Chapter Text
It starts when Morgan fails a chemistry test. Tony brushes it off and tells her it’s a fluke, but soon Pepper plants little seeds of “We should hire a tutor, honey” into their conversations. Of course, Tony would say, “Pep, she’s my kid. She doesn’t need help, she’s just bored.”
“Tony, honey, she’s not a clone.”
“Yeah, but you know. Genes.” She looks unimpressed. “Look, it’s probably a one-off, but if she really needs help, she can ask me. Or, hey, she could talk to Bruce. He could use one of those seven PhDs.”
“Bruce isn’t fond of people right now.”
The conversation repeats itself a few times before Pepper drops it.
He thought she dropped it.
Now he’s staring at the back of some college kid sitting at his breakfast bar, eating Natasha’s (but technically his) cereal. The kid is about as average-looking as it gets: brown, moppy hair, a lean, muscular build, and an air that is far too relaxed for Tony’s liking.
He hasn’t noticed him yet, so Tony casually saddles up to him. Well, he tries to. Halfway to the bar, the kid suddenly turns around with no alarm. Tony expects shock, hero worship, admiration, and, sure, maybe a little fear; it’s the sort of thing he revels in when interacting with the general public.
He doesn’t get any of that.
“Oh, hey, Mr. Stark. I’m Peter.” Tony stares at him. “Morgan’s tutor?” He clarifies. “Ms. Potts said I might run into you at some point.”
“Did she?” Trying to keep up the casual air, Tony takes a long sip of his coffee.
“Yeah. I thought I would see you sooner.”
Now that gives Tony pause. “Why sooner?”
Confusion washes over Peter’s face. “I’ve been tutoring Morgan for a few weeks?” He tries. When Tony doesn’t respond, Peter quickly moves on. “But I’m sure you’re busy.”
“Yep. Busy,” he says as his brain stalls. “Speaking of, I got work to do.”
“Oh, sorry. What kind of work?”
“Avengers level work.”
“Isn’t the first rule of Avengers club not to say anything about Avengers club?”
Tony narrows his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be tutoring?” He asks brusquely.
“Morgan went a floor down to get Coco Puffs—“ He makes air quotations. “—the ‘better’ cereal, which is objectively wrong because obviously Raisin Bran is.”
“…right. Well, good luck with your snack. Oh, and Peter?” He turns and glances back at the college student. “Just thought I’d let you know that Raisin Bran is Black Widow’s.” He turns back around and keeps walking, relishing the terrified expression he knows the kid must be making.
As the elevator doors start to close, he hears, “Oh, I know.”
As soon as he’s on her floor, Tony makes a beeline for Pepper’s office. “Why is a high schooler eating Black Widow’s cereal in my tower?” He asks before she can look up.
“Our tower,” she corrects. “And he’s a grad student. He’s very nice.”
“Not the point, honey. What do we even know about this kid? He could be a serial killer.”
She fixes him with a dry look. “We’ve done a thorough background check, Tony.”
“You did,” he says. “I didn’t.”
Pepper jabs her pen at him. “I hope you’re not suggesting I don’t care about our daughter’s safety, honey.”
He takes an involuntary step back. “No, no. I just want to do some homework for myself.”
His beloved wife shakes her head and throws her hands up. “Fine, Tony. You’re going to do it whether I agree with you or not. He’s done a lot of good for Morgan. Just promise me you won’t frighten the poor kid.”
“Pepper, I would never,” he swears.
In the next thirty minutes, Tony has every known file on Peter Parker displayed in his workshop. The young man was born and raised in Queens, only making it to Manhattan when he attended ESU and graduated in three years with honors. His undergraduate degree is in Chemical Engineering, and his thesis proposal focuses on biodegradable, industrial-strength adhesives, which, Tony must admit, isn't unimpressive. His birthday is August 10th, his blood type is O negative, and he has a sensitivity to strong odors. All together, the kid is a boy scout.
But if Tony took facts at face value, he’d be a sorry excuse for a genius. Something is nagging at him that isn’t quite right.
“Boss, Ms. Potts has asked for your presence at the dinner table,” FRIDAY announces. “She also would like you to ‘stop obsessing over that grad student’.”
“Tell her I’m not obsessing,” he replies. Tony swipes the files away and logs out of the terminal. “I’m coming.”
If Peter Parker has something to hide, Tony is determined to find it.
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Peter has so many things to hide. He’s not squatting, per se, but his ‘landlord’ is a shady man with a metal arm who bears a striking resemblance to the Winter Soldier. Jim probably isn’t even a landlord; Peter thought there was a ‘for rent’ sign outside of a building and asked inside, which, in hindsight, may have been for the property next door. Jim looked startled to see anyone inside, and now, somehow, he’s paying pseudo rent bimonthly. Peter also has no neighbors, so that’s not a great indicator for this being legit. He’d complain, but his rent is both below the table and significantly cheaper than anything else in the city, so Peter turns a blind eye. Forget the fact that Jim could probably snap him in half if he wanted to. What the man does in a day is a mystery; at night, Peter hears him come back at odd hours, and he whispers in Russian sometimes. There’s a chance he may be partially deaf, given that he largely seems to rely on lip reading, but he’s never admitted as much to Peter. Not that he needs to, of course; they’re not close. The longest interactions they’ve had beyond Jim collecting rent are when Peter accidentally gets locked out or comes looking for his mail. Those moments are filled with awkward silence and averted gazes.
They’re currently at a stand-off because Jim is so freakishly perceptive that he may be catching onto Peter’s nightly activities. This has forced Peter to come up with increasingly ridiculous ways of throwing him off.
On the way back from patrol, Peter alternates carrying odd boxes, ridiculous-looking comedy props, suspicious duffel bags, and the occasional rhinestone-studded body suit. Tonight, Jim catches him with a box of stage props that Peter picked up from the dumpster of an old theater building. The older man is halfway out his door when Peter bumps into him in the hallway. He looks Peter up and down and then nods at him. Peter smiles. “Hey, man—” Without another word, Jim walks off. “Raincheck. Gotcha.”
With slight disappointment at not getting to use his elaborate cover story, Peter unlocks his apartment door and steps inside.