Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stabbing the button for his floor, Tony watches the ring flare to life and thinks about what awaits him beyond the quiet elevator shaft of the former Avenger’s Tower. An ambush from Pepper? An empty floor?

Honestly, Tony doesn’t know which option he’d prefer.

The lobby was deserted when he arrived. The weary billionaire had nodded at the stationed guard, slipped him a twenty since it’s late and he must be dead on his feet.

Lord knows Tony is.

Even pondering his exhaustion, he keeps a running list of all the tasks he must accomplish before the weeks out. Announce the new product line. Attend some bullshit corporate party. Meet with the board; Meet with the shareholders; Meet with the lawyers. Hit replay and go again. Yada, yada, yada. Take two. Or three. Or four, whatever. You get the picture; the ass-kissing’s never over.

At this rate, Tony will be lucky to retire before he’s eighty. Scratch that, eighty-five, no—ninety. Mark his words. It’ll be another thirty or forty years before he‘s allowed to step down. That is—if he doesn’t perish in the superhero business first.

One day, someday…Tony’s gonna want out. Let’s just hope that wish gets honoured. Someday soon; sooner than anybody thinks.

There he goes again. Wishful thinking.

Heaving a full-bodied sigh, Tony scrubs his gritty, achy eyes, hooks his brown gradient aviators in his breast pocket, and steps out.

Dead silence.

So quiet you could hear a pin drop.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y, email Pepper. Tell her negotiations went well, we’ll debrief tomorrow. Actually, set a reminder for me to call her. She’ll have my head if I forget.”

The housekeeper has been and gone. The penthouse is the same as when he left; three days ago. Dumping his suitcase at the door, he crosses the room to the refrigerator, prying open the heavy door and surveying its contents.

Of course, on the technical side of things, everything meets the stinking-rich standard that is expected of him: top of the line kitchen, outfitted with the latest and sleekest stainless steel appliances. But sustenance-wise, it’s just a bunch of spoiled leftovers from when Peter was last here and half-eaten take-away. To his credit, he usually gets groceries delivered every Wednesday because it’s the middle of the week and that’s the day Peter usually comes over after school, along with overnight stays each weekend.

God, you’d think he had joint custody of the kid with the way he divides his time between here and his aunt’s.

But since he was out of the country, he decided to forgo the order this week.

Back before everything had gone to hell, Tony had a standing order—enough to feed a small army—but when the Avengers disbanded in disgrace, it soon became clear to Tony that the service was no longer required and he was forced to cancel it. Without the bottomless pits of Bruce and-uh, Rogers, and so few hungry guests to cater to, the fresh produce went off and he had no choice but to throw it out. It was a painful reminder that no matter how hard he tried or how much money he threw around, his efforts would nonetheless go to waste.

Until -

Until Peter started coming round and he had to reinstate the subscription.

The couch the team piled on for pizza and popcorn on movie nights is now the spot where Peter flings his backpack when he bounces in and later falls asleep with his head buried in Tony’s stomach, an old nature documentary from Netflix playing onscreen.

The refrigerator that was wrestled open by whoever emerged the victor of a vicious tug-of-war each morning (Nat, always Nat; pinching a water and the freshest produce for her muesli without fail), is now the proud owner of several amateur blueprints and designs of Peter’s that Tony had FR.I.D.A.Y scan and copy so he could keep them as mementos for himself. Peter groaned and blushed the first time he dropped by and noticed the rough prototype of the CPR administrating robot—which later secured first place at the Midtown science fair—pinned to his mentor’s fridge. Yet, even now, six weeks later, he has yet to glance at it without smiling.

As for rest of the communal area where all sorts of horseplay and childish team-bonding shenanigans once took place? These days there are school books piled on the glass coffee table and cramped flashcards forgotten amid the puddle of blankets Peter has to dig himself out from under after an impromptu nap (Tony may have gotten a tad carried away that one time, okay, two times, but he just looked so soft and rosy-cheeked, and he couldn’t fight the urge to bundle the exhausted teen up, safe and sound, if lacking a little sleep).

There are zip-up hoodies and quirky tees with science puns mixed in with his laundry. Stray Legos to accidentally impale the vulnerable flesh of his heel when making the trek to the kitchen for a glass of water in the dead of night. Little touches here and there that by themselves are unremarkable, but all add up to make a home that means the whole damn world to a broken man like Tony.

He snubs the saran-wrapped bowl of wrinkled salad in favour of a severely depleted tub of vanilla frosting. Popping the lid, he uses his index finger to scrape out a decent-sized chunk and stuffs it in his mouth, drawn deep into thought.

Could he rustle up something quick?

Sure.

Is he going to?

Ha, fat chance of that any time soon.

Tony feels the stress of the past six months snaking around his throat—twisting, squeezing—and he’s moments away from a full-blown panic attack when his ringtone blares in his hand.

“Incoming call from Peter Parker,” F.R.I.D.A.Y’s automated voice comes out of nowhere. “Originally intended for Mr. Hogan, per the recent updates to the ‘Terrible Twos’ protocol, I am obligated to divert the call to your cell. Shall I continue or would you like me to transfer young Parker’s call?”

“No need, F.R.I.D.A.Y, thank-you. Put him on. It’s been too long since I’ve checked up on the squirt.”

He holds the phone to his ear. Despite his fatigue, he’s ready. Eager, even. For once, he doesn’t have to inject false cheer in his tone.

“Hello. This is Tony Stark, billionaire-slash-genius-slash-fashion icon speaking. How may I help baby spidey today?”

“M-mr. Stark?” Peter’s astonished voice brings a genuine smile to his face. He didn’t have much time to talk to him over the past couple days and had to scrape by on a quick ten, maybe fifteen minute skype call. The boy trips over himself hurrying to explain. “Wh-? How-? I didn’t call you. Wait. That came out wrong. I didn’t–that’s not– And I told you not to call me that!”

“Nice to hear you, too.”

Peter backtracks quickly. “Sorry, sorry! It’s not that I’m not pleased to hear from you, I am. I just, I could’ve sworn I dialled Happy—”

Poor kid sounds so worked up. Tony decides to go easy on him.

“Relax, kid. You did,” he placates, “But it’s your lucky day. Instead, you got me. What’s up?”

“Oh. Well. I-I didn’t want to bother you. This-oh, man, this is so stupid. I feel terrible, Mr. Stark. I wouldn’t have called if I’d known- you don’t want a dorky kid bothering you—”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” Tony intercepts, tone softening with the kind of indulgent sensitivity he reserves only for Peter. “What’s going on?”

For a moment Tony panics Peter got hurt on patrol, heart lodged in his throat.

He can feel his blood pressure climbing.

Dammit. He wasn’t here to keep an eye on him; make sure he was eating properly, sleeping well, wasn’t overexerting himself. He should have been more careful, more attentive. This is all his fault—

But then he remembers the alert in the suit, and - and suddenly he can breathe. Peter would be wearing the suit, right? Right. Everything’s fine.

“No. It’s, it’s silly,” Peter frets. “I shouldn’t - I only rang ‘cause you said I should never hesitate to ask for anything and Aunt May was all, ‘you won’t know unless you try,’ and Ned kept telling me I was being a dumbass and of course you wouldn’t laugh in my face, but – Mr. Stark. It’s stupid. You’re gonna think I’m a needy little kid and I’m not. I knew I shouldn’t ha—”

“Kid, kiddo, relax, it’s okay. Calm down. I’m not going to judge you, squirt; I would never judge you. Please, whatever it is…tell me.”

“I can’t,” Peter whines softly, and Tony can only imagine how he’s cradling the phone against his shoulder and covering his face with one hand, nibbling on the sleeve of his sweatshirt like he always does when he’s anxious.

“Deep breaths, kiddo. Let it out.” He exaggerates his breathing to make it audible over the line. Slow. Steady. He wishes he were there in person to draw him into a hug, pat his back. “Now…whenever you’re ready, tell me. What is it, buddy? I can’t help unless I know what’s wrong.”

“Can I…” Peter blows out a shaky breath. He swallows hard. “CanIcomeovertomorrow?”

Tony blinks. “Uh…I’m sorry. Could you repeat that? Please. Slowly this time?”

Peter coughs. “I said …c-can I come over tomorrow? I get that it’s late notice and I don’t usually come over Thursdays, and it’s only a day earlier than we planned so I can wait, I totally can. You don’t have to say yes. It’s dumb, I know. I swear it’s okay to say no, Mr. Stark. I’m not a little kid. I don’t need you to…” He cuts himself off, unwilling to follow that train of thought any further. “Just—if May calls, whatever you do, please don’t answer; for both our sakes. I know you must be super jet-lagged and have a ton of better things to do, and the last thing you need is me trailing at your heels. It’s just…you’ve been gone for ever —”

“Three days. Go on.”

“And…I don’t know. I wanted—” He exhales sharply in frustration. “Doesn’t matter what I want. Ignore Aunt May. Don’t listen to a thing she says. If she uses the word mopey, it’s just ‘cause she’s overdramatic and doesn’t realise how embarrassing she’s being—”

“Kid. Kid,” Tony cuts off his nervous rambling. “Yes. The answer is yes. I would be thrilled to have you.”

“Wait. Really?” Jeez, Pete. No need to sound so shell-shocked. If Tony didn’t want him around, he wouldn’t be around. Simple. “You…you don’t think it’s stupid?”

“Why would I think it’s stupid?” he answers, quite honestly baffled and maybe a little hurt by Peter’s dumbfounded disbelief. “I missed you too, you know. If you wanna stay the whole weekend, I’m all for it. Count me in; I can’t wait—and all that. Those movies won’t watch themselves.”

“But, but won’t you have loads of other stuff to do? I don’t want to keep you from anything important—”

Tony considers for a moment that running list of everything he has to accomplish.

Even so… even so -

His gaze lands on a familiar face and, right then, he makes a snap decision.

“More important than you, Underroos?” Tony laughs. “Are you kidding me? There’s no competition.”

As Peter laughs and cheers before launching into an animated spiel, Tony smiles fondly, losing himself in the adorable surge of elation and ideas.  

On the wall, hangs a framed photo of their adventures trick-or-treating at Halloween. Both opted to go as themselves: Peter, in his homemade suit, complete with red ski-mask, sleeveless hoodie, fingerless gloves and hideous welding goggles. Tony—wearing what Peter repeatedly cackled was the perfect disguise—snapped on a cheap, elasticated Iron Man mask to contrast with his Tom Ford suit and off they went.

The mask got irritating after a while, so he threw caution to the wind and lifted it up. That’s when Peter demanded a picture to commemorate the occasion, though he found it difficult to stay still long enough to capture one. Especially when, spurred by Tony, they held a competition to see who could pull off the funniest faces. Behind the camera May was in stitches, highly entertained by their antics. By the time the image was taken, Tony was grinning ear to ear, arm slung over a beaming and bright-eyed Peter's shoulder, squeezing tight.

There’s a spark of laughter and life in his eyes that has been missing for such a long time, he’d almost forgotten what it looked like.

It didn't matter that Peter had to keep clarifying who he was, or that Tony ended up half-carrying him home. It was a memorable night of mischief, and magic, and fun. And that's how they'll remember it—for years to come.

*

In a small flat in Queens, Aunt May regards her nephew in amusement as he paces around the living area, gesturing wildly with excitement and talking a mile a minute, too fast for his mouth to possibly keep up.

“We can suspend your silly sugar limit! Ned’s gonna be so jealous. His parents never let him eat candy after midnight. Like a gremlin, Mr. Stark! A gremlin! MJ says it’s why he’s so afraid of swimming. Ooh, ooh, and pizza! We have to get pizza, Mr. Stark; from that place down the street. It’s your favourite, right? And M&M’s! And, and Skittles! Oh, please, Tony. Can we? Please can we?”

Aunt May rolls her eyes and shakes her head, the corner of her lip curling into a faint smile. Peter is like any other little boy right then, babbling breathlessly to his Dad. 

Chapter Text

Peter hated how much he struggled with the separation.

He really didn’t mean to sound as needy as he did.

Tony was flawed in a lot of areas, this was true. But parenthood, it has to be said, does not appear to be one of them. No-one would claim it came naturally to him, not at first, but by God, did he act like a pro now.

He didn't criticise, only corrected. Guided, never forced.

Peter loved spending time with him, and that was part of the problem, wasn’t it?

In the beginning, Peter swung over to the ultra-cool Tower whenever the mood struck him. He'd come up with all sorts of flimsy excuses to justify why he was kicking around: forgotten chemistry book; questions about the suit; boredom; Karen's voice was an octave lower, could he fix it? And the greatest cliché of all: erm... I was in the neighbourhood?

After a while, Tony simply came to...expect him. Laying down the blowtorch and tearing himself away from the scattered toolbox and hazardous knots of exposed wires crowding his lab table to flip up his face plate and smile adoringly when Peter barged in.

Peter would dash out of school, shamelessly geeking out with Ned over the latest Batman comic, to find Happy leaning impatiently against the polished Stark Industries’ black Lexus, aggressively tapping his watch for Peter’s benefit and grumbling something about, "Boss hating to be kept waiting." Peter didn't understand. But he was happy to hop in and prattle away to Happy for the duration of the ride.

Sometimes he’d get these ideas in his head. And he'd worry if Tony was aggravated by having his relative peace constantly invaded. In those moments, Peter's heart raced with uncertainty, twisting and squirming with a misplaced sense of guilt and shame. Maybe...maybe he would be better off keeping his distance for a while? Peter would reason. That was it; that was the right thing to do. Peter could do that. It would give him more time to hang out with Ned—be a good bro and stuff.

But it never really worked out as he hoped.

Tony would call. And call. And call. And when Peter pressed ignore, he would go over his head, and lo' and behold, soon he'd have May and Mr. Stark banging on his door.

What was wrong? Was he hurt? What was he hiding? What was he thinking?

What on earth had prompted him to pull away like this?

Tony was worried about him—more than that, he claimed, he was responsible for him. He didn't understand why Peter had chosen - on an impulse, no less - not to adhere to their arrangement. The billionaire could not, for the life of him, wrap his head around why Peter thought it was okay to do so without informing him (read: asking permission).

"I was worried sick," the man chastised, shoving his hands through his dishevelled hair for the thousandth time as he paced the length of Peter’s room. "I thought something had happened to you, Peter! Don’t ever do that to me again. Ever. Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to scare the man with the heart condition? Not. Cool. If you make plans with Ned, check with me first. Understood?"

The teen had thought that was a bit of an overreaction. He fought crime as a past-time. He could take care of himself. But Peter had to concede that Tony's face was uncharacteristically pinched and pale, and there were fine tremors running down his hands. He had never seen Mr. Stark so shaken. He felt terrible. Scaring Iron Man? That had never been his intention.

This, they declared, could not go on.

Next thing he knows, the pair are strong-arming him, throwing around words like 'adult supervision,' and 'safety concerns' and ‘too young for this, and that, and the other.’ Basically, a load of utter bullshit. Suddenly, neither adult felt comfortable leaving the fifteen-year old home alone. ‘Who would feed him?’ they cried. ‘Where would his meals come from?’

Their attitude, quite frankly, baffled Peter. He wasn't five. May working late had never impacted his schedule much before. He didn’t see what was so different now, besides the obvious. (Did being a teenage vigilante really discredit him that much?)

It seemed Peter's days of coming and going whenever he pleased were well and truly gone. He mourned them.

To make matters worse, Ned had zero sympathy for him.

'Welcome to my world,' his best friend had ominously surmised, the effect somewhat undercut by the spoon hanging from his mouth and half-eaten pudding cup in his hand. The look in his eyes was haunted, but the smirk tugging at his mouth was unbearably smug.

Besides, he felt obliged to point out: Peter got to customise suits with Iron Man. He had no right to complain.

And he didn't... much.

Except when Tony quizzed him—a lot hypocritically, he should add—about how much sleep he was getting, or nagged about Peter skipping breakfast, blah blah blah, when's the last time he ate a damn vegetable? More unnecessary fretting…Something about needing to focus up if you want to get into a good college, preferably MIT, "Like hell am I paying for Caltech."

So, in conclusion: constantly. Peter complained about it constantly.

He especially didn't like Ned's knowing smile, twisted with wry satisfaction. His best friend didn't even try to hide his amusement at Peter's suffering.

"Oh, how the tables have turned..." he marvelled when Peter tried to get his frustration at Tony's overbearing shtick off his chest, “Who's the coddled one now?"

At least he was supportive when Ned vented about his party-pooping Dad! Not — not that Tony is his Dad. Tony just wants what's best for him, in - in a different way than a parent. He just gets all high-strung and hung up on protecting him and being there for him, and it's not the same thing at all.

Shut up, Ned.

When Mr. Stark broke the news to him, a little too gently for Peter's liking, that he had a meeting with the British cabinet over the revised Accords and Brexit, he honestly hadn't been that upset. Didn't ask questions, didn't hound him about when he'd be back or nuhin'. Three days. Big whoop.

Peter was a superhero. He could handle being apart from his…whatever Tony is.

Except, no. Not big whoop.

Not big whoop at all.

Peter was—lonely. Sure, he kept busy with homework and decathlon practice and robotics club, but that only covered a few hours after school. A couple months back, Tony had made him swear not to go on patrol when the man was too far away to be useful in the case of an emergency, and, however much he was tempted to, Peter doesn't break promises easily. Not when in doing so, he’d totally abolish Tony’s trust.

Tony's  lost faith in too many people already.

Which left him alone. A lot.

May wasn't around all that much, and he guessed he'd forgotten what it was like, before Tony showed up out of the blue and turned his world upside down. Were there always this many hours in the day to fill? Had May always worked these insane hours?

Ned went above and beyond to fulfil his friendship duties, inviting Peter to his strict family-only game night. He had to beg his Mom to include Peter, even going so far as to lie that Peter was down because his Dad was out of town. And boy did that take some explaining to do, given that she had gotten to know Peter's home situation pretty frickin’ well over the past decade. Where had this ‘Dad’ suddenly come from?

But, like always, Ned came through for him. So, despite his reluctance, Peter went and it was...good. A little intense. A little, um, family-orientated, duh. There were a ton of inside jokes and some things that kind of reminded him of Tony. He missed him, fiercely, but it was fun. He had fun. Even if it did sorta fail to take his mind off things.

Ned seemed a little worried, which Peter hated, because he was gracious enough to include him and here he was, putting a damper on the evening. Peter wound up excusing himself and video-calling Tony from the bathroom, which was lame, but whatever. It made him feel better.

They chatted every day, of course, but it wasn't the same.

Tony had become so integrated into his daily life. He hadn’t even realised the extent of which until it was disrupted. Evenings spent decompressing with an episode of Stranger Things or The Office after a long day; joking around and scheming various ways to prank Happy; he spends hours upon hours just chilling in Tony's lab, sometimes acting as Tony’s little helper or apprentice in training, other times distracting Dum-E.

Peter can't pinpoint when they made the transition, but there's rarely a day that goes by where he doesn't see or speak to Tony. Tony is just—there. Always. 24/7 access, seven days a week. Texts are answered promptly—even the silly ones about churros or rescuing a stray cat from a tree. There's no more waiting around staring intently at his phone. Peter has his own ringtone. His calls never go to voicemail. Whenever he needs him, he's there. No hesitation.

Tony may not be his father, but damn if he's not the closest thing Peter has to one.

And sometimes that’s just terrifying.

*

Ned and MJ are arguing over horoscopes again. They’re relaxing in the sallow rays of sun before practise. They've got a competition in three weeks, so they've been redoubling their efforts of late. However, it’s a rare uncloudy day and they fully intend to make the most out of it, despite the chill.

“So - what? I’m a Libra? That’s not even an option,” Ned declares, peering at the glossy column in MJ’s lap as he tugs at the corner for a closer look.

“’Course it’s an option, idiot. It’s always an option. Give me that,” she snaps, snatching it out of his hand. She yanks down her sleeve to swipe over the fogged-up page. “Look what you did. You got your grubby thumbprints all over it.”

“I don’t know why you care about them so much,” Ned states primly, “They’re not real. Everybody knows that.”

“I happen to find them interesting. It doesn’t matter whether they have any merit or not. Where’s your open-mindedness?”

“Horoscopes are pointless,” Ned insists. “Peter, back me up.”

“Huh? What-?” Peter jolts from where he’s hunched over, jotting down ideas for the suit in the battered Pokémon notebook he’s kept since sixth grade. There are ink smudges along his wrist and a deer-caught-in-headlights look adorns his embarrassingly easy-to-read face.

“Dude!” Ned groans, elbowing him in the ribs. “You gotta start paying more attention.”

Peter scoffs, shoving and shaking his book into his bag. “Somehow, I don’t think I missed out on anything important,” he says tartly.

MJ laughs at him. “I wouldn’t be so sure.” At their twin looks of confusion, she juts her chin towards the carpool zone and summons an evil smirk. Peter’s head slowly turns and he can’t quite contain his sharp gasp. Ned almost goes into cardiac arrest beside him, seizing up before punching Peter’s arm—hard.

Making his way towards them, in a crisp, tailored suit and his signature red lensed wayfarers —taking his sweet time about it too—is none other than Tony goddamn Stark.

“Is that…? Peter, it’s Mr. Stark,” Ned hisses none-too-subtly. “Here. In broad daylight. At our school.”

Peter lurches to his feet.

Although thrown, an excited smile breaks out across his face.

"D-Tony!" he shouts in surprise. Conscious of Ned and MJ’s gaze, he manages to reign himself in at the last second. The flushing of his cheeks, however, cannot be helped. He shuffles over to close the gap between them and wrings his hands, not knowing what to do with them. Instinct demands he throw his arms around his father-figure and clutch on for dear-life. But Peter’s not so foolish as to bow to his heart’s demands. Not here, in such a public space, with his friends and god knows who else looking on. He’s got a reputation to uphold. Not his, mind you. Are you kidding?

No.

Tony’s.

It would be a shame, Peter convinces himself, if such a striking three-piece ensemble were wrinkled.

What would a thing like that cost, anyhow? —A cool twelve, fourteen grand? It’s enough just to bask in the genius engineers’ presence. He can wait until they’re home, er, at the Tower, and Tony’s changed into his sweats.

“There’s my little man,” the billionaire grins equally as wide as he reaches Peter’s side. He wastes no time running a hand up and down the length of the boy’s back, affectionately squeezing the base of his neck. He uses the contact to reel Peter in, tucked against his side. “Long time no see.”

Nervous under his friend’s penetrating stares, Peter shifts his weight and scratches at his neck, cringing at the burning sensation he discovers there. “W-what are you doing here?” he blurts. “I told you. I have decathlon practise. Did I not tell you? I meant to tell you. Why didn’t you wait in the car?”

“What am I? A dog?” Tony tsks with a mock-offended scowl. At least…Peter hopes it’s fake. Shit. “Should Happy have rolled down the window a crack, too?”

“That’s not, crap, that’s not what I—”

“’Course not, squirt.” He ruffles his hair fondly as Peter shies away and shoots him a foul look, attempting to smooth it back out. Not in front of MJ, he tries to convey with a deadly glare (though Tony would be inclined to go with ‘puppy pout’). Be cool, man. God. “I’m just messing with ‘ya.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Didn’t I?” Tony tilts his head to the side, squinting behind the lenses. “Hm, I thought it was obvious.”

“For the record…it’s not. It’s really not.”

Tony heaves a dramatic sigh. “Maybe I got impatient. Did that never occur to you? It should have. Everybody knows I’m an instant gratification kinda guy. Speaking of, what kind of reception do you call this? I haven’t seen you in three days, kiddo. Three. Days. Don’t I at least get a hug?"

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope,” he counters, popping the ‘p’. “Deadly serious. Am I ever not serious? Don’t answer that. Point is, I’m accustomed to receiving a certain degree of affection and I‘d rather not go without.”

“Uhh, I hate to break it to you, but…you might have to. This is my school, remember?”

A sly smile flickers across his face. “Are you saying I embarrass you?”

“Frequently. But that’s not what’s at stake here.”

He’s already committed several notable offences, including but not limited to: calling him ‘kiddo’ and ‘squirt’ in front of his friends. One of whom will happily lure it over his head forever, ‘til his dying breath. Not Ned; he’s not nearly as cool or mean enough. The most he’d do is fanboy about it later in private—nay, public. With Ned, you gotta be prepared to go public. MJ, on the other hand? She’s ruthless. Tony knows that. Peter’s just grateful he went with kiddo instead of his preferred ‘spidey-baby’ or any variant thereof. Thank god for small mercies.

“Righteo, then.” Tony backs off, dusts off his hands. “Don’t hug me. In fact, that’s great, because quite frankly your hugs could do with a lot of work. I didn’t wanna say anything and risk hurting your feelings, but since you clearly have so little regard for my feelings…Between you and me, I‘m relieved I don’t have suffer through your repulsive, tragically terrible, vomit-inducing hugs.”

Peter stares. “Are you quite finished?”

“I think we both know I’m not.”

He spreads his arms wide and faux-pouts—the big baby—until Peter rolls his eyes and relents, melting into the stiff material of his suit mingled with the calming scent of motor oil, metal, and expensive aftershave he associates with his father—uh, mentor. Tony’s arms envelop him completely. He never feels safer than when he’s engulfed in his caring embrace, and something tight inside Peter uncoils after days of untraceable tension.

Tony plants a chaste kiss to his temple and squeezes once more before releasing. Peter steps back and continues to grin up at him.

Casual displays of affection between them used to send Peter’s head into a brief tailspin. Now they’re a common occurrence for him.

Others? Not so much.

Ned gapes at them. MJ merely observes, curious and calculating.

Tony jerks his head at him. “Grab your stuff. We gotta get going before someone spots me. Plus, we have a busy evening ahead of us.”

They don’t. Not unless you count Netflix and homework.

"Question." Peter holds up a finger to halt him. "Will there be food?"

Tony frowns, bewildered that he need even ask. "What are you talking about?” he chides. “’Course there'll be food. I'm Tony Stark. You think I don't have food?"

Peter grins. “Good. ‘Cause all I had for lunch was a squished granola bar and I am starving.”

“You only had what?”

“…Oops.” Pulling a face as he realises his mistake, Peter sheepishly admits, “I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

Tony breathes deeply, in and out. He counts to three. “Don’t get me wrong, I am deeply upset, we will be discussing that more in detail later, but the clock is ticking. For now, let’s go. Hand it over.”

Without hesitating, Peter passes Tony his bag. He's lost count of how many times he lost that particular scuffle.

“Do we need to make a pit-stop at May’s for clothes or whatever?”

“Nah, I’ve got a bunch of stuff left over at yours. I’ll be fine.” Peter turns to face his friends. “I guess I’ll see you guys later.”

“But, Peter,” Ned whispers, sneaking a nervous glance at his favourite hero (second to Peter, of course). “What about practise?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tony interjects, bestowing a charming smile Peter has dubbed the ‘Press Conference Whammy’ set to dazzle and delight large audiences while throwing off devious journalists and satisfying photographers chasing that final winning shot. Going by his friends’ identical blank expressions, it appears to be working. He claps Peter’s back, seemingly oblivious. “I spoke with his teacher. He gave us the all-clear.”

Peter peers up at him.

“You talked to Mr. Harrington? How’d that go?”

“Later,” Tony tells him, which is code for ‘I'll need a drink first.’ It’s more about conveying the tone than enacting the meaning since Tony rarely, if ever, drinks around him. “First, say bye-bye to your buddies.”

“Bye, guys.” He gives a jaunty wave. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Text me,” orders Ned.

“Will do.”

“See ya, loser,” MJ sarcastically bares her teeth. He thinks that counts as a smile. Maybe. “Do not text me.”

“I’ll try not to.”

Inclining his head at them, Tony flashes a brief smile. “It was nice meeting you both. C’mon, Peter. We’ve had quite the hold up, Happy’s gonna be pissed.”

“You’re his boss,” Peter points out.

“And? He’s scary when he’s mad. I think we can all agree,” Tony decrees, “It’s best for everyone involved that I blame you.”

The smile slides off Peter’s face, replaced by an indignant frown. “This was your idea. You can’t throw me to the wolves!”

“I wish I didn’t have to, Petey—”

“Then don’t—”

“—But I will.”

Their bickering continues. Tony tousles those scruffy locks and swings Peter’s backpack over his back, shouldering the strap and wrapping an arm around the teenager. A glinting Yoda key-light bounces from side to side as they walk towards the discreet black town car stalled by the curb.

“That…was freaky,” MJ murmurs once they’re out of earshot.

“What was?” Ned asks, assuming she’s referring to her first, real-life, celebrity encounter. “Meeting Mr. Stark? He’s a lot different in person.”

“No.” The crease between her brows is contemplative. “…How alike those two are.”

Chapter Text

Stumbling from the elevator, the first thing Peter does is plough into the kitchen and make a beeline for the fridge. His blood sugar is getting low. Too low. He feels dizzy. Peter rips open a packet of blueberries and practically inhales them in one go. He chomps into an apple next, the juices mingling pleasantly on his tongue and dribbling down his chin. A dark stain blossoms on his shirt and it’s his favourite shirt, AH Element of surprise, but Peter doesn’t care. He hops onto the countertop and braces his heels on the proud handle of an adjacent drawer. He pauses to hack up a seed that goes down the wrong way, carries on. Man, oh, man, is he hungry...

"Want me to fix you a grilled cheese?" Tony offers from the side-lines, eyes slanted in amusement and lip curling in vague disgust as he watches his caveman son choke on his third titanic chunk.

Peter moans around a mouthful of apple bits, "God, yes. Thank-you. Please."

He locates the non-stick skillet and dials the ring to a low heat. Thinly buttering both sides, he leaves them to one side while he grates the cheese—which is generally Peter’s job but it’s best he remain an innocent bystander at this point. Tony doesn’t trust him with a grater with the state he’s in. Who knows, he’d probably peel off a layer of skin—before sprinkling over the bread and squishing the two pieces together.

He lays them flat on the pan and flips them over periodically, ensuring an even golden brown. It’s the ideal density of melted cheese, oozing languidly without spillage. The buttery toasted surface, crisp and crackled, is simply divine.

His mouth salivates at the sight.

Luckily, Tony serves the sandwich in record time, cutting it into two neat triangles, and immediately setting about making a second. Good thing, too. Peter is quick to devour them. He tears into the crunchy bread, pulling apart the ooey goey cheese and swallowing whole, ignoring the burn as it scalds his throat. It'll heal.

Tony makes the best grilled cheese. At first, Peter had to get used to him substituting the time-honoured Wonder bread for something a lot less traditional, aka sour dough, which he's not ashamed to admit made him more than a little sceptical. You don't mess with genius, after all.

Except, he should have known better than to doubt Mr. Stark, an actual genius, because holy cow do they taste like heaven in your mouth. Tony says the credit goes to Rhodey's mother, who cracked the perfect recipe for her cheese-obsessed children in the 80’s, though he has tinkered with it since. Apparently the cheesy American delicacy and childhood classic helped cement their friendship in college. Go figure.

Peter loves when Tony shares little details like that. He could listen to him spout hilarious, far-fetched yet no less true, stories about the duo’s adventures all day.

Today...is not one of those days.

Knowing the youngster is suffering the effects of hypoglycaemia, he hands him a bottle of Gatorade and instructs him to down the whole thing, watching his trembling hand clench around the groaning plastic and wring out every last drop. They could have stopped for a bite to eat, if only Tony had grasped how precarious the situation really was. He kicks himself for not paying enough attention.

“Another?” he asks, pulling one from the fridge.

Peter pumps his head in an erratic nod. He empties that, too.

"Y'know,” Tony begins in his ‘Dad-lecture’ voice, the one Peter despises, eliciting a low groan from the teenager as he brushes the crumbs off his clothes and wipes his mouth clean with the corner of his shirt. What? It’s already filthy. “Normally this is my cue to say something responsible like ‘this is what happens when you deprive an enhanced super-powered being of food,' or ‘guess whose body’s going into starvation mode.’ Maybe scratch my head and wonder, ‘how does one simply forget about their crazy-fast, accelerated metabolism?” His lips pull at a wry smile. “But you already know all of that. So I'll let you take it from here."

Peter glances down at his scuffed sneakers like they’re the most fascinating thing in the world. He twists his fingers in his lap. "You wouldn't understand," he mutters.

"Try me,” Tony presses, voice quiet and earnest. “A wise man once said, 'in life there exists no problem, Iron Man, Tony Stark, rated People Magazine's sexist man alive three years in a running, cannot solve with a finger of whiskey and a half-assed smile.'"

He barks out a watery laugh. "That was you. Last Tuesday."

"And was I right, or am I right?”

They share a small chuckle for a moment before Tony’s brows are drawn low in concern and Peter’s smile dims, falling away. His tone switches to that gentle register Peter has yet to resist. “It's not like you to be so cagey. So what gives?"

"I..." Peter breathes a resigned sigh. He toys with the hem of his damp t-shirt, dragging it out; both the material and the explanation. Here goes nothing…"I ran out of lunch money."

Tony frowns, puzzled. "What?” Jeez. Someone hang a ‘Does not compute’ sign above his head. Rich people, am I right. “Some kids hackle you for it?"

"No..." Peter refutes, grimacing. "My stomach did."

"I don't follow."

Of course you don’t.

He tries; he really tries, to keep the bite out of his voice. "You said it yourself. I eat like, all the time. Sometimes,” he shrugs, casual—just be casual. “My wallet can't keep up."

A pause, then:

"Does May know about this?"

Peter chews on his bottom lip. "She's doing the best she can."

"That's not an answer, baby spider."

"No.” It costs him the steadiness of his speech to admit this aloud. “And, and she's not gunna," he pleads, guilt lacing his tone. "Please, Tony. This whole Spider-Man thing has been hard enough on her as it is. I can't do that—" His breathing ramps up, panicked.

"Leave it to me, Petey. I'll take care of it, okay? I'll take care of everything, I promise."

"How?" 

"Same way I always do. Let's leave it at that, shall we?"

Tony smiles a sad, bleak smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He chucks him under the chin and plates the second sandwich, sliding it over and nudging the rim against his thigh. "Eat up."

As much as Peter wants to dig deeper, he also wants nothing more than to wipe that haunted look off Mr. Stark’s face. So Peter sniffs and tries to think of what he can to do to cheer him up. Pushing aside the final dredges of unease, he begins a dramatic rendition of his day, regaining confidence with every embellished word.

Even though it's been less than 24 hours since they'd spoken at length on the phone, he still finds he has a million and one things left to say.

*

Peter sways in his webbed hammock five feet above the ground, fiddling with the remote control to the entertainment centre and surfing through the literal thousands of channels. How is he ever supposed to choose?

“F.R.I.D.A.Y?”

“Yes, baby Parker?”

“What's on Animal Planet? Anything good?”

“I believe it is a repeat of ‘My Cat From Hell,’” she answers succinctly.

“Is it one I've seen before?”

“Several times, yes.”

“Why do I get the feeling that you're judging me?” Peter pouts. “It has cats. I like cats.”

“Okay, baby spider,” F.R.I.D.A.Y replies.

Peter frowns. He has the oddest hunch that the A.I is indulging him, but she switches it over nevertheless. Part of why he loves his hammock is for this very reason. It makes him feel closer to her.

Tony always says she spoils him rotten.

F.R.I.D.A.Y and Peter are about ten minutes into the episode when duty calls.

“Nuh-uh,” Tony’s disgruntled voice floats up from below. He’s still in his suit, looking none the worse the wear for it. “You know the rules. Get down. It’s homework first; TV later.”

“But—”

“Homework. Now. F.R.I.D.A.Y, you were supposed to be keeping an eye on him.”

“But, Tony,” his voice sounds annoyingly whiney and high-pitched to his own ears.

“Now, Peter.”

He scowls darkly. “Fine,” Peter huffs and leaps down from his private fortress in the ceiling. Tony doesn’t permit him to work from his hammock—even though it’s totally feasible! Plus, the view is so much cooler—because he doesn’t trust that Peter won’t start scrolling through his Instagram feed or texting Ned out of complete and utter boredom. Which, in some ways, yes, that’s fair. Homework sucks. But in others…come on, man. Don’t you think you’re taking this a little far?

Apparently not. Because Tony sips at his coffee from the opposite end of the couch and props a Stark-pad on his knee to optimise productivity, where Peter can say with one hundred percent certainty the engineer will stay—until Peter himself is finished.

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in your lab?” Peter had mused once, in the beginning. He may have had ulterior motives.

Tony had raised an eyebrow at him. “Um…let me see. Would I—” he compressed his lips; eyes narrowed in thought, “—be more comfortable sitting on a back-breaking swivel chair than one of the best couches on the market? Hmm. Probably not. ”

“What about the holograms? The LCD monitors? Your rack mount servers? The optimal lighting? How you always have AC-DC blaring?”

“But the chair, Peter. Not a comfy chair.”

Which is bull. Peter happens to know, first-hand, that it is a very comfortable chair. It’s reclining, adjustable, has heating features to soothe aching muscles, fantastic lumbar support. Everything you’d ever want in a chair! Otherwise, Mr. Stark wouldn’t have it. He’d invent a superior one; like he always does.

But, Peter can’t complain too much. If ever he gets stuck on a tricky question, Tony is always there for assistance. If sometimes he lacks the motivation or innovation for a project, Tony’s around to bounce ideas off. Win-win.

Except…that is, times like this. This is just a straight-up suck-fest.

“Have you finished your Chem homework yet?”

"I'll do it tonight," Peter grumbles, turning away to discreetly rolls his eyes as Tony levels a stern look in his direction. He tries not to get too irritated, but he swears Tony’s been obsessed with his grades lately. God, he misses one test one time and suddenly it’s like he’s in danger of throwing away his future by dropping out of school entirely. Tony’s been neurotic about so much lately. He’s forever on Peter’s case about stupid stuff.

F.R.I.D.A.Y keeps him up to date on the school's online calendar. (That in itself is dumb. Why do they need to inform parents via an accurate and detailed log, of every single test and every single assignment that is made accessible for everyone with an internet connection? And what possessed Mr. Stark to check it? May never checked it).

Tony reminds him about the creative writing essay that's due next Tuesday. And congratulates him on getting an A+ on his Spanish quiz. And he purchased supplies online for Peter’s approaching World History project, worth twenty percent of his overall grade. Actually, that last one was super handy. He appreciates that. Peter straight up forgot about that assignment.

And, well, it was nice he cared about the Spanish test. And remembered too! Peter studied crazy hard. And he was pretty proud…

But, whatever. It’s still stupid.

“See to it that you do,” he warns, “I’m not letting your grades take a nosedive again.”

“It wasn’t a big deal!”

“So you say.”

Rolling his eyes so hard they almost fuse with the back of his skull, Peter slumps down onto the large area rug and fishes around his overflowing backpack for his dumb homework.

“I saw that!”

He smirks, firing up his laptop and pulling up a Wikipedia page on exothermic and endothermic reactions. Peter plugs in the charging cord to the nearest free power socket and inserts his earphones, head lolling back on the ivory sectional as he wriggles around to get comfy. Something tells him he’s gonna be here for a while…

As Peter thumps his thick textbook on the plush ottoman and rifles to the correct page, Tony glances up and smiles, brown eyes soft and tender, crinkling at the corners.

Not that it means anything.

He’s just making sure the kid ain’t slacking off again.

Chapter Text

When he first took an interest in the super-powered Parker, he planned on maintaining a respectable distance from his young protégé.

No attachment, just business, no attachment, just business, no attachment, just business...That was his mantra.

Tony huffs an embittered laugh. Look how well that turned out. Just splendid, right?

This is not what he signed up for.

He didn't ask to care. He never wanted to care so deeply for a kid he just met.

Spider-man, huh? Spider-kid. Boy, he’s just a boy; an extraordinary high-school boy, yes, but a kid nevertheless. In high-school. Who still plays with Lego.

Tony had stared into those wide chestnut eyes, bright and alight—with wonder and pain and kindness and stubbornness, the will to prove himself, to be a good man. No doubt the kid’s got heart, and brains. Sometimes a little too much to contain.

Some days…looking at Peter is like drowning in a mirror.

Tony was blindsided by the protectiveness he could feel blistering inside of him.

Peter was so precious.

He had to be protected. That naivety…the compassion…It’s really no wonder he snuck past all of Tony’s defences.

It was days like this that made him wistful. Sometimes he catches himself wishing he'd been there to see the awe in his spider-baby’s eyes the first time he was blown away by the Star Wars films; to drop him off on his first day of kindergarten, wave bye-bye, maybe shed a tear; to chuckle at his butchered mispronunciation of everyday words; to hold his hand as he crossed a busy street, those same streets he’d swing by to save someone some day; to help him with his first book report, or read a story together before bed.

To laugh, and learn, and play, and –

Nothing. He has no right to feel this way, he knows. But he does. Fuck, Tony does. And it hurts like hell, because those are moments Tony will never, ever have. Not with Peter, not with anybody. For good reason.

He's not Peter's father.

And he's kidding himself if he thinks he ever will be.

*

“What—?” Peter shakes his head at the pristine portrait of Benjamin Franklin, afraid to twitch lest he wrinkle the smooth crisp note, nothing like the crumpled dollar bills May leaves on the table for him most mornings. He makes a concentrated effort to close his jaw with an audible snap, mouth bone-dry. He tries swallowing, but can’t seem to coordinate his tongue. “You're...giving me an allowance?”

“What can I say?” Tony flashes a wolfish grin from behind the mug of coffee. “You earned it, buddy.”

“Mr. Stark, no. T-this is too much; I can't accept this.”

“Sure, you can. And you will.”

He says it so simply, like it’s that easy, as he finishes buttoning up his waistcoat and fiddles with the clasp on his Rolex.

Peter tries to squash his fury at the sheer audacity of Tony’s casual grand gesture; subdue the temptation to shove his kindness in his face and wallow in the collapse of that nonchalant façade. He’s not fooling anyone.

How dare he hand Peter a healthy packed lunch—high-protein chicken wrap, pasta salad, carrot sticks, and dense calorie-rich bars; the thoughtfulness of which was not lost on him, causing a lump to swell his throat shut—and follow it with a hundred dollar bill?

Just like that, like it means nothing. The kicker being that it is nothing. Mr. Stark is a powerful, privileged man; he may as well have been giving Peter a toothpick and a button for how little it will affect his finances.

Mr. Stark, who designed Peter a multimillion dollar suit (to help people, his mind dutifully injects) and never asked for anything in return, except Peter’s safety. Mr. Stark, who loves sharing his good fortune and has never, denied Peter anything, unless it was for Peter’s own good.

How dare he pity him?

But…that’s the gnarled roots of Peter’s pride talking, burning a hole in his stomach with licks of shame and defensive acidic hisses.

Money has been tight recently. The hunger pains have been something awful. With his appetite, Peter could clean out Aunt May’s bank account in a matter of days. Sometimes he has to go without eating. That’s just the way it is.

Peter doesn’t like to talk about it, because there’s nothing he can do. He uses cheap body wash that enflames his sensitive skin—even more so since his senses got enhanced—without so much as a peep. After all, what difference does it make when it will heal within minutes? He showers in freezing cold temperatures because it’s either that or go without. He doubts Tony’s noticed, but Peter rotates between the same two pairs of pants—both of which came from goodwill. That’s Peter’s life. They’re small snags to shrug off, get on with, ignore.

This, this is why he never complains.

He never should have opened his mouth.

“Aunt May—”

“Already agreed,” Tony smoothly informs him, waving off his concerns. “We had it out a few hours ago. Stubborn woman. Don't get me wrong, I admire the heck outta her, but getting that stamp of approval was more work than my actual work. I'm not doing a repeat performance with you.”

“But—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he interrupts Peter with an irritating tutting sound, wagging a finger. He slips a charcoal jacket over his shoulders and rolls his neck.

Right then, he’s not just Tony; the same man who nagged Peter twenty minutes ago about needing something more substantial than a sugary breakfast bar. He’s renowned scientist and business magnate, Tony frickin’ Stark. He’s not a man who accepts the word ‘no.’ “What did I say? Get with the picture, kiddo. It's a done deal.”

“But—”

“Done. Deal. Lesson number one, Spidey: learn to pick your battles. It's an essential life skill.”

This is one matter Tony is not going to budge on. Peter could object ‘til he’s blue in the face, but it won’t do him any good. Resistance—as they say—is futile. This is not a battle of wills to be won. It’s out of his hands, he doesn’t have a choice. Tony and May, tag-teaming him again. They worked it out between themselves, as adults. Tony’s simply doing what he does best: looking out for Peter.

And how can he be mad about that?

“Thank-you,” Peter murmurs, skirting his gaze around the bridge of Tony’s nose, not quite able to meet his eyes.

“Don’t mention it, spidey-baby,” Tony says softly, palming his back.

The proof of his affection surrounds them.

There's the novelty apron Peter gifted him after their joint attempt at a home-cooked meal went south; the cookery book Tony bought in response (an actual, physical hard-back book). And who could forget the Iron Man piggybank—doubling as a swear jar—that Peter crowed is hilarious and ironic. More so for how often it's used—by Tony.

This place has become a second home to him in recent months.

And Tony’s become…something. Something he hesitates to define.

Of course...what Tony neglected to mention was that on top of the ‘allowance’ allocated to Peter, he would be chipping in with other costs, too. He wasn’t kidding about the nightmare it had been to win over May. He could sympathise, he really could, but her salary simply isn’t equipped to support a genetically-enhanced, teenage, crime crusader. A normal teenage boy, sure— it would mean some cut backs, but they could make it work. But it wasn’t worth putting her health on the line and sacrificing her social life to scarcely make ends meet. She was killing herself trying to provide a fraction of what Tony earns in a day. It was an awful position for any guardian to be in, and he hated to be the one to break the news that it still wasn’t enough, but…she’s not alone in this. Not anymore.

Tony wanted to help, he needed to help. No son of his—

Tony stills.

—Never again would Peter go hungry on his watch.

“Better hurry up,” he says numbly, shaking himself. He drains the last dregs of his coffee. “Don’t wanna be late.”

“I’m going, I’m going.”

“Are you sure that'll be enough?” He indicates Peter’s blue jumper and plaid shirt combination, whipping out a concerned frown as the kid sucks down a second breakfast burrito. He’s not sure if the query is limited to his thin layers or if it includes his choice of food. Both, probably. “How about we bring a spare jacket just in case? Ooh! And an oatmeal bar. You like those, right? Catch.”

Peter throws his head back and groans.

“Do I have to?”

The bar hits him square in the chest.

Tony is already shaking out the coat behind him and retrieving the sealed packet to slip into the front pocket. Peter obediently shoves his arms through the sleeves and sighs heavily when Tony fixes it around his shoulders.

He’d forgotten why he hates staying over on school nights.

This explains it.

Mornings with a fussing Tony are torture. Is it any wonder Peter’s never on time when it takes them over an hour to get out the door? His memory is always patchy when it comes to recalling the origins of his hatred. Whether that’s due to his foggy brain in the morning, or a self-defence mechanism, he doesn’t know. But it’s always nice get a refresher.

“You got everything? Phone…bag…homework?”

“For the last time, yes. Can we go now?”

“In a second. Your hair’s all mussed up. Here, lemme fix that…”

Oh, God, no.

Quick. This calls for a distraction.

“Movie night tonight?” Peter turns hopeful puppy-dog eyes on the billionaire and slowly edges toward the exit.

As predicted, Tony abruptly switches tracks. “Sure is. Have anything in mind?”

“Whatever’s next on the list, I guess.”

Two months ago, they compiled a list of their favourite movies, focusing on whatever the other’s most likely not to have seen. Tony contributed a lot of classics, minus the guts and gore, while Peter went for the animated, family-friendly films of his childhood and sci-fi gems he and Ned loved. Due to the Avenger’s prior movie nights, there were a surprising number of Disney picks Tony had seen, but he maintained he didn’t mind watching them again. So they stayed instead of being mercilessly booted off like former possibilities. (It’s a very long list. Sometimes you gotta be brutal).

Hell, Tony was adamant they experience them together.

For some reason, it was important to Tony that he and Peter watch The Lion King and Bambi and Beauty & the Beast and many, many more. One time, during an enjoyable reprise of Lilo & Stitch, Peter mentioned offhandedly that it was his all-time favourite growing up, he even had a lumpy replica of Lilo’s doll that May made for him, and when he glimpsed at Tony minutes later, he was unnaturally still, staring unseeingly in front of him. The restrained tic in his jaw, wrung tight over ashen skin, belied his emotional state. And his eyes…his eyes were clouded with pain.

Something nagged at Peter. Deep down, he knew it wasn’t about the film. But…what else could it be? He feared he must have said the wrong thing, dredged up bad memories for the Avenger of his former team-mates. That had to be it.

Peter scooted closer to the troubled man and curled around his bicep in an awkward one-armed hug. Tony flinched, as if remembering Peter was there. I’m here, Peter wanted to say. I’m right here. I'm not going anywhere. 

Then he snaked his arms around Peter, gripping tight, and drew the teenager to his chest fully, tucking his head under his chin. He seemed to take comfort in petting Peter’s fluffy tuffs of hair and rocking him as one would an infant. To tell the truth…Peter is stumped to explain what happened next.

He fell asleep.

And when he woke up again, he was somehow in his room, lying in his bed—the one at the tower. Surrounded by his science posters and rows of action figures, every aspect of the design cherry-picked with him in mind, including the red and blue colour scheme. Gasping out a muddled question, F.R.I.D.A.Y. gently enlightened him of the time, five a.m., and when he inquired how he got there, she replied with an unsatisfying—concise—“Sir, of course.”

Right.

The most logical conclusion to draw was that Mr. Stark carried him there. And that was, well… humbling, to say the least.

What Peter didn’t know was that after carefully depositing the warm body on the mattress and sheltering him with the softest blankets, Tony brushed the back of his fingers along his forehead, sweeping wisps of brown from his slack face, and sighed. He bent to kiss his temple, though as he did a searching hand shot out and twisted around his shirt.

“Nnnt’go,” Peter mumbled. His lids fluttered but never opened.

Tony tensed, unsure what to do. His throat suddenly hurt.

Peter confessed, “Never…ne’er been tucked in before.” It broke the engineer’s heart. Smothering a sleepy yawn, the youngster buried his face deep into the pillow before relaxing in his slumber. But he didn’t let go. He never let go. He continued to knead the handful of cotton and snuffle every so often. And Tony never forced him.

His heart squeezed pitifully. He stayed there, crouched on his haunches by Peter’s bedside for another twenty minutes, muscles cramping, lower back screaming, until F.R.I.D.A.Y. informed him Peter had entered REM cycle. Then he gingerly pried the clutching fingers off, wincing at the subsequent whimper, before warily backing away—not quite tip-toeing but damn close—until he was safely out the door.

But Peter didn’t know any of that.

He just knows the thought of that night warms him up from inside.

And as he scoots into the town car behind Happy, and Tony—fingers flying expertly over his Stark-phone— breaks his laser-eyed focus to remind Peter they won't be going anywhere until he fastens his seatbelt, Peter sighs through a semi-smile and thinks, ‘Yeah.’

Life could be a helluva lot worse.

Chapter Text

Peter’s stomach heaves with the need for air. 

His muscles are no steadier than jelly, hair-line tacky with dirt and sweat that trickles down his brow. There’s a persistent tickle at the back of his throat, like a car exhaust belching into his mouth. Peter's coughing and spluttering, and he can't—he can't breathe.

Fear swirls in his chest, but he’s determined. 

Goddamn it, he has to try.

Gnashing his teeth together and propelling harsh puffs of breath from his chest, he tries with every shred of fortitude he’s got buried within him…Drawing on the last of his strength, he attempts to stand. Knees locked, toes straining, palms slick and pierced by something jagged, Peter releases a desperate, gravelly roar. And just—lifts. 

He’s not strong enough. The realisation slams into him immediately. 

He needs to be strong, to be fearless. But quite honestly—he’s exhausted.

Peter’s mind flashes back to the incident in D.C. He wasn’t strong enough then, and he isn’t strong enough now. Peter’s thighs begin to tremble and he wants to sob. His mouth warbles as the little lost boy inside him—so many so young gone—weeps. 

Where’s Tony? He just wants Tony.

Rubble shifts.

Dust rains down upon his face and there’s the groan of metal…a long, drawn-out creak.

The ground shakes beneath him as though the building were collapsing all over again. 

He cries out, once:

“Dad!”

And bolts up straight. 

Oh. 

Just a nightmare, phew. Tension bleeds from his shoulders and Peter collapses in relief. It wasn’t real. 

Notrealnotrealnotrealnotreal.

Chanting the words under his breath, Peter drags both hands through his sweat-soaked hair and squeezes his eyes shut. Clammy sheets bunch up around his ankles and he kicks them back, focused on slowing the rapid puffs of his elevated breathing. His mind thrums, body trilling with adrenaline and nerves. He still feels the phantom weight of a building upon him…crushing him. 

Peter’s throat sticks as he swallows.

Heart thundering like a jack rabbit against his ribs, his mind throws up a fresh memory of the tormented plea that had wrenched him from his disturbed slumber, and his thoughts grind to a sudden halt.

Dad? 

What? 

Had he seriously—at his most unfiltered—really, truly cried out for his unequivocal not-father, Mr. Stark?

Sweet mother of God, he prays Aunt May didn’t hear him. God that would be even more embarrassing than the time she caught him impersonating Tony while watching a live interview broadcasted on the six o’clock news. Of course…her mind shouldn’t automatically jump to Tony. But, c’mon. Who is he trying to kid? Of course it would.

It so obviously, clearly, would. 

Peter glances over at the digital clock on his nightstand and sighs.

Four a.m.

May sleeps like the dead. He’s in the clear. But there’s no way he’s going to be able to go back to sleep now. And dammit—he needs it. Tony would legit kill him if he found out. But Peter’s kinda, sorta maayyybe pulled several all-nighters in a row this week already. 

Sure, for all extents and purposes, Karen acts like his personal baby-monitor. But even she has her blind spots. 

And while Peter wouldn’t dare disable her features outright, he is somewhat selective in what he allows her software to detect. A lot of that comes down to timing. A little fiddling. Maybe letting Ned have a turn wearing the mask and pulling an artful switcheroo with the data collected.

It’s honestly not as fraudulent as it sounds. 

It’s just—he’s been busting his ass lately trying to combat crime and complete his homework on time; he doesn’t need a robot tattling on him!

So far, he’s managed to play it cool around Tony; though he’s sure the man has his suspicions. (Then again, the guy gets paranoid about the craziest things. He’s always stressing about something.) Peter hates lying to him. He does! The deception scrapes at Peter’s insides. But when he imagines the alternative—coming clean; Tony overreacting, as per usual—Peter can’t help but feel he dodged a bullet.

The only problem with that is that he hasn’t. 

Not really. In ducking one projectile…he ran full-speed into a warzone.

It began with stiff, achy muscles Peter put down to a minor hiccup he had preventing a rear-end collision earlier in the day. Then came the lightheaded spells and solidifying spatter of sludge in his chest; followed by harsh rattling coughs that leave him panting for breath. He hasn’t had much of an appetite, either. He couldn’t even stop by Delmar’s for his usual smooshed sandwich without his gag-reflex going haywire. Very not good, in his opinion.

Peter suspects the nightmare was brought on by the gripping tightness in his chest. It’d make sense. He hasn’t dreamt of that night in months, and suddenly he’s gasping awake with a certain off-limits title on his lips? No. That is not okay.

Not cool, man. Not cool. 

Peter doesn’t do ‘sick.’

And—ever since the spider bite—luckily he hasn’t had to. Immunity, that’s what he assumed. But, he supposes, like most things in life, there’s a punishing, mottled tier of illnesses out there that vary radically in intensity. And although his healing factor takes care of most problems, there are things that can push even him to his limit. Things like not eating right. Or getting a decent night’s sleep.

But he was doing those things!

…Sort of.

But also sort of not. 

Definitely not.

Oh, God. Tony’s gonna be so pissed. Worse, he’ll be disappointed. He’ll tilt his head, purse his lips, and give Peter this look like, ‘You’re smarter than this, kiddo.’ And that…that’ll be rough.

Peter stares up at the hairline cracks in his ceiling and licks his cracked lips as a sudden vice clamps around his racing heart.

It’s indeterminate how long he lies there. Eventually light peeps through the crack in his curtains and he shoves his toes into the covers to protect against the pre-dawn cool. Peter unclogs the grit from his eyes and listens to Aunt May bustling about as she gets ready for work.

“Peter! I’m off!” she calls over the hard beat of a coat thrown over crinkly scrubs and jangling keys lifted from the countertop. He swears she was just brewing coffee a second ago. “It’s time for school!”

“M’up! I’m up!” he rasps back, grimacing at the sound. Very, very not good.

He recognizes the scratchy quality of his voice. Thankfully, Aunt May is in a rush or she would have recognised it, too. 

“Okay, I’ll see you later. Don’t forget Tony volunteered to take you shopping for new school shoes! Try to rein him in, will you? You don’t need two pairs in every colour. Anyway, gotta go. Love you! Bye!”

The door slams shut before he can formulate a reply, which is probably just as well, because chances are it would have been an unmitigated disaster, taking full advantage of his epic repertoire of swearwords. His throat still throbs from before.

However, the pain’s easily swept aside in favour of the massive bombshell that’s been dropped in his lap.

Truth is, he had forgotten. 

Peter is utterly thrown for a loop, his plans of evading Tony in tatters. He’s totally screwed.

For weeks the teen’s been forced to listen to Mr. Stark rant on and on about his toes busting out of his ratty sneakers. Peter mostly tuned him out. Shabby doesn't even begin to describe the state of his Nikes; soles ravaged beyond repair by youthful energy and an ever-demanding double-life as opposed to the typical culprits—age or lack of care. But, hey. They’re intact, aren’t they? 

And contrary to popular belief his toes are not, in fact, plotting a revolt.

So yeah, forgive him if he didn’t take Tony’s ramblings seriously. The man has a jam-packed schedule. Peter takes up enough of his precious time already without factoring in something as lame as shoe-shopping. Only middle-aged Moms and marathon-runners relish shoe-shopping. 

And, yes, Tony’s threats of a spending spree have been more detailed and less wistful of late, but Peter didn’t think he’d actually go through with it! Or, more to the point, he was counting on Aunt May vetoing it.

…They have a history of trying to keep Mr. Stark’s charitable nature contained.

See, Tony's V.I.P treatment looks a little…different than everyone else's. He tends to go overboard with presents. Anyone who has ever spent ten minutes with the man knows that he takes great delight in showering those in his inner circle with fistfuls of cash and individually-selected gifts. 

He developed a million-dollar suit for Peter before he’d even met him. That alone should say something.

Peter won’t be like the former freeloaders—ahem, Avengers. He never wants Tony to think he only likes him as much as whatever the billionaire can give him, or what he can do for him. It’s why they never go to snooty high-brow restaurants and limit day-trips out to museums or the zoo to once a month. Twice, if it’s a special occasion.

At its height, Tony periodically surprised Peter with something new weekly as if to keep him interested. This included a personalised laptop not yet made available to the public, one he doubts ever will be; two stark pads, one for him and one for May; a 3D printer, and other mind-blowing tech.

Tony literally created a virtual puppy for him on a whim, using the latest brain mapping software and reality-based simulations. 

"I never had a pet growing up," he shrugged in explanation, unfazed by Peter's starry-eyed speechlessness. "Now you do."

Needless to say, Mr. Stark is generous to a fault. 

May had to have a word with him about the  possibility of toning it down, but she didn't have the heart to demand that Peter return the gifts. He'd gotten attached to Blip—that's what he named him, the puppy, Blip. May said that so long as it's not a distraction (prompting Peter to remind her he's a 'he,' not an it), and he doesn't get in the way of school, Peter can keep him. 

Karen takes care of Blip when Peter's at school or out patrolling, and the arrangement seems to work just fine. Even Karen seems fond of the emulated canine. 

How much trouble can an A.I. puppy get into, anyway? He's pretty low-maintenance all things considered. 

Peter tries teaching him all sorts of tricks, and feeds him deleted files because they’re his favourite. Tony assured him he can tweak Blip's appearance however he likes—"You want a terrier? Retriever? One of those labradoodles? Go nuts, kiddo. Spots...Stripes...Blue Merle. The only limit's your imagination."—but Peter’s happy with the original. 

He looks like the common mutt; like someone Peter would pick out at the pound. In other words...perfect. He's absolutely perfect. 

But regardless of how amazing those gifts unquestionably were no-one can blame Peter for having certain…reservations. He doesn't want to have to explain to his aunt why he's got a diamond-encrusted Iron Man helmet in his bag; does she think it would look good on his nightstand?

This is a catastrophe. He can’t believe she said yes. 

And why, why is this the first time he’s hearing about this? 

It doesn’t sound as though this is the first time it’s been mentioned. Given how distracted Peter’s been recently, maybe he missed the memo?

It’s…possible.

Nonetheless, there’s nothing to be done about it now. 

Cancelling is always an option. But first he needs to get his hands on a plausible excuse. The rest can be dealt with later. It’s time to get this shit-show on the road. 

Peeling himself away from sweat-sodden sheets, Peter gasps and doubles over from the excruciating pains that stab his stomach. Hissing and hunching his shoulders, drawing them in tight against his body, he tries to breathe through the worst of it.

Man, oh, man. He feels like shit.  

And it’s only going to get worse.

His head spins as he hurls his limbs into motion and sways on his feet. Peter staggers towards the bathroom where he casts aside his boxers and stands under the shower nozzle, leaning heavily on the handlebar for support. For the next fifteen minutes, he blasts himself with hot water as though it were possible to wash away all trace of illness. The steam helps to clear his sinuses and soothe any aches and pains. More than once, his knees buckle. But what’s important is that he recovers well.

Peter steps out feeling at once both refreshed and feeble. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he clears the condensation from the fogged-up mirror and startles at his reflection. Clear fluid dribbles from his nose. Yuck. 

But that’s nothing compared to his goose-fleshed skin and sallow, lifeless complexion. Hollow eyes stand out starkly against papery flushed cheeks. He looks like a pale imitation of himself. 

He looks like a walking corpse.

All he can do is hope and pray his healing factor kicks in soon. 

Peter doesn’t bother with breakfast. His stomach flinches just opening the refrigerator. Man, this day is shaping up to be such an utter crap-fest. 

And it’s only seven-thirty.

School is terrible.

He’s late to first period because the stupid subway is struck down by a horde of delays. (Bonus: by the time they finally got it up and running, his carriage was so overcrowded that he was forced to stand, which wouldn’t be so bad if he weren’t jostled about so much he narrowly avoided passing out from the thumping pain in his head.) Ned and MJ are off on some geography fieldtrip. That was always going to suck. Plus, he topped Flash’s score in Chemistry yet again—kinda had to; with all Tony’s drilling—so he has an even bigger target than usual on his back.

And, well. Peter likes to think he can stick out a lot. 

He considers himself something of an expert when it comes to surviving sticky situations. (Heh. Pun. Ned would appreciate that one.)

He can deal with Flash calling him juvenile nicknames and hurling verbal abuse at him in the corridor. He’s no stranger to having spit balls catapulted at the back of his head through Trig, or getting walloped by basketballs in gym. Hell, give him a nasty note slipped in his locker; knock the books clean outta his arms, that won’t faze him. Peter can handle Flash’s taunts; pick himself up off the floor when an unexpected foot intercepts his path, while Flash and his buddies point and laugh and call him a clumsy dork. 

A couple of bruises, a busted lip—no biggie. It’s fine. He can deal.

But when he’s already feeling like death incarnated, it becomes a whole lot harder for him to square his shoulders, swallow his pride, and walk it off like Captain I-can-do-this-all-day America.

Not to mention…he’s about 99.9% certain his wrist is broken.

Peter should have expected that Flash would try to trip him up outside their English classroom. He should have known his efforts would escalate without Ned there to act as his loyal blabbermouth. 

Any other day his Spidey senses totally would have foiled the attempt, but Peter was incapacitated by temporary blindness—blame his delicate eyeballs for reeling at the glaring fluorescent lightbulbs—and his head was pounding so hard he was fighting the urge to barf all over the newly-waxed floor. And let me tell you: that would have been a disaster, since Peter’s sure there’s nothing left for his system to flush out. He already puked acid twice.

Peter had thrown out his right arm to brace his fall. 

And heard rather than felt the sickening crunch. Lucky for him, no-one else did.

It’s been over an hour and the injury shows no signs of healing.

Peter gives the distended area an inquisitive poke and flinches at the flames of pain it stokes. Yup, limp and floppy—just as predicted. He hopes it mends itself soon. People are gonna start asking questions. Namely: why his wrist is so puffy and deformed-looking.

Between classes Peter makes a pit-stop at his locker to dry-swallow two Tylenol, but ordinary painkillers do little to blunt the pain. His body burns through them too quickly. He’s so weak he can barely push the pills out of their casing. Peter’s tempted to give in right then, but the warning bell rings and he stumbles onto class in a reflexive daze.

Sometime around noon his fever spikes.

He is barely keeping his shit together.

Peter shakes hard—wants to shake himself harder. Snap out of it, you big wuss, he chastises himself. This is nothing. 

It’d be different if he were beaten to a bloody pulp. But it’s not that kind of fight. And although this is not the worst ass kicking he's ever received, by God, does it feel damn close. Peter loses himself in a fit of spluttering. Afterwards, he glances down at his hand and half-expects to find it dotted with blood.

As his temperature climbs ever higher, Peter starts to lose his tenuous grip on reality. 

Cotton wool plugs his ears.

His thoughts feel slippery, like he can’t get a solid grasp on anything. When lunch-time rolls around his stomach is gurgling like crazy, but he’s too nauseated to do anything more than pick his burger apart. The days of under-fuelling, or eating just about enough to maintain his weight and no more, are catching up to him. His energy stores are uncooperatively low.

The waves of dizziness crest and he’s in History. 

He has no idea how he got there.

Mr. Thompson is clicking through a PowerPoint on the Black Death. The slides are gruesome and he’s hit by a sudden chill. Peter pushes his hands into his stomach, hoping to quell the ruthless churning. 

Surely by now his skin will have adopted a sickly green tint? He’s sweating buckets; his head feels muffled and swollen. Damn, he’s queasy. He can’t think straight.

“Mr. Parker? Mr. Parker! Is there a reason you haven’t taken down a single note since the beginning of the lesson?”

Mr. Thompson is a bit of a hard-ass, but he doesn’t often raise his voice. Peter has an inkling he might be in trouble. Christ is it hot in here.

“Um…” His mind blanks. He’s distracted by the offensiveness of his shirt sticking to the back of his neck. “Kind of?”

As an afterthought, Peter stuffs his hand under the desk and hopes no-one notices how it’s ballooned to twice the usual size. 

“Kind of?” the teacher parrots, brows shooting up in disbelief. “Care to elaborate?”

“My, uh, wrist hurts.”

“Your wrist hurts.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re—” Mr Thompson cuts himself off, shaking his head briefly. “Come here, please.”

“But—”

“Now, Mr. Parker. I don’t have all day.”

Peter stands, and forgets his runny nose and twisting stomach cramps and looming shopping-trip. The breath twirls in his chest, lights dancing into oblivion as he unceremoniously crumples to the floor.

This time, he doesn’t try to brace the fall.

*

“Got him lying in a cot ‘till someone comes to pick ‘em up. Gave him some cough drops to suck on and an ice-pack for the swelling. Should be fine.”

“The only number listed is his aunt and—what the f-rick…? This has to be some kind of typo.”

“What? Scooch over. Lemme see.” 

The school-nurse leans over the secretary’s shoulder and gasps at the screen.

“No way…” she utters.

“Absolutely not, right?” the other chimes, sounding shell-shocked. “Under father? Gotta be a joke, right? There’s no way…”

“Not a chance.”

“Well?” The nurse knocks her shoulder. “What are you waiting for? Call it.”

Giddy fingers punch in the number.

They wait with bated breath as it starts to ring. Seconds stretch into a gulf of loaded silence wherein the two women exchange nervous glances. A terse voice picks up.

“Hi. You do realise this is Tony Stark you dialled, right? I'm gonna go ahead and give you the benefit of the doubt. There’s only one place in Queens that has access to this incredibly private number, so it doesn’t take a genius – i.e. me – to work out that this is someone from Peter’s school calling. So—tell me. What the hell is wrong with my kid?”

Well, shit.