Work Text:
Peter was eighteen: fresh-eyed, earnest, hungry for knowledge. Hands busy tinkering, building, creating new variations of web-fluid and stitching up the old red-and-blue. Juggling his freshman year at Empire State with his nightly New York patrols—the geek with the glasses, and the menace of the press all in one. Anonymous superhero taken for a villain.
Au contraire, Mr. Stark was a myth unto himself: Peter's lifelong hero, the man responsible for Peter's unflinching, unwavering resolve. Mr. Stark's progression from billionaire playboy to noble hero was nothing short of literary epic, inspiring hope in all who read it.
When Mr. Stark came knocking on Peter's dorm one morning, a plea for help on his lips and a plane ride to Leipzig, Germany, Peter said: “Yes.”
He was impressed with Peter's web formula, see, and with his super-strength.
“When you graduate college,” Mr. Stark promised, eyes alight with warm mischief, and Peter was already feeling nostalgic for an event four years in the future, “I'll be the loudest one clapping in the room.”
He placed the vial of web fluid he was admiring there on Peter's desk, and for the longest time, Peter couldn't bring himself to move it.
The Avengers Civil War was a grim, gruelling and tragic affair: a desecration of childhood nostalgia—the end of an era.
Cap called him, “Queens,” and Peter named him, “Brooklyn,” in turn. Like many others, Peter had grown up on stories of Captain America's heroic saves, World War II history turned into comic books for the convenience of the public. Peter cherished every one. His parents used to read them to him every night; his fairy-tale lullaby.
No matter. Peter, overcome with memories of his past, allowed him to escape, and Cap took his best friend with him. Peter was expecting Mr. Stark's disappointment to decorate his face—especially when taken into account what had befallen his own best friend—but that was not the case.
The first thing Mr. Stark said to him—breathless, winded, wounded—was, “You okay?”
Peter's okay was a pant.
“Get home,” Mr. Stark ordered. Next thing was, “We'll call you.”
Not to spoil it: but they did.
Peter was nineteen, and Mr. Stark kissed him after a patrol well-done.
Face flushed, cheeks red, eyes wide as though he hadn't anticipated that outcome, Peter gasped a, “I—what?”
Mr. Stark's answering grin was wicked and sincere in equal breath. It was very disconcerting, and something only he could trademark. Not a single person could compete.
“You're incredible, kid,” he murmured against Peter's lips, soft and sweet and so painfully true that for a single moment every essence of his being believed that without a doubt. “Just had to tell you. Even if it's a bad idea. Especially if it's a bad idea.”
A bad idea—shell, Peter had been called worse.
And it was his first kiss. His first kiss, and it was from his mentor.
Without a further beat, Peter pressed his lips unceremoniously against Mr. Stark's, cringing as he accidentally jammed his nose into the apple of Mr. Stark's cheek.
He felt Mr. Stark's chuckle as took ahold of Peter's face so carefully, so reverently, in those beautifully calloused fingers of his, and redirected Peter's kiss, taking charge in the most delicious of ways. Were he not enhanced, Peter would have swooned.
“Like this, kid,” he breathed into his mouth, swallowing Peter's answering whine. He loved it when Mr. Stark called him kid—a nickname reserved solely for him.
They had been working together for just under a year at this point. Mr. Stark had his babysitter/driver/Chief of Security call Peter for help dealing with this guy with mechanical wings—the Vulture—and Peter had only been too happy to receive the call.
As recompense, Mr. Stark volunteered to mentor him, keep him out of sight of the worst of the Sokovia Accords while they were still busy amending it, and that eventually progressed to Peter being Mr. Stark's lab partner. Science was their common ground, the dirt in which their ideas grew under careful observation. Sometimes, Peter felt Mr. Stark was the one person—the only person—who could possibly understand him.
Judging by the way Mr. Stark clung to him in turn, the feeling was mutual.
"It's not a bad idea," Peter said when he had a chance to breathe, copying Mr. Stark's technique before his guilt could manifest.
(Peter turned down the offer to live at the Avengers Compound. Spider-Man was a lone maverick. He did better on his own.)
Peter was twenty, and Mr. Stark was avoiding him.
Sure, he got it. The age difference, the power imbalance, the team dynamics. There were a multitude of reasons for them not to be together; the odds were stacked against them.
"Sorry, kid, can't make lab today. Just: let F.R.I.D.A.Y. know if you need a hand."
Yeah, so it was a thing.
And it wasn't as if he and Mr. Stark were dating, per se. They were just kind of exclusively seeing each other—or maybe the exclusivity thing was only on Peter's end. Honestly, at this point, he had no idea.
“Mr. Stark,” Peter called one day, desperation playing his hand. “I'm sorry if this is a bad time, but I noticed you rescheduled lab time again, and I was wondering if there's anything I can do to help?”
Read: I was just wondering if there was anything I can do to fix what I've done wrong.
Faltering in the goodbye, he bid farewell with a coherent statement, “So, I, uh, guess I'll see you soon? Or, uh, you'll let me know if you—if you need me?” Cringing, he said, “Okay, cool, goodbye.”
He hung up the phone so fast it almost broke, but it was a StarkPhone and they were made of iron.
Nevertheless, Mr. Stark took his sweet time responding.
And then came: “Sorry, kid, just been bogged down in Fury's project. Could you come swing by later, and help me fix it?”
And despite the fact that Peter knew Mr. Stark could fix it with his eyes closed, Peter agreed wholeheartedly, adrenaline coursing through his veins.
(Mr. Stark's wide grin, eyes only slightly showing remorse at their relationship, made up for his absence.)
And then the Black Order fell from the sky at Thanos' command, and Mr. Stark reached out once again on behalf of a wizard's necklace.
“What is he,” Doctor Strange said derisively on the Q-Ship to Titan, “your ward?”
“No,” Peter retorted before Tony could, desperate to defend their relationship in spite of their age difference, their power imbalance—in spite of the sad fact that it was too good to be true. He couldn't face it; not right now. “I'm Peter, by the way.”
Had to be said: the look on Strange's face when Peter denounced his medical degree as a made-up name was worth it.
The next part wasn't worth it, so much: “Mr. Stark, I don't feel so good,” and “Kid,” and “I'm sorry,” and, “Kid.”
Before Thanos tore his atoms apart molecule by molecule, Peter's last thought was: since when did kid start sounding a lot like I love you?
Peter was twenty-one, and Tony was dead.
“I love you,” Tony mouthed on death's breath, blood drooling from his mouth, his nose, but his eyes—his eyes were trained on Peter.
And Peter alone.
Regret: their relationship ended in regret. Enough to last a lifetime.
Strange was the first person to hold him, to touch him, to make sure he was alright. Even if there was a battle-edge to it, concern still shone in those grey eyes of his, a concern Peter missed—concern and regret.
Hell, maybe that was kind of a theme: regret.
Empire State graciously allowed the ‘Blippers’ to complete the degree they were previously on five years ago, provided they repeat a year, and all Peter could think was Tony's promise back when they first met, back when Tony had never seen Peter before, never understood him:
I'm going to be the loudest one clapping at your college graduation.
Peter's breakfast that morning was bile.
An extra year at Empire State—that was his consolation prize for Tony's death.
Ned and MJ did their best to distract him with a summer trip journeying through Europe.
Sans Spider-Man.
Introducing: Night Monkey feat. Mysterio.
“If you were good enough... maybe Tony would still be alive.”
Peter choked.
He won, but a great cost—he gave away Tony's gift to him, Tony's last gift, guilt sitting uncomfortable in his stomach. Quentin Beck outed his identity, the final nail in the coffin.
The fallout was extensive: hard and gruelling, and for once Peter understood the magnitude of what it meant for Tony to publically out himself as Iron Man right there, in the very beginning. The power Tony wielded, enough to sway the Court of Public Opinion.
Needless to say, the jury was not in Peter Parker's favour.
Ned, MJ, Aunt May, Happy... their lives were ruined. All because they knew him, because they were associated with him. Happy told him once Tony wouldn't have agreed to the Time Heist were it not for the guarantee Peter would survive the outcome. At the time, Peter couldn't dispel the sharp bite of love that wracked his entire body, dispelling the wounds Beck inflicted on his skin.
Now, however... Peter was in need of a physician.
Doctor Strange was kind and courteous, a far cry from the man who accompanied them on Titan. He told Peter to call him Stephen, and for one second Peter found he liked the way Stephen's name felt in his mouth.
Then: he botched the spell. Then: Green Goblin killed his aunt. Then: Stephen removed Peter's existence from the Earth.
(But Stephen remembered. That part was important.)
Peter was twenty-two, and once upon a time he should have been graduating.
Instead, a spunky kid from the multiverse dropped into New York, and Peter lent Stephen every ounce of his strength, for whatever it was worth.
Stephen's smile made it worth all the pain the Scarlet Witch threatened upon him.
Peter was twenty-six, and a certified college graduand. He'd found employment at Stark Industries, and was due to start there shortly. Rhodey, Pepper, Happy, not a single one remembered him. Just as well—he rather liked the fact he was forgotten. It was better that way.
It had been five years since Mysterio and the Statue of Liberty; five years since Aunt May and the Runes of Kof-Kol; five years since having to scrape his life together with Stephen's help.
Five years later (again) and Peter was finally graduating college. All he had to do was walk across the stage, and...
Nobody he once imagined would be there even knew he existed.
He shifted under the covers, pressing his face deeper into the warm neck of the body he was laying on, beard scratching at his skin.
“You'll be there?” Peter's ask was a whisper, Spider-Man bravado failing him.
Stephen's promise was a sacred oath: “Every step of the way.”