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Peter had had enough with this week. First, his bike was stolen from outside his apartment, and no one had their security camera running, when in reality he knew that Mrs. Romaro was lying, because she knew the one time he accidentally took her newspaper inside and not his. After that fiasco, he got the wrong coffee order, which never helped anything, and then he came to work only to learn that Tony Fucking Stark was visiting tonight.
Most people would be absolutely pleased at having such a renowned critic in their restaurant, but Peter? He was livid. He wanted nothing to do with Stark. He was pretentious, with his stupid leather shoes and his whole holier than thou attitude. He was a food critic in New York City. There were a million other people just like him.
So as Peter entered the back kitchens to Harley busying himself with preparing the noodles for that night’s meals, he couldn’t even bring himself to break the news happily.
“Stark’s visiting. So be prepared,” he called. Harley pulled an earbud out and his brow screwed up.
“What?” he asked, pulling on the brim his bloody red cap, that was absolutely not dress code but nothing would make the boy follow dress code.
“Stark,” Peter said and sipped his coffee--too sweet, and not strong enough--before continuing. “He’s coming in tonight. Just got a call from Fury. Said he hit up his restaurant last night, and he always comes here next. Sorry in advance if I’m an ass,” Peter called and moved to hang his jacket and back in the office.
“Why do you hate him so much? He’s just a dude with stupid rose gold glasses. Is it the glasses? I bet it’s the glasses.” Harley laughed and then yelped when Peter threw an old tomato at him, missing. The fruit landed on the floor with a thud, juice dripping from where it split along the bottom.
“He’s an ass. I told you he acts like everyone owes him something, and he also was at the farmers market last year and took the last block of cheese for the ravioli,” he said almost indignantly. Harley rolled his eyes, not seeing that as any reason to hate someone with as much vengeance as Peter does Stark.
“Sure sure,” Harley commented and yawned stretching over his head before lifting his cap and smoothing his hair back. “I’ve got like 20 minutes on prep, do you want me to start the grill?” He called and Peter nodded waving him on as he moved to line to prepare for the day.
Slowly people started to flood in and Harley was let go until he was due back at 3 for dinner prep. They were a popular restaurant for their age, L'angelo Piccolo having only opened a year ago.
It was doing well, but Peter was not better off than they were when they started. He was still struggling to pay off student loans and coupled with his rent having climbed and his bike being stolen, he knew this was going to be a long few weeks. He’d already resigned himself to living off meals from work, and picking up shifts whenever possible for the foreseeable future.
He didn’t hate his job, he actually enjoyed it much more than most people enjoyed their job. He found a peace here that coupled with a freedom he was given in designing new menu options. The customers were nice enough, and most of the critics they had gave them a good review.
Critics.
Stark.
It was coming back to Stark more often than not today. Peter rubbed his brow as he worked his way through a simple lunch option, salmon with a mediteranian glaze. As he worked his mind ran back to Stark. The asshole. He had no reason to care about the man’s opinion, except he did. He could easily ignore him and continue to provide excellent service, but every time he saw Stark his blood boiled and he felt hot all over. He didn’t have to do anything special, but he knew that Stark was a hard ass or so that’s how it seemed. Stark’s reviews weren’t posted in the paper like a majority of the other critics, no, he posted online under a pseudonym that no one had figured out, and Peter had spent the better part of a week working on trying to identify Stark among multiple other popular bloggers. The problem was they all visited in a span of the same week and posted on the same day, and all ordered the same thing, and kept any distinguishing details out of the review.
It was a pain in the ass.
It wasn’t hard to follow their pattern--they visited in the span of a few days and the reviews would be posted within the week. It would be Peter, and only Peter, who would be obsessing over the information, pulling apart the reviews thread by thread, until he was just as worn as the reviews.
Unfortunately for Peter, he had thought maybe the tip from Fury was incorrect, that perhaps Stark wasn’t going to be there that night as they had about an hour till close and no sign of Stark. Peter wasn’t that lucky. With 45 minutes till close, and they line slowly shutting down, Stark waltzes in with a thousand watt smile, strutting as if he had no idea that he was coming in so near closing.
Peter spotted him from the back line, his shaggy curls dappled with grey and smile lines worn into the corners of his mouth and eyes. If it wasn’t Tony fucking Stark, Peter may go and greet the man themself and tell them they’re closing soon. But no. It was Stark. Peter could hear his booming voice from the kitchen.
“Can I get a seat please? And have the chef start a plate of the daily special please.”
There he was, pretentious and expecting the world to bow to him. The girl who was acting as hostess for the night nodded and quickly led him to a seat.
Peter, having heard all of it, was cursing and grumbling under his breath. He had half a mind to tell Stark to get out of his restaurant, but he knew he couldn’t. He wanted to. He wanted to so bad.
Instead he started the daily special, and watched through the small window for Stark’s ridiculous goatee. He was thankful the special for the day was at least beautiful to plate, so he wasted no time making sure it was a lovely plate.
As much as he hated Tony Stark and his pompous and grating reviews, he also wanted to impress him.
It was an odd combination of feelings inside of Peter but he went with them regardless--there were many things he didn’t want to deal with tonight, and Stark’s attitude was one of them. When the waitress came forward and took the plate, whispering to Peter that Stark wanted more wine he wanted to scream.
“We don’t have more wine,” he hissed and looked along the wine rack. “It’s almost 9:30 at night, what the hell is he doing?” Peter demanded and the girl only shrugged.
“Do we have any moscato left? He wanted a sweet wine,” she asked and Peter sighed.
“Take it. Fucking hell,” he grumbled and pushed the last basket of bread forward.
He made himself a small bowl of shrimp and noodles and ate slowly as he scrubbed down the grill. He’d been working since open, and while he normally didn’t mind the long shifts this was the first in 5 this week. He would be closing every day this week, and this week would be the week they would be getting all the critics.
Amazing.
It took Stark at least an extra 30 minutes passed close to leave the restaurant writing down little notes the entire time on his stupidly expensive new phone. Peter could barely afford his four year old iPhone with the cracked screen. He left work that night at eleven, dead tired, and smelling vaguely of basil pesto and garlic. It wasn’t unfamiliar but Peter was ready to run off to bed and shower. He was thankful they weren’t a restaurant that opened early like some of their competition. He needed to sleep in, especially after the way Tony kept staring at him, eyes narrowed over the glasses as if he was looking him up and down.
It made him want to turn away, as he always felt sticky after Stark came, and even worse after Rogers came. Rogers always made him feel odd, like the man was flirting with him, and he was certain he was. But Peter didn’t like Rogers--he liked boys plenty enough, Harley and himself had hooked up a few times when they were younger, but that was nothing now. They’d tried and nothing had worked out.
Peter didn’t think of that now, couldn’t think of that now. On his first day off in a week, he was confronted with the reviews. All of them posted on the same site with different signatures and similar opinions. Except for the one he thought was Stark. His review was strangely blunt, no emotion attached.
This week at L’angelo Piccolo, head chef Parker developed a meal that was entertaining at best, but was rather simple. Chicken Parmigiana with a tomato sauce--a good meal but rather… simple. I expected more from the chef who was renowned. The meal was good, don’t deny that. If you want comfort Italian food, then I would highly suggest going there, but if you want unique blends and true Italian, this would not be one of my highest recommendations.
My advice for Mr. Parker would be to experiment and find his own style of creation. L’angelo Piccolo could be a very influential restaurant in the region, if only Parker could find his footing.
Peter glared at the screen of his phone and pushed the device away from him, refusing to read the rest of the review. His self control was lacking as he grabbed his phone and pulled it closer reading the rest. He couldn’t believe it. The last comment made his face burn. If only Parker could find his footing. He knew what he was doing. He spent years in culinary school, he knew how to create beautiful meals, and homey was a thing he enjoyed! He wanted to make his customers feel like they were at home in a familiar, safe location. Peter glared at the review and swiped it out of his reading list, and tossed his phone to the counter before scrambling an egg.
His phone buzzed and it was Harley sending a screenshot of the reviews.
Har: Sorry bout the shitty review. Drinks on me?
Peter looked over the text before sliding his phone away from himself. He didn’t want to see anyone, and he had only a few dollars in his bank account till next Friday, unless they had a very generous tip.
He doubted they would. He swallowed, and cooked the egg adding a little bit of milk and cheese before unfortunately allowing himself to follow the other link--the one to what many thought was Roger’s review. He couldn’t help but smile when he read the kinder words.
Young chef Peter Parker has such raw talent. While being new and still coming into his place in the food business, he never fails to surprise me with a warm filling meal, no matter what time I come in. This week Parker treated me with a hearty serving of Chicken Parmigiana. Instead of frying the chicken breast, like some chefs tend to do, Parker breaded it lightly and cooked it in what I would assume to be olive oil--which is much better than the deep fried thing you find in most places. The pasta was also tasty, could use a bit more sauce next time, but still very good and filling. If you are looking for a new place to try your luck at, L’angelo Piccolo is your best bet.
Peter couldn’t stop the smile that broke his face. He was worth something, he knew he was, despite what he assumed to be Stark said. He smiled over his cup and took a deep breath. He would do this and he would be appreciated by others even if Stark wasn’t one of them--and that was fine. He told himself this everytime a new review was posted about L’angelo Piccolo and everytime it felt a little bit more right. He ran a hand through his messy curls and grabbed his phone texting Harley back finally.
Peter: drinks sound nice. Come over in half an hour?
Har: sure thing. I’ll bring pizza too.
Peter couldn’t have hidden his smile if he wanted to. He didn’t deserve Harley’s friendship and he knew that, but it was even more apparent now.
***
It was another three week before the critics came back around. Peter knew it was more common with new restaurants, but he also couldn’t deal with Stark twice in one month. This time the salt and pepper haired man was the last of the group, and he showed up for lunch. Peter appreciated the early arrival compared to the late dinner arrival. Peter still didn’t enjoy the man’s presence--he was rather cocky and Peter found that he was even more arrogant in the middle of the day, fueled by the 3 coffees he ordered and a hot meal. Peter allowed it only because he had no energy to fight the ass.
He was 5 minutes away from his first lunch, when he was summoned to the main dining room. Peter groaned and Harley snickered from the prep line. “Ooh, Peter has a secret admirer!” he called and Peter rolled his eyes.
“Do not,” he grumbled and lifted his hat, running his hand over his ruffled curls. He was beyond tied and he wasn’t a fool--he knew that Stark was waiting for him, and it frustrated him to no end.
He just wanted to enjoy his salmon in peace.
Stepping into the main dining room, he wasn’t surprised when Stark motioned him over. He bit the inside of his cheek hard.
“Good afternoon Mr. Stark,” he said politely, but extended nothing else.
“Ahh, yes Parker! You know you’re a wonderful cook. A little heavy on the garlic, but really good.” Stark lifted his fingers to his mouth and mock kissed the tips. Peter had to resist rolling his eyes.
“Thank you sir,” he said and eyed the half full plate. His stomach twisted and Stark followed his eyes blushing. “Sorry, I mean no offense. I had a large meal last night and well,” He shrugged and Peter frowned. “If it’s not too much I would love a box. This was excellent, and your technique for mussels, to die for.”
Peter couldn’t hide the shocked look that crossed his face. Stark only laughed.
“Parker, don’t tell me you--”
“Parker! Oi your meat is burning!” Harley called and Peter flushed before giving Stark a look and then excusing himself. He ducked under a waitress who glared at him as Peter moved to the back of the restaurant. By his stove, there was indeed a dark tint to the meat he was browning for a sauce.
Peter hurriedly moved the meat off the burner and glared at Harley who was slicing onions and peppers. “You couldn’t have helped?” he asked and Harley only laughed.
“Nah man, I was too busy watching Stark moon eye over you,” he teased and hip checked Peter, who took the bump with grace.
“Ass,” he grumbled, and then sighed. “Was he really moon eyeing over me?” He asked, voice dropping at the end.
“I would say so,” Harley said and dropped the onions to the meat and stirred slowly, mixing evenly.
“Don’t bullshit me Harley,” Peter said and took the spoon mixing and rubbing his tired face. “Stark has never had kind words for me on those reviews--”
“Reviews that are anonymous! Peter think about it, he’s just pretentious but he always smiles and I heard him. He said your mussels were to die for right?” Harley snickered. “He was flirting.”
“No he wasn’t,” Peter insisted and smacked the back of Harley’s hand. “Don’t reach for my food, especially when I’m still cooking, you know how I feel about that!” he chided.
Harley could only smile when Peter glared. It was a familiar thing in their relationship--Harley breaking the tension and Peter pouting or feigning offense. He couldn’t deny that he secretly enjoyed the little game, even if the annoyance and pouting wasn’t always faked. Peter spared a glance to Harley who was only smirking.
“Go. Eat your lunch or I’ll never hear the end of it,” he said, his tone drawn, contradicting the lightness in his eyes.
Peter rolled his eyes before hip checking Harley and moving to the main office for his lunch.
It was two weeks later that Peter saw Stark again. He was down the aisle in the grocery, and Peter almost felt as if his personal space had been invaded. He was the one who shopped here, as if that was a strong enough claim. He was the chef. Tony was simply the critic who thought the mussels were a little heavy on the oil , and who thought Peter used not enough seasoning on the chicken.
He looked aside and bit his cheek reminding himself of Roger’s review that praised him constantly, and how the person he thought was Odinson, had said his cooking, while still young, was being cultivated into something more mature and willing to take criticism. He ducked his head, and tugged the old beanie he’d had since highschool down over his forehead. He just needed to get the last can of tomato soup before he could duck his head and run. He was never that lucky though. No more than 10 seconds after he had reached for the can, had Stark spotted him.
“Parker! Fancy seeing you here? Shopping for L’angelo Piccolo, or yourself?” he asked and Peter frowned at the last can that was pushed back against the wall.
“Myself,” he said and rubbed under his nose. He felt a little sick, knowing the reason for his bad attitude was partially himself, and also partially the head cold he’s somehow managed to contract from a patreon. It doesn’t change the fact he has to deal with Stark all the time and it was wearing on him.
“Feeling a little under the weather?” Stark asked trying to make conversation.
Peter glared at him from where he was reaching back to grab the can. “No, I feel wonderful,” he snipped, worn with the conversation already.
Stark sighed and Peter couldn’t resist rolling his eyes. His fingers brushed the can he needed and he grumbled as it slipped from his grasp again. “Let me,” Stark said and reached for the can, grabbing it easily. “Here,” he offered it with a smile that was just a little too smug.
Peter stared at the can as if it might bite him before he took it carefully. “Thanks,” he said and bit his lips. He thumbed the can where the paper lifted and felt a dent underneath it.
“Now,” Stark said and leaned back on his heels. Peter watched him carefully unsure of what to say or think, but with nothing else to say he raised a brow before sneezing. He grumbled and rubbed at his face.
“Now what?” he asked and Stark just stared at him. His eyes were heavy and dark, dragging over him in almost a provocative manner. Almost. It was respectful, and Peter knew he could very easily be imagining things, but at the same time he couldn’t care enough to move or respond.
Stark met his eyes and Peter frowned before Tony granted him a smile. “Good luck Parker,” he said and waved as he walked backwards with a mock salute on his fingers. Peter frowned but his response was a moment too late. He frowned and then sighed. He was already so tired and dealing with Stark was never a good thing. He picked up another can of soup, chicken noodle this time, and left the store, realizing something.
Stark...was kind to him. Truly kind. A bit arrogant, but kind. He had no ill intentions towards him during the conversation, and Peter…didn’t know what to do with that. Stark always had some response for him, at least it seemed like that was the case. He couldn’t wrap his brain around the idea that Stark may not have ill intentions towards him.
He shifted the bag on his arm as he turned the corner towards home. Stark was Stark. He gave him shitty--or at the very least rude--reviews, and he came in twenty minutes before close and ordered a massive meal. He still hadn’t forgiven him for that time all of the critics came in on the same bill and ordered the same thing, down to drinks, only for them to stay past close for an extra hour.
Peter shook his head and ran a hand through his hair as he came to the stoop of his apartment. This was ridiculous, Stark was not a person Peter enjoyed seeing, and yet...no. He pushed the thoughts from his brain, and when he made it to his apartment, he distracted himself with The Office, his soup and warm blankets.
Peter continued to distrust the feelings in his gut, and the next two times that Stark showed up to L’angelo Piccolo Peter struggled more and more to find the annoying, arrogant, bull headed, selfish Stark he knew for the past year. Instead...he saw someone a bit softer who enjoyed extra cheese with his ravioli, and would always have a glass of wine, no matter what--preferably red.
Even when Stark brought all the critics the night before Thanksgiving...he wasn’t as pissed as he could be. Even Harley noticed, and that’s when he knows something is up.
“Really? No bitching about Stark and his cronies?” Harley asked and swiped a wine glass, pouring with a heavy hand for his own benefit.
“Ehh,” Peter said and watched them over the edge of the kitchen window. “I have no plans, and overtime.”
“Dude, it’s like 10:30 at night.”
“And? Also stop drinking on the clock,” He said and snagged the glass from Harley, but not before stealing a mouthful.
“Peter come on dude. You hate when they are here too late, and it’s already 15 till close, and their meals aren’t even done yet!” Harley groans louder than appropriate and leans against the sink behind him before stealing the wine back.
“Harley--”
“If I’m sticking around for Friendsgiving tomorrow morning, you owe me,” Harley said as if the wine was compensation enough.
Peter sighed as Harley placed the very full wine glass on the shelf above his head and continued with food prep for Friday, organizing the non perishables and getting the pasta bagged and sealed.
Stark and the critics didn’t leave until almost an hour after close.
Peter didn’t mind, not like he normally would, and when he spotted the message receipt, his heart twisted.
Text me sometime. I’d love to visit without the formalities. Tony
Below the message was Stark’s number and a hundred dollar bill. It wasn’t uncommon for the man to tip well, but this was one of the best times he’d tipped. Peter couldn’t hide the smile that broke his face. Even with it having to be split between himself, Harley, and the other two workers in the restaurant, that was still 25 dollars a person.
Twenty five extra dollars he didn’t think he would have this week. Twenty five dollars that would allow him to finally take some money and use it for something he wants, and not just for rent, food, and utilities.
Peter immediately broke the tip and handed it out to the other employees, grinning the entire time, and the receipt tucked into his back pocket. He didn’t know what he would do, but he wasn’t going to throw the receipt away. Instead, when he got back home he put the receipt on his mirror and went to bed without showering.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks to a month and then it was Christmas and New Year. Peter was overworked, getting call after call from mother’s begging for a catering order that Peter can’t fulfill on short notice without an up charge. Peter had even contemplated pulling in a few friends from high school to help with the overload, but he didn’t need to, as they came to the doors after close demanding to be allowed in to help. Peter couldn’t deny them, especially when MJ was MJ and had two large iced coffees and a box of bagels from the place in Washington Heights they loved.
He was incredibly thankful and he took all the help he could get and when the new year and first week came around he was thankful. He took a day off and let himself sleep in until had past 10. It was amazing and he even dropped by a coffee shop allowing himself to use his Christmas bonus to pick up a medium coffee with extra cream. It was nice, and when he walked through downtown, Peter realizes he could do this. He was in New York and he was making a living, kind of, with his restaurant. He can and would do this.
He was successful. The reality of it made his chest tighten and he grinned up at the skyscrapers. New York. He’d done it. He’d made it.
He turned the corner and always raising his cup to his lips before it was crushed between himself and another pedestrian.
A pedestrian with rose colored glasses and a stupid goatee.
“Oh my god I’m so sorry, here—Parker?” Stark hesitated and Peter couldn’t not stare.
Holy. Fuck.
What the fuck.
What the ever living Holy Fuck shit.
“Are you okay? I’m sorry, shit. Rogers I’ll call you back,” he dropped his phone from his ear and pulled napkins from his pocket and shoved them at Peter. They had scribbles on them, but Peter couldn’t read them. He huffed when the coffee was pulled from his hand and Stark shook his head.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry, you okay? Not burned?” He asked and took Peter’s hand and checked the digits for burns. Peter had countless from working the line and Stark shook his head.
“Do you not wear heat protectant gloves?”
“It doesn’t allow for me to mix as well. And they’re annoying,” he said before he could stop himself. Fuck.
“Oh well…” Stark looked back up at Peter and motioned to the trash can that now held Peter’s coffee cup. “Can I get you a new one. I didn’t mean to, it’s the least I can do,” Stark said and Peter watched him for a moment before speaking up.
“Don’t you...hate me?” He asked unable to stop himself.
Stark could only laugh.
“Hate you? Parker you’re the best Italian chef in Upper Manhattan! Jealous would be the better word!”
Peter stared and then Stark flashed a grin “Come on Parker, where’d you get it from?” He asked and Peter took a moment. He watched Tony, and his mouth twitched down and he couldn’t help but stare. Tony fucking Stark was here, looking at him and offering him a free coffee—well replacement coffee for the one he broke.
Tony was being nice. And not just polite, this is New York no one is this polite. This was kindness.
“I… okay,” he said and Tony grinned.
“Awesome!” Tony placed a friendly hand on his arm and guided him back towards the cafe, chatting casually.
Tony spoke about many things, the weather, L'angelo Piccolo, Peter’s favorite coffee, the last book he read, what his opinions erwe on the season finale of Game of Thrones. There was nothing Tony didn’t want to ask, sex aside, and Peter was surprisingly ready to hand over the information. Even better yet, Tony was just as willing to speak on himself—hell Tony didn’t even start out as a critic. He was an engineer—the lead engineer on the new iPhone. He had huge money behind him and Peter couldn’t fathom it.
“Then why do you do restaurant critics?” He asked over his third refill.
“Because I love food. Mother is Italian and well,” Tony shrugged and picked at the massive cookie between them. “You make great lasagna.”
It was the closest thing to a compliment Tony had given him.
“You actually like my cooking?” He asked and Tony laughed.
“Of course! You’re fucking talented! Inexperienced but there’s talent there. You’re gonna do big things. Hell L’angelo Piccolo could be the new Olive Garden or something!”
That was new. Peter raised a brow as he thought over the words and then he scratched his neck.
“I don’t buy it,” he finally said. Tony’s words didn’t match the reviews he’d gotten and he struggled to reconcile the two pictures of Tony Stark in his brain. Friendly and conversational Tony Stark didn’t match with the harsher critic. None of it matched, and he couldn’t place the origin of the difference. It was like he was talking to two different people and it was making his head ache.
“I do,” Tony said and reached across the table to pat the back of Peter’s hand. Tony’s palm was rough but warm, and that stirred something in Peter’s gut he couldn’t place. “You’re talented. Really fucking talented.” He leaned back and Peter pressed his lips together, feeling cold and hot at the same time.
“You have mastered the art of garlic. Too many times have I seen someone use too much garlic. It’s not the main course it’s the accent, and I’ve seen you learn that. And the Mediteranian dishes are to die for. I don’t think you understand just how impressed I am with the quinoa addition.” Peter blinked. Harley had teased him, calling him pretentious for using quinoa and said “You’re turning into a hipster. Next thing will be kale.”
“I…” Peter was at a loss for words. He opened his mouth and Tony cussed under his breath as he checked the time.
“Shit, I have to go, meeting, but maybe we can do this again?” he asked collecting his jacket and pushing the rest of the cookie towards Peter. Peter’s tongue was slow and Tony was out the door before he could think of something to say back.
“Well fuck,” he said to himself before slowly standing. A glance to his watch told him it had been almost 3 hours here.
Three hours. Talking to Tony Stark. He rubbed his face. This was too much in one day, and he’d wasted his day sitting in a coffee shop, yet he couldn't force himself to truly think of this like that. He’d talked to Stark, held a conversation with a man who he would have normally avoided at all costs when not on the clock. Yet, here he was, having spent the past few hours sitting with him, and casually chatting.
Peter had no energy to think over it more than he needed to, and instead resigned himself to go pick up some basics for dinner from the dollar store. It was an insult to his skills, or so MJ liked to tell him, but Peter was happy to survive off two dollar pasta and produce that was near the end of its life cycle. He did it for college, he could do it now. This was how he had expected to live for at least another 5 years, and he could manage on the few days he didn’t work to survive like a peasant.
As Peter turned home, it was getting late and the air was slightly chilly. Peter tucked his face deeper into his jacket against the wind. As he moved up the stoop of his apartment building, Peter was thankful the landlord had turned the heat up this week. Fumbling with his bags and for his keys he was able to eventually open the door to his apartment. Shrugging off the threadbare jacket, he dropped his bags on the counters and worked through his meal immediately. Boiling water he started the noodles and worked on chopping a tomato into the pan of browning meat. It was nothing special but he could make this and have enough food for the next week.
He caught sight of the garlic clove sitting in the cupboard and after a small smile at the reminder of Tony’s words, he pulled it from the shelf and broke off one clove and prepared it for the meal.
Moving to toss out the trash, Peter caught site of some trash under his coat. He sighed and bent to pick it up, before he stalled. It was the napkins that Stark had given him earlier that day with scribbles and dried coffee. He unfolded the paper following the scribbles and stared at the words: mussels = amazing little rubbery more practice .
Peter frowned. That’s... Stark’s hand writing. He’d seen it too often on receipts, and the words… Stark had said that exact thing to him a month or so back, but yet… the review didn’t match.
Peter set the bowl he was going to eat to the side and fished in his pocket for his phone. Pulling up the review site, he scrolled until he found the one he had assumed to be Starks that mentioned mussels. He read quickly until he found that line.
Parker’s command of seafood, especially shellfish is spotty. Sometimes it is wonderful, such as his shrimp, but the mussels served on this date were rubbery and could have used more garlic.
Peter stared and then scrolled down finding the review that made his chest swell with pride.
Parker is new, and mastering the art of shellfish will take time, but this creation, the mussels with the angel hair pasta and the white wine was amazing. In the future, perhaps cook them for a little shorter time. This is a skill that comes with practice, and from the last time I had mussels at Parker’s restaurant, there has been a notable improvement.
Peter swallowed.
Did he just figure this out? Did he finally understand the reason for Stark’s kind attitude--and oh fuck had Stark been flirting with him today? He rubbed his face and slipped into the chair, his dinner forgotten for the time as he pulled his pockets clean finding the napkins and little notes scribbled on all of them, none matching with the reviews he had assumed to be Stark’s. It was disconcerting to see and realize the reviews he thought to be Rogers were actually Starks. Rogers was the one who thought he was struggling… but Stark wasn’t and that made something in his gut twist in an amazing way. He swallowed tightly and pushed his phone away.
This was not good, not in any way. The feelings he’d been stoaking in his stomach were for Rogers, but now...they were misplaced. The little happy twist of his heart and the stupid smiles he’d wear when he read Rogers--no, Stark’s--reviews...they weren’t right.
Not in the this is gay way, but the this isn’t the person I thought I’d be harboring feelings for way. Peter runs a hand through his hair and feels sick.
This wasn’t just feelings and admiration. He’d have to be a complete fool if he wouldn't admit he had a crush on Stark...He had a crush on Stark, and it hit him harder than he’d expected it to.
His phone buzzed on the counter and he jumped pulled from his thoughts to see a text from Harley.
Har: Are we expecting critics this week?
Har: Stark came in as I was leaving and he seemed rather disappointed that you weren’t here…
Peter only took a second to think before he sent a response.
Peter: Call me. And can you come over?
---
Harley only had a few things to say.
First: don’t do anything stupid.
Second: if you tell him he won’t ever be able to officially critique us again.
Third: Tell him and tell him soon.
Peter had blinked at the last two, to which Harley had only shrugged over their dinner.
“You’re not good at not telling people you like them. Didn’t you admit that to me like, three days after we met?” He teased and Peter glared kicking out at him and hitting his thigh.
“Shut up.”
“You know I’m right. So.,”Harley started around a mouthful of pasta. “How are you going to do it?” He asked and cocked his head.
“Do what?”
“Tell him! Come on, don’t be a pussy!” Harley said and Peter wrinkled his nose. He didn’t care for the term but the meaning was understood.
“I can’t just,” he swallowed and shrugged. “It’s not right, he’s kind of my boss,” he said and Harley laughed loudly. Peter stared half offended, half pissed.
“He’s not your boss, you’re your own boss! You own a damn restaurant!” Harley said and motioned with his fork, jabbing the air violently.
Peter shook his head but Harley laughed. There was nothing in Peter’s way in Harley’s opinion but Peter was cautious. He may want to tell Tony as soon as possible, the truth unable to be contained inside himself for much longer, but it wasn’t smart. He had to continue to work to maintain the restaurant and the integrity of his name as a chef. He had to continue to provide delicious food to New York City’s public.
He didn’t have the control to not tell Stark, but thankfully for himself, Stark nor any other of the critics came to the restaurant. Peter worked through the next month developing a new menu, not sure why or what propelled him, but also very aware that he was doing it. He pulled together different recipes, some new, some old but all inspired by Tony and the things he mentioned he enjoyed. It also was homey and warm, perfect for someone who missing home. He worked his way through the menu, concocting the items and having different people try them and offer advice on the items.
The only thing he could do is work and perfect the menu to the point the menu is all Peter can work on. He even served it to Rogers who was the first to come for this round of reviews.
Peter waited anxiously, watching through the window, and seeing him scribble down notes on a pad next to him. Peter can’t believe he never noticed the critical glint in his eyes. It made his heart twist knowing he had given Tony an undeserved cold shoulder for months when it wasn’t his fault. Rogers was the one who offered the critical lense, the one who came off harder than necessary despite the cherub appearance.
It wasn’t long till Odinson and Romanoff showed up, and then came Rhodes till finally it was Stark. Peter was anxious for the entire day, and Harley sighed forcing him out of the building for an hour.
“It’ll all be okay. And if it doesn’t work out, well, I’m single,” Harley winked and Peter rolled his eyes. He was thankful for Harley’s distractions and the unspoken message that Harley will be here regardless of what happens.
Peter took the time to go get the staff coffee as thanks for putting up with him. It was nice to have the time to clear his head and be away from the restaurant, to have a moment to think without people hovering over him. He had three ways it could go tonight.
Tony could reject him. Absolutely and completely reject him without a second thought. This was the worst option.
Tony could enjoy the meal but not be gay or bi or whatever it could be that would give him a preference for men. Better but not...not great. Peter would have the luck to crush on another straight man.
Tony could though, be absolutely gay or whatever, and enjoy the meal and accept Peter’s advances. This was the goal, and god dammit this is New York! Even the straightest people he knows have at least kissed a same sexed person!
He groaned and rubbed his head as he pushed open the back door with his hip. “I have coffee!” He called and the team cheered loudly.
Even if this didn’t work out, his team would have his back. Even if Tony Stark slammed his restaurant and he lost all credibility with critics he would still have his team and his talent.
He swallowed and reminded himself of the options. It would all be okay. Despite everything, Tony was never rude to him, and so option one was the least likely to happen. He knew that. With that reminder at the forefront of his mind, Peter worked to prep the meal for tonight: Lasagna with a meat sauce and chicken orzo soup. He was still working out the kinks of the soup recipe, but it was much better than the first time he tried to make it.
It was about 5:30 when Tony finally entered the premises. Peter could hear him and his heart started from his place at the prep line with Harley.
“Chill dude,” Harley said and punched his shoulder lightly.
Tony requested a wine, and Peter poured him a glass of Primitivo. He hid in the back of the kitchens until the food was served, only because Harley could not stand having him mope about for another 20 minutes while they waited for Stark to eat.
He instead started to work with the line, preparing and mixing salads and pulling bread from drop to send out. He felt sick almost, like his stomach was in his throat, but when Stark finally called for Peter, the chef slowly made himself go to his table. His chest constricted and his mouth felt dry. He opened his mouth to say something but Stark beat him to it.
“This was marvelous! And the addition of ricotta was exceptional! What inspired this, your old recipe was amazing as well, but damn!” Tony cocked his head and dabbed at his mouth with the napkin waiting expectantly
Peter was at a loss for words. He didn’t know what to say anymore. Tony...liked his creation. He liked it, but he wanted to know what inspired it. Peter wet his lips and spoke softly but evenly.
“You.”
“Me?”
Peter nodded. “It. uhm...Tony you’re the one. I’m sorry if this isn’t what you expected, but I was compelled to do this, and I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, but I couldn’t help myself, and--”
“Wooh, hold on kid,” Tony said and held a hand up. “I’m honored truly, but kid,” Tony let the words hang and Peter’s heart dropped. It was option 1. It had to be Tony hated him, thought he was fucking weird, had caught on to the reason behind the new creation, and--
“Just be honest. Do you like me?” He asked then shook his head and held a hand up in apology. “Sorry. What I mean is, do you want to date me. Because yes.”
“Yes?” Peter repeated shooked almost not understanding the reasoning.
“Yes. I will date you.”
“Oh fuck--I mean shit, uhm...can I try again?” he asked flushed and Tony laughed.
“Peter Parker can I take you out next week? I know this great Italian place in Upper Manhattan.”
Peter grinned and couldn’t help but laugh a little. “I think that can be arranged,” he said. There was a cheer from the kitchen and Peter looked up glaring at Harley whose not dress code cap ducked under the window. Tony only laughed as well.
“How’s Saturday? The reviews come out that night as well. I might tell you who I am, but I think you figured that out,” Tony said with a half smile.
Peter couldn’t stop the grin that split his face. “I think that will work fine.”
Their date that weekend went perfectly. And so did the kiss that followed.