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Peter is high.
Tony sits in his lab, staring at the message FRIDAY sent him about Peter’s behavior when he entered the building. He can barely believe it’s true.
Peter Parker. Peter Benjamin Parker, straight A student, member of academic decathlon, homeless shelter volunteer, Peter Parker, is high. In Tony’s own home.
Tony is going to kill him.
He watches the security feed FRIDAY sent over. It’s only a video of Peter walking through the halls, but Tony knows him well enough to see the difference in his behavior. His movements are less calculated, less anxious as he makes his way to the kitchen with a blissful grin on his face. Tony tries to pretend it doesn’t hurt that this is the happiest he’s seen the kid in months.
He decides to bite the bullet and have the hard conversation right then and there, approaching Peter as he’s grabbing a bag of chips from the pantry. “Wanna tell me why FRIDAY just told me you’re high?”
Peter freezes, his hand still in the bag of chips. He turns slowly to look at Tony, at which the man sees that Peter’s eyes are wide open, putting on display his ultra-dilated pupils that practically swallow the brown of his irises. “She’s… wrong,” he says.
“It’s impossible for her to be wrong, Peter,” Tony says, not missing the way Peter’s smile falters slightly at the use of his full name.
Peter shrugs, walking away with the chips. “So what if I’m high? I’m not hurting anyone!” he says, stopping and turning to face Tony again. “Come on, dude, I feel great! I’m fine!”
“Are you kidding me?” Tony asks, taking a step toward Peter. “Do you understand how dangerous that shit is? Molly, right? That’s what FRIDAY said.”
He grabs Peter by the arm when he tries to leave again, earning a glare from the boy. “Bold words coming from you,” he says, his emotions seeming to fluctuate rapidly.
An anger flares deep inside Tony’s chest. He expects this kind of comment from random nobodies writing articles about him to make a living, from someone trying to ruin his life, but not Peter. Everything is so wrong; his glassy eyes and blown pupils, it’s not Peter. “Don’t you dare try to blame this on me,” he says. “I got sober. How long have you been doing this for, huh? Is it just Molly? Are you hiding other things from me, too?”
Peter narrows his eyes. “You’re not my goddamn dad, Tony,” he says, pushing past the man. “I can take care of myself just fine.”
But Tony follows after him. “You’re mad at me for caring about you?” he calls out. “And I may not be your dad, but last time I checked, kid, I’m all you have left.”
Peter stops in his tracks, and Tony thinks he’s finally gotten through to him, past his thick skull and into his brain that seems to be scrambled from the drugs he’s taken. But Peter just turns on his heels and storms back over to Tony. “You think I wanted this? To lose my entire fucking family?” he asks, leaning in close. “All I had left was May. Had. You don’t get to show up and act like you’re my goddamn savior and replace my family.”
Tony sighs, knowing Peter’s anger is misplaced, a stand-in for all the grief he’s kept bottled up since age four. “I’m sorry kid,” he says, voice softening as he takes a step back. “You were dealt a shit hand at life. And I can’t change that.”
Peter’s face falters for a second, but it returns to its previous anger just as fast. “Yeah, whatever,” he scoffs, turning and finally leaving Tony behind in the hallway.
Tony stands there in shock for a few moments, wondering what happened to the Peter he’d met a few years ago. The one that was star-struck in his presence, too shy to ask for help and too polite to ask favors. Tony supposes he died along with May.
But Peter’s right. Tony isn’t his father, Tony isn’t even a father. If he was, maybe he’d be going after Peter to sort things out and get to the root of his problems in a calm and comforting manner, but he isn’t doing that. Instead, Tony heads back down to his lab and plays his music at full volume, hoping to drown out any lingering guilt or anger with it.
The next time he speaks to Peter is ten days later. But before that, he talks to FRIDAY. “Peter left the tower approximately four hours ago, sir,” she says, and Tony swears internally. He was going to make things right with Peter, really! He prepared a speech and everything! But to hear that Peter left without telling him, and has been gone for four hours, drives his heart rate through the roof. At least he took his phone with him.
When Tony finally tracks Peter down, the sun has set, and he’s in a secluded area overlooking the city, lying on the hood of Tony’s(!!!)car. He wants to make a snarky comment or lecture Peter about taking the car for a joyride, but the way Peter hasn’t even heard him coming up yet tells him enough.
“Hey, kid,” he says.
Peter startles. He shoots straight up into sitting and his head whips back to face Tony. “Oh, shi—Jesus, Tony!” he exclaims. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing, seeing as this is my car,” Tony says. “Scoot over.” He pushes himself up onto the hood of the car and lies down next to Peter.
They sit there in silence for a while, gazing up at the stars together. The place Peter chose makes it way easier to see the stars than it normally is, with the decrease in light pollution. It’s almost peaceful, if you ignore the sounds of the city just miles away.
“Wanna tell me what’s been going on?” Tony asks, breaking the long silence.
Peter sighs deeply. “I don’t know,” he says, then adds, “Sorry about the car.”
“I’m not worried about the car, I’m worried about you.” Tony rolls over onto his side to face Peter and props himself up on his elbow. “Don’t hide this stuff from me, please.”
“I just… wanted to get away for a while, is all.”
Tony studies Peter’s face, still looking up at the sky in an attempt to avoid Tony’s gaze. His eyes are dull and half-lidded, and he looks so, so tired. “I get it, you know. A break is always good,” he says. “Just. Please, tell me next time? I’d feel better knowing where you are. And where my car is.”
To Tony’s credit, that gets a small laugh out of Peter, and the kid finally turns to face him. “Sorry, it was just… the heat of the moment. I guess. I was panicking, and I couldn’t breathe or think and I just needed out—”
“You’re having panic attacks again? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Peter fidgets under Tony’s intense gaze. “They never stopped,” he confesses quietly.
“You should’ve told me,” Tony says. He places a hand on Peter’s shoulder, squeezing it gently. “I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Thought I could handle it,” Peter focuses his gaze back on the stars. “The sky’s pretty.” It’s an innocent comment, but Tony can hear how off he sounds. Like he’s absent, longing, almost. His concern only deepens as he watches Peter.
“Yeah, it is pretty,” Tony agrees softly, looking up at the sky with Peter. “You’d… You’d tell me if there was something more, right? If it wasn’t just the panic attacks?”
Tony can hear Peter's breath hitch. “Wh—What do you mean?”
“Teen suicide rates are rising,” Tony states bluntly. “You’ve been acting… off, lately. See something, say something, you know?” His words hang heavy in the silence between them as he waits for Peter to answer. When he doesn’t, Tony prompts him, “So why did you come here, kid? Don’t tell me you were here to…” He leaves his sentence unfinished, as if speaking the words aloud will make them true.
“I don’t know,” Peter says, his voice trembling slightly. “I’m just so… tired.” He tries to hide the action of wiping his eyes with his sleeves, but Tony sees it.
Tony sits back up, leaning his head forward until he catches Peter’s eye. “You know I’m here for you, right?” he says. “I know I haven’t been the greatest at showing that, but I am. I promise.”
“Yeah,” Peter says in a voice barely above a whisper. “I know.”
“I’m sorry, I know I’m not cut out for this whole parenting thing. I mean, shit,” Tony says. “I think May was the real superhero. I don’t know how she did it.”
Peter sniffles. “I think you’re doing a great job,” he admits. “I’m just not good at being a teenager, I think.”
“Are you kidding?” Tony says in disbelief. “Doing drugs, fighting with me, stealing my car? You’re doing a great job at being a teenager. Trust me.”
His words make Peter wince out of guilt, though there’s a small smile on his face. “Guess I’m just shitty at being your kid,” he says. Then, quieter, “I wasn’t like this with May.”
“I know, kid,” Tony pats his arm. “And you’re still a good kid—I know you are. Some people just handle grief in different ways, you know?”
Peter looks over at Tony, making sure the man catches his eye roll. “Yeah, like getting high and stealing a car?” he says.
“It’s no worse than anything I’ve done,” Tony says. “I hoped you’d never… turn out like me, I guess. With substances and whatnot, you get the whole deal.”
Peter nods. “I’ve seen the articles.”
Tony snaps his fingers, pointing at Peter. “Exactly. Articles, plural,” he says. “I made a lot of stupid mistakes that you, of all people, don’t need to be making, too.”
“It was just the one time, I promise,” Peter says. “I didn’t even enjoy it, I just… wanted to stop feeling like… this.” He gestures vaguely to himself.
“Yeah, that’s… pretty standard,” Tony says. “I don’t want you to go down the same path I did, kid. It isn’t something you should enjoy.”
Peter is silent for a moment, Tony’s words weighing heavily on him as he draws his knees to his chest, no doubt scuffing the car’s paint with his shoes. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For, um. Blaming you. It’s not your fault.”
“I know, bud,” Tony says. He pats Peter on the knee. “I’m not mad.”
Peter exhales a long sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing the slightest bit. “Thanks for not giving up on me,” he murmurs, voice low and wavering with emotion. “I know I haven’t made it easy.”
Tony wraps an arm around Peter’s shoulders. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “That’s what parenthood’s all about, right? Shit gets tough, but we stick together?”
“Yeah,” Peter whispers. He leans into Tony’s side. “We do.”
Tony tightens his grip on Peter. “I don’t have all the answers,” he says. “Or any answers, really. But we’ll figure this all out, okay? You and me.”
Peter wraps his arms around Tony’s midsection in return. Tony feels him melt into the embrace, tense body finally free of its stress. “I just don’t know what to do,” he says, voice vibrating against Tony’s chest. “I hate this. I hate feeling like this.”
Tony rests his head against Peter’s. “Well, for starters, you could go to therapy like I suggested,” he says. “Months ago, might I add.”
“But what if it doesn’t help?”
Tony shrugs. “You try a new therapist,” he says. “I’ve gone to therapy, you know.”
Peter’s eyes widen in surprise, and he pulls himself out of the hug to look Tony in the eye. “You?” he asks. “In therapy? No way.”
“Why is that so hard to believe?” Tony asks, hands upturned in offense.
“You’re just… the most emotionally constipated person I’ve ever met,” Peter says. “And I’ve met me.”
Tony chuckles, despite the heaviness of the situation. “Yeah, well, I’m trying to set a good example,” he says. “Is it working?”
“So far? Apparently not.” Peter says, a bitter chuckle punctuating the sentence. “But… I’ll get there, I think.”
Tony nods and squeezes Peter’s shoulder. “How ‘bout we go get something to eat?” he suggests. “Conversations like this should be had over food, not on the hood of my car.”
Peter pulls a face. “Can we get something delivered instead? I just—I wanna go home, I think," he says. "Sorry."
Home. Peter’s been reluctant to refer to the tower as his home, a part of him likely still clinging to the idea of one day returning to his old apartment. But they both know, deep down, that that’s not going to happen. Not now, not ever.
“That's okay, too,” Tony says, patting Peter on the back. “Let’s go home.”
Peter hops off the car, digging into his pocket before tossing the keys at Tony. “I figured you… probably don’t want me driving us back, huh?”
“Glad we’re on the same page, kid,” Tony says, nearly dropping the keys.
And so they drive back to the tower in a silence filled only by the faint sound of the car’s radio turned down low. If Tony strains his ears, he can almost make out the bassline of some sixties song he probably knows.
Tony finds himself stealing glances at Peter as he drives. The kid is staring out the window, eyes vacant and unseeing. The earlier tension from the night has begun to ease, though Tony can still feel the anxiety coming off of Peter in waves.
Their conversation on the hood of the car was only the tip of the iceberg, and Tony’s sure there’s a million more things he’ll find himself stumbling through as the two of them navigate life together. He knows there’s a lot of things that lead Peter to this point, a combination of grief and the responsibility of being a hero that nobody his age should have to experience. But he’s already taken the first step to helping Peter—being there for him.
When they finally arrive at the tower, Tony shuts off the engine and sits in the car for a moment.
“Kid,” he says, breaking the silence.
Peter turns over to look at Tony, the vacancy in his eyes giving way to something more receptive. “Yeah?” he responds.
Tony takes a deep breath, carefully deciding his next words. “You’re not alone in this, you know,” he says. “I meant what I said, we’re in this shit together.”
And for the first time in a while, Peter cracks a genuine smile.
“I know, Tony,” he says. “Thank you.”