Archive of Our Own

"You look very handsome, Peter." 

Usually, Peter would be flattered... But the compliment comes from his aunt, so realistically, that doesn't count. He gives himself a nervous once-over in the skinny floor-length mirror in his room, his shoulders hunching in as his gaze flicks from the stretch of his suit over his shoulders to the way it tapers along his legs. 

"This feels expensive," he says weakly, glancing askance toward the opened white box on his bed, courtesy of one Tony Stark. May clicks her tongue, her hands curving around her hips as she looks him up and down. She's wielding her phone like a weapon, her thumb itching like she desperately wants to take about fourteen more pictures of him. "I don't know if..." 

"Oh, Peter, it fits like a glove." May bites her tongue, looking like she either wants to cry or pinch his cheek. He hopes she does neither, because when May starts to cry, Peter usually can't hold himself back. He's sympathetically teary, okay? "Look at you, so handsome. I can't believe Tony Stark is so nice to his interns." 

Peter coughs. "Yeah, uh, he's a really cool guy like that." He smiles weakly, not really cluing her in on the fact that he is, in fact, going to dinner as an Avenger tonight, not just dorky Peter Parker. The internship is just a guise, seeing as all the Avengers are now well aware of his being Spider-Man... Following a bit of an unfortunate incident involving Clint scaring him so badly, he ended up dangling from the ceiling, spun into a terrified little cocoon of webs. The team had burst in hearing his surprised yelp and Clint's equally surprised shout, and, well... That was that. There was really no easy way to explain how you webbed yourself to the ceiling unless you were, in fact, Spider-Man. 

It hadn't been a great day to wear his webshooters under his civvie clothing, but he had been planning on doing a little 'coming out to the Avengers' speech anyway. To their credit, the team had already been fairly fond of Peter Parker, Tony's nerdy intern, so the admission hadn't been particularly hard to swallow. 

Even Natasha, who's usually reclusive at best, has been ... affectionately? stalking him around the Avengers Tower as he busies himself in the lab, spars, and makes himself sandwiches, often swooping in and either threading her fingers lightly through his messy hair or tossing a sneak attack his way to make sure he stays on his feet. She seems to alternate between these two moods almost exclusively... But Peter doesn't care, as long as she isn't trying to actually hurt him. 

"It's just temporary, anyway." May continues, her mouth curving upwards into a warm smile as she gently brushes a speck of dust off of one shoulder. "After the dinner, you can give the suit back." Her hands flutter around him as if she's working off nervous energy, smoothing down the already smooth tie once more. "Oh, Peter, you look so lovely." 

"I just..." Peter takes in the several pieces of the navy suit and deep red tie, the closest homage to Spider-Man Tony could manage without making Peter look all too garish. "... What if I'm not cut out for all this, you know?" He asks, wiping his palms down and fidgeting with the tie a little bit. "Like... Dinner with the Avengers. They're, like, leagues beyond me, you know? I'm just... You know, a lowly intern." And a lowly vigilante, to boot.

"You're not just a lowly intern, baby. You're the smartest young man I know, and you deserve this. I won't hear otherwise." May insists, petting Peter's tie one more time before twisting a slightly wayward curl away from his eyes. "Okay, you're ready," She says with a sense of finality, arching slightly to press a kiss against his forehead with a slight sheen over her eyes. "He'll be here soon." 

As if on cue, Peter's phone buzzes. 

From: Mr. Stark!!!!

O/s.

Tony Stark isn't really one for mincing words, even through text.

"He's here," Peter blurts out breathlessly, gently moving away from May's nervous hands before flinging his arms around her in a brief, tight hug to make sure she knows how much he appreciates her help. "Thanks for helping me get ready." 

"Go get 'em, Tiger." she smiles. "You're gonna charm those fancy supersuits right off them." 

The words put a kind of horrific image in his head, and he visibly gives her a half-disgusted, half-dismayed expression and hurries out toward the stairs with the sound of her resounding laughter. No one's looking, so there may or may not be a couple totally unnecessary flips that get him to the bottom much faster... Because why not. He hesitates once more in front of the door, his heart pounding loudly in his ears as he looks down at his almost ridiculously shiny new dress shoes. The whole outfit costs more than all of the clothing he's ever owned combined. 

It's crazy, he thinks belatedly, catching a glimpse of himself in the window. He looks... unlike himself, like someone stylish and slick and new. He doesn't feel like a struggling teen who scrapes by with his aunt, even though stripping away all these new, fancy layers would leave behind just that. I have no idea what I'm doing. I should just tell Mr. Stark I can't make it. I don't know if I can do this.

From: Mr. Stark!!!!

Coming? 

That settles the geek in him that's desperate to hang out with the coolest group of people he knows. Peter takes another deep breath, pushing the doors open and making his way toward the totally not intimidating limo sprawled almost luxuriously across the street. He fidgets a bit with his tie again, feeling a bit uncomfortable, before puffing out a breath and climbing in. The seats are a butter-soft, creamy leather, and he's sharing the one he's on with Clint, who's grumbling and messing with his cuffs.

"Hey kid," Tony smirks from where he's lounging in a dapper grey suit, giving Peter an approving once-over. "You clean up well." 

"You're just saying that 'cause you picked it out, Mr. Stark," Peter accuses since his knee-jerk reflex is weak humor, his knees knocking together slightly as he averts his gaze slightly. He needs to relax, he's so jittery that his hands won't stop shaking in his lap. But his words draw a chuckle from Steve, who's also in navy. His tie is pinstripe instead of maroon, and it really brings out his eyes. 

"Yeah, he picked out all of our suits. He can't help himself."

"That's because I have an eye for fashion, Capsicle, whereas your tastes are... Well. Lost in the past century, if you catch my drift." Tony raises his eyebrows, his grin dancing on the edge of dangerous. "You shouldn't be allowed to pick out your own clothes." 

Steve levels a deeply unimpressed look at Tony, his posture relaxed and loose with his hands resting between his legs. "When I walked into the lab yesterday morning, you were wearing the same t-shirt for the second day in a row." 

"Did he pick out your dress, too?" Peter blinks at Natasha guilelessly, only just noticing that she's tucked in the shadowy corner beside Clint. Her dress sweeps over the seat like tiny black diamonds, rippling over the curve of the leather like a waterfall. Her response smile is sharp, the curve of a knife gleaming between red lips. 

"Not a chance, little spider. This is all me." 

Peter tries to be as chill as possible, but seriously, Natasha is so cool. He can't decide if he wants to be her or be as far away as possible from her, but earning her possibly begrudging approval has been, like, the highlight of his short existence. Even if she killed him, he would probably thank her. 

"That is so cool. I mean, your dress is really pretty. Like, you just look super cool and all assassin-y, you know?" he babbles, earning a few chuckles for his effort. "Sorry, I-" 

"You got a crush or something, Underoos?" Tony swishes his glass slightly, one corner of his mouth pulled into a wry grin, but Peter doesn't even mind being called out.

"You don't?" he kind of squeaks, trying not to let all the blood in his body rush up to his face. Go back down, dang it. Nat's looking at him, still, but she doesn't seem to be mad, which is nice. Actually, wait, doesn't she also smile when she's mad? Is Peter secretly screwed? Let his death be quick and merciful. 

"When are we getting there?" Sam complains, thankfully saving Peter from further embarrassment and punctuating his question with a loud, unhappy groan. "I'm so hungry and Birdbrain here fucking told me not to eat anything so I'd be able to eat more-"

"That's actually a myth," Peter blurts out, his fingers tapping nervously against the seat as he casts an apologetic grin at Sam. "I mean, it may be different for everyone, but... When you skip meals, sometimes you trigger overeating later. But sometimes, you have a hard time eating more food later in the day because of the slower metabolism from skipping meals earlier in the day..." 

"You bastard!" Sam growls at a smirking Clint, smacking his hand against the other's bicep. Tony's looking at Peter kinda funny, the liquid in the glass rippling, but Peter figures he's imagining it when he blinks and Tony's gaze isn't on him any longer. 

"Nobody should be skipping meals," Steve says sternly, looking at each one of them in turn. Peter's stomach does a little flip as he looks down at his folded hands, because yeah, that's true. Spider-Man would say the same thing, if Peter Parker didn't feel like a hypocrite. Oh well. Steve was the leader, and he was just saying what any leader would tell their team. 

"We're here," Tony declares just moments after Steve's admonishment, pushing open the door as the limo rolls to a stop with a purr. The team clambers out after him... Okay, Peter clambers out while everyone else gracefully gets down like they're walking on clouds. He's never felt like more of a geeky teenager standing next to Natasha, who all but towers over him in her heels. She could literally crush him. 

"C'mon, kid, I'm starving." Sam nudges at Peter, urging him along, and Peter tries to shake his nerves off as the six of them make their way into the ludicrously gorgeous restaurant. Peter feels a little faint as he follows sloping, crystalline arches all the way up along the walls, and a chandelier hangs from the point where the arches meet. It's dripping in diamonds that are probably (definitely) real, sending points of sparkling light dancing along the walls with each faint movement, and Peter can't pull his eyes away from it. When he finally manages to avert his gaze, he notices the Avengers standing at a podium with the server and makes his way across the marble floor to join them. 

The massive restaurant spreads over a pier, and as Peter turns toward the seating area, he notices huge, ceiling-to-floor windows overlooking the ocean. His heart, which has been valiantly trying not to just climb out through his throat and crawl away, just about drops into his stomach as he glances toward the exit. His shoes move on their own, trying to urge him toward the glass doors they just came through, and there's a weird tingle across the base of his spine... Almost like his Spidey-sense, but not.

"Going somewhere?" 

Nat's voice is cool and too quiet for the others to hear, and the focus of her attention is directed right at Peter. Peter freezes in place, feeling irrationally afraid as he turns slightly on his heel to face her. Or at least, the deep red pieces of hair curled against her jawline, because her gaze is really intense.

"No?" he squeaks, then clears his throat and tries to go for suave and confident as he straightens his shoulders out. "I mean, I was just looking for the restroom to fix my hair. I have a flyaway." It's probably not even a lie.

Natasha moves toward him, glancing from his face to the exit. "Oh? Well," she reaches out, almost giving Peter a heart attack as she swipes her fingers over his hair, "It looks fine." 

Now that she's caught him, Peter resigns to his fate and moves in closer to the other Avengers as they make their way to a large table. The back of his neck burns as he feels the eyes of very, very high-profile individuals on them as they walk. He can see why; Steve and Tony themselves strike quite the picture, sleek in their banter like they're not heroes but casually wealthy businessmen joking about some sort of capital venture, but they're accompanied by Clint, Sam, and Natasha. 

Why did Peter agree to do this?

He feels very small as he sits down against a sinfully soft white cushion, the gold-braid backing of the chair cool against his back, and tries not to look at the crystal wine glasses. The rest of the Avengers are unfolding silk napkins and spreading them over their laps, so Peter hastily mimics them and tries desperately hard not to look like some clumsy, stupid kid. He's not even conventionally clumsy anymore, since Spider-Man kind of took care of that, but he still feels unwieldy, especially around the Avengers.

"Welcome to Le Violoneux. May I start everyone off with a 2015 Mercuray?" the waiter smiles at each member of the table, and he looks way more stylish than Peter in a patterned black vest with perfectly coiffed hair. Peter tries not to shrink down under the table, his knees knocking together at the jumble of words coming from the waiter's mouth. He's not even sure what the other just said. 

"Sure," Tony's mouth twitches at the corner, and he jerks a teasing thumb toward Peter. "But not for the kid. He's fifteen. What do you want to drink, kid? Coffee? Tea?" 

Peter's mouth opens and closes as everyone's eyes swivel to him. "W... Water?" he says, just short of a whimper, not handling the full attention all that well. 

"Ice or no ice, sir?" 

"N-No ice." Ever since he became Spider-Man, he's had a fairly low tolerance when it comes to the cold. Even ice cream has him shivering sometimes, the brain freeze a bit too much for the spider in him. It's made ice cream nights with May really difficult to avoid, thanks a lot, Spider-Man.

"Own that water, dude," Sam mutters, his eyes locked eagerly on his glass as the waiter pours the wine. Peter flushes a little, his eyes lowering as the menu is set down in front of him, and Steve glances at one of them before smiling charmingly at the waiter.

"What are your specials for the day?" 

"Pot-au-feu bouillon paired with a wild boar ravioli, seared duck foie gras with walnuts and crab pears, and cauliflower velouté." The waiter lists off, and Peter has the sudden urge to douse himself in the cold water in his glass. He literally caught none of that, and now that he's glancing over the menu, he doesn't even know what most of these words are. He doesn't want to embarrass Tony by asking, so he frantically scours the menu for something that looks... Even vaguely edible, given his sparse knowledge.

If someone could smite him now, that would be great.  

"I'll give you all a few moments to look it over," the waiter says with a smile, moving away to serve another table, and Peter glances around the table. 

"I've had pot-au-feu before," Clint's remarking as he glances over the menu. "It's pretty good, in my opinion. Very hearty." 

"I've got my eye on the velouté, apparently it comes with caviar." Steve says thoughtfully, his nose wrinkling slightly. "Though I'm not a fan of cauliflower, I suppose I'll give it a try." 

"Oh come on, Cap, this is just the time to be adventurous." Tony leers, nudging him with the menu. "Although only you would get the most boring thing on the menu." 

Peter's alternated between ramen and peanut butter sandwiches for the past week. He only really eats healthy in the Tower when he's there a few times a week, and otherwise, he and May just don't have the time or energy that robust, fancy meals require. They haven't eaten fancy food since Uncle Ben was around, and even then, they usually went to homey Indian and Thai restaurants that still didn't stretch their wallets too much. To say he's overwhelmed is an understatement. 

He feels like fight or flight is starting to set in, Spidey-sense a low, warning hum against his neck.

Before he even has a chance to check the menu again, the waiter is back with a smile and a small, fancy book. It feels like it's been seconds, and Peter flounders as the waiter works his way around the table, starting with Tony. 

Tony and Clint get the pot-au-feu, Steve the velouté, Natasha the porcini with butternut squash and lemongrass, and Sam something that Peter can't even pronounce in his head, remoulade or something? 

By the time the waiter gets to him, Peter still has no idea what he wants. Everyone's looking at him expectantly, and he really wishes he'd chugged down his water so his throat isn't so parched when he croaks out a weak,

"Pasta?" 

"What kind of pasta, sir?" the waiter asks patiently, though his tone takes a slightly different turn, like he's evaluating Peter. Peter suddenly feels a bit chilly as he looks down at the menu, blinking rapidly. He frantically looks for the pasta section, his chest rising and falling a little faster as he helplessly tries to find anything familiar. 

"Um," he whispers, tongue pressing against his upper lip nervously as he glances to his left for help. Tony raises an eyebrow at him, clearly confused, and Peter's brain short-circuits as he ponders over the dilemma of admitting to Tony that he has no idea what he's doing and needs help. 

"Come on, kid, I'm so hungry." Sam whines, and Peter panics. 

"The- um- Pasta that's... The..." He stammers, flipping through the menu like it'll hold the answers, like it's been supremely helpful up until now. His anxiety is kicking in, low and cruel, snipping at him to hurry up and stop holding everyone back, and it feels like it's been a literal hour since the waiter asked him what he wanted. "The, um... special ... pasta?" 

"There are no pasta specials." The waiter says patiently, though his gaze on Peter suggests that he's rather unimpressed. "The specials were the velouté, pot-au-feu, and duck foie-"

Duck. Peter recognizes duck. He can work with duck, even though he has no idea what the rest of it means. "Yes. That. I'll have that." 

"Alright, then." The waiter makes a note in that fancy little book of his, then smiles at them. "Your food will be out soon. Please don't hesitate to call on me if you need anything at all." He gathers up their menus and heads toward the kitchen, and Peter grows very aware of the Avengers all looking at him with various degrees of confusion. 

"What?" he asks, trying not to sound too defensive. Did he do something wrong? He has no idea what he's even ordered.

"I just didn't really think that was your thing, Pete." Tony looks a bit surprised next to him, his brow furrowing slightly as he frowns at Peter. 

"Yeah, that kinda seems... Like a very interesting choice," Steve adds, then shrugs. "But if you like that kind of thing, then it's not really a problem." 

"You have expensive taste, kid." Clint rumbles on his other side, taking a drink from the glass. "You'll fit right in with Stark." he adds with a grin, and Peter's mouth does something that only vaguely resembles a smile in response.

Natasha's just looking at him, and it feels too much like she can see into his soul, so he averts his gaze and gulps down more water. He wishes one of them would slip up and tell him what foie gras is, just on principle, but he definitely can't ask. Confidence is key.

"I love it," he responds, trying to sound flippant. "It's, um. Very tasty. Very..." he searches for a word. "...Healthy, too." 

Sam snorts, impatiently tapping his fingers on the tablecloth. "That's a good one, kid. It's not like we're watching the calories here, though, so go nuts." He obviously thinks Peter's joking, when in actuality...

So. Not healthy. 

Peter swallows, messing with the corners of his linen napkin, and he's starting to notice a tension headache like a tight band, probably from the stress and sensory overload. He tries to tune into the others' conversation, but the smell and the feeling of inadequacy only heightens until he's all but a nervous ball of energy. It doesn't help that he's hungry, too, his last meal a granola bar for breakfast.

"Loosen up, kid. The food may be fancy, but it's usually good." Clint says gruffly, eyeing one of the forks with mild distaste. Peter tries to take his advice and slumps his shoulders a little, but it doesn't really help; he's already mapped out every possible path to a possible exit, and one of them includes just flinging himself out of the glass windows into the ocean. 

The food begins to arrive; the velouté and porcini first. The porcini, Peter realizes, are mushrooms- very big mushrooms. Once the waiter leaves, Natasha tries a bit of it and catches Peter looking.

"Want to try? It's good." she lifts an eyebrow, the expression on her face indecipherable, and Peter smiles, aware that it's wan and a little pale. 

"No thanks," he says, hastily looking back down at his own empty placemat. He's never liked mushrooms that much. Now he's glad he didn't just ask for what she had.

The velouté looks like some sort of sauce or soup, a pale cream color alongside the caviar, and Steve tries both with an approving nod. Peter's never even seen caviar, and he notices they kind of look like those grow-in-water beads he and Ned used to mess around with in class, gelatinous and tiny. It doesn't really look like food.

Tony and Clint's pot-au-feu is next, and this one looks actually recognizable to Peter. There are vegetables he can actually name, and chunks of meat that look like they could be beef, maybe? It smells good, too, and he kind of wishes he'd swallowed his pride and asked about it. Sam's remoulade follows closely behind (celeriac remoulade, which just sounds like a couple elements on the periodic table, or some sort of chronic disease- "Yes, I've had celeriac remoulade for years") and looks like some sort of fancy salad with sauce. It comes alongside what looks like fish.

And finally. Peter's duck.

Except. It looks nothing like anything he's ever seen. It doesn't look like duck at all. It looks like... a thick slice of flesh-colored bread, an odd pale-pink color. Peter's not even sure what utensil to use to begin, so he picks up a fork and tentatively slices into the dish. The fork slides right through, almost like he's slicing through warm butter, and the moment Peter tries it he knows he's made a mistake. A thick layer of fat spreads over his tongue, and he gags, immediately dropping the fork and sneakily trying to spit the too rich food out into the linen napkin.

"What is wrong, sir? Are you not enjoying the foie gras?" The waiter seems to teleport to his side, looking somewhat offended at Peter's strong reaction.

"Wh- I-" Peter stumbles, flushing with embarrassment as he looks down at the intimidating slab of ... Whatever is on his plate. "Um, that's not-" 

"Because our luscious discs of foie gras are prepared with utmost rigor and devotion, to be the best, most luxurious palate experience one could undergo," the waiter continues, the pompous edge to his voice not going unnoticed by the other Avengers. One by one they stop eating, laying down their utensils and frowning at the interaction between Peter and the clearly offended waiter.

"I'm sorry, I-" Peter's voice is barely a whisper, now.

"Perhaps the taste was not to sir's preference?" the waiter continues snidely. "It is quite expensive, and it would certainly be such a shame for it to go to waste." He knows that Peter has no idea what he's doing, and he feels like every single bully Peter's ever had, looking down on him for not knowing what the hell is going on.

"Peter." Tony cuts in suddenly; his tone is gentle, but the intensity of his glare focuses on the waiter and clearly sends out a very strong message that all but screams shut it. "Do you know what foie gras is?" 

Peter squeezes the napkin nervously, fingers clenching and unclenching as he slowly shakes his head in the negative.

He misses the way the Avengers exchange glances over his head.

"It's liver, kid." Clint says in that same weirdly gentle tone, glancing down at Peter's plate. "It's uh. Let's see, it's like a luxury. It's made by force-feeding ducks or geese some sort of corn mixture... To get their livers fatty like that." 

Now Peter feels really ill. "I didn't know," he whispers, and to his horror, he feels his eyelashes get a little wet. The urge to flee kicks in stronger than ever, and his super strength kicks in as he accidentally tears a nick into the linen napkin. "I'm, um, I just," he takes several sharp breaths, startling when Tony's fingers slide under his carefully-styled curls.

"Overwhelmed?" Tony suggests. The waiter is gone, but Peter hadn't even realized that he'd left. Time's been moving a bit weird since he'd started panicking. "Jeez, kid, why didn't you say something?" 

"We didn't know you were uncomfortable," Steve sets his spoon down. "As a member of the team, your comfort matters just as much as anyone else's." 

"Because," Peter's breath hitches. "I don't belong here." Tony's eyebrows fly upwards in blatant concern and Steve sucks in a sharp breath, so Peter quickly backtracks and wipes his eyes. "I mean, I don't know what I'm doing. I'm just an embarrassment and I didn't even know what to order and I'm just out of place. I don't feel right in this suit, even though it's really great and I know it was expensive, Mr. Stark, but, um, I've never really owned a suit like this and I feel like I'm going to mess up. I've never been able to, you know, afford..."  He babbles in admission, tugging at his collar. Tony's expression falters, unbeknownst to Peter, and he misses the way Steve pushes his chair back from the table. "And then I messed up the order and didn't know what I wanted, and I ordered something expensive that I don't even like so it's fine, I'll finish it." he's practically wheezing at the end, and there's a beat of silence before Natasha sets her fork down.

"I'm not really feeling this porcini." she says evenly, and Peter just stares, flabbergasted, at her. 

"This pot-au-feu is pretty good, but I'm really more of a pizza guy, if we're being honest." Clint shrugs.

"Oh, I like the sound of pizza." Steve picks up his napkin and dabs at his mouth before setting it back down. "Can we have pineapple on one of them? The sweet and salty combination is delicious." 

"Okay," Tony points a fork like a weapon at Steve, pushing his chair back. "I will not tolerate that sacrilege in my tower, Cap. There will be no pineapple on pizza within twenty feet of me. Absolutely not." 

"I won't be within twenty feet of you, anyway. That's way too close to you, more than I can handle." 

"Pineapple on pizza is amazing," Sam smacks his hand down on the table with a sense of finality, glaring at Tony like he's willing to go to war over fruit-laden pizza. 

"That salty-sweet tang is to die for." Clint agrees sagely. 

"Pineapple does not belong on pizza." Natasha weighs in, picking up her faux-fur coat and draping it over her slender shoulders. Peter's still sitting in his chair, foie gras almost entirely untouched in front of him, and he has no idea what's going on. But there's this pang in his chest, warm and all-encompassing, and it spreads all the way to his toes. "And Bruce isn't a fan either." 

"Three on three," Tony ruffles Peter's hair, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and maneuvering him sneakily out of his seat. Peter's on his feet before he even realizes it, stammering something about the foie gras and how he shouldn't waste and... "Come on, kid, don't let your mentor down," he pleads. "Pineapple on pizza?"

The new wetness in his eyes is entirely different this time. Peter sniffles. "Sorry, Mr. Stark. I like pineapple on pizza." 

Tony recoils like he's been shocked, hand over his arc reactor, and Steve whoops, clapping Peter on the back. 

"You are no longer in the spider group chat." Natasha informs Peter, but there's a quirk to her mouth that is pretty much an ear-to-ear grin when it comes to her. He beams back wetly. 

"We're the only two in the spider group chat. They're pretty much DMs," he laughs. 

"Where are you going?!" the server runs after them in a state of dismay, his perfectly coiffed hair coming undone in messy strands. His face is flushed with embarrassment and desperation, and despite himself and the way he was treated, Peter feels bad for him. "Certainly the food was not to your disliking? We are, after all, one of the highest rated restaurants in the east coast!" 

"Don't worry, you'll be paid." Tony assures, stopping at the podium and pulling out his credit card. "For the food and all. I just really didn't like the way you treated my kid." 

"I-" the server looks like he's going to pass out, but he seems to concede that getting paid for the meal is the best he's going to get by with. "I'll bring the check," he finally sputters, looking deeply embarrassed as he hurries off.

"I, um, I have..." Peter reaches into his suit pocket. "May gave me money for the tip," he whispers, embarrassed. He knows the waiter was a total dick to him, but. But. But he knows how cutthroat the food industry is, and he knows how much servers rely on tips, so he passes it to Tony. Tony blinks down at the bills, then huffs out a laugh. 

"Don't worry about it, kid. I'll add it to the tab." 

Peter starts to protest, because he does want to contribute something, and he feels so bad for making the gang leave the restaurant despite the fact that everyone dressed up and everything. "Please, Mr. Stark, I really-"

"Save it for the pizza delivery guy," Tony says instead, lightly pushing Peter's hand back. "And that way, you'll be paying on behalf of something you're actually eating." 

This actually does seem pretty fair, so Peter nods and pulls his hand back before shuffling over to join the others outside.

"If we're admitting things, I didn't really know the celeriac remoulade was a salad." Sam jerks a shoulder upwards, grinning. "If they hadn't brought salmon along with it, I could have starved to death. A tiny salad, can you believe that?" 

"I only knew the velouté because I went to a French restaurant once and someone ordered it for me," Steve follows along, smiling sheepishly at Peter. "I didn't know what most of the other stuff meant." 

That does make Peter feel better, and he relaxes a little and actually laughs. "Oh, good. I would have hated to be the only clueless one." 

"You'll never be the only clueless one, kid. Not with Sam around." Clint slides his hands into his pockets.

"Fuck you, Birdbrain." 

"And I really fucking hate suits." Clint continues, plucking at his cuffs. "I can't wait to chuck all of this off." 

"You would, you exhibitionist," Sam leers. 

Steve cringes. "Oh my god, guys, stop. We have innocents here." he gestures at Peter.

"Peter? Innocent? I don't know about that." Tony steps out, adjusting his sleeves and tucking his wallet away. He slides his glasses on, clicking his tongue at Peter. "He's a fifteen year old guy, innocent is probably an oxymoron at this point." 

"Mr. Stark!" Peter blushes, mortified, the red in his cheeks setting off another round of laughter. 

"Let's go. There's a pineapple-covered pizza calling my name." Sam urges, and Peter feels Tony's shudder since Tony's arm is wrapped around him again. 

"It's all your fault, Underoos." Tony accuses, but he squeezes Peter fondly and lowers his voice. "Next time, kid... Don't hesitate, alright? If you ever need to eat. If you're ever hungry... You're always welcome to take as much food as you need. Spider-kids gotta eat." Tony levels him with a surprisingly serious look. "And you can always tell us when something's wrong. These dysfunctional idiots are your family, after all." 

Peter smiles shyly, watching Sam and Clint bicker, Steve trying to separate them with no luck, Natasha rolling her eyes, and Tony, next to him, looking out for him. 

"Will do, Mr. Stark." He keeps his voice a whisper, because he thinks that if he increases his volume, his voice will crack and he'll burst into tears.

Suffice to say... he's got one of the greatest families in the entire galaxy.