Work Text:
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
One .
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
It starts when he's seven, at the school playground.
Tony doesn't particularly like the playground, nor the kids occupying it. He's watching his classmates, from his vantage point on the sidelines, run back and forth and back and forth, playing a game of tag. A game that Tony hasn't been invited to play.
He tries to tell himself it's because he's better than them, because he's a Stark man and Stark men are just naturally smarter, naturally faster, that's he's simply too good to play, but he knows it's not the truth.
No one wants to play with Tony. No one ever does. He's an outlier even here, at his private school full of heirs and prodigies. He's too small, too young, too smart.
So Tony sits on a bench at the very edge of the playground, scowling at everyone that dares run past.
He's scribbling down Pí in the margins of his finished mathematics homework, trying to kill time before recess is over, when a looming shadow blocks out his sun.
Tony has a preemptive scowl on his face when he lifts his face to greet the sun-blocker.
"Hi. I'm Liu."
He squints at the girl towering above him, her hands on her hips. She's got her dark hair split down the middle, braided into two symmetrical pig-tails. He scoffs audibly, squeezing his pencil tightly. "And?"
The girl, Liu, frowns. "You're Tony. Tony Stark."
She says his name with the same emphasis he's heard his entire young life, as though his first name were just a placeholder for the important part. The Stark part. The part of his name that he can never seem to live up to. The part that's supposed to make him naturally smarter, naturally faster than anyone else.
Tony shrugs, dropping his gaze back down to the homework in his lap where he's got the first 200 digits of Pí recorded. He scratches another one down, pretending the equation is more important than the girl in front of him.
"So?" He says, guarded, refusing to look back up at her.
"So, you're, like, famous." Liu shifts on her feet. "My Daddy said so."
"So what?"
He sees Liu shrug out of the corner of his eye. "My Daddy says I should invite you over to play."
That catches Tony's attention. "What?" He says lamely, the pencil in his hands faltering. "Me?"
No one ever, ever invites Tony to anything. Not to games of tag on the playground, not to group projects, especially not to their houses.
Liu shrugs again. "Yeah. If you want. I don't care."
He squints at her, trying to gleam some sort of falsehood from her features. "Okay," he finally agrees, slowly. "I'll come over."
All at once Liu is a million times more interesting than Pí. She's a possibility standing in front of them. A possibility for a friend, for someone to sit on the sidelines with at recess. Maybe someone to play a two-person game of tag with.
"Good." Liu nods her head. "Daddy said it would be good for the pa-raz-zi to see us hangin' out-"
"Wait- what?" Tony knows that word. He's heard his father spit it with anger, heard his mother sneer it with haughty scorn. It's not a good word.
Liu shrugs. "Daddy said I should invite you over so the pa-raz-zi see, because it would make us look really, really good, because you're Tony Stark. Duh. He said he'd buy me a pony if I invited you over-"
Tony can feel the scowl spreading across his face again, his fingers curling tightly around the pencil. Liu isn't a friend. She isn't a partner for tag. She's only talking to Tony because of the promise of a pony.
"I don't wanna hang out with you," Tony snaps, dropping his gaze back down to his homework. "Leave me alone."
Liu whines. "That's no fair! I'm trying to be nice to you!"
"You're trying to get a pony," Tony retorts.
"Who doesn't want a pony?"
"I don't."
Liu makes a disagreeable humming noise in the back of her throat, and when Tony tears his eyes away from the numbers on his homework he sees her hands back on her hips. "You're weird. You're, like, a freak, Tony Stark."
The word makes something in his chest ache. He hides it under his scowl. "Yeah, well, you're stupid."
"You're stupider. And a freak. So I win."
"Go away," Tony mumbles. A tear drips down his cheek and onto his math homework, smearing a number four. He hopes that Liu doesn't see; the last thing Tony wants is to be a cry baby as well as a freak.
After a few seconds of pointedly staring down at his lap, stray tears falling on top of his sprawling numbers, he hears Liu huff and then stalk away.
When she runs back and forth and back and forth in front of him, giggling at being chased, he makes it a point to scowl extra hard at her.
She never seems to notice.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Two.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
"Holy shit."
Tony hears the amazement in the expletive, even with Stevie Nicks pounding out across the radio, the shock-and-awe of it, and he knows before he even bothers to turn around that it's directed at him.
"You're Tony Stark."
He rolls his eyes, finally twisting around to meet the mystery voice. "The one and only. And you are…?"
Mystery Voice stands there, jaw slack for a moment. He's got shaggy, dirty blonde hair and the very beginnings of a beard crawling across his face.
"You're going to catch flies," Tony remarks dryly, watching with a vague sense of humor as the man's mouth snaps back closed.
"What the hell is Tony Stark doing here? At a party?" Mystery Voice finally asks. "Aren't you like- twelve?"
Tony bristles at that, same as he does anytime someone on campus mentions his age, which is fucking fifteen, not twelve, thank you very much. He figures that if he's old enough to be a man, a Stark man, in the eyes of his father, then he's old enough to go to a party.
In lieu of replying, Tony simply tips his cup of cognac up, downing the contents in one even gulp. He sends the man with the Mystery Voice a broad grin, raising a brow.
Mystery Voice mirrors the grin. "Well holy shit. I guess I might as well party with Tony Stark."
He says the Stark part with the same reverence that Tony's heard all his life, the only part of him that seems to matter to anyone. His eyes twitches.
"Can't party with no cognac, huh?" Tony goades, shaking the empty red solo cup in the man's direction.
"Fuck yeah," Mystery Voice says, grinning like a maniac. Above them, Stevie Nicks turns to Bohemian Rhapsody, and the music combined with the warm tingle of alcohol has Tony swaying on his feet.
"Here, man," Mystery Voice says, upturning his own cup to fill Tony's. He watches the liquid with a spinning sort of quality. "Drink the hell up."
And that is something Tony can do. He obliges, his throat burning at the mystery liquid from the mystery man. It's not cognac, but it's alcohol and that's really Tony's only requirement.
Mystery Voice whoops loudly, throwing an arm around Tony's shoulder. He staggers a little at the weight, his feet a little less then steady.
"Partying with Tony Stark," Mystery Voice says again. That same inflection. Tony's just a placeholder.
"Once in a lifetime opportunity, Mystery Voice," Tony says. Slurs.
The man laughs, his arm still around Tony's shoulders. "I'm Paul. Paul Bently!"
The rest of the night passes in a haze, a drunken film passing over his eyes. He's aware of the flickering of strobe lights, the pounding bass of a cacophony of songs, different each time he lifts his head up to breath. There's people, a smorgasbord of them. Pretty women with bright eyes and red lips, laughing in his ear and kissing his cheeks, there's Paul's friends, lively and vigorous. They all call him friend, too, when Paul introduces them, they fill his cup again and again, they throw their arms around his shoulders-
And Tony gets lighter and looser the later the night goes on, and he comes up for oxygen less and less. He's swimming in cognac right now, backstroking through the joy of having friends, and Tony wants friends. Much more than he'd ever admit. He doesn't want to be the rich little nerd with the Stark name attached to him like a parasite, he wants to be Tony.
"Fuck, fuck, Stark-" The name pulls him out of his drunken haze far quicker then the hand shaking his shoulder does.
He blinks wearily at the blurry man, narrowing his eyes until he focuses. "Paul?"
Paul nods enthusiastically, the motion way too fucking fast for Tony to follow. He presses a hand against his mouth to calm the swirling sea in his stomach. "Wha?"
"Dude," Paul says, throwing that arm back around Tony's shoulder. He nearly collapses with it this time. "You'll never fucking guess who's here."
Tony blinks, trying to follow the conversation. "Wha?"
"Dude," Paul repeats, leading Tony across the room. Across the sea of gyrating, unclear bodies. Tony can't see their faces anymore, their features, but he catches flashes of bright red lips here and there.
"Dude?" Tony's feet stumble but Paul keeps an arm around his shoulders, leading him forward.
"The fucking news," Paul announces, tone joyful. Which is wrong. Definitely wrong. Tony knows, from countless lessons with Howard, that the news is the last thing you wanna encounter out and about. The news is paparazzi.
"Why?" Tony manages.
"You! Duh. Someone slipped the word that the Tony Stark was here and I guess they wanna talk to you-"
Alarm bells are ringing in his head, but Tony's far too drunk to listen to them. The entire world is listing on him, a ship caught between waves, and it renders the bells mute. "Huh," he offers ineloquently.
Paul is still leading him through the throngs of people, hips and elbows catching them both on the way through. Tony bounces against them all, suddenly out of place. He's thankful, even in his drunken state, for Paul having the wherewithal to lead him from the party and the paparazzi. The last thing Tony needs is his plastered face plastered somewhere for Howard to see.
"Come on," Paul urges, and then he's pulling Tony through the front door, the action insistent and borderline bossy.
"Thanks-" Tony starts, squinting, and then the fucking apolcalpyse descends.
The sound hits him first. He can't track it, he can't make sense of it, but it's there. It's a waterfall of noise attacking him, questions hurled from every direction. He takes a staggered step back at it, nearly crashing to the ground.
The flashing is next. It's similar to the strobes, but there's no melodic Stevie Nicks to accompany. The light is insidious, and Tony knows instinctibely what it is; fucking cameras.
"The hell?" He spits, blinking rapidly at it all. He finds Paul's cheerful face, the barely-there stubble and the unkempt hair, the smile, the moving lips, and Tony focuses on that until the world stops tilting so perilously.
The mindless waterfall of noise finally starts to make sense, amd Tony screws his eyes before glancing away from Paul and towards the gathered crowd; at least three different news stations, all converging in front of the building, all shouting questions, all snapping snapshot after snapshot.
"Tony! Tony Stark! Are you drinking?"
"Are you drunk?"
"Tony! What would Howard Stark say about this?"
"Fuck," Tony slurs under his breath, slamming his eyes shut. He's dead. He's fucking dead. He's worse than dead.
He's a disappointment.
"Fuck you," he snaps to them all, swaying on his feet. He feels like hurling right here, all over the perfectly manicured lawn.
"Who are you? Sir, what's your name?" One of the reporters call out, and Tony knows that question isn't for him. It's for Paul.
Paul, who's still got an arm tossed almost lapsidisally over Tony's shoulders. Paul, who's staring back at the vultures with an ecstatic expression on his face. Paul, who led Tony right out the front door to them.
Paul, who isn't Tony's friend.
"I'm Paul Bently!" Paul announces happily to the crowd. "And Tony Stark here thinks I'm just the fucking bee-knees, isn't that right, man? Best fucking buds!"
Another camera flashes in Tony's face. His stomach curdles.
"You are not my bud, you Charles Manson knock-off," he spits, wrenching away from Paul's reach.
His shoes slide across the darkened grass, the alcohol in his system sloshes inside him, spilling up and out. He spews all over the well-groomed yard.
A dozen cameras catch it.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Three.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Tony ducks, the red-heeled stiletto soaring over his head. He hears it crash against the hotel room wall before finding home on the floor.
"That's an expensive shoe, you know," he announces pointedly to the woman who sent it flying. "Louboutins."
She's standing across the room from him, on the other side of the bed, her chest heaving. One bare foot, red-painted toes visible. Red painted lips. A slip of a red dress. She obviously had a very different sequence of events in mind for this hotel visit.
And why wouldn't she? Tony hadn't even decided to end things with her until the ride over, until he just so happened to glance down at the tabloids at the check-out counter of the small grocery store where he'd stopped to procure Fiona some flowers. Until he saw the very exclusive interview that she had given printed there, on the front page.
"Fuck you," she spits back. "Fuck you, Tony Stark."
He cocks an eyebrow, even as his chest aches. "Well, my dear, you already have. "
"The biggest mistake of my fucking life, obviously-" She sneers back, crossing her arms across her rather buxom chest.
"Your life?" Tony bites back before he can suppress it. He'd decided, before exiting the car, to come at this with a level head. To handle her with the same snark he'd used on everyone in his life. To dismiss her with glib.
He hadn't counted on being so angry, so deeply hurt, at Fiona's scathing commentary being written down and publicized.
He hadn't counted on feeling so betrayed.
"You tried to ruin my life by selling information about me to the press- not even the good press, by the way. Did you think I wouldn't find out? That I wouldn't see the shit I told you, exclusively, printed out? Did you seriously think you could keep fucking me, using my money, while you tried to ruin my life?-"
"What life?" Fiona's top lip curls into a sneer. "You're an alcoholic wash-out, Tony Stark, you barely have a life-"
The words cut deeper than Tony will ever admit. He screws his face into a scowl. "And that's coming from, what? A borderline prostitute?"
Fiona's face goes so red it's practically purple. "How dare you-"
Then she's bending over at the waist, tearing the strap of her remaining heel in her haste to pull it from her ankle. She whips it at him, her face twisted into something ugly.
Tony dips down, the shoe flying past. He sends his scowl back Fiona's way. "I bought those, you know, I bought you all the shit you could want and you repay me by talking to the press?"
"That's all you have," Fiona hisses. "All you have is the money your Daddy left you, his money and his name, the only good thing about you-"
"I am a very proficient lover, don't forget that-"
She laughs, bitterly. "I don't even like you, you're such a fucking asshole-"
"You liked me well enough to rendezvous in every hotel this side of New York," he bites back.
She laughs again. "Whatever, Stark. Dump me. I don't care. See this face?" She points at her features, twisted up into that same ugly expression. Tony's seen Fiona make a lot of faces, mostly between the sheets, and none are as unappealing as this. Her written commentary rings in his ears. "This is the face of not giving a single shit. You'll regret this."
He gives her one last look, from her bright red lips down to her toes. He thinks, deep down in the hidden cavern of his heart, that he might have loved her.
Then he deadens his face, turning away from her and towards the hotel room door. "Keep the shoes."
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Four.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
"It's just- gosh, so amazing to have you here! Tony Stark, here of all places, amazing-"
The words rub Tony instantly the wrong way, like he wouldn't dare step foot in an establishment like this, and that's frying Tony's blood because he's trying to be reformed. A former asshole. Not a current one.
He plasters a smile on his face regardless, following the portly man down the aisle. Between the man's incessant gushing, and the hollow eyes following them down the makeshift walkway, Tony feels a little sick.
Not to mention the stench. He's a former asshole, though, not a current one, so he's doing his best not to mention it.
"So," Tony interrupts quickly, cutting the man off mid-sentence, "Tell me all about it. Being the director to- here. This place."
The man pauses, turning to look at Tony with that same amazed, hero-worship face. It's utterly out of place here, between the rows of homeless people, many spread out on little sleeping bags on the linoleum floor. They don't even speak. Some don't seem cognizant at all.
"It's amazing, of course," Dave says. He glances down at one of the people below them, a man with a mass of unkempt facial hair and empty eyes. "And- depressing, at times. Seeing people in these conditions, having them come to our shelter with hardly any clothes on their backs, with no food-"
Tony nods. "Of course, of course. Which is precisely why we need people like you."
Dave brightens by a million decibels, puffing up proudly. "Wow. That just- means so much, coming from you -"
Tony fights the urge to sigh. The goddamn gushing again.
"-And I'm sure it means so much to all these guys, too, seeing a millionaire like you here, I'm sure it lifts their spirits-"
Tony follows Dave's gesturing hands, out to the sea of people, the vacant expressions, the empty eyes, and he knows without a doubt that his presence is doing diddly-squat for these people.
He hopes, genuinely, that his money can.
Dave clears his throat, obviously embarrassed by the lack of reaction from those around them. "Well, um. How about I finish the tour? Take you to the kitchens?"
The word feels innately wrong. You tour a museum, a zoo, a historic battleground. You don't tour a homeless shelter, even if it's the largest one in New York.
Tony digresses, though, following Dave down the aisle and out of the sleeping quarters. He hadn't even wanted a tour, to be honest. He'd been content with dropping off the donation check in person, like Pepper had recommended, a balm for his image, and then leaving.
Dave's face had come alive, though, the moment Tony strolled had through the doors. Like Tony was the second coming of Christ or some shit. So, he'd reluctantly agreed to the whole she-bang, feeling a bit like a voyeur. Not the fun kind, either.
Dave leads him down a narrow hallway, pointing out various, inconsequential rooms on either side. The director's office, the P.R. office, a bunch of shit that Tony doesn't have the chops for. It's why he leaves most of this shit to Pepper.
"And here," Dave announces, pushing against the double swinging doors in front of them, "Is the cafeteria."
Tony spares it a polite, cursory look around, noting the round bench tables and the white linoleum, the buffet style silver trays set up in a corner of the room, before his eyes land and freeze.
There, perched up at one of the cafeteria's tables, is what can only be a news crew. There's a large video camera in the middle of the table, a boom box next to it.
Tony stiffens, feeling the eyes of the group shift towards him. He sees them literally light up, the potential of a story gleaming in their pupils.
"What the hell is the paparazzi doing here?" He demands, turning towards Dave.
Dave blinks. "I- I called them. When you confirmed your visit with us-"
"Now why did you do that?" Tony spits.
"I-" Dave's eyes cut towards the group before finding Tony's again. "I thought- it would be good, for us to be seen together, for the shelter-"
Tony feels his former asshole status very quickly tumbling towards relapse. He clenches his fist at his side, aware of the news crew pushing to their feet and heading towards them. "I'm here to do charity, not feed your fucking ego-"
Dave blanches. "Oh, no, that's- wow-"
"Did you even clear this- this interview with my P.R. rep? I don't do free stories, no way josé-"
"I'm- so incredibly sorry, Mr. Stark, it's my mistake, I'll talk to them, shoo them off-"
"Don't bother." Tony can feel the camera lense already burning into his back, his every twitch being caught and immortalized on film. It fills him with an immeasurable bitterness. "I'll leave you to it."
He turns on his heels, shoving his hands into his pockets.
"No, wait- the tour!" Dave cries.
Tony falters, smoothing his features from enraged back to irritated. He cuts that glare Dave's way. "You know what? You don't tour goddamn people. They're people. Enjoy my money."
It's the only part of Tony that people ever fucking do.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Five.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
"Tony," Pepper admonishes softly.
"What?" He shoves another cajun-style fry into his mouth, shrugging in her direction. He hates 20 Questions, especially when he's trying to enjoy his rather scrumptious Five Guys dining. He didn't rent out the entirety of the restaurant to have Pepper grill him the entire time.
"I hope you're taking this seriously- therapy could be so good for you if you'd let it-"
He scowls around the fry in his mouth. This is the absolute worst subset of 20 Questions; the one where she badgers him about therapy.
"I'm showing up," he tells her, wry, taking a large bite out of the cheeseburger in front of him. He loves a greasy, meaty burger, almost as much as he loves a good fu-
Pepper kicks his leg sharply under the table. "I mean it, Tony, Dr. Bly is very highly rated-"
"First off; ow. Second, I'm pressing charges for that. Third, I am obviously going to need therapy after your bloodthirsty assault-"
"Anthony." She leans forward, resting her head on her hands. She looks, as always, fucking beautiful. Tony doesn't deserve her. He doesn't deserve the kindness gleaming in her eyes, nor the smirk playing on her lips.
The bite lodges in his throat, and it burns when he finally forces it down his gullet. "Pepper."
"I just- I want to know that you're trying with this."
He sighs, letting the burger drop back down to the table. So much for his spontaneous, romantic dinner. Pepper's barely touched hers.
"Try a fry," he divorts, grabbing one of his own for emphasis. "Very good. Very cajun-y."
"Anthony Edward Stark." She levels one of her patented Pepper-stern stares at him.
He sighs, admitting a swift defeat. "I'm going. And I'm trying. Truly."
It's the truth. He shows up dutifully to Dr. Bly's scheduled appointments, he lays back on her ugly polyester couch, answers all her prying questions about Howard and his mother, he lets her toy around inside his membrane. For an hour every Thursday he tries to connect with this random stranger that accepts his money to poke around inside his head.
"I mean. Do you like her?" Pepper leans back in her chair, a devastatingly hopeful look on her face. It makes Tony feel a little guilty for not clicking with Bly.
He shrugs. "She's fine. As far as shrinks go."
"And you're talking? About the bad shit? Not just charming her over with your debonair ways?"
"Retired from my debonair ways, thank you very much. I only have eyes for you." He flutters his eyelashes in her direction, earning a smirk and rolled eyes from her.
"Sure, hot stuff."
"Now, can we get back to our regularly scheduled programming? My impromptu date night?"
She rolls her eyes again, obediently shoving a cajun-fry into her mouth. She shoots him a happy, now? look. He thinks he's just now, right this moment, learning the meaning of happy.
He's staring at her, at the way the Five Guys fluorescents illuminate her, at the glistening grease in the corner of her lip, so he sees the moment her eyes go wide, focused on something behind his back.
Every single hair on his body stands at attention, anticipating a threat, and he's curling his hand into a fist to call a gauntlet, twisting around, when he sees the flatscreen behind him in the very corner of the restaurant, up on the wall.
He recognizes the face on the screen, the tight ballerina bun, the oval spectacles. She looks exactly as she does when she's leaning over him, peering into his brain and picking it apart.
"Tony-" Pepper cautions, but he doesn't tear his eyes away. Dr. Bly is sitting at some round table, talkshow type shit, flanked on either side by equally professional looking women. The TV is mute, so he can't hear what they're saying, but it makes his stomach flutter regardless.
"Someone turn up the volume?" He hollers out into the empty restaurant, and almost immediately a harried employee stumbles in from the back, shooting him a frantic look before rocketing the TV volume up to a rowdy 27 decibels.
Immediately, Dr. Bly's voice travels down to him. "Yes, yes, he's a rather- interesting patient to have. Of course, I can't say too much-"
"Because of HIPAA?" Another of the women cut in, and the camera pans over to her, to the playful smile on her face. Her blonde hair is coiffed up into a tall beehive, making the glee in her grin all the more apparent.
"Exactly," Bly explains. The camera moves back to her. "I can say, though, that Tony Stark is an entirely different beast than anyone I've ever worked with before-"
He hears Pepper's loud, disbelieving gasp from behind him.
"Why is that?" One of the women ask. A Tyra Banks wannabe, decked out in the gaudiest purple eyeshadow.
"Well, you have the added trauma of notoriety," Bly starts, the camera finding her again. Tony feels his eyes twitch, his stomach squelch. "Add to that his upbringing, and well, you have a pretty potent concoction-"
"Tony," Pepper says, her voice coming to him from a long, endless tunnel.
"I can imagine-" Coiffed Blonde Hair says.
"So I'm simply doing my best to help him, maybe work through some of that backlog of trauma, the PTSD-" Bly sounds exactly like she does every time she digs around in his brain, professional and proficient. There's just a hint of joy now, though, an expression that Tony's never seen from her before.
"Oh my god, Tony, baby-" Pepper is suddenly crouched in front of him, shaking his shoulders. "Breath, please-"
"I am breathing," he tries to say, to find that he actually isn't. He's gasping. He's hardly pulling in oxygen, and Dr. Bly is just continuing her little spiel on the TV.
"I imagine we'll need years together to work through the difficult, interwoven layers of Tony Stark's trauma, but I'm more then willing to dedicate myself to the cause, my patients are the most important thing to me-"
"She's fired," Pepper snarls. "She's- she's fucking sued, we're prosecuting-"
Tony wheezes, grasping onto her hand desperately. "So hot, when you're all riled up, a sexy little- angry sex-kitten-"
"I'm so sorry-" Pepper tells him, her voice wet. "I- How could she do this?"
"People do shit," Tony replies, because it's the one thing he's learned in his life. His name means more than he ever could, and people love riding those syllables to the bank. Those are the cold, hard facts and he's accepted then.
"People pay, too," Pepper promises. "They pay for the shit they do."
Tony shrugs. He's usually the one who does the paying.
He's used to it.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
+1
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
He dribbles his fingers impatiently across the curve of the steering wheel, staring at the open school doors and the throng of students pouring out.
He spies lots of nerds, every flavor, this being a school for smarty-pants after all, but none are his nerd. None of them are the kid with empathic hazel eyes, none have the tousled, untamed head of hair that he's used to peering over at in the lab. None of them are Peter Parker, and that's the biggest shame of all.
The world could use more kids like Peter. Thoughtful, kind, good kids. There's a regretful dearth of unironically good kids in this world.
Finally, he spots the kid, the one that's single-handedly carrying the mantle of World's Best Kid on his shoulders, the one that's easing his way through the horde of nose-pickers. Tony recognizes Peter easily enough by the slightly egregious science pun on his chest, as well as the dazzling smile on his face.
Tony's mirroring it before he even means to, an excited thrum spreading across his nerves. Today is Friday, which is lab day, which means Tony gets to spend the entire day tinkering in the lab with his favorite little nerd. More than that, is the fact that Peter is spending the weekend at the tower. Willingly. Of his own volition. With Tony Stark.
He pushes open the car door, whistling sharply. He's parked by the back of the lot, to avoid unwanted attention, but the kid's super hearing should pick up the noise.
Reliably, Peter's head jerks from Ned his direction, and he has both the privilege and the delight of watching Peter's face morph into an ecstatic smile. It makes Tony feel all warm inside.
He sees Peter give Ned a goodbye handshake, the maneuver complicated, before the kid breaks from the crowd and heads Tony's way, still wearing that sublime smile.
And Tony's counting the stars, all of them, feeling privately grateful, when he spots the shadow moving perpendicularly towards Peter, closing in. His gaze jerks that direction, his eyes widening when he realizes it's not a shadow. Not a souped-up super villain out for blood, not a rag-tag group of kidnappers. It's worse. Far worse. It's the goddamn paparazzi .
"Peter!" He calls out, immediately frazzled. Why the hell is the press at Peter's school? Why are they planning to bumrush a kid? A minor? Tony remembers those days, being a fifteen year old kid unable to wipe his own ass without someone snapping a photo. It makes him remarkably enraged to see the same scumbags coming for Peter, the poshly dressed woman followed closely by her man behind the camera.
The kid falters, doing the exact opposite of what Tony had hoped. Instead of fucking sprinting to the car, beating the press before they can even bissect, he freezes. He meets Tony's eyes with clear puzzlement.
"For christ sake," he mumbles, stalking forward. Part of him wants to flee, wants to make a grand escape before the camera ever catches him. But the other part? The dominate part? That side is ready to go to war for these boneheads ever setting sights on Peter. For cracking the code of the mystery intern glued to Tony's side and actually tracking that kid down.
He marches over there, but not before Little Bo Peep and her Sheep reach the kid, and she's already hurling questions at Peter by the time Tony makes it. The kid's eyes are huge and shocked, staring into the lense of the camera with obvious confusion.
"How do you know Tony Stark? Are you his illegitimate son? Do you feel Tony Stark is dangerous-?"
"Uh," Peter says, clutching the strap of his backpack. He looks lost standing there, until he spots Tony, relief swimming across his features.
"Get the camera out of the kid's face," Tony orders swiftly, gritting his teeth. The camera swivels towards him, catching him like prey, and he can see the delighted surprise flitting across both of their greedy faces.
"Tony Stark," Little Bo Peep greets, emphasizing his name with the same tone he's heard all his life. "You're here- so this must be your son-"
"Um," Peter says. He shoots Tony a horrified look, his cheeks going red. It affects Tony like a bull, and he's fucking furious.
"You're trespassing on school grounds," he bites, reaching a hand out towards Peter. He pushes him in the direction of the car, shirking out of his bomber jacket to toss haphazrdaly over the kid's head. It's too fucking late, of course, they've already got Peter's face, but it's better then nothing. "You're harassing a minor-"
"Just questioning-'' Little Bo Peep defends, looking equally put out and thrilled to be catching Tony at a bad time. Bitch.
"If you ever, ever, come to this school again, if you ever talk to this kid, if I see his fucking name anywhere in your press, I'll sue you so fucking hard you'll be walking funny-"
Little Bo Peep and the Sheep share a look. "But-"
"Don't-" Tony snaps, and then Peter is there, gently yet determinedly grabbing Tony's arm. His eye twitches, but he forces himself to look down at the kid.
"We should- let's leave," Peter all but whispers, Tony's jacket slung over his arm. It's giving Tony a good look at that face, at the equal parts dismay and concern.
It makes Tony want to cry, all that Parker trademarked concern directed at him, Tony fucking Stark. He sighs instead, deeply, letting Peter's gentle pull move him towards the car.
"Do you have a statement?" Little Bo Peep asks, and Tony turns a sneer her way. The camera is still panned to his face, catching every single facial twitch. It makes him sick.
"Leave the kid out of this," he tells them, cold.
"Your name, though?" Little Bo Peep asks, the words hitting his back as Peter all but forces him towards the car, refusing to release his grip on Tony's wrist.
"I don't fucking care," he snarls, feeling the lie embed itself into his chest. He cares, but it's easier not to. Easier to tell himself not to.
And then he's the one doing the pulling, dragging the kid towards the passenger side of the car. He guides Peter gingerly into the seat before jogging around to his own, sending the two reporters another scathing look before disappearing inside.
"Fuck," he curses, slamming the car into drive. He snaps them out of the school parking lot, earning an angry horn honk from a little red car, unfortunately trying to go the same way at the same time. "Shit, Peter."
He lets his eyes slide over to the passenger side, his knuckles tightened white on the steering wheel. He's irrationally terrified of what's going to be sitting beside him.
Peter meets his eyes, pupils wide. "Holy shit, Mister Stark, those guys suck. "
Tony laughs, more than he intends to. It's the shock of the statement, of Peter's distaste for the vultures. He tries to tell himself that it makes sense with the kid's super senses, being dialed up to eleven constantly, but he still can't quite stop himself from asking a cheeky, "Didn't like your five minutes in the spotlight, bud?"
He feels Peter fix a disquieted look his way, something that threatens to tear stories from him quicker then any reporter could. He swallows them back down, all his horrid tales, and fixes his eyes back towards the road.
"No," Peter says, slowly and meaningfully, "I didn't. At all."
"You'd be the first," escapes Tony's lips without permission, and he cringes as he says it.
Peter's silence stretches for a moment, until it's so thin Tony feels like it might break. He keeps watching the road, the stoplights and the lane changes and the cars desperate to get home, before Peter utters a hesitant, "You, uh- really don't like them, do you? Reporters?"
"Vultures," Tony snaps back instantly. He sighs. "And no. No, I don't."
"But other people did?" Peter continues, taking Tony's stories without him ever giving them. Peter Parker, who can see into Tony's heart, can strip him down into nothing but bare bones and trauma. Somehow, though, it doesn't bother Tony. It doesn't make his eye twitch.
"People who were supposed to- like, be with you? On your side?" Peter continues softly.
Tony chuckles. "You are a genius."
There's another bead of silence before, "I'm sorry, Mister Stark. That sounds pretty horrible."
He jolts in his seat. Both at the kid grasping the horribleness of it all so quickly, and at the kid calling him Stark. He realizes, probably for the first time, that Peter doesn't say it with emphasis. He doesn't say it like it's the important part of him. He says it like it's simply him. Stark. The part of himself that Tony doesn't love.
But Peter doesn't make it sound like loving Tony Stark is an impossibility. He says it like. Like maybe he already does.
Tony blinks, fighting the urge to have an undignified sobfest in the driver's seat. "Yeah," he whispers. "Sometimes it sucked."
"Well I don't, just so you know. Feel like that. I just like hanging out with you."
The sudden lump in Tony's throat makes it impossible for him to talk, so he simply nods, keeping his eyes focused on the road. Even as they go a little misty, as the yellow lines go temporarily blurry.
"I thought- Why didn't Happy pick me up?" Peter asks after a moment, offering Tony the conversation change he desperately needs to avoid crying.
"Something wrong with your mentor picking you up, kid?"
Peter's eyes widen to comical proportions. "Oh no no no, not- that, of course you can pick me up, I love hanging out, obviously, it's just usually Happy does, is all-"
"Okay, okay, don't give yourself a conniption. I figured I'd give Happy a break, that's all, he's getting a little gray in the head, after all. Thought we could stop on the way and grab a burger or some shit-"
Peter releases a relieved sounding exhale, turning that delighted smile back on. "Oh that's great! I'm literally starving. Maybe, uh, we should get it to go, though? Avoid any more of- what happened at the school?"
Tony preens, even as he does his best to stamp it down. "Absolutely kid. Abso-fucking-lutely."