Chapter Text
Call it juvenile, because it is, but Peter worries he fuels Mr. Stark’s drinking habit sometimes with how often he gets himself into trouble.
He throws so much money into Peter and his suit, making sure the fabric is tailored to every stretch of his body, ensuring that the suit blocks out harsh light and sound. He lets Peter run around his lab and use his equipment, lets Peter sleep at the Tower sometimes, gives him superhero advice. Tony even gave him an internship! He’s given Peter every shred of his trust, so that Peter can trust him, too. Because it’s important to both of them.
Peter has thought about it, and really, despite how cold he can seem at first, Tony is the closest thing he has to a dad.
And what does Peter do? He has to go and get himself beat up - on an internship day, no less.
He had almost made it to where Happy usually parked, past the school’s lot and one block away. But stepping out of the school and into the empty parking lot, the hairs on Peter’s arms stood on edge, his spidey-senses sending a sharp tingle through the base of his neck. He didn’t have to guess who was behind him.
Flash snatched the loop on Peter’s backpack, pulling him back and down onto the ground. He landed with a hard thud, bracing his scuffed hands on the cement behind him.
He hated not being able to fight back, to defend himself. He hated seeing the pity in Ned’s eyes, the worry and anger in May’s. It almost hurt more than the act of getting beat up itself. Fortunately, Tony had never seen. Until now, anyway.
He’d take a beating from a villain any day. Villains kept him on his toes, and even when he got royally beat up, which was often, Peter still felt good about it - knowing that he was protecting the underdogs that nobody else noticed. But getting a beating from a school bully? The unfairness churned deep in his belly every time he’s forced to think about it. Sometimes he just wants to scream to the world that he’s Spider-Man, but he can’t.
And even worse? He can’t even defend himself against Flash. Because before-Spidey Peter couldn’t defend himself, and if Peter tried fighting back, he could seriously hurt Flash. And Peter didn’t want that either, not really.
Peter pulled himself up off the ground, wiping the pebbles and grit off his jeans. “Flash, could we… could we, like, not do this right now?”
Flash laughs, and the little entourage of his friends behind him laugh in support. He shakes his head, splaying his arms in question, “What, got somewhere to go, Parker?”
Peter takes a breath, biting his tongue and standing warily. He can sense more than see that Flash’s friends have formed a loose circle around them, and the constant buzz of his spidey-senses has jumped to a crescendo.
“Actually…” Peter starts, but a bark of laughter from Flash cuts him off.
"No… no, don’t tell me. You’re still saying you’ve got an internship with Stark, aren’t you!” It isn’t a question; instead, Flash is shaking his head in amusement, eyes mirthless.
“Well. Yeah,” Peter says weakly, then straightens his back a bit, “I’m kind of in a rush. I’m supposed to be going there right now.”
Orchestral laughter breaks from Flash and his friends, deep and genuine belly-laughs that make Peter ball his fists in embarrassment and anger. Flash clutches his stomach for emphasis, shoulders shaking with residual laughter. “You gotta let that go, man! I’ll do you a favor and help you skip this one.” His smile is anything but sweet.
He can’t even do anything about it when his spidey-senses make the world around him utterly silent, blaring in his ears. One of Flash’s friends snatches Peter’s backpack off his shoulders, yanking him backward. He stumbles but keeps his balance, eyes wide as he watches the backpack soar above his head from the friend’s hand to Flash’s.
And that is really, really bad, because his Spider-Man suit is in his backpack. Peter steps forward, a complaint on his lips, but one of Flash’s friends behind him grabs him by the belt loops and holds his wrist to keep him back.
Peter can feel his heartbeat against his ribs, can hear his breathing in his own ears. It’s like the asphalt underneath him bends and dips below his feet, and he isn’t sure if he’s scared, or angry, or both.
Flash raises his eyebrows curiously, inching the main compartment zipper open. Peter really has no choice now when he breaks the grip on his wrists by dropping to the floor, bracing his hands down behind him as he swipes a leg out at Flash.
Flash’s feet go out from under him, and when he throws his hands out to catch himself, Peter grabs his backpack from the air, a flash of red amid his notebooks before Peter promptly zips it up again.
Peter knows he’s going to get beat up as soon as Flash rights himself, dusts the pebbles and dirt off his ass, and stares at Peter with venomous eyes. And it curls like something ruined and rotten in his belly when he knows he can’t actually protect himself like he knows he’s able to.
Flash punches him hard, a cruel left hook across the face that immediately breaks skin on the bridge of his nose and the point of his cheekbone. He wonders if the impact hurt Flash more than himself. Peter raises a hand to stop the flow of blood from his throbbing nose, curling his lip when he tastes metal in his mouth.
“Okay, are we done yet, because…” Peter can’t finish, because, with his fist cradled to his chest, Flash jumps in close, braces one hand on Peter’s shoulder, and knees him in the groin.
And then, when they know they won, Flash and his friends leave, disappearing with vague laughter off to their cars and bikes. Peter is left with his knees hitting the rubble ground, face beet red and eyes screwed shut, hands holding himself protectively. He can feel the burn of bile at the back of his throat, nausea taking over. Peter can’t help it when his forehead touches the cold dirt, gritting his teeth and trying to catch his breath. Because, yeah, sure, Flash is a human, but that hurt.
But he remembers Happy, and he knows Happy will have an aneurysm if Peter keeps him waiting too long. He’s been through worse, he tells himself as he gets up on weak knees and weaker stomach, stumbling to the parked black town car. He kind of wants to throw up, or cry, or just make vaguely pitiful sounds alone in his room, but that really can’t happen, because he’s Spider-Man and he has an internship with Mister Stark right now, and homework to do later.
Instead, when the car comes into view, he swipes at the blood on his face as best as possible, and walks as upright as he can with his arms at his sides. He opens the door to a rush of cool air, and Happy’s impatient face immediately sobers as Peter slides into the back seat.
“What the hell happened to you?” Happy sounds angry, which means he’s actually worried.
“I fell,” Peter blurts, ignoring Happy’s doubtful glare through the mirror as he pulls out onto the street.
“Right. How many times did you fall?”
“Just once,” Peter promises, eyes averted, “it looks a lot worse than it is. It’s totally nothing.”
Happy drives over a speedbump, watches Peter keenly through the mirror and huffs in acknowledgment when Peter bites down a strained yell. He doesn’t interrogate Peter the rest of the ride, and doesn’t even scold him for putting his feet on the leather to curl his knees to his chest. But at the first stop light they hit, Peter can see Happy texting Tony three red alarm emojis.
Crap.
The ride isn’t more than fifteen minutes long, and Peter practically dashes out of the car after a quick thank you to Happy. He even remembers to shut the door instead of slamming it. Peter takes his nametag from the front desk, smiles at all the guards, and only lets himself double over inside the empty elevator, nobody but Jarvis to note and catalog his distress. He holds his hands tight to his crotch, tears stinging his eyes. He can't tell if it's from his (probably) broken nose, or the kick Flash landed him.
Internship days are one of Peter’s favorites. He always goes straight from school, then up the elevator to Tony’s penthouse. He would drop his backpack off, eat a snack, start his homework, then go down to the labs to work. So seeing Tony is unavoidable, whether up in the penthouse, or down in the labs.
No matter how many times Peter sees it, his heart still beats a little faster in awe. The penthouse door is open when Peter approaches now, and a large, extravagant space is exposed before him. The living room is in the very middle, with a large, red, circular couch surrounding a small fire pit, crackling golden and yellow. Under his ragged sneakers, polished dark hardwood floor surrounds him, tapering into flat metal off to one corner - the beginnings of the Iron Man landing strip. There’s a bar to the opposite side, and a small kitchen. The bedrooms are down the hall, but the entire living room overlooks the city below, one full wall made of window.
His eyes land on Tony on the couch immediately, thoroughly disinterested with a book in one hand. Peter takes a steadying breath before he drops his backpack off at the opposite end of the couch. “Hi, Mister Stark!” he chirps, walking briskly past him with his head down towards the kitchen. Each step hurts.
“Yeah, wait, not so fast.” Tony grabs his arm as he tries to pass, pulling him into his line of sight. Peter flushes and sits next to Tony when he gestures to the couch beside him. He sits perched on the very edge of the plush fabric, head ducked low.
Tony sighs, closing his book and leaning over to tip Peter’s chin up. The trained indifference on his face immediately drops into a mix of thinly-veiled anger and worry. “Peter...”
Peter’s eyes widen, shaking his head fast. Peter doesn't like when Tony’s stressed. He’s always stressed, and Peter worries that any more stress will push him over the edge. Especially when it isn’t really important, like this. “No! No, it’s fine! It’s really not bad, I just fell!”
“Jarvis,” Tony says instead, ignoring Peter’s frantic reassurances.
“Peter shows minor lacerations to the cheek and nose, above blunt force trauma, most likely caused by a fist. Healing is already in effect, and no concussion has been noted. However, swelling under the eye will most likely progress. Stitches are not needed.”
Tony hums in acknowledgment, stares at Peter’s face with something mad and soft all at once. Peter stares back, determined, but he must look too… off, hands in fists at his sides and posture too too straight.
Because then Tony asks Jarvis, “Anything else?”
Peter opens his mouth in panic, but one look from Tony makes him shut it.
“Yes. Bruising at the groin. Perhaps from a knee or an elbow, close-range and hard. Both injuries likely quite tender, and nausea may be an overlapping side effect,” Jarvis says, and then, “that’s all.”
Peter can barely look at him. “Oh,” Tony scoffs, livid, “that’s all. Great.” He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, the book long forgotten on the couch now.
“Does he need to see one of the doctors here?” Tony asks Jarvis. Peter wants to cry. Or maybe jump out the window and swing himself home.
“Not likely. His advanced healing factor should begin mending his body. However, Peter should stay alert to any indication of either condition worsening, such as a concussion, and testicular torsion.” Peter's eyes widen like saucers at this, face blanching. He can't help the desperate whimper that he makes, squeezing his knees together tight.
Tony winces. "Alright, that probably wasn't necessary. You're freaking him out."
Jarvis doesn't respond.
He turns back to Peter now, and Peter can see everything he’s thinking flash across his face; whether to be angry at Peter, or worried for him. Whether to interrogate him or let him relax. Whether to console him or not. How to console him.
And then, as Tony is making his way into the kitchen, he says, “You can drop the act, kid.”
It’s like a glass wall shatters. Peter hesitates for a moment before he finally lets himself double over, squinting against the bright light in the room and curling his knees tight to his chest, hands between his legs. God, it's embarrassing. He wished he didn’t have to let himself get beaten up all the time.
The lights have mysteriously dimmed when Tony comes back, collapsing back onto the couch with two bags of frozen peas, and a bottle of pain relievers. Peter looks entirely pitiful when he stares at the frozen peas, but Tony keeps any anger and mockery out of his eyes as he nudges them toward him anyway.
Peter takes the packs, but pushes the pill bottle back to Tony, shaking his head with something akin to sorrow. “They don’t really work for me anymore. I metabolize them too fast. Unless I take, like, a bunch, but I don’t think that’s safe.” Tony nods in understanding, keeping his panic to a minimum at the prospect of Peter trying to test the limits of his metabolism all because of how much pain he’s in. He makes a mental note to synthesize a stronger pain medication for Peter later.
Sighing in relief, Peter finally leans back, eyes closed against the pack on his nose. He ignores the way the peas drip condensation through his jeans and instead focuses on the cold, the pressure in his lower belly slowly, slowly tapering.
Peter can feel Tony staring at him, and he’s painfully aware of how awkward it is - both wading through uncharted waters. Peter knows Tony is a good man, that he cares and worries and does everything he possibly can for everyone he loves. But expressing it is different. And Peter’s hardly better. He’s eager to please and almost too forthcoming with his love. He doesn’t want to have to worry Tony with things he can handle himself. Tony has a world to run.
And Peter… he doesn’t need another parent figure. He loves May with all his heart. But it would just be kind of nice to have one who knows what he’s going through, at least to an extent.
“Why…” Tony starts, tone sharp. But he stops short, softens his voice, “why didn’t you fight back, kid?”
Peter huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. He rolls over, curling his knees up with his back to Tony, who, for his part, doesn’t laugh at the childish behavior. He shifts the frozen peas between his thighs before admitting, quietly, “I couldn’t.”
Tony hums in acknowledgment, quiet. Whether he’s quiet because he doesn’t know what more to say, or because he’s waiting for Peter to say more, Peter has no clue. But it works, because Peter does say more. A lot more. He turns back around in a burst of flailing arms and flying frozen pea packages, crouching on the couch and facing Tony intently.
“It’s… it’s so…” Peter runs fingers through his hair, stammering.
“You can curse, if you want,” Tony supplies.
“It’s so freaking annoying!” Peter yells, and Tony would laugh if he didn’t feel so bad.
“Flash has always bullied me, since, like, ever! And I’d always get beat up, or my books taken, or shoved into lockers. And now that I actually can defend myself, I can’t do anything about it! Because I could seriously hurt him! And I don’t wanna hurt him, Mister Stark, obviously, but I don’t wanna keep getting hurt when I don’t have to. But… But I do it anyway, ‘cause I love being Spider-Man, and Flash is just a human bully, and I can fight the real bullies outside of school,” Peter explains, and Tony can only hope he’s finding time to breathe while he talks.
“I would just really like to not get punched in the face and kneed in super personal places when I try to take my backpack back. I would've let him mess around if my suit wasn’t in there. And… and I know I heal a little faster than normal, but that doesn’t mean...” that doesn’t mean things don’t hurt, he laments. If it’s possible, he looks more dejected now than he was before, and isn’t sure what he’s feeling. Tony wants to scold Flash himself, he wants to reassure Peter somehow, he wants to fix things.
Tony picks the frozen packs off the floor, handing them back to an apologetic-looking Peter. He doesn't know how to small-talk his way out of this, and Peter doesn’t deserve that, so he doesn’t try. Instead, he presses Peter back to lay against the couch again.
“Pete, don’t… don’t ever feel like you have to be okay with enduring shit just because you know you can endure it better than others. Just because it’s true doesn’t make it fair, especially for a fifteen-year-old kid who’s just had a huge amount of power and responsibility thrust upon him.”
Peter is looking, but only barely; head downturned but watching him under pain-lidded eyes as he absentmindedly picks at the edges of the pack of peas on his lap.
“I don’t want you to feel helpless in a situation. Ever,” Tony says, voice raised now. Peter looks up at him. “Do you understand me, kid?”
“Yeah.” His voice is hoarse.
“Because it’s the last thing I want, and it’s the last thing you are.”
Peter nods. And then nods again because he really believes it.
“We’ll get Cap to train with you a little; help you learn to control your strength more consistently so you can actually defend yourself.” Tony doesn’t know why he hasn’t thought of it before, but he also doesn’t know why Peter never told him about the bullying.
The smile on Peter’s face is almost blinding, the sheer unadulterated relief washing over everything in the room, including Tony. “Really?” Peter beams, inching closer in excitement, “He’d help me?”
Tony blinks. Was this… somehow not abundantly clear? “We’d all help you, Pete. Of course.”
Peter grins wide, and he’d maybe like to lunge forward and hug Tony if he weren’t very tired and more than a little sore. “Now, put the ice pack back on your face. I’ll be pissed if you get blood on my couch.”
Peter’s eyes widen, placing the peas back on the bridge of his nose.
“Kidding,” Tony laughs, and Peter sighs, nose scrunched up against the plastic packaging.
After a beat, “Not kidding,”
Kidding, Tony smiles, nudging Peter until he laughs again, even if only a little.