Chapter Text
April 10th, 1912
Southampton.
“You will write to me the moment you set foot in America, won’t you?” Says Pepper.
She looks tired. Her hair is pulled back tightly, tugging at her scalp. Her lips are pursed and there are tears shining in her eyes.
She looks beautiful.
“The second my two feet hit the ground,” Tony promises, with a grin.
“And what about telegrams? You’ll send one of those, too?”
Tony rolls his eyes good-naturedly at her fretting persistence. “I don’t dream of not,” he assures her, but there’s a playfulness behind his words. “You’ll get one sooner than I’ll sit down in my cabin.”
“I better,” Pepper scolds, lightly, before kissing his mouth.
It’s a busy day for Southampton. Flocks of people are scurrying about the docks, families, children, the senior citizens. Sailors are scattered all around amidst the bustling crowds, checking tickets for those about to board the Titanic.
Along the quayside, several gangways are attached to cut-out doors on the side of the ship, waiting for passengers to climb on board.
Colonel James ‘Rhodey’ Rhodes, Tony’s best friend and business partner, stretches out his hand. “Shake it, old pal,” he says, smiling. “We’ll see you soon.”
“You won’t even know I’m gone,” Tony says, dismissing the handshake in turn for a hug. “Don’t do anything stupid without me.”
“Nonsense,” Rhodey laughs, patting him on the back. “I’ll wait ‘til you get back home.”
“That sounds more like it.”
There’s a sharp whistle, loud in the air, signalling those boarding to either get a move on, or they’ll be left behind. Pepper hands Tony his ticket with the corners of her mouth quirked up into a pierced smile.
“You better go,” she tells him, adjusting his tie so it sits right in the middle.
“What will I do without you?” Tony sighs, stuffing the ticket into his pocket.
“Die, probably.”
“I think that’s a little far-fetched.”
“I think it’s quite accurate.”
“I think you need to re-check who you’re speaking to.”
She laughs. “Will that be all, Mr. Stark?”
“Yes, Miss Potts. Thank you.”
And with that, he bids them both a farewell, waving joyously before he turns to make his way up the gangway. Edwin Jarvis, his personal valet or otherwise known as the butler of the Stark family, sees his leave with a fond smile.
“I’ve checked your luggage through the main terminal, sir,” he says, amidst the noise of the crowds around them. “You’ll be assisted, I presume, with your trunks to the suite.”
“Thank you, Jarvis,” Tony says, gripping a smaller leather case he’d chosen to keep in hand, as he reaches for the railings to the wooden platform. “I’ll be lost without you.”
“As will I, sir,” says Jarvis, with the hint of a grin. “Go on, get on. We’ll see you soon.”
“Soon!” Tony repeats, eyes twinkling. “Don’t have too much fun without me!”
“We’ll try, sir!”
It’s then that Tony turns to the ticket-checkers at the bottom of the First-Class gangway, where women are dressed in the finests of gowns, finest of hats, trimmed and pearled and laced down to the most precise of stitches.
The men are dressed similarly to him, three-piece suits and matching waistcoats, hats of their own, spats on their feet and hands leather-gloved. The embodiment of wealth.
“Mr. Stark,” the sailor greets upon his arrival, almost bowing his head. The instant respect isn’t out of the ordinary, nor is the hasty fumbling the sailor succumbs to whilst searching through the few papers that are Tony’s ticket.
“It’s not every day the world's most famous inventor boards your ship,” the sailor admits, bashfully, neck reddening slightly. Tony drums his fingers across his folded arms, waiting for the all-clear. “Well, here I am.”
“Here you are indeed,” the sailor murmurs, scanning through the papers once more, before handing them back to him. “There you go. Have a safe trip, Mr. Stark.”
“Thank you,” Tony replies, sniffing before turning to walk up the platform up to the gigantic expanse of steel.
Once he’s made it to the door cut into the side of the ship, there’s a white uniformed man directing the passengers on where to go. Much like the sailor back at the dock, he is pleasantly surprised at the sight of him.
“Tony Stark,” he says, unable to bite back a grin. “I wasn’t informed you would be travelling with us.”
“Yeah, well, got places to be,” Tony shrugs, ever so nonchalant. “Directions to First-Class check-in?”
“Right this way, sir,” the man gestures towards an opulent corridor, finely carved with satinwood wall panelling and serene-white tiled flooring.
With a thanks, Tony makes his leave, shoving his ticket back in his pocket. It doesn’t take him long to reach the reception area, on the B-deck, he reads. The entrance room is large and exquisite, at the foot of the Grand Staircase, defined with all marble and granite, high grade porcelain and ceramics and hand polished natural brass. It’s pretty and proper.
He makes his way to the Purser’s office, where there’s a tall, waxed and wide desk, accompanied by a woman dressed in crisp uniform. The clerk she must be, then. She glances up at him as he arrives, after waiting his turn in line. She, contrary to everyone else, doesn’t seem even merely surprised to see him.
“Name?”
“Tony Stark, ma’am.”
She frowns at him when he says that.
“Mr. Spencer here will show you to your cabin,” she informs him, briskly, as a man who Tony supposes to be Spencer who is tall and lean with sharp-cut facial hair and a glint in his teeth, nods in greeting.
The clerk glances around, frowning.
“Where’s Peter?”
Mr. Spencer parrots her motion, searching around him. “He was here just a moment ago.”
Desk-lady tuts at that comment, rising from her seat. “Excuse me for a minute, will you?” She says to Tony, not bothering to wait for a reply before she disappears behind two doors, muttering something about ‘stupid bellboys, the lot of them’ as she went.
“Very sorry for the delay,” Mr. Spencer says sheepishly, rolling a luggage trolley towards him. Tony sees his ten other trunks are already on it. “We had ah—a boy prepared to help with your luggage. He’s disappeared, someplace.”
“Kids these days,” Tony drawls, adjusting his tie where Pepper last touched it. “Can’t keep a hold of ‘em.”
“No, sir,” Mr. Spencer confirms, before sticking out a hand. “Owen Spencer. I admire your work.”
Tony, taken aback slightly by the change of demeanor, returns the shake, gripping his hand firmly. “Pleasures all mine.”
Desk-lady returns not a second after that, a boy in tow. “I couldn’t find him,” she rasps, very clearly irritated. “So you’ll have Johnny instead. I hope that’s not too much trouble.”
If her face isn’t evident enough to Tony that she couldn’t care less what he thinks, he’s not sure what else is. “It’s no trouble at all, miss.” He hands his leather case to the scrawny, poorly-fed looking boy. “Good luck on the goose chase.”
He follows Spencer and the silent bellboy, Johnny, through swinging red doors that lead through to another wide passageway, consisting of the First-Class suites and staterooms.
The corridors have white-painted 'Venesta’ plywood panels, pilasters and archways over all the stateroom entrances. There are no handrails, no carpet runners, and louver panels muffle the sounds from outside the suites.
Well, he is Tony Stark, after all. He will have the best, of the best.
He follows them until they reach cabin B-56, one of the four parlour suites, in which they open the door and wait for him to enter first.
The suite is brilliant, marvelous, all kinds of fantastic. It’s furnished with a double bed, a dressing table, horsehair sofas in the private living room, a walk-in wardrobe, and a marble-topped washstand with a basin. There’s a private lavatory and bathroom, decorated with mirrors and paintings and the finest of China.
In the second bedroom, there is another double bed accompanied by a single cot, writing desk, a faux fireplace and more plush sofas. There is an additional bunk suspended over the cot that can be folded against the wall. Tony likes that.
Above the main bed, also, is an electrical outlet with a call button that can summon a steward, along with a reading lamp and a wire-mesh basket for storing.
He claps his hands. “Wonderful. I’ll just get myself settled, so.”
“If you require a tour of the deck,” Spencer clears his throat. “You can call one of us and we will assist you around the First-Class accommodation facilities.”
Uselessly, Johnny nods in agreement. He’s placed Tony’s case on the bed, brushed it down and all. He looks as if any moment he’s going to shit himself, and Tony takes mercy on him, because, really, it can’t be much fun being that terrified.
He reaches into his suit jacket, before handing him a pile of pennies, twelve shillings and sixpence. “Get some grub,” he says, before turning to Spencer to hand him the same. “Scoot, the pair of you. I’d like some time to get comfortable, if you will.”
Johnny thanks him in a fumbled, stammered state, rushedly hauling the trolley out of the room without another word. Tony waits for Spencer to do the same thing.
“Captain Smith will be waiting to greet you personally on the upper deck,” he tells him, before thanking him for the tip and exiting the suite.
Tony exhales. Finally, peace at last.
When he reaches the upper deck twenty minutes later, he is greeted by what one would describe as first-hand entertainment.
With the argument out of context, Tony has no idea what’s going on, but as he tunes in to listen to one of two crewmen chastise a raw-boned, hollow-cheeked boy, he gets an idea.
“You were what? Busy? Doing what exactly, dare I ask? Oh, forget it—for fucks sakes, who let this halfwit foundling on board?”
“Very funny,” pipes up a much younger voice. American, Tony muses. “I told you I was busy. It’s just a stupid job—I had better things to do other than carry someones luggage.”
He says this with such spitfire and filth on his tongue, as if he’s too grand, too proper, to do such a task. Tony finds that very amusing, taking in his ragged, moth-eaten clothes. Even from the back, the boy looks grimy, grubby, tarnished with dirt. On the small side too, when he peers closer.
“Who are you, Henry the fucking eighth? You’re on this ship as an employee, and you do as we say. You’re no better than scum on the streets, understand?” One of the crewmen grabs the kid by the collar of his wrinkled, tatty shirt, so tightly he lifts him a few inches off the ground. “You hear me, boy?”
And, in fairness, the kid doesn’t let up, trashing manically in his grip. “Get offa’ me, you pig!”
“What seems to be the problem here, gentlemen?”
Immediately, the kid is released, rubbing at the back of his neck. The two men stand up straighter, smoothing their expressions at who they’re addressing.
The kid's body tenses up, shoulders hunched and chin tucked to his chest. Tony watches with fascination as Captain Smith stops in front of the three of them, another pair of officials by his side.
“Just a little complication with one of our younger workers, sir,” the crewman that had shaken the kid says, and even Tony can see him side-eyeing him, warning him to keep his mouth shut. “A few miscommunication mishaps, is all. And a tap for the cheek.”
He does so as he says it, flicking the boys ear as if to prove his statement.
The Captain processes this mutely, thinking. “And those issues are resolved, I believe? As to avoid causing any disturbance on my ship?”
“That’s right, Captain,” crewman number one confirms, visibly embarrassed, squaring his shoulders with a curt nod. “He won’t be any more trouble.”
“I’d certainly hope not,” the Captain says, turning his attention onto the kid. He leans down, narrowing his eyes. “I’ll be keeping an eye on this one, so. I didn’t quite catch your name.”
The kid mumbles something so inaudible the men beside him can’t seem to hear.
“What was that?”
The kid mumbles again, all bravado and cockiness from before vanished.
“Speak up, boy!”
“—Captain Smith! Lord, what a delight!”
They all turn to Tony then, who’s announced himself with his natural confident aura, strolling over casually to stand beside the crewmen. The kid glances up at him, barely, and Tony doesn’t even get a good look at his face before he ducks it again.
He grits his teeth, willing him to stay silent.
I’m saving your ass here, kid. Don’t say a damn word.
“Well, if it isn’t the Tony Stark himself,” the Captain greets warmly, focus lost from the boy below him. He meets Tony’s outstretched hand, shaking it with both his own. “What a pleasure to have you on my ship!”
“Yeah, don’t get ahead of yourself,” Tony says, a little grimly, not shocked in the least when all of the men laugh as if he’d told them the greatest joke of all time. He hadn’t even said anything funny.
“Well, I wish you the best of travels whilst you board with us,” the Captain tells him, and the other men nod as if in agreement. “The utmost of comfort with that. Welcome aboard to the Titanic.”
“Thank you. I’m glad to be here,” Tony replies, surprised at the serenity in his voice.
“Glad to have you,” the Captain smiles, before he and the officials beside him return the way they came, leaving him alone with crewman piss-pot number one and crewman piss-pot number two, and a foul-mouthed too-big-for-his-boots kid that doesn’t like a little scolding.
Excellent.
“If that’s all,” he says, turning to walk over to one of the benches on the deck. It smells like sea-air and salt, all blue skies and sunshine as he pulls out a notebook from a pocket on the inside of his jacket.
When he looks up again, the crewmen are gone, but the boy is still there, having abandoned his former place beside another bench to lean over the railings within reach of Tony, watching the distant shoreline.
"Five minutes on board and already causing trouble, huh, kid?”
The boy turns sharply, fingers squeezing the rail as he tilts forwards, glaring. “It’s none of your business.”
Tony keeps his posture relaxed. “I think it is. Peter, is it?”
The kid glares even harder, eyebrows furrowing under dirt-flecked, pale skin. His face is young and elfish, with ears that stick out just a little and dark, dark eyes. “No.”
“Liar.”
He’s teasing, but the kid turns away in a huff, leaning his chin on his forearms that rest on the railings. “What’s it to you, anyways?” He asks, after a while.
Tony shrugs, struggling to hold back a smirk for the first time since boarding the ship. “You were my bellboy. You disappeared right before you were supposed to carry my things to my room. I disapprove.”
The kid gapes at him. “Wha—too bad! I’m not your stupid servant! Just because you can make cool things doesn’t mean you’re entitled to everyone else slaving away after you. If you want your things carried to your room, do it yourself!”
Well, he wasn’t expecting that.
“Feel better?”
“Fuck off.”
“My my, that’s not nice language coming from a young boy,” Tony keeps teasing, although he notices that the kid really is small, all bony-shouldered and knobby-kneed. “You oughta wash that mouth out with soap.”
“What are you, my Pa?” The kid scoffs, turning away again. Everything about his body language is enclosed, guarded, riled up. Tony knows he’s struck a nerve, thinking of the word one of the crewmen had used earlier: foundling.
“It’s not nice to swear,” he says, raising an arm to rest it on the back of the bench. He adjusts his body to face the kid. Studies him closely. “You’re not that young, are you?”
He’s lying through his teeth if he thinks that’s true. Kid looks about twelve. But, he wants a good reaction, and there’s nothing better for an ego boost than telling a short kid that he’s not so short.
“Fifteen. Not that it’s any of your concern.”
Now that is a surprise. “Fifteen? As in teenager? Really?”
The kid pouts, actually pouts, stuffing his face into his crooked arms again. “You just said I didn’t look young.” His voice is muffled.
“Those weren’t my words.”
“More or less.”
Tony doesn’t realise he’s grinning, broad and wide. “Fine, I’ll take back my shocked response. Go ahead, tell me your age. I’ll react differently this time, I promise.”
The kid doesn’t look convinced, but meets his gaze. “. . . I’m fifteen.”
This time, Tony channels his expression, keeping it neutral. “I thought you were in your twenties, at least,” he says, finally, searching for satisfaction on the kid’s face. “I mean, you’ve practically got facial hair on you, and don’t get me started on the receding hairline. That’s a given with old age.”
The kid laughs. He actually laughs.
Bingo, Tony thinks, smirking. I win .
“I didn’t think you had the ability to smile,” he says, before he can think twice about it. He almost regrets it, thinking he’ll get a negative recoil to that one, but the kid seems looser now, more at ease.
“And I didn’t think you had the ability to talk to someone lesser than you, and yet here we are,” he quips, and Tony is totally caught off guard.
Although he can appreciate a good wit, this one has him curious. “In all seriousness, what does that even mean?”
“What, you don’t think it’s true?”
“Well, no, I don’t actually.”
The kid rolls his eyes. “You’re Tony Stark. You invent things for fun. You get paid more than my entire life’s savings in a week. You act like you’re better than everybody else because — well, you sort of are, and you don’t pay attention to people like me. Filth, like me.” He adds, scowling at his own degradation.
And Tony is appalled, because the kid can’t be anymore wrong.
“Is that what you really think of me?” He asks, softly. “Or are you just angry?”
“What?” The kid finally lets go of the railings, hopping down to stand a foot away from the bench. “Angry? I’m just saying the truth.”
“What makes you say that?” Tony keeps pushing. He wants to know.
The kid shrugs, having not enough audacity to look a little shameful. “People like you are always like that.” His cheeks redden.
“People like me.”
“Yeah, people like you. Rich, smart, know-it-all's, successful. You always look down on people like me.”
“I don’t think I’m better than you because I’m successful,” Tony says, sincerely, before smirking again just as the kid's eyes land on his. “I know I’m better than you because I’m successful.”
The boy glares at him, before crossing his arms and turning on his heel to march off somewhere in a huff — and nope, that isn’t good in Tony’s books.
“Kid, wait, c’mon, I was kidding—c’mon, come back—”
He follows him all through the deck, not letting the tufty brown mop of hair out of his sight for a second, even as he disappears amidst the other passengers wanting a bit of air. He continues calling after him. “Kid, stop—look, I’m sorry—wait up—”
He latches onto a skinny arm, halting him in an action that tugs the kid backwards, and he turns around with such anger in his eyes, Tony’s genuinely flabbergasted.
“What? Go away. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
He sighs. “Kid, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I was joking. Honest. Just a joke.”
A joke I thought you could take, he thinks, but decides not to add that when he sees how upset he is.
“It wasn’t funny,” the kid mutters, ripping his arm away. He makes no move to escape, though, so Tony takes that as a good sign. “I could be just as good as you. Better, even. I probably already am. But just because life wasn’t nice to me the way it was to you, I don’t get those opportunities. I could invent stuff that could change the world—and yet I’m stuck here, working for a load of dick-wads and building shit from scraps—”
“Wait—hang on—” It’s Tony’s turn to gawk at him. “You like inventing?”
The kid looks away, crossing his arms. “I love inventing.”
“What kinds of things?” Tony asks, because he’s getting the feeling he isn’t talking about drumming on pots and pans.
“Normal things,” the kid shrugs, but Tony can see the pride behind his eyes. “You know, electric motors, ignition systems, basic engineering, stuff like that.”
“Sounds like to me, you’re the know-it-all,” Tony smiles, and he hopes it comes across as genuine as he feels because he is seriously impressed. “And, what, you build things for fun?”
“All the time,” the kid chirps, brightening slightly. “I used to steal stuff from the factory at home. Only place I could get the bits I needed, but—I don’t know. I’m good at what I do. I know I am. But . . . I guess there’s just a lot I don’t know yet. I lot I haven’t learned.”
He flops down onto a bench, resting his elbows on his knees. “And I’ll never get to learn. That’s the difference between you and me.”
Tony finds himself kneeling in front of him, taking off his top-hat. “How many days we got on this ship, kid?”
“A week.”
“That’s right,” he hums. “And I’m not too sure about you, but I’ve got plenty of time.”
He’s not entirely sure what he’s propositioning here, without enough time to plan out his thought process, but his brain-to-mouth filter has been switched off and he doesn’t regret it one bit when he sees those big brown eyes shining at him.
“I will teach you,” he says, and the kid's face drops in astonishment. “I will teach you, if you do everything I say and stay out of trouble. How does that sound?”
“Wonderful,” the kid replies, breathlessly, staring at him with complete and utter awe. “That sounds wonderful.”
“Good. We begin tomorrow,” Tony straightens up before, just for kicks— and because he’s done it to about three different people today—stretching out his hand. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, kid.”
Said kid shakes it eagerly. “As always, Mr. Stark.”
As Tony leaves the deck, descending to his cabin, a voice calls him back. He turns to the kid, who’s grinning boyishly at him.
“By the way, it’s Peter!” He says, eyes crinkling. “Peter Parker!”
“I know!” Calls Tony, winking.
Well, Peter Parker, he thinks, as he retreats to his suite.
Seems like you and me are going to have a lot of fun.