Work Text:
“Hey, are you busy tomorrow night?”
Peter looks up from his desk with a skeptical look. He’s been trying to do actual work while pretending his shoulder isn’t sore from a pretty hard hit he took last night from some super-freak who decided to throw a truck at him. Tony has been making menial small talk for the past five minutes, leaned over the edge of his cubicle, gorgeously distracting, and Peter has been pretending he isn’t leaning away.
“Uh I don't think so? Don’t tell me you got some Gala you want me to attend because last time was so awful…”
“No no nothing like that. I’ve just noticed you’ve been working hard lately so I figured we could go out for dinner. You like fish?”
“Do I like…” Peter sighs, tilting his laptop closed, sensing he won’t be able to get out of this. Tony’s odd, and persistent but he can’t get his hopes up. “I guess?”
“Okay cool. I’m gonna send you an address and I’ll see you tomorrow at 7pm. And before you ask, the person who takes someone out pays so don’t worry about that.”
“I wasn’t gonna ask that.” Peter bristles. ‘...takes someone out’ bounces around his head like a rubber ball. Plus, he was totally gonna ask that. “What should I wear?”
Tony gives him a once over. “Hmm, you look fine right now– maybe lose the drawstring pants and wear something with a zipper. Then again, it's got charm so…”
“If I get there and it’s some sort of upscale suit and tie event I’m gonna–”
He quirks an eyebrow. “What’re you gonna do?”
Peter flushes. “Get annoyed. Really annoyed. Might even quit.”
He chuckles. “Keyword might. Tell ‘em you're meeting me there and I think we’ll be alright.”
Tony turns to leave when Peter blurts out one last question. “Is it um– should I expect any guests?”
“What you wanna invite that MJ girl?”
He glances away from him. “Um, no? But is it like company business— I mean why me?”
Tony shrugs, continuing to walk away. “No… just show up. Please?”
Peter huffs a laugh, confused but amused at watching the billionaire’s pace pick up as he walks back to the elevators. Tony almost looks embarrassed about asking, as if he had actual romantic intent behind it. Next to him, his coworker Archie pushes his chair into Peter’s cubicle as another, Jan, who was pretending to ‘walk by’ stops to lean in.
“Now Peter, you’ve got to tell us what was that about.” Archie starts, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Sounds like a date to me,” Jan snickers.
Peter can feel a headache burning into his forehead but the clock on the wall reads 3:22 pm so he doesn’t have much leeway for running out of the office. “Don’t you guys have better things to do?”
“Totally a date.” Archie agrees with a self satisfied smirk as Jan pats him a bit too hard for comfort on the back, right on the bruise. He grits his teeth.
The following day Peter doesn’t have to go into the office, so he goes out for daytime patrol and the newest bug affiliated villain of the week uses some sort of claw to whip him to the bottom levels of a building. After he pulls himself from the blue tinged glass and swings the guy into the nearby parking lot—unfortunately causing one too many car alarms to ring out—he’s nearly giddy to find out it’s a Hammer Industries satellite location.
Tony does send him the place, and Peter wishes he could’ve spent all day fretting over where it was and what to wear, but he only sees the actual address around 5pm when he’s picking more glass out of his left side and soaking the right in a bath of iodine. It’s near Central Park in Manhattan, located in some highrise with Private Capital and Asset Management companies. Peter might’ve paid attention in Economics—real hard teacher for no reason—but it doesn’t mean he has any idea what any of those companies actually do.
Not to mention, anywhere in Manhattan would be at least an hour away with public transportation and Uber might be even worse with the area. Don't even get Peter started on the money– he’d be web swinging or late.
It’s a cool summer evening when Peter does finally make it out the house; wind blowing with the capacity to have tousled his hair if it wasn’t literally smushed underneath his mask. He’s got what he thinks are pretty respectable clothes pulled tight against his chest, and prays that when arrives his boss can smell neither the sweat nor the iodine that would've definitely bleed through any shirt but a dark one. By some miracle Peter only crosses paths with a robber a little too close to a streetlamp and he’s got him webbed up in under ten.
Swinging down into the alley behind the place, Peter's immediately hit with a gingery lemon scent that he can't say he hates. Like any alleyway there's trash, glass, and rats, but Peter's never hated a nicer smell. No one's around to watch his change, and he just hope's he doesn't look too suspicious as he walks around the front.
It's tasteful interior—green with dark wooden walls and no space to sit. A single host stands at the dark brown station with menus and a dimmed iPad with lists of names. He speaks as Peter takes it all in: “Hello. We aren't accepting walkins at this time so unless you have a reservation…”
“Um, I'm here to meet someone? He got a reservation.”
The man gives Peter a look, clearly scrutinizing his demeanor and clothing. He can already tell that this is a little more upscale than his khaki slacks and the second hand dark red v-neck fleece. “And what name would it be under?”
“Stark- Tony Stark.”
He hums, scrolling on the iPad with a resigned look. “Peter Parker?”
“Yes, That's me.”
“Right this way then. Welcome to Nobu Mr. Parker.”
The server motions for Peter to follow him through a dark green door with a tudor window. The first thing Peter notices is the tall ceiling with flower petal-like chandeliers that trail down from it. Leaning against the floor to ceiling windows hang mismatched tatami patterned curtains and paper lanterns with japanese lettering Peter can't read. The atmosphere is tranquil, with people quietly eating and talking amongst themselves. A set of glittering glass stairs leads to an upstairs portion, but the server leads them past both that and the gorgeous dark brown bar table. Made of one piece of wood, it stretches down to give people the opportunity to watch as the sushi chefs put together each flowery dish.
In between his admiration for the gorgeous dark brown interior Peter almost misses seeing Tony already seated. He's in a booth near the back of the bottom floor, looking like he was perfectly selected to sit here, along with all the other intricate looking decor. He's got on a coffee colored suit with no tie and loose cream colored shirt underneath the jacket; all the while shipping on something yellow.
The server is quick to turn and leave and Peter scrambles to sit down across from him as Tony pulls the glass from his lips.
“Well hello, you look a bit lost in thought.”
Peter glances down at the table, noting the lack of menus and the other glass that seems pink in color.
“I don't know about you, but this is what I'd call upscale.” Peter crosses his arms, leaning back in his seat.
“Well before you get your panties in a bunch try the drink. Pretty good at alleviating annoyance with how sweet it is.”
Unsure, and biting back a retort about how he can handle his liquor, Peter brings the glass to his lips. The first thing that hits his taste buds is citrus and tanginess, followed by a sweet floral flavor. Even more delightful is the lack of burning bitterness that seems to follow alcoholic beverages.
“I like it— but it tastes like there's nothing in there.”
Tony smiles. “I don't drink and didn't want to assume if you did or not. It's their ‘Grapefruit on the Rocks’ mocktail. Mine is the ‘Lychee Mango’, also pretty pleasant.”
Peter takes another sip, letting the flavors sit on his tongue. “So what, overpriced juice? Take me to Aldis; We could make fifty of these for a crisp ten.”
He laughs. “I've never been to ‘Aldi’, but if it's a grocery store I'm already out. The ambience contributes to the taste.”
“It's not just a grocery store, it's sweet German delights that don't break the bank! You never know what those delights will be but,” Peter pauses to take another sip, smacking his lips. “It's always a delicious guarantee.”
“Well I do most of my shopping at Whole Foods.” He shrugs.
“Of course you do,” Peter shakes his head. “Don't tell me you also have a scan of your hand connected to your account. ”
“Oh no, of course not. I don't need more surveillance surrounding me. Instead I installed the tap to pay recognition onto one of the thumbs of the Iron Man armor so I can pay with that instead.” He splays out his hand over the table, nanotech materialising over it before he flips his hand up to display the thumbs.
“Show off,” Peter rolls his eyes. “Why did you really bring me out tonight.”
“I can't do something nice?”
“There's always a catch with you, I mean last time you–” “Oh look the food is coming!”
Peter crosses his arms in annoyance, watching as the server brings over two small plates of raw fish submerged in an orange sauce with jalapeños on top. The server sets it down with a small bow that Tony returns from where he sits; Peter can only awkwardly smile at the exchange.
“Hope spicy's not a problem for you.” Tony says, picking up the chopsticks on the table.
“Nah it's not but, I think I’ve only ever eaten sushi with my hands.”
Tony gives him a look, as if caught between laughing and concern over his lack of manners. “Wouldn't say this is the place for finger licking, so there's a fork there too.”
Peter lets his comment slide, taking his fork to lift up a piece. The quality of the yellowtail is what Peter experiences first, followed by the spicy citrus of the sauce and jalapeño on the end. Eating a full slice of the pepper rather than having it infused definitely means that it packs a kick, but it's been sliced thin enough that Peter actually thinks it's a nice touch and not overwhelming. He goes back for another piece immediately after sucking his fork clean. On the other hand Tony is watching him, absent-mindedly swirling a piece of his sashimi in the sauce.
“Aren't you gonna eat?”
Tony almost seems to jump (at the very least Peter notices how his eyes blink rapidly like being woken up from a daydream). “Hmm? I'm eating, I'm eating, I'm savoring it.”
Peter rolls his eyes, already on his second to last piece. “There's no way you're doing all that for one piece in five minutes.”
“Maybe you just don’t understand the intricacies of how I enjoy my meals. My tastebuds enjoy the long process.” He’s joking of course, and Peter lets all of this slide once he starts to eat a bit more quickly after it.
“I’m sure you do, but maybe walk me through the process of enjoying a meal by staring at it.”
He wants to inquire a bit more about his actual intentions, or at least to make a comment on how places like this always leave him hungry but the next dish seems to be brought out the second Tony finishes. The moment he finishes swallowing the waiter quickly sets down more dishes in front of them. This time it appears to be a dark and crispy piece of fish on a banana leaf with something pink balanced on top and brown circles of gravy surrounding it.
Tony pulls the plate closer to himself eagerly and breaks off a piece with his chopsticks as he speaks. “This is one of my favorite dishes. Black Miso Cod.”
“Tastes complex,” Peter remarks after a tentative bite. It's not bad, miles better than Ms. Stacy's Branzino for sure, and he likes how the flavors of umami and fat swirl together on his tongue. The texture isn’t even that bad either, smooth on the inside and crispy on the outside. “I like it.”
Tony hums, taking another sip from his drink before he eats another piece. Peter doesn’t watch his Adam's apple bob.
“Um, gotta be real, this was not what I was expecting when you said fish. I thought you were talking like catfish and stuff.”
Tony nods, flicking his tongue on his chopsticks to snag the last little piece before he answers. “I can never seem to stomach fish once it’s been cooked in heavy creams or vignettes. To me it speaks to inexperience with the ingredient because the fish just ends up dry and white. Especially salmon.”
“What, do you cook or something? Mr. Gordon Ramsey over here.”
“I guess when you’ve eaten enough the preferences become too strong. And yes I do cook! Did you really think every part of my life is automated?”
Peter snickers, taking another sip of his own drink and watching the kerfuffling billionaire across from himself. “No, actually, I was thinking of more servants for your every need but robots would also track with you.”
“No to both. I do have someone who goes grocery shopping for me, but I can cook! Earlier this week I made myself bulgogi beef with sauteed bok choy and rice for dinner. Very nice dinner. I also ate it at eleven at night but that’s much closer to dinner than breakfast.”
Peter makes an appreciative noise. “So you can cook, yet you brought me to a place where other people can do it. I’m having a hard time believing you.”
In between their bantering, and the finishing of that plate, another waiter has collected and placed a spread of salmon sashimi drenched in a dark sauce.
“Just because I can cook doesn’t mean I can make this.” Tony says, guestring to a piece as he brings it to his mouth.
Peter follows him in tasting a half step behind, losing his train of thought when the piece reaches his tongue. It’s both floral and savory, like a bit of a battle between a lighter flavor of the fish and the fermented salty garlic like sauce. He supposes he can admit that upon tasting something like this, Tony wouldn’t hold his own cooking in much regard.
“I doubt I will be able to come close to making a dish with as much complexity as the New Style Salmon Sashimi. But I can cook.”
“See right there. You sound like you came here to wax poetry about this meal for a food blog that's nationally recognised by the New York Post.”
“Well wait, weren’t you a reporter who should be used to descriptive language?”
“No,” Peter tsks. “I was a photographer which means I only needed to know enough English to see if I was getting paid.”
Tony snickers, right hand coming up to cover his mouth as his left braces the table. “Ah well– let me tone down my language so the commoners can understand.”
“Why thank you Lord Stark!” Peter giggles. “The important part is inward enjoyment, so you can blog about this once I’m gone.”
Talking with Tony is easy, it’s always been easy. The past few months have felt like a whirlwind to Peter even if he can’t always remember things the best. With Aunt May in the hospital, and now having to dance around being Spider-Man it’s nice to just push it all out of his mind. Sure Peter knows what Tony would probably think if he found out about everything, what he’d do. He can almost imagine a picture-esque announcement over television, with his hand clasped on his shoulder.
If Aunt May was still in the hospital he might even consider it. But sue him for wanting to dwell in the clandestine feeling, continuing to work alongside them while he went webswing at night. He supposed to some (read: hawkeye) what he was doing was a unthinkable level of traitorship, but he wasn’t focused on sides. He was focused on Tony: the way he messed with his tie when he got nervous and how his fingers rubbed over the skin tag on his left hand absentmindedly. Focused on how his face changed when one of Peter’s jokes landed just right.
Before he knows it, a waiter is passing by quickly, placing a closed brown check presenter in between them near the edge and nodding slightly. “Whenever you're ready sir, please take your time.”
Curiously Peter reaches for it, but Tony is quick both to swat his hand and take it with the other.
“I just wanna look!”
Tony might as well have rolled his eyes, not even sparing the check much of a glance before penning in a tip Peter can’t see and sliding in a shiny metal card. “I told you I was paying, why do you have to look.”
“Just wanna see what the damage was!”
“No damage. In fact I think we made money by coming here.” Tony slides the presenter to where it peeks out over the table, quickly being snatched up by another server.
“Then, could I afford this place on my S.H.I.E.L.D. salary?”
Tony grimaces. “I don’t think you could afford any place on your S.H.I.E.L.D. salary, I should convince them to give you a raise. C’mon, I’ll walk you to the station.”
“What, instead of you taking a one dollar salary I get your one dollar salary added to mine?”
“Oh god, way more than that. You deserve better.”
As they step outside Peter’s once again hit with the muggy night air, feeling sweat trickle down his legs to fuse his sweatpants to them. Tony’s gone quiet, face impassive as Peter looks back at where he’s stopped one step below his own.
“Thanks for inviting me out,” Peter starts, hands wiggling their way into his pockets. “I didn’t expect to have so much fun to be honest but I’m glad I came.”
Tony snaps out of it with a slight shake of his head. “It was my pleasure. What did you think of the place?”
Peter looks back up at the building, glass glittering and lights flickering. “I wouldn’t have known it existed if you hadn’t told me. Places like this aren’t really my scene, but if I’m not footing the bill why the heck not, right?”
“Right,” Tony makes a sound, one that was probably meant to be a laugh but it fades off.
Peter can tell something’s been bothering him, probably sometime between the middle of dinner. Maybe he wasn’t enthusiastic enough about enjoying the place? Or, Tony really doesn’t want to walk him back to the station, which, fine Peter gets that an uptowner might not be ready for cajoling with Smithy the sewer rat. But that’s just a bit too simple, and Tony Stark is not the kind of person who puts himself in situations where he voluntarily placates.
Then again, maybe it’s something else? Perhaps Tony’s just looking for a friend after how disastrously the media seems to be painting his time at S.H.I.E.L.D. has been. With the looks he’s been giving him all night, they almost seem to convey some sort of longing; how spent being the director has left him. Still, it was more than just weariness that danced between his eyes and furrowed his brow. Peter just couldn't place his finger on it.
In the end, they interrupt each other. “How are yo-” “I shouldn-”
They both break off, Peter forcing a smile as he moves off the steps completely towards a nearby streetlamp; Tony peetering after him.
“Maybe this was a bad idea,” He breaks the silence, hand scratching at his neck.
Peter looks back at him confused. “Are you uh- having stomach problems?”
“I-i’m sorry I-” Tony cuts himself off, hand dropping down from his nape as he holds it tightly with his other. “I just figured that instead of laying how I felt on you I ought to take you out somewhere nice. Wine and dine y’know? Not that I wanted to get you drunk or- and you totally don’t owe me anything for this I ju-”
It’s at this moment it actually clicks in Peter’s brain. That Tony probably isn’t looking for a friend (Peter supposed he could be but he’s looking for something else too). Why Tony took him out tonight, dressed up and presented him with sweet drinks, and five courses of delicacy. And maybe, just maybe Jan and Archie were onto something with all that date talk.
Peter can’t take it anymore, cutting him off by grabbing his shirt and pressing their lips together. Tony isn’t actually that tall without his suit, having no more than an inch and a half over Peter, but there’s something about the act that feels domineering and risky over a man so powerful. He seems to stun at the action, lips not catching up, but within seconds his hands have forgotten fiddling to caress Peter’s own face. He smiles into the kiss when he feels them, fingers rough and cracking against his soft cheeks.
Eventually Tony pulls back, cheeks flushed as his eyes flit away and his hands almost flop awkwardly at his sides. Peter can see the unease flickering over his face, the gears turning as he processes how the kiss fits into all the little puzzle pieces in his mind. It's endearing, but Peter wants to help push them a little faster.
He pulls one of his fidgeting hands toward himself, running his own, thinner, digits over the callouses on Tony's finger pads. They are thick and old products of Tony's metalworking hobby; first on automobiles and then, glittering armors of palladium, vibranium, steel, and iron. His breath hitches as Peter runs over them with his own, shuddering even, when he flips the hand over to caress his knuckles.
“I didn't really need wining and dining. I mean, like I said I would have been chill with a grocery store assembled and hand squeezed orange juice. But that's not the point. I appreciate you doing this for me.” Peter forces his head to tilt up at the end, unable to help the little smile forming. Tony still looks shell shocked, but it’s an improvement from the emotional withdrawal of before.
“I like you– jeez haven’t said that since junior high at least.”
Tony snickers at this, face relaxing. He pulls his hands away from Peter’s, coming up once again to hold his face. Tony doesn’t lean in or close his eyes, simply studying his face up close with a twitching in his mustache. Peter watches him watch himself, wriggling his cheeks until he gets a reaction out of him. He smiles now, dropping one hand to rest on his hip, and pulling Peter in for another kiss with the other.
As if it were possible it’s sweeter this time—Peter swears he can taste the lychee in his mouth—he almost doesn’t want to let go again. Tony pulls back again this time, and Peter can see the storm in his face has finally calmed down to something readable. Determination.
“I like you too. Probably more than that, but as you’ve noticed I’m not all that good at this feeling’s shit.”
Peter can’t help the quip that rises to his lips. “Aww shucks, I’d never have guessed!"
“Oh forget it,” Tony groans, shaking Peter off to stride in the direction of the subway station. He is hot on his heels, jogging after him with a giddy smile.
“And if it really matters, I’m not a prude about putting out on the first date!”
“Don’t say it like that,” Tony nearly trips over himself. “But I’ll uh- keep that in mind. Noted for future reference. ”