
can do this, Tony!'. It’s not that hard."
     “When have I ever been that kind of assistant?"
     “In my dreams."
     “Yeah it’s gonna stay that way.” Sheila sighs. "Tony, take a Valium, go
back to sleep, and chill out. Seriously, I’m pretty sure you’re that kid's
idol, you could probably punch him in the face and he’d tell all his friends it
was awesome. Go. To. Sleep."
     “But—"
     The dial tone hums in Tony’s ear. He hasn’t slept in over fifty hours and
nothing he’s done has been able to get his head to stop buzzing. He doesn’t
even know why he’d called Sheila. It’d been a desperate attempt at a
distraction which she was clearly in no mood to entertain. Tony’s run out of
options and the nervous jitters are starting to drive him insane.
     He goes back to the bowels of the lab. He’s rearranged everything six
times hoping that it was clean and orderly enough. Tony’s not a messy person by
nature, but sometimes in the throes of tinkering he can get a bit disorganized.
He hasn’t done any work this week fearing that the lab fall into any hint of
disarray. It’s precisely that lack of quality lab time that has thrown Tony
into such a frenzy. It's his therapy. Getting covered in grease, soot and
scorch marks is his bread and butter. It’s the only way he knows how to stay
grounded. Without it he’s adrift in the orbit of his own neuroses. He looks for
something to fix, to straighten out, to clean, but there’s nothing.
     Tony decides—against all better judgement—to take Sheila’s advice. He
hasn’t taken any prescription drugs in months. He’d originally wanted it to
stay that way, but he also knows that going on two and a half days of no-sleep
on the first day of the mentor-ship is likely to backfire. Tony wants to be at
his best. He wants to start off on the right foot.
     He’s never mentored anyone before, and he’s never even been mentored
himself. Not really. The idea of being responsible for the development of a
highly intelligent, wonderful kid is weighing on him. Tony is used to doing
things properly from the outset. He’s never had to dabble in things he isn’t
good at, his wealth allows him outsource the work. On one hand it means his
confidence has maintained itself to a point where he’s supremely cocky. On the
other, it means that said confidence is crumbling in the face of having to do
something that he’s not even sure he’s good at.
     He takes two Valium, a shot of whiskey and goes to lie down in his bed.
Eventually the buzzing fades and he falls into a dark, dreamless sleep.
 
 
 
     “Mr. Stark. Tony. Tony. Wake up.” F.R.I.D.A.Y. says. Tony’s eyes are caked
in sleep and his head is throbbing. He rubs at his eyes.
     “What time is it F.R.I.D.A.Y.?"
     “Half past seven pm, Mr. Stark. I’ve let Mr. Parker in. He’s in the living
room watching television."
     Tony jolts out of bed. Peter would have gotten here at six thirty at the
absolute latest. He must have been waiting for so long already.
     “Why didn’t you wake me up earlier?!"
     “Mr. Stark, I’ve been trying for over an hour now. It would appear the
Valium and rest were much needed."
     Tony scrubs a hand over his face. He’d been so preoccupied with making a
good impression in his first stint as a mentor and he’s already fucked it up.
Poor Peter has likely been twiddling his thumbs for the past hour and a half
waiting to do some actual science and Tony’s been drugged out and drooling into
his pillow. He slips into a suit and splashes some water on his face. Tony’s
never had any issues being fashionably late, so at least it’s enough in his
nature that he can just play it off. Hopefully Peter isn’t too upset with him.
     “F.R.I.D.A.Y. what did you tell Peter?"
     “I told him that you were out and would return soon.” She says.
     “Thank god I programmed you to lie. J.A.R.V.I.S. would have just
embarrassed me.” Tony says. “Tell Peter I just got in."
     Tony makes his way to the living room. The buzzing at the back of his
skull has wrapped around to his temples and he just knows he’s going to be
struggling with a headache for the rest of the day. He can’t help but berate
himself on his way. Even the simple task of being awake to greet his mentee was
too much for him to deal with. You’re the kids hero and you’re doing a piss
poor job of it. He seethes. All you had to do was wake the fuck up. The
creeping anxiety is enough that Tony briefly considers medicating some more. He
knows there’s some Ativan in the workshop and he could easily bypass the living
room to grab some on his way.
     His feet don’t take him that way, though. He’s lost enough in his own
thoughts that he doesn’t realize that he’s in the living room until Peter is
standing to greet him. Tony’s eyes meet Peter’s across the space.
     The buzzing, the pressure, the ache, they all stop. Tony has a thousand
words on the tip of his tongue. He has a cool excuse, a sarcastic quip, a
smooth line to soothe the hurt Peter probably feels for being made to wait on
his first day of the internship. They all melt away, disappear, as Tony’s
tongue turns to lead in his mouth. They both stand, twelve feet apart, staring,
until finally Peter moves toward him.
     “H-h-hey Mr. Stark.” He says, sticking out his hand. “Sorry, I guess I was
early, I hope I didn’t interrupt anything. Or, you know, drag you away from
important business."
     Tony clasps Peter’s soft, warm hand in his own. Peter’s fingers are slim,
delicate, like a pianists. Tony wonders if the roughness of his own callouses
bother Peter. He wonders if Peter’s hands will turn rough like his after months
in the lab.
     “Not at all, Mr. Parker.” Tony says. “I’m terribly sorry to have made you
wait. Are you hungry? Should I order food? Then I can show you to your room so
you can get settled?"
     Peter nods, turns around to grab his bag.
     “Sushi okay?” Tony asks.
     “Y-y-eah Mr. Stark, I’m not picky!” Peter says, hiking his weekend bag up
over his shoulder. “I’ll eat pretty much anything."
     Tony offers up a smile and taps away the order through an app. He gets
what he and Rhodey usually order whenever Rhodey stays over on the compound,
figuring it’ll be enough for the two of them. He pockets his phone and waves
over to Peter.
     “Alright, if you’ll follow me? Also don’t be surprised if Vision pops
through some kind of impermeable surface. He has a bad habit of it."
     “You’ve already warned me,” Peter laughs. “But I appreciate it."
     Tony leads them towards the residence floor. He pauses outside of Peter’s
room, turning to him.
     “So. That surprise I was talking about? It’s this room, and everything in
it. Yours. What that means is that this compound is also a second home now. Mi
casa es tambien su casa. You never have to ask to come here, okay? And any of
the stuff in there you wanna take home to Queens with you? Go for it.” Tony
says. Peter nods mutely, eyes wide and curious. Tony can’t wait any longer so
he turns the knob and swings the door open, letting Peter inside.
     Tony stands by the door. He wishes he could see Peter’s face as he takes
the space in, but he also doesn’t want to step over the moment. Peter’s body
language is the same as when he’d seen the Iron Spider suit. It’s reverent,
hesitant and yet open with wonderment. From where Tony stands he can see
Peter’s head swiveling around, dancing over every surface to take it all in.
It’s at least twice the size of Peter’s room back in his apartment, and much
more modern. Tony sees him start when his eyes fall onto the computers set up
on the desk, and Peter immediately turns to Tony.
     “Are—these are for me?!” Peter asks. A dusting of pink is dancing across
his cheekbones and his eyes are glittering in the light. Tony just nods, a
small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth and a coiling warmth sitting in
his belly. He watches as Peter sits at the desk, opens up the laptop and lets
his fingers run gently over the keys.
     “H-h-holy! Mr. Stark is this—is this—an Alienware?! And the desktop, too?”
Peter says turning to Tony, “Mr. Stark, I really can’t accept this. This
is—this is too much."
     Tony walks over to where he’s sitting, paces a hand on Peter’s shoulder.
     “It’s the least I could do, you know, after taking your suit."
     He turns to the desktop, too, and admires the huge screen, the glowing
blue tower and drags his hands across the mechanical keyboard Tony had custom
ordered from Japan. Tony can’t say he cares for any of the people he knows that
would even appreciate details like that. It makes him happy to know that of all
the types of people Peter could have been, that this is it. Peter is one of
Tony’s people. It’s not so much that Tony sees himself in Peter, but he sees
the person he could have been if his youth hadn’t been so fucked up. If he’d
gotten the love and support from his father, maybe he could have been as good
of a person as Peter.
     Peter finally turns to the small box on the desk and opens it. Inside is a
brand new smartphone. Tony made sure to pick one out with the highest
resolution camera and Peter is immediately fawning over it. He powers it on and
before it can even fully boot Tony finds himself with an armful of teenager.
Peter’s arms circle around his middle and squeeze—almost too tightly. Tony lets
out a small wheeze at the force.
     “Mr. Stark—I can’t—I don’t even—where do I start?” He says into Tony’s
chest. Tony can feel his warm breath through his shirt. “This is so amazing, I
don’t know what I did to deserve this but thank you. Thank you so much."
     Tony thinks something must have suddenly gotten in his left eye because it
starts to water. To distract himself form it he takes his arms from his side
and slowly curls them around Peter’s shoulders, returning the hug. They stay
like that for a few moments, Tony letting himself be thanked by his new charge.
Eventually Peter pulls back and offers Tony a sheepish smile.
     “Guess we’re there now, huh?"
 
 
 
     They eat dinner in front of the television, which plays the evening news
on mute. It’s a bit awkward, Peter still feels shy around Tony and it’s pretty
obvious. Tony tries to steer most of the conversation, flitting between
prospective projects for them to work on and complaints about how little there
is surrounding the compound. It’s meant to keep things light but Peter’s
responses just seem to get more stilted as the time passes. Eventually Tony has
to get up and get a drink. He’s not used to dealing with people who can’t hold
their own in conversation. He pours himself a bourbon—this time making sure to
put ice to keep himself from chugging it like a degenerate.
     “Hey, Webs! You want a soda or something?” Tony calls from the bar.
Peter’s head shoots up, but his mouth is full so he just nods. Tony grabs a
sprite from the fridge and pads back to the couch.
     He un-mutes the television and lets the sound play through the living room
while Peter continues to stuff his face. Tony hadn’t been extremely hungry and
it turns out to be for the better. Apparently making Peter wait so long had
really wet his appetite. Tony splits is attention between the TV and Peter. By
the time he’s done some late night sitcom has started and everything on the
table has been consumed.
     Tony doesn’t try to force the conversation again, but he can see Peter in
his peripherals, fidgeting like he has something to say. His willpower lasts a
whole three minutes before his curiosity wins out.
     “Spit it out, Parker.” He says, still looking at the TV.
     Peter squirms. Tony finally turns to him and gives him a look. He arches
an eyebrow.
     “I—I’m sorryaboutthepressconferenceIthoughtyouweren’tbeingseriousaboutit.”
The words whoosh out in a single, mumbled breath. Tony’s not sure he got the
gist of it. Is this what he thinks it’s about?
     “Again? This time, let’s go for more than a single, record-breakingly long
word."
     Peter looks like he’s about to cry. That same expression that he’d had on
top of Governor’s Island—eyes wet and lower lip trembling—is painted across his
face. Tony realizes that Peter thinks something is going to be taken away from
him. Peter thinks that Tony has his hands on either end of the rug and any
second he’s going to yank as hard as he can.
     “Mr. Stark—I—I’m so sorry. I really thought you were teasing—I must look
so stupid. M-my friend showed me the press conference a few days ago and I—I
had no idea. I’ll understand if you want to cancel the internship Mr. Stark,
or—I don’t know—I thought you were bringing me here to—to yell at me but you’ve
been so nice—"
     Tony frowns. It’s been weeks since the presser. He’d put the entire thing
behind him, hadn’t expected Peter to even realize that it’d been a thing. He
wonders how long this has been plaguing Peter’s conscience.
     “Peter, seriously, it’s fine.” Tony says, resting a hand on Peter’s
shoulder. Peter is still looking at his lap. “Look at me."
     Peter’s wet eyes hesitantly meet his. Tony’s heart breaks. He never wants
to be the one to put that expression on Peter’s face again.
     “Peter, you made a responsible choice.” Tony says. “Even though I was
wrong, you made a mature, responsible decision. I want you to know that even if
it hurt my pride for a second, that I’m proud of you. Besides, we had Pepper on
site for a reason. She’s great in a pinch. Don’t beat yourself up for making a
tough call like that. Really, it was impressive. I didn’t have that kind of
responsibility when I was your age."
     “It’s funny you keep saying that word.” Peter whispers.
“‘Responsibility’."
     “Oh? Why is that?"
     Peter's blinking rapidly like he doesn’t want the tears in his eyes to
spill over. If you’d asked Tony how his day would have gone, he doesn’t think
he’d be telling himself ‘oh I fell into a drug induced coma, abandoned my
mentee and then almost made him cry’. But here they are, sitting beside each
other on the couch having an emotional moment. Tony watches as Peter rubs his
eyes with his shirt sleeves.
     “You know, when I was a kid, after my parents left, my Uncle had this—this
mantra.” Peter says. He’s looking at his lap again. “I—I still don’t know why
my parents left but Ben always said it was for a reason. That my dad had
something important to do and it was within his power to do it. I was—I was
really angry at them for a long time. I thought: what could be so important
that they left their only son behind? And every time I would throw a fit about
it, Uncle Ben would always tell me, ‘with great power comes great
responsibility’. And when he was alive I thought it was so stupid. It didn’t
even make sense. It would make me so angry when he said it. But then, after I
got bitten, and” Peter gestures to himself. “All this happened, and I saw Ben
die right in front of me—it all just—it just made sense. In that moment."
     Peter stops. He looks up at Tony with one eye, the other hidden behind his
shirt sleeve as he rubs it again.
     “Whatever reason my dad left for, he knew something bad was going to
happen and it was in his power to stop it. And it meant he had to leave me
behind, it meant he had to make a huge sacrifice. But it was his responsibility
to do something. To stand up for what was right. I wish it didn’t take my Uncle
dying for me to see that, but I’m going to spend every day for the rest of my
life reminding myself of the sacrifice my parents made. And I’ll never stop
reminding myself of Ben’s words. When you took the suit from me, after I’d made
that mistake on the boat—I realized I hadn’t been living up to them. I put
people in danger because I wanted to impress you. And then you took the suit
away from me and I had to remind myself that I had a great power, and it was
not only my responsibility to stop bad people from doing bad things, but also
to protect innocent people at the same time."
     Tony tightens his grip on Peter’s shoulder. There’s that same coiling
guilt that’s pressing against the back of his throat and his tongue feels like
a dead weight in his mouth. As much as Tony thinks his youth was fucked up,
it’s clear Peter hasn’t had an easy go of it, either. Tony wasn’t there when
his parents died. He didn’t even see it happen until a few months ago. Peter
was right there when his uncle was killed. He saw the whole thing happen
through innocent, sixteen year old eyes. Tony can’t imagine the pain and the
grief Peter must have felt. He’s lost two father figures in his short life—not
just one.
     “And, you know, I was really mad at you for a bit, too. And scared. When
Mr. Toomes collapsed that building on top of me, I was so, so scared. And so
angry. I just remember being buried under this concrete, and there was water
dripping on me and so much dust. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t breathe. And all I
was so mad because I thought if you’d just let me have that stupid suit I might
not be trapped. I thought I was going to die under there. I was going to die
and all I could think about was how I was going to die before I’d even gotten a
chance to live and it was all going to be because you took the stupid suit away
from me. I was so mad, Mr. Stark.”
     “Peter—wait—what do you mean a building—"
     “It doesn’t matter."
     “Yes, Peter, it does."
     “When I went to confront Mr. Toomes that night--he used his—his big wing
turbines to break the support columns for an old industrial building and—well
it fell on me. Like—all of it."
     “Peter! What! I—"
     “It’s okay.” Peter cuts him off. He meets Tony’s gaze again and there’s
that same burning look that Tony has learned to associate with Peter. It’s the
signature Parker ferocity. He has no idea how Peter can sit on this couch right
now and not want to murder him. Not completely resent him for putting him in
harms way. “Honestly, it wasn’t even your fault. I was really scared and I
guess that overrode the rational part of my brain. But then I saw my
reflection, and I remembered your words. You told me that if I was nothing
without the suit then I shouldn’t have it. And it sounded like something Ben
would have said to me, too. I had this power before I met you, and I’d have it
whether you took the suit or not. And it was my responsibility to stop Mr.
Toomes from robbing that plane because I know that if he had gotten his hands
on what was inside, a lot of people were going to get hurt. Besides,” Peter
offers a lop-sided grin. “I’m Spider-Man. I can stop a three thousand pound car
with my bare hands."
     Tony can’t smile back. He’s too horrified. Peter had gotten crushed
beneath a building, had thought he was going to die because Tony felt he needed
to teach him a lesson. That ‘lesson’ nearly ended up with Peter’s blood all
over his hands. Tony’s hand drops from Peter’s shoulder, his throat tightens
and the air in the room seems to squeeze itself out. Tony had almost let Peter
die. He can feel himself start to hyperventilate. The image of Peter’s broken
body lying in the wreckage comes back to him, more vividly than it had been in
his dream. Instead of the v01 suit tattered in pieces, it’s Peter’s home-made
onesie hanging in strips off Peter’s torso. This time instead of staring
lifelessly past him, Peter grabs him by the fabric of his chest. His eyes are
still glassy, and with his dying breath he tells Tony: you did this.
     Tony knows an anxiety attack when he sees one, so he shoots up off the
couch and walks mechanically to the bar. When he’s there he drops down to the
floor and leans back against one of the wine fridges, letting the cool glass
press through his shirt. He leans his head back against it, too, so that the
gentle thrum of the motor vibrates against his skull. He can hear Peter calling
him but it sounds a million miles away. He tries to focus on breathing but it’s
hard to do much of anything over the sound of blood rushing in his ears.
     When he opens his eyes again Peter is squatting down in front of him with
a cool water bottle in his hands. His eyebrows are knit upwards in concern.
     “Mr. Stark do you—do you get panic attacks?” He asks. “I-I mean, that’s
none of my business. Are you okay? Do you want some water?"
     Tony nods and takes the water bottle from Peter and cracks it open,
downing half of it in record time. He leans his head back against the fridge
and closes his eyes.
     “I’d say let’s go tour the lab.” Tony says once his breathing’s evened
out. “But with how much of a disaster today’s been so far I feel like we should
leave it for tomorrow."
     When Tony’s finally settled they say their goodnights and separate. Both
of them are pretty drained and Peter can’t stop yawning. It’s an early night by
Tony’s standards but he figures he’ll need the rest to be sharp for their first
day in the lab.
 
 
 
     Tony wakes up in the morning and beelines straight for the kitchen to make
his coffee. F.R.I.D.A.Y. lets him know that Peter’s still sleeping and Tony
figures he’ll leave him. He remembers his own sleep schedule in his teens being
fairly excessive. Besides, Peter’s had a taxing month. There’s nothing pressing
to get to. Not today.
     What Tony doesn’t count on when he reaches the kitchen is Maria standing
over the Keurig making herself a coffee. Generally she sticks to the secondary
compound building which houses Dr. Cho’s lab and the infirmary, as well as a
communications hub and some additional housing. They’ve got their own kitchen
and spread of coffee machines so it’s rare for him to see her in the main
building. She turns to greet him when she hears him enter.
     “Morning, Tony.” She says. She jabs a thumb at the coffee machine. “Ours
is down. Hope you don’t mind me stealing yours for now."
     “All good, but tell me you put in an order for a new one."
     “Of course.” She says. “F.R.I.D.A.Y. said you have someone new in on base?
Should I set the biometrics up for them?” Tony hums.
     “Yeah he’s gonna be around a lot. If you have time later today to get that
done it’d be great."
     “Anything for you, Tony” She says haughtily. There’s a crooked smirk on
her face as she stirs some butter into her coffee. “Heard from Ross or the
subcommittee lately?"
     Just then, Peter pads into the kitchen. He’s wearing an oversized t-shirt
and some loose flannel pants and rubbing his eyes. Tony’s surprised when his
eyes follow the line of Peter’s clavicle where it slips out from beneath the
stretched out collar. He catches himself looking and turns back around. Maria’s
got the mug up to her mouth but she’s quirking an eyebrow at Tony. There’s a
brief moment of panic, thinks he’s gotten caught doing something
unintentionally terrible, until he realizes she’s waiting for an introduction.
     “Right.” He says. “Underoos, this is Maria Hill. Maria, Underoos."
     Peter stops in his tracks when he sees her. His gaze flicks between the
two of them a few times. He lets out a cough but steps forward to shake her
hand regardless.
     “Peter. Peter Parker, I’m—I’m, uh, Mr. Stark’s new intern.” He says.
     “Mentee, really,” Tony says. “Happy wrangles the interns."
     He watches as Maria shakes Peters hand and offers him a warm smile.
     “Welcome to the compound, Peter.” She says. “I’d say I’ll see you around
but I’m usually in the other building and I have a feeling Tony’s gonna keep
you chained to the lab. Speaking of which, I need to get back to work."
     She tosses Tony another look as she passes him, and then she’s gone. When
he turns around Peter is shuffling awkwardly behind the counter.
     “She’s uh—really pretty.” Peter says. Tony realizes what it must have
looked like and lets out a laugh.
     “Woah kid, hold your horses. Me and Maria have a work-only relationship.”
He says. “Pretty sure if I even made a pass at her she’s snap my neck. I’m not
entirely sure she’s not a replicant."
     “A what?” Peter asks, looking confused.
     “Wait, really? You’re a nerd, and you don’t know what a—never mind.” Tony
pinches the bridge of his nose. "You’re gonna be Cap all over again with all my
references, aren’t you? Actually, don’t answer that."
 
 
 
     An hour and a half later, fresh, fed and showered, Tony takes Peter into
the lab.
     The space is huge, bright and open with high ceilings. Peter’s eyes are
wide as he takes it all in. Tony gives him the grand tour, guiding him around
the space with his hand on the small of Peter’s back. Peter seems impressed by
it all, but he lingers at the chemistry workspace. Tony had gotten it stocked
up in the past few weeks and dedicated a little extra room for it, knowing
Peter’s apparent penchant for adhesive production. He figures he might squeeze
a patent or two out of the kid. It’s worth the investment.
     Peter’s naturally inquisitive so it doesn’t take long for him to start
asking questions and trying out equipment. He gets particularly excited about
the textile loom and begs Tony for a demonstration of the giant vacuum chamber
that acts as a barrier for the last third of the lab. Tony doesn’t indulge him
but he does let Peter throw wrenches at the reinforced alumino-silicate glass
as hard as he can.
     They’re standing in the garage, fawning over the current stock of cars
when Peter finally spots it.
     “What’s that?” Peter asks, pointing upwards where a perfect circular white
ring about a foot in diameter is fixed to the ceiling.
     “That, Peter, is a particle collider.” Tony says. “After one saved my life
I thought it would be good to keep one around."
     Peter’s eyes go wide as saucers. Tony knows immediately that Peter is
going to want to run it. He’d better nip that in the bud.
     “Ah, nope. No. Absolutely not. Especially not without adequate protection.
But no. No way."
     Peter’s face falls for only a second.
     “OK, fine,” Peter relents. “But if we can’t run the collider, I want you
to let me drive the Daytona around the lot."
     Somehow, Tony already feels like he’s going to regret this mentor-ship.
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
     By the time the first specks of snow are touching the ground, Tony and
Peter have fallen into a rhythm.
     Though he’s up at the compound most weekends, during the week, Peter still
does his patrols.  He takes advantage of Tony’s fleet of driverless cars and
calls them in when he comes and goes to give May the illusion of a chaperone.
 Peter’s started giving reports to Tony directly.  Though with Tony they
tend to be more succinct and irregular rather than a rambling mess like with
Happy.  It reminds him of the fact that Peter still finds him intimidating.
 He’d thought it wouldn’t be as bad after Peter witnessed him have a full on
meltdown, but apparently the phrase ‘never meet your idols’ is a crock of shit
to him.
     The weekdays start to drag.  As much as he loves New York City, he finds
himself running a countdown for his return upstate.  Business has been
good—great, even—which means Sheila’s been earning her paychecks navigating
Tony’s schedule.  He’s had so many meetings in the past month that the days all
blend together.  There’s a Wednesday afternoon where he’s finally able to
reschedule the long-overdue meeting with Norman Osborn.  Standard procedure
dictates meeting over drinks at one of Manhattan’s elite bars, but Norman’s
also got his hands full so he invites Tony over to the tower's penthouse and
laughs that he can judge whether his interior decorator is worth the price tag.
     Tony’s on the couch in the old living room while Norman’s stepped away to
field a call.  After giving it a good once-over, Tony can definitively say that
the interior decorator is not worth the price tag.  He briefly considers
passing along his own decorator’s info when he gets a text message.
               Peter Parker
                   Hey okay, so get this I had this idea.
               1:15 pm
               Peter Parker
                   But like it’s gonna take some serious
                    finagling from both of us and I need to
                    use your textile loom.
               1:15 pm
                Peter Parker
                    I mean if that’s OK???
               1:15 pm
                Peter Parker
                    That was way bossier than I wanted
                    it to sound...
               1:15 pm
     Tony can’t help but laugh.  One thing he’s learned about Peter is that the
best way to get him out of his shell is get him going on something he’s excited
about.  There’s a definite shyness that he still struggles with but the second
there’s a challenge in the lab Peter completely transforms.  It’s been good for
Tony, he’s needed someone to bounce ideas off of while he works, and Peter’s
been fantastic at offering different approaches to roadblocks.  The amount of
work he’s saved Tony alone is worth free use of the textile loom.
               Me
                   You know, Parker, being bossy is how
                   you get what you want.
               1:16 pm
                Me
                   I’m excited to hear about what this idea
                   of yours is.
               1:16 pm
                Me
                   In fact, I don’t want to wait till the weekend
                   want to come to the penthouse for dinner?
                    After school?
               1:17 pm
               Peter Parker
                    Yeah!  Sounds good!  Text me the address?
               1:17 pm
     There, something to look forward to later in the day.  He sends Peter the
address and then calls Sheila to reschedule his four o’clock.  He’s only half
listening to Norman’s proposal for the rest of their meeting.
 
 
 
     Tony’s sitting at the kitchen’s breakfast bar finally getting around to
responding to some urgent e-mails Sheila insisted he send himself.  He’s got a
best of Charlie Parker vinyl playing to try and channel some calm energy into
his words.  If there’s one thing Tony hates in this life more than being handed
things and lying by omission, it’s having to send e-mails.  He takes a sip of
his beer as he tries to find a way to parse his discontent with one of the
start-ups he’d angel invested in without sounding too mean.  When it comes to
working with millennials, he knows he has to toe the line between being firm
and being ‘chill’.  They have a tendency to freak out easily, but also fall
behind on deliveries if they aren’t properly motivated.  It’s a pain in the ass
to deal with, but god-dammit, Tony wants this product and he wants it soon.
     He’s finally hit send when F.R.I.D.A.Y. chimes to tell him Peter’s in
the elevator.  Tony tells her to let him up and drains his beer as he stands.
     When the doors open, Peter steps out and drops his bag off to the side.
 He’s soaked through, water dripping out of his hair and down onto his face.
 Despite how wet and cold he is, he’s grinning from ear to ear.
     “Hey Mr. Stark!”  He says.  “Shoes on or off?"
     “Off.”  Tony says walking over to him.  He moves behind Peter as he’s
toeing his sneakers off and grabs at the lapels of his jean jacket to slip it
off.  “You’re soaked, I'll grab something dry for you to change into.  Did you
walk or something?  Why didn’t you call a car over?”  Peter just shrugs.
     Tony folds the jacket into the crook of his elbow and tosses it into the
dryer on his way to his room.  When he gets into his dresser he pulls the
bottom drawer where he keeps all the stuff he doesn’t wear.  He grabs matching
track pants and a crew neck that shrank a size or two in the wash and swings by
the linen cupboard for a fresh towel on his way back.  Peter’s got his arms
crossed and he’s leaning over one of the side tables looking at a photograph.
     “Ah, the Formula 1 car.”  Tony says as he approaches.  Peter straightens
up to accept the towel and clothes.
     “Is that—is that Happy’s face on the side?”  Peter asks.  He starts drying
his face but doesn’t take his eyes off the photo.
     “Yup.  Sponsored a car one year for his birthday and had them put a
fathead of him on the side." Tony replies.  “If you’re not embarrassing your
friends, are they even your friends?"  Then he’s pointing down the hall.
     “Restroom’s first door on the left.  There’s a scary looking dryer in
there you can pop your stuff into, F.R.I.D.A.Y. will run it for you.”  Peter
nods and walks off in the direction of the lavatory.
     Tony grabs himself another beer and goes to sit in the living room while
he waits.  He taps in an order for dinner and fires off a text to Rhodey asking
when he’s free next.  Peter comes back into the room towel drying his hair.
 The clothes Tony’s given him are too large and Peter’s rolled the cuffs of the
pants up to just below his knee.
     “Thanks a lot, Mr. Stark.”  Peter says from underneath the fluffy towel.
 His hair is sticking up in twenty different directions and it’s patently
adorable.  Tony bites his cheek.  Peter sits down on the couch just opposite
him and looks at the currently-off fire pit as if trying to discern it’s
purpose.  
     “F.R.I.D.A.Y. wanna warm things up a bit for us please?”  Tony asks.
     “Of course.”  She says in response.  The fire pit suddenly comes to life
and big flames lick up from between the small white stones.  Peter jumps.
     “W-Woah!  I was not expecting that.”  Peter says leaning closer to the
flames.  “That is so cool."
     “So, Peter, what was this idea you had?”  Tony asks, leaning back and
sipping his beer.  “I had to cancel a meeting for this so—"
     “Oh!  You didn’t have to!  I was just thinking about the suit, and like,
I’ve been low-key obsessed with your textile loom, like I keep thinking about
the crazy shit you can probably make with it—"
     “OK, and?"
     “Well I’m—I’m on the verge of this compound.  It’s like—I mean it’s non-
Newtonian—so this will sound crazy—but—well—I also got it to become a solid?
 And it could potentially be weaved into a textile.  I wanted to bounce some
ideas off you.  B-but if my hypothesis is correct it means I could get hit
really hard and shot and stuff and the suit would go rigid under the stressors
without me having to sacrifice mobility."
     “Shit, Parker, that is good.  You got any notations I can look at?"
     Peter’s nodding and jumping to his feet to go to where he’d left his bag
by the door.  Tony watches him as he goes.  He moves with all the grace of a
dancer, his footfalls are light and silent against the concrete floor.  As
Peter squats and leans over to rifle in his bag the soft jersey of the crewneck
and track pants pull taught over him.  Tony’s eyes automatically trace the line
of his spine downwards until he realizes exactly where his eyes end up.  He
turns abruptly back to the fireplace and takes a long pull of his beer.
     Tony's lost in the flicker of the flames and jumps a little when Peter
vaults over the back of the couch to land beside him.  Peter splits his
notebook open at the seam, flattens the pages halfway through to a
cluttered jumble of formulae and hastily scribbled notes.  His fingers are
dancing over the diagrams as he talks, almost too fast to keep up with.  Tony
nods along with everything but he’s not sure he’s entirely listening.  The
feeling of Peter’s body pressed so close to his clawing his attention away.   
  
     “And so my issue right now is that I can get the compound to reach
the amorphous solid state, but I can’t get it to sustain that state.  It keeps
lapsing back into a fluid after a few hours and I don’t know how to stop the
decay.”  Peter’s saying.  He looks back up at Tony for a moment and they’re so
close that Tony could count every eyelash if he wanted.  Every freckle that’s
painted across the bridge of his nose is so clearly in focus.  Tony’s eyes drag
down his face to where Peter’s mouth is still moving, but so red where he’s
kept working his lip over it to combat the dry winter air.
     As he tracks the movement, a reality he's been denying for months creeps
up on him.  Despite all his efforts otherwise.  He’s been doing a great job in
convincing himself that his over-protectiveness towards Peter comes from a
fatherly place—an obligation to protect someone younger and more vulnerable
than he.  But that line of reasoning is completely off course if the sudden
desire to work his tongue into Peter’s mouth, push him down onto the couch, is
anything to go by.
     Sitting here, confronted with the infallible truth of why he’s been so
drawn to Peter makes his stomach roll.  Peter, oblivious to Tony’s inner
turmoil, pushes on, something about super-heating or super-cooling, Tony’s not
sure.  He lets Peter talk like that, but Tony takes his right leg and crosses
it over his left, desperate for a little space between them.  For all of
Peter’s good qualities, his kindness, his virtue, his incredible brightness and
curiosity, Tony’s admiration has come a step too far over the line.  It's
finally passed over what could be deemed as acceptable.  Though it's explained
all of Tony's irrationality since August. It makes sense of his anger, his
outbursts, his impulsiveness.  Things he'd all been pegging solely on being
angry at Steve.  Angry at Steve when he wasn't even angry at all.
     After Peter has left, Tony makes a phone call to one of his old drinking
buddies.  There’s a fifty fifty chance he’s in town, but Tony needs to be doing
something, anything to keep his mind empty.  A night of drunken debauchery is
likely as good as it’ll get.  He stands by the window looking out over the
darkening skyline as the phone rings.  Tony wonders absently what the fuck he’s
gonna do if there isn’t an answer.  He’s about to give up when, like a
lifeline, the call connects.
     That night Tony gets obliterated.  He does something he hasn’t done in a
long time and picks up.  He wakes up alone, but the left side of his bed is
rumpled and smells like perfume.  His stomach feels like it could upturn at any
moment.
     “F.R.I.D.A.Y. can you—can you get the maid service in today.  I need my
sheets changed.”  He says, throwing his arm over his eyes.  “And where’s the
closest greasy spoon to here, I’m dying."
 
 
 
     “Okay, okay stand back this time, if this one’s volatile too I’m not
sending you home in a bunch of tiny body bags."
     “Don’t be dramatic!  It was just a few small burn marks! They're already
gone!"
     “Peter, I made a promise to your aunt.  I’m a man of my word.  But also
I’m slightly terrified of her."
     Peter laughs, but he does as he’s told and steps back a few feet to give
clearance.  As soon as he does Tony’s loosening the tongs in his hand and
rushing back to where Peter’s standing.  They’re both peering curiously through
their goggles to see what happens, but the beaker just gives a halfhearted
fizzle.  They wait a few seconds in case of a delayed reaction and then Tony’s
navigating Peter back to the table to get a look.  Peter grabs one of the glass
stirring rods off the counter and pops it into the beaker to test the give of
its contents.
     “Okay—so it looks like this one's taking on the non-Newtonian behaviors so
that’s better than test forty two.”  Peter turns to where Dum-E is holding a
camera.  He holds the beaker in the robot’s direction.  “Test forty three at
least a partial success."
     "I’m gonna go try super-heating this and I’ll lay a few strands out to see
if they decay or not.”  Peter says.  He’s got the beaker in his hands and is
walking backwards to the counter-space he’s co-opted for himself.  It’s
distinguishable from every other surface in the lab in that it’s an absolute
disaster.  Peter’s incredibly smart, but he’s not organized.  "You gonna work
on the Miura?  It’s been a while."
     Tony pulls his goggles off and tosses them haphazardly on the counter.
 “Yeah, might as well.”  He says.  He’s been putting off working on the car and
Peter knows it.  Cheeky. 
     “Cool.  I’ll come help out as soon as I’m done."
     Tony pulls his henley off so he’s only wearing a wife beater.  As he walks
over to the car he tosses it over one of the stools.  The back of the car is
popped open and there’s still loose engine parts spilling out from where he’d
left them last time he’d worked on it.  He could start from there, but he feels
like having an extra set of hands would make it go faster.  Tony uses his foot
to edge the creeper out from under the car and lowers himself onto it.
 The brake lines need to be reconnected and it’s a quick job, so by the time
he’s done Peter should be as well.
     “F.R.I.D.A.Y can we get some CCR going?”  Tony yells before he rolls
himself under the Miura.  By now Peter’s been privy to at least one of Tony’s
impromptu rock-out sessions so he’s not even embarrassed as he clatters his
wrench against the metal of the car in time with the drums.  By the second time
the chorus of ‘It ain’t me’s has come on, Tony’s sure he can hear Peter singing
along across the lab, too.  It makes him think about how far Peter’s come in
just a short while.  That first weekend of real lab work, Peter had mocked
Tony’s taste in music.
     “Wow, dad rock?  Really?”  He’d laughed.  “Do I need to put you in a
retirement home, old man?”  Tony had acted shocked for a moment, before putting
Peter in a headlock and ruffling his hair.  They grappled like that for a bit,
and for a moment Tony thought he’d been ‘winning’.  But with Peter’s enhanced
strength, he could have easily thrown Tony off of him.  So naturally, knowing
that Peter wasn’t going to fight back in earnest, Tony just crushed his head
farther into his ribs.  When he finally let go Peter was laughing breathlessly,
pink in the face and eyes sparkling with mischief.  God, he’s so cute.  Tony
had thought.  Like a frickin' puppy.
     Tony’s about to lay the last part of the line into place when his creeper
gets rolled violently out from under the car, himself with it.  It scares the
ever loving shit out of him so he drops his wrench as he goes and it clatters
loudly to the floor while there’s a break in the music.  When he’s out Peter’s
standing over him, a foot on either side of the creeper, and by proxy, Tony.
     “Done under there?"
     “I was almost.”  Tony says, pretending to be affronted.  He’s trying not
to focus on the thought of what would happen if Peter were to drop himself
down.  “Now I’ve gotta start all over again."
     “Yeah, Mr. Stark, I’m sure you do.”  Peter’s rolling his eyes.
     “When did you get so sassy?  Youth these days, no respect.  Why don’t you
make yourself useful and get the rolling toolbox by the Aston Martin over here.
 We’re gonna finish up with the engine once I finish with this last bit of
brake line."
     “Sure thing.”  Peter says.  He takes his foot and puts it square on Tony’s
chest, just over where the Arc Reactor used to sit.  Tony only gets a moment to
follow the line of Peter’s leg upwards before he’s rolled back under the car
and left to evaluate just how much he shouldn’t have liked that.  This is
okay,Tony thinks, as long as it stays inside of my head.
     “F.R.I.D.A.Y. Music back on!”  He yells from under the car.  He’s singing
along at the top of his lungs as he fumbles blindly for the wrench—too lazy to
turn around to spot it.  The chorus kicks in by the time he’s tightened the
last bolt and he slides himself out.  Peter’s already hovering over the engine
in the back, singing along to the song under his breath.  He’s not quite
touching anything but trying to identify components.  Peter admitted early on
that he was more of a scientist than an engineer and Tony had just clapped him
on the back and said he hadn’t been looking to teach someone who already knew
everything.  They’d had their fun in the sciences but Tony had been easing
Peter more and more into the physical, and learning how to put a car together
was certainly a right of passage.  Just cause Tony isn’t on the ‘fatherly’
page, doesn’t mean he can’t pretend to be for Peter.
     “I think you’ll wanna take that off.  You got an undershirt on?”  Tony
asks, pointing to Peter’s flannel.  Peter shakes his head ‘no’.  Tony points to
a cabinet on the far wall of the garage.  “Spare shirts in there, put one on. 
I’m not about to be the reason Aunt May needs to buy you a whole new wardrobe."
     Tony’s in to his knuckles when Peter comes back wearing a t-shirt at least
a size too wide for him.  He sticks his head in to where Tony’s got his fingers
and Tony can’t help but pull a hand out and smear a streak of thick engine
grease onto Peter’s cheek.
     “Watch it, Parker.  Might lose an eye.”  He says, grinning.  Peter
scrunches his nose and wipes the sludge off of his face with the back of his
hand and then drags it down Tony’s exposed bicep.
     “Oh?  Is that how it’s gonna be?”  Tony asks.  Peter’s dipping his fingers
into the engine alongside Tony’s, giving him a devilish grin before he’s
stepping back with his arms splayed wide.
     “Oh yeah!  That’s how it’s gonna be!”  He yells and then Tony’s pouncing
on him with two black-tipped hands.  Peter’s fast, he ducks under Tony’s first
attempt and drags one of his greasy hands down Tony’s jaw, neck and chest.  The
black trails look like something out of a horror movie and Tony’s eyes blaze.
 Peter’s backing up towards the car again laughing as Tony advances on him.
 When Peter’s back finally hits the Miura’s body he puts his hands up in mock
surrender.
     “Truce?”  He asks.
     “In your dreams.”  Tony replies before aiming both open palms for Peter’s
face.  Peter catches them before they meet, though.  Tony’s never been on
the receiving end of Spider-Man’s super strength, but he’s amazed at it now.
 Despite Peter being several inches shorter and looking far smaller than Tony,
he’s able to keep all of Tony’s weight and pressure at bay as if Tony were
nothing more than a child.  Tony wonders briefly why the hell he even wastes
any time in the gym.
     Peter’s holding Tony back but he’s slowly tracking both hands outwards so
Tony’s body is still moving closer.  Okay, time to stop this,  Tony thinks.
 Time to back away.  You’re way too close now.  Every part of Tony’s brain is
screaming at him but his body is experiencing some serious executive
dysfunction because this fun game is veering into seriously dangerous
territory.  If Peter thinks so, too, he’s not doing anything about it.  It’s
probably still just playful wrestling with a father-figure to him.  It’s 100%
innocent competitiveness   His eyes are boring into Tony’s, chin up and
expression determined.  Tony thinks for a second that Peter’s going to move to
overpower him, but instead he lets his arms go completely lax and then
Tony—still pushing forward—sends them into the side of the car.  Let go, Tony.
 Let go and back away.  He tells himself.  Instead, he twists his hands around
so they pin Peter’s wrists to the car.  Not that!
      Peter’s still not moving.  His head is tilted back a bit and he’s
regarding Tony’s face down the length of his nose.  Tony’s frozen to the spot,
like a deer in headlights.  Then his brain starts betraying him too.  It shows
him how easy it would be just to press the last few inches forward, to cover
Peter’s body with his own.  Tony’s eyes flick down to Peter’s lips.   Do you
really think he’d say ‘no'?  You think he’d say ‘no’ to Tony Stark?  You could
fuck him up against the side of this car and he’d probably thank you for it.
 He’d probably beg you to split him in half on your cock.
     It’s that line of thought that breaks him out of his stupor.  The idea of
using his position of power to coerce someone, especially someone as young and
impressionable as Peter, makes him sick.  He pushes off the car but not before
playfully slapping Peter with a dirty hand, leaving black grease marks in
the shape of his finger tips on Peter’s cheek.  It’s halfhearted but he can’t
let Peter see just how disgusted he is with himself right now.  He grabs a
clean rag off the rolling toolbox and wipes it down his neck.  The black claw
marks on his wife beater aren’t going anywhere so he doesn’t bother.
     “Here, clean up.”  He says, tossing the rag to where Peter’s still leaning
against the car.  Peter looks a little dazed, but catches it regardless,
holding the cloth in his hands for a few moments as if he doesn’t know what to
do with it.  Tony just moves back to the engine and starts working until Peter
silently wanders over.  Then he’s explaining what he’s doing, why he’s doing
it, and even offers to let Peter do some of the work.
     They stay that way, arms deep in the engine, until dinner time.  But the
persistent thought on Tony’s mind is ‘There it is.’  No amount of engine talk
can stop that mantra from repeating itself.
 
 
 
     Sunday evening Peter’s working at the station in front of Tony’s.  He’s
bent over a bunch of the weekends compound samples with a cup magnifier and
scrawling out notes.  Tony’s been busy with his own small-circuit soldering so
they’ve been working quietly and independently for most of the day.  Peter’s
got his headphones in and every once in a while he’ll bust out an aborted dance
move in time with the beat, or tap his pencil along the desk.  It’s even more
distracting than the position Peter’s been in for the past few hours.  Tony
should really move to another spot in the lab, basically anywhere, but he stays
where he is like the self-flagellating disaster he is.
     Tony’s alarm goes off at 6:45 which means it’s time for Peter to hop back
in a car and head home if he wants to be home before ten o’clock.  This is the
latest they’re allowed to work on Sundays and Peter lets out a groan at the
fact that his work’s going to be interrupted.  He drops his entire upper body
onto the table and spreads out his arms.
     “Do I really have to go to school?”  He whines.  “Can’t I just stay here
and do science?"
     Tony drags a hand down his face.  Part of him enjoys that idea too much.
 The other part is struggling enough with Peter here for entire weekends at a
time.
     “Yes, Parker.  You do.  You’ll be back here in a week and you can pick up
where you left off.”  Tony holds his hands up where he’s got his soldering
tools.  "I’d show you out but I’m kind of in the middle of something."
     Peter finally gets up and does a rudimentary job of cleaning up his
station.  He puts his notebook and some loose papers into his backpack on the
floor and slings it over his shoulder.
     “Alright see you on Friday, I guess.”  He says, and then he’s off and out
the door.
     Tony presses his face down to the counter after he hears the door shut and
presses the heel of his palm to his cock.
     “F.R.I.D.A.Y. can you lock the door please?”  He asks.
     He listens through the silence for the click of the lock and then he’s
working the front of his pants open desperately.  He’s so wound up after the
weekend that it really can’t wait any longer.  He’s been bad at addressing his
needs the past few months and it’s made all this pent up energy so much worse.
 Tony scrambles for the top drawer to his left while he palms himself through
his boxer briefs, grabbing a tube of lotion.  He doesn’t waste any time,
slicking up his right hand and finally fisting his painfully hard dick.  The
pace is brutal and his thighs are so tense he’s sure he’s going to give himself
a charlie horse.  But the image of Peter bent over the lab table is far too
compelling.  Tony imagines acting on every dirty power fantasy he’d had about
it this weekend, now that he’s finally dropped any and all pretense of being a
decent human being.  He imagines putting a palm down next to Peter’s face,
slotting himself along the length of the boy’s body.  And Peter would let out a
sweet, surprised gasp before pressing his pert ass back along the hard line of
Tony’s dick.
     “Mr. Stark?”  He’d ask.  And Tony would hush him.
     “I just wanted to see how your work was going.”  He’d growl it into
Peter’s ear.  Then he’d dig the fingers of his free hand into the meat of
Peter’s hip and draw it back to grind against him.  He’d slide his hand along
to the front of Peter’s pants where Tony would find him impossibly hard.  “It
looks like it’s going well."
     Their close proximity the past couple of weeks means Tony’s heard all
sorts of noises come out of Peter.  He thinks about the contented ‘Mmmm’ sound
Peter makes when he eats something he finds extremely delicious.  It’s the
sound he imagines Peter making when he finally slides his hand down the front
of Peter’s jeans, stroking down the length of his cock.  And again when he
sucks a mark into the sensitive skin of his neck.  And once more when Tony
works a finger, then two inside of him.
     “Please, Mr. Stark.”  Dream-Peter would beg.  His mouth would be open,
wet, and his breath coming out in desperate gasps.  “I need you inside me.
 Please,"
     Tony would waste no time except to savor the image of the head of his cock
resting at Peter’s hole.  He’d stroke against it lovingly before sinking deep
into him.  All Tony wants right now is to finally climax, he’s so desperate for
it that the pace he sets in his imagination is just as ruthless.  Peter would
slide along the surface of the counter with each thrust, letting punched out
little moans with the movement.  The fantasy is so cliche, something straight
out of a bad porno.  Tony should be embarrassed.  Except he’s not.  He’s
fixated on the image of Peter’s skin shifting over his ribs.  Imagining how
Peter would look, face flushed as he'd teeter on the precipice, turning his
half-lidded gaze towards Tony.
     “Harder,”  He’d plead.  “Break me, Tony."
     And Tony comes, perhaps harder than he has in months.  He makes a mess on
the underside of the counter and drops his head back down.  He sits, motionless
for a few moments while he comes down and the post-release self-loathing sets
in.  Here’s the line.  The threshold.  Tony’s crossed it and now there’s no
coming back.  Before now he’s been able to brush it all off, push it aside as a
new variance on his frequent and self-destructive intrusive thoughts.  But now
it’s official.  Tony is a monster, a deviant, the textbook dirty old man.  He,
like so many others in his position, is betraying the trust of of a
subordinate.  Tony is sure he won’t act on it, but even the thoughts make him
queasy.  What would his friends think of him if they knew.
     They’d be disgusted .  He thinks.   They’d send you away, put you in rehab
or something.  With therapists.  Lots of therapists.  Better than you deserve,
really.
     Tony needs to fix this, treat himself somehow.  He can’t be having these
thoughts when he’s around Peter.  He can’t co-exist with him while these kinds
of desires swirl around inside of his brain.
     “F.R.I.D.A.Y. can you put through a call to Sheila please.”  He asks.
 He’s grabbing a clean rag from inside the drawer and wiping himself and the
counter down while the call connects.  Sheila sounds annoyed when she picks up.
     “Tony, this is like, one of my five minutes a week off, what do you want?"
     “Sorry Sheila, it’s important."
     “Oh yeah?  What could be so important?"
     “So this is one of those times I’m gonna need you to hold the snark.”  He
says.  His assistant has two modes, and right now he needs the callous
professional.  “I’m gonna need you to get an NDA penned up and find me a
really, really good escort."
     There’s a pause on the line.  Tony should be embarrassed, frankly, but
getting an escort is so much more tame than the reality of why he’s getting one
that he can’t be bothered to give a shit.
     “O-kay.”  She says after a moment.  “You have any specifications for what
you want her to look like or?"
     “Him.  Shorter than me.  Brunette, with a little curl in his hair.  Make
sure he’s pretty.  And uh,”  This part gives him pause.  He forgets sometimes
that Sheila’s only twenty five so he feels extra lecherous for it.  “on the
younger side, please.  He’s going to need to sign and be okay with the full
spec NDA.  I don’t care about the rate."
     “Sure.”  She says.  Her tone is clipped.  Tony knows it’s a shitty request
but it’s one she’d be getting a lot more of from any other high level executive
she’d be working for.  Tony tries to let that thought assuage the guilt.  “I’ll
forward over what I find and you can take your pick.  Is that all?"
     “Yeah.  Thanks Sheila.”  He says.  And then to F.R.I.D.A.Y.  “End call."
 
 
 
     Tony takes his pick back in the city.  The escort is a twenty-two-year-old
named Emile.  He’s French.  Objectively he’s excruciatingly beautiful, though
in Tony’s mind not quite as much as he finds Peter.  Emile’s proportions are
similar, though, and his eyes are just as dark, framed by long pretty lashes.
 Sheila had put him at the top of her list and now that he’s here, in the
penthouse, Tony can see why.
     Emile speaks with a thick French accent and a raspy but sultry voice that
shatters much of the illusion.  But it's good enough that Tony can work with
it, and he figures it’s better that they’re not too similar.  Close enough by
type but different enough to be two very separate people.  He figures letting a
chain smoker keep chain smoking isn’t an effective way to quit, anyway.  They
don’t speak much as Tony leads Emile to his bed.  At forty-seven, there isn’t
much Tony hasn’t done in his life.  But tonight he can check fucking a sex
worker off his list.  He doesn’t know what the standard procedure is, so he
treats Emile like he would any bed partner.
     The sex is good.  Great, even.  Tony takes his time with Emile, drawing as
much pleasure out of him before focusing on himself.  It satisfies a part of
him that’s neglected by masturbation or fumbling drunk hook-ups, and after he’s
drawn two orgasms out of Emile and come himself, Tony feels substantially
better.  He’s tired, but in a good way, so he lays down while Emile sits up
against the headboard.
     “Is it okay for me to smoke?”  Emile asks.  Tony makes an agreeable noise,
and stretches his arms behind his pillow.  Emile leans over to the side of the
bed and fishes around in his jeans pocket.  He produces a box of Gauloises and
slips one into his mouth.  Tony watches the orange light play along his face as
he lights the cigarette.  Emile takes a deep drag and lets the smoke spill out
of his mouth.  He grabs an empty glass off of the beside table to ash into.
     “So, will you indulge me?”  He starts.
     “Didn’t i just?"
     “Did you ever!”  Emile responds with a laugh.  “But I am not thinking
about it in the physical way.  I am a very curious boy."
     “Sure thing, Saint Laurent.  What can I do for you?”  Tony says.  He turns
on his side and props himself up on his elbow.  Emile makes eye contact with
him.  His dark irises are piercing.  They’re Tony’s favorite thing about him.
     “What is your story?  Who am I standing in for?”  Tony wasn’t
expecting that.  He balks.  It gives him away, so Emile pushes, needing to
validate his curiosity.  “You had a very specific requests for my
appearance.  Judging by your past arm candies you do not really have a
type.  And even if you did it would not be like me.  I would think first that
maybe you are hiding your sexuality but then it has never been really a secret
that you are an indiscriminate lover."
     “You a P.I. kid?  Psychologist?”  Tony asks.  He sticks out his hand for
the cigarette.  Emile passes it over before he continues.  Tony hasn’t
smoked in a few years but it feels good in the moment.  He lets the smoke spill
out of his mouth slowly.
     “No. Just a nosy français.  But I also am learning a lot in my line of
work, especially about men.  You are a bit different from most.  You have been
very considerate, so it is not about having the power for you.  You have no one
to cheat on if I am not mistaken.”  He takes the cigarette back out of Tony’s
hands, taps it on the side of the glass and takes another drag.    
     “And you have no problem finding partners, so that leaves really only one
thing.  I am a stand in for someone you cannot have."
     “Are you like this with all your clients?  You know I’m not going to
validate that.”  Tony says.  His protests don’t matter, since Emile hums as if
that confirms all his suspicions.
     “Is he straight?”  Emile asks.
     “Doesn’t matter."
     “He is much younger, then."
     “Doesn’t matter.”  Tony says again.  A bit more terse this time.  Emile
taps the cigarette again, passes it toward Tony.  He takes it, sucks down
another deep drag.
     “No.  I suppose it does not."  Emile hums, more to himself than Tony.  "As
I have said, I am just a nosy, nosy boy."  Tony grabs the cup from him and puts
the cigarette out.
     “Enough psychoanalyzing your damn client!”  Tony huffs.  He reaches past
Emile to put the cup back on the bedside table, dragging his mouth along the
boy's neck as he does so.  “I’m paying you for the fun not the therapy."
     Emile squeaks out a laugh as Tony presses him back down into the
mattress.  Later, when Tony comes, he lets out a reverent sigh that sounds
suspiciously like the name ‘Peter’.  Emile pretends not to notice.  He’s paid
to pretend not to notice.  And despite everything that television and the media
has shown of Tony Stark, Emile leaves later that night struck with the reality
that Tony Stark is a hauntingly sad man.
Chapter End Notes
     Hooo-ey, finally getting into the meat of things. Thanks for bearing
     with me for the past nine chapters of exposition on how Tony is an
     absolute fucking disaster!!!
     And thank you to everyone leaving comments or even just some kudos on
     this work. I've never written something this long before but hearing
     everyone's thoughts or at least knowing people are enjoying it is the
     jet fuel to my Boeing.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
     Mid December, long after the Christmas decorations have taken over
Manhattan, the sky dumps a foot and a half of wet sludge onto the city.  It
comes in a short thirty two hour burst that effectively sedates all of New York
until the storm has passed.  Everything is more or less on lock-down, and
there’s more snow forecasted in the coming weeks, so when Rhodey calls asking
Tony if he wants to get a rental and spend the holidays in Los Angeles he
doesn’t hesitate.  The second the roads are cleared and the sky quiet he drives
back up to the compound and takes a jet down to LA.
     He gets some back-end work done on the plane and forwards Sheila his
Christmas gift-list to sort out.  By the time he lands on the Stark Industries
private strip, he’s feeling fairly accomplished.  He lets himself walk out of
the plane slowly, savoring the way the warm, briny air feels in his nostrils.
 The air in New York in December is cold, heavy, and wet, punctuated by a
mildewy stench that—while patently ‘NYC’—is objectively disgusting.  Manhattan
may hold a special place in Tony’s heart, but the dry coastal air of California
feels like a relief.
     Rhodey is leaning up against one of the SI fleet cars, wearing shades, a
pastel blue polo and looking entirely too relaxed.  He claps Tony’s back in a
half hug when he approaches and gets back in the driver’s seat.  Tony puts his
bags in the trunk and then hops into the passenger seat hesitantly.
     “So uh, are you cleared to drive this thing or?”  Tony asks, pushing the
shades down his nose and fixing Rhodey with a look.  He pushes his sunglasses
down and gives his legs an exaggerated once over.
     “Tony, I feel like you should have more confidence in your contraptions.”
 Rhodey replies.
     “Or, maybe it being one of my contraptions is precisely why I shouldn’t
have any confidence."
     “Well let me instill you with some: they work great, I’ve been driving in
these since you hooked me up with 'em."
     Tony looks them over again.  They’d been the best iteration so far but he
has a feeling the set he’s been working on intermittently with Peter’s help
will be a big step up when it’s done.  At the very least, he's glad Rhodey’s
been steadily regaining more agency since 'The Fall'.  Tony can’t imagine how
much more terrible the guilt of what he’d done to his friend would be if he
couldn’t afford the best physiotherapists, surgeons and biotech.  He can’t
imagine having to watch Rhodey struggle any more than he already does.
     Rhodey drives them to a sprawling modern rental in Malibu.  It’s clean and
white and even has a baby grand set up in the living room.  It’s a small
detail, but the fact that Rhodey cares enough about Tony’s Christmas piano
traditions means a lot.  There are a bevy of emotions running through him at
the thought and he doesn’t know how to compartmentalize them.  Settling in
sounds like a good use of his energy.  He unpacks in the master suite and goes
down for a cat nap.  They’ve got a Christmas tree to buy and decorate
later, after all.
 
 
 
     Due to the inclement weather, Peter’s Spider-Man patrol updates become
even more infrequent.  Tony’s phone alerts tell him that since he left there’s
been another foot of snow and temperatures in the low twenties.  He shoots
Maria a text to see if Peter’s been by the compound.  He could have just asked
F.R.I.D.A.Y. but he feels guilty that he doesn’t touch base with Maria as often
as he probably should.  He gets a text back pretty quickly.
               Maria Hill
                    Hey Tony.  Peter was here over the weekend.
                    We took meals together and he showed me
                    some of what he was working on.  I like this
                    kid.  I hope you plan on keeping him around.
                    You staying in LA for Christmas?
               1:52 pm
               Me
                    Glad to hear it, hope he wasn’t a handful. And
                    yeah I’ll be staying here for the holidays, may
                    be back for NYE.  If not, come down here to
                    party with us.  Happy holidays.
               1:53 pm
               Maria Hill
                    Might take you up on that.  Happy Holidays 
                    Tony.
               1:57 pm
     Tony reclines back onto his lounge chair and takes a big sip of his
Martinez.  Since he got into town he’s done barely anything productive, mostly
just absorbing as much vitamin D as possible in between heckling Rhodey.  After
the past few months it feels like an honest-to-God vacation.  He’s slept
through the night, and more than he has in years.  Apparently neither Tony nor
his body knew just how badly it was needed till he got it.
     The vacation’s been good for his ‘Peter Problem’, too.  He’s been so much
less tense that he hasn’t been thinking about the whole thing much at all.
 He’ll have passing thoughts, innocent ones, or get struck by inspiration for
projects to take on that he writes down as notes in his phone.  But overall it
seems the vacation has allowed him to get Peter out of his system.  He’s
confident going back to New York he’ll be a lot more appropriate around him.
 Turns out it was like just a passing phase that Tony just needed to fuck and
relax through.
     It’s not particularly hot outside but the sun is still strong enough that
Tony can feel it through the dark fabric of his jeans.  It’s beautiful, and
Tony questions why the hell he ever moved back to New York.  The misery
associated with seven of the twelve months a year doesn’t seem as bad when he’s
living it.  But now, here—back in Malibu for more than just a day or two for
business—Tony’s really struggling with the prospect that he’s going to have to
go back eventually.
     The thought starts to stress him out so he chugs the rest of his cocktail
and lets himself pass out in the sunshine.
 
 
 
     On Christmas Eve, Tony gussies up and doesn’t touch liquor once during the
day.  He grabs two bottles of a 2005 Chateau Latour Cabernet to bring as a gift
and calls a car for him and Rhodey.  Tony hasn’t been to Pepper’s new place,
but when the car pulls up to a sleek, modern and yet somehow modest house in
the eastern hills of Malibu, he can’t imagine her living anywhere else.  She’s
already pulling the door open as they step out of the car, kissing each of
their cheeks and graciously accepting the flowers Rhodey’s carrying.  She
ushers them inside towards the kitchen where a tall, broad man is pulling wine
glasses down from one of the high cupboards.
     Pepper introduces him to Tony and Rhodey as her new beau, Adam.  The four
of them crack the Chateau Latour and snack on cheese and caviar while the
dinner roast bakes.  It’s casual, nice.  Rhodey and Adam both lead the
conversation and Tony finds that he really likes the guy.  He's charismatic,
kind, and most of all, he seems stable. While the attention is off of them,
Tony tells Pepper as much.  She offers him a shy smile in return.
     “I’m glad you think so.”  She says.  “It means a lot.  I was nervous about
introducing you."
     “Why, for me?  Or him?"
     “Both,”  She laughs.  “I think."
     “Well, I can’t speak for his thoughts on me, but he seems great.  Granted,
we haven’t gotten through dinner without a drunk argument about politics yet,
so that might be subject to change.
     “Don’t you dare ruin my Christmas Eve dinner!”  She says, pretending to be
affronted.  Tony laughs.  Pepper’s acting has never been her strong suit.
     By the time Tony and Rhodey are loading back into a car to head home, it’s
well past two in the morning.  All things considered, it’s the best holiday
Tony can remember spending in decades.  He goes to sleep full, buzzed and best
of all—happy.
     Neither he nor Rhodey wake up till eleven on Christmas Morning.  They
navigate around each other in the kitchen to make an excessive breakfast,
complete with over-poured Bloody Mary's.  They settle around the TV to eat and
start on their annual Die Hard marathon when Tony gets interrupted by his phone
ringing.  Rhodey arches an eyebrow as he picks up.  Tony normally lets calls
reroute to Sheila.  Especially on something like a holiday.  Tony doesn’t even
bother looking at the caller ID and just picks it up.
     “Who’s that?”  Rhodey says through a mouthful of eggs.  Tony makes a
grossed out face but doesn’t humor him.
     “Hello?  Mr. Stark?"
     “Speaking.”  Tony says.  He pops a strip of bacon into his mouth.
     “Hey, it’s—uh—it’s Peter.  Parker.”  Tony hears him whisper something that
sounds like ‘obviously’ before he continues.  “Anyway uh, Merry Christmas.  I
hope your holidays have been really nice.  I bet the weather in California is
great."
     “Merry Christmas to you, too.”  Tony says.  “Hope that’s not the only
reason you’re calling."
     Tony can feel the awkwardness of the pause, to the point where he’s pretty
sure about what’s coming next.  He can’t help the stupid grin that spreads over
his face.
     “So um, the reason I’m calling is—well—I’m supposed to be yelling at you
but,”  He hears some muffled talking in the background.  Probably May.  “that
would be super weird so I’m going to do the polite thing and thank you for the
really wonderful Christmas gift.  Wonderful but excessive.  Like, really
excessive."
     “Not at all."
     “No, really, Mr. Stark, you went above and beyond."
     "Seriously, neither above or beyond.  After I designed their hands-free
software they won’t stop giving me those things.  I’m technically re-gifting to
you.  So the present is, by those standards, crap."
     Peter laughs on the other side of the phone.  May is saying something
again but Tony can’t make it out.
     “Okay, fair enough Mr. Stark.  Well, from the bottom of both of our
hearts, thank you so much.  Seriously this is the nicest gift anyone’s ever
given us.  Or probably ever going to give us."
     Tony feels warmth in his chest.  He loves giving presents and the note of
thankfulness in Peter’s voice draws a genuine smile out of him.
     “I’m happy to do it.  Hopefully it’s also incentive for you to get your
permit, huh?  Anyway, I’ve got a Die Hard marathon to get to and Rhodey is mad
that I’m holding it up.  Happy Holidays.  I’ll see you when I’m back in town."
     “Yeah, you too, bye Mr. Stark!"
     Tony hangs up and tosses the phone somewhere onto the couch.
     “Uh, hello, Tony?  Who the fuck was that?  You’re smiling like an idiot.
 Did you give someone a car?  You got a piece or something?"
     “Yeah.  The Parkers.  I mean, I gave the Parkers a car.  No, I don’t have
a piece."
     “The who?”  Rhodey says.  He’s taking another bite of his eggs.  “Wait,
you mean your new intern?"
     “God, why does everyone keep calling him that.  Happy deals with the
interns.  He’s my mentee."
     “OK.  Whatever.  Mentee.  Wait is he the one with the hot aunt?"
     “Jesus, I make one passing observation and—"
     “No, no, now it makes sense.  I see your play here."
     Tony rolls his eyes.
     “The only play I’m interested in right now is the one that you’re gonna
press so we can watch this stupid movie."
     Tony does end up spending New Years in Los Angeles.  Maria, Helen and some
of the other compound staffers fly down to partake in the festivities.  Tony
rings in the new year in a giant glass mansion dancing to terrible music and
singing along with Maria.  He can’t remember half the night, but judging by the
photographs it had been a success.
 
 
 
     When Tony finally gets back to New York—at Sheila’s desperate
insistence—he’s got enough on his docket that he postpones lab time at the
compound for a few weeks.  He lets Peter know there’s still the option of him
to go up alone, and that the car service is at his disposal.  His January is so
busy that it passes in a blink.  Snow falls, turns to brown sludge and melts,
twice, thrice.  By the time Tony has a moment to breathe again he’s considering
taking another vacation.  Instead, he loads himself into a car and makes
the three hour drive upstate.
     He calls Peter on the way.  Asks if he’d like to come up again for the
weekend.  He apologizes for the extended hiatus, but doesn’t make excuses.  He
figures Peter doesn’t give a shit about the why.
     It’s Saturday morning when Peter finally makes it to the compound.
 F.R.I.D.A.Y. alerts Tony to it, but he doesn’t move from where he’s hunched
over a holo-table scrolling through 3-D blueprints.  Fifteen minutes after the
announcement, Peter wanders into the lab.  He’s dressed down in a threadbare
shirt and a pair of corduroys and he has his backpack slung over his shoulder.
 Peter’s station is still as much of a disaster when Tony had seen it last.
 When the next few sheets of paper and notebooks pile on top, it hardly makes
it worse.  Peter’s face is tired and expressionless.  It’s not a look Tony
thinks he’s seen on him yet.
     “Long time no see.”  Tony says.
     Peter looks up at him and offers him a small smile.
     “Yeah maybe for you.  I was here last weekend."
     “Working on?”  Tony asks.  He minimizes the work-space so the hologram
light doesn’t blind his distance vision.
     “Come over and take a look.”  Peter says.  He drags the laptop Tony bought
him out of his bag and boots it.  Tony stands behind him, a hand on the back of
Peter’s work-stool as Peter goes over what he’s been working on since Tony’s
been away.  There’s a variety of projects, some unfinished, others completed.
 While he’s describing his work Tony can’t help but notice that Peter’s tone is
less enthused, less energetic than it is when he usually speaks about things he
cares about.  Tony takes in the way that his shoulders curl in slightly, and
when Peter turns to him to speak, Tony can’t help but notice the bags under his
eyes.  Despite their close proximity, Tony finds the only thing he’s feeling at
the moment is worry for Peter.  In the back of his head he marks it down as a
victory.
     They separate again to work.  Tony’s been toying with a decentralized
energy distribution system but he’s new to the ledger technology.  He’s been
back and forth with some of the 23 year old devs down in LA, but it’s his own
pet project, and thusly, his own problem.  He’s been running simulations the
past few days trying to get a good understanding of what changes they’ll have
to make for infrastructure.  There’s six cities currently bidding to run the
pilot project and all of them have completely different efficiency problems.
 Between having to program in a new syntax with documentation written by
medicated children and trying to fix the ineptitude of decades of stupid city
planners, Tony’s been going insane.  When the third run-through of the Abu
Dhabi simulation spits out completely different results, Tony loses it.  He
whips his S’Well bottle as hard as he can at the Vacuum Chamber where it lets
out a cacophony of sounds as the tinny metal impacts the wide, hollow glass.
     Peter’s reaction is delayed, which sends warning flares off in Tony’s
mind.  He looks up a full twenty seconds after the collision, more as an
automatic response to the loud clattering than anything.  His eyes aren’t
really focused. Just as slowly, he turns back to his work.  Tony’s left with a
nagging sense of worry, sitting like a heavy, hot coal in the pit of his
stomach.  But he and Peter don’t know each other like that.  They aren’t close
enough for Tony to know if he’s a ‘talk it through’ kind of person or a ‘bottle
it up’ kind of person.  He’s afraid of all the ways bringing up Peter’s state
might backfire, so he just turns back to his work.  But the rest of the weekend
he keeps a watchful eye on Peter.
 
 
 
     Some time around 3am on Thursday, while he’s still up, Tony gets a ping
from F.R.I.D.A.Y. about a Spider-Man video that’s seen 600% organic growth in
the past four hours.  He pulls it up on his phone.  ‘DON’T PISS OFF SPIDER-MAN
FEB 7 2018’ it’s titled.  The shaky phone camera footage is taken from an
apartment window about six stories up.  The street it’s focused on is empty
short of a giant beast of a man and Peter, who’s apparently trying to talk the
guy down.  The big guy has a good two hundred pounds on Peter, he’s obviously
enhanced to some minor, black-market degree.  He’s also apparently uninterested
in talk, because after about a minute he’s charging at Peter and flinging him
into the side of a postal truck.  Peter’s quick to get back up, flipping
himself onto the roof of the truck and then doing another graceful front flip
to land on the Big Guy’s shoulders as he rams into the vehicle.  They claw at
each other before Peter finally manages to land a solid hit to the side of his
head.  It stuns the Big Guy enough that Peter takes the opportunity to jump off
of him and aim a drop kick on his solar plexus.  It sends him sprawling onto
the pavement.  Peter is up almost instantly, advancing on him.
     “You know,”  He’s yelling.  Tony’s never heard Peter angry.  Not like
this.  But he’s livid and it’s dripping off each word out of his mouth.  “You
should have just taken the chance, man.  Why didn’t you take the chance to back
off when I gave it to you?"
     Then Peter’s jumping onto the guy, he pulls back and punches him square in
the face.  The Big Guy’s head snaps violently with the force of the hit.  Peter
punches him again.  And again.
     “Why,”  Punch.  “Didn’t,”  Punch.  “You,”  Punch.  “Listen?!”  Peter’s
screaming.  The camera’s zooming in, and the footage is shaky, but the Big
Guy’s face is a bloody mess.  Peter doesn’t relent, though.  He keeps hitting.
 When he’s finally had enough, his posture changes, completely.  Tony can
tell—even though he can’t see Peter’s face—that Peter’s suddenly horrified with
himself.  He looks around the street before webbing himself up to a streetlamp
and swinging out of view of the camera.  The view goes back to where the Big
Guy is laying on the ground, motionless, but still breathing.  Tony watches the
video once more, pausing at the moment where Peter’s spine goes rigid.  Tony
knows that feeling well enough, he’s been there too many times.  Controlled by
whatever emotions he’s bottled up to the point where the only outlet is rage.
 To the point where he’s so overcome with it that he turns into a different
person.  He’s surprised to see it here, now, with Peter, who’s so young and
sweet and good.  There’s definitely something wrong with him and suddenly Tony
regrets not broaching the topic over the weekend.  Clearly it’s affecting Peter
beyond just spacing him out.
     Tony considers calling Peter first thing in the morning, but since Peter
will be back on the compound within the next day, he saves it.  He’d rather
have this conversation face to face, despite how awkward it’s likely going to
be.
 
 
 
     A day and a half later the moment gets to play itself out.  Tony and Peter
are working in the lab again.  Peter’s distracted.  Every once in a while he
just ends up staring off into space and doesn’t seem to be getting much done in
the way of actual work.  Tony isn’t getting anything done either because he
keeps spacing out over Peter spacing out.  He lets it go on for an hour before
finally breaking the silence.
     “Peter, are you okay?"
     Peter turns to look at him, he looks a bit shell-shocked and disoriented.
     “Uh, I mean—“  He looks down at his lap as he parses what to say next.  It
takes a while, so Tony doesn’t push, but he does get up and make his way over
to stand closer to Peter.  They stay like that for a while, Tony just patiently
waiting for Peter to be ready to talk to him.  If it takes a long time that’ll
be fine, too.
     Eventually Peter looks up at him.  The skin under his eyes is a faded
purple.  The edges of his nostrils are red like they’ve been rubbed raw.
 Peter’s hair, normally clean and coiffed out of his face, is disheveled and
greasy.  He looks tired.  So tired.  When he speaks his voice is quiet.
     “I—I’ve been a bit of a downer lately, huh?”  He says looking at his lap
again.  “I’m sorry."
     “Hey,”  Tony says.  He uses a finger to push Peter’s chin up.  “Whatever
it is, you can talk to me about it.  And if you don’t want to talk to me I can
set you up with someone to talk to if you want.  If that’ll help."
     “Oh, um—that’s—that’s okay.  I think I just need time to process.  Uh—“
 He looks into Tony’s eyes and swallows nervously.  “One of my best friends—he
just got diagnosed with this really rare genetic disease and—well—the prognosis
doesn’t—it doesn’t look good."
     Tony’s face softens.  Of course Peter would suffer in silence.
     “I’m so sorry, Peter.”  He says.  “Is there anything I can do to help?  We
have some of the world’s top bio-tech companies in our roster—"
     “No, no.  His family has money and access to some of the best health-care.
 That’s not the problem it’s—it’s just so rare that no doctors really
understand it.  He’s supposed to start an experimental treatment soon.  But
that’s really a shot in the dark."
     Peter pauses to rub his eye.  It’s obvious this friend is very important
to him.  Tony’s heart bleeds, he wishes he could do something to help.  He
hates feeling useless.  He hates seeing Peter sad, suffering.
     “It just sucks—like—Harry and May are my last connections to my parents.
 I’ve lost everyone.  I don’t—I don't know if I can handle losing him too."
     Peter finally leans over the desk and hides his face in his hands.  He’s
sniffling a lot and Tony thinks he’s probably crying but doesn’t want to show
it.  He’s not sure how to deal with it.  In Tony’s life, crying—especially from
men—has been such a rare occurrence that his first instinct is to flee.  But
that won’t help Peter.  Instead he leans a hip against the desk and rubs his
hand in soothing circles on Peter’s back.  They stay like that while Peter
slowly gets a handle on himself.  When he takes his face out of his hands and
rubs the snot and tears off of it with his sweater-sleeve, Tony pulls his hand
back.  Peter looks at him and gives him a half-smile.
     “Thanks, Mr. Stark.  Sorry for crying.  But I’ve been holding that in for
forever."
     “Not at all.  Peter any time, seriously.  I might be emotionally
constipated but I’m here when you need.  And again, if you need somebody else
we can arrange that too."
     “Oh—okay, thank you.  That—that means a lot."
     “Why don’t you go shower and take the rest of the evening off, huh?  You
have to let yourself rest."
     Peter just nods mutely.  He closes his laptop and hops off of his stool.
 As he leaves the lab he gives Tony one last look at the door, punctuated by a
small smile, before he slips out.
 
 
 
     Tony joins him in the living room two hours later.  Peter’s leaning
against the armrest of the couch, knees bent up and resting a book in their
seam.  He’s in jersey sweat pants and an oversized academic sweater that’s
rolled up to his elbows.  Whatever it is that he’s reading, it's apparently
engrossing since he doesn’t seem to respond to Tony’s presence.  It’s only when
the clatter of a can being placed down on the glass coffee table startles him
that he notices his company.
     “Oh!”  He says.  He shuts the book and straightens his back a bit.
 “Sorry.  Sometimes I get lost."
     Tony cracks his beer can and sits a healthy foot away from where Peter’s
feet are. 
     “I can see that, Mathilda.  What is it?”  Tony asks.  Peter holds up the
book.  It’s a battered, library copy of Philip K. Dick’s ‘Do Androids Dream of
Electric Sheep?’.  By the dog ear it looks as if Peter’s almost done.
     “Wow, you really do your homework, huh?”  Tony gets a shrug in response.
     “I mean—you were the one who thought I should get the reference—so—"
     Peter deposits the book on the table and notices the extra beer can.  He
looks between it and Tony for a moment.
     “Umm—?” 
     “For you.  If you can keep it on the DL.  But I figure after the past few
weeks you could use a drink.  If you’d like.  No pressure."
     “Oh—oh thank you.”  Peter says.
     Peter picks the can up in his hands and turns it around in his hands a
couple of times.  Tony puts on the Rangers game.  It’s already eight minutes
into the first.  He leans back against the couch and hears the hiss of
carbonation escaping as Peter opens his beer.  They watch together in silence,
letting themselves decompress from the physical and emotional toil of the day.
 It’s nice to have company again.  Tony never realizes just how much he misses
having a full house until moments like these.  It’s so easy for him to get
caught up that his own solitude doesn’t measure on the radar.  But Peter has
been a good constant.  Especially now, with their routine.  He knows it’s hard
with Rhodey, and Happy, and god forbid any of his business friends.  There’s so
much of adulthood that is contingent on schedules aligning and even having a
moment to breathe is a scarcity.  These were things superheroes didn’t have to
deal with as much.  They’re things Peter doesn’t have to deal with so much
either.  Not yet, at least.
     The Rangers score their first goal of the game.  Zibenijad sends the puck
through cross ice traffic to a waiting Buchnevich who sinks it top shelf.  Tony
can’t help but come up off the couch as the goal horn blares and only settles
back down on the second replay.  He looks over at Peter whose expression is
impassive.
     “Wow.  I’m sorry Milbury, did that goal fail to impress you?”  Peter just
scrunches up his nose as if he’s offended.
     “I’m an Islanders fan.  Obviously.  As—y’know—someone from Long Island.
 No—uh—offense or anything but I hate your team.
     Tony rolls his eyes.
     “Okay—that’s disappointing.”  Tony says.  He’s always taken sports very
seriously.  Back in the tower it had been common for the boys to gather around
and watch baseball and basketball over beers, and Natasha always joined in for
hockey.  ‘It's in my blood’  She’d say.  Clint would always roll his eyes.
    ‘In your blood or in your something else?  Didn’t you used to date hockey
players?’  to which her only response was a sly smile.
    Even those without a horse in the race would get into it.  Tony loved that
he could share something that he’d grown up loving with everyone else.  There
was no science or math that barred entry into the world of sports.  It was
simple, visceral and transcended language and understanding.  You hit or threw
the ball or puck and tried to win.  Simple as that.  Even the Hulk could
understand, if he’d ever been present instead of Bruce.
    “So wait, what’s your baseball team, then?”  He asks.
     “Oh, the Mets.  Always.”  Peter says. 
     “What the hell, Parker, really?  The Mets over the Yankees?”  Tony gripes.
 Peter gives him a shit eating grin and shoves his feet under Tony’s thigh.
 They’re bare and ludicrously hot from Peter’s metabolism.  Tony can feel each
individual toe press up into the meat of his leg.
     “Of course you’d like the Yankees.  You think you can just pay your way to
the W.”  Peter snarks.  “Basketball?"
     “Knicks, obviously."
     “Gross.”  Peter says.  “Nets for life."
     “A dirty Long Island boy through and through, huh.  Can we at least agree
that the Giants are the superior team despite the season thus far?”  Peter
finally gives Tony a nod of agreement.
     “I mean I don’t really watch a lot of football, but yeah, the Jets suck."
     “OK, thank God.  I was this,”  Tony brings his thumb and index finger
almost together.  “close to throwing you out of here.  I can’t believe I’ve had
a Nets fan sleeping under my roof all this time.” 
     Peter pushes up with his toes again, just to be annoying, but the
sensation is entirely distracting to Tony. 
    The way they’re arranged on the couch feels too intimate, like the comfort
a long-term couple takes when they watch television.  Tony can vividly remember
a time just like this when Pepper had stuck her feet under his thigh.  He’d
been reading something on his phone, and she’d had a glass of wine in her hand.
 It was close to Christmas, the fireplace in his Malibu mansion had been on.
 He remembers the sound of Billie Holiday pouring out over the surround
sound speakers.  The two of them didn’t move from their spots or even speak for
hours, just content to be in each others company with a singular point of
contact.
     It takes him even farther back.  Tony’s never really been one for long
term relationships.  The only one he’d had before Pepper that ever meant
anything was a girl he met while he was in his final year at MIT.  She was just
barely older than him, a second year Computer Science student.  Darla wasn’t
just smart, but both tenacious and sweet.  She didn’t care about Tony’s
pedigree, that he was the son of Howard Stark.  She challenged him, bounced
problems off of him, complimented the structured way he worked with her own
erratic one.  There was no fear of judgement or expectations with her.  He
wasn’t Tony Stark, rather Tony-just.  He remembers moments like this in the
campus commons, both nose deep in books.  And Darla’s feet were always cold but
she wore heavy boots that she liked to take off.  So she’d curl her feet under
Tony’s thigh.  Quiet.  Intimate.  Communication with touch rather than words.
 It was the quiet moments that Tony remembers the best. 
     The similarities are eerie.  Tony knows that he never has to feel any
actual pressure around Peter, beyond the now dampened idol-worship.  Now that
they’ve settled into the comfort that comes with familiarity, Peter’s proven
himself to be both easy-going and obstinate.  They share a sense of humor,
drive, excitement.  There’s an understanding between the two that is entirely
rare and Tony finds it distressing that he’s managed to find it with someone
decades his junior.  He’s not sure if that speaks to Peter’s maturity or to
Tony’s own immaturity.  Perhaps it’s a combination of both.  Either way, Tony
has to be oh so very careful with it.  Even when their mentor-ship ends, this
weird and inexplicable fate that’s befallen them both will see to it that their
bond won’t.  The world will need their help and they’ll both be duty-bound to
protect it.
     The MSG studio network analysts are blathering on about zone entries or
some other nuance of the game that Tony’s completely tuned out.  All that he’s
dialed into is the point of contact, and how much he needs to sever it right
now.  Peter’s back to reading his book, but he hasn’t moved his feet from where
they are.  Tony grabs one of Peter’s ankles with his left hand and pulls it out
from under him.  Peter startles ever so slightly under the touch, the book
falling out of his hands.  Tony means to just drop Peter’s foot, but he
doesn’t.  His thumb is resting on the the stretch of skin just below the knob
of bone.  The response is automatic, he rubs his finger into it, feeling it
shift as he circles around his ankle.  The rest of his hand stretches upwards,
teasing at the hem of the track pants.  A finger works its way underneath.
 Each inch of skin traversed is soft and warm, the hair along it fine.  His
hand wants to stretch further up, to skim up Peter’s leg until it rests in the
crease where thigh and hip meet.  He wants to follow that trail with his mouth.
     Peter makes a noise, like a sharp intake of breath through his nose.  Tony
snaps out of it and drops his ankle like it’s a hot coal.  He goes on auto-
pilot.  Deflect, deflect, deflect.
     “Personal space, Parker,”  He says as dryly as he can muster.  “Ever heard
of it?"
     Peter seems to snap out of it too, he shakes his head and pulls his feet
back so the rest almost directly against him.  There’s a good three or four
feet of space between them.  Tony tries to get a handle on his breathing.
 Peter’s face is bright red. 
   Did I just basically sexually harass my mentee?  Is Peter reading it that
way?  So much for getting this out of my system.  You fucked up, Tony.
    Tony doesn’t move, despite internally freaking out.  He just turns back to
the TV where the second period is about to start.
     “S-sorry Mr. Stark.”  Peter says from beside him.  He sounds a million
miles away.  “Won’t happen again."
     Tony’s spent so much of his time trying to protect Peter.  He hates that
he has to protect Peter from himself, now, too.
Chapter End Notes
     Ahhh, sorry for the really long wait this time around, guys. I'm
     doing a little bit of story restructuring on the outline right now
     which is why there was such a big delay. Thank you so much for your
     patience!
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
     
     March comes without much fanfare.  The temperatures are seasonally high,
and what snow had fallen on New York is long gone with the week of relentless
rain that’s bared down on the city.  Even though it’s eight in the morning, the
sky is so dark that Tony has all his lights on.  He’s pacing the living room
while he waits for the espresso machine’s water to heat.  It’s then that he
gets a phone call from a blocked number.  That in itself in unusual.  Any calls
not on his direct-call list get forwarded to Sheila.  But if Sheila is re-
routing the call back to him it must be important.  He answers it without a
second thought.
     “Mr. Stark?”  Comes the soft, female voice on the end of the line.  The
accent is melodic but familiar.
     “Speaking."
     “It’s Anika Singh.”  The voice says.  “Sorry to go through such complex
measures to call but I wanted to avoid a trail."
     “I understand.  Glad to hear from you.  I’m guessing this is about The
Accords?"
     “You’d be correct.  I’m reaching out to you because I, like you, believe
that The Accords need amending.  That, and you have extended much kindness to
me and my daughter since my husband’s passing.  You are a good man, Mr. Stark,
despite what Secretary Ross and some of the committee members may believe."
     “Thank you Mrs. Singh.  But I know you didn’t call just to flatter me.”
 He turns to the windows, stands beside them watching the rain fall.
     “No.  And it is time sensitive.  There is to be a silent vote in two weeks
time regarding whether or not the committee will approve re-opening
negotiations on The Accords.  I have done what I can on the ground but my
impression is that the vote will be very close.  I have a list of names, swing
votes, if you will.  They are amenable to re-opening the negotiations but hold
certain reservations about them.  I’m not encouraging any behavior, here, but
perhaps their contact information could be of a benefit to you."
     “Anika,”  He says, hoping there’s warmth in the way he speaks her name.
 “That would be of more than just a benefit to me.  You’re really sticking your
neck out here."
     “Yes, which is why I’m taking precautions.  But sometimes we have to break
the rules for what we think is right."
     Tony winces.  Anika isn’t wrong, but it hits a little too close to home.
 He wonders if the subcommittee ever even got the full, true story of what
happened in Berlin, and then in Siberia, or if they got the
same, embarrassingly watered down version the media and tabloids spat up like
hungover vomit.
     “Do you have something to take these names down with?”  Anika asks. 
     “Yes.  Go ahead.”  He says.
     Tony listens intently to the list of names Anika feeds him, repeating them
all for F.R.I.D.A.Y. to take down.  It’s a fairly long list which tells him
that the subcommittee still feels a modicum of confidence in The Accords, but
not enough that they’re not willing to make concessions.  It also tells Tony
that Secretary Ross has likely stepped on some toes, and that there’s a certain
level of hesitance in muzzling the world’s last line of defense.  Knowing that
there’s even a chance of overturning this, or re-working it in his favour
instills Tony with a renewed vigor.  He calls Sheila and the two of them spend
the next few hours looking for ways to exploit the information in their favor.
 Tony’s not above political bribery.  Especially when the safety of the entire
planet is on the line.  And especially not when he wants his friends to be
known as heroes and not war criminals.
 
 
 
     That night Tony gets another weird phone call just after nine pm.  He’d
left his cellphone on the kitchen island so he has F.R.I.D.A.Y. patch it
through on the surround sound.  Peter’s on the other end.  At first all Tony
hears is heavy breathing and the sound of wind blowing out the speakers.
     “Peter?”  He asks.
     “T-Tony?  Are—are you at the apartment—the one in the city?  Right now?”
 Each pause is punctuated by heavy breaths, as if Peter has been running for
hours.
     “Yes?  Peter what’s this about?"
     He doesn’t get an answer.  The line goes dead, dial tone mocking him.  He
tries calling back but it goes straight to voicemail.  Part of Tony panics, but
he’d made a promise to start trusting Peter more so he goes back to where he
was sitting on the couch and unmutes the game.  But he keeps his phone close on
hand.  Just in case.
     Twenty minutes later there’s a heavy thud on the roof, as if some large
object was flung onto it.  It scares the shit out of him, and his spine goes
ramrod straight.  He calls his hand propulsor and stands to go investigate.
 Halfway up the staircase there’s an insistent knocking on the glass door that
leads outside.  When Tony rounds the corner to the last few steps he sees Peter
in his Spider-Man suit, mask-less and slumped over against the door.  His head
is bowed and sweaty bangs obscure his face.  Tony lowers his hand and makes a
gentle push at the door so Peter moves off of it.  He slides the door open and
steps out onto the deck.  Peter sways where he stands.  What the hell is he
doing here?  Is he drunk?
     “Peter—what are you—“  Tony begins, but he doesn’t get the chance to
finish.  Peter looks up for a second before tripping into his chest.  Tony
grabs him by the shoulders to steady him, but his right hand touches something
slippery and wet.  He pushes Peter back for a moment when he spots it.  A
bullet hole torn right through the suit, oozing half coagulated blood
and staining the fabric around it.  Tony goes from zero to a hundred.  He’s
torn between having to fix this, protect Peter, make sure that he’s safe, and
to find and kill whoever did this.  The rational part of his brain overrides it
all.  Tending to Peter is the prime directive.
     “Are you okay to walk?” Tony asks.  His left hand is still steadying the
boy in front of him but he’s leaning over and running his hand along Peter’s
back looking for an exit wound.  He finds none.  He feels Peter give a slow
shake of his head against his shoulder in response to his question.  It’s
likely the shock starting to set in that’s slowing him down.  Peter webbed
himself all the way here which means the adrenaline that kept him going is
now wearing off, probably bleeding into excruciating pain and dizziness.  He
has to keep Peter awake.
     “OK, Peter, I’m going to pick you up.  I need you to put your good arm
around my neck and we’re gonna have to get this bullet out.  I’m not going to
sugar coat it, it’s going to hurt.  Like a bitch.  But I’m guessing you’re
avoiding the hospital because you don’t want your aunt to know you got shot?"
     Peter just nods slowly.  His breath is shallow, loud, coming out in
irregular bursts.  He hisses as Tony bends down and hoists him up by the
underside of his thighs, the jostling quick and unexpected.  Despite it, he
wraps his right arm around Tony’s neck and presses his face into Tony’s
shoulder.  He can feel tears seeping into his shirt now.  Peter lets out a sad,
wet, whine and Tony turns to try and get them back downstairs as quickly as
possible.  It’s likely this is some of the greatest pain Peter’s felt up until
now.  It’s certainly the first time he’ll ever have been shot.
     “It hurts so bad, Tony.”  Peter cries.
     “I know, sweetheart”  Tony soothes.  All of his focus is on the stairs, on
not dropping Peter, on keeping him calm.  “I know.  Just hang on we’ll get you
something for the pain.”  Peter’s good hand makes a fist in Tony’s shirt.  He
can feel the blood leaking into the front of it where Peter’s bad shoulder is
resting.  Every step jostles it, sending a spike of pain into the wound and
Peter’s thighs tense around Tony’s hips with every step.  Tony’s amazed that he
made it here at all in his condition.  Bullet wounds are an entirely different
type of pain, especially when the little chunk of metal is still inside,
shifting around.
     He deposits Peter in the main bath, on the oversized counter that runs
along the wall.  Peter slumps back against it and presses his free hand into
his ribs as if squeezing them will offset some of the pain radiating out of the
bullet wound.  Tony squats down to root through the cabinets for his first aid
kit.  When he finds it he also grabs a bottle of Oxycontin.  He checks the date
first—not expired—and then drops two into his hand.  He puts the first aid kit,
and the two pills on the counter beside Peter before grabbing a glass of water
from the kitchen.  Then he’s putting the pills in Peter’s hand.
     “Take these, they’re going to help with the pain.”  Tony says.  Peter’s
right hand is trembling when he goes to reach for the water so Tony helps him,
tilts the glass up so he can take a sip.  Tony looks up.
     “F.R.I.D.A.Y. can you do a quick scan on Peter, please.  Am I OK to start
extracting this bullet?  And can you get Helen on the line I need to know what
antibiotics to give him.”  Then he turns to Peter.
     “Ok Peter I need to get this suit down a bit.  Can you handle that?"
     “Y-yeah.”  Peter says.  Tony brings his palm to the spider on Peter’s
chest and presses it, letting the fabric loosen.  He edges it down over his
shoulders as delicately as he can, but some of the fabric clings to the
congealed blood and Peter gives another dry hiss.  When the fabric is off his
chest and pooled around his waist Tony get his first good look of the bullet
wound.  The good news is that despite not being a through-and-through, the
wound is pretty clean.  He turns to rifle through the first aid kit.  There’s a
bag of long, sterilized tweezers in there for precisely this purpose and Tony
tears the package open.  F.R.I.D.A.Y. responds that the bullet hasn’t hit
anything vital and Tony can extract it safely.  He grabs a hand towel off the
rack with his free hand and gives it to Peter. 
     “Put this between your teeth.  It might take a bit for the Oxy to kick in
and we don’t want you ruining those pearly whites.”  Peter takes the towel with
his good hand and rolls it in his lap gently before putting it in his mouth.
 His eyes are half lidded, in exhaustion and pain, but Peter gives him a fierce
look despite it and nods.  He moves his knees apart so Tony has room to work.
 Now or never.
     Tony can’t say he’s ever had to pull a bullet out of a wound but he can’t
imagine it’s much different from pulling out shrapnel, which he’s had to do,
both in the field and the lab.  After Afghanistan and countless
missions alongside the Avengers, he’d taken some emergency medical response
training courses that he kept on the down-low.  He hasn’t really had to use it
on anyone else, though.  Not till now.  And the training hasn’t prepared him
for reality.
     Peter screams around the towel when the pliers go in.  It’s a
small caliber round so the wound passage is narrow.  It’s likely that he feels
everything.  Tony tries to go slow and steady despite the pained sobbing in his
ear urging him to do this as quickly as possible.  When he feels the clink of
metal on metal, he loosens the pliers to try and get a grip on the bullet.
 Peter screams again as the wound tract gets stretched further.  Tony’s stomach
clenches with each sound Peter makes.  He’s feeling for the telltale clink of
metal on metal, but it’s a struggle.  Peter’s doing his best to hold as still
as possible but in his periphery Tony can see Peter’s knuckles are white.
 There’s one more twist, another scream, and Tony finally gets a hold on the
sides of the bullet.  He pulls it out slowly and it leaves Peter’s body with a
squelch and a fresh ooze of dark, thick blood.  Tony drops the round in the
sink and Peter lets the towel fall out of his mouth, a string of saliva
following it.  There’s a sheen of sweat over Peter’s face and he looks like his
eyes are about to roll back in his head.
     “Hang in there,”  Tony says, ripping open some sterile gauze and soaking
it with warm water.  “We have to get this cleaned up and bandaged."
     “Mmm—yeah”  Peter slurs.  He’s partially delirious with he pain.  Or the
meds might be starting to kick in.  “Do what you gotta—“
     He slouches forward a bit and Tony takes the opportunity to move back
between Peter’s legs.  He lets him stay like that but pushes Peter’s left
shoulder a bit upwards so he has better light to clean by.  Peter’s mostly
quiet as Tony works, only letting out small hisses of air when the gauze
travels over the wound.  Tony makes quick work of it, though.  The wound itself
isn’t bleeding freely anymore, and the bruising around it has started traveling
outward and fading.  Tony lets his fingers skitter along the discolored skin,
feather light as to not cause any pain.  It’s weird, seeing Peter’s healing
factor working so quickly.  He soaks another clean gauze with iodine and gently
scrubs the wound again.  Peter still hisses when the passes are too close, but
at least some of the pain is numbed.
     “How fast do you usually heal?”  Tony asks.  “Say, from a really bad
bruise?"
     Peter looks up at him and gives him a loopy smile.  Maybe Tony should have
just given him one Oxy.  The kid is pretty fucking high if the fact that he
keeps scratching his neck is anything to go by.
     “I mean last time I got a really bad black eye it was gone in a day so
it’s pretty good.”  Peter looks down at the bullet wound.  “Figure this’ll take
a bit longer, though.”  He says.  He lifts a hand to prod at it and Tony has
to grab his wrist to stop him.
     “Get your grubby little hands out of there.  I just cleaned up.”  Peter
hums at this, long and low.  “How are you feeling?"
     “Like my heart is beating really fast and I can’t really feel my legs past
my knees."  Peter kicks his right leg out.  “Pinch my calf!"
     “No."
     “Come on! Do it!”
     Tony rolls his eyes but pinches Peter’s calf.  There’s no reaction.  Peter
just grins.
     “See?"
     “Yeah that happens on opiates sometimes.  Jesus Christ.  Are you gonna be
able to hold still while I bandage you?"
     Peter brings his good arm up to his forehead in a salute.  “Sir, yes,
sir!"
     Just then F.R.I.D.A.Y. butts in:  “Incoming call from Dr. Helen Cho.”
 Tony patches it through.
     “Tony?  Is everything okay?  What do you need?"
     “Fine Helen, we’re under control here.  Just need to know what antibiotics
to give in case of a gunshot wound."
     “Did you flush the wound yet?"
     “Shit, no.”  Tony had totally forgotten.  "I didn’t."
     “Do that before bandaging it.  Your kit should have a bottle of
Hexapheline, it’s my own patent and it should kickstart cell regen.  Have him
take 500 milligrams Cephalexan four times a day for two weeks, do you need me
to fax over a script?"
     “Yes please.  And I gave him some oxycodone for the pain.  Is that okay?”
 Helen gives him an affirmative.  Then she’s off the line.  Tony can hear his
printer pulling paper off the tray deeper in the house and Peter starts swaying
from side to side.  He’s obviously feeling pretty good—all things considered.
 His ward might be feeling peachy now but it’s going to get less fun in about a
minute.
     “Alright you have to stop wiggling now.  We have to clean the tract.  Play
time is over.”  Peter stops his scratching and looks at him.  It’s dazed, and a
little disorientated.  Peter brings his good hand out and touches Tony’s cheek.
 Tony flinches at the contact but doesn’t move away entirely.  He doesn’t know
what Peter’s doing but it’s clear he’s high as a kite.  Was that Tony’s post-
Siberia prescription instead of his regular one?
     “You know,”  Peter starts.  He tilts his head again, eyes sweeping over
Tony’s face.  They look—at the same time—focused and distant.  “sometimes I
forget that this is all real.  Like sometimes I wake up in my apartment and I
think I’m still regular Peter and I’ve never met Tony Stark, and I don’t have
any powers, and my uncle is still alive, and I don’t get to go do insane
research in the freaking Avengers facility or fight crime as Spider-Man.  And I
don’t get to hang out with you."
     He pauses again.  Looks at Tony like he’s hung the moon and all the stars.
 If he knew what Tony was feeling right now, Peter’s soft hand like a fire
brand against his skin and thighs pressed into Tony’s hips, it’d be a very
different look.  Disgust.  Repulsion.  But Peter doesn’t know.  He’s just
sitting on the counter.  Stoned out of his mind with a bullet hole in his
shoulder and getting sentimental over the fact that his childhood idol also
happens to be his mentor.  It’s all entirely normal.  Peter’s next words are a
reverent whisper.
     “I’m touching Tony Stark right now.”  His eyes widen as if he’s just
realizing what’s happening.  “I’m touching Tony Stark.”
    If Tony was a weaker man, perhaps even just the man he was ten years ago,
he would have pushed forward at the touch.  He would have taken what he wanted.
 And he lets himself linger on the image of it, of Peter pulling him forward
with that soft, hot hand.  Of Peter’s legs falling open even wider as their
mouths met.  He gives himself just a single moment to imagine running his hands
up the length of Peter’s thighs.  But just a moment.  And moments have to end.
     So Tony gets to work.  He needs to bandage this wound, extricate himself
from Peter, and make himself a really, really big Old Fashioned.  Letting Peter
touch him like this, their positions on the counter, had been a mistake.  One
he’s going to be paying for later.  He grabs Peter’s wrist and lowers his hand
into his lap.  He tries to tamper down how much he loves the feeling of Peter’s
bony wrist encased in the circle of his fingers.  Ignores how much he’d rather
guide that hand somewhere else.  He lets go and hovers back over the kit,
pulling out the bottle labelled ‘Hephaxeline’ and an asepto syringe.  Peter’s
watching him quietly as tears off the wrapping and depresses and releases the
plunger so the solution rushes up into the syringe.  Tony soaks yet another
gauze with the Hephaxeline solution as well.  Then he’s back between Peter’s
legs.
     “Okay, lean back a bit.”  Tony says.  “And stretch your shoulder as much
as you can."
     Peter does as he’s told and Tony holds the syringe close and depresses the
plunger.  The solution pours over the wound again and some of it bubbles into
the tract, but for the most part stays on the surface.  Peter’s looking up at
the ceiling, maybe to avoid seeing blood or ignore any potential pain.  But
this is a relatively painless procedure.  Then again, Peter’s never gotten
shot, so Tony figures he may not know what to expect.  Once he’s done, he pats
the area dry with a clean towel, and then grabs a roll of bandages and fresh
gauze to begin wrapping it.  They don’t speak while Tony works, but he can hear
Peter breathing through his nose beside him.  He’s kicking his legs out
absently where they hang over the counter ledge and every once in a while
Peter’s foot will come down in a way where it slides over the back of Tony’s
knee.  He should, by all means, find it irritating, but he doesn’t.  He takes
two steps back once he’s done.
     “All right, Mr. Parker.”  Tony says.  “You should be all good.  I can take
that suit in for some TLC.  But hey,”
    Tony pauses, waits for Peter’s eyes to meet his. 
    “I need you to promise me,”  He starts.  “I need you to promise me that
you’re going to tell me when it gets too dangerous.  I know your suit AI
doesn’t report direct to me, and I’ve let you go off leash because I trust you.
 But part of that trust means being smart.”
    He jabs a finger, gently, two inches to the right of the bullet wound.
 Though the action is gentle, Peter’s torso still turns with it.
    “This is not being smart.  How’d this even happen?”
    Peter worries his bottom lip between his teeth as he averts his gaze, as if
he’s embarrassed.
    “Honestly, it was—it was stupid.  It won’t happen again.”
    “Not good enough.”  Tony says.  Peter audibly sighs and his shoulders droop
a bit.
    “I mean, it was just routine.  It’s weird.”  Peter pauses for a moment.  “I
guess you’ve probably seen weirder."
    “What tipped you off?”
    “Yeah, yeah.  So, uh, I have this like—well since I got bitten—it’s like
this extra sense, I guess?”  He says.  His speech is slow, as if he has to
think few extra seconds between each thought.  “Like if there’s some kind of
immediate danger that my other senses aren’t picking up, this one does.  It’s
kind of like running a dull current through my whole body?  I don’t know how
else to explain it.”
    He brings his good hand back to his neck and starts scratching over the
same spot again.  Tony grabs his wrist gently and pulls it away.  He’ll
probably start up again before the night is through but it’s best to keep him
from worrying the skin too much.  A bullet wound is enough of a problem without
having open scrapes to join it.  Peter’s attention follows the movement,
fixated on the point of contact until it’s broken.  He turns back to Tony.
    “Uh—so, when I was breaking up this stupid fight, that, uh, weird extra
sense went off?  It wasn’t serious, or like, urgent.  More like a really dull
buzz, but it was really persistent.  And it was enough that I was distracted
for a second and that’s all it took for the guy to get his gun out, and then a
siren went off and he misfired and here I am.”  He shrugs as he ends the
sentence but immediately winces as it aggravates the wound. 
    “So you’re saying you’ve got an extra sense?"
    “Yeah like, danger-vision or something?”
    “That name’s not gonna fly.  Get back to the drawing table.”  Tony says,
then his expression grows serious.  “Peter, would it be OK if your suit’s AI
linked up to F.R.I.D.A.Y. just for occasions like these?  When you get really
hurt.  So I can be on hand.  If that shot had gone a few inches south, I don’t
think you would have gotten here so easily.”  Peter looks resigned as Tony
speaks and he knows it’s because the reality of his words is actually landing.
 After a few beats Peter finally nods.
    “That’s fine.  I mean worst case scenario, Karen tells you all my darkest
secrets.  What could go wrong?"
    “Karen?”
    “Um, yeah.  I named my AI?”
    At this, Tony laughs.  Karen.  Of course Peter did.
    “Alright, I think it’s probably time you get to sleep.  You can take the
lower level bedroom."
     Peter hops off the counter and sways back to lean against it.  He looks
unsteady on his feet.  Peter’s likely a disastrous combination of exhausted,
high and dizzy.
     “You think you’re gonna need some help getting downstairs?”  Peter nods so
Tony pulls his good arm around his shoulders and, grabbing the upper half of
the suit to keep it up, loops an arm around Peter’s waist.  He guides him
downstairs and into the spare bedroom, sits him onto the edge of the bed and
pulls out some pajamas for Peter to change into.  He doesn’t mention that
they’re Peter’s size and specifically in case of a situation sort of like this.
 Perhaps without the serious injury.
     “Leave the suit outside of the door and I’ll get to it either later
tonight or tomorrow.  I can have it dropped off to your apartment after
school."  Peter’s fading now, so he just gives a mute nod and starts slipping
the suit off.  Tony takes that as his queue to exit.  That’s something he
doesn’t need to be seeing.  Now or ever.  He steps out of the room and calls
May.  He rattles through some charming excuses on autopilot, saying Peter
nodded off so he’s been set up downstairs.  She thanks him for letting her know
and bids him a goodnight.
     When he gets back upstairs he pushes the heels of his palms into his eye
sockets.  God fucking dammit.  He thinks.  Tony wanders over to the bar and
taps out a quick text before fixing himself a cocktail that he drinks entirely
too quickly.  He stands there pouring himself bourbon and polishing it off in a
cycle for what seems like a thousand years until the elevator chimes and the
doors slide open.  Tony puts his glass down just as Emile steps out.
     “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”  Tony says.
 
 
 
     At four in the morning, Emile slides out of bed.  He starts pulling his
shirt on and moves to his jeans.  Tony watches from where he’s laying, as he
slips them on one leg at a time before leaning against the dresser to put his
boots on.  There’s a fine line, watching him dress, between the sensuality that
comes attached to witnessing something so intimate, and the awkwardness of
actually dressing.  There is no elegant way to slide on jeans, and yet the
action sends a warm heat spiraling low in Tony’s gut.  Despite his reputation
as a playboy, there’s always been a spot inside Tony that hungers for the
sweetness of domesticity.  Perhaps exactly because it’s something so far out of
reach, so fleeting and rare.
     Tony finally gets up and swings his legs over the side of the bed.  The
poured concrete is cool under his feet. 
     “I’ll call you a car.  Do you need me to walk you out?”  Tony asks.  He
looks out the window as he speaks.
     “No, I am okay.  Merci.”  Emile says.  Tony watches in the reflection of
the glass as he slips quietly out the door and down the hall.  Tony rubs his
temples and looks out of his wall to wall windows and down across the rooftops
of SoHo.  Even this late, the lights of New York are bright.  They bathe the
room in a russet wash and cast deep, long shadows across the walls.  It makes
everything feel surreal, like he exists in a space where time doesn’t.  He
grabs the glass of water that’s sitting on the beside table and lets it soothe
his dry throat.
    There’s a dull thud from somewhere in the direction of the main room and
Tony walks over to the door, opening it a creak.
    “Emile?”  He calls down the hall.  "Everything OK?”  There’s a pause before
Emile responds.
    “Yes.  Fine.  I tripped.”  He calls back.  “Go to sleep.”
    Tony shuts the door again just as he hears the sound of the elevator
chiming.  He lays back down in the bed, facing the windows.  He’s exhausted,
but he watches a few of the pinpoints of light float across the sky towards the
airports.  It’s like counting sheep.
    As his eyes finally slip close and his breath evens out, in his dreams,
Tony hears the door chime once more.
    He sleeps a scant two hours.  They’re restless, and he spends them
teetering on the knife’s edge of sleep and lucidity.  Each time Tony turns in
the bed, the rustle of his sheets and the subtle creak of a single spring near
where his knees rest feel louder than a jet engine.  But it seems better than
stillness, which brings forth a crawling sensation from beneath the surface of
his skin and down, deeper into his joints.  Each minute that drags on is
torturous.  At six, he finally relents.  He pulls one of his old threadbare
band shirts on and wanders into the kitchen to fix himself a coffee.  He seats
himself at the counter, watches the market movements as they open for the day.
 Everything ticks with a suddenness that wakes him up as much as his espresso.
 He has enough algorithms to manage his stock portfolio hands-off but on rare
mornings in which he wishes to empty his mind, he’ll play day trader.  As if
his own brain could ever outsmart the complex calculations he’d strung together
to replace it. 
    The silence of the morning feels blessed.  His Soho street still as sleepy
as one can get in the heart of New York City.  Tony languishes in the
bitterness of his coffee, the rhythmic chaos of candlestick charts, and the
hollowness of his penthouse that seems at the moment both too big and too
small. 
    A half hour later, Peter wanders into the kitchen.  Though it’s likely
still hurt, from what Tony can glean, the range of motion on his arm looks to
have improved over the course of the night.  The rest of him, though, moves
rigidly, lacking the grace or fluidity that he’s used to.  Instead he walks as
if his entire body had locked up during his sleep, or as if he’d spent the
evening doing an Olympic weightlifting routine only to wake to his muscles
betraying him.  Tony quirks an eyebrow at him, but holds his tongue.  Whatever
it is, if Peter is comfortable enough, he’ll say it.  Peter is a blabbermouth
at the best—and worst—of times.
    Instead, he stops in the middle of living room, just a few footsteps from
the elevator.  He swivels his head to look outside where the sun is starting to
crest behind the overcast sky.  It diffuses the city in a muted grey light that
washes the color away with an unnatural brightness.  Tony shorts another stock,
pretends to keep his focus on the tablet.  Out of the corner of his eyes he
watches, waits for movement.  But a few minutes pass before Peter speaks.
 Those minutes stretch on, entirely too long for a man like Tony.  A man who’s
only still learning the art of patience, of waiting, so used to the instant
gratification that his family’s wealth has afforded him.
    “Um, is it okay if I call a car?”  Peter asks.  “I don’t want to take the
subway in pajamas.”
    Tony gives him a once over.  He’d be too cold if he did.  The thermal shirt
Peter’s wearing offering enough warmth to be comfortable in a cool room, but
hardly in the late winter air of New York.  The elastic hem of his pants are
pushed up a solid inch past his ankle, and hairs trail down from underneath to
where they wrap around the beginnings of his foot, thin out and disappear.  He
has hotel grade slippers on—from there—that clap against the floor when he
walks.  All in all, hardly appropriate subway attire.  Hardly attire
appropriate for a run to the bodega, even.  Tony waves him off.
    “You don’t have to ask.”  He points at Peter’s shoulder.  “Need me to
change the bandages?  Did you grab the prescription from the fax machine?”
    Peter shakes his head.
    “I grabbed it.  And no need, I already changed them.”
    Tony wonders how he was so in the zone that he missed the sound of Peter
opening or closing the bathroom door.  He sets his tablet down as Peter turns
to the ceiling.
    “Hey, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?  Can you call a car for me please?”
    “Of course, Mr. Parker,”  She says.  “It’ll be downstairs on the street for
you in two minutes.”
    “Thanks F.R.I.D.A.Y.”  He turns back to Tony, pushing the sleeve of his
shirt up to the crook of his elbow.  He lets it fall again.  A nervous habit.
 “Thanks for helping me out—uh—sorry if I was weird yesterday.”
    “Not at all.”  Tony waves.  “You’re not the first person I’ve seen high as
balls and you won’t be the last.”
    Peter flushes and nods, but doesn’t say anything further.  He moves to the
elevator, slippers clapping against the floor, and hits the button.  When the
doors chime and finally open, he turns to Tony one last time.
    “Um, see you later, I guess.”  He says.
    “Later, Factory Boy."
    Tony doesn’t think about that morning later.  Or ever.  He spends the next
twenty minutes back on his tablet playing Wall Street.  He sends a Elon a photo
of himself shorting the Tesla stock again and gets a text back two minutes
later with ‘eat shit’ and ‘when are you back in LA?’.  Tony only thinks about
how he’d like to answer that question with a ‘soon’ or a ‘tomorrow’ or even ‘in
five hours’.  The temptation is strong, but he has obligations in New York, in
the city and upstate.  Real obligations, he tells himself.

    So why would he think about that morning?  Just one in a sea of thousands.
 After all, nothing stood out.
Chapter End Notes
     WOOF!!!! Sorry again for the slow update, me and my outline are still
     having some arguments and I'd rather get that locked in than rush it
     out and have everything out of order.
     Thanks again for all the patience and the lovely words!! It's so cool
     seeing this journey from all of your viewpoints! And it's so cool
     when you guys spot things I didn't even think about! I love it.
      
***** Chapter 13 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
 
 
 
 
 
    Since he was a child, Tony’s always held a certain disdain for birthdays.
    It’s not so much the birthday itself, or the marked passing of time.
 Tony’s never feared growing older.  He hadn't felt horror when the first grey
hairs began to sprout along his temples—earlier than usual from the stress.
 When the wrinkles around his eyes stopped disappearing with his smiles, he
didn’t mourn the loss of his youth.  The patch of white hairs on the edge of
his beard look distinguished to him, not run down.  There is no fear of aging
in Tony.  The root of his derision—as with many things in his life—is born of
his father.
    Tony’s birthday sat in an awkward spot for a businessman, just slightly
over a month past when the first fiscal quarter ended.  It meant that every
year, like clockwork, his father would be entrenched in the company, busy
preparing the financials for filing with the SEC.  It left Tony with only his
mother and maid to pretend like they were some kind of family and not a
bastardized approximation of one.  As a child he had thought that his
fathers absence was his own fault.  It left the birthdays of his younger years
feeling hollow, empty and guilty.  When the years passed and adolescence began
to line Tony’s mind with anger, he began to blame his father—and by extension,
his mother.  By thirteen, Maria had given up any semblance of trying to keep
the household together.  His birthdays faded into obsolescence.  When he went
off to college at fifteen, he took solace in the fact that his birthday sat in
the vacant summer semester.  Instead of gifts given by his family and birthday
cakes, Tony began sneaking down to Manhattan and flashing his meticulous fake
ID to get into bars and clubs.  Security knew, had to have known, but they
didn’t care.  And neither did Tony.  He began marking each year he grew older
with mountains of cocaine, liquor, and women who—by sleeping with him—were
breaking the law, or at the very least, any reasonable code of ethics. 
    But that had been Tony’s M.O. regardless.  A continual advance along the
thin line of morality.  By nineteen his reputation as a party boy
nearly preceded the name ’Stark’.  At twenty-one he lost both his parents, and
with them, any hopes of a normal birthday celebration had evaporated.  His
extravagant binging grew worse.  Tony became a tabloid sensation.  His
shenanigans provided endless opportunity for critique and mockery.  But
Tony didn’t care.  He was only interested in occupying himself and that big,
empty feeling that loomed over him like dark cloud.  Birthdays became about
forgetting.
    Like with most things these days, Tony finds out about Peter’s birthday
through F.R.I.D.A.Y.  She has access to an extensive server that houses data
pulled from publicly—and perhaps unethically—not so publicly available sources.
 Not that Tony has any intentions to use the stored information nefariously.
 Rather, the data-bank allows him to manage all of his real-life relationships
in the most hands-off, automated way possible.  Birthdays, anniversaries,
health records, all of them sifted through thousands of times daily simply for
pertinent information.  Should a former colleague grow sick, Tony can send
appropriate condolences.  If an important career change is made, Tony can offer
his congratulations.  Gift giving has become so seamless through the algorithms
F.R.I.D.A.Y. employs that Tony never has to worry about pedestrian things such
as weddings or baby showers that he’d never attend anyway.  It’s of no
surprise, then, that two weeks from the date, F.R.I.D.A.Y. slips Peter’s birth-
date in.
    He’s on his way up from the compound’s gym, hood pulled up over his head to
catch the extra sweat dripping out of his hair.  She starts with his portfolio
movements in the past 24 hours, has him authorize a few buy and sell orders.
 As he’s blending himself a protein shake, she rolls through important dates in
the next two weeks including several meetings in the city.  He fixates on
Peter’s birthday.  It straddles the line between winter and spring, and Tony
finds it apt that Peter’s stubbornness be marked by the sign of a ram.  He
wipes a sweater sleeve over his brow to catch the excess moisture there.
    “F.R.I.D.A.Y. lower the temp like three degrees please.”  He says.  “And
can you pull data on Peter just to see what to get him for his birthday?”
    “I’ll sync the list to your phone.”  F.R.I.D.A.Y. replies.  A few seconds
later it pops up on his cell, and he scrolls through it.  It’s not
extensive, some of it is variants or smaller versions of equipment already in
the labs.  An aerobic chamber, centrifuges, a thermal cycler.  What does stand
out to Tony, is the item at the bottom of the list.  It’s a Leica camera, not a
DLSR but rather a traditional 35mm.  He opens a new browser tab and looks it
up.
    “Hey, F.R.I.D.A.Y.”  Tony says, not taking his eyes off the phone.  “What
data indicated the camera on this list?”
    “Mr. Parker is active on several online photography communities, including
the subreddits r photography and r leica.  His posts indicate that he favors
traditional film and analog.  He also, over several posts, laments that his
father’s camera has been out of commission for several years and he cannot
afford a new one.  He has uploaded several photos he’s taken on disposable
cameras and his cellphone to a subreddit called r photocritique and they have
received generally favorable feedback as well as some highly rated posts.  From
that I’ve extrapolated that he has a passion for photography that he is unable
to fulfill.”
    Tony hums in response, pokes around at vendors that are selling the Leica
F.R.I.D.A.Y. had listed.
    “Hey, can you throw those photos onto my phone, too?  Whatever he’s put
online.”  Tony says.  A new set of windows open on his phone, pushing the
web browser out of view.  Tony flips his phone sideways so he can look at the
pictures.  Given that they’re mostly taken on a disposable camera, they’re
quite impressive.  Peter has a good sense of light and space.  Some of them are
portraits—a few of a round looking boy and a tall, gangly girl.  A few shots of
his aunt, candid, unaware.  He also takes a lot of photos of Queens, the
streets, the subway, the water.  There’s photos of buskers and strange, unique
men that are so characteristically New York.  There’s a lot of posts and Tony
loses himself going through them.  There’s one series of portraits of a
classically handsome boy.  His hair is coiffed and his clothing looks
expensive.  One in particular sticks out, taken in the dying evening light.
 The boy had a cigarette between his lips and the flame as he lights it creates
white streaks where it catches on his features.  It’s a black and white photo,
and Tony’s distinctly reminded of Godard.  The photo contains a certain
sensuality that bites him with a sour feeling in the back of his mouth.
 There’s mastery to the shot, but Tony is distracted by the feeling it pulls
from him.  He swipes to the next photo.
    “Ok, well then,”  He says, regarding it.  It’s a shot from the top of
Robert F. Kennedy bridge.  Peter must have taken it on a patrol.  The image
sweeps down the length of Manhattan and the rays from the setting sun cut
through the buildings in irregular intervals.  “Put through an order for the
camera, ok F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”
 
 
 
    
    Peter’s up at the compound a day later.  He gets in just after six thirty.
 Tony’s been fielding a bunch of conference calls so he’s at the dining room
table surrounded by papers, his laptop and a tablet.  He’s in the thick of one
of them when Peter waltzes through the kitchen, weekend bag and backpack slung
over his shoulders.  He opens his mouth to say something but Tony holds a hand
up and then makes a shooing motion to get him to leave.  Peter flushes, but
nods, and heads off in the direction of his room.
    He’s back in half an hour, changed and settled.  Tony’s still on the call,
interjecting every once in a while but mostly humming along with the
acquisition plans for an Indian bio-tech lab.  Pepper’s been on the call, too,
but he knows she’s likely just as bored.  The COO and CFO have been taking
passive aggressive jabs at each other for most of it, and every once in a while
Pepper has to step in to levy the tension.  Tony’s too tired to be dealing with
it.  The COO has been driving him up the wall lately, anyway.  Christian's
insistence on opening up a new centralized R&D complex in the bay area meant
shuttering several smaller complexes across the country.  People had to pack up
and move their entire lives to the coast, or face termination.  Not to mention
the new complex meant losing Happy for an extended period as he managed the
security ops at the facility.  Tony pulled his laptop over and popped open a
window for the encrypted chat client that Stark Industries hosted.
        (19:08) Robocop: Pepper please fire this guy.
        Please. I’m begging you.
        (19:08) Robocop: if i have to listen to him yanking on
        Jay’s pigtails anymore…
    There’s a muffled snicker on the line.  Pepper’s laughing.  But the rest of
the people on the call are way too heated to take notice.  A ‘typing’ bubble
pops up on his client.
        (19:08) Virginia: Don’t worry. I’ve been poking
        around for the position.
        (19:09) Virginia: Know anyone fit for it?
    Tony hums.  Yet again, the sound goes completely unnoticed.  Jay is huffing
into his ear.  Angelica, the CTO, is trying to mediate, offering concessions to
both sides.  Neither party seems interested since they keep talking over her.
 Tony feels an edge of sympathy.
        (19:09) Robocop: Not off the top of my head. 
        (19:09) Robocop: Give Angelica a fucking bonus jesus
        (19:10) Robocop: Does she have to deal with this
        every day?
        (19:10) Robocop: I would have locked Christian
        in the basement and thrown the key away long ago/
        (19:10) Virginia: It wasn’t like this a few months ago.
        I don’t know what’s going on with Christian.
        (19:10) Virginia: the whole company’s noticed it though.
        Big mess. Have you not gotten the internal memos?
        (19:11) Robocop: Well, I have. But whether I actually
        read them is another story.
        (19:12) Virginia: How the hell did you run this company
        at any point?
        (19:12) Robocop: To be fair, it was mostly Obie.
        He did the boring shit.
    Christian’s voice is reaching a crescendo on the other end of the line.
 Tony pulls the phone away from his ear.  In the silence of the kitchen Peter
can definitely hear the yelling—distinguishable or not.  He turns to raise an
eyebrow at Tony from where he’s pulling something from the fridge.  Tony mouths
out ‘I don’t know’ at him and Peter snickers.  There’s a sound that cuts into
the yelling that sounds suspiciously like a judge demanding order in the court,
so Tony puts it back to his ear.
    “Christian that’s enough.”  Pepper’s saying.  “Angelica is giving you the
reasons why it’s not fiscally viable to buy up the two other competing labs and
merge them in Dehli, so why are you still arguing?  Just because the words
originally came out of Jay’s mouth?  I don’t know what your petty squabble is
at this point but it needs to stop.  We have an obligation to our shareholders
to not do things just for the sake of doing them.”
    Pepper’s authoritative tone, and the response of utter silence, solidify to
Tony that she had been the best choice to replace him.  He could have never run
Stark Industries, not the way she has.  Profits were up 12% year on date, every
calendar year since she’d taken over.  The growth and innovation she’d fostered
were unrivaled in every space Stark Industries had a hand in.  A part of Tony
is jealous.  He wishes he has the same breadth of focus, the same resolve and
discipline to run the company like Pepper does.  But they’re wired so
differently, and Tony knows that isn’t about to change.
    “Well then,”  Tony finally says.  “Looks like we’re doing it Jay’s way.
 Sorry Christian.  Now, if we’re done here?  CC me and Sheila on all
the correspondence and I’ll see you all in LA at the next shareholders meeting.
 Play nice, kids.”
    He hangs up.  Another ’typing' bubble pops up in the chat client.
        (19:21) Virginia: HA. Christian hated that!
        (19:21)Virginia: Don’t book a hotel next time you’re
        down, you can stay with us.
        (19:21) Virginia: Adam really wants to take you golfing
        (19:21) Virginia: And I took a cooking class with
        Thomas Keller last month
        (19:22) Virginia: You have to taste test for me!
    Tony smiles.  He’ll probably book a hotel anyway, he needs and values his
own private space.  But the prospect of getting to know Adam better and having
Pepper cook for him is too good to pass up.  Pepper never dabbled in the
culinary arts they were together, a testament to just how much he must have
stressed her out.  If she’s making time to learn to cook it must mean she’s
feeling more peace in her life than she had before.
        (19:23) Robocop: You got it. I’ll text you. Stark out.
    As Tony closes his laptop, Peter’s plopping himself down in the seat across
the table.  He’s got a haphazardly constructed pita sandwich and a pile of baby
carrots on his plate that he starts into sans abandon.  Tony starts clearing
the table, and between that and the rustling of papers, any ambient sound is
drowned out.  Peter pulls the hood of his sweater up, as if it’s too cold
inside.
    “So, what was that all about?”  Peter asks through a mouthful of food.
    “Chew with your mouth closed, you animal.”  Tony snaps, tapping papers
against the table.  “Upper management at the company are basically angry babies
and me and Pepper have to play mom and dad.
    “Woah, that one guy sounded really mad.  Wait, are you and Ms. Potts—“
    “No.”  Tony cuts him off.  “No.  But we still have to run the company.
 Joint custody, you know.  Messy divorce.  It’s been hard on the kids."
    Peter makes a humming sound, the musical equivalent of ‘curious’.  He pulls
out his phone while popping another baby carrot into his mouth and rattles off
a text.  Tony takes the opportunity to throw all the papers back into their
briefcase along with the laptop and clasps it shut.
    “What’s on the docket tonight?”  Tony asks.  Peter looks up from his phone,
which keeps pinging with new text messages.  Tony nods towards it.  “Or are you
indisposed?”
    Peter blushes, as if he got caught doing something wrong.  He silences his
phone and puts it face down on the table but doesn’t offer a comment.
    “What?”  Tony goads.  “Are you texting a girl?”
    “No!”  Peter yelps in response.  “—I mean yes.  But she’s just a friend.”
    “That’s all?”  Tony asks.  Part of him is on the edge of its metaphorical
seat, hoping that Peter will say ‘no, that’s not all’.  Hopes that he can
finally have some sense knocked into him.  Peter is off limits, but the dark
coiling thing inside him wants concrete evidence of it.
    “Yeah.  Seriously.  Just a friend.  Maybe a therapist.  Or a bully.  I
don’t know.  She’s crazy—but also great.”  Peter looks back at his phone
absently.  “She’s been helping me through a lot.  Like the stuff with Harry,
and my—“  He cuts himself off abruptly, pauses to gather himself.  “I don’t
know, we weren’t super close last year but we’ve been hanging out more and
she’s been a really good friend.”
    “Alright then.”  Not what Tony had wanted to hear.  Sarcastically:
 “Whatever you say.”
    Peter kicks him under the table for that.  Not with a lot of force, but
enough to validate the utterly saucy grin on his face.  Tony rolls his eyes.
 Peter leans back in his chair, pita in hand, and props his feet up on Tony’s
lap.
    “Peter, do I look like an ottoman to you?”
    “Maybe.”  He fires back, taking a bite of his sandwich.  Tony thinks about
removing the feet.  And realistically, he should.  But it’s benign, perhaps
just revenge for the taunting.  And in that case, entirely deserved.  He leaves
the feet where they are and reaches over for the glass of scotch he left
sitting in the middle of the table, swirling it around the glass.  The motion
of the liquid sends a peaty smell hurtling out to perfume the table.
    “So, again.  What are we tackling tonight?”  Tony asks.  Peter looks every
bit regal and ridiculous.  He’s sprawled out comfortably, his sandwich arm
angled up and out like some kind of Roman nobility enjoying grapes.  His face
is a peach colored circle peeking out from the confines of his burgundy hoodie.
 Tony watches a finger of his free hand twirl one of the sweater's drawstrings
around it.  There’s an underlying confidence that Peter is radiating that
wasn’t there even a month ago.  Whether it’s Tony’s influence or Peter simply
growing increasingly more comfortable is up to debate.  Peter chews
thoughtfully.
    “I kind of wanted to get back onto the Nextile?”  He finally says.  “I
don’t want a repeat of the other week.”  He rotates his shoulder—the one that
had gotten shot—as if it still hurts.  Tony knows it doesn’t.  He’s seen the
aftermath—almost invisible.  Just a tiny circular patch of skin that looks
almost exactly like the skin around it, save the barely perceptible sheen
of scar tissue.  It only shows when the light hits it just right.  Peter’s
healing factor is remarkable.  It had taken a day for the wound to close and a
few more to fully heal.  Two weeks later and all signs had vanished.  The
antibiotics had seemed like a redundancy, but he’d taken them like a good
patient anyways.  Tony figures working on the Nextile—a moniker Peter had come
up with—would be a wise choice.  He finishes off his scotch with one hand and
squeezes one of Peter’s feet with the other.  The arch of it fits perfectly in
the palm of Tony’s hand.  Peter's skin is hot even through the confines of his
sock.
    “Aright.  I see your logic.  Good plan.  You ready?”
    Peter stuffs the last of the Pita into his mouth and grabs the remaining
baby carrots off his plate.  The feet on Tony’s lap retreat and they both
stand. 
    “Ready as ever.”  Peter says.
    Though they’ve only seen each other twice since Peter had gotten shot, Tony
feels as if in that time Peter has become more brazen.  It’s made lab time
together frustrating.  Peter inserts himself into just about everything Tony
does, whether they’re working in tandem or not.  There are more questions than
ever.  At one point the previous weekend, Tony had been arms deep in a
schematic on the holo-table and Peter, having spotted something, nearly sat
himself in Tony’s lap to get at it.
    “Look, just try it this way” he’d said, backside alarmingly close to Tony’s
crotch.  Tony had jumped back as if Peter had been made of hot coals.  Did kids
nowadays not understand the concept of personal space?  But it hadn’t phased
Peter at all.  He’d simply popped part of the schematic off and replaced it
with another and presented it like a kid with a winning science fair project.
 Part of Tony was thankful, but the other part wanted to tear his hair out.
    And now, if Tony finds himself in the zone, rather than use his voice,
Peter has taken to touches to garner attention.  Every time it happens, the
soft pads of Peter’s fingers lingering on the back of his neck, Tony feels like
he’s being tested.  He takes every opportunity to extricate himself from the
contact, to put a healthy distance between them.  But the difficulty lies in
the fact that Peter doesn’t seem to get the message.  Tony’s finds himself
taking bar breaks more and more as a consequence.  He can see his own work
suffering for it.
    That evening ends up being no different.  Their work together sees Peter
pressed up against Tony’s side as they experiment with ways to fuse the two
materials into a single thread.  Tony counts it as one of life’s little
miracles that he manages to keep his attention on task.  He wonders, absently,
if Peter even notices.
 
 
 
    Peter’s birthday falls on a Wednesday, which means they don’t see each
other.  Tony sends him a casual text.  It’s blasé in the way most of Tony’s
interactions are.  That same day the shipment with the Leica camera, camera
case, and several rolls of film comes in.  Tony takes all of it out of the
shipping box.  He wraps the camera—in its box—in regular brown packing paper
and a simple tie.  In his clean block script he writes ‘to Peter’.  The gift,
along with the case and film rolls, all go into Tony’s weekend bag.
    Friday evening, as per usual, Peter makes his way up to the compound after
school.  Tony’s sitting on the stairs in the receiving room with his weekend
bag packed, watching the blip of Peter’s driverless car on his phone’s GPS.
 When it pulls up in the drive, Tony stands.  Peter rushes up through the doors
and looks to be making a beeline for the living room.  He stops short as soon
as he notices Tony.  There’s a look of confusion that passes on his face.
 Tony’s never waited up for him.
    “Uh—hey there.  Um—what are—what’re you doing here?”
    “Waiting for you.”  Tony says coolly.  Peter just ends up looking more
confused.
    “Oh.  Okay um—whatever it is let me just drop my stuff off?”  Peter says.
    “Or,”  Tony starts, slinging his weekend bag over his shoulder.  “You could
not do that.  And instead you could follow me because we’re going on a field
trip.”
    “Woah?  Really?  Where?”
    “Birthday surprise.”
    Peter doesn’t ask any more questions.  He knows by now when Tony will
divulge and when he won’t and backs off accordingly.  It should worry Tony, how
much Peter has learned to manipulate him.  He should be more weary of it.
    They load into Tony’s matte black Mercedes G class, tossing their bags into
the trunk.  While Tony drives them off compound Peter’s already setting up his
phone to the bluetooth and hijacking the sound system to play his music.  Peter
props his feet up on the dash and sings under his breath with some of the
songs.  He keeps the window rolled down an inch and watches as the newly
budding forests of the low lying Catskills pass them in the dying light.  The
drive is only an hour and a half, but by the time Tony is pulling them off the
main road, the sun has fully set.
    Peter sits upright as they turn into the gravel drive.  It sends them a
short distance through a thick treeline that opens into a sprawling green yard.
 The bone white estate that sits in the center, lit like a beacon, greets them.
 Behind it, the inky black surface of Seneca Lake glitters with the reflection
of the moon and the cottages peeking out through the tree across the water.  As
the car pulls into the near-full parking lot, Peter looks at Tony.
    “Well, we’re here.”  Tony announces.  He sees Peter pitch forward a bit, a
sign that he wants to ask a question but is holding himself back.  Tony pulls
the truck into the first free parking spot he sees.  They both hop out and walk
towards the front of the estate.  An American flag hangs loosely from the
awning, undulating in the gentle breeze.  The boards creek under their feet and
Tony pulls the door open for Peter to walk through.  The woman at the front
desk is portly with a kind face and offers them a beaming smile when she sees
them.
    “Well, good evening, sirs!  How can we be of service?”  She asks, clasping
her hands together.  Tony leans an elbow along the counter.
    “Reservations for eight thirty under Carbonell.”  He says.  She pushes her
glasses up her nose before looking to the reservations book.  Tony’s fond of
places that stick to the old school book-keeping.  There isn’t a shred of
technology on the desk.  She writes something in the margin and straightens
out.
    “I see you made it in early, I’m guessing traffic was good!”  She says.
 “Follow me.”
    She leads them into a cozy restaurant dining room.  The back and side walls
are lined with pretty cottage windows, and a double door that spills out onto a
spacious over-water patio.  Their table is tucked away in the corner, a wide
four top.  She places two menus on the table for them and insists a server will
be with them shortly.  Peter edges his sweater off and shoots Tony a huge grin
across the table.
    “Drove me all the way to the Finger Lakes just for a birthday dinner?”  He
asks incredulously.
    “Not just for dinner.”  Tony says.  “But yes."
    Dinner is sweet and soft.  They order plates to share and stories flow
between them over the course of their meal.  Peter laughs a lot, eyes crinkling
in the warm glow of the candle on their table.  They don’t rush through their
plates, and by the time the last of their mains are cleared off the table,
there’s only two other groups still seated in the restaurant.  Tony orders them
dessert and insists on as many embarrassing candles as possible.  When they
bring the chocolate lava cake out, thirty candles sticking out of it at
different angles, Peter buries his face in his hands.  Nonetheless, he blows
them out diligently and offers another big smile to Tony.
    When dinner is paid and settled, they return to the front desk.  The same
woman greets them.
    “Well then, how was dinner?”
    “Lovely.”  Peter says at the same time as Tony says “Great.”  It peels a
laugh from Peter.
    “We’ve got a room as well under Carbonell?”  He says.  The woman nods and
turns to the key cabinet.  She hands Tony the key for their room and he
immediately gives it to Peter.
    “Why don’t you head on up.  I just have to sign some things and I’ll grab
the bags.”
    Peter shakes his head.
    “Let me grab the bags. It’s not a problem!”
    “Peter, it’s your birthday.  Go upstairs make yourself comfortable.”  Tony
presses.  Peter huffs but nods and heads in the direction of the stairs.  Tony
pulls out his wallet and hands over his credit card.  The clerk grabs it for
him and runs it, placing the receipt and a pen for Tony to sign.  She must not
have looked at the name on the card, or recognized him, because she drums up
absent conversation that makes Tony’s blood run cold.
    “So sweet of you to bring your son up for a nice weekend like this.”  She
says.  Tony can feel the color drain from his face, but he manages some kind
of affirmative noise.  If only to avoid being rude.  He hands the signed slip
back and marches out to the lot to grab their bags.  Tony slings them both over
his shoulder and heads back inside.
    The shower in the washroom is running, but Peter’s sweater is already flung
onto the wall-side bed.  Tony tosses Peter’s bag along-side it and then puts
his own on the window-side bed.  He laments that none of the multi-room suites
were left, but the weekend trip had been a bit of a last minute idea.  Tony
figures he can handle one night.  They’ll be out first thing in the morning.
    He fishes the gift out of the bag and places it right on the edge of
Peter’s bed so he won’t be able to miss it.  While he waits for the water to
shut off, he pulls his sleep clothes out and plugs his phone in on the bedside
table.  He tosses himself onto the bed to wait.
    Peter comes out of the washroom ten minutes later wrapped in a fluffy
bathrobe.  His wet hair curls onto his forehead and he pushes it out of his
face.
    “It’s free if you wanted to shower.”  Peter says as he walks towards his
bed.  He does a comical double take when he notices the gift, picking it up
with both hands.
    “Is this—for me?”  He asks.  Tony swings his legs out over the bed and
offers him what he hopes is a genuine smile.
    “Yeah, Pete.  Happy birthday."
    “Can I open it?”
    “What else would you do with it?”  Tony deadpans.  But he leans forward a
bit as Peter gently peels the paper apart along the seams.  When he slides the
box out from beneath it and sees the Leica print he blanks.
    “I—Tony—what”  He gapes.  “I can’t—I can’t possibly.  What!”
    Tony can’t help the huge grin that cuts across his face.  He tries to stamp
it down but Peter’s now completely incoherent babbling coupled with the way the
tips of his ears turn pink is too much.  Peter’s caught between turning the box
around to look closer at the specs, and holding it further away from himself as
if that’ll make Tony take it back.
    “Just open it, Peter.  You so clearly want to.”  Tony says.
    “But this camera is like—like a gazillion dollars.  I can’t acc—“
    “Peter when has that ever stopped me?  Just open it.  It’s too late to
return it.”
    Peter takes a deep breath and starts edging the lid off of the camera box
and pulling it out of the packaging.  Tony had bought the ‘starter’ with a lens
included, he figures it’ll be good enough for Peter for the time being.  He
feels the burn of satisfaction course through his body as Peter holds
the chassis with what could only be described as reverence.  His face is
practically glowing as he thumbs along the dials, fingers smoothing along the
pebbled body.  He pulls the lens out and fixes it to the camera.  Peter puts
his hand up to the viewfinder and starts swiveling his head around the room.
    “This is amazing!”  He exclaims from behind the camera.  “This is so
amazing!  Oh my god!  I can’t wait to get some film in here and start taking
photos!”
    Tony leans over and reaches into his bag, tossing a box of film toward
Peter who catches it in a single hand with lightning fast reflexes.
    “I’ve got a case in there and a few more rolls but you get the idea.”  Tony
says.  Peter drops the film and the camera onto the bed and suddenly Tony finds
himself with an armful of Peter throwing him onto the bed.  He’s clinging on
like a spider monkey, a litany of ’Thank you’s falling out of his mouth.  Tony
lets himself have it for a moment.  He wraps his arms around Peters’ back, one
broad hand coming to cradle his neck.  He commits the memory of soft warm skin
and the curl of damp hair that tickles his fingers.  ‘You’re welcome’  he
whispers in between Peter’s gratitudes.  ‘I’m happy you like it.’
    Peter, suddenly becoming hyper aware of their positions, sits back for a
second before climbing off of Tony—and the bed—completely.  He looks a little
pale.
    “I’m sorry.”  He says.  “I got a bit excited.  This is really amazing."
    Peter turns back to his camera to pop the film roll in while Tony sits back
up.  He grabs his lounge clothes and cosmetic bag.  When he turns around
Peter’s already snapping a photo of him.  He offers up a sheepish smile.
    “I had to christen it.”  Peter says.  “I’m gonna change and go outside to
make a phone call.”
    “Sure.  I’m just getting ready for bed.  Don’t mind me.”  Tony says and
goes into the washroom.  He emerges fifteen minutes later to an empty room.
 The rhythmic rattling of the HVAC is distracting so Tony flips the TV on to
ESPN and lets the droning of sportscasters drown it out.  Despite the hour not
being particularly late, Tony finds that he’s exhausted.  He goes to open the
window—fresh, cold air helps him sleep—and notices Peter below, pacing on the
dock while he chats on the phone.  He’s switching between frantic gesticulating
and rubbing the back of his neck.  Tony can’t hear him from here, the
conversation is hushed and quiet.  He wonders if Peter’s talking to that friend
he mentioned.
    Nosiness is going to get him nowhere.  He turns around and draws the blinds
halfway to allow for a sliver of moonlight.  Tony doesn’t notice when Peter
returns.  By then he’s already fallen asleep.  It’s a deep comfortable sleep,
the kind that makes it hard to wake up in the morning.  Despite that, Tony
finds himself torn from the confines of his dreams sometime late into the
night.  There’s still no hint of sunlight and then moon—bright and fat—casts an
eerie blue glow in the shape of a stripe across Tony’s bed.  As he slowly
regains coherency, he realizes what it is that woke him.  Across the gap in his
bed, Peter is making quiet moaning sounds.  The telltale rustle of sheets and
hitched breath means there’s only one thing he could possibly be doing.  And
against all common sense, all sense of self preservation, Tony turns his head
to look.
    Peter’s still asleep.  The cast of moonlight between the blinds fall almost
perfectly across him.  He’s turned towards Tony, one of the jumbo sized pillows
beneath him as he ruts into it.  The second he sees, Tony regrets.  A jolt of
hunger and want courses through him, followed by the slower unfurling of guilt.
 Peter’s face is screwed up, his mouth falling open on an exhale.  His finger
curls and tightens into the fabric of the pillow.  Tony turns away, pulls the
sheets up over his head.  He begs for sleep like that, hands clamped over his
ears.  And despite his best efforts, it’s not enough.  What feels like an
eternity passes, haunted by the sound of his sins manifested in the bed next to
his.
    The next morning, Tony wakes up first.  He showers, changes, packs and
slips downstairs to order himself a quad espresso.  He doesn’t linger long,
just enough to finish it before he’s back upstairs and nudging Peter awake.
 The pillow from last night is still nestled under his chest.  He wakes slowly,
blinking the sleep out of his eyes and rubbing his mouth where he’d managed to
drool a bit.  His hair is sticking up in all directions and he makes a sour
face.
    “What time is it?”  He mumbles.
    “Time to get going.  I’ll be downstairs for breakfast.  Don’t take too
long.”
    He sits at one of the tables in the restaurant, nothing but his phone and a
bottle of San Pellegrino he keeps pouring himself.  Peter comes down to join
him fifteen minutes later and plops his bag on the floor before he takes a
seat.
    “How’d you sleep?”  He asks, picking up his menu.  The Leica’s already
around his neck, the chassis resting along his breastbone.  Tony hasn’t even
told them where they’re going yet.
    “Uh, good.  The air up here usually knocks me out.  You?”
    “Yeah I was out like a light.  Have you had the pancakes here?  They sound
really good.”
 
    
 
    The blanket of low grey clouds drifting with the lazy April morning breeze
is enough to set a chill.  When they’re in the car, Peter keeps his window up
because of it, and nestles further into his down jacket.  Tony flips the seat
warmers on, though their drive is only twenty minutes.
    He takes them down the road to Watkin's Glen State Park.  Tony isn’t much
of an outdoors man, but he knows from some of Peter’s childhood tales that he
and his parents once were.  He’d mentioned weekends in the Appalachians, but
Tony is a pampered city boy.  Watkins Glen feels like a compromise.  Enough
safe trails for Tony’s expensive white sneakers and poor balance, but enough
natural beauty for Peter to take in.  The most actual hiking Tony’s ever done
was across the green of an upstate golf club.
    Tony parks the car at the main lot, which is still mostly empty.  Either
from the cold air or the inclement weather.  The skies look like they could
open up any any moment but the lack of air pressure makes Tony feel confident
they won’t.  Regardless, he pulls up his hood and throws on a pair of
sunglasses when he gets out of the car.  There’s no part of him that feels like
photo ops.  Today isn’t about him.  Peter follows suit and pulls his hood
from under his coat.  A single curl falls out from it’s place and onto his
forehead.  He shoots Tony a grin.
    “I’ve never been here before, but I hear it’s awesome.”  He shakes his
camera.  “You knew exactly where to take me, huh?”
    Tony laughs but doesn’t say anything.  It had been a bit of a wild guess,
but he’d also been curious.  If Peter had been older he would have roped him
into a winery tour.  That was one of the top things on his list.  But as it
stood the weekend would have to be PG.  The Wineries would be lovelier in
summer anyway.  Maybe he could convince Pepper and Adam to come up.
    Their walk is quiet.  Peter runs ahead a few times or lags behind Tony to
snap some photos.  They pass a few other people, Tony gives them a nod but
Peter full on greets them.  One couple has an old golden retriever with them
and Peter makes Tony hold his camera while he plays with it.  He strikes up a
conversation that goes on for a good ten minutes while Tony stands awkwardly
behind him.  They spend two hours in the park, not rushing, just allowing the
fresh air and beauty of the falls to fill them up.  When there’s no one around,
Peter tries to get Tony to pull his hood down and take his sunglasses of so he
can take a photo, but Tony vehemently refuses.  ‘No one wants to see that.’  He
cites.  And Peter rolls his eyes.  ‘I want to see that!’  He fires back.
 ‘Literally everybody wants to see that!’
    When they’re back near the entrance they’d come in by, the wind starts to
pick up.  The familiar tightness along the temples that Tony feels tells him a
pressure system is moving in.  They load back into the car just as the first
fat droplets start to hit the windshield.  Peter rips his hood off and laughs.
    “Perfect timing, huh?”
    Tony drives them back to the compound and they make it just after noon.
 Perfectly, it gives them the rest of the weekend to work.  When they’re back
inside, before Peter goes up to his room, he stops Tony in the foyer and puts a
hand on his shoulder.
    “Hey, look.  I—I just wanted to say thank you.  This was like the best
birthday I’ve ever had in my life.”  He puts his free hand gently on the
chassis of the camera, which he hasn’t let out of his sight since he’d opened
it.  “It was all really—really thoughtful.  You’re amazing.  Thank you.”
    Peter’s face is practically glowing up at Tony and he’s happy he’s got his
shades on.  For some reason he feels as if looking at him without them would be
too much.  He tries to steel himself.
    “Of course, Peter.  Anything for you."
Chapter End Notes
     What's the point of having a sugar daddy if they don't take you on
     nice little retreats?
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